Turning Point (25 page)

Ahead, he spotted a glimmer of light. It moved, jerking up and down. How the heck did Lightning manage to get hold of a torch? All their possessions had been confiscated by the police. He'd been lucky to hang on to his drops and his watch, which had been returned when they boarded the coach.

Silently he pursued the flickering light, the woollen fabric of his T-shirt and trousers gliding easily across the metal surface, grateful that he'd left his jacket with its metal zip on the corner of his bunk. Once the initiation was over, their beds had been supplied with sheets and they'd been given a pack with a face flannel, toothbrush and toothpaste but, apart from fresh towels every day, nothing else except for a clean tracksuit and shorts each morning – not even pyjamas. In any case most of his roommates slept fully dressed, they were so tired. And there seemed no shortage of gear. Twice now, they'd got soaked on a run and been sent to change. Scott paused. Somewhere in the building there had to be a laundry. The plastic bins were stacked high each morning with dirty clothes and towels, arriving washed and dried and back on the shelves by evening. Scott had never considered himself squeamish but the idea that a stranger or, even worse, someone he disliked, had been wearing his clothes the previous day left him feeling slightly nauseous. Even knowing they were washed in between made little difference.

Climbing had given him great control over his muscles and he moved quickly, the spark of light intensifying. On either side numerous smaller ducts fed off the main shaft and night noises, an occasional snore and rustle of sheets as someone turned over, drifted up from the dormitory below. Ahead, blue light trickled into the ventilation shaft lifting the solid blackness away. He paused, squinting down through the grille, identifying the bulky shape of a steel workbench, a large microwave standing on it. At last he'd found the kitchen, although it was a pretty peculiar place to put it, tacked onto the back of a building. Perhaps the architect had forgotten that prisoners needed feeding and it had been built as an afterthought.

Edging towards the next shadowy square, he was surprised to find the tunnel continuing, the airflow stronger. Puzzled, he stopped and stared back into the darkness, picturing the building as he'd seen it from the running track. There was no scenery to gaze at and, on the return leg, their path often took them across the bare rock of the hillside, giving him to memorise its stubby shape; the building backed up close to a rocky overhang like a wild boar cornered by the hunt.

Ahead, the darkness had become solid as if a brick wall had been built across it, the flickering light vanished. Excitement and fear in equal measure ripped through him at the thought of discovering a way out. He made to pull himself forward and stopped. Even if it did lead out, what use would it be? They were miles away from civilisation. Besides, they were going back to England in a couple of days.

Scott stared into the empty darkness half-inclined to go back to bed. A trickle of warm air passed across his body reminding him all at once of that day in the spring – the very last day when everything was normal. It was April and the sky had been densely blue. He had freewheeled the slope from the cottage listening to the birdsong, new lambs pushing their noses inquisitively through the bars of the fence watching him cycle past. Nothing would ever be like that again, so what had he got to lose? He listened to the silence, his thoughts confused and bitter, aware that from now on silence would mirror the pattern of his life.

Making up his mind, he inched forward his arms at a stretch. Sensing space all round, he stretched out his fingers to touch the walls. Without warning, a knee struck the middle of his back pinning him down, a hand across his nose and mouth to stop him crying out. A light flashed, instantly extinguished.

Like a sudden rainstorm lashing down, vivid memories of Sean Terry taking him prisoner swept through Scott's mind, blocking every sensation except the need to keep breathing.

‘
Damn young fool
, thought I'd warned you against gettin' yerself killed,' a voice hissed in his ear.

Panicking, Scott got his fingers to his mouth and pulled against the hand. It gripped harder, stopping his breath totally. He choked, the pressure in his lungs like an iron bar.

‘I'll let you go – but you promise first to keep quiet. A single sound and it'll be a bullet in the brain.'

