Turning Point (9 page)

Travers, on the other hand, was the opposite. Good-looking and athletic, girls swooned before him, even though he was not a great talker unless you got him onto the subject of his particular sport – rugby. He and Mary had been together now more than a year and seemed a permanent fixture.

He eyed Jenny, guessing her show of annoyance was play-acting too.

‘Besides, Jay,' the sports captain struggled to keep her expression serious, ‘I never go out with guys shorter than me.'

‘Ouch, ouch, ouch!' Jameson hopped up and down on one foot. ‘Below the belt. Besides, I'm only shorter because I had my hair cut yesterday.'

In the distance they heard the loud clanging of a fire bell. Automatically, the groups chattering in the school yard looked down at their watches, knowing it was the five-minute warning.

Still laughing, the six friends made their way through the school-gate, the year-sevens, who had only been at school for a couple of months, drawing politely back to let the sixth-formers into the yard first.

The comprehensive school had had its origins in the grammar school system, which had been popular in the previous century, although none of the present generation had even heard of grammar schools and, some years previously, in pursuit of modernisation the red brick turrets of the old school had been torn down to make way for a two-storey glass building. The severity of the radiation leak from the Iran nuclear disaster had forced school authorities to coat the windows with a special polymer, which meant lights were needed twenty-four-seven. It was only in the last few years that levels had dropped low enough for sports to take place outside again. Now, in summer, the grassy playing fields had once again become a gathering place rather than the school library.

Travers gave the youngsters a friendly grin as he passed. ‘Were
we
ever this timid?'

‘You weren't but we were,' Mary said. ‘So, Hilary, your news?'

‘Later, later, later,' Jameson chanted. ‘And we will be, if we don't hurry. I've got important stuff to tell you, too.'

‘And me.' Travers wrote a word on his hand to remind him what it was.

‘Let's meet up at break and you can tell us then.'

The bell rumbled into life again. Automatically students broke into a run, aware they had less than two minutes to get to class, and anxious not to earn a late penalty. With a wave the six friends parted. Jameson clutched Scott's sleeve to stop him moving, his gaiety vanished.

‘You weren't expected back till the weekend? What happened and why didn't you call me.'

‘A lot happened.' Scott smiled gratefully. ‘And two in the morning was too late. Come on, it can wait till break.'

Hilary's voice rose to a squeak.
‘They were shooting at you?'

‘No, that's just the point,' Scott frowned. ‘They were shooting at Dad – I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

‘But you might have been killed,' she spluttered.

Scott shrugged, outwardly trying to appear calm and unconcerned, his pulse racing, thrilled that the possibility of his being killed had really upset Hilary. So she did care after all.
Damn Sean Terry and his veto
. ‘They obviously still want him dead – and if he gets involved again…'

Heads nodded sympathetically, knowing how seriously injured Bill Anderson had been, escaping death by millimetres.

‘But a secret entrance into the Embassy,' Jenny added. ‘How cool is that?'

‘Oh,' Scott gulped, his expression uncomfortable as if someone had trodden on his toe. ‘I shouldn't have come out with that bit – it's not supposed even to exist.'

‘Who are we going to tell?' Jameson said. ‘A donkey looks over my fence most mornings until I feed it a carrot, and the neighbours live in France.'

‘Honestly, Jay.' Jenny poked him in the ribs. ‘This is serious. So what are you going to do, Scott?'

‘Stop Dad going ahead with it,' Scott said, glad he had spoken out. It didn't come naturally though, not after years and years of keeping his thoughts hidden. It was nice to share and it made everything… Scott paused, trying to find the right words…
less intense, more ordinary
.

‘Good luck with that.' Jameson peered round the little group their feet bunched up against the wall, the three girls facing the boys. It was a tight squeeze for six but no one complained. At least it was quiet without class mates barging in and disturbing their private conversation.

The previous year, Jameson had discovered a half-empty cupboard in the basement corridor. Realising its potential, he had immediately put a ‘
Hazardous Materials
' sticker on the door then, swiping the key from the secretary's office, had made a copy before replacing it on its hook.

