That evening, Finn went up to his bedroom soon after supper, but he couldn’t sleep. It was almost June, and the sun would linger on the horizon until after nine o’clock. He watched the light slowly fade as he knelt at his bedroom window looking out over the sea.
‘I wish I could come out now, just to be with you,’ he whispered. ‘I promise I’ll come tomorrow, and if I can’t stop the balloons, I’ll do my best to lead you away from danger.’
He went back to bed and shut his eyes, but horrible images of sick and dying dolphins filled his mind.
Finn slept fitfully. He lay still for a moment, yawned, and was about to turn over and go back to sleep when a jolt ran through him. He had to get up and catch Tom Henderson! Had he left it too late?
There was a battered old clock on the shelf above his bed. He grabbed it and read the time. It was half past seven already!
He leaped out of bed, threw on his clothes and almost tumbled down the steep, narrow stairs into the kitchen below.
He’d planned everything with Jas the night before. She and Charlie had promised to be at the cottage early to help, but he didn’t dare believe that they’d really come. He’d hoped, too, that his dad would be up, but the heavy snores coming from upstairs were discouraging. It would take too long to get his father up and going, and he hadn’t got time to waste.
The placards the children had prepared yesterday afternoon were stacked by the kitchen door. He looked through them. He’d thought they were good last night. Now they looked childish and pathetic. But while he’d been asleep, his dad had nailed them to some old splintered battens to make them easier to display.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Finn said softly.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, picked up the placards, and pushed open the cottage door. The low morning sun, reflecting off the sea, was so dazzling that he had to shut his eyes against the light.
‘Finn!’
Had he imagined it, or was someone calling?
‘Finn!’ the voice came again.
He opened his eyes and saw Jas running up the road towards the cottage with Charlie a few paces behind. Relief pumped through him. They’d come after all.
Charlie was staring at the front of the cottage.
‘What’s happened? It looks different.’
‘Dad’s been cutting stuff back,’ Finn said shortly. ‘Here, take these. Mind out for splinters on the wood. We only had these old bits.’
He led the way out through the broken gate with Jas close behind him.
‘I was looking for good places on the way here from Stromhead,’ she said bossily. ‘I suggest that we start . . .’
Finn shook his head.
‘It’s better the other way, towards Tamsy Bay. There are loads of bends and good places to put up the placards. I went to have a look last night. Hey, watch out!’
A car was coming fast along the narrow road. The children had to press themselves into the hedge at the side to avoid it.
‘And that was only a Ford Fiesta,’ said Charlie disgustedly. ‘Think what Tom Henderson’s Ferrari will do!’
‘Come on!’ called Finn over his shoulder. ‘We haven’t got much time!’
The first bend wasn’t far off. Finn pointed to a wizened old tree, bent over by the sea wind, on the corner.
‘That’s the best place. You can see it clearly when you come round the bend. I tried looking.’
Jas was biting her lip.
‘I’m sorry, Finn. I’ve only got sticky tape. It won’t work on a tree trunk.’
Finn shook his bag. It rattled.
‘No need for tape. Dad got out nails and a hammer.’
Charlie tried to grab a placard from him.
‘I’d better do the nailing,’ he said. ‘I’m brilliant at it, and you’d only bash your thumbs. Give me the hammer, Finn.’
‘Wait, Charlie!’ said Finn. ‘You’ve got the wrong placard! They’ve got to go in the right order!’
‘Well hand the right one over then.’
Finn put the placards on the ground and sorted them out. He picked up the last one, which said, Please stop here, Tom! We really need to talk to you! and handed it to Charlie.
Charlie was good at nailing, and a second or two later the placard was in place.
‘Watch out! A car’s coming!’ Jas called out. ‘Maybe it’s him!’
But the car was only a battered old Vauxhall. It braked sharply at the bend, and the children could see the driver frowning at the placard.
‘It’s old man Wilson from the farm,’ said Finn. ‘He hates me and my dad.’
He held his breath, half expecting Mr Wilson to get out of his car and rip the placard down. He only breathed out again when he saw the car chug on.
‘Next one!’ he shouted, and the others dashed after him.
Half an hour later, all the placards were in place, and a few more cars, a van and a tractor had passed. None of them had stopped, though they had all slowed down. It was obvious that the placards were catching the drivers’ attention.
‘We’d better get back to the bend nearest my house,’ panted Finn, who had been on tenterhooks as Charlie methodically hammered the placards on to trees, fence posts and field gates. ‘That’s where we want him to stop.’
As he ran back past each placard, he checked them, hardly aware of the others on his heels.
I’d stop if I was Tom Henderson, he told himself. I’d want to know what it was all about. He recited the messages under his breath as he ran.
Tom Henderson!!! These messages are for you!
We have something very important to tell you!
We don’t just want autographs.
When you release the balloons, you will be putting lives in danger.
