Down: Trilogy Box Set (51 page)

“Where’s that going to be?”

“They haven’t told me that but we’ll all find out tomorrow, won’t we?”

“I still want to go for my walk,” he insisted, slipping into his trainers. “You promised.”

“All right,” she sighed. “I’ll fetch Officer Barry from upstairs and see if he can find the time. But it’s got to be a quick one.”

It was a perfect Spring day, warm and sunny, and after Duck squinted at the sun he asked whether they could go around to the tennis court to see if he could find some of those yellow balls. Because it was the weekend and the grounds were empty and didn’t have to be pre-evacuated for Duck’s sojourn, the tennis court was also vacant. He spotted a tennis ball near the net and ran inside the fence like a goofy toddler. When he had it, he bounced it on the ground for a while then started kicking it around the court.

Delia strolled and chatted with Barry. “Do you know where you’ll be going after MAAC shuts down?” she asked him.

“Haven’t a clue. You think they tell us? I’ll be on unemployment, I expect. You?”

“I’ll go back to London.”

“Will you miss old Duck?”

“Gawd,” she giggled. “What do you think?”

“Still,” he said, “he’s not a bad kid. If the experiment’s a dud again, I hope they find him a home somewhere. Any clue where they’ll put him?”

“I don’t know and I’m not sure I want to know,” she sighed.

As she spoke, Duck was three-quarters up the inside of the chain-link tennis court fence.

Barry spotted him and shouted, “Hey! Get down from there!”

The top of the chain-link fence was only three feet away from the shorter perimeter fence.

Delia understood exactly what Duck had in mind.

“Duck. Stop there. You don’t want to do that,” she called to him.

But he had already scampered all the way up and with one foot on the top and another just below, he jumped clear of the razor wire and landed outside the MAAC grounds with a surprisingly agile landing.

Still, he was limping as he ran off, heading for a wooded area beyond one of the staff parking lots.

“Go on!” Delia screamed at Barry. “Go after him!” but Barry wasn’t one of the fittest of the security guards and he let her know in no uncertain terms that his chances of making the jump, let alone surviving it, were nil.

Yelling into his walkie-talkie he sounded the alarm, but by then, Duck was gone.

When Trevor and Ben arrived from their homes Delia was still hysterical. Trevor played the heavy with his employee, Barry, and Ben did the same with his employee, Delia, but they moved on quickly from pointless reprimands to liaising with the incredulous Essex police who had another mysterious MAAC escapee on their hands.

“Christ, Trevor,” Ben said, when they were finally alone. “After all it took to find Woodbourne. The restart is twenty-two hours from now and we’re still light one dead man.”

Emily and John squeezed together onto one small saddle, heading west. John was stiff as a board and though his flank pain was bad, it was tolerable. But both of them were heartened by the fact the bleeding hadn’t restarted, fever hadn’t set in, and they had a full day to find a boat and make it to Dartford.

Their optimism began fading many hours later. The plan to hug the northern riverbank until they were close to where they thought Dartford might be, almost immediately ran into problems. There were numerous riverside villages that they didn’t dare pass through during daylight hours, forcing them to ride parallel to the river, too far to the north.

With dusk fast approaching, they emerged from the forest to check their bearings one more time.

John said, “At this point we’ve probably overshot by miles. If we keep on west we’re going to hit London.”

“You’ve got to rest,” she said. “And so do I. Let’s wait till dark and try to find a boat near that last village we passed.”

When night came John knew it was about eight o’clock. They had fourteen hours to go, a wide river to cross, and more miles to go on foot when they reached the opposite bank. They got back on the horse and headed east, retracing their steps.

The village was a tiny one with a handful of cottages even smaller and more rickety than Harold’s house downriver. Two of the cottages showed chimney smoke and they gave those the widest berth.

They led the horse by its bridle down to the river. It was quite dark but their eyes were accustomed enough to the ambient conditions that they both saw it immediately: a small rowing boat with two oars pointing over the gunwales.

“I hope it floats,” John whispered.

They got closer and heard, “Stop there!”

