The Rescue (9 page)

I frowned.

‘Ketts?’

She turned and looked me in the eye.

Whoosh.

My heart gave a jolt as I jumped into her mind. Of all the people I’ve ever mind-read, Ketty’s is the hardest head for me to be inside. For a start there’s my reluctance to be prying into her thoughts in the first place. Then my fear of sensing her feelings about Nico. I mean, it’s obvious how she feels about him – but I don’t need it rammed down my throat. Most of all, I have to constantly be on guard with her so that she doesn’t get a sense of
my
feelings for
her.
How much I like her – how the fact that we’re best friends isn’t quite enough, for me.

It’s my birthday.
Ketty’s thought-speech rang in my head, loud and clear.

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that.

Why didn’t you say something?
I thought-spoke back.

Ketty’s emotions swirled near the surface. A confusing mix, quite unlike her mind the other times I’ve been inside it. I sat with her feelings, trying to sort them out. Frustration and misery were the strongest.

I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

It isn’t that – no one knows, not even Nico. There’s no point. I mean, it’s my birthday and I can’t speak to Mum or Dad or Lex and there won’t be any cake or presents or—

‘Ed.’ Nico’s voice cut warningly across our thought-spoken exchange.

I broke the connection instantly and looked round.

Fernandez was standing in the doorway. He stared at me, an expression of curiosity on his face.

‘Pass the jam, man,’ Nico said, from down the table. Flustered, I did as he asked. Maybe Fernandez was going to call me over to talk about what happened last night. I turned round. But Fernandez had already gone.

*

The rest of the day passed quietly enough. I took Nico to one side and told him it was Ketty’s birthday. Then he told Camila, while Tommy was listening. The two of them were on lunch duty and managed to concoct a makeshift birthday cake out of a handful of stale Swiss rolls with a twig for a pretend candle. We smuggled it outside during afternoon chores in the barn. Ketty loved it.

I didn’t speak to Fernandez for the rest of that day, or the next two. Nothing much happened in camp – just the usual routine of chores and lessons – except during the morning of the second day, when a police van drove up while we were working in the field.

Cindy made us go inside so we couldn’t see what – or who – was inside the van. Later, we were all sure we could hear noises coming from the barn, but Cindy and Don stood over us while we worked, so there was no way of sneaking over to take a look. I was certain the police van had brought more kids, presumably on their way to Escondite. It was deeply frustrating not being able to find out for sure.

Later that afternoon, a large car arrived and we were kept inside again. This time I managed to duck out of the kitchen, where I was on duty, to sneak a look out of one of the front windows. I caught sight of the tail end of a forlorn line of grubby kids being marched into the car. They drove off straight away and I’d only just made it back to the kitchen when Fernandez appeared and took me into his office.

‘We’re going back to the Madelina tonight,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do any more work this afternoon. Jorge says he’s got quite a crowd coming to see you, so I want you fresh.’

The kids I’d seen earlier vanished from my mind. This was going to be my big chance to find Luz and get to a phone. I’d discounted by now the idea of asking for help telepathically. The Spaniards I was likely to encounter were going to be shocked enough to find me inside their heads. And even if I
could
somehow make them understand how we all needed rescuing, Fernandez would find some way of talking them out of it. I could just see him telling them I was delusional – or some kind of juvenile delinquent, like he had when I’d asked about Luz.

However, when we reached Casa Madelina, I quickly realised it was going to be impossible for me to get to a phone. Fernandez stuck to me like a bit of Velcro. When I went to the loo he even waited outside the cubicle. And though, this time, he did allow me breaks from the bar, I had to take them locked up inside an airless storage room. The only way to the deserted alleyway outside was through a locked, barred window. The bars were fairly rusty and, if I’d had Nico with me, we might have been able to pull them out through a combined effort of brute strength and telekinesis, but they were too much for me on my own.

We left the Madelina just before midnight. Fernandez, again, was in a great mood. I was exhausted.