‘If anyone asks,' he said when Scott questioned the wisdom of his action, ‘I shall freely admit to conducting an experiment into the unquestioning obedience of the great British public.'

Scott groaned. ‘You'll never get away with it.'

‘Course I will,' Jameson grinned. ‘I have a reputation for conducting strange experiments and no teacher is going to admit to being taken in, especially not Fallowes, our beloved leader. Besides, no one ever comes down here. Even Wesley hasn't weaselled it out yet.'

He'd been right, and they'd now had sole occupation for almost a year, something Scott considered quite unbelievable in a school strapped for space.

‘Jenny, did you bring the cake?' Jameson said now.

Jenny nodded, carefully easing a chocolate cake from a plastic carrier bag.

‘What's it in aid of?' Mary eyed the cake covetously. ‘That looks… oh! I could eat the lot, I'm starving; I didn't have any breakfast.'

‘Don't you dare,' Travers muttered. ‘Remember your poor starving boyfriend. Besides, I don't want you developing strange bumps.'

Mary blushed and kicked him with her foot. ‘So why the cake, Jenny?'

‘Because,' Travers broke in, ‘Jenny won the four-hundred and is now British Schools Champion.'

A chorus of congratulations hit the air, Jenny's face as red as a beetroot.

When it had died down, Scott said, ‘How did you get involved, Jay?' He nodded his thanks as Jenny handed him a piece of cake, unravelling a roll of kitchen paper to use as a plate.

‘Travers wanted to meet up with Beau…'

‘Haven't seen him for months,' Travers added. ‘Not since summer. He rang to tell us he was competing in London, so I thought I'd go up and surprise him. I figured he'd probably fly us back and check in on the parents at the same time. You know what he's like. Anything for a lark.'

Beau, Travers' older brother had always been Scott's absolute hero at school. The most eccentric of the three, his maxim in life was never to sit if you could sprawl and never to drive if you could fly; and he had become the proud owner of a twin-engine Cessna on his eighteenth birthday, which he now kept at a local airfield near Oxford.

‘Anyway, we went to the games but he was a no show. I rang Natasha. Luckily, she was coming this way for a shoot in Plymouth and she offered us her floor for a couple of nights.'

‘And I tagged along.' Jameson ignored the interruption. ‘You were busy swanning around Switzerland, and I thought a jolly in London just the thing for half-term. Good dinner and a show.'

‘What did you see?'

‘Jenny,' he announced with a grin.

Jenny ducked her head, staring down at the floor.

‘I refused to go,' Mary said, ‘when Travers told me they'd be flying back. You know how I hate those little machines.'

‘But Beau's good.'

‘I know that, Travers, it's the size of the aircraft I object to. If I fly, I want something that's bigger than me, with four engines.'

‘You'll have to go a heck of a long way to find that,' Travers said indignantly. ‘Besides Beau's Cessna is top-range – Dad made sure of that. You'd never find better even in a commercial aircraft.'

‘Stop arguing, you two,' Hilary broke her silence. ‘How you're ever going to survive fifty years of marriage when you can't get on for five minutes without arguing…'

‘
Married?
Travers and Mary? That's not news; that's a bombshell.'

‘No way, Jay, Hilary's yanking your chain. Besides, Mary understands perfectly well that I'm off to play rugby for at least the next five years. If there's a chance I can make the England squad, I'm going for it.'

‘
Oh my God!
Travers, you're such a liar. Last time we spoke about it, it was, “possibly three to five years”. Now, it's “
at least five”!
'

‘You've got to be sensible, Mary,' her boyfriend retorted indignantly, his face flushed. ‘In five years, we'll only be twenty-one. That's no age to get married.'

‘So we're breaking up?'

A chorus of protests hit the air.
‘No way!'

‘Hell will freeze over first,' Jameson added.

‘But why athletics?' Scott said when the laughter had died away.

‘Ah,' Travers beamed. ‘Beau decided, since he couldn't play rugby because of his jaw, he'd take up athletics for a lark. Knowing Beau, he's only good at it. But that's not what I wanted to tell you. You remember that company that makes our specs?'