A man was holding a lantern in one hand and something long in the other.

“Hello, friend,” John said wearily. “We’re in a hurry and I wanted to see if I could borrow your boat to cross here.”

“You had no intention of borrowing it. You were intending to steal it.”

“Yes, I suppose we were,” John said, “but we’re kind of desperate.”

“Go away. You will not have my boat.”

Emily began to cry. “Please help us.”

“A woman? Is that a woman?”

“Look, mister,” John said. “I can’t go into our story. We don’t have the time. Can I trade you for the boat?”

“What do you have?”

“I’ve got a good knife.”

“What about the horse?”

“Sure. You can have the horse.”

“And the knife too?”

“Of course, the knife too.”

“All right, slide the knife under the saddle and send the horse back to me. Then you can take the boat.”

“Does it float?” John asked.

“You will just have to see about that.”

John pushed off from shore and hopped in beside Emily and as they began to drift downstream in the strong current they heard the man laughing in the dark. It didn’t take long to see why, because water was trickling in from a gash near the bow. John tried rowing but his right flank pain made it hard to balance strokes so Emily sat to his right on the rowing bench, each pulling one oar.

For every boat length south they were able to achieve, the current pulled them two to the east. And every minute brought more water into the vessel.

“I rowed crew at university, you know,” she said as cheerfully as possible.

“Win any medals?” he asked, peering hard into the darkness.

“None. We were terrible. Last place, usually.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

They kept at it for the better part of an hour, the boat riding lower and lower. When the water was lapping at their knees they knew they’d be swimming soon. Her swimming, she admitted was passable, but he assured her that despite his injury he was an excellent swimmer and he’d hold onto her.

The boat bumped against something then stopped.

They’d hit the opposite bank.

Climbing out they collapsed into the tall grass and lay there laughing.

He kissed her.

“I’m better at kissing than swimming,” she said.

“Any medals?”

“A case full of them.”

At 10 p.m. on Sunday night, Ben and Trevor sat together in Trevor’s office, finishing up a call with the Essex police. There was no sign of Duck despite every officer on the force being pulled into Dartford.

“Well?” Ben asked.

“Well what?”

“Might as well have a drink.”

“Got any?” Trevor asked.

Ben reached into his briefcase and produced a wrapped bottle with a bow. “Only this. House gift for a dinner party tonight my wife went to on her onesies. Got a corkscrew?”

“Yeah, sure,” Trevor said.

He produced a hammer and a screwdriver and banged the cork in and poured the wine into Styrofoam coffee cups.

“Cheers,” Ben said. “To my friend, the soon-to-be-fired son-of-a-bitch, Trevor Jones.”

Trevor nodded gravely and said, “To
my
friend, the soon-to-be-fired son-of-a-bitch, Ben Wellington.”

Dr. Quint came in without knocking and asked if there was anything to report.

“Nothing,” Trevor said. “Drink?”

“Alcohol is not allowed on these premises. You should know better.”

“For real?” Trevor asked. “I mean, under the circumstances …”

Trevor’s walkie-talkie crackled to life with the voice of Barry from the reception area.

“Guv, are you looking at camera seven?”

Trevor wheeled around to his bank of screens.

There on camera seven which covered the south entrance of the complex, was Duck, dripping wet in the pelting rain, shouting for someone to let him in.

When they got to him and pulled him inside all he said was, “I don’t want to be ’ere no more, but I didn’t know where to go. Can I ’ave a pizza pie and watch one of me vids?”

John knew it was close to six in the morning because the dawn had pushed away the night fully. They’d been walking for only a short while since there hadn’t been any point trying to find Dartford in the dark. They weren’t even sure if they were east or west of the village. John thought they’d probably overshot to the west on horseback but he wasn’t sure how far they’d rowed to the east by boat.

“You choose,” John said. “You’re the scientist.”

“I have no idea, however I do know the odds are fifty-fifty. I say we go to the west.”

“That’s your job done. Mine is trying to keep tabs of the time with my lousy internal clock. I’d say we’ve got just over four hours.”

