A Sixpenny Christmas (22 page)

He had left his small cache of food in the ruined cottage, tucked into his haversack and, he thought, probably safe from the rain since the corner in which it lay was sturdily roofed. He wondered whether he should return to the cottage – he felt exposed and uneasy so near the farmhouse – but he knew that whilst the storm continued he would be unable to see a thing from up there. The little car with the two adults in it had not come back. The two men who seemed to be helping around the place, one very old and the other of indeterminate age, had left the premises shortly after the rain began. Now, he thought, there were just the three kids in the farmhouse. He did wonder whether they would make their way to the w.c. in such fearful weather, especially as it was growing dark, and had almost made up his mind to kidnap the girl the following day instead, when he saw, coming up the lane, a small figure.

Sam climbed laboriously out of the cart and peered, then frowned. How the devil had she done it? He had
watched the car leave with the two adults and he had seen the kids dashing from one place to another, presumably doing the chores which the adults had left them. Yet now the girl had somehow managed to spirit herself out of the warm farmhouse and into the storm. Sam grinned to himself. What did it matter how she got there? She was approaching the farmyard at a snail’s pace and Sam told himself that she was unlikely to offer any resistance when he suggested that she might come and see an injured dog which he thought might belong to the farm. Sam was no psychologist but he had seen how the children fussed over the filthy sheepdogs and guessed that after his little speech the girl would accompany him at least as far as the ruined cottage. He had played with the idea of catching one of the dogs – perhaps the very old one – and inflicting some minor injury upon it. He thought he might crush its foot, or even break its forepaw, but then he remembered that when one of the straggly creatures had come up to investigate what was happening at the ruined cottage, it had growled as soon as he moved, the hair along its back standing up stiff and straight and its lips parting to show a remarkably fine set of teeth. Clearly, the injured dog must be a figment of his imagination.

Sam checked on his fingers that he had done all that was necessary. He had the cord of binder twine looped at both ends; a running loop at the child’s end and a static one at his. He had put all his food and the remaining bottle of beer in the haversack which he had used throughout his journey, and the ransom note, if you could call it that, was tucked safely in his pocket.
Tell them whats hounding me for money as I’m payin’ you direct, else you won’t see the kid alive again
. Sam gave a satisfied smirk; that should settle Ellen’s hash. He could imagine her terror and how speedily she would give in to his demand.

He had not bargained for the storm, however, which made everything twice as difficult. He had imagined that there would be enough light from the setting sun to show him the way to the place where he had planned to hold the girl for twenty-four hours, or longer if necessary. It was a good two miles from Cefn Farm, high up in the hills and well hidden. He knew children got into everything but thought, thankfully, that these children were different. They worked hard, as hard as adults, and though of course they played hard too they spent most of their spare time, as far as he could see, down by the river or in the woods, rarely climbing to the inhospitable heights, for what was there to amuse children in bare rock faces, tumbling mountain streams which would sweep the feet from under you, or treacherous slides of loose shale? So he, looking for a hiding place after he woke from his nap that morning, had found the very thing: a steep cleft, with bushes growing round its mouth, which led into a cave, not large but plenty big enough for two.

The girl was very close now. Leaving the cart shed at a run, Sam crossed the farmyard in a few loping strides and grabbed her shoulder. She gave a startled squawk and tried to free herself from his grip. ‘Let go!’ she said sharply. ‘Are you the man who took our bread? If so . . .’ But Sam hung on.

‘Sorry, miss,’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t know about no bread; I’ve only been here an hour or so. I’ve gorra tent pitched on the marshy ground down by the river, but
today I come across this dog – it’s black and white, some sorta sheepdog, I reckon. It’s hurt; can’t walk, else I’d have brought it down to that farmhouse.’ He jerked a thumb at Cefn Farm and some instinct which he had not known he possessed told him that now was the moment to let go of the girl’s shoulder.
She’ll run
, a voice in his head warned him.
If you let her go she’ll be off home before you can stop her.
But another voice said,
A sick dog’ll fetch her
, whilst the first voice insisted,
On your own head be it, Sam O’Mara.