Please stop here, Tom! We really need to talk to you!
It was here, where the last placard was nailed to the old tree, that he wanted Tom Henderson to stop. He came to a halt and put his hand on the tree, trying to catch his breath. The thoughts that he’d been pushing away broke through at last.
‘We might have got it all wrong!’ he wailed, as the other two caught up with him. ‘What if he’s not staying with his nan? What if he’s coming in a helicopter? He might easily be! What if—’
‘Shut it, Finn,’ said Charlie. ‘A car’s coming. Listen.’
They stood, faces pale with anxiety, straining to listen. But instead of the smooth, expensive hum of a Ferrari, they could hear the raucous rumble of a diesel engine. And it kept stopping. Car doors were banging, and there were sounds of men shouting and wood splintering.
And then it appeared. A dirty white van. It shuddered to a stop beside the three children. The doors swung open, and out stepped the two men who had pulled Kyla’s posters down the day before in Rothiemuir.
‘Well, look who’s here, Barry,’ said one.
‘Might have known it, eh, Nige?’ said the other.
‘It’s a disgrace, wouldn’t you say?’ said Nigel.
‘It is that,’ said Barry.
‘Lucky we came this way to work,’ said Nigel.
‘Dead right, or we might have missed this mess.’
‘A mess, aye – it’s a mess, this is. And what do we do with a mess?’
‘We clean it up, Barry.’
Nigel strode to the tree and with a powerful tug ripped the placard off it. Then he swore loudly.
‘Yer wee vandals! It’s given me splinters! All over my hands! Look!’
‘Serves you right!’ Finn shouted hotly. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. ‘You’re murderers! You don’t even know what you’re doing!’
‘Oh, we know.’ Barry was advancing on him. ‘We’re sorting you out, that’s what we’re doing.’
Finn ran at him, the blood pounding hard in his ears. He was much smaller and slighter than Barry, but he was driven by such rage that he took the big man by surprise and nearly knocked him over.
But Barry recovered quickly. As he righted himself and lurched forward, his elbow hit Finn in the ribs. Finn doubled over, winded, hardly able to breathe. He was dimly aware of Jas and Charlie standing up to the other man, who was jeering at them loudly.
Finn tried to stand upright, but Barry caught hold of his forearms and held them up in front of his face in a tight grip.
‘Let go of me! Let go!’ shouted Finn. ‘You don’t understand! The dolphins—’
‘I’ll give you dolphins, you little—’ snarled Barry. He stopped abruptly at the screech of expensive tyres squealing to a halt behind him.
‘Oi! You! What are you doing? Let that kid go!’
Finn’s hands were suddenly released. He stood, dazed, rubbing his wrists, and stared at a tall, muscular young man who had stepped out of a green Ferrari and was looking down at him with concern in his eyes.
‘Tom!’ croaked Finn. ‘You’re Tom Henderson! Please, you’ve got to stop them. They’re going to be killed!’
‘What? Who’s going to be killed? Stop who? Are these men hurting you?’
Nigel and Barry were looking at Tom in awe.
‘We done nothing, Tom. It’s them kids. They’re vandals. Putting up posters and that all over the place. We love kids, don’t we, Nige?’
‘Course we do, Barry. Any chance of giving us an autograph, Tom? That last goal, against Rangers, it was . . . it was . . .’
‘Awesome,’ said Barry reverently.
Tom was looking from one to the other through narrowed eyes.
‘One thing I can’t stand is bullying. I saw you having a go at this boy. You should be reported. Threatening behaviour, that’s what it was.’
‘Just one little autograph,’ pleaded Nigel. ‘Mean a lot to me, it would.’
‘Get out of here,’ Tom said angrily. ‘I told you. I can’t stand bullies.’
Barry was tugging at Nigel’s sleeve.
‘Leave it, Nige. Let’s go. We’ll be late for work as it is.’
Looking back awestruck at Tom Henderson, Barry dragged Nigel away, and a minute later he had crunched the van into gear and it had hurtled off.
‘It’s the dolphins,’ said Finn hoarsely. ‘The balloons – Oh please, Tom, I’ve got to tell you!’
Someone else had come up behind the footballer.
‘Time’s getting on, Tom,’ the man said. ‘Can’t keep everyone in Rothiemuir waiting.’
‘Give us a minute, Sam.’
Tom Henderson put his hand down and helped Finn to his feet.
‘You haven’t got a minute,’ grumbled the other man.
‘Oh please,’ begged Finn. ‘I’ve just got to tell you. It’s a matter of life and death.’
Tom Henderson looked at him, scratching his head.
‘Tell you what,’ he said at last. ‘Hop into the car. You can tell me all about it on the way into Rothiemuir.’
Charlie, who had been standing by, too awestruck to move, found his voice.
‘Can I come too, Tom, please?’
But the car doors had already shut, and it was speeding off down the lane.