Chief Constable Railings yawned. ‘Go and get him, would you, Sergeant?’
‘Allow me,’ said Mrs Parker. She took off one of her flip-flops and launched it, javelin style. It went, straight and true, in a graceful arc and landed on the back of Colonel Jackman’s shiny head. He toppled from the scooter and lay quivering like a beached jellyfish. The crowd cheered.
* * * * *
Mrs Jackman looked frightened. She couldn’t understand why she was being surrounded by horrible little children. Push walked over to her and helped her to a seat on a park bench. ‘We’ve got something for you, Mrs Jackman. We won’t be needing it anymore.’
Parker handed her Mrs Bootles and Push laid the cat in Mrs Jackman’s lap. She started to cry again.
Chapter Twenty
When Lewis met up with his parents at last, he got the biggest hug of his life from his mother. ‘Welcome home, mum,’ he said. His dad patted him on the back and said, ‘Well done, son.’ Then he coughed and started whistling.
The Parkers and the Patels went through similar reunions. All around the park, parents were searching for children they hadn’t seen for weeks. They were suddenly aware that something seriously screwy had happened to the whole country.
‘I’m so sorry, Pushpa,’ said Mrs Patel, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and she said it again another twenty of thirty times.
* * * * *
Lewis got to select who made up the delegation that would travel with him to the Isle of Wight.
The Spottiswoods sat in the back of a squad car, this time as honoured guests. It took only five minute to reach the docks. With sirens wailing and blue lights flashing, they screeched to a halt on the jetty outside the high-speed ferry terminal building. Lydia, Push and Parker and the gang were waiting for them with their respective parents. Representatives from all the schools on the march were queuing to board the slower but roomier car ferry.
‘Please take your seats on the top deck,’ said a steward as they were ushered down the covered gangway to the waiting jet-foil catamaran. ‘The crossing will take approximately 25 minutes,’ he added helpfully.
The river was dead calm as they eased away from the Town Quay. When the ferry reached the middle of the channel, the captain let her rip and the boat rose up on the twin hulls, accelerating to its maximum 36 knots.
‘The Leader of Isle of Wight District Council will be waiting for us in Cowes,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘She tells me that she is just as anxious to get rid of the internment camps as you are, Master Spottiswood. It hasn’t been the finest hour in the history of the island. Plays havoc with the tourist industry. I expect they’re quite eager to be helpful.’
They stood by the rail, enjoying the occasional salty spray and the smack of the hulls as they ripped through the waves. A steward was pushing a drinks trolley up the aisle. He was wearing a bulky blue jersey and a peaked hat. ‘Drinks, sir? Coke, lemonade maybe?’
Lewis stared up at his face. Why did this man have a soiled and bloody bandage wrapped round his head?
‘Or would you prefer a deeper drink?’ said Devonish. He hauled Lewis by the neck and held him at arm’s length over the side of the boat. ‘Die, Spottiswood!’
Mrs Spottiswood dropped her glass.
‘Put the boy back in the boat, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.’ The Chief Constable inched towards the assassin. Mr Spottiswood made a lunge for Devonish but the police officer held him back.
A dribble of blood was oozing from the sodden bandage around Devonish’s head. ‘Get back,’ he shouted, ‘or I let the boy go.’
Lewis’s feet kicked and struggled in mid air but he could find no purchase.
‘Put the boy back in the boat,’ repeated the Chief Constable softly. Behind him, four adults (which, until now, everybody assumed to be parents) stood up and pulled out guns. Each was trained on Devonish’s head. Without turning to look at them, the Chief Constable said, ‘My officers will not hesitate to take you out if you harm the boy.’
Devonish scanned the deck. The smallest hint of doubt crossed his face. With his free hand, he reached for the front of his jersey and pulled it up slowly. It concealed an impressive array of automatic weapons and grenades hanging from meaty-looking body armour. ‘Any closer and I’ll blow this whole boat to France and back.’
‘Give it up, son. The war’s over,’ said Railings.
‘For you, maybe. I’ve still got a mission to complete.’ Devonish cocked one leg over the rail and then the other until he and Lewis were both on the outside of the boat and hanging on by just the one arm.
Breath was coming hard to Lewis as he struggled against the vice-like grip around his throat. ‘If… you… put us… in the water,’ he croaked, ‘we… both… die.’