‘We’ll be back in a few days,’ Fernandez announced as we drove off in the dark.

‘Right,’ I said, feeling helpless. I remembered the rusty bars and the locked window. ‘Er, I was wondering if I could take someone with me next time – another kid from Camp Felicidad – you know, to help with the performance side of things.’

Fernandez frowned. ‘You mean like one of the Spanish girls, to help translate?’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Someone like Nico – someone who doesn’t mind people looking at him.’

Fernandez’s frown deepened. ‘The kids you came with,’ he said slowly. ‘They know what you can do, don’t they? I saw you and Ketty talking telepathically the other day. Can the others do your mind-reading trick too?’

‘No,’ I said, emphatically. ‘No, they can’t. They just know that I can. I just think, er, I’d feel better about what I was doing if I had a friend with me.’

It sounded pathetic. I stared at the floor, expecting Fernandez to laugh, but instead he murmured thoughtfully.

‘Maybe it would make sense to have someone with you,’ he said. ‘But not Nico. One of the girls.’

I held my breath.

Fernandez slapped his hand on the desk. ‘Dylan,’ he said. ‘She’s the obvious choice.’

I stared at him. ‘Dylan?’ How was she going to be any help at getting hold of a phone to call Geri with?

‘Yes.’ Fernandez grinned. ‘She’s got the looks and the personality to help with the show.
And
her Spanish is better than the other two.’

This was true, though not what I wanted to hear. Given the choice, Dylan was the last person I’d have taken with me. On the evidence of her digging efforts, I couldn’t imagine she’d be strong enough to help pull out the bars on the window – and she was certainly unsympathetic to my concerns for Luz and the other kids.

But Dylan it was who, two days later, drove with us to San Juan.

We talked about it beforehand and she was confident she could find some way out of the bar.

‘And once we’re out on the street,’ she insisted, ‘we can
mug
someone for their cell phone if we have to.’

San Juan appeared as deserted as ever, but the Casa Madelina was heaving. The crowd was twice the size it had been last time. Most people were drunk, or getting there, and clearly having a good time. Dylan was immediately surrounded by men trying to get her attention.

Jorge stood at the back, happily drunk again. He whispered to me in broken English that he’d told a local journalist to blog about my mind-reading skills and the result was even more punters than before.

‘Estupendo, eh?’ Jorge said with a drunken grin.

I gritted my teeth. A bigger audience was the last thing I needed, but there was no time – or way – to explain this to Jorge.

Fernandez extricated Dylan from the men at the bar and beckoned me over to the front of the room. As I walked towards him, I noticed a tall thin man at the edge of the bar watching me intently. He gazed at me all through Fernandez’s introduction, then melted into the crowd.

I did some mind-reading. It was nerve-wracking, but Dylan helped, doing most of the talking while I just looked up when instructed.

After three ‘readings’ I told Fernandez I had a headache and that Dylan and I needed to get out of the bar for a bit. He locked us in the storeroom I’d been in before.

As soon as we were on our own, we went over to the bars on the window.

‘Maybe if we pull on these together?’ I suggested.

Dylan whispered a countdown and we heaved at the bars. As I suspected, nothing shifted. After five or six goes, Dylan turned away in disgust.

‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ I said, feeling dispirited. ‘I’m sure the window behind is locked.’

‘We’re
not
letting this beat us.’ Dylan’s eyes flashed. ‘Let’s try again. That middle bar’s a tiny bit wobbly. Come on.’

I put my hands on the bar next to hers. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . .’

I squeezed my eyes shut and yanked on the middle bar as hard as I could. To my amazement, it shifted, then came away in our hands.

‘
Yes!
’ Dylan whooped.

Five minutes later we’d managed to yank out the other two bars. My heart sank as I stared at the locked window that remained.

‘If only Nico was here—’

‘. . . he’d be no use whatsoever,’ Dylan interrupted. ‘This window’s swollen and stuck. No way could anyone open it, with or without telekinesis.’

‘Then what can—?’ I stopped as Dylan swung her fist back.

