Johnny Mackintosh and the Spirit of London (8 page)

“He's what?” Johnny prompted.

“He's dead.” Mrs. Irvine's face had turned white.

Johnny could feel the blood draining from his own face and was glad he was sitting down. He was shocked but he was also trying to think. The journalist had run into the park. Presumably he'd gone up to the main gates. That was where the black car had been, the reason he'd gone into the alley in the first place.

“Mrs. Irvine?” Johnny asked.

“Yes, Jonathan?” A tear was rolling down the Manager's cheek.

“Did they say how it happened?”

“They just said a hit-and-run accident outside the park gates. The car that hit him didn't even stop.” Mrs. Irvine looked as if she might start sobbing at any moment.

Johnny was wide awake now. Those people in the car were probably after him. If they'd killed the journalist they weren't
going to mind doing it again. Who were they? He couldn't stay here just waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. He had to take control and find out what was going on. He would run away. He would find Clara.

Johnny was up in his attic bedroom. He hadn't felt hungry—he rarely did with Mr. Wilkins's cooking—but he'd still eaten the enormous Sunday roast that was a weekly event at Halader House. He wasn't sure where his next big meal would come from. He'd left his sports bag in the backyard with Bentley, packed full of all the things he thought he'd need—the games console, his sleeping bag, a spare pair of jeans and some T-shirts, his washbag, parka and some socks and pants. He'd looked up the train timetables for Yarnton Hill online. Now he'd just finished going round all the hiding places in the room and had cobbled together thirty-one pounds and sixteen pence. It was less than he'd hoped. And he hated not taking the box of his parents' things with him. He'd have to sneak back and get it one day. Halfway through the trapdoor he stopped and took a last look at his room, with all its fabulous posters clinging to the sloping walls. Then he pushed the door shut above his head and went downstairs toward the back entrance. Miss Harutunian was coming out of the common room.

“Hi, Johnny. I was just coming to see you. Are you OK?”

“Yeah—just taking Bentley for a walk,” Johnny replied.

“Mrs. Irvine told me what happened. You want me to come along—keep you company?” Miss Harutunian started walking alongside Johnny toward the back door.

“No it's OK,” said Johnny, stopping still for a moment. “I think I'd rather be alone. Goodbye.” He said it as forcefully as he could, but trying not to look rude.

“Hey—don't say ‘goodbye.' That means you're going forever. You say ‘so long.'”

“Sorry—so long,” said Johnny.

“So long, Johnny,” Miss Harutunian replied. She ruffled Johnny's blond hair, turned and walked away.

Johnny opened the back door, put the lead around Bentley's neck, picked up the football bag and, with his dog by his side, walked across the yard and out of the back gate. He closed it behind him, took a last look at Halader House and started jogging across the tarmac toward the railway station.

Johnny had decided on a way of traveling that would make his path harder to follow. At Castle Dudbury Station he just bought a single ticket into London and came out of Liverpool Street to stare at the Gherkin for as long as he felt was safe, which wasn't very long at all. He walked all the way round it. It was built so it curved away as you looked up; close to, you couldn't see the very top—just swirling patterns of glass and steel reflecting the clear blue sky around it. There was only one way in, a giant entrance that looked like a letter “M” on top with a matching “W” beneath. He'd have loved to walk through it—inside was a shiny silver statue that looked like an alien, but a security guard started paying him too much attention and he knew it was time to go. With Bentley beside him he was too conspicuous. Johnny retraced his steps back to Liverpool Street station, pausing outside an electrical store to watch a bit of the title decider on a TV in the shop window. It was Arsenal versus Manchester United. But he had a train to catch. He tore himself away, caught the tube to Waterloo and from there he bought a single ticket to Wexenham, the last stop on the line, rather than to Yarnton Hill itself.

It was hard staying out of sight with a large Old English
sheepdog by your side, but Johnny thought he'd made a reasonable job of it and, as night fell, he slipped out of Yarnton Hill station, away from the small town center and out into some nearby fields. There weren't many streetlights in Yarnton Hill, but had someone been watching they would have been surprised to see what few there were go out as a young boy and his shaggy dog walked underneath them, only to turn back on once the distinctive pair had passed. Johnny was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice this happening. It had started to rain and he was feeling miserable. He was cold, wet, alone, frightened and missing the final of the Essex Under Thirteens Schools Cup which would take place the following day.

The next morning Johnny woke up to beeps coming from his sports bag and Bentley licking his face. He looked at his watch—it was 08:34 and his neck hurt. For a moment he thought his alarm clock must have gone off, but his bed was never this uncomfortable. He took in the rural scene around him and sussed that the beeping must be from the games console because the signal search was still running. “Kovac,” he said sleepily. “Show results.” The screen on his console transformed into the graphic of the Earth with a pulsating dot above it.

