Spoticus

  The first channel she found had news in Spanish. There was a picture of what looked like a riot under a motorway bridge. On second sight, she decided it must be the army on manoeuvres because they were all wearing khaki uniforms and berets. The caption under the film read:

  PROBLEMAS GRANDES EN INGLATERRA

  She was beginning to wonder if she should return to her book when the word “Inglaterra” caught her attention. ‘Come and have a look at this,’ she shouted to her husband, who was stepping out of the shower. ‘Looks like we’ve missed some sort of kafuffle back home.’

  Mr Spottiswood plonked himself down on the bed and stared at the pictures. The announcer said:

  SOLDADOS DETUVIERON A LEWIS SPOTTISWOOD

  ‘Sounded like Lewis Spottiswood,’ chuckled Mr Spottiswood. ‘What are they all doing under that bridge?’ The TV flashed up pictures of exploding grenades accompanied by the rattle of machine guns.

  ‘Whoa ho,’ said Mr Spottiswood. ‘It’s probably as well that we missed all this lot.’ He slumped back on the bed.

  The newscaster said:

  LEWIS SPOTTISWOOD LLEVADO EN HELICÓPTERO

  ‘She definitely said Lewis Spottiswood,’ said Mrs Spottiswood. ‘Fancy that! Some criminal has the same name as our son. I can’t wait to tell him.’

  The next picture was that of Lewis from a few days earlier, standing in the station addressing the commuters.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Mrs Spottiswood. ‘It even looks like Lewis.’

  They turned to each other, got up and silently pulled down the suitcases from the top of the wardrobe.

  ‘Time to go, I think, dear,’ said Mr Spottiswood.

  * * * * *

  Lewis and Push sat on the kerb and made a show of studying the large Ordnance Survey map that was unfurled in front of them. There was a constant refrain of, “Spoticus!” and “All right, Lew?” from the marchers as they passed. They were asked several times if they were planning the next move. ‘Something like that,’ said Lewis cheerily.

  Push occasionally thrust her clenched fist into the air and shouted, ‘YEAH! Go marcher! Stick it on ‘em!’ and other such encouraging remarks.

  At last, the tail of the march rounded the corner and a familiar voice called out from the back, ‘Having a rest, you lot?’ Parker swaggered up and bent down to pinch one of Lewis’s crisps. ‘You better not hang around or you’ll get left behind,’ he said.

  ‘Nice bit of arresting earlier, Parker,’ said Push.

  ‘Sit down here with us for a minute. There’s been a change of plan.’ said Lewis.

  Before the crowd was properly round the corner , the three of them slipped quietly back into the long grass and then made their way to the cover of the hedgerow.

  ‘Time to disappear,’ said Lewis.

  * * * * *

  Arseface and Mrs Bootles were now firm friends.

  At first, he tied a piece of string to her fur-lined collar; the other end attached to a brick just outside his little camp. But it turned out that Mrs Bootles had a liking for the outdoors. No one tried to groom her or scraped at her with a comb. No one tickled her annoyingly under the chin or poked her with stupid cat toys. No one made her eat that disgusting gourmet cat food four times a day. She did, however, like Brown Stuff. Arseface had buckets of the stuff which he borrowed from the school canteen.

  For his part, Arseface liked Mrs Bootles. He recognised in her a soul that didn’t take kindly to being pushed around. He knew within a day that they were kindred spirits. Bit by bit, their trust in each other grew. Eventually he dispensed with the string and Mrs Bootles settled down inside the little bivouac and dozed for twenty-three hours a day. The remaining time she set aside for catching rats, which, she discovered, were in plentiful supply in this neighbourhood.

  * * * * *

  Malaga Airport was chaotic. The departure lounge was packed with last-minute travellers trying to get seats on non-existent flights. They mostly had one thing in common; they were parents who had suddenly remembered that they were parents.

  Mr Spottiswood waited in a long queue under a sign that said, “ENGLISH RETURNING NATIVES – THIS WAY”. Mrs Spottiswood went to get them yet another cup of coffee. In three hours they had inched forward no more than a couple of metres.

  ‘Can you see what is happening?’ he said when she returned with a couple of cappuccinos and pile of Euros on a small tray.

