The Guardians (5 page)

There was the argument that he ought to get off the bus and catch the next one back, hope to sneak in again without being seen. There was another, though—that he must make sure they did not catch him. The bus circled Trafalgar Square, with the pigeons walking about in the sunshine, the fountains
flashing, Nelson looking down from the top of the plexiglass pillar which had replaced the original stone one. No, Rob decided, he was not going back. And he was not going to get caught.

The bus drew up at the Monorail Terminus and he got out. In a visiphone booth, checking the mirror to see that no one was watching him, he slipped off his school blazer with its bright-red trim and distinctive badge and rolled it up. Then he went out and stuffed it between the back of the booth and the wall. It would be found eventually but with luck not before morning when the cleaning staff came on duty. He inspected himself. The gray trousers were not out of the ordinary. Nor was his white Sunday shirt. But that long-tailed bow tie in school colors . . . he pulled it off and thrust it in with the blazer. He felt better, more anonymous.

Rather than ask questions of the officials, he wandered around the terminus discovering things. There was a wall map of stations served, and he looked for Reading. He had already decided this offered his best chance of getting into the County—the border was only a few miles north of there.
There was a fare list underneath and he had a shock when he saw the price of a ticket. It was £11.5, two pounds more than he had in his wallet. But those were adult fares; his own would only be half. He would have very little left all the same.

A train was due to leave in twenty minutes. Rob put money in the machine and dialed a ticket. It was a long time since breakfast, which had been no better than usual, and he was hungry. The buffet was showing on its HV advertiser a succession of the meals available inside. A chicken turned on a spit, golden brown and ten times larger than life, and was split to be dropped on a huge plate with a vast heap of crisp French fried potatoes. The set was fitted with smell, which drifted out in an agonizing assault on his nostrils. On the moving band overhead the sign winked:

THIS DISH . . . TODAY . . . ONLY £2.25 . . .

Rob swallowed and turned away. He found a Servomat and for fifty pence got a sandwich and a biscuit. The sandwich was made with wafer-thin ham and he still felt hungry when he had finished. He headed for the train. It was fifteen minutes
before it was due to leave but he needed to get away from the smell of the advertising box. To his surprise both cars were almost full. He could not imagine why so many people would be wanting to go to Reading on a Sunday afternoon until he heard people in front of him talking about the Carnival.

Carnivals were held in different parts of the Conurbs at different times. They involved a lot of eating and drinking, parades, dancing in the streets—a general confusion of merry-making to which people flocked from miles, even scores of miles, around. His plan had been to take a bus to a point as far north of the town as he could, then to make his way on foot toward the border. But carnivals disrupted everything. Buses would be running erratically or not at all.

He had time to get off. He could aim for somewhere else within reach of the border—Chelmsford, say. But he did not have enough money for a second ticket and he could only change this one by going to the Information Office and asking one of the officials, who in turn might ask awkward questions. It was better to sit tight.

The piped music in the car broke off for a moment replaced by a four-note carillon heralding departure. As it swelled up again the train slid out from the terminus along its gleaming band of steel.

•  •  •

The journey took less than twenty minutes, the train at its fastest traveling at more than a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. The ride was very smooth with only a slight rocking on the curves. Beneath the pillars supporting the rail there were glimpses of the city's streets. On either side high-rise blocks stretched away. Then came the stretches of Green Belt, studded with artificial lakes, fair grounds, amusement centers—everything the Conurbans needed for pleasure and distraction. Even at this high speed one saw the crowds.

There were crowds in Reading, too, filling the square outside the station. Loudspeakers broadcast music and announcements. When Rob came out they were playing a popular song, “You Are Mine, I Am Yours,” and everyone was singing it in unison. There were no buses to be seen, no vehicles of any kind.

The music stopped and a giant voice, echoing since it came from several directions simultaneously, said, “Are we all happy?”

“Yes!” from a full-throated chorus.

