‘We were not wasting time!’ Simon cried. ‘You wait till you see Marcus’s face, just wait! Then you’ll see why he didn’t want to go home! None of you give a toss what’s happened to him – you’re the ones who should be ashamed!’
‘What did he tell you, then?’ The policeman spoke so quietly that Emily could barely hear him, and it had the effect of calming Simon also.
‘We spent a night here,’ he said in a subdued voice. ‘Not doing any harm. But Marcus was late getting back and his dad was waiting for him. Beat him up – but don’t take my word for it, you’ll see for yourself! Oh, and smashed his bicycle up too. You’ll find the bits in his garden, if you’re interested. That’s why Marcus decided to run off. He was crazy to come here, I think, but I don’t blame him for wanting to get away. That’s all. You’ll hear it better from Marcus when you find him.’
In the oven Emily nodded grimly. Nice one, Simon.
‘I’m sure I will. Where is Thomson? He can’t have got lost, surely.’ Emily could hear a single set of footsteps circling the lobby. ‘The thing is, lad, I’ve already seen that bike of Marcus’s. His father showed it to me when I went over.’
‘Well, then, you’ve seen – ’
‘I’ve seen it padlocked to the garden fence, good as new. Well, one of the handlebars is a bit bent, but that’s only to be expected. Marcus is a bit of a careless cyclist apparently, always coming off it in some dramatic fashion. Like he did only the other day.’
‘You’re not telling me – ’
‘Skidded on the ice while taking a corner too fast. He went right off into the side of a car. Knocked his face quite badly, I understand.’
‘His dad told you that! And you believe him! My God!’ Simon’s voice was shrill with fury and indignation.
‘I’m sure we could get witnesses if it came to it, lad. He did it quite publicly, you see, not down some back alley. On one of the roads leading into the market square in King’s Lynn it was, a couple of days ago. He was lucky he didn’t have to go to hospital.’
He waited, as if wondering whether Simon wanted to say anything. In the oven, Emily could hear her heart pounding in her chest. Lies! All lies!
‘As I say, it’s not the first time Marcus has had some reckless accident like that,’ the policeman went on. ‘He’s come to our attention before. He’s always going off without permission, often hurting himself too, one way or another. Small wonder his father locked up his bike and forbade him to go out again, but this didn’t stop young Marcus. The next thing his dad knew, he’d scarpered.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Simon said, but his voice was tinny and hollow, lacking all conviction.
‘Doesn’t matter much what you believe now, does it? If you’d had the wit to contact us properly all this trouble would have been avoided. Still, Marcus does have a reputation for being rather plausible, so it’s not altogether surprising he fooled you. Ah – here he is. What happened to you, Thomson? You’re late.’
‘Sorry, sir; got a bit lost.’
‘Really, Thomson. All right. Here’s one for your charge. I don’t think he’s going to cause you any grief. Are you, lad?’
‘No.’ Simon’s voice was barely audible.
‘No. Any sign of the searchlights, Thomson?’
‘On their way, sir.’
‘All right, off you go.’
Two sets of footsteps departed. One set remained, pacing around the lobby. As if in a dream, Emily heard the crackle of the radio and the man speaking into it. She was visualizing Simon being led downstairs, visualizing the look on his face. She imagined what he would be thinking. And as she did so, the words of the policeman were battering against her skull. Skidded on the ice; knocked his face quite badly . . . For a few moments, facts that had seemed incontrovertible began to slide into doubt and suspicion. She and Simon had taken Marcus’s account on trust. Had he—?
No. Emily thrust the doubts away. Of course the father would come up with a story like that, of course he’d invent a cock-and-bull version to fool the police. And being fools they’d fallen for it, unquestioningly. It was hopeless attempting to convince them. Marcus had been right to run. All she could do now was try to escape and hope Marcus did too.
A new set of boots passed the kitchen. Instinctively, Emily wormed her way back a little.
‘No luck, Hatchard?’
‘Afraid not, sir. No more up the chimney. We’ve looked in every corner we can. I’m pretty sure the ground and first floors are clear, although the weather hasn’t helped us.’
‘OK. I want all the rooms on the second floor checked. There’s only a couple you can officially get into, but there are these others, look, which they might have got access to. Along a ledge or through someduff bars. These ones for instance.’ Emily could hear paper being folded.
‘They look pretty inaccessible.’
‘The whole bloody castle’s meant to be inaccessible, Hatchard. You’ll find them both together, I expect.’
‘Just two of them, sir?’
‘There’s no evidence of any others, no matter what PC Jones says. Just two.’
The voices moved off and Emily heard them no more. Immediately, to quell the confusion in her head, she began counting steadily under her breath. It was too dark now to see the time, so she counted the seconds off, one by one, in groups of sixty. When she had done this fifteen times she would make her break for it, come what may. Fifteen minutes would give the searchers ample time to get stuck in on the upper floors. And it would then be fully dark.
For the first five of her sixty-second counts there was a great deal of movement close by, especially in the entrance lobby. Heavy equipment, presumably searchlights, was being brought in; orders were given; people moved up and down the spiral stairs and in ones and twos set off towards the other towers. Several times, torches hoovered up the darkness nearby, but no one double-checked the kitchen.
For the second five minutes all was much quieter. Emily crouched in readiness like an animal in its lair. As she counted down through the last five, she began to shiver with fear and expectation. Three minutes to go . . . Doubts assailed her. Why bother trying? It was hopeless. She would never make it. It was a thousand to one against.
Two minutes to go . . . No – be strong. It would take no time at all to get to the entrance hole and uncoil the rope. No time at all. Then she would be down and off over the snow, like Simon had said.
One minute to go . . . She imagined Simon being led away. . . Leaving only her and Marcus. Marcus. . . She saw his battered face before her. He’d said . . .