  ‘There’s no one to ask,’ she said. ‘And the ones I do see are pretending that they don’t speak English. The desk at the tour operator is completely deserted. There’s just a sign saying “Back After Lunch”. That was four hours ago.’

  Mr Spottiswood slumped down on his suitcase. ‘I don’t know what that boy’s been playing at but we’ve got to find some answers. And Bev! In prison!’

  ‘It’s not a prison. It’s a Youth Correction Facility.’

  They had managed to borrow one of the last English newspapers and discovered, along with everyone else in the queue, that their teenagers were now under lock and key.

  ‘He is barking, you know,’ said Mrs Spottiswood.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Jackman. He’s barking mad.’

  ‘You can’t say that! Just keep your voice down.’

  They didn’t notice the gentleman in a blazer and a panama hat who had appeared at their elbow. He raised his hat slightly to Mrs Spottiswood. ‘Mrs Spottiswood?’ he enquired politely.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Spottiswood. Would you step this way please.’

  * * * * *

  They followed the line of the drainage ditch for about half a mile until it petered out into a concrete pipe. The verge ran straight up to a wood. It was quite easy to find a break in the fence. They cut through a few brambles and into the safety and seclusion of a small beech wood.

  Push squatted on her haunches and poked at the mobile they had borrowed from Mr Macreedy. She texted to Arseface:

  PUSH: hav u dun wot i sugestd?

  ARSE: wot did u sugest agn?

  PUSH: u know, d ting with d nwspapr.

  ARSE: oh ys. i’m doin it nw.

  PUSH: hurry ^ pls.

  ARSE: I’M DOIN IT!!!!!!! if u keep txtn me, how cn i take d picture? jst leav me 2 git on with it!!!!!!!!!!!

  Five minutes later, the mobile pinged and a photo popped up. It showed Arseface from the chin down, a cat clutched to his breast with one hand and today’s newspaper in the other.

  ‘Nice one, Arse,’ said Lewis as he looked over Push’s shoulder.

  ‘OK, I’m just forwarding this to the Daily Trumpet,’ said Push.

  * * * * *

  The editor of the Daily Trumpet drooled at the picture on his desktop computer. His deputy stood beside him.

  ‘If only we could use this,’ said the editor, ‘If only… It would be the scoop of the year.’

  ‘Yes, and if we do, we’ll have Jackman’s heavies down here before you can say “Press Complaints Commission”.’

  ‘Send it on to the Prime Minister’s office with our compliments,’ said the editor and he sighed a heavy sigh.

  * * * * *

  ‘This just came through from the editor of the Trumpet, Prime Minister,’ said Jackman’s new aide. A message popped up on the PM’s computer:

  THAT WAS A CLOSE RUN THING JACKMAN. SEND ANYMORE SOLDIERS AFTER US AND YOU-KNOW-WHO GETS IT. FEC.

  Jackman stared longingly at the attached picture. ‘My bootiful Mrs Bootles,’ he whimpered.

  * * * * *

  They found a track through the wood that led in a southerly direction. Push had discovered a GPS app in her phone and was consulting the tiny map. ‘There’s a lane on the other side of this wood. If we follow that we can avoid the next town.’

  They scrambled over a fence and down a steep bank into the sunken lane. And almost directly into the path of an army lorry.

  ‘Crap!’ shouted Parker and shoved Lewis back into a thorn push. He landed partly on his backside and partly on Push who start
ed complaining loudly. ‘Shut up!’ said Parker. He threw himself on top of them.

  The lorry screeched past, its giant wheels only inches from their faces. It was followed by a stream of trucks that seemed to rumble on forever. From each tailgate, soldiers were laughing, smoking or staring blankly.

  They waited a full five minutes until the roar had died away and extracted themselves from the thorn bush.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Push. ‘Next time you all want a sit down, try sitting on your arses, not on me.’

  ‘It’s my guess,’ said Parker, ‘that the army is shadowing the march on side roads. They’ll be with us all the way to Southampton.’

  ‘Well, we can’t move around in the daytime with this lot clogging up the countryside,’ said Lewis.

  They climbed back up the bank and into the relative security of the woods. Parker sat on a fallen tree and pulled out some curling service station sandwiches, a packet of Monster Munch apiece and a large bottle of Fanta.