Scott dragged his head into a nod of acceptance, desperate for air. This was the second time Lightning had nearly throttled him. He felt the hand pull away, the weight disappearing off his back, and hauled in a vital breath. Painfully he sat up, his head bent forward over his knees, shaking uncontrollably. The light flashed again and he saw they were in a large island of space, pipes criss-crossing left and right like a busy intersection on a motorway.

‘Why the hell did you follow me, I warned you?' Lightning whispered into Scott's ear.

Scott rubbed his sore neck, unwilling to confess he didn't have a proper reason, only a gut instinct and an inbuilt hatred of taking orders. He lived the whole of his life taking orders from his dad, never bringing things into the open, and look where it had got him. ‘I thought you were a spy,' he croaked. ‘I was scared you were going to tell on me… I wanted to stop you… besides, I thought you might know a way out.' He ended the sentence lamely, aware it made no sense.

‘You blitherin' nitwit, Scott Anderson. If I had been a spy, I have used a door not crawl through this thing.'

‘I was right though, you
do
know who I am.' Scott kept his voice to a murmur. ‘So how come you've got a torch if you're not spying on us?' Scott touched the scrap of metal, a small light bulb set into plastic casing, scarcely longer than the top joints of his middle finger. Surprisingly, he no longer felt afraid.

Lightning flashed the light on examining Scott's face intently. ‘This old thing?' he said carelessly. ‘You have to have friends in high places to get one of these.'

‘But they searched us?'

‘It fits into the toggles on my jacket.' The lilt in the voice sounded familiar.

‘Beau?' Scott gasped in a startled whisper.

‘My godfathers! Is my disguise so feeble that a mere babe-in-arms can penetrate it?'

‘No! But I…' Scott exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice low. Instantly, he felt the hand across his mouth, stopping his words.

‘If we're trying to keep our visit secret, exclamations of joy are likely to prove detrimental to our cause,' Beau rebuked softly, his voice light and mischievous, all trace of accent gone. ‘In this case, silence is definitely golden. No cosy chats – got it?'

Scott nodded his acceptance.

‘Okay, I'll tell you what I'm doing here, if you promise to go back to bed.' Scott felt the warm breath on his neck and shook his head. ‘You always were a stubborn cuss…' Beau mumbled. ‘Can't you see, I'm trying my best to keep you in the land of the living?'

Scott whispered, ‘Thanks, but… '

‘No thanks! Okay, I get it. You aren't moving till you know,' Beau sighed dramatically. ‘I am trying to discover who's behind the riots and if it's linked to your Mr Smith.' He kept his voice to a whisper. Automatically, Scott leaned forward raising his hand to his ear to catch the words spilling out at speed. ‘After Holland, he and his cohorts vanished. Couple months later, the riots started, peaceful rallies turned sour. Then, surprise, surprise, the European parliament brought in a new law to deal with the worst offenders, sending them to these special camps. Every time there's a demonstration, I hang round the edges hoping to get arrested and sent to Europe. So far it's been a dead loss.' He sounded fed up.

‘But…'

‘But not as Beau Randal.' Scott caught the movement and sensed he was holding up his hands, unable to see them in the dark. ‘I have a different identity and fingerprints.'

‘How many times have you done this?'

‘This is my fourth place in five months.'

Scott stared at the shadowy figure, his mouth dropping open. ‘You've gone through this every time?'

‘I may be a lot of things but no way am I into self-harming.' Scott caught the teasing note in Beau's voice. ‘I promise you, this is by far the worst. The other places were harsh not brutal.
Now
will you go back? If it is the people that kyboshed your dad, they let you escape once before. They'll not make the same mistake twice.'

Scott shuddered then shook his head. ‘Hilary's here somewhere.'

Beau pointed back up the slope. ‘She's in the unit parallel to ours. I found her last night, and she's fine. But don't even think of trying to rescue her.' He heaved a sigh. ‘Come on then, if you're coming, we've only got an hour.' Beau flashed the pinpoint of light into the tunnel ahead.

