Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (25 page)

Clive wrenched the steering wheel, taking the next bend in a powerslide. “Ooh . . . bit of understeer,” he commented out of habit. A whitish froth was forming at the corners of his mouth. He looked in the rearview mirror.

The black car was still behind him; he hadn’t even shaken it by an inch. It lunged at him again, somehow tapping into an even greater reserve of power than his. What kind of engine was under that hood? Who—or
what
—was behind the wheel?

Clive rubbed his eyes quickly and rechecked his mirrors. It was
still
there.

“What are you?! Huh?” Clive rocked the wheel, weaving expertly through a series of tight opposing bends. The black car stayed locked on, right behind him. “You just messed with the wrong driver!” he shouted triumphantly.

The director stayed glued to the live feed. “What’s the idiot doing now?”

Clive let out a yodel and stamped on the brakes. The supercar rapidly decelerated, and Clive’s whole face appeared to remain at its previous speed, being sucked toward the windshield, his cheeks and jowls quivering from the g-forces, his eyebrows almost completely covering his eyeballs. He peered up through the folds of skin and could just about make out the black car in the rearview mirror, performing the exact same maneuver.

“Damn you—” Clive spun the car around in a circle, his head lolling from one side to the other, knocking against the window. Then he took off straight for the perimeter fence.

The director realized with horror, shouting at his driver, “He’s heading for the highway! Stop him!” The driver turned the wheel, steering the heavy camera truck off-road over a series of grassy bumps to try to cut him off.

On the cockpit-cam, Clive shouted, “Across the line!”

Clive’s supercar tore through a leafy shoulder and took down the fence.

On the other side, cars pootled along the highway, until Clive exploded through a set of bushes, nearly colliding with a caravan. Other drivers swerved to avoid him.

Inside the cockpit, Clive’s face was streaked with saliva, his eyes huge, flicking between the windshield and the mirrors, the beast still bearing down on him. He slalomed through traffic, missing other motorists by inches. A light rain descended over the road, making the conditions even more treacherous. And still the beast bore down on him, dodging and lunging behind him.

“Think you can take me . . . ?!” he screamed, then tore his eyes away from the rearview mirror and saw a busy roundabout coming straight for him. “Uh-oh—”

Clive swore and slammed both loafers on the brake pedal, sending the supercar into a barely controlled skid. An array of red lights lit up the back of the car. Smoke and vapor poured from under the wheels, accompanied by a screaming, grinding noise, like sandpaper on gravel.

The red supercar slid nauseatingly to a halt, less than an inch from the busy roundabout.

“B-loody hell!” Clive exclaimed with relief, until he saw the black supercar change lanes and pull up right next to him.

Clive cranked his head to stare at the black tinted windows beside him, unable to see who was driving, unwilling to even consider what could be in there. More steam rose from the vents and fins.

“What do you want from me?!!” Clive screamed at it through his closed window.

Slowly, the tinted window of the black car descended to reveal the driver: it was
Clive
. It was himself. Only this Clive was laughing insanely, and the entire cockpit was on fire, flames licking at his clothes, smoke pouring from the dashboard.

“No-no-no-no!” Clive screamed at himself in unholy terror.

Suddenly he was distracted by a loud tapping on the window. A black-leather-gloved finger caught his attention, bringing his eyes into shallow focus—and when he glanced back at the black car, it was
gone
.

Clive quickly wiped the drool from his chin and powered down his electric window to find a motorcycle policeman sitting right beside him. The black car was nowhere in sight.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going, sir?!” the policeman said, leaning over his handlebars, leathers creaking.

“I-I-” Clive stuttered uncontrollably.

The policeman paused, then did a double take: the camera in the passenger seat . . . that face . . . The pieces fell into place. “Hold on a second,” he said. “Aren’t you Clive Palmer?” It took a moment for the full significance to hit him. Then his face brightened into a wide smile. “Am I on TV or something?”

“Not unless you want to be,” said Clive, instantly recovering his charm.

Behind them, the camera truck arrived with its hazard lights flashing, the director gesturing wildly from the passenger seat.

The policeman blushed and adjusted his helmet. “I must say, I’m a big fan of your program.”

“Very glad to hear it. Think I just experienced a bit of unintended acceleration,” said Clive, tapping the dashboard judiciously. “Italian cars, eh?”

“Made for Italian drivers,” joked the policeman, and got out his notepad and pen. Clive’s expression dropped. “Mind if I get your autograph?” said the policeman. “It’s Sergeant Jayes.”

“Ab-solutely,” said Clive, beaming as he scribbled on the notepad, then signed with a flourish.

“Just wait till the boys at the station get a load of this.”

“Fan-tastic. Keep up the good work,” said Clive.

The policeman revved his motorbike and pulled away. Clive quietly tucked the e-reader back into the glove compartment, checked his hair in the mirror, then waved at the camera truck as if nothing had happened.

Chapter 22

Exeat

Tilly sat at her all-in-one bunk-desk, putting the finishing touches on her science homework. She had spent the entire day counting ticker tape and measuring the velocity of a toy car, but Miss Khan would be satisfied; she was sure of that. Plus the dulling pleasure of routine distracted her from the perils of her overactive mind.

There weren’t many people who held Tilly’s interest for any length of time. In fact, the only other person who had crossed her mind that day—in a platonic way, obviously—was Darkus. This revelation was even more peculiar, seeing as he had been residing quite literally under her nose for so many years.