Sam let her go. ‘The dog’s in that ruined cottage up there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I made it a bed of dried bracken, but I reckon it needs more than that.’ He was shouting above the roar of the storm. ‘Course, it may not be your dog, missie . . .’

But to his delight the girl was already heading for the ruined cottage and in minutes they were both inside. ‘Where’s the dog?’ she said, and Sam gestured to the pile of bracken with his haversack humped up amongst it and looking, now he considered it, remarkably like a sick animal. The girl stepped forward. ‘Feather? Is that you, Feath—’

She had seen the haversack, knew he lied, and he just had time to grab her arm and slip on the noose before she opened her mouth to scream. But the storm defeated her and before she could fill her lungs for a second attempt Sam had thrust his home-made gag into her mouth and tied it roughly at the back of her head. ‘Shurrup and you won’t get hurt,’ he said roughly. ‘This is a sorta – sorta game.’

Even if she had understood the words she made no reply – she could scarcely do so with the wodge of
material stuffed into her mouth – but before Sam could stop her she had kicked out so viciously that he was forced to knock her off her feet. She was making gulping noises but he knelt on her stomach and wrenched her boots off, holding them tantalisingly up before all he could see of the pale blur of her face.

‘You and me’s goin’ for a walk; it’s a fair old way and the storm’s likely to hold us up. You can do it in bare feet if you want to be bleedin’ well awkward but I’ll put your boots on again if you swear on your mother’s life that there won’t be no more kickin’.’

He expected an immediate agreement but the girl thought it over for several long minutes before she gave a very small and reluctant nod. Sam was relieved; he had envisaged himself having to carry the brat because without boots she would be unable to scramble over the rocky outcrops once they gained the heights. He knelt down and began to replace her boots. Twice as he was doing up the laces her foot twitched and he jumped back, fearful of a toecap in the teeth, but each time it seemed to have been a subconscious movement; or had it? In the dim light he thought he could see a twinkle in the girl’s eyes and oddly enough this reassured him. She would survive.

He pulled the ransom note out of his pocket, and was dismayed to find that it was just about unreadable, a piece of soggy paper, with the pencilled words so faint as to be almost indistinguishable. He decided to leave it anyway; even if it was unlikely to be understood, he knew himself to be a resourceful bloke and would find some way of getting his message across.

He managed to put on his haversack without letting
the child get to her feet, but when she did she raised a hand and touched the gag, looking straight at him, not in appeal but with a suggestion. She shook her head slowly from side to side, then touched her own chest, and he knew she was saying without words that if he removed the gag she would not shout. He looked doubtfully at his small captive. He had been gagged once and knew what a horrible experience it was, knew, too, that it could easily go wrong and suffocate the wearer. Until today he would have said that he cared nothing for his daughter, but now he couldn’t help admiring her spunk. Chip off the old block, he told himself, unfastening the gag whilst reminding her that it would go into his pocket and should she so much as squeak it would be put in position once more.

If he expected gratitude he was disappointed. The girl merely nodded, then looked down at her wrists. Already she must have been trying to free herself, for the skin of her wrist was chafed and swollen. Good thing, Sam told himself; it meant she was unlikely to drag behind, forcing him to tug continually on their connecting cord. The girl was sitting up now, staring at him, her expression a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. She did not seem to be in the least bit frightened, which surprised him, but her attitude would probably make the trek to the cave more bearable. Sam buttoned his jacket and bent down, took the girl beneath her arms and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on. We’ve a fair way to go before we can have a rest,’ he said gruffly. ‘And don’t you go whining or grumbling, else it’ll be the worse for you.’

The two of them, the huge man and the small girl, lowered their heads against the driving rain and left the
slight shelter of the ruined cottage. The girl – he must remember to call her Lana – made no comment as he turned away from the farm in the valley below and headed up into the mountains. Once or twice he stopped for a moment to stare about him, for the thickening rain made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead and occasional thunderclaps rendered the night hideous. Sometimes he addressed a remark to his captive, expecting a reply, but none was forthcoming. He had a large wristwatch which he consulted from time to time, and very soon he began to think uneasily that they should have reached the cleft by now. Naturally, he told himself that the awful weather, and the child’s slower pace, would affect the length of time it took him to arrive at his hiding place. They had left the ruined cottage not long after eight o’clock; now his watch showed almost ten and still he had seen no sign of the shrubs that hid the entrance to the cave.

