The Castle (19 page)

FORTY-ONE

M
y first thought was Amina. I had to get to her, fast. The clothes shop was small. I should have been able to see her as soon as I got inside, but there was no sign of her among the colourful racks of summer clothes. And I couldn't go back out looking for her, with Muscle Man so close.

The shop assistant looked up calmly from her magazine and saw me hyperventilating. She said something in Italian. I shrugged helplessly.

‘Are you looking for your friend?' she asked, switching to English.

I nodded.

She gestured towards the back of the shop and went back to her magazine. At that moment, Amina came out of a tiny changing room near the back, wearing a long green skirt, a yellow T-shirt, a belt, two large necklaces and a floppy hat. My would-be heart attack subsided. She did a shy little twirl for me.

‘So many clothes!' she murmured, her eyes glittering, enchanted. ‘So many . . . I was not sure . . .'

She looked happy and strange, like a child let loose in her grandmother's dressing-up box. Bizarre, but very, very different from before, and as her brother would say, different is good.

‘Gorgeous!' I said, forcing a smile. ‘Let's get them.'

I marched her back towards the changing room. As soon as we were alone I put my hands on her shoulders: ‘We have to be brave,' I whispered. ‘They're outside, the bad men.'

She met my eyes and nodded gravely, but calmly. In fact, she took the news much better than I had. She was used to being scared, I realised, and I was still learning.

‘Will you find me some clothes?' I asked. The longer we stayed here, the better. They wouldn't be looking for us in a changing room.

Amina grinned. Despite everything, she was enjoying her first shopping trip. I sank on to the chair and waited.

She came back a few minutes later, arms piled high with things for me to try. I smiled at her Yasmin-approach to clothes shopping, and her choices. Everything was bright and sparkly. The girl didn't know the meaning of camouflage.

I took my time trying things on. There was a blue tunic: terrible. And a white, tiered maxi dress that made me look like a wedding cake. Then came a multi-coloured, flowery number with flowing silky sleeves. I wouldn't be seen dead in
it in England. Which made it perfect for right now.

‘And this . . .'

I took a long silver scarf that Amina had brought in earlier and wound it round my matted hair. We kept our sunglasses on. Together, we looked like a fortune-teller recovering from sunburn and a thin green-and-yellow overdressed granny. We would never be more disguised than this.

Outside, the girl at the till coughed pointedly.

‘Ready?' I asked.

Amina risked a grin.

‘These are fabulous,' I said to the girl. ‘We'll just wear them, if that's OK.'

The girl didn't seem particularly surprised at this, or the fact that I paid in cash, with large euro notes peeled off from a big wad that I kept in a plastic supermarket bag.

‘Oh, and I'll take this handbag,' I said, picking the nearest one off the rail. Then I remembered about the message for Dad. ‘And is that a notebook? That too.'

By now there was a woman waiting behind me at the till, who started to tut loudly and look at her watch in an obvious way. Her son, who looked about ten or eleven, kept yanking on her skirt and saying in English, ‘Mum, I'm hungry. When can we get a burger, Mum?'

‘Soon, sweetie,' she said in a tight voice. ‘As soon as this nice lady has finished paying for
all her things
.'

That made me go slower.

When I was finally done, she flashed me a fake smile. I fake-smiled back. Beyond her, opposite the shop door, the man in mirrored shades was scanning the crowd in our direction. I put my hand on Amina's elbow.

‘Wait.'

I nodded back towards fake-smile lady, who was paying
for a tote bag. When she headed out with her son, I whispered ‘Now!' and linked my arm into Amina's. We slotted into place right behind them, like two extra children. Hopefully, if anyone noticed the lady and the three kids, all they would see was one big happy, hippy family.

Our ‘mother' threw us a couple of confused stares as we walked along the concourse. I smiled cheerfully back. As I'd hoped, she was heading for the big McDonald's a few shop-fronts further down. We all went in together. I couldn't see any obvious Wahool men inside, but just in case, I stuck close to ‘Mum'. When our burgers came, we followed her to a table near the window and sat with our backs to the glass. She clearly thought we were weird. I didn't care.

The left-luggage place was only a few metres behind me. I risked a glance at it through the window, but –
oh, fabulous –
the Wicked Queen was busy positioning herself right outside it, staring out towards the trains. It looked like the whole team were here.

Amina watched me from under her floppy hat. ‘Are they outside?'

‘Yes, but don't worry. Like your brother says, they're very stupid.'

