Turning Point (19 page)

‘You're lying,' Natasha smiled.

‘No – I promise!'

‘Don't!' Travers leaned in close and Wesley licked his lips nervously. ‘No way would Jameson have gone along with it. No one would. This is real life, Wesley, not a film script.' He grabbed the boy's jacket, twisting the collar in his large fist. ‘Something happened to Jameson at that interview and you're not leaving till I know what, and where he is.'

‘He's somewhere in France,' the boy whimpered. ‘I don't know where. I promise that's the truth.
Please, let me go.
They can't hear about this. I wasn't kidding; I'm done for if they do.' Noticing the sceptical expression on the faces of his three captors, he babbled, ‘Look, I didn't want to do it but they made me. One more and one more… I made up my mind. I told Mrs Davis I was heading back to London but I'm not. I'm going back up north.
Oh God
– why did I ever believe that advertisement.' Wesley dropped his head in his hands. His face crumpled, his skin tinged yellow like an old newspaper. ‘I promise you, he's fine only he can't come home yet. Not till they can trust him.'

Mary held her breath, feeling the atmosphere tense, spine-chilling. She stared through the rear-view mirror. ‘Wesley, if you need help, Travers' dad, Mr Randal, he's knows all sorts of people.'

‘What advertisement?' Travers' tone was ice-cold, implacable.

Mary stared at her boyfriend, unable to believe it was the same person. He was always so easy-going, never put out by anything – not even her nagging. And then she remembered Scott and Hilary.

‘Mega-bucks and a job for life.'

‘Go on,' Travers said.

‘I was brought up in a kids' home.'

‘What a shame.' Natasha's tone was tinged with sarcasm.

‘You try it,' Wesley flashed back. ‘You'd have done like me if you had. There was this advertisement. It sounded too good to be true – and it was,' the boy said bitterly. ‘There were loads of kids – not many English; mostly Turkish and from the Middle East. I went to Holland – it was exciting, I'd never been abroad. Except it wasn't abroad – because you didn't get to see much, as I said, not till you'd proved your loyalty.'

‘To?'

‘A new world order. For years the west has been dominated by big business led by the American dictators. Any country that dared stand against them has been invaded and turned into yet another capitalist state.'

‘You believe that?' Natasha said.

‘It's totally true. Ask anyone. South America, the Middle East – every country with reserves of oil and precious metals, the US have dredged up an excuse to invade them. They ignored poverty-ridden countries – like Africa. Not interested in people starving to death. Finally, they got their just reward.' Wesley lifted his head, smiling almost boastfully. ‘Only, it wasn't finished because Europe became corrupt then – just like America. Fat cats everywhere – while people like me live in gutters and starve.'

‘You're not starving and you weren't living in a gutter,' Natasha retorted dryly. ‘Sounds like you learned your lessons a bit too well. Is that why you were sent to England?'

‘England's my home and I was glad to help.'

‘So what changed your mind?' Travers interrupted.

‘Nothing!'

He peered closely at the trembling figure. ‘Something did. It was Jameson, wasn't it?'

‘Okay! Yes! I wanted him to be my friend but he wouldn't – he hated me.' Head down, Wesley mumbled the words.

Travers and Mary exchanged astonished glances. ‘No!' Travers mouthed, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I wanted to call a halt but by then it was too late – the interview was all arranged.'

‘So what about Scott?'

‘Scott! What's he got to do with it?' The guy sounded genuinely surprised.

‘Didn't you hear? He's wanted for murder. It was on the news last night. Two men got shot outside school, one of them Scott's bodyguard.'

Mary watched Wesley's face turn an unbecoming shade of green as if he was about to be sick.

‘You have to let me go –
please, I'm begging you
. I've got to catch that train.' His head flicked from side to side searching the empty road and beach. ‘They can't know I've been talking to you.' Wesley drummed his fists on his knees, his tone pleading. ‘I beg you; if you've any pity – let me go.'

‘Okay, okay.' Travers held up his hand to stop him babbling on. ‘Tash…'

Natasha nodded and started the engine, the steady rumbling seeming to calm the hysterical boy.

‘Look – come home with us,' Travers urged.

‘No!'

‘If you really are scared, Dad'll…'

‘NO!' The word came out on a shriek. ‘They'll find me. You don't know them. They're everywhere.' The station came into view, the little commuter train already in view on its return leg from the city.

