Chapter 15 The road to Auchterderran

Simon Fairfax's friend or colleague was a big hairy man whom it would have been grossly insulting to gorillas to compare with a gorilla. He and Simon between them bundled Christopher quickly and efficiently into the sleek black car. There was no chance to call for help, to try and run back into the building, or to attract attention in any way whatsoever. There was no sign of the policemen who had been all over the place only minutes before. It was the stuff of Christopher's nightmares.

Simon's accomplice drove off down the hospital drive somewhat more speedily than Christopher had driven up it in the police car, but after that he settled down to a steady pace which presumably he thought would not attract anyone's attention.

'Where are we going?' said Christopher.

'Where do you want to go?' said Simon Fairfax, beside him in the back seat while the big hairy man drove. Simon gave a false and chilling smile, flashing his teeth as, Christopher imagined, a crocodile might have done under similar circumstances.

'Home,' said Christopher.

'I don't think that's an option at the moment - is it, Feroze?' said Simon cheerfully. 'We were thinking more in terms of a friendly drive up to an old mineshaft we know near Auchterderran, and then a friendly conversation, and then after that we would take you home. Providing the conversation goes as we would like it go, that is. Right, Feroze?'

'Right, Mr Fairfax,' said Feroze, giving a grin over his shoulder that was if anything slightly more unnerving than Simon's smile. He had a kind of quasi-American accent which Christopher thought he might have acquired by watching too many gangster movies.

'Feroze isn't very happy right now,' said Simon. He glanced sideways at Christopher. 'Aren't you going to ask me why?'

'Why?' said Christopher, not really wanting to know.

'His friend got shot in the street when he was just trying to attract your attention. The American killed him. But you've led a charmed life until now, haven't you?'

'Nothing to do with me,' said Christopher. 'I'm just an innocent bystander in all this.'

'There's no such thing,' said Simon.

'You're not with Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs at all, are you?' said Christopher. He wasn't sure if he should be saying anything, but his nerves were too jangled to let him sit in stony silence while they drove him towards his doom.

'Not at this precise moment, no,' said Simon, his smile broadening. 'I do sometimes feel as if I worked for them, the amount of tax I have to pay. But I'm not officially employed by them, no.'

'Have you ever been?' said Christopher rashly.

'Not as such,' said Simon.

There was a silence.

'Do you mind if I just call home on my mobile?' said Christopher politely. 'They might be worrying about me - they didn't know I was going to have to come to the hospital.'

'Better not,' said Simon. 'Let's see your mobile - I have an interest in technological developments.'

Christopher fumbled around in his jacket pocket, not really intending to hand over his mobile but feeling to see if he had anything useful on him, such as a flick-knife, a small pistol or even a plastic fork to jam in Simon's eye.

'I don't have it,' he lied.

'Oh, dear, Christopher, some are born to lie and others have lying thrust upon them and don't do it very convincingly,' said Simon. He delved into the pocket, extracted the mobile, glanced at it scornfully, then wound down the window and threw it out.

'That was a bit silly,' said Christopher mildly. He wasn't sure how to react to any of it. Nothing in his life to date had prepared him for this. Amaryllis would have been much better at dealing with the situation.

'Whatever,' said Simon. He leaned over the driver's shoulder to give him directions in a low voice. They had driven through Kirkcaldy and out the other side and turned down a minor road that was signposted for Glenrothes, not the most attractive destination at the best of times and now its name sounded even grimmer and more portentous than usual. The hairy man was driving a little too fast for the narrow road, but, reasoned Christopher, if they had an accident he was more likely to get the chance to escape, as Harrison Ford had done in 'The Fugitive'.

The rain that had been spitting on Christopher earlier when he was on the hospital roof was now heavier and more unpleasant. There were potholes at the sides of the road, filling rapidly with water.

'It'll be a bit bleak on the moors in this,' said Simon. He glanced at Christopher's waterproof parka. 'Just as well you wrapped up warm.'