She gave me a smile. She knew that wasn't totally true, but she was good at humouring me.

Meanwhile, Annoying Boy beside us had finished his burger and was complaining to his mother that it wasn't big enough and he wanted another one. His mother went off to join the queue again. I had an idea.

Dad had said to tell him where we were waiting. With the Wicked Queen right outside it would be madness for him to join us here, but there was a plan and I needed to follow it. Besides, I couldn't bear the idea of going all the way to the
British Embassy in Rome without him.

I took the notepaper from my new bag and a pen from my pocket – one of the few things to make it through from my original backpack – and thought about what to say. What if the Wicked Queen got hold of the note and realised who it was for? Quickly, I tried to work out a code.

In capital letters, I wrote SORRY I MISSED YOU at the top of the paper. The M had slightly rounded loops, which I hoped Dad would realise were the McDonald's arches. Then PLEASE CALL ME TOMORROW, followed by a number. The first four digits were the time of the train I'd chosen to take us to Rome, but to make them look more like a phone number I added 1015. My power, and kind of like my signature. Nobody but Dad would associate those numbers with me, and Dad wouldn't think it was anybody else.

It probably wasn't the most professional code, but it was the best I could do in the time I had, and I was quite proud of it. I added an illegible squiggle at the bottom, folded the paper over and wrote MR MERCEDES on the front, because I was running out of code ideas and if he got it, Dad would think it was funny. More rounded Ms, to make the point.

Then I called Annoying Boy over, checking his mum was still in the queue for food.

‘Wha'?' he asked with a sneer.

‘Want to earn some money?'

‘How much?'

‘Ten euros.'

‘No.'

I ignored that. ‘I have a message,' I said, holding up my piece of folded paper. ‘I want you to deliver it to that booth over there.' I pointed through the window at the left-luggage place. ‘Tell them someone will come to pick it up soon. That's
it. Ten euros. Easy money.'

He narrowed his eyes and looked at the paper.

‘Twenty.'

‘Fifteen.'

‘Twenty.'

I sighed. I didn't care about the money, but he was very irritating. ‘OK. Here you are.' I counted out two ten-euro notes.

He held out his hand. ‘What's the message?'

I knew he'd open the paper and check anyway. I sighed. ‘I'm an international spy,' I said sarcastically. ‘And this is a message for my partner. OK?'

He tried to stare me down, but I'd had enough practice with Jason ‘Kaboom' Ridgeway at school. Only one person was going to win this game.

‘OK. OK. Whatever,' he grunted. He took the paper and money from me and wandered off to Left Luggage, almost brushing past the Wicked Queen as he went.

Moments later, his mum came back, saw his empty chair and panicked loudly. ‘Kevin! Kevin!'

When he came back, she shouted at him solidly for five minutes. He took it well. Those twenty euros in his pocket seemed enough to keep him quiet.

Soon afterwards, they left. Amina and I shifted tables to the back of the restaurant and watched the left-luggage place when we dared, waiting for Dad to show up and wanting him to, and dreading it too, because if he did the Wicked Queen would surely find him first.

But although many people used the booth, there was no sign of him. I saw a station sweeper pause to unfold a piece of paper. For a moment I wondered if that was my note and
Kevin had dropped it after all, but I lost him in the crowd.

An hour ticked by. And then another. Our train was announced on the departure board. Still no Dad.

‘Shall we wait longer?' Amina asked.

I shook my head. ‘He said three hours. We'll have to go without him.'

She nodded sadly. She would miss ‘Mr Allud', but only a fraction as much as I'd miss Dad. However, I couldn't think about that now. We had to catch that train.

A week ago, I'd have suggested we just run for the barriers and hope for the best. But that was before I met her brother. Karim didn't ‘hope for the best': he planned for it. I was playing chess with Muscle Man and his friends – a chess game where we were the pieces. I had to imagine my opponent's moves and make better ones. He would win unless I made it as difficult for him as possible.
So . . . make it difficult for him, Peta.

One thing was certain: we could never make it from here to the platforms without being spotted.
Fine. Work with that. Remember how you felt just now when you wrote that note. Cheat these people. Come on!

Cheesy football-coach talk to myself over, I checked the arrival and departure boards through the window and worked out, move by move, exactly what we would do. Like Karim and Dad, I made Amina repeat it to me to be sure she understood it. She did.