Wesley leaned over into the back, dragging out his suitcase. ‘When you find Jameson, tell him I'm sorry.'

Travers watched the rotund figure hurry into the station and disappear. From a distance, a whistle sounded. ‘Did you believe him?'

Mary nodded. ‘He was terrified when you told him about Scott. No one's that good an actor. Whatever's going on?'

Travers glanced towards the departing train, his face grim. ‘Whatever it is, it's not nice.'

Scott followed the broad back of the desk sergeant through a series of long corridors, a notice board, its brown cork surface scarcely visible under a deluge of bulletins, the only thing breaking the monotony of bare walls. For the past two hours he'd been locked in the sick bay waiting for a doctor, worrying about what was going to happen, yet determined to speak out, to tell someone. So far he'd been lucky and no one had taken his fingerprints. At the station, he'd been left in a side room while the rest of the group were processed, lining up to pass through a scanner to check their ID. As far as he knew, only the one guy had had his prints checked.

The young constable, assisting the officer in charge to book them in, had definitely been local, his accent pleasant and friendly, peppered with long slow vowels, but no way senior enough to offer help. The desk sergeant fitted the bill except Scott disliked him on sight. With his flushed face, he appeared to be suffering a bad case of heartburn, greeting the long line of detainees with a heavy scowl. Finally, it had been Scott's turn to confirm his name and address, the inner door swinging shut behind the last of the group.

‘Turn your pockets out,' the man ordered, his manner abrupt. Scott piled a handful of broken pieces of plastic onto the desk in front of him. ‘And what are these supposed to be?'

‘My mobile. It was smashed when I was hurled across the road by the blast from the petrol tank. Can I phone my parents. They'll be worried.'

The response was a blistering negative. Scott swallowed, trying to keep the anger from his voice. Determined not to seem intimidated, he placed his eye drops and lens container on the desk. ‘I
really
need these. I suffer from dry eyes.'

The sergeant nodded taking no further notice and, gratefully, he returned them to his pocket, still smarting from the put-down.

He'd been on his own in the sick bay, an apology for a room, its two beds covered in paper roll to protect them from muddy boots. He'd been glad to lie quietly though but couldn't stop his thoughts festering like an unlanced boil, relieved when the door did eventually open to see a doctor standing there.

‘Anything of concern that you need to tell me, lad? Double vision, sickness…'

Scott took a deep breath. It was now or never. Even if the doctor didn't believe him, he'd have to take it further. The door opened again. The sergeant from the front desk stood there, a grim scowl covering his face, swinging the set of keys dangling from a chain on his belt round and round.

Scott felt a muscle clench in his jaw at the sight of the impatient figure. ‘No, I'm fine.'

‘Right, off you go then. And do try to keep out of trouble.'

The building was modern, the holding cells a huge barracks of a place, vaguely reminiscent of a changing room at a swimming pool, a line of doors either side of a narrow walkway, except there the doors were mostly of coloured preformed plastic. Here, they were reinforced steel with grilles at shoulder height to allow guards to see in; locked and bolted from the outside.

Impatiently, the sergeant flipped open one of the grilles, its flap tumbling down with a loud clunk. He peered in, counting names listed on the chalkboard outside before moving on.

‘Bloody yobs. It beats me why you can't get a job and stay out of trouble like decent folk.' Pointing to a door on the far side of the corridor, he selected a key, its chunky length fitting neatly into the gaping aperture of the lock-plate. The door swung open. A row of heads jerked up and eight pairs of eyes stared towards it.

Scott hesitated in the doorway. ‘I think my sister, Natasha, is somewhere about. Can you…'

‘You should have thought of that before ruining my Saturday afternoon,' the officer snapped. Gesturing Scott to enter, he locked the door behind him. Scott heard his footsteps fading away all at once grateful for living in a country where there were laws to protect prisoners. The sergeant was the type who would happily have cast him into a watery dungeon and thrown away the key, blatantly more interested in watching a football match on television than caring for his prisoners.

‘Thought you'd been let go.'

Scott glanced across the cell, seeing the guy that had led the chanting. He stared round seeing other faces he recognised from the police van, and gave a relieved smile. At least he was in with the walking wounded and not the same cell as the rioters. He winced, remembering the glazed expression on the face of the guy who had started it all by pinching his bike. How stupid had he been to try and retrieve it. If only he'd walked away when Hilary had begged him.