Devonish took one last look at the passengers and he smiled at Lewis. ‘I have never failed to complete an assignment and I don’t intend to start now.’ And he let go.
The Spottiswoods leapt to the rail, followed by Push and Parker. They were just in time to see the small heads of two figures, bobbing away in the wake of the jet-foil.
‘Oh my God,’ shouted Push.
The larger figure disappeared under the water first. An arm flailed around until it made contact with the smaller figure and that too disappeared under the waves. The boat’s siren sounded a long, mournful note.
* * * * *
‘Here, get that down you,’ said the Chief Constable and he handed Lewis a mug of streaming hot soup. The Spottiswoods were sitting on a bench in the ferry terminal in Cowes. Lewis had a blanket round his shoulders and was shivering slightly while his mother mopped his sopping hair with a towel.
Push sat on the bench next to him and shuffled up to him, despite his soaking clothes.
‘Gordon H Cricket!’ said Parker. ‘Why do you have to keep doing this to us?’
‘Pardon me,’ said Lewis, ‘I didn’t invite him on board.’
The ferry captain had slammed the boat into the tightest turn it could manage. But still, it felt like minutes before they were doubling back over the wake they had just created and heading back towards the point where Lewis had gone overboard. They found him clinging to a buoy. There was no sign of Devonish.
‘He grabbed me,’ said Lewis. ‘He was trying to hold me under. But the weight of his body armour was dragging us both down. He let go of me to try and unclip the armour. I shot to the surface. The last time I saw him, he was still struggling and getting deeper and deeper. I popped up just a few metres from that buoy so I struck out for it and held on.’
Royal Navy inflatable launches met them in the middle of the channel and zoomed around in circles. Divers slipped over the stern of the boats and headed down into the deep.
‘We may never find him,’ said the Chief Constable.
* * * * *
In the middle of the Isle of Wight there stood a newly-constructed barracks, covering several hundred hectares. From the crest of the hill, Lewis could see mile after mile of low huts, slinking away towards the sea. High barbed-wire topped fences surrounded the camp, for as far as the eye could see. They were broken every few hundred metres by watch towers sporting gun emplacements and search lights.
‘Go on, they’re waiting for you,’ said the Chief Constable. Lewis gave his parents a sheepish grin and headed alone down the hill towards the camp. The sign above the gates read; “Isle of Wight Youth Realignment Centre”. As he approached the guardhouse, the barrier slid silently upwards. He was greeted by the sight of a full colonel in dress uniform, marching smartly up the road towards him.
The colonel came to a halt in front of Lewis and slapped his heels together. His hand shot up to the peak of his cap in a juddering salute. ‘SAH. CAMP READY FOR YOR INSPECTION, SAH.’
‘Thank you, Colonel. Carry on,’ smirked Lewis. He turned and waved to the delegation from Southampton and they followed him down the slope towards the gates.
* * * * *
At six o’clock that evening, the teenagers streamed into the cam
p car park and onto the waiting buses for relocation to mainland England. The Spottiswoods waited patiently in the Colonel’s office until Bev was marched into the room by a sergeant.
‘Hello, Lew,’ she smiled. ‘Been up to no good, I hear.’
* * * * *
The Chief Constable personally escorted the Spottiswoods back to Flintwick.
‘What’s going to happen to Jackman?’ asked Lewis.
‘Oh, we’ll be taking care of him,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘I understand that a new government is being formed as we speak. A lot of people got hurt during his brief period of office. Jackman was pretty sick, really. He’ll get better treatment than he deserves.’
‘What happened to that boy who looked a bit like me?
‘Ah. We think his name was Harry Seldon.’
‘Think? Why can’t you just ask him?’
‘Because,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘I’m afraid he has disappeared.’
Lewis’s heart fell in his chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
* * * * *
Mrs Bootles escaped from the Jackmans’ house in the leafy avenue near Cheltenham. It took her six months but she did eventually make it all the way to Flintwick. When she found the bridge under the ring road, Arseface Morton was there to welcome her home.
###
About the Author
Andrew Francis is a self-employed artist and writer. He lives in Gloucester with his wife and teenage son.
Andrew works in a variety of creative and design disciplines. His activities include: writing; cabinet design and making; graphic design; web design; 3D design; painting; playing and composing music; cartooning; letter carving; stained glass design; blogging and walking guides. Some of his work can be seen at www.francis-emporium.co.uk/
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