Scott nodded.

‘Well, after the shenanigans in Holland, the European Court of Human Rights got involved.' Jameson took over the story. ‘Don't you know about it, Scott?'

‘Well, no.' Scott frowned. ‘I was too busy getting Dad right. I wonder why he's never mentioned it?'

‘Why the fuss?' Jenny said. She pulled her specs out of her pocket. ‘We all wear specs outside – it's sort of normal.'

‘I know, but we don't need to now – that's the point. Radiation's way down. Besides, that wasn't the real reason,' Jameson broke in eagerly, his normally studious face vividly alive.

Scott sighed. Even though they were best friends, it was difficult sometimes not to envy Jay who picked up snippets of information without any effort. He'd always found learning difficult, preferring to be out in the fresh air on his motorbike exploring new places to sitting studying.

‘It's all because they planted secret identity chips inside the frames. The European Court decided this was
totally
unlawful and against human rights.' Jameson's eyebrows rose up above his glasses. ‘Well, you'd never believe it, but the idea for this was traced all the way back to the offices of the President. There's a private member's bill in front of the European Parliament right now, censuring Rabinovitch. And he's furious. First time there's even been open criticism of him.' Jameson shook his head. ‘'Course, he denies it. Said he knew nothing about it. He's fired a lot of his aides – saying they must have acted independently.
We've simply got to get rid of him this time
. What's he ever done for Europe– '

‘So, Scott, you're dad's a blinkin' hero.' Travers interrupted Jameson's excited tirade. ‘We still have to carry identity – but it's no longer secret. They're rushing the new cards through and, Beau told me this, if you're found without it you don't automatically go to jail. You are given twenty-four hours to produce it. Dad's already applied for ours.'

‘There you are, Scott, what did I tell you?' Hilary said, her tone gloating. ‘I told Scott it was all a scam. That's absolutely brilliant. So me next, please.'

‘Make it quick. Bell's about to go.' Jameson reminded his friends.

‘I'm leaving the service.' Hilary smiled – a smile so wide and joyful it made Scott go weak at the knees. She didn't often smile, but when she did. Oh boy, was it ever great!

‘When, why, how?' A chorus of voices hit the air.

‘That's the best news ever,' Scott said.

‘Effective immediately. I've already handed in my badge and side-arms.' Hilary rubbed her haunches. ‘It feels sort of cold back there, as if I've forgotten to put my knickers on.'

‘But…?'

‘But Sean Terry had nothing to do with my decision.'

‘That's impossible,' Scott exclaimed. ‘You can't stick the guy. Now, you're standing up for him.'

‘Okay. Maybe I do loathe him but that doesn't stop him being right.' She smiled apologetically. ‘It took me a long time, Scott. I was like you. I hated him for interfering in my personal life. But he's right – you can't guard people you care about. You're a danger to them and you, because you're thinking more about them than what's going on around you.'

‘So why?'

Hilary grimaced. ‘It sounds silly coming from me. But I couldn't cope with the violence. I thought it okay at first but when I saw your dad, I knew I couldn't do it anymore.' She smiled gaily. ‘I'm so relieved it's over – you'll never believe. So everyone meet Hilary Stone, sixth-form student, staying in Cornwall and studying English, art, and drama at “A” level.' To Scott's total astonishment she leaned forward, saying seriously, ‘And if you ask me out, Scott Anderson, I'll say
yes
.'

Before Scott had time to respond, a loud clanging noise rent the air.

‘Why does that wretched bell have to be a party-pooper, just when things are getting interesting,' Jameson said crossly. ‘And I've not told you my news yet. Get a move on, Scott, or the Newt will be after you. You can leave the proposal till later.
Wow! What an incredible day
. Hilary has finally joined the human race.'