‘I guess you been with the medic?' The guy patted the bench. ‘'Ere, budge up, you lot. It ain't much, but you're welcome to it.'

Narrow, double-stacked benches made of heavy-duty plastic lined the walls, a couple of guys stretched out on the upper deck apparently asleep. The bunks didn't look particularly comfortable but Scott guessed comfort was furthest from the designers' remit; more important was an ability to withstand a drunken onslaught. No mattresses or blankets. Hopefully, if they were forced to spend the night, mattresses and covers would be provided. Scott wasn't confident, especially after sampling the hospitality of the sick bay. Nothing to look at or read, the plastic beaker so flimsy it had buckled under the weight of the water. And the officer escorting him even took that away, once he'd had a drink, in case he was tempted to use it as a tool for suicide or escape.

High up in the wall was a small barred window, its only role an indicator of day and night, too small to provide anything other than the merest suggestion of natural light. Hidden behind a metal grille in the ceiling, electric light burned steadily. In the uppermost corner, out of reach of marauding hands, a CCTV camera had been bolted to the wall and, at ground level, again built in to prevent their being smashed and used as a weapon, was a flushing toilet with a wash basin and cold tap.

‘I'm Lightnin', by the way.' As the guy leant across to shake his hand, Scott caught sight of a strawberry birthmark on his cheek and neck, his hair dragged forward in an attempt to hide it.

S – Travers Randal,' Scott stuttered tripping over his friend's name.

‘I know. I saw your ID.' Lightning grinned mockingly. ‘Nice to meet yah, Travers.'

‘Lightning's your real name?'

‘Nah, it's Peter Sparks – god-awful name. Lightnin' suits me better.' He grinned cheerfully pointing to the chains and zips festooning his jacket and jeans. Scott recalled his hands loaded down with rings, at least two on each finger, including a cameo with a grinning skull. They were bare now, and he guessed they'd been removed by the custody sergeant.

‘Is your head, okay?' The guy seemed friendly enough and, despite his ripped shirt, relatively clean, although at first glance the coloured spikes of his mohican, like a dirty comb, had been a real turn-off.

‘I'm sorry I hit you. I thought… you know… you were one of them.'

‘Think nothin' of it. She your girlfriend?'

‘No… my sister,' Scott remembered just in time.

‘Okay.' Lightning sprawled out on the bench squashing the guy next him, who hastily moved along. ‘Still the march was goin' fine till you came along on that bloody-red bike.'

Scott flinched. ‘Were you injured?'

‘Nah! Limp's put on.' Lightning grinned and straightened up. ‘You get a damn-sight better treatment if you act injured,' he added amiably. ‘The rest will be herded in like pigs. At least here you get to sit down. You still at school?'

‘Yes. Doing A-levels next year. Maths, biology and geography.' It felt good to talk about something normal. Being alone in the sick bay had almost driven him mad, worrying about what was going to happen. ‘Why?'

‘No reason.' Lightning shrugged. ‘Bit young to get arrested though.'

‘Doesn't all this bother you?' Scott asked, his smile tentative.

‘Not much. You never joined protests before?'

Scott thought about shaking his head then decided against it – his headache bearable only if he remained perfectly still. ‘No,' he said. ‘The paramedic who treated me said we'd get seven days.'

‘
You're joking!
' The guy opposite jerked upright. The movement dislodged his glasses. Old-fashioned with thick lenses, they hung drunkenly from one ear, a strip of white tape around the earpiece holding them together. ‘You've only to look at the CCTV,' he exclaimed in a shrill voice. Tall and weedy his chest wall dipped inwards, and his blue jeans were loose and ill-fitting with ragged hems that dragged along the ground, his trainers scuffed and worn down on one side. ‘We didn't have anything to do with it. Any idea where those characters came from?' He glanced hopefully round the cell.

‘They were bussed in, I saw them getting off.' One of the guys occupying the upper bunk, who Scott had thought sleeping, propped himself up on one elbow. Older than Scott and brown-skinned, his checked shirt was liberally stained with blood, his face covered by a large wad of cotton wool which he clutched across his mouth,

Lightning sat forward, regarding the guy intently. ‘
You're jokin'
.'