“Then stay with Uncle, folks and folkesses. In a few minutes, a very few minutes, the Bubble Girls will dance for your delight, floating above your heads on their transparent bubbles. Seven lovely ladies who never make a wrong step. Give them a cheer to show you want to see them!”

The crowd cheered. Rob approached a cheerful red-faced man, about forty. “Excuse me. Can you tell me where I can get a bus?”

“A bus? What do you want a bus for?” He was a bit drunk, Rob realized. “You want to stay and see the show. They're good. I've seen them.”

“I'm afraid I can't.”

“Of course you can. It's Carnival.”

Rob shook his head. The eyes in the red face narrowed in suspicion.

“What are you here for, anyway? You're not local, or you'd know the bus routes.”

“I've come to see an aunt of mine. She's sick.”

“On your own?”

“My mother's
already here, staying with her.” He tried feverishly to think of things that would make the story seem convincing. “My father couldn't get away. He works on Sundays.”

“So you're on your own.”

The tone was different, sympathetic now. The man called above the music. “Hey! There's a boy here needs to get to his aunt who's sick. He's come a long way on his own. Anyone got a car parked near to give him a lift?”

Rob protested. “No, it's all right. I can get there on the bus. I just wanted . . .”

Volunteers were already appearing. Good will was one of the vaunted features of Carnival, along with the drinking and feasting and having fun. Of the early stages of Carnival, at any rate. Rob's protests were generously overridden. The red man accepted an offer on his behalf from someone who said he had a car parked only a few minutes' walk away.

Rob made a last try: “But the Bubble Dancers . . .”

“See them anytime,” the volunteer said briskly.
He was in his twenties, wearing a badge with interlinked rings that showed he was a professional sportsman. “Let's get you to that sick aunt. Where does she live?”

Rob thought quickly again. “It's Sheffield Road. Number 131.”

The sportsman's brow furrowed. “Where's that?”

“Reading North.” That was the area he wanted. “But I don't need . . .”

Someone else said: “We can ask up there.”

“Sure,” the sportsman agreed. “We'll find it. Come and join in the hunt for Sheffield Road, mates. My car's a ten-seater.”

Doing odd things was another Carnival tradition. The sportsman was obviously pleased about his ten-seater—there was only one electrocar model larger. He collected a group of eight, including the red-faced man, and they set off. Rob went with them unprotestingly. He would have to hope for an opportunity to slip away later; it was impossible here.

Electrocars, like the buses, were fitted with governors that controlled the power input from the cables and so, theoretically, the speed. There was
additionally a separate and lower limit for inner-city streets. The sportsman not only disregarded that but clearly had managed to disconnect the governor. They tore through the streets with the other men cheering him on. Fortunately there was almost no traffic and no sign of police, who would be busy controlling the Carnival.

Progress was slower when they reached North End. They stopped the car at intervals to ask for Sheffield Road. (What if there was a Sheffield Road, Rob wondered, and a number 131?) He was hoping for a chance to break away but none came. One person directed them to a place which proved to be Shafford Road. They were getting tired of the search and a bit irritable.

One of them said: “Over there. Police station.”

“Not to worry,” the sportsman said. “Not breaking any limits, not at the minute.”

“We could ask them. They're bound to know.”

They immediately brightened up. It was a square steel and concrete building, ugly but massive. The sportsman stopped the car and he and most of the others piled out.

It would take them less than a minute to find that Sheffield Road did not exist. Then the police would either come out to the car, or he would be taken in. One of the men was still beside him, placidly smoking a cheroot.

“I feel a bit dizzy . . .” Rob said, “some fresh air.”

The smoker puffed and nodded. The last of the group was disappearing into the police station as Rob got out. The road was long and straight but thirty yards away there was an intersection. He ran for it full pelt.

