Turning Point (27 page)

Scott's lids flickered open, the electric light dazzling at 6 a.m. especially after so little sleep. He threw back the covers struggling to climb out of bed, still clutched in the jaws of his nightmare, his head pounding. Air conditioning might be efficient but he'd never get used to it. All his life, he'd slept with his window open a crack even on the coldest of nights. He shied away from the word ‘home'. Like the words ‘father' and ‘friend', the word ‘home' no longer existed as part of his vocabulary. That too had gone up in flames.

The top bunk was empty, Beau already up. Scott tore into the washroom and stopped dead, registering a heavy undercurrent of unease permeating through the familiar morning routine. He didn't need to examine the faces of his room-mates; their body-language said it all. Something odd had happened in the night and one of their number was responsible. Doom-laden, harried, heads down pointedly avoiding eye contact, the morning storm of coughs and groans stifled, they moved sluggishly between dormitory and washroom, while dread like a winged bat, silently – ominously – circled the room.

Making sure the cubicle door was firmly bolted, Scott collapsed down onto the toilet seat, reliving his moment of eye contact with Jameson. He'd been let off the hook only because Seagar had stayed by the door. If he had come in… accompanied Jay… Sweat broke out on his brow. Despairing, he buried his head in his hands, his thoughts tumultuous. Like Beau said, he'd never be so lucky a second time. Guys like Seagar didn't get to boss the world about by being sloppy. The man would dig and dig until there was nothing left but bare rock.
And
Hilary!
Hilary was in danger too because of him.

His fingers curled into a tight fist and he pounded them hard against his head almost crying at his own stupidity. He had to get to Beau! Warn him! Then get out! He daren't wait to be caught!

Unseeing, he glanced down at his watch. Logic told him he had until nine or shortly after. That's when offices opened their doors and staff logged into computers records, making cross-checking simply a task of pressing a few buttons.

Under cover of the noise from the flushing toilet, he eased open the lock and hurried to the wash basins. He had one shot. Mr Reynolds checked their numbers at the start of the run and again at the end, but no one bothered in between. And they'd seen the helicopter only that one time, that first night. In daylight it wasn't needed; the unit was surrounded by miles of desolate terrain which would deter any but the most foolhardy. When guys fell behind they were left to catch up, forcing the rest of the group to hang about in the yard until everyone was checked in.

With luck, he'd get an hour's start. Head for the hills and hide up until night. There didn't seem to be dogs – at least he hadn't heard any. This way, Hilary might stay safe.

Wishing he had time for a shower, Scott hastily splashed hot water over his face and neck. His hair looked gross, greasy and lifeless… but, thankfully, still hanging onto its colour. He pushed back his shoulders, refusing to dwell on the problems of getting back to England; that could wait until he reached the coast. Grabbing his trainers, he joined the rest of the group in the lobby waiting for their instructor to appear, hoping anyone interested would put his panic down to being late.

Thirty-minutes later they were still waiting. Scott shifted from leg to leg, taking occasional sips of water from the bottle in his hand, hounded by the idea that their unit was being searched for clues as to who had left their bed in the middle of the night.

For the umpteenth time, he glanced down at his watch. It was almost seven. Where was the guy? After the torture of the opening session, their days had followed a rigid pattern, scarcely deviating by more than a few minutes. 6am lights on; 6.30 lined up in the lobby, washed or showered, ready for their early-morning jog. By 8.00 they were back in, allotted sixty minutes to freshen up (shower again if they wanted), change their clothes and, if times had improved, slurp down a hot drink served with bread. In the classroom by 9.00; a second run, longer in the afternoon; then more films, hour upon hour of tortuous images until their nerves jangled and their brains turned to mush. In the nick of time food, as much as they could eat, and then sleep. Scott felt his stomach spasm with nerves. But not today, because he, Scott Anderson, was a damn fool and had set their alarm bells ringing.

