Darkwater

twenty-five

“Tom!” His brother grabbed, sank.

Tom kicked at the hound, hard in its chest. The growl simmered in its throat.

“It’s hurting me!”

“I know! Wait!”

“Here!” Sarah was there; she dragged a broken gorse branch in one hand and a heavy stick in the other. She threw the stick; he grabbed it before it sank and thwacked the bog furiously. Mud and water flew up; algae spattered everything.

“Get out!” he yelled. “Go on! Go on!”

The hound opened its teeth and barked.

With a gasp of relief Simon fell backward; Sarah grabbed him, pulling him up.

“Get him away!” Tom yelled. He backed cautiously. All around in the fog the slinking shapes circled, their paws deep in the evil-smelling murk. For a moment as Sarah and Simon splashed into darkness he thought the whole pack would rush at him, their small red eyes blinking like coals. He gripped the stick, planted his feet firmly.

“So come on,” he breathed.

At once, far off, a low whistle echoed.

The pack melted.

In seconds the fog was empty.

After a while, he turned and struggled on. The ground grew more solid; the legs of his trousers stuck to him in the sudden bitter cold.

“Where are you?” he called.

“Over here.”

In the shelter of a stone wall Sarah had Simon’s sleeve rolled up and was mopping the bite with something. Blood ran freely down his wrist. They all stared at it, fascinated. “What’s happening to me?” Simon whispered.

Tom shook his head. “Can you stop it?”

“I can tie it up.” Sarah’s wet fingers worked fast. “That’s about all.” She grinned at Simon. “Does it sting?”

“It’s throbbing like mad,” he said gloomily.

Tom laughed. “Welcome to the human race. But let’s go. Before those creatures come back.”

The fog confused them. There were no stars to see by, and the moor seemed endless on each side; they struggled on for almost an hour until Tom knew they were lost. They should have reached the main road a long time ago.

“In this light we won’t see it till we get right up to it,” Sarah gasped. “There’ll be no traffic.”

And no ride either, Tom thought, but he said nothing.

Pausing for breath in the lee of a thorn bush, he listened.

Over the blackness of the moor came a new sound. A whine, high, almost unhearable. Machinery.

“Listen!”

They kept still, Simon crouched breathless on his heels.

“What is it?”

“It’s over that way.” Tom looked into the fog.

“What if that’s the wrong way?” Simon muttered.

“It’s as good as any other.” In the darkness Tom wiped water off his watch and held it close to his eyes. “Nine forty.” He went and tugged his brother gently to his feet. “Come on. We’ll get there.”

“I’ve got a pain in my side, I’m cold, wet, and scared.” Simon rubbed his face ruefully. “If this is being alive, you can keep it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sarah pushed ahead of him grimly. “It seems pretty good to me.”

The sound was coming from a fluorescent light fixed under the rickety forecourt of a garage. In the foggy air the light crackled and hummed. A radio was playing in the office somewhere; as they crept down the lane toward it, a car passed them, going slow. “Quick!” Tom turned the corner into the forecourt.

The car had pulled up for gas.

“Right,” Tom said. “You’d better go. Ask for a lift to Bodmin. Then we’ll come.”

“Brilliant!” She was sarcastic, but she stepped out.

The car door swung open.

Scrab got out.

Instantly Sarah flattened herself behind one of the gas pumps.

The round-shouldered man looked impatient. He pulled the gas pump out, muttering irritably; they could see his overalls under the greasy coat. As the gas went in he glanced around, small eyes watchful. In the shadows, not a yard from him, Sarah didn’t move.

“He’ll see her,” Simon breathed.

It seemed an age before Scrab propped the pump back. His breath smoked in the foggy air as he searched his pockets for money. Then he crossed the forecourt slowly, opened the shop door, and went in.

Sarah ran back. “We could steal the car,” she whispered.

Tom stared at her. “I can’t drive. Can you?”

“No. But . . .”

“What about him?” Simon said.