‘
Not!
Ouch!' Scott noticed his bottom lip was swollen and split. He obviously found speaking painful. ‘James…'

He pointed to a guy nursing a black eye who raised a hand, his fingers stained yellow with nicotine. ‘That's me.' He gave a cheerful grin.

‘He was organising the student protest,' the guy mumbled, ‘and I was late. Took a short cut across the car park. They were on a minibus.'

‘I saw them too,' Scott volunteered. ‘They must have been parked up waiting. I was trying to avoid the traffic and I swear the road was empty when I came down. No one about. Next minute, these guys showed up.'

‘So where did you spring from?' James pointed across the cell at Lightning. ‘You're not one of us. I'm the union rep and know most of the faces on campus.' He stared accusingly.

Lightning held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Hey, don't pin this on me. Remember, I'm the dude with the loud-hailer…' He grinned mockingly. ‘You should be thankin' me, I got the crowd laughin' – always a good sign.'

‘So where do you come from?'

Lightning wriggled his shoulders against the wall as if he had an itch. ‘Nowhere special. I heard about the march and I'd nothin' better to do.' He pulled his jeans pocket inside out. ‘No money for footie and Exeter were playing Cheltenham. I wanted to see that match. Besides, I like marches, you meet a nice class of people there.' He frowned, twisting his mohican round and round. ‘I'm as puzzled as you lot how it set off.'

‘
Puzzled
? I'm bloody furious. This yob came straight up to me… socked me straight in the eye,' a voice called out from the bunk above. Scott caught sight of a head leaning down over the edge. Noticing Scott staring up at him, the guy lifted away a pad of cotton wool concealing the lower half of his face. The area under one eye was cut and swollen, a purple bruise covering his cheek bone. ‘Bloody oaf had a knuckleduster.' He pointed to the cuts. ‘Came prepared. I thought at the time he was all coked up.'

‘That big guy, the one they called Tyson…' Blank stares greeted the name. ‘You know, the one on the bike,' James said, eager to talk. Scott nodded, remembering the blank stare and uncalled-for aggression. ‘He was as high as a kite; it took three cops to load him into the van.'

‘Did they all get pinched?' Lightning asked, his question greeted by shrugs.

‘We were all too busy checking we were in one piece,' the tall nerdy guy replied.

‘That's right. I heard someone call out the rozzers were on the way. That's when they blew up the bike.' James leaned back against the wall. ‘Never saw nothing after that, I was too busy trying to pick myself up off the ground.'

‘Was it your bike that caused all the trouble?' the student on the top bunk called down.

‘Yeah,' Scott aimed for a smile and failed miserably. ‘But I promise you, I wasn't planning on being a part of the march. I wasn't even riding it at the end. You said the guy's name was Tyson? I'll remember that. He owes me a bike.' ‘The cops said someone blew up your petrol tank.' James said.

Scott nodded, still angry. ‘So why were you marching? Do you really believe protesting will bring the monarchy back?'

The guy with the broken glasses shrugged. ‘We're not actually about the monarchy, it's more about democracy. Our country fought two wars to keep democracy alive and now we're letting bureaucrats make decisions that affect everyone in this country. And no one says anything. I mean, it was the European parliament that got rid of the monarchy, we never had a say…'

‘And I doubt you'll get it,' Lightning butted in, ‘however much you march. Not while Rabinovitch is President. Bloody dictator. You might as well save yer breath. I'm like you – but we're on a hidin' to nothin'.' He swivelled round in his seat. ‘What that paramedic said – he's right. And so are you, er…'

‘Chris!' the boy twiddled the arm on his broken spectacles.

‘Okay, Chris, it's another law the government never voted for. If you're found guilty of affray or even bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time, justice is swift and unmerciful. Has bin ever since the riots in London and Paris a few years back.'

‘You a lawyer?' a voice piped up from the bunk above to the accompaniment of relieved laughter.

‘But that's only if you're found guilty, right?' James said. He got to his feet, prowling restlessly round the cell. With his stocky build, he gave the impression of someone in a hurry; short and bustling, his whole demeanour was quite different from Chris sitting next to him. His posh accent alone would have given Scott cause to avoid him, since egg-heads tended to use words he didn't understand about subjects he'd never heard of. But they were obviously friends. Scott remembered they'd sat next to one another in the police van.