They hugged the river trekking through boggy ground for about an hour, both of them ignoring their hunger, John ignoring his pain and more. He’d felt them coming on during the night, the chills he knew were the first sign of infection. He’d be in bad shape before too long.

He wasn’t sure what they were looking for other than the village itself which he was reasonably confident he’d recognize. But it was Emily who stopped, hands on hips looking out at the river, declaring, “I know where we are.”

“Where?”

“This sharp turn here, you see, where the land juts out into an inverted V? I’m sure it’s Swanscombe.”

“How far’s that from Dartford?”

“Just four or five miles to the west. We were going in the right direction.”

“I never doubted you,” he said.

“Check your internal clock. How much time do we have?”

“About three hours.”

“We’d better get on with it. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You look flushed.”

“Just excited, that’s all.”

They kept following the river, John feeling more and more feverish. Another hour passed and he could no longer hide his problem. He was drenched in sweat and woozy. Though he argued, she insisted he stop to drink from the river.

She lifted up his shirt while he drank and gasped. “The bandages are green, John. You’ve gone septic.”

“Come on, let’s keep going,” he said, dragging himself up.

They plodded on, going slower and slower when they needed to be going faster. He was no longer able to guess at the time; she had decided to take on the task anyway.

“Please John,” she said when his steps were little more than a shuffle. “I think we’ve only got an hour left. We’ve got to turn inland soon but I don’t know where.”

He felt his legs giving out and sat down on the grass in a controlled landing.

She begged him to get up but he hardly heard her. She seemed so far away.

He looked down at the grass to pick a blade to make into a thumb whistle, the way he’d done so many times as a boy. Somehow it seemed like the only thing he wanted to do.

He stretched the blade between his thumbs and as he raised it up to his mouth to make a musical sound, he saw it and lowered his hands into his lap.

Rising chimney smoke half a mile to the south.

Dartford.

John summoned the strength to go the final distance but only at a snail’s pace. With an arm wrapped around Emily for support they limped up to the rear of the Dartford cottages.

“How much time?” John rasped through his fever-dry throat.

“Not very much. Half an hour. Maybe less.”

There were a few ratty goats on tethers but no sign of people. Dirk’s rear window was shuttered. They went around to the front and Emily knocked on the door.

There was no response.

“Try again,” John said.

Again nothing.

Then John called out weakly, “Dirk, it’s John Camp. Open up.”

The window shutter pushed open and a head tentatively stuck out. “As I live and breathe!” the young man shouted. “It’s the live ’uns!”

His neighbors, attentive to the commotion, swung their shutters open.

The latch of the door raised and Dirk came out. “I can’t believe you’ve survived let alone returned. I’ll be damned, which I am, as it ’appens.”

“Of course we’re back,” John said weakly. “You had the best beer in Hell.”

“Looks like you need one right quick.”

“He’s not well,” Emily said. “Do you have some water?”

“No. Beer is good,” John said. “Then we’ve got to get to the spot.”

Shortly after 9 a.m. Trevor got a call that his visitor had arrived. On the way to reception he second-guessed himself. He’d cleared the visit with the powers that be but now that Arabel was actually here his nerves were getting the better of him. At five minutes past ten he was going to have very good or very bad news to deliver. Either he’d be reuniting her with Emily or he’d be telling her definitively that her sister was gone. And the odds heavily favored the worst scenario.

The lump in his throat got bigger when he rounded the corner and saw she’d brought the kids.

Arabel must have read his expression because she immediately apologized. “I know, I’ve done it again, but I’d forgotten that it was a bank holiday. I couldn’t get a sitter. I sound like a broken record.”

“No worries,” Trevor said unconvincingly. He dropped to his haunches to greet Sam and Belle. “Hey guys, remember me?”

“You’re Trevor,” Sam said. “My mom likes you.”

Arabel blushed but she didn’t smile, her worry too heavy.

Trevor rose. “Well, I like her too and both of you as well.”

“So are you going to give me news about Emily?” Arabel said firmly.

“Soon. I’m going to ask you to wait in my office until just after ten. One last meeting and I’ll be able to brief you.”