There were shouts behind him. Glancing back as he reached the intersection he saw them coming after him. The sportsman was in the lead, pounding along with frightening speed and determination. This road was made up of monolithic modern blocks with lawn surrounds dotted with small bushes. No cover at all. If the side road offered no more . . .

He was in luck though. It was a street of small, rotting, last-century houses, stuck together in pairs, all red brick and pebble-dash. He ran down
an alley to the right which gave onto another lying between the backs of the houses in this street and those in one parallel to it. No cover again, just a rough track puddled from the previous day's rain. But there were narrow strips of garden between the alley and the houses, many of them with sheds at the end. Rob could hear his pursuers halloing behind him. He dodged through a wire fence, pulled open the door of a shed, and crouched inside.

There was no window. It was pitch-dark and had an odd pungent smell. He heard the pursuit tear noisily past. The trouble was that, having lost him, they were likely to backtrack and search more thoroughly. After a time in fact he heard them returning. Then he was startled by a voice just the other side of the thin wooden wall.

“Looking for someone?”

“A boy, about thirteen.” It sounded like the sportsman. “Seen anything of him?”

It must be the owner of the shed and he must have seen Rob go in and come down from the house to investigate. Now he would open the door and hand him over.

“White shirt, gray trousers?” the man asked.

“That's him! He's brought us out here on a wild-goose chase. We'll give him carnival pranks when we lay hands on him. It will be a long time before he pulls another one.”

“Yes, I saw him. He dodged up through the Millers' garden. That's two houses along.”

“Then we've got him!”

“I wouldn't be sure about that. He could have got through the side to the front and off along Kirkup Road.”

“Thanks! Come on, then. We're wasting time.”

They thudded off. Rob lay waiting. He wondered why the man had protected him. If they were to find they had been tricked he would be in bad trouble himself. People swung between extremes during Carnival and violence was common. They were quite capable of wrecking his house.

Rob had been aware of small scuffling noises. When the door opened, bringing a shaft of light, he realized the significance of the acrid smell. On a bench against one wall were several small boxes with
wire netting across the front. There were small furry animals in them. Rabbits.

“You can get along. They've gone,” the man said.

He was thin and sharp featured, with dirty shirt sleeves rolled up under a tattered sleeveless pullover and trousers patched at the knee. He did not look like someone given to risky or generous acts. The explanation, Rob saw, lay in the rabbits, kept here in this windowless almost airless shed. It was prohibited to keep livestock without a license, and he would never get one. He probably fattened them to sell to a butcher. There was a market for nonfactory meat.

“On your way,” the man said.

There was nothing Rob would have liked more. The smell was getting unpleasant. On the other hand . . .

“They're probably still nearby,” he said. “And the police may be looking. If they catch me . . .”

He saw it register in the narrow wary face. Rob might tell them where he had hidden. The man nodded.

“Right.”

He closed the door as Rob was saying: “Half an
hour would probably do.” A key turned in the lock. It must have been an accident that it was not locked earlier; perhaps he had just gone up to the house to get something. Rob settled down, his back against the wall, trying to ignore the smell. It was better than being beaten up by his hunters or handed to the police to be taken back to school. He wrinkled his nose. Half an hour was bearable.

He had no watch. Juniors at the boarding school were not allowed them. It was difficult to assess the passage of time, especially in the dark. He tried counting seconds and minutes to himself but had to give up. It made things drag still more.

Eventually he realized that well over half an hour had passed, over an hour probably. He tried the door to see if he could shake it open but the shed was more firmly built than it seemed. He sat down again. The smell of the rabbits did not improve and he did not get used to it. He got a cramp and had to get up to ease his aching muscles.

Time passed very slowly. Could the man have abandoned him? But he would have to see to the rabbits. Or could he have met with an accident? He
had looked like someone living on his own; it might be days before anyone investigated. Of course, he could probably attract attention by shouting—someone would hear him eventually. But whoever did would very likely turn him over to the police. He was wondering how long he could stick it when he heard footsteps and, a moment later, the door opened.