Scott gazed out of the window lost in a rose-coloured bubble of happy thoughts, oblivious to the diagram on the white board highlighting the rock strata of the Pennines, the backbone of England. He had chosen for his course work to contrast Snowdon in Wales with his all-time favourite, Mont Blanc in the Alps. Today's investigation, into the drawing of a cross-section of rock, seemed of little importance when compared to meeting up with Hilary to make a date for the weekend. Tragically, none of their lessons coincided so after school it would have to be. Surreptitiously, Scott huffed his breath into his hands, grateful now they hadn't stopped for supper when they landed and eaten food with garlic in it, because of all things Hilary hated garlic the most. Where could they go? A first date needed to be special if there was to be a second. Thoughts of taking the Suzuki and exploring the north of Cornwall faded as he watched rain streak long rivulets down the window pane. At least the fog was clearing. Perhaps they could go ten-pin bowling – the six of them. Scott smiled at the word
six
. It had been a long time coming.

His mobile in his jacket pocket began to vibrate and he slowly eased it out checking the sender. Hilary?

“got 2 go, leave early, urgent meet Terry. Speak later.”

‘Scott, if your head would connect with your body sometime today, I would appreciate it,' Mr Newman's sarcastic tone broke in. ‘And I'd appreciate it even more if you would turn that wretched phone off. You know the rule – it applies even to sixth-formers.'

‘Sorry, sir.' Scott quickly replaced his phone in his pocket, feeling his ears begin to burn. Still, who cared, he was going on a date with the most fabulous girl in the world. The thought left his knees weak.

By the time the afternoon bell rang, a downpour of rain had cleared away the last of the fog. Not seeing any of his friends, Scott made his way to the gate, his school bag bulging with books, praying Tulsa had parked nearby and he wouldn't have to struggle up the road. Spotting the dark blue four-by-four he broke into a jog, his heavy bag slowing him down. Opening the rear door, he dumped his bag on the seat, responding to Tulsa's cheery ‘hi' with a nod, still wondering if his choice of maths, geography, and biology for ‘A' level had been the right one. With Hilary about to become a permanent fixture in his life, he might well have made a serious mistake. Before then it hadn't mattered; he'd actually been grateful for something that kept him busy, too busy to daydream about a wide smile, perfect teeth, and legs to die for. But even forgetting Hilary – which was impossible – it was pretty stupid choosing subjects none of his friends were taking. Except for maths, which he shared with Jameson, none of their options were the same and he never saw them except at break and lunch. Mary had the same problem, with her choice of languages and English. She was always moaning on about not seeing Travers except on a Sunday because he was off somewhere playing some rubbish game.

Scott scowled and punched his fist into the canvas side of his bag in frustration. He might as well join a monastery. He'd got a ton of work to get through before Monday and Dad would never let him out till he'd done it. If only he'd been sensible and opted for sports psychology, like Travers and Jenny, or perhaps drama even though he couldn't act for toffee, then he and Hilary could be together. Still frowning, he climbed into the passenger seat.

‘What?' Tulsa pulled out, crawling behind a line of cars heading for the main road.

‘Work – that's all. School thinks you have nothing better to do.'

‘And do you?'

‘Definitely.' Scott grinned, once again feeling as light as air. The thought of seeing Hilary tomorrow… A dozen questions rampaged through his head. At long last he wouldn't need to sit tongue-tied as he'd done that first meeting, searching for something interesting to say. ‘Hilary's leaving the service,' he said cheerfully. Restlessly, he fingered his mobile knowing exactly what he was going to do the moment he reached the privacy of his bedroom, ring her. He pulled himself upright in his seat. If this was what having a girlfriend felt like… it should become law. ‘I heard.' Tulsa changed down, the engine note deepening as he accelerated up the hill towards the dual carriage-way.

‘I'm over the moon about it. The Secret Service is definitely no job for a girl.'

Tulsa chuckled. ‘For God's sake, don't say that to Hilary, she'll join up again just to prove you wrong.'

Scott lapsed into silence, not feeling the need to make conversation. That was one of the great things about Tulsa – he was quite happy with silence. Scott glanced affectionately at him wondering what his friend would do when the day eventually arrived and he had to quit the service. It was his life. Somehow he couldn't image the American sitting on a balcony in a rocking chair.