Five minutes before our train was due to leave, we ran, hand in hand, helter-skelter across the concourse. I didn't look to see if the Wicked Queen had seen us – of course she had. We simply ran as fast as we could for the barriers, fed our tickets through them and kept on running for platform 20,
where the train for Caserta was about to depart. We were both out of breath, but we pulled each other along, fighting through the crowd who were piling into the carriages.

A third of the way down the platform, I tugged Amina's hand and we ducked behind a vending machine. We crouched low and waited. I saw a pale face and wavy hair madly searching for our flamboyant headgear, pushing people roughly aside as she wondered where we'd gone.
Yes!

By now Amina had whipped off her floppy hat. I stuffed my silver scarf inside it and shoved it under the vending machine. We made ourselves still and small as rocks, while on the train doors banged. Officials shouted. Our trackers leapt aboard before it was too late.

Meanwhile, another train had just arrived on the next platform and started to disgorge its passengers.

‘OK. Now,' I said.

Bareheaded, Amina and I casually joined the new set of arriving passengers, blending in with the crowd. As the Caserta train moved off, we retraced our steps to the ticket barriers, then, just before we got there, I yanked Amina over and we hared across to platform 15, where the train to Rome was closing its doors. They shut behind us with a whoosh of compressed air. We were the last passengers aboard.

One other man nearly made it, but missed the train by a single second. He ran like an athlete down the platform, arms pumping, until long after it was too late.

Muscle Man. He didn't look happy.

As the train moved away, I caught sight of my reflection in a glass panel near the door. I was smiling. Karim had taught me chess, and I liked it.

FORTY-TWO

S
oon the conductor came round to check our tickets.

‘
Ma questo è sbagliato.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Your seat reservations, signorina. You reserved a different train.'

He showed me my ticket. I had absolutely made a mistake. When I bought the tickets I was so freaked out by seeing Muscle Man that I must have pressed the wrong button.

I still had so much cash from Dad I could probably have paid for new tickets on the spot, but instead it was more fun to play the confused English schoolgirl.

‘But we only have these tickets and we
have
to get to Rome
or we'll miss our flight! Please, mister! It goes this evening.' My eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I don't know what to
do
. We have to get
home.'

My lower lip wobbled. He let us off with a smile.

Amina grinned at me. ‘You are good. Like your father.'

‘And your brother. Thank you. It was easy.'

It had been. After running away from attack dogs and being shot at by armed guards, it was almost too easy. Now I
knew
I was crazy. It felt good crazy, though.

Outside, the weather was changing. Grey clouds slowly blocked out the blue sky, threatening rain. This seemed to change Amina's mood, or maybe it was just that now she felt safer, she had time to think again. Anyway, she stared glumly out of the window. I did too, trying not to think about Dad, but thinking about nothing else, remembering those last moments together and wondering what would happen when we got to the Embassy.

Halfway to Rome, I suddenly sat bolt upright.

‘What is it?' Amina asked.

‘Nothing.'

I'd realised that Muscle Man would have guessed where we were going, and he could have called ahead. Perhaps new followers were already waiting for us in Rome. I started to wonder if this nightmare would ever end.

As the train pulled up to the platform at Roma Termini, my heart was pumping and that buzzing was back in my ears, louder than ever. Amina and I held hands, ready to run for the first policeman we could find. But almost as soon as we stepped off the train, two powerful hands grabbed our shoulders and pulled us aside. We tried to resist, but we weren't strong enough.

‘Stop fighting,' a low voice hissed.

I looked round and saw a grey raincoat and a hat. The head was down, but I recognised the voice. I stopped fighting. So did Amina.

He pulled us behind another of those vending machines.

‘Hi, Dad,' I murmured.

This was getting to be a Jones family trick.

‘Shh,' he said. ‘Duck down. And put these on, fast.'

He pulled two dark blue packets out of his pocket. They turned out to be folded plastic rain ponchos. We scrambled into them, and he grabbed our hands and pulled us back into the flood of passengers heading off the train. By the time we reached the barriers, half the people in the station were in rain gear of some sort. We were just three covered heads, hidden in the crowd.

Dad quickly checked the departure boards.

‘How did you know it would be raining?' I asked. ‘Did you steal someone's smartphone in Naples?'

‘Give us a break, love! They had a TV on in one of the bars.'

He led us to another platform where an express train was shortly leaving for Turin.

‘So we weren't going to Rome after all?' I asked, holding tightly on to Amina's hand as we walked alongside the new train.