For the first time in his life, Christopher actually envied his sister Caroline. Not for her the panic and the fear and the visions of the abandoned mineshaft. She would still be unconscious, tucked up in bed with people watching over her. He wondered what she had meant by insisting he was in danger. As it had turned out, she was right - but it must have just been a fluke that she had said it. Surely she had nothing to do with - Surely she and her fugitive Iranian husband - Surely the fugitive Iranian husband with all the contacts in various underworlds.....

It was as if a great light had been switched on in his mind, but it illuminated something horrible which would have been better to remain in darkness. Christopher didn't want to say any more or think any more. He would wait for the 'conversation' at the top of the abandoned mineshaft. There was always the chance that these two would be so keen to boast about what they had done that they would just carry on talking while he himself faded away into the background, disappearing into the landscape as the Picts were once thought to have done.

'Damn,' said Simon Fairfax suddenly, as they drove through a small village with a very long main street, a sign that it had once been a mining town. 'We've gone the wrong way.'

A glimmer of hope. As soon as bad people started to make mistakes, they were fatally weakened, because it no longer seemed that things would go exactly according to plan for them, and if one thing had gone wrong, then other things could too.

'Easy,' said the hairy man at the wheel, swinging round and driving down an even smaller side road. 'If we head up to Kinglassie now we can get back on track. We'll be coming at the moor from the opposite direction, is all.'

It was hard to tell what his accent was. It alternated between the pseudo-American drawl and some sort of Middle Eastern cadences. It didn't matter anyway, and Christopher knew he was only worrying about Feroze's accent to keep his mind off other more unpleasant things such as Iranian gangsters and their ways.

The others, back at the house, had no idea of what was going on or where he was. Christopher realised he hadn't even called them to let them know about Caroline and the roof - partly because he hadn't wanted to worry Faisal. Now he wished he had at least given them a clue about his whereabouts. At least they could have tracked him as far as the hospital, and someone might have seen him leaving there - although that was a faint hope since most of the spectators had probably gathered round at the front of the building at least for as long as there was the chance of drama and bloodshed. He shivered. Maybe the police would notice he was missing, but they would probably just think he had either gone off to the station, caught a bus or got a lift from someone he knew, and would have dismissed him as ungrateful and rude for disappearing without letting them know he didn't want a ride home in a police car. All the ways he imagined being rescued were closing down, one by one.

They went through Kinglassie. If only they had stopped, even at a pedestrian crossing, Christopher thought he might have been able to attract attention, or even jump out. He tried to wind down his window surreptitiously. It was jammed. Simon Fairfax smiled unpleasantly again.

'The wonders of technology, Christopher.'

The use of his first name by someone who only meant him harm was really starting to bug him, Christopher thought, although then again it would have been ridiculous for Simon to call him 'Mr Wilson' at this point. He started to think about whether the kids would miss him or not, but he had to stop his thoughts from going down that route as it was too upsetting, and he didn't want to be a sentimental wreck when they got out of the car, as he was sure they would, on a deserted moor or hillside near Auchterderran village. He wondered if Caroline would ever recover. He wasn't sure exactly what was wrong with her but it must be connected with her alcoholism. Alcoholic dementia? Delirium tremens? He didn't know enough about the medical stuff to work it out himself. That was what doctors were for - not that they had shown any sign of working it out up to now. Now that they had her in their hands it must get a little easier, surely, if only they could keep her in their hands for long enough - what if she went up on the roof again, and he wasn't around to be called in? Marina and Faisal might have to go through the whole crisis with her. All his thoughts led back to them.

It was too difficult thinking all these thoughts, so he looked mindlessly out of the car window for a while, not even really seeing the scenery as it changed from long mining village to scrubby moorland and back.

The car slowed, the dark hairy man drove it up a track that led into the moor, it stopped.

'Let's get out and walk for a bit,' said Simon easily, as if he was suggesting a Sunday afternoon stroll. They all got out of the car. Christopher was still clutching the parcel, under his arm now. Nobody seemed to notice it. Perhaps even at this late stage he could use the money to bribe Simon Fairfax.

