A Raucous Time

  Chapter Eighteen

   

  The two hills identified as Brown Willy and Roughtor now lay behind them.

  ‘Should we start heading back to the moor brawd? Looking for the Folly?’

  Wren nodded, swinging a leg over his bike.

  With a contented stomach and new energy pumping through him, Rhyllann jumped onto his bike, eager to see how quickly the lightweight racer could gobble up the miles under the bright early summer sunshine. He travelled a few yards before a jarring clatter followed by a dull thud brought him screeching to a halt.

  Wren and bike lay entangled on the road.

  ‘What happened – did you fall?’

  ‘My foot Annie – I’m sorry – It just went.’

  Wren's eyes were screwed in pain, and he grasped his leg just above the damaged foot with both hands, as though to touch it would be agony. Dragging Wren clear from the bike frame, Rhyllann rustled through his cousin's pockets. He gazed down at the empty bubble strips which had contained extra strength painkillers.

  ‘Jesus Wren – you’ve been gobbling them like sweeties!’

  Wren winced as he rocked himself. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. Okay!’ He said angrily cradling his arms over his head and slumping his face against his updrawn knees. Rhyllann eased Wren's trainer and sock off, then steeled himself not to gasp. Wren’s foot looked as though someone had inserted an air valve, then pumped and pumped until the skin stretched to bursting point.

  ‘Jeez – we’ll have to find a hospital.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Wren’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. ‘It’s swollen that’s all. Only because I pushed it too hard. It isn’t as painful as it looks.’

  Rhyllann didn’t know what to say. Thoughts of blood poisoning and gangrene ran through his mind.

  Wren read his mind again. ‘I won’t turn back. Not now.’

  ‘You stubborn little prick.’ Rhyllann blew out with exasperation. ‘Okay listen. We’ll make a deal. We’ll find somewhere to sleep – then in the morning – if it's no better you are going to a hospital.’

  Wren said nothing, pushing out his lower jaw and glaring into the distance.

  Rhyllann laughed. ‘You don’t get it do you? There’s no choice. I’ll turn us both in.’ If the stupid little geek wanted to risk losing a foot that was his lookout. However Rhyllann knew damn well who would get the blame.

   

  With Wren balanced awkwardly on the crossbar, Rhyllann began pushing, determined to beg for help at the next village they reached. A van sped by almost knocking them into the ditch. Rhyllann shouted after the driver, wishing he had a free hand to gesture with.

  ‘Oh help.’ He muttered as the brake lights glowed. Going back was not an option, they’d just managed to wobble down the steepest hill in the county. With a churning stomach Rhyllann shouted again, hoping the wiry bloke emerging from the van would think both calls had been cries for help. The moustachioed driver accepted Rhyllann's inspired explanation that they had come adrift from their Duke of Edinburgh award group, and that Wren had injured his foot. Rhyllann explained earnestly that this was their final leg, they didn’t want to give up.

  The man spoke with an accent so thick they could barely comprehend him, not helped by badly fitting dentures. Finally they understood that he meant to take them home, where his sister would take care of them.

   

  Home was a roadside cottage with a series of tumbledown outhouses one side, and a spit of land used to park vehicles on the other.

  Sister Rose seemed dubious, but treated Wren’s foot with a poultice which stank to heaven, but contained knit bone and comfrey. Apparently. After a silent meal of grey meat and mash, the boys were banished from the chilly cottage to an outhouse. Rhyllann didn’t blame their hosts. The mis-shapen tee-shirt he wore was beginning to feel like a second skin. When he took his jeans off to snuggle under the eiderdown Rose had provided he half expected them to stand up on their own. And Wren’s bandage managed to overpower the smell of the outhouse’s previous occupants: Pigs by the names of Smokey and Bacon from what Rhyllann could gather from Moustache George’s cackle.

  He yawned and stretched, allowing his mind to wander back over the amazing flight they had made, only half listening to Wren as he fantasised over what they would do once they found the treasure, both building castles in the air. The next thing he knew he was yawning and stretching again, only this time it was morning.

  The door swung open to admit Wren, balancing two dishes of porridge.

  ‘George has gone to work. Rose said eat up, then get lost.’

  Rhyllann stared.

  ‘Well …not exactly get lost – but she made it plain she don’t want us hanging around.’

   

  Rhyllann took the empty bowls and eiderdown back to Rose. It was clear she didn’t buy the Duke of Edinburgh story. So he haggled with the hard faced daughter of the soil. The gleaming racing cycle worth over a grand, for a bath, a change of clothes, and a handful of painkillers. Rhyllann allowed himself to be beaten down on the packed lunch. If last night’s stew was anything to go by, they weren’t missing much. The porridge formed a sullen lump in his stomach, despite his best efforts to forget it.