The school was in darkness.
For an awful moment they thought the arrangements had changed, and that the bus had gone. Then, as they crept round the building, they saw it at the far end of the playground. The headmaster had just locked the main school doors, and the driver was stubbing out a cigarette – their timing could not have been better. The vehicle’s interior lights were dim and the excited passengers, supervised by Miss Maycock, were drawing the curtains over the windows.
The roof rack looked heavily laden.
‘This is goodbye, boys,’ whispered Mr Barlow. ‘Good luck, both of you.’
Eric took his hand. ‘This is your trip, sir. I think you should come.’
‘I had looked forward to it, Eric – you’re right. But I’m not really equipped, and . . . I do have responsibilities. At least, I do.’
Eric drew him gently into the shadows. Rikki and Richard were just behind, and even as Mr Barlow protested, they moved quickly to the back of the bus. The engine spluttered into life, and in seconds Eric was up on the roof itself, dangling from the ropes of a large tarpaulin. Richard and Rikki pushed, and Eric pulled. It was a struggle, but at last they got their teacher onto the bumper and up the ladder, Then they wormed their way in amongst the tightly packed luggage.
‘I’m going to slow you down, boys!’ protested Mr Barlow. ‘Reconsider!’
‘We’re a team now,’ said Eric. ‘All for one. One for all.’
With that, they were moving. They heard a chorus of goodbyes from the parents below, and the horn blasted twice. In a moment, they were over the speed bumps and out of the gates. They felt another gear-change, and they were moving faster into the night.
Rikki used Dr Warren’s phone as a flashlight, and they soon had several rucksacks open. It was a tight space to work in, of course, but the bags could be turned and restacked. They built themselves a little igloo of luggage, and the plastic made a tight, secure roof that protected them from the weather. They found three sleeping bags, and even an air bed for Mr Barlow. They found good torches too, and warm clothes, though Richard felt slightly anxious as he hauled on Jeff’s brand new coat. That didn’t seem right or fair. They pocketed several stashes of sweets, drinks and biscuits – one thoughtful parent had packed a flask of hot coffee which they shared immediately. As the bus made its way out of town, they curled up cosy and snug, feasting happily.
‘We better make plans,’ said Rikki. ‘What time do we actually arrive at this place?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t remember,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘I’m finding that my short-term memory has taken a bit of a battering, but—’
‘I know,’ said Eric. ‘Me and Mark read that schedule so many times I got every single detail. O-six hundred, arrive at camp. Six-fifteen, secure camp, with allocation of equipment and provisions. Six-thirty, full kit inspection, followed by open-fire breakfast . . . briefing at o-seven hundred.’
‘What’s for breakfast?’ said Rikki. ‘Remember that?’
‘Eggs, bacon and beans. And SAS hot chocolate.’
‘Wow, Eric. You are cool.’
‘What’s our plan, though?’ said Richard. ‘We can’t just jump down and expect a welcome. We’re going to have to stay well out of sight.’
‘They’re going to notice the bags have been mucked around with,’ said Rikki. ‘I vote we go straight to the mountains.’
‘I remember the terrain,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘It was way back, when I was a boy—’
‘How long ago was that?’ said Eric.
‘How old are you, Mr Barlow?’ said Rikki. ‘Are you Victorian?’
‘No, Rikki. I’m fifty-seven, and I was in the Scouts for six years. So it was forty-five years ago, or thereabouts. That was why I set up the residential, you see. It brought back all my childhood memories – we had such a wild time. The chap who runs the centre now is new to the job, keen to make a go of it, so—’
‘And it’s in the middle of a wilderness?’ said Eric.
‘The Adventure Centre isn’t,’ said Mr Barlow. ‘But the countryside’s close by. We went hiking, and I remember getting hopelessly lost. Every now and then you’d get scared out of your wits by jets – it’s where the pilots did their training, you know. There’s a famous rock in the sea, where the pilots practised.’
‘I know,’ said Richard.
‘That’s where we’ll go,’ said Rikki quietly. ‘Say no more.’
‘They used it for those . . . what do you call them? “Arrested landings”. Aircraft carriers. You know all about that too – don’t you?’
Richard looked at him. ‘I want to get so lost,’ he said. ‘As lost as I can, for as long as I can. I’m going to survive, sir.’
‘Hide for ever,’ said Rikki. ‘And you’re not going to die, are you, Mr Barlow? You’re not going to conk out on us?’
‘I hope not, Rikki. I’m feeling good.’
‘You’re not looking it. I’m joking . . .’
‘I think we need sleep,’ said Eric. ‘We’re going to have to be wide awake tomorrow.’
Rikki nodded. ‘True. We’re going to need our energy.’