Sam stopped for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He knew the place was high up amidst the barren rocks and there had been a mountain stream not far distant; he had planned to fill his water bottles at that stream. The trouble, of course, was the bloody rain. The storm was bad enough, the thunder deafening him and the lightning illumining the great peaks which seemed to surround him on every side. But the storm was receding, the thunder grumbling off into the distance, the lightning no more than a pale blur on the horizon. It was the rain and the wind, now, that were his enemies. He said as much to the girl – dammit, he must remember to call her Lana – but once again she made no attempt to reply. He was tempted to give her a clack round the
head and tell her to answer when an adult spoke to her, but then he remembered his earlier threat. He had said that if she so much as squeaked he would replace the gag, so now he told himself, rather glumly, that he could scarcely blame her for obeying his instructions to the letter. He supposed, grudgingly, that she wasn’t such a bad kid. After all, this expedition was not of her choice, yet she had kept her word. She trudged along in his wake, the cord which bound them no doubt tugging on her wrist as it tugged on his, and of course he realised – as she must – that even if she could summon up the breath to scream there was no one around to hear her.

Sam continued to wander upwards, but when at last they reached the peak and he saw not only that the rain was lessening but also that the clouds were beginning to part, he realised, with a stab of genuine dismay, that he was hopelessly lost. He had no idea where he was, no idea how to regain the valley or the ruined cottage. No idea in fact how to extricate himself and his daughter from the muddle into which he had plunged them.

Despite himself, and knowing that it was useless to rail against fate, Sam felt rage begin to fill his whole mind. If it hadn’t been for this bleedin’ cocky kid, there would have been no question of his having to pay child maintenance, let alone being hounded for money by Ellen. He had never liked the kid, but he had come closer to so doing over the past few hours because she’d been no trouble and had a deal of spunk. However, she was the only person around on whom he could vent his ill temper, and he was about to start yelling at her when another thought occurred. She’d been in these damn awful mountains for several weeks; in fact for all he knew she
might have come here as regular as clockwork, every single holiday since she started school. He was about to ask her to tell him the way back to Cefn Farm when he remembered he had told her not to speak. He cleared his throat uncomfortably; he did not want to lose face but did not think he would have much choice. Shaming to admit he was totally lost, shaming to have to ask a kid of ten or eleven to lead him back to civilisation. Shaming, even, to have to rescind his threat to make her sorry if she made a sound, but all these things would have to be done.

There was a large slab of rock at the summit of the mountain and Sam picked the child up beneath her armpits – she went as stiff as a board the moment she felt his hands on her – and settled her upon the rock, then climbed up and sat beside her. He tried to speak gently but knew it was a poor effort, though he told himself that he was hoarse from breathing hard for so long. ‘Lana, I’ve gorra admit that I’m lost. I were taking you to a grand little cave I found, to wait for ’em to stop houndin’ me for money – money what I’ve not got. You’d like to spend time wi’ your ole feller, wouldn’t you? Only I can’t find the cave, you see. It were the rain and the thunder what put me on the wrong track, but I reckon you know these mountains pretty well. Can you guide us back to Cefn Farm?’ Sam peered anxiously into the child’s white, exhausted face. ‘Can you find the valley, queen?’

The child considered him, her head slightly on one side, but said nothing.

Sam was about to give her a shake when he remembered his prohibition and cursed himself. He had forbidden her to speak and now, out of sheer cussedness, she was going to obey him to the letter. He half raised his hand,
then lowered it again. He had not known his daughter at all well when they had shared a house, but in the past few hours he felt he had got to know this older Lana very well indeed. Threats, he was sure, would not move her; blandishments might. ‘Look, Lana, I didn’t oughter of took it out on you, when it’s not you what’s been so mean to me,’ he said, trying to sound both reasonable and friendly. ‘You can talk now . . . I’ll chuck the bleedin’ gag away. I wouldn’t of used it anyhow, ’cos someone did it to me once and I wouldn’t want any kid to go through what I did.’