  ‘What next?’ asked Push.

  ‘First priority,’ said Lewis, ‘is finding cover. Somewhere to hide. We’ll just have to go to ground till nightfall.’

  ‘That’s second priority,’ said Parker, settling down to his chicken tikka sandwich. ‘Food is first priority.’ As he spoke, they could hear the distant clatter of a helicopter.

  ‘What if they’ve got those heat-seeking cameras?’ said Push. ‘What if they’ve got dogs?’

  ‘I suppose we’d better find somewhere underground,’ said Lewis.

  They could hear helicopters in several different directions now. So they hastily golloped down their sandwiches, took a last drink and packed up their rucksacks.

  A track led them through the woods, parallel to the main road. It meandered down to a tiny brook. Push leapt it in one go and pulled the others up the opposite bank. Within metres, the stream was swallowed up by a concrete culvert which led to a tunnel under the dual carriageway.

  ‘Just what we we’re looking for,’ said Lewis.

  ‘I’m not going down in that lot,’ said Parker.

  ‘No choice, mate,’ said Lewis and jumped in. It only came up to his ankles but the squishy water seeping into his army-issue boots wasn’t particularly pleasant. The other two shrugged and followed him. They waded down stream until the darkness of the tunnel engulfed them.

  An access path was cut into the side of the tunnel. They dragged themselves up the concrete bank and onto the ledge. It was low and they had to stoop to move along it. At the darkest point, they shed their rucksacks and shook their soggy trouser bottoms.

  ‘I suppose a fire is out of the question,’ said Parker.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Do take a seat,’ said the man in the straw hat as he ushered the Spottiswoods into an office.

  ‘Now, Barry and Sue; may I call you Barry and Sue?’ He poured out two glasses of cloudy lemonade from a terracotta pitcher. A large brass fan rotated slowly in the middle of the ceiling and the office was pleasantly cool after the hubbub of the airport terminal.

  ‘Are you from the tour operators?’ asked Mr Spottiswood.

  ‘No. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Walter Valentine and I’m the English Consul. I’m here to represent your interests and to keep you informed about the situation back home.’

  ‘What situation?’ asked Mrs Spottiswood.

  ‘Well I expect you know by now that your son has got himself mixed up in a spot of bother. We think it would be in everybody’s best interest if you came back with us and helped us talk some sense into him.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve been trying to do,’ said Mr Spottiswood with a hint of exasperation.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Mrs Spottiswood. ‘And how’s Bev?’

  ‘As far as Bev is concerned, there’s nothing to worry about. She’s doing very nicely in the government facility. It’s a bit like a home-from-home, I’m told. Lewis, on the other hand, is being less cooperative. He seems reluctant to talk to the authorities and, at this precise moment, we don’t know exactly where he is.’

  ‘You don’t know where he is?’ said Mr Spottiswood, pulling at the collar of his own shirt. ‘We left our son in the care of your “English Government” and you’ve gone and lost him!’

  ‘Not lost him, Mr Spottiswood. He’s run away. He’s being quite a nuisance, actually, and we’re expecting you to sort this out. Bit of parental control, you know? Never goes amiss in these circumstances. Now, you’re booked on the next flight to Luton. It leaves in five minutes, so, if you would just care to hand over your passports, I’ll make sure that all the arrangements are taken care of.’

  The interview was apparently over so they stood up and retrieved their luggage trolley.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr and Mrs Spottiswood,’ said the Consul. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’

  * * * * *

  It was eleven o’clock before the three fugitives felt confident about leaving their shelter.

  Parker inched his nose out of the tunnel. ‘How are we going to find our way in this light?’ he whispered.

  ‘Torch,’ said Push, reaching into her rucksack.

  ‘We’d be better off without a light,’ said Lewis. ‘Your eyes get used to the dark and, besides, the batteries aren’t going to last all night.’

  They were sceptical but agreed to give it a go. Lewis was right. A steady orange glow from nearby city lights reflected off the low clouds. Within ten minutes they found they could pick their way quite easily.

  Push studied her GPS map. A bright red line showed the route she had planned while they were in hiding. ‘We can cover at least ten miles on footpaths. That should keep us away from the soldiers.’