‘But where? ' Scott argued, instantly forgetting the need to be quiet. Beau glared. Scott pointed downwards, saying in a whisper, ‘There's nothing behind the building except rock and dirt. If there had been we'd have seen it. This place might be gross but it's too small to hide anything.'

‘Yeah, isn't it just.' Scott picked up on the sarcasm. ‘Except, doesn't it make you wonder why a small building needs air-conditioning on this scale, unless they're planning a huge extension. Besides, haven't you wondered where the staff live? I can promise you, it's not the local village.' Without waiting for Scott's reply, he slid his long frame noiselessly into the tunnel.

Scott followed, a million unanswered questions zinging round his head like the debris from a meteor shower. Who was Beau working for? Last time Travers had spoken of him he was into athletics. Was it the government? Was somebody, at long last, taking Mr Smith and his ambitions seriously?

The shaft sloped gently downwards, the incline steeply increasing until the air flow formed a tangible barrier, making it difficult to move fast, like swimming against a current. On both sides, tunnels spiralled left and right into the darkness, minute variations in the strengthening stream of air marking each intersection. Scott began to feel rather like a snake lost in the middle of a motorway with roads constantly cutting into it. He tugged the hem of Beau's track suit. ‘How do we get back?' he hissed, aware the route back would be tricky without a current of air blowing directly into their faces. ‘There's dozens of tunnels down here.'

‘No worries,' Beau murmured, not hesitating in his forward movement. ‘I've done this before.'

‘How many times…'

‘Try three. I have a job to do, and it's not finished yet. In case you didn't notice, I left my jacket back there, where I picked you up.' It had been too dark for Scott to notice that Beau like him was only wearing his T-shirt. ‘Come on.'

Ahead, the darkness extended as if to infinity. Nervously, Scott flicked a glance behind him. Where on earth were they? ‘Beau…'

‘
Shush!
' Beau paused. ‘Can you hear it?'

Very faintly in the distance Scott caught the sound of music overlaid with voices, like a TV advertisement.

‘But… that's impossible.' His tongue fell over the words. ‘Not impossible, though I agree it's a puzzle. So why does Agatha Christie spring to mind? Ah, yes,
mirrors
.'

Scott caught the excited tone although he hadn't a clue what was meant by it. Typical Beau – if the tales Travers told about his brother were even halfway true, anything impossible or dangerous he devoured for breakfast. Scott swallowed, his throat aching and sore. If they really were venturing into the lair of Mr Smith, it was beyond scary even for someone like Beau. Thousands of people had died because of this man's ambition to control the world, Tulsa and his dad among them. Scott hovered over the word
dead.
Did Beau already know they'd been killed? Was that why he had urged Scott to go back, because his mother and sister were all that were left? He'd only met with them a few times, before Sean Terry had whisked them away some place no one knew about; still amply long enough to want them as part of the family he and his dad had created.

Beau began moving again, his stocking feet sliding easily across the metal. Scott struggled to keep up, the blurred noise from the television increasing as the ventilation shaft flattened out, its darkness surrendering to shafts of light filtering through mesh screens. Abruptly Beau stopped and curled up into a ball on one side of the grille to let Scott see down.

At first glance they seemed to have blundered into a posh hotel. A vast deserted lobby, its sofas and chairs festooned with scatter-cushions and patterned in muted shades of burgundy and grey; tubs of greenery making an eye-catching splash of colour. Scott counted the squares of light ahead, those in the distance fading into mere pinpricks of brightness. He glanced down at the luminous dial on his watch. It had taken twelve minutes to travel, what… fifty, sixty metres? And they weren't even halfway yet.

Figures drifted into view, a quartet of guys and girls chatting amiably in a foreign language, oblivious to the spectators a mere three metres above their heads.

‘What are you looking for?' he whispered as they passed out of sight.