He peered out of the window watching sea mist creep along the river bed, coating the fields in a dark shadow. November was a horrid month – something you had to get through; the jollity of Guy Fawkes' instantly forgotten after a day back at school, with half-term over and five-long-weeks to go before the Christmas break. Most of the time it never got light at all, the sun struggling behind a thick pall of cloud, with days of frost followed by mild, soggy weather. The ferocious gales, which brought down leaves that clogged up the drains, left stagnant pools of water for midges to breed in. In biology, they had begun the autumn term examining the life-cycle of Culicoides furens and Culicoides impunctatus, the Highland midge, and why, despite all evidence to the contrary, they could survive temperatures well below zero.

Tulsa slowed, indicating left into the narrow lane that ran uphill towards the cottage where Scott and Bill lived. The land on either side belonged to a local sheep farmer, George Beale, whose family had farmed there for generations. Some years before, his father or grandfather had sold off the cottage, building something more grandiose further down the hill. The old farmer still lived in the same house, although it was no longer grand. Since his wife died George had not bothered with the upstairs, using two rooms on the ground floor. In contrast, the small cottage had been renovated by a series of wealthy owners before Bill had bought it. He had added the small studio and a wind turbine, which had been erected on the hilltop on a pocket-sized patch of land belonging to the cottage.

In summer the entrance to the lane was obscured by a dense thicket of oak and poplar, and tourists, eager to explore every inch of the Cornish countryside, swept past without noticing. Only in winter was the lane visible, its trees reduced to hollow silhouettes against a darkening sky. Along its western boundary a bank of spruce dwindled into a sparse hedgerow of blackthorn and elder. Atlantic gales had deformed the tall conifers and they leant forward as if trying to pat their stunted neighbours on the head. In the field below, the white fleece of sheep appeared like daubs of white paint in the rapidly fading light. When he was little, Scott imagined the trees to be giants running a race and turned to stone by an ogre. He smiled at them fondly, grateful the recent gales had left them unharmed.

The gate at the top of the hill stood open, which was odd. It was always kept closed… always had been. That was part of staying safe. Then he saw why. Neatly parked next to the studio was an old black Citroen.

‘Oh no!' he groaned. ‘Not again! What's he doing here?' He glared at the black car as if it was responsible for everything bad in his life.

‘Nice way to greet my boss. You can do the garage doors.'

It was no good pretending. No matter how much people tried to tell him otherwise, the devil never changed its spots. Scott glared at the car, uncaring that he'd mixed his metaphors and had actually meant leopards. As far as he was concerned, it was the same. The presence of Sean Terry was an alarm call echoing through the jungle. He was at the UN – next minute, what happened? Someone threatened to kill his dad. And they'd tried too. Today, poor Hilary had been called in to meet with her boss one last time. What earth-shattering event was going to happen now?

Scott opened the rear door to get his bag and stopped dead. ‘He wouldn't?'

‘Who?' Tulsa swung round in the driving seat.

‘Mr Terry. Hilary had to see him. He wouldn't…' the words caught in his throat, ‘stop her leaving…'

‘Scott…' The revs died away to a whisper. ‘Enough of this phobia. It's stupid and childish. Not like you at all.'

‘Sorry. But I don't trust the guy.'

‘
You don't say!
'

Scott caught the sarcasm and laughed a little shamefaced. But what he'd said before was true. Bad things
did
seem to happen when Sean Terry was around.

Leaving his bag on the ground, he headed over to the garage doors and yanked them open. The noise startled some sparrows perched on the guttering and, with an outraged chirping, they flew off into the garden. It was a large space, amply big enough for two vehicles, although here the second vehicle was a motorbike, a Suzuki, in a brilliant fire-box red. The walls of the garage were festooned with camping and climbing equipment – none of it, except when he and Tulsa had gone to Dartmoor, used since the accident. Scott paused. And unlikely to be ever again, if his dad got involved. Surely he wouldn't let himself be suckered in by this stupid talk of Sean Terry, about a citizen's duty to his country. Dad was no longer an American. And he certainly wasn't responsible for Norway's problems. He drew in a long breath.
Sod the homework.
After dinner he'd go out. Nothing like riding fast for clearing your head and getting things back in their proper perspective.

