A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (18 page)

Wren shot him a dirty look and carried on walking over bumpy ground. Rhyllann got in front of him again.

‘C’mon brawd, please – don’t be like this.’ Rhyllann was forced to walk backwards as Wren continued marching.

‘At least tell me where we’re going!’ He wailed. But Wren’s lips remained in a thin tight line.

The route they took followed a slight decline and Rhyllann guessed they were finished with the moors. Wren probably wanted to find public transport, maybe even a library for more research. The pure gentle air gave way to a heavier muggy atmosphere. Rhyllann pulled at his t-shirt feeling uncomfortably sticky and oppressed. Glancing up he saw that while the upper moors still bathed in sunshine, thick heavy clouds were rolling in from the direction they were headed, and that was strange, as there was no wind about. Although Rhyllann reminded himself it might be a different story a couple of miles above ground level.

After an hour of tramping in silence across barren moor land, the scenery began to change. Ahead of them lay a belt of trees. Wren skirted around until they came across a sandy path through the woods which led to a series of lakes. Pulling out the OS map from his side trouser pocket, Wren studied it, turning it this way and that. Rhyllann immediately began blowing smoke.

‘Bloody smart of you to nick those bikes brawd, I mean – and those pasties too.’ His stomach clenched at the memory. Rhyllann hurried on. ‘Lucky you’re so good at reading maps. I mean – we’d be really lost without you.’

This got him a derisive look from eyes that were slits of blue. Folding the map away Wren turned on his heel to splodge around the lake, the water to his left, moors to the right, tree branches arching upwards to form a canopy.

Muttering under his breath Rhyllann had no choice but to follow slipping and sliding in his wake. Wren was being totally out of order, he told himself, dragging him all over the country, dropping him right in it with Crombie, making him hi-jack planes…They were lost now, and hungry and tired …Just as Rhyllann decided his life could not get any worse, rain fell in bucket loads from the sky. No gentle summer shower – this was torrential deafening rain, ricocheting from the water like gravel on glass, drenching Rhyllann’s world within seconds, sending moorhens and ducks skittering for shelter. Where their lake ended another began. A wide muddy track separated the two bodies of water. Turning left Wren began walking between the lakes. His blond hair turned dark, the khaki t-shirt clinging sodden to his ribs. From time to time Wren slipped or stumbled awkwardly, clutching the combat jacket and box to his chest.

Rhyllann had his own battle. Every piece of clothing drenched and clinging to his skin, weighing him down pushing him into the mud so that every step meant uprooting a sodden trainer before swinging it forward. And all this time the rain pelted down, finding every exposed pore, forcing him to screw up his eyes, blinding and deafening him. Up ahead Wren stumbled again. This time he didn’t manage to save himself; sprawling full length. Rhyllann hurried to help him up. His cousin’s teeth chattered between bloodless lips, his hair plastered against his skull. Rhyllann’s feet skidded as he hauled him upright; for a moment it seemed they would both tumble over. They clutched at each other like two novice skaters. Rhyllann's own teeth started chattering as he took the box from Wren. They tried supporting each other as they walked, but that didn’t work. If one tripped the other stumbled too. It was easier to splodge side by side in silence. Even if Wren wanted to speak, Rhyllann wouldn’t be able to hear him. The rain bounced up from the lakes and puddles that were rapidly forming across their path. They needed to get off this flat bridge of land quickly, before the lakes met. It became a desperate struggle; if they quickened their pace, they stumbled more frequently. Rhyllann found himself clutching the box against his chest so hard it physically hurt. He welcomed the pain, using it to spur himself on, ploughing through sheets of rain – falling from the sky – from over hanging branches – from his hair. The only thought he allowed was the next step and the next step, and the next, judging every inch of the barely visible path in the terrifying knowledge that one wrong move could be their last.

Finally they could see an end. Ahead of them the land rose steeply. Here the path diverged – if they turned left they would be circling the first lake, turn right and they’d be walking along the edge of the second lake. With a feeling of dread, Rhyllann remembered they’d approached the lakes down a gentle incline. If they wanted to continue forward they would have to scale an almost vertical bank of earth. Rhyllann cast a glance over his shoulder, the path behind was already underwater. They were at the bottom of a basin which was filling fast.

Thrusting the box into Wren’s hands, he ran at the bank, propelling himself towards one of the scrubby bushes clinging to the side. Rhyllann seized handfuls of shrubbery, scattering collected rainwater and loose earth. Heaving himself upwards, he wedged one foot against the plant, balancing precariously. From here, the bank became even steeper, stretching upwards for another twenty feet at least. At best he had managed to scrabble five feet. Feeling the ground beneath him crumble as roots tore loose, he gave up and allowed himself to slide back onto the path.

Wren watched, with eyes screwed up against the rainwater streaming down his face, convulsing with shivers. Now without a flicker of emotion he turned to his right and waded forward.

Rhyllann knew he must have been in more pain before this day. But this was torture. His skin felt so tender that every drop of rain stung as though being pelted with small gun shot. He’d scraped his hands and knees; his ears throbbed with cold, his jaw ached from clenching against chattering teeth. But far worse was the certainty that this was never going to end. He wanted to curl up in a ball, to find some warmth. But already water batted against his feet. If he lay down, he might never get up. Because Wren somehow found the strength to forge onwards, Rhyllann forced himself to move.