As if his thoughts had filtered through the air, the door of the medical unit flew open. As yet, no one had seen inside the little room. On arrival, the guard had pointed to it but cuts and bruises were either ignored or treated in the dormitory. Even that first night, when six of the group had fallen sick from overeating, they weren't rushed off to the sick bay. Instead, guards had appeared in the dormitory. Disinterested and callous, they had checked on the vomiting boys, warning them in execrable English not to do it again because it was
stupide
. If confirmation had been needed that every word uttered in the unit was recorded, it was that night. No one had called for help and at least half the guys had slept right through, yet guards had still come running.

Without wasting breath on a good morning, Mr Reynolds unbarred the outer door and pushed it open, fresh air flooding in. Scott took a deep breath savouring its clean smell, his headache ebbing slightly.

‘Line up outside.'

A guard emerged from the open door of the medical room, his uniform replaced by a tracksuit.

Yet another change!

Timidly, Scott edged his way to the front of the queue to join Lightning. Taking no notice of anyone, he was staring across the yard in a bored fashion, watching the automatic gates slide back open. Now Scott knew who was concealed behind the mask, he realised the guy's boorish behaviour concealed keen eyes, intent on examining every inch of the place.

‘Left line… one pace forward. Right line… one pace back.'

For a moment confusion broke out, no one quite sure what they were supposed to do, as if the instructions had been issued in a foreign language. Scott grabbed his chance. ‘I have the proof,'
he hissed. Beau gave him a startled glance. ‘I recognised…'

‘Number nine. Get moving. I said one pace forward.'

Scott jumped, the doom-laden words like slabs of granite falling from a great height. Already at the front of the line, he filtered to the back of the milling group, passing Chris on his way up, and taking his place by the side of James at the rear of the column.

With a withering glance, their instructor began checking numbers, the group shifting from foot to foot impatient now to get going; the wind off the hillside blustery.

Restlessly, Scott hacked at a weed growing through the tarmac, unsure what he should do. Now he had the evidence, it was vital he got it to Beau. Dare he wait; try again on their afternoon run? Twelve hours till they were free to go to bed, twelve more till morning. Would he even be alive by then? Raising his head, he peered out along the road the coaches had taken – the road to freedom. Any time now, they'd begin checking prisoners' backgrounds and discover who he really was. His stomach lurched and he dragged in some calming breaths. He had no choice. He had to go. Bending down, he made a show of retying his laces, leaving the double knot loose.

Propping the register against the door to wait their return, their instructor waved the group forward, following the line of runners through the gate, the pace gradually accelerating into a fast walk. A couple of miles to stretch and warm the muscles, followed by a slow jog. Above them the soft navy of early dawn had faded to grey in the east, marking the start of yet another dismal day. Out on the plain the wind died away, the air dank and oppressive. Scott eyed the guard and was relieved to see him speed up, running ahead of the group. He took in a few deep breaths, his muscles sore and bruised from crawling through the air-conditioning ducts and he stepped carefully, angling his left foot firmly down, not enough to rick his ankle but hopefully sufficient to loosen his shoelace further.

At the rear of the line of inmates, their instructor snapped at Scott's heels, striking his cane against his artificial leg, beating out the rhythm of their steps. Scott stared straight ahead, his face expressionless, trying to ignore him. It was one of the tricks Mr Reynolds-sir used to throw them off balance, hitting his cane viciously against a table top or wall during a quiet moment in a film or appearing in the doorway of the dining room, making out he was searching for someone while the food turned to sawdust in your mouth.

By his side, James was also silent. Out of all the guys, he'd lost the most weight and seemed almost proud of his burgeoning fitness, openly boasting that being forced to go cold turkey was the only way to give up smoking – and it was the best thing that had happened in a long time. Although, even after five days, he had little enough breath to spare for talking, puffing and panting his way up rocky slopes. He might be a brilliant companion when you needed time to think, to sort out the panic in your head, but not today when Scott desperately needed the comfort of another human voice. Not the hectoring or bullying tone that Mr Reynolds-sir used – an ordinary voice. It didn't much matter what was said – it was the sound he craved, the silence of the terrain adding to the brooding fear weighing him down.