‘Merely a stop on the route,' Dad said.

‘Where to after Turin?'

‘We're not going that far. Don't worry – you'll like it where we're heading.'

‘And then?'

‘Then home. For you, anyway, love. I'm not sure about you, little one,' he said to Amina, ‘but we'll find you
somewhere safe.'

Amina bowed her head. I put my arm around her. ‘I'm not going anywhere without you.'

‘You are,' Dad insisted.

Ignoring him, I gave Amina a look that told her I wouldn't leave her.

Dad found our carriage. He was constantly scanning the station for followers, but seemed confident we'd finally lost them.

‘You did a good job, love,' he said to me.

‘Were you watching us all the time?'

‘Most of it.'

‘You got my note, then.'

He smiled. ‘I did.'

‘Did the station sweeper give it to—? Oh, wait. You
were
the station sweeper.' I hit my head.

He smiled. ‘I liked your code.'

I did the raised-eyebrow thing. ‘Oh, I'm an international spy. Didn't you know?'

As the train sped northwards, Dad spent some time in the corridor, on the phone. He
had
stolen one from somewhere – or bought it with stolen money. All decked out in my own criminal finery, I was more forgiving now.

Beside me, Amina did her usual staring out of the window as a summer storm lashed the landscape with rain. I linked my arm through hers.

‘I mean it – I really won't leave you,' I said.

But the look in her eyes told me she wasn't worried for herself. She was only thinking about her brother. Trapped. And the Jongleur coming. I didn't try and say anything to comfort her, because I knew there wasn't any point.

Dad came back and settled down opposite us. He, too, was oddly quiet and glum. He didn't speak, but every now and again he winced, as if in pain. Maybe he was thinking about his broken foot. He'd travelled halfway up Italy on it already and it must be hurting like hell. I hoped he wasn't remembering ‘the place where they do these things', but the look on his face made me feel that perhaps he was. Eventually he noticed me watching him. He turned to me, careworn and sad.

‘So . . . er . . . Mum got married?'

Excuse me?

We were on the run from bad guys with guns, and three people were in mortal danger – and he was thinking about Mum's
love life
?

‘Sorry?'

‘Was it Rupert Miller?' he asked, looking uncomfortable. ‘I lost touch. In the, er . . . the place. You mentioned a wedding. Is she –'
cough –
‘OK?'

Seriously?

‘Yes,' I said, sticking my chin out. ‘She's fine. You're dead, remember?'

He winced. ‘So is he, um, looking after her?'

‘Yes. Very well.'

‘That's . . . I'm glad,' Dad muttered, not looking very happy. ‘He's a good man.'

I stared.
He's not you!
I wanted to shout. Plus . . . 
other stuff going on
, plus . . . you know . . . 
already married?

‘He always liked you,' Dad went on.

‘Oh yeah, right.'

‘No, really,' he said. ‘When you were little and we were based near Salisbury, there was a mini-assault course for the kids. You won't remember this. It was meant for ten-year-olds,
but when you were three you'd throw yourself over it, or under it, whatever it took to get through. You'd do it laughing. He thought you were such a cool kid. His own girls wouldn't go near it. How are they now?'

We're talking about the Darling Ds now?
So
whatever.

‘They're beautiful,' I said grimly. ‘Very, very beautiful. Rupert wants me to go to boarding school with them.'

‘Does he? That's nice.'

What?

‘Nice?' I flared up. How could Dad be so relaxed about my rubbish home life? ‘
Nice?
Those girls are totally perfect. They're terrifying. You don't get my life
at all
.' I glared at him furiously. I didn't want to think about home. In all the recent craziness, I'd actually forgotten how bad it was.

Dad seemed to find it funny. He leant forward, smiling, and ruffled my hair. ‘You're right, my love,' he said. ‘There is nothing more frightening in this world than a beautiful teenage girl.'

‘You're teasing me.' I pulled away.

‘I'm not. Honestly.' He laughed. ‘I should know. I married one.'

It was true. I thought of his wedding pictures with Mum. The two of them laughing outside Brighton Register Office. Mum, nineteen, in her jeans and a T-shirt saying ‘Kiss the Bride', looking so happy she could float.

So why wasn't Dad furious that she'd just married a different man? Why did he just look sad?

Suddenly, it was clear. It took me a while to find my voice.

‘You weren't coming back, were you?'

‘I was, love! I told you. I'd always come for you.'