Tulsa slid the heavy vehicle efficiently into its parking space, his gaze fixed anxiously on Scott.

‘Scott…'

He hesitated, his hand on the garage door. ‘What?'

Tulsa cut the engine, the silence almost deafening among the angry vibes swirling round the yard. ‘Tell your father how you feel.'

‘Tell him what, Tulsa? That I want to live as a family, with a mother and grandparents, and not have to look over my shoulder, every second of the day. That I want him back whole and able to climb cliffs, keeping me safe when I slip. He knows all that. Did you see that woman – Emma Arneson's face? He's not going to listen to me.' Scott shrugged. ‘Mr Terry will make damn sure of that.'

‘My boss isn't the bad guy here.' Tulsa climbed out of the vehicle and, closing the driver's door, flicked the button on the key fob. ‘He's okay with Hilary leaving the service. Told her, she'd done a good job.'

‘He did?'

‘Yeah! Come on – let's get in out of this weather. I won't be sorry to get back home and leave this behind.'

‘You're going!
Not you too!
' Scott's anger ignited again.

Tulsa turned his back and, leaving the garage door unlocked, headed towards the kitchen door, scooping up Scott's bag as he passed. ‘Talk to your father – and calm down.'

As Tulsa opened the door Sean Terry, perched on one of the stools by the breakfast bar, acknowledged his presence with a brief nod. It was the same picture Scott had carried with him from their first ever meeting; the long frame constantly restless, alighting briefly, always leaving one foot on the ground ready to move at the slightest excuse, like a crow illegally foraging among the farmer's new seedlings.

As usual Bill Anderson was settled in a chair facing the television. There were two of them, old favourites, worn in the middle and on the arms. Before the accident, he mostly perched on a kitchen stool, except on the rare occasions when they watched television or returned to the house tired after a day's sailing or climbing. These days, it was the only place where he was comfortable, his shoulder frequently too painful to lie on in bed. Scott had become used to finding his father asleep in the chair when he woke in the morning.

It wasn't a large kitchen but a sunny one, facing south over the yard and the gate to the lane. To gain a few extra centimetres, the door to the hall had been taken off its hinges leaving an open corridor, narrow bookshelves lining one side, leading to the sitting room and bedrooms at the rear. To keep housework to a minimum everything had its place, with kitchen surfaces remaining empty and uncluttered. Except right now; Scott noticed a row of empty coffee cups standing by the side of the sink.

For years, Scott had made tea on first arriving back from school. It had been a tradition, carrying their cups out to the small studio where his dad worked. Doing what? That had been the question for which Scott had never had an answer – not until this year. At school he had said ‘
my dad stays at home',
leaving his class with the impression that his dad was unemployed and living off the state. He could have been for all Scott knew, except his dad never looked like someone that didn't work. And he'd always said he'd been busy, when Scott asked. Jameson had been his only friend in primary school and he never cared if Scott stayed silent because he said enough for both of them. In secondary school, it was Jameson he had to thank for Travers and Mary becoming his friends. Looking back, it had been a harsh upbringing, watching every word he did say, anxious not to slip up.

But as unnatural as it had been, it was still preferable to the ominous silence that greeted his entry. Even knowing from biology that one's heart was held firmly in place by muscle, it still made no difference, and a great sinking feeling flooded Scott's frame.

‘Dad, what's happened?'

Bill Anderson looked exhausted, his face tinged grey with deep black rings circling his blue eyes.

It was a look that Scott had seen every day for weeks, damped down by heavy painkillers, but always present until the shattered bone had started to mend. ‘Dad? Are you hurt – your shoulder? I knew the journey would be too exhausting.'

‘I'm fine, Scott, stop worrying. It isn't me. Someone placed a bomb under Emma Arneson's car.'