  ‘Ten miles is all we’ll manage at this rate. It will be light by five o’clock,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Yeah, but at least there’s only three of us. We should be able to do more than the marchers and they were only averaging about 12 miles a day. We’ll have to leg it, though.’

  * * * * *

  Lydia’s next camp had to be on the banks next to the road. They had walked into the evening, looking for suitable fields to invade. But there was nothing but heath and low scrubby woodland on either side.

  The marchers had discovered that the south of England was a long succession of hill ranges, one after another. Every time they crested a rise, they found another climb ahead of them on the next horizon. Weary-looking delegations from other schools came to the front from time to time to ask Lydia when they could stop. At last, it was the police that called a halt, promising to keep the carriageway free from traffic all night.

  There was precious little wood to be found in the thickets and bushes beyond the roadside fence and only a few campfires sprang up. Most of the children had cold food and a cold night. But the weather was holding and the dew was light.

  Some were asking about Spoticus’s whereabouts. Lydia stuck to the agreed story. Lewis and his mates were off scouting for a good route and food supplies. Piperdy guessed the real reason but he kept his mouth shut.

  They climbed up the embankments, unrolled their sleeping bags and flopped where they stood. Apart from Boris Pickles, who refused to settle down until someone found him a hot water bottle.

  * * * * *

  Lewis, Push and Parker walked on into the small hours of the night. The few hours’ kip they had managed on the stony tunnel ledge had hardly refreshed them and they were finding the going difficult. Stumbling around on country paths would not be their first choice of activity in the broad daylight; at night it was ten times more difficult.

  Several times they thought they were lost. Until Parker, crosschecking with the Ordnance Survey map, found the occasional names of farms which corresponded with the places they were passing. There were dogs barking constantly, sometimes miles away. They could sense the presence of strangers moving through their territories.

  At around two o’clock, they clambered over a stile, down into a stony track and the going got easy. High banks
on either side gave them a sense of security but decreased the available light. They stopped occasionally to unlace their boots and waft their pungent feet about in the fresh air. Parker told a hundred or so Knock Knock jokes to keep them amused.

  ‘Knock Knock.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ they chanted wearily.

  ‘Ike.’

  ‘Ike who?’

  ‘Ike could have sworn we just passed that farm.’

  ‘Not good enough, Parker,’ said Push and belted him with her water bottle. Parker responded in kind and the tussle continued for a few hundred metres until it was interrupted by a grey shape lurching up the path towards them.

  ‘Arrgghh!’ shouted Push.

  ‘What!’ shouted Parker.

  ‘Keep your voices down,’ shouted Lewis. The creature stopped, stared at them and waddled off nonchalantly in the other direction.

  ‘It’s only a badger.’

  ‘Only a badger?’ said Parker. ‘They’re vicious, they are. They could have your leg off.’

  ‘I think you may be confusing it with a crocodile. Anyway, it’s gone. Let’s move.’

  When they climbed into more open countryside they were troubled by the shadowy outline of cattle moving in the fields they passed. After a dozen or so encounters they stopped freaking and got on with the business of walking. ‘Look, a cow with eight legs,’ said Parker.

  ‘And two heads,’ said Lewis as a second cow stepped out from behind the silhouette of the first.

  At five o’clock a finger of light appeared under the clouds on the horizon and they started thinking about a place to hide for the day.

  ‘We’ve done 15 miles,’ said Push, proudly. ‘That’s amazing. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a country girl but I think I’m getting the hang of this.’

  A pheasant shot out of the gorse bushes on the side of the track and almost flew into her face.

  ‘Ahhh,’ she cried, ‘Countryside! I hate the countryside. I want a town. Find me a town.’

  ‘We can’t go near a town. We need somewhere to get our heads down.’

  ‘Yeah, and what are we going to do when the food runs out? And the water?’

  ‘Water is a priority,’ agreed Lewis. ‘We’ll just have to raid a farmyard.’

  The next farm looked suitable. There was a dog barking in the walled garden but they found a stopcock on the side of a barn, out of sight from the farm house, and quietly filled up their flasks and the pop bottle from yesterday. A voice in the background said, ‘Go orn you daft cow, get back inside,’ evidently addressed to the dog and not the travellers.