Outside the dormitory window, the sun had dipped below the trees that encircled the Cranston School compound. The other bunk units were empty, except for a few scattered celebrity magazines: the remnants of the other girls’ extracurricular reading. Tilly closed her science folder and pushed it to the back of the cocoon-like desk, slumping in her chair disconsolate. She gazed out into the dark woods beyond the playing fields and let her mind wander. A whole world lay just beyond her reach—a world that promised both good and bad, and all the mysteries that came with it. For now, her only contact with it was a computer screen and an Internet connection. The tree line blurred with the falling dusk, until all that was left was—

A pinpoint of light flashed at her.

She blinked, believing it was a reflection in the windowpane. Then the light winked at her again, from deep in the woods, and repeated a series of long and short flashes. She had no idea what it meant, but instantly recognized it as Morse code.

She quickly opened her laptop and typed “morse code translator” into the search engine. She clicked on the top link, and a web page loaded up with two boxes: one for inputting the code, one to display the translation.

She looked back out the window and saw the light flicker once, then die out. She watched for a long ten seconds. It seemed to have gone altogether, evaporated into the ether. Maybe it was her imagination playing tricks on her.

Then the light came back, more persistent than ever, flashing in long and short bursts. Tilly used the “.” and “–” symbols on her keyboard to imitate the rhythm of the Morse code. She kept her eyes trained on the woods as her fingers struck the keys like a concert pianist.

The light died out, reaching the end of its sequence.

Tilly turned to the computer screen and saw the message that was displayed in the translation window. It read:

SOS. Come ASAP. Darkus. SOS. Come ASAP. Darkus.

Tilly furrowed her brow, then broke into a smile. It was as if she’d conjured him out of thin air. She debated for a split second whether to go, and instantly decided that if it was important enough for him to be lurking in the woods, then it was important enough to justify another escape attempt. She quickly packed her backpack, pulled on a black jacket and knit cap, and exited the dorm.

In the corridor outside, she slipped off her shoes, tucked them into her bag, then jogged quietly over the parquet floors, her stockinged feet barely touching the ground. She rounded the gallery and spotted the housemistress patrolling the building. Tilly slid to the floor behind a pillar and waited for her to pass. Then she checked to make sure her phone was on silent and set the countdown timer, knowing the house mistress would raise the alarm in approximately three minutes.

Seconds later, Tilly descended a set of marble stairs, seeing a male teacher crossing the mezzanine carrying a stack of folders. She paused in full view of him, but he didn’t look up from his workload and ambled through a doorway opposite. Hearing more footsteps approaching, Tilly sat on the curving banister, slid down the last flight of stairs, and vanished through a fire exit.

By the time the countdown had finished, she’d reached the woods, but the flashing light had stopped sending its beacon, and she could only go on her instincts. She picked her way through the forest, taking pains to avoid stepping on twigs or making any rookie mistakes. She could just see the curving concrete shape of the amphitheater hidden among the trees—she had never graced its stage, not caring much for amateur dramatics. She moved along the outer wall, looking for any sign of Darkus, and then stopped in her tracks, seeing a figure ahead of her.

It was Mr. Burke, sitting on a tree stump, wearing a complicated piece of black headgear that obscured his entire face except for his signature handlebar mustache. Instead of eyes, he had a pair of telescopic lenses with a tiny red light at the center of each barrel. Tilly recognized the work of Miss Khan, which was evidently being put to good use.

Mr. Burke adjusted the night-vision goggles to peer deeper into the forest. If Darkus was out there, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Burke, whose position as PE teacher was only the epilogue to a long career in the Territorial Army, where he was rumored to have seen action in Gibraltar. Now his nights were spent surveilling the grounds for intruders and escapees, and tonight he clearly had the scent. Tilly had never been apprehended by Burke, and she didn’t intend for this to be the first time.

She examined him from about forty yards to the rear. At least Darkus had had the good sense to extinguish his flashlight. Or maybe he’d already been caught and confessed all, and she was walking into a trap. Before her mind could follow that train of thought any further, a hand gently tapped her on the shoulder. She flinched and spun around to find Darkus, dressed in a herringbone coat and a Donegal tweed hat, crouched in the undergrowth. She stopped her mouth, but the sudden repositioning of her stance created a loud rustle.

Burke turned, refocusing his goggles in their direction.

“Get down!” whispered Darkus.

“Duh,” she responded sharply.

They ducked behind a felled tree. Burke kept toggling his headgear. Tilly pointed at Darkus, then closed her fist to indicate “freeze,” then lowered her palm to indicate “crouch,” then tapped her head to indicate “follow me” and pointed toward an outcropping of trees to their right. Finally, she pumped her fist to indicate “hurry up.” Darkus confirmed with a thumbs-up.

They crawled through the undergrowth out of sight.

“What are you
doing
here?!” she whispered once they’d reached a safe distance.

“It would help if you answered your phone.”

“Well, I’m all ears.”

“They’ve got Dad.”

“Who has?”

“The Combination,” said Darkus.

“And how is that my problem?”

“It’s not, I suppose, but you’re the only one who can help.”

“Help do what?”

“Get him back, of course.”

“What’s he ever done for me? Apart from help put me back here.”

“If you won’t do it for him, then do it for me,” said Darkus. “And for Carol.” Darkus knew that bringing up the subject of her mother was playing with fire, but he was in no mood to negotiate. The fact was, they had history. A shared history. And whatever Tilly’s feelings were toward his father, she would have to put them aside for now.

“What exactly do you want from me?” she asked.

“I’ve got a problem—a cipher problem.”

“How many characters?”

“Seven.”

“And you can’t crack it yourself?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.” She glanced at Burke, who was still adjusting his goggles but was now meandering toward them through the darkness. She turned back to Darkus and whispered, “Have you got an exit strategy for this great escape of yours?”