A truck driver was coming out. A young man, with a cheeseburger in a box. The smell of it was torture. They caught him at his cab.

“Any chance of a ride?” Sarah said quickly.

He stared at her. “Both of you? Where you heading?”

“Bodmin station.”

“Bit out of my way.” He opened the cab door. Tom glanced back anxiously at the lit garage shop. Scrab was reluctantly counting coins out of a leather purse.

“Not eloping, are you?” The driver grinned.

Sarah fixed him with a desperate stare. “Look, it’s really important. I have to get the last train! We’ll miss it otherwise. Oh, please! It is New Year.”

He climbed up, put the box on the dashboard, and looked down at them. Then he said, “Get in.”

They tore around and scrambled up into the cabin. On the radio Big Ben struck ten.

Scrab came out.

Tom slammed the door; the caretaker looked up, instantly alert. For a second their eyes met in the driving mirror.

Then the truck roared away.

The driver ate the cheeseburger with one hand, the cab loud with country and western music. It was warm and muggy; Tom almost relaxed until the driver swallowed his last mouthful and said, “Bloody maniac.”

“Who?”

“Him, behind us. In the Beetle.”

Scrab’s car had caught up fast. Now it careered across the lane from hedge to hedge, tooting, flashing its lights.

“Maybe I’d better pull over.”

“No!” Sarah said quickly. “Please! I’ll miss the train.”

The driver wiped his mouth and threw down the tissue. “Seems to me, ma’am,” he drawled, his voice suddenly mock-American, “that there varmint’s after yous.”

They glanced at each other. “Sort of.”

“Lookee here, are you all . . .”

“We’re not running away.” Sarah turned to him. “I’m going home. He’s some . . . nutcase. I can’t explain. He wants to try and stop me, and I’m really scared.”

She did it well, Tom thought. The driver almost swelled to John Wayne before their eyes. He changed gear noisily. “Okay, pardners. You want him lost. I’ll lose him.”

Hedges loomed, black in the headlights. Shadows flickered across the lane. They roared along, the load in the back crashing, taking bends crazily. When they reached the main road across the moor it was deserted; they squealed onto it on two wheels, and then the driver slammed his foot down.

“Come on, punk!” he yelled. “Make my day!” And then, suddenly: “Yee-har!”

They hit ninety on the straightaway. At every bend Tom closed his eyes and prayed, but Simon leaned out of the window and whooped and yelled. “We’re losing him! He’s miles back!”

The Beetle was tiny in the darkness. The dashboard clock said 10:10.

“What time’s this here train, ma’am?”

“Ten thirty,” Sarah shouted.

“No problemo!”

They sped around the roundabout, the driver singing “Clementine” at the top of his voice. He already wore a red neckerchief and checked shirt; now he fished a cowboy’s hat from under his seat and crammed it on.

“We’ll get you to the fort, ma’am, before them pesky redskins shoot us down. Nobody stops a Wells Fargo coach!”

Sarah giggled.

Tom felt sick.

In Bodmin the doors of the pubs were open; the streets busy with people. The truck had to slow. A red light stopped them. Sweating, Tom stared at the mirror. Far back, the Beetle came around a corner.

The lights changed. They roared down the street, right, left, down the lanes, wildly into the station entrance. Flinging the door wide Tom tumbled out, Sarah grabbed her bag and planted a kiss on the driver’s forehead. “Happy New Year, pardner.”

Then they were running.

The ticket office was shut, but the roaring as they ran by it told them a train was coming, the London express, by the noise. It thundered through, filling the night with vibrations and oil-stink, and as they flung themselves down the last stairs it pulled up alongside and braked, sleek and dark in a cloud of frosty steam.

“Yee-har!” Simon whooped.

Sarah raced along the platform. “You’ve been brilliant,” she yelled, turning. “I’ll write!”

The engine screeched to a deafening halt. Doors opened. She grabbed the nearest handle, yanked it around.

A passenger stepped out. A tall man, in a long black coat. He stood on the frosty platform and smiled ruefully at her.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said.