All at once, he tripped and stumbled forward. Automatically James threw out his arm to stop him falling, his shoelace trailing along the ground. Scott almost laughed at how close he'd come to fouling up again, simply because he'd not been paying attention. He raised his hand. ‘Mr Reynolds-sir, my trainer's come undone.'

‘Catch up.'

Scott bent down, fumbling clumsily at the dragging lace, trying to decide in which direction he should go. Logically, an escapee should head for the road, keeping it in sight, hoping to reach civilisation before he was missed. He raised his head staring out over the barren landscape, tracking the path the coach had taken, the plain as grey and featureless as the endless cloud base. No! There was too little cover; a running figure would be visible for miles. He must stick to his origin plan. Backtrack round the unit and head for the rocky hillside. He eyed the distant hills, anxiety turning their peaks into menacing blocks of stone and smiled ruefully. One small ray of comfort; at least no one could spot him from a window – there weren't any.

In the distance the strident crackling of an engine dissected the silence. He listened to it coming closer, the half-smile of a second ago wiped away, understanding that escape was never going to happen. With a sense of impending doom, he watched the long-dark shadow of the helicopter approach and felt a rush of air from its rotor blades. Pulling the knot tight on his shoe, he got to his feet, raising his hand to acknowledge the presence of the hovering craft. With his feet heavy against the ground, he sped after the group, the sense of being hunted overwhelming

James nodded as Scott came alongside, but didn't speak his eyes fixed on the horizon, concentrating on keeping up the pace. Gradually the noisy engine faded away, the silence of the air now broken only by heavy breathing and the occasional cough.

Dawn had come and gone leaving heavy clouds already thickening to rain, a layer of moisture trapped by the low cloud base. As they entered the home straight, the unit emerged as a faint blur and an audible sigh of relief swept through the group. It didn't mean anything, the six miles they did in the morning a mere bagatelle compared to the ten or twelve they did in the afternoon. The joint sigh was one of recognition that if it did rain, at least they were heading back in and not out.

Scott couldn't bring himself to join in that communal sigh; that fragile illusion of freedom, made possible by the open air and the empty space, was all he had to sustain him. The moment they set foot inside, he would be doomed.

Gradually, the green-grey outline of the detention facility crept closer, hills draped around it like a shawl of rock and stone. Naturally long-sighted, Scott caught a suggestion of movement, seeing a dark-coloured vehicle heading for the unit. It stopped outside, the angle too acute to follow the action of the gate pulling open. Miniscule figures dropped down from it, hurrying into the building. A moment later others took their place, some pulling a suitcase, others carrying bags. Boarding, Scott watched as the coach backed up, retracing its route across the plain, its dark shape quickly swallowed up by distance.

So that's how they got away with it!
The coaches with their windows barred – they were't meant to stop prisoners seeing out but people seeing in. Even the ugly horizontal stripes on the building were there for one thing only – camouflage.

Scott had noticed the solar panels on the roof and hillside, squares of metal and glass, but had not paid them any attention, awarding them only a cursory glance as he ran past, although he had wondered how technology could create heat and light at sub-zero temperatures or on rain-soaked days when the sun became a distant memory. Now, he saw the panels didn't follow the sun, their position was fixed. So that's what Beau had meant by mirrors. Most probably it was reflective glass, angled to transmit images of undergrowth, bushes and shrubs and conceal all evidence of a substantial building. For someone driving past, it would seem insignificant and ugly – scarcely worth a second glance. Only if you really,
really
looked could you unravel the pieces of the puzzle. Even at night, not a single beam of light would escape its windowless walls, the building a dense rectangle of darkness against the night sky. Thermal imaging would show people moving inside, easily explained away by the presence of a detention centre for feral youngsters – those who refused to obey the law. Anyway, who would bother to fly over a desolate area of France and use thermal imagery, unless they were searching for something, or someone?

Scott shivered, the ribbon of sweat down his back icy-cold despite a temperature already in double figures. What sick mind had devised this? And they'd get away with it too, unless he stopped them. ‘James?'