With a swift movement, she punched her arm through the glass. It broke, the shards smashing to the ground on the other side.

I raced to the door to see if anyone had heard. Music was still playing outside – a low rumble of drums and guitar drifting down from the bar. No yells or footsteps.

Dylan was now breaking off the shards of glass that remained in the window. She was using bare hands but her Medusa ability protected her from getting even the tiniest scratch. She finished, then glanced round at me and raised her eyebrows.

‘No one’s coming,’ I whispered.

‘Come on then.’ Dylan already had her leg over the windowsill. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Heart beating fast, I followed her up onto the chair and climbed outside.

8: The cellar

As we ran down the street I wondered what Fernandez would do when he realised we were gone.

‘How much time d’you think we’ve got before anyone starts looking for us?’ I said.

‘Not much.’ Dylan scanned the road. There was no one else in sight. ‘Come on, let’s try down here.’ She pointed down a street to the right and raced off. I followed, my heart thumping. We ran down several streets. I checked the names as we passed.
Calle San Pedro
. . .
Camino de Vicente
. . .
Calle de las Almendras
. . .

Where was Calle Norte, the road that the Escondite was in?

Halfway down the next road, Dylan stopped. ‘Where
is
everyone?’

We turned a corner and nearly banged into an elderly couple. Dylan immediately started clamouring in Spanish to borrow their phone, but the old man waved her angrily away and the couple scurried off.

We jogged on.

‘Shit,’ Dylan said as we turned the next corner. ‘Suppose everyone refuses?’

‘They won’t,’ I panted. ‘Someone will help us.’

‘Really, Chino Boy?’ Dylan glanced at me contemptuously. ‘And what makes you so freakin’ sure of that?’

‘Because people are basically good,’ I said. ‘They care about each other which—’ I stopped in mid-sentence, my eye caught by the road name we were about to pass. It was painted on an old sign, tacked to a wall with rusty nails.

Calle Norte.

My heart leaped. ‘Down here!’ I said, running on before Dylan could stop me.

I pounded down the road, looking out for house numbers. There were a few stone cottages where I couldn’t see any numbers, then suddenly there it was: 173 – a paint-chipped door next to a window with a red frame. I pushed at the door as Dylan panted up beside me. It was locked.

‘What the freakin’ hell are you
doing
?’

‘I have to look in here. I think it’s where Luz and those police van kids from the first day are being kept. You keep looking for a phone. If I see one in here, I’ll call Geri myself.’

Dylan frowned. ‘But—’

‘It makes sense if we split up,’ I said. ‘Less chance of both of us getting caught.’

Dylan hesitated. I could tell she was torn between wanting to pour scorn on my latest suggestion and seeing the sense in it.

‘Okay.’ She pointed at the lock on the door. ‘How are you going to get inside, though?’

I shrugged. ‘Ring the doorbell?’

Dylan shook her head. She smashed her fist through the window next to the door, then reached round and clicked open the lock. The action had taken seconds and produced remarkably little noise.

‘There you go. Make sure you find a freakin’ phone and call Geri.’ She rolled her eyes and ran off down the street.

I pushed open the door. The corridor inside was dank and gloomy. It smelled of damp. The glass from the window Dylan had broken had landed in a huge plant pot just inside the door. The earth must have cushioned its fall, which is why it had made hardly any sound.

I tiptoed inside, listening for anyone in the house.

Nothing.

I walked further down the corridor – it had a stone floor, and doors leading off it into empty, wood-panelled rooms on either side. At the end of the corridor were two wooden doors, both ajar. One opened into a brightly-lit room. I could hear the men inside talking in Spanish, their glasses clinking as they laughed at some joke. I pushed the other door further open. It led to a flight of stairs. Light from the hallway flooded the top steps, but I couldn’t see where they ended. Voices floated up from the darkness beneath. I held my breath, straining to hear what was being said. I couldn’t catch any words but the voices sounded fairly high-pitched . . . children’s voices.