Like a reward for his bravery, the rain softened, then stopped. Rhyllann splashed ankle deep in water, but being able to raise his head, to see where he was going felt luxurious. He lengthened his stride, determined to catch up with the diminutive figure sploshing ahead like a clockwork toy. They were going to get through this he told himself. They would look back at this and laugh. He’d almost caught Wren up, in a moment, he’d slap his shoulder and Wren would give that dorky smile and they’d be friends again. After Rhyllann roasted him for sulking. With a burst of energy he surged forward, water churning, splashing to his hips. Wren cast a glance over his shoulder then disappeared.

Flinging himself head first into murky ice cold blackness, gasping as the air flumped from his lungs, Rhyllann groped blindly with outstretched hands, frantically fishing for Wren. His mind gabbled wildly, this was a bottomless pit, some lurking tentacled creature had snatched Wren, it would come back for him … and no one knew they were here … icy fingers clawed the back of his neck, clinging limpet like. With a supreme effort Rhyllann pushed down against the path to jerk backwards dragging Wren’s body with him. Wren rolled over onto his hands and knees to retch. Rhyllann struggled upright, only to topple against a bramble bush. He had pulled every muscle in his back. Groaning in agony he extracted himself from the brambles. At least Wren was safe from that icy murky pit. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he watched Wren scrabbling around frantically. Then with a despairing glance at Rhyllann he plunged back into the lake.

Dropping to his haunches, squatting in the mire, Rhyllann buried his head in his knees and howled. He couldn’t – just couldn’t – submerge himself in those waters again. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t. He would wait here for rescue. And if rescue didn’t come – he would never have to explain why he had let his cousin drown. He howled louder then squealed in terror.

A hand appeared in front of him, slapping down a small wooden box, followed by Wren’s head shoulders and torso emerging from the lake like a wraith. He swiped hair back from his face, shook water from his hands, stooped to retrieve the box and marched off without a word. The urge to kill him overcame the urge to abandon hope. Rhyllann struggled to catch up, careful to keep a decent gap between them. He didn’t trust himself.

Eventually they reached the far edge of the lake and a deserted carpark. But there was a lane leading back to civilisation – away from these dreadful lakes. Wren waited for Rhyllann to reach his side, then finally broke his silence.

‘Annie. We made it. Thank god.’

He hadn’t spoken before not through temper or spite. He’d needed to conserve all his strength and by sheer will power alone he’d managed to carry them both. Without him, Rhyllann would be an exhausted heap sobbing at the lake’s edge. Wren’s teeth chattered in a face gaunt with exhaustion.

‘I didn’t realise the waters would rise so quickly – they must have opened the barriers up country – we’re in the middle of a flood plain.’

Rhyllann patted his shoulder. Then with a shove told him to get going and can the lecture.

Crombie turned the battered mobile over and over in his hands, thinking. The operation hadn’t been a complete disaster. Following the Scottish lead, Interpol had arrested three suspects. Somehow though Stern and eight others had slipped through the net, making their way to Cornwall. Though Devon and Cornwall were spitting bullets over the failed raid, they had four gang members in custody, all of whom wanted to talk. Considering they were facing grand theft, not to mention murder in some cases, not surprising.

Not as good as it could have been, but not too shabby.

He looked up as Christine Hewes entered the room, carrying an evidence bag.

‘Found these Sir, on the boulders by the monolith.’

‘Thanks Christine. Is it still raining?’

‘Fraid so Sir. The lines to London are down.’

He grunted, examining the browning apple cores through the plastic bag. He needed to talk to Cavan. He supposed he would view the operation as a success. Strange really, how the gang had separated, some flying up to Scotland, some travelling down to Cornwall. Opposite ends of the country. Crombie opted to steer clear of Interpol, and landed by default in Cornwall. At least he was familiar with the place. His wife and girls loved holidaying here.

He spoke outloud, using WPC Hewes as a sounding board.

‘Why do you suppose some of ‘em went up to Scotland?’

She hesitated, as though he had posed a trick question.

‘Didn’t Interpol say they’d found the blond kid’s notebook? Apparently he laid a false trail for them.’

Crombie already knew that. And yet. A thirteen year old managing to outwit that nasty little gang? Wren Prenderson had convinced them his notes were authentic, by risking not only his gran’s, but his own life. But Mikey Stern hadn’t fallen for it.

‘What made Stern come to Cornwall instead d’you think?’

She blushed. ‘Dunno Sir. No idea. Maybe he thought he’d be better off keeping tabs on the kids, then when he found Joan’s diary, he worked out the Celtic Connection.’

Crombie stared at her, really puzzled now. ‘Joan’s diary? What are you talking about?’

She blushed a shade darker an stammered. ‘"The Brotherhood” Sir … they were talking about Joan’s diary – I presumed it was the Welsh book that the old man had … old man Stern? And Mikey Stern found it.’

Crombie shook his head slowly. Something didn’t add up, but he couldn’t work it out.

‘No, no no. I searched those houses personally.’ He scratched an ear, then pulled at the lobe. ‘Unless. That envelope we found?’ He gazed up at Hewes, feeling a twinge of impatience when she merely gulped back at him.

‘C’mon Hewes. You’re normally sharper than this. The envelope. Back at Green’s?’

She lowered her eyes, teeth nibbling her lips; Crombie sighed. If they’d managed to catch the kids there, got them back safely in custody …

Now Mikey Stern and that nasty little group calling themselves The Brotherhood were in Cornwall. Along with both kids; and somehow those kids had managed to get hold of whatever had been buried in that metal chest for eight hundred years.

Were the kids and Stern working together? Crombie shook his head again. No, that didn’t make sense. Somehow that blond kid had them all chasing rainbows and shadows; The Brotherhood, Stern, The police. And his cousin.

Crombie examined Rhyllann’s phone again, as though hoping it would miraculously ring. Outloud he said.

‘Where are you son? Where on earth are you?’