‘Know it when I see it.' Beau flipped his finger, pulling forwards to the next grille. He pointed downwards. ‘That answers one question, anyway,' he mouthed into Scott's ear.

Scott spotted the flickering screen of a television on the far wall, only its lower half in view. A group of figures were slumped in chairs watching a programme in English. Astonished, he recognised the missing faces from the coach. Catching the sound of a braying laugh, he craned his neck further, identifying the hulking shape of Tyson. Automatically, he flinched back into the shadow, despite knowing he was unseen. And he'd better make sure he stayed that way, for there was something about the guy that set Scott's teeth on edge.

A voice, its accent American, its tones that of someone in authority, broke through the sound track. A pair of elegant footwear, highly polished, came into view, the metal surround of the grille cutting off all but the man's legs from the knees down. The suit was Italian. Scott wasn't particularly into clothes but even he knew the difference between hand-made and shop bought, the material lightweight with a silky sheen, its knife-like creases impeccably cut. ‘Listen up! I want to talk to you about Tuesday and you have an early start in the morning.'

The sound from the television dropped to a whisper as the volume was turned down.

‘Where to this time, sir?' a voice called.

‘How about a nice long weekend in Bilbao, followed by a stop-off in Barcelona for a few hours.'

A muffled cheer sounded.

‘So what's in Barcelona?' The guy sitting next to Tyson swivelled round in his seat. Scott found his fists clenching with anger. It was one of the guys that had pulled Hilary off the bike. Unlike Tyson, he'd got away before the police arrived.

‘Conference of world ministers starts Tuesday. A couple of demos against global warming have been planned – peaceful ones of course…' Laughter. ‘You've done this before; you don't need to know the details.'

‘We've not bin to Germany for a bit,' Tyson called out, his voice nasal and quite unmistakable as though anger was never far from the surface. Scott thought of the white powder. He had to be on drugs, nothing else would account for that degree of belligerence. ‘I like Germany.'

‘You would.'

Scott caught the sneering retort from one of his cronies.

‘Don't worry, you go there next week. You can take the new recruits, show them the ropes.'

‘Christ, sir,' someone groaned. ‘Not another lot. You know 'alf of 'em will get arrested.'

The American's voice cut through the muttering. ‘If you do your job properly, you'll be back here by Sunday and there'll be a nice little bonus waiting.' The words ended on a laugh. The scene reminded Scott of their sixth-form common room and their tutor's friendly little chats. He used the velvet-glove approach too. On the surface it seemed encouraging but in reality brooked no argument – that is if you didn't fancy a visit with the headmaster. Except, these guys were older than sixth formers and definitely not friendly.

There was silence for a moment then the American spoke again, taking off the velvet glove, his tone rasping like sand paper. ‘Last week was an intolerable shambles. May I remind you, you're no use to us if you get arrested. There'll be no second chance. I had to call in a whole heap of favours to get you back here. You create mayhem and leave. You get caught – you lose your job and your lavish lifestyle. Understood? No dramatics. I'm talking to you, Tyson! Remember, there's a queue of kids out there anxious to take your place.'

‘Yeah, I get it,' was the surly response.

A late-night news bulletin replaced the adverts.

‘Turn it up,' the American said taking a step forward. ‘I want to listen to this – it's important.'

Scott pressed his nose against the rigid edges of the square-shaped grille anxious to see more. ‘Come on, come on,' he murmured to himself. He gave an impatient sigh, seeing the foot move back again.

From the television came the sound of flash bulbs going off and pulses of light poured from the screen. Someone introduced the President of Europe. The man was speaking in English about the forthcoming ministerial conference being held in Barcelona the following week.

‘Sir,' a new voice broke in. Scott guessed it to be a reporter. ‘Fergus O'Leary, political editor at the BBC. The riots on the streets of Europe… what's the official government position?'

Scott heard the calm voice of the President. ‘Naturally, we ignore them. They are insignificant, like fleas on a dog; irritating but that is all.'