They left the track and wandered across moorland. There were few trees, and the ones that had managed to get a hold were stunted and bare of leaves, poisoned by industry that had swept through this area like a whirlwind and then had gone again almost overnight, leaving a trail of destruction behind it. If he made a run for it, which in itself was unlikely since he didn't trust his running prowess to get him away from pursuers, there would be nowhere to hide, and no-one to help him. It would have been easy to collapse in despair, falling to his knees and whimpering, but Christopher was incapable of that kind of loss of self-control. He wondered how far it would be to the abandoned mineshaft, the sudden push and then either the quick death caused by the fall or the slow lingering death in the lonely darkness at the bottom of the pit.

'This way,' said Simon, as if ushering him to a seat in a restaurant or the theatre. He led the small party as if he knew exactly where he was going. Had he done this before? Would Christopher join a pitiful heap of other human remains when he fell?

'I don't know why you're doing this, but have you thought that you might have the wrong person?' suggested Christopher, knowing he had to delay things somehow.

'I don't think so. Christopher Wilson, redundant archivist, the brother of Caroline Hussein, whom he has been harbouring in his home for a time along with her children Marina and Faisal,' said Simon, reeling it all off as if he had rehearsed for this very moment.

'But why?' said Christopher.

Simon smiled again, grimly. 'If you're expecting this to turn into one of those murder stories where the villain can't resist telling everything before he kills someone, and then the rescuers arrive over the horizon, you're very much mistaken,' he said. 'The deal is, we all keep quiet and do this with no fuss.'

'That may be your idea of a deal,' said Christopher, stopping and turning to face Simon. 'It isn't anything I've agreed to.'

'Christopher, you're so perfect!' said Simon, laughing out loud this time. 'You don't agree to being abducted and murdered - that isn't how it works! Has nobody ever told you?'

'I don't mix in that kind of circle,' said Christopher stiffly. Over Simon's shoulder he found he could see the place where Feroze had parked the car. And - his heart jumped - there was another car parked next to it. He didn't want to stare for too long in case Simon noticed something, so he couldn't tell much about the other car, except that it wasn't a police car or at least not a marked one. The only thing he sure of was that he wasn't hallucinating. Just when he had thought he was on his own with nobody to turn to, there was somebody else there! He glanced around wildly.

'No, there's nobody to turn to,' said Simon coldly. 'Nowhere to go. Come on, let's get this over with.'

He gestured to his dark hairy accomplice, who now took Christopher by the shoulder, threatening to dislodge the parcel from under his arm, and pulled him on forward. At the last moment Christopher managed to transfer the parcel to his other side. It was like being trapped in a giant industrial clamp.

They must have walked just over half a mile from the road, which was now hidden from view by the series of lumps and bumps in the ground which were probably man-made but which had become absorbed into the landscape, producing an odd effect. It was similar to what Christopher imagined the surface of the moon would look like, except for being green rather than whatever colour the moon surface was, he thought brownish. His thoughts were now rambling, an uncharacteristic sensation. Was this similar to the feeling of your whole life flashing before you when you were drowning? It didn't seem so, since Christopher's life to date had been controlled, organised, categorised to the point of boredom, whereas his thoughts now were dotting about all over the place and dredging up little snippets of half-remembered information randomly from his own personal archives.

They were out of sight of the place where the cars were parked too, and there had been no sign of anyone else about.

No, wait! A figure came into view on the top of one of the bumps in the ground.

Christopher waved frantically with the hand that wasn't rendered numb by Feroze's grasp on his shoulder. It was the hand that now held the parcel, but he was less bothered about that than about attracting someone's attention, even if they were an innocent passer-by who didn't deserve to be dragged into this situation.

After a minute the figure waved its hand back. There was no sign of urgency, of phoning the police on a mobile, of running to flag down a car on the road and get help. Christopher lowered his hand, deflated. But surely this person would notice something was wrong if Christopher suddenly disappeared, or if three men walked off across the moor and only two returned. He was a witness, if nothing else.