They turned off their torches and curled up against the wall of luggage around them. The bus was heading west, and it rocked gently at a nice, steady speed. In a short time, Mr Barlow and the boys were all fast asleep. Richard and Rikki dreamed of aeroplanes, as usual, and found themselves hurtling through dark skies, clinging to wings, gazing from cockpits, hunting for the sun.
Dr Warren, however, had become a truly desperate man.
He had commandeered an ambulance and driven all the way north to the M2 service station. Needless to say, he found no trace of the children or his car. A massive traffic jam delayed his return, and when he got back to the hospital, it was after midnight. The police were waiting for him, and he felt sick with fear.
Three rhesus monkeys had been spotted in a local park, he was told. A large crowd of animal-lovers had gathered, making it impossible to recapture them. It was assumed they were now deep amongst the trees of a nearby forest. An investigation into the Institute’s licences would follow: that was inevitable. More importantly, there was a personal matter to be dealt with, and the officer told him to sit down. Dr Warren braced himself again, but it was still a terrible shock. His house had been vandalized – the attack had been mercilessly efficient. His wife and little Nathaniel had escaped, thank God, but only with what they could carry. Three fire crews were still at the scene, damping down the ashes.
‘Anyone got a grudge against you?’ said the sergeant.
‘No.’
‘These animal rights people, you know. Vindictive lot. We have found the car, apparently. That’s just been confirmed.’
‘And the children,’ said Dr Warren hopefully. ‘Are they in it? Have you got the boys?’
‘No.’
‘We’ve got to find them! It’s terribly important.’
‘Hmm,’ said the officer, checking again. ‘BMW, upside down in the old quarry. That’s where they hold those all-night races, of course – someone’s should have thought to check there, hours ago. They love the sports cars. Was it the three-series convertible?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuel injection, I imagine. A lot of poke, those new ones. Brand-new, was it, sir?’
‘Yes. Officer, we need to find the boys.’
‘Anything valuable in it? You said your had a lot stolen.’
Dr Warren felt faint again, and his stomach lurched. He closed his eyes. ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Yes. I keep a hard drive in the glove compartment. All my notes, all my . . . confidential files. It’s my backup. If they found that . . .’
‘Confidential stuff?’
‘Yes. They’ve got my phone too. They could cross-reference. Oh God.’
Dr Warren stood up and pressed his hands to his temples.
‘Don’t give up, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Never say die. That’s the old SAS motto, I think. Never say die.’
Dr Warren stared at the man. ‘I don’t think that’s . . . right,’ he said. ‘That’s not the motto I know.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Live and let die? Do or die? Something similar.’
‘Who dares wins,’ said Dr Warren quietly. He said it slowly, pausing on each word. ‘That’s the SAS motto, now you come to mention it. It’s when . . . combat is required. When you’re really up against it, and you think you’ve lost everything. I remember, now: Who dares wins – when you need to fight back.’
He looked at the telephone.
‘You don’t look at all well, sir.’
‘I’m not. But I need to make a rather private call. Would you mind?’
The officer left and Dr Warren dialled Dr Summersby’s office. Summersby answered on the first ring.
‘We’ve got to find them,’ he said. ‘Whatever the cost.’
‘How much do they know? Everything?’
‘We have to assume so. They have access to every single document.’
‘Can we limit the damage? I can start moving things—’
‘No point. My hard drive was in the car. We have to assume they took it, and we have to find them.’
Dr Summersby was silent. ‘It might be time to leave.’
‘No. Wherever we go, they’ll ruin us. We have to find the children, and silence them.’
‘How?’
‘They’re on the run, aren’t they? We can follow – we can be quick. The police are here now, in my office—’
‘You’re talking to the police?’
‘Of course I am. And I’m thinking fast, Summersby: we need to stand together. If the children are running, then the police will start looking for them – they’re minors, after all, and the parents are going to be desperate. They need their medication, do you understand me? That’s what I’ll say. I’ll go back in there now, and insist that we move heaven and earth to find those boys, because otherwise they won’t survive. They need the drugs we’ve been prescribing – do you follow me? I’ll say we have to get to them first, for their own sakes, and we need to administer . . . a complex prescription. Complex. Can you get what we need?’
‘What do we need?’
‘Something heavy. We need to close them down for ever, and we both know it. Rikki and Richard, Eric too. There’s no other way.’
‘You know what you’re . . . suggesting?’
‘What’s the alternative? Do you have one?’
There was a long silence.
‘Vulnerable children on the run,’ said Dr Summersby at last. ‘We’ll put out an appeal. We’ll have to be in the front line, though. Then we might just do it.’
‘Use trazodone. Mix it with the roxanol – codeine, if you want. Just make sure the roxanol’s concentrated. Three hypodermics, all right? Four – one as a backup. And absolutely no mercy. Massive doses.’
‘I’ll get my bag.’
‘We can win this. But we need to move fast.’