‘For Mum, I mean.'

He stared at the floor. His shoulders slumped. When he
spoke, his voice was as rough as mine.

‘I love your mother more than anything or anyone, except you.'

‘Then why . . .?' I tried to stop the tears from coming.

‘I'm not very good with . . . families. Sitting back and settling down. I know you thought I was, but you were wrong about me, love. I was always away, on exercise, or fighting. Isabelle said I was married to the army.'

‘But she didn't mind! She loved you,' I pointed out. ‘You should have seen her. Every time we knew you were coming back she'd spend days getting ready. She'd have her hair done and her nails and . . . everything. And buy new dresses and pick your favourite perfume. She'd be so excited, and so would I.'

My memories of those days were still so vivid: my latest drawings stuck to the fridge for Dad to see, Mum glowing with excitement, the babysitters booked so they could have ‘special time' together.

‘She bought new dresses?' Dad asked.

He was trying to remember too, but I could tell that for him it was a struggle. How could he not have noticed those dresses? How could he not picture those coming-home days, like I could?

New memories crept in slowly. Different images that I'd buried somewhere. Things I'd tried to forget.

The babysitters cancelled, because Dad had invited his mates home to share stories about their adventures, while Mum sat upstairs in her new dress, unnoticed, crying.

Dad shouting, because Mum had changed our car without consulting him, and Mum saying he was never there to drive it.

Dad announcing that he was heading off early, to help
organise a training mission, or because he'd volunteered for something extra-dangerous that started soon.

Mum finishing
The Count of Monte Cristo
with me, because Dad had gone again, before we were even halfway through.

My father, the absent hero.

Rupert bought Mum new things, and always noticed if she wore them. He even married her in the church she wanted, though he knew it was full of memories of Dad.

Once again, I was back in Winchelsea. Everything seemed to come back to Winchelsea.

‘You took the name Alard from the church, didn't you?' I said. ‘From our church. The one we went to every Christmas. Why did you do that if you didn't care?' My voice was too cracked to go on.

Dad shook his head. ‘Trust you to spot that, Peta.'

‘So?' I wiped tears and snot from my nose and waited for him to explain.

He paused for a while, searching for the right words. ‘I care,' he said quietly. I care very much. I just . . . I was made an offer I couldn't refuse. I wanted to keep you both with me somehow, while I was away, so I chose that name.' He faltered for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. I had to lean right forward to hear him properly. ‘And I did something else, Peta. Something worse. I wrote your name in a notebook I was putting together at the end, in case someone had to take over from me.'

‘What notebook?'

‘It was a kind of instruction manual. A clue to various codes and passwords. But they found it before I could hide it properly. Of course, I shouldn't have used your name, even encrypted. I was an idiot. That's why they came after you.'

A notebook of codes and passwords
 . . . Why did my dad have to be so cool and so annoying at the same time? Really. Why?

‘What . . . what was it for?'

‘I'm sorry, I can't tell you.'

Aargh! He was
infuriating.
But it was hard to ignore the warm feeling I got when I pictured him in the castle, thinking about Winchelsea, while I'd been right there thinking about him. Actually, despite the complete mess we were in, that warm feeling seemed to seep through everything.

‘Isabelle must be going mad with worry about you,' he went on, looking guiltier than ever. ‘But . . .'

‘What?'

‘I'd be glad if you could give me just one more day before we call her. The thing is, as soon as we do, she'll want to see you – and I want to talk to you first.'

‘Debrief me, you mean.'

He smiled. ‘Yeah, exactly. We'll get you clean and give you some rest. Then as soon as we're ready, well call her. Deal?'

‘Deal,' I agreed.

Thirty seconds later, he was fast asleep. He had a soldier's ability to grab a nap wherever he could. Another thing that used to drive Mum crazy. He looked as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Amina turned and stared at me. I thought she'd been lost in thought about her brother, but apparently not.

‘You are worried about going to school?'

Oh God, the boarding school. ‘Yeah. Kind of. School's OK. It's just the girls that worry me.'

‘Why?'

‘They're pretty scary. It's hard to explain.'

She looked confused. ‘You are not scared by guns, but you
are scared by girls?'

I shook my head. ‘I'm scared by guns
and
girls,' I corrected her. ‘I'm actually a pretty scared person.'

She grinned, a wide smile that came from nowhere and took me straight back to her brother in his cellar room.

‘You are very funny, Peta Jones.'