'Nice try,' said Simon. 'There's no help for you there.'

'He could get you into trouble, though,' said Christopher. 'He'll remember us.'

'I don't think so,' said Simon, smirking now. He seemed to have a range of smiles for every occasion, each more unpleasant than the previous.

'But how can you be sure?' persisted Christopher. He was rapidly reaching the stage of not caring what he said.

'Because, Christopher, he's one of ours. He's been following us on his motorbike ever since we left the hospital... Sorry,' Simon added after a slight pause during which Christopher's spirits plummeted and his face felt as if it had done the same. 'He'll only remember what we tell him to remember. Two men setting out across the moor for a bracing health-giving walk such as the government are always trying to persuade us to do, and two men coming back to their car.'

'We're about there,' said Feroze suddenly. 'Watch your step.'

Christopher looked all around him, memorising the wet feel of the rain as it spattered his face, the sponginess of the turf under his feet, the grey cloudy skies that always looked so big when you were outside town, the greenness of the grass.... He couldn't even imagine not being able to feel or see any of it again. He couldn't imagine how his family would cope without him. And as an afterthought, he allowed himself to think about Amaryllis, cool and yet somehow vulnerable, her child-like delight in playing Monopoly and her plotting and planning, the panic she must have felt being trapped with spiders. The view from her balcony.

How unfair to lose all this before it had really begun. He blinked back raindrops mingled with self-pitying tears.

'Turn around,' said Simon. Not a trace of a smile now.

Christopher turned around, assisted by Feroze's grip on his shoulder which forced him to face Simon. Then Feroze let him go for a moment while he took off a backpack and started to poke about in it as Simon started to speak again. But Christopher's attention was so distracted by other events in the background that he didn't even listen.

The figure who had been standing on the bump in the ground was suddenly no longer standing there but on his knees, felled by an attack from behind. As Christopher watched, he and another figure apparently wrestled. The victor in this conflict then stood up, and Christopher's heart jumped. It was a tall slim figure, who ran down the bump and towards them across the uneven ground, stumbling here and there but never falling, now and then ducking behind a scrubby bush or weaving to one side, presumably to minimise the chances of being seen. Even more amazingly, a third, large and unkempt person lumbered up to the top of the bump, stood and looked for a moment and then followed the runner, moving more slowly but making good progress. This second shape looked disconcertingly like Big Dave, except that Christopher could not remember ever having seen him run before.

'... so I'm afraid we won't be telling anyone where you are,' Simon was saying, but he suddenly noticed that he didn't have Christopher's full attention, and swung round to see what was going on in the background. He just caught a glimpse of the first running figure as it merged into another scrubby bush.

'Feroze!' he snapped. 'We've got company!'

The dark hairy man straightened up, rope in one hand and gun in the other. Christopher hadn't seen a gun in real life before, or at least not in a situation where someone was likely to use it. There were guns in museums, of course, and in gun shops, but they seemed safer in both these places - they were usually under lock and key, for a start. And they weren't in the possession of someone whom it would have been an insult to gorillas to call a gorilla. Of course it had always been on the cards, in this situation, that a gun would come into the equation somewhere. Maybe they were planning to shoot him before he went down the abandoned mineshaft, or maybe they would leave it to nature, or gravity, to take its course.

'Get him into the shaft, quickly!' said Simon. 'Give me the gun, I'll pick off the woman.'

The woman? Christopher just hoped it was Amaryllis and not Mrs Stevenson who was now racing to his rescue. He desperately wanted to warn her about the gun, but he had other things to worry about. Feroze was advancing on him, rope in hand. The mineshaft must be very close by, although it was impossible to see it if you didn't know it was there.

'Where is this shaft?' he blurted out.

'You'll see it soon enough,' grunted the dark hairy man, reaching out to take his arms.

Christopher pulled the hand that was still, unbelievably, holding the parcel, away from his captor.

'Wait a minute!' said Simon sharply. 'What's that he's carrying?'