“Results confirmed,” came Kovac's tinny voice through the little speakers. “Signal coordinates identified. Signal frequency identified.” This time the signal position was verifiable on its own.

“Kovac,” said Johnny, now properly awake. “Project signal position onto global map.” The screen switched to an Ordnance Survey map with a red dot flashing in the center.

“Kovac—identify current location of mobile terminal.”

There could be no doubt. A blue dot was now flashing less than two miles from the red one. Whatever was going on, it was
going on almost right above Johnny's head. Looking upward, there was nothing to see except a clear blue sky with occasional wisps of cloud. It was going to be a lovely day—perfect for a cup final.

He wriggled out of his sleeping bag, rolled it up and packed it away, and then looked around in the early morning light. The night before he'd found a grassy field with a few trees round the edge, one of which he'd slept under next to a hedgerow border. He was hungry but knew he didn't have much money left. A confirmed signal and exact position was just the break he needed—he decided to go straight to the spot where the red dot was flashing. He rummaged around in his bag and found a partly eaten chocolate bar from the train journey. He broke the remainder in half, gave one of the pieces to Bentley and ate the other himself. Then he rolled his neck slowly round a few times till the stiffness went, picked up the bag, and started to walk up a little hill with the shaggy sheepdog, wide awake and trotting alongside him. They reached the end of the field and he climbed a gate into the next one with Bentley just squeezing through a large gap between the bars.

Although it was early, there was a tall girl in the next field. She looked a bit older than Johnny and was walking a red setter. She had brown straggly hair and wore a green jacket with matching green wellington boots. She'd clearly already seen him climbing the gate so he couldn't very well go back. Besides, it was grownups he really had to avoid—not kids. Adults watched the news, or at least some of them did. A boy on his own with an Old English sheepdog would be hard to miss if people knew to be looking for him, but he hoped that to her he was just another kid with another dog. The setter was racing over toward Bentley.

“Rusty!” the girl shouted, but her dog wasn't paying her any attention. Bentley skipped away from Johnny and met the other
dog halfway. By the time their owners caught up with them, the dogs already seemed best of friends.

“He's lovely—what's his name?” the girl asked Johnny. Close up she had lots of freckles, which matched the brown collar of her jacket.

“Bentley—and I'm Johnny,” Johnny replied before he realized he should probably have given a false name.

“Louise … and she's Rusty,” said the girl, patting the setter on the head. “What you doing here then?”

“I'm staying with my aunt and uncle,” Johnny replied. He could feel his face turning red and willed it to stop.

“Oh. Where do they live?” Louise asked.

“The main road … er … down near the station,” Johnny said, not having noticed any street names last night.

“Oh, Bert and Josie Peterson? They said their nephew was coming to visit.”

“Yeah—that's them,” Johnny replied.

“I made them up,” said the girl, looking down her upturned nose at Johnny. “You slept out in the field last night.” Johnny looked sheepish—he'd been rumbled easily and there didn't seem any point denying it. Louise continued, “I saw you when I started walking Rusty. Didn't want to wake sleeping beauty, so I ended up out here.”

“I'm running away,” said Johnny simply.

“And you ran away to Yarnton Hill?” Louise said, laughing. “That's not very bright is it?”

“Why's that?” Johnny asked, looking beyond the girl and toward the village. “It seems OK here.”

“OK? Are you stupid? Kids run away
from
here. If they don't the pigs take them,” Louise said. “And if you hadn't met me you were heading right for them.”

“The pigs?” Johnny didn't understand and he hated being called stupid.

“I don't know. That's what we call them. Pigs in suits.”

“Pigs in suits?” Johnny asked, wishing the girl would make it a bit clearer.

“S'pose it's from the name,” Louise said. “Proteus Institute for the Gifted—for the unlucky more like.”

The penny dropped. “That's where I'm going,” Johnny said. “My sister's there.”

“How do you know? No one knows what goes on there,” said Louise through a very narrow mouth.

“Trust me, I know,” Johnny said. “And I've got to find her.” Johnny hitched his bag back over his shoulder, about to set off.

“You mustn't—it's dangerous,” Louise said. “We're already too far out. I'm going back to town.”

“Go if you're scared,” said Johnny. In his experience no one was prepared to admit to that and he could do with a local guide.

“I am scared and you should be too. Come on, Rusty,” Louise said. She turned and started walking down the hill, with the setter at her side.

“What are we going to do now, Bents?” said Johnny and to his surprise Bentley turned and started barking in the direction of Rusty. Even more to his surprise, Rusty stopped in her tracks and turned and sprinted back up the hill to Johnny and Bentley. “Nice one, Bents,” Johnny said to his sheepdog. “Come on then.” Johnny started walking up the hill, now with two dogs in tow.