Time’s up.
She did not allow herself to hesitate – she knew that if she did so she would never go at all. Taking a deep breath, she ducked her head and shoulders through the narrow opening. A quick look towards the entrance lobby, the most dangerous place in the castle, and then the rest of her followed, wriggling like a worm, until – heart hammering, breathing heavily – she crouched freely in the darkness of the kitchen.
Without a pause she tiptoed towards the arch that led to the lobby. On her left a few desultory snowflakes dribbled in through the door to the hall. Night had fallen now and had it not been for a powerful searchlight in operation somewhere above, Emily would have been unable to see her hand in front of her face. The reflected light showed dimly on the opposite sides of the hall. The great fireplace was a black crescent midway up the wall.
Emily looked along the walkway. The route to the next tower was clear. So far, so good. She pulled her hood over her head, then – crouching as low as possible and hugging the wall furthest away from the open arches – she set off down the walkway as softly as a ghost.
She remembered Marcus’s ice-trap only as her foot slipped away from under her. The next instant she was hitting the floor, unable to suppress a gasp of agony—
—which must have echoed round the entire keep. For a second she lay panting on the floor, waiting for the light to sweep down and hit her.
Then, frantically, she tried to r
ise, slipping repeatedly on the ice.
Bloody Marcus . . . It’s all his fault. Everything.
She was upright again. OK. Step over the ice, back on firm ground . . . So far so good . . .
A great cry echoed through the castle.
‘There!’
Emily ran for her life.
‘Lights, bring the lights!’
Commotion erupted all around the keep, people calling, boots running, lights swirling like sparklers past windows and arches. A great yellow beam swung across the open hall. Unseen crows burst from their nests and flew croaking into the black sky. And amongst it all Emily reached the corner tower, passed through it like the wind and was on the other walkway, approaching the ruined stretch of wall.
The searchlight appeared to have lost her; she reached the entrance hole in darkness. Right – the rope, where was the rope? Her fumbling fingers stubbed themselves repeatedly across the railings and the snowy ledge. She had so little time – in a moment they would be on her . . . There! She had it, sodden, coiled, caked with snow. Still tied to the rail. Exerting all her strength, Emily picked up the rope and hurled it out into space. The slap it made as it hit the wall below was almost drowned by another wave of shouts behind her.
Sobbing with fear, Emily scrambled onto the ledge, grasped the rope and slipped under the rail, ready to make the descent. And still they didn’t show up, no lights, no policemen, nothing.
She was going to make it; she was going to get out.
Then, as she stood on the lip of the wall, ready to lower herself into the safety of the darkness, she saw why they hadn’t come.
She took it all in at a glance. Through the arch opposite, across the shadowy expanse of the great hall, she could see the tallest of the towers, two full storeys above her. The top of the tower was spotlit by many lights and a crowd of people stood upon it. They were all staring in one direction, at a point a little way along the dilapidated battlements that extended out from the side of the tower. They could not get onto the battlements from the tower itself without crossing a high guard-rail; and they could not cross the guard-rail for fear of alarming the thin figure who stood, bathed in searchlights, on an outcrop of crumbling stone. He was gesticulating wildly. The crowd on the tower had fallen very silent.
Emily could guess what Marcus was saying from the way he kept pointing off into the darkness beyond the wall. It was a precarious position; the stone on which he stood was right at the end of the existing battlements. Behind him the lights illuminated a few broken stumps, but most of the wall had crumbled to the level of the next storey down. A black hole marked where the ceiling of the room below had fallen away.
Marcus was cornered. He could not go anywhere. Alive, that is.
He was threatening to jump.
At this thought a great anger filled Emily, directed at Marcus’s stubbornness, his wilful stupidity. Go ahead then, jump! See if she cared. If he didn’t want to work things out sensibly, if he wanted to go on following his hare-brained schemes instead of confronting his trouble head on, then let him fall! She was going home for a bath and a meal. She might as well smell good when the police came calling.
Marcus had got himself into this mess. If it hadn’t been for him they would never have thought to enter the keep in the first place and she, Emily, would never have had the notion of spending the night inside. It was all his fault! They would never have been surrounded by dozens of police, as well as goodness knows how many firemen, social workers and other hangers-on. There was probably a reporter outside the entrance right now. If it had not been for Marcus the worst that might have happened to Emily was Harris collaring her for sledging. How mild that would have been!
Without Marcus nothing would have happened. But it was his father’s brutality that made him act this way, whatever that stupid policeman said. Skidded on the ice – how lame was that? Marcus had been forced to run – and now, inevitably, he had been caught. He was more cornered than ever, surrounded, besieged.
She took another look at the lone figure on the battlements. He was crouching now, probably weary, and with every strong gust of wind he swayed a little. The people in the tower were talking to him again – no doubt a mixed bag of promises, pleas and reassurances – and suddenly, in a moment of cold clarity, Emily realized that he would give in to none of them. He was cornered, helpless, but this did not mean he would surrender. There was simply too much pride in him.
He would not give up. He really would jump instead. He was that stupid.
Emily’s hands were sore from gripping the rope so tightly. She stood on the ledge, with escape a couple of minutes away. On the other side of the castle, Marcus sat on a small lump of stone, death on either side. They would never talk him down. They did not speak the right language. Marcus was besieged, immune to their reasonable tones, their careful promises of support. He would jump or fall.
Emily felt a rushing in her head. She could not leave him. She knew him better than they did. Numbly, hand over hand, she pulled herself forward across the ledge to the railing. Then she ducked under it and dropped back into the castle. Without bothering to hide herself she walked slowly back the way she had come.
When she was almost at the lobby a sudden noise alerted her to danger. Pressing into the shadows, she saw a crowd of people come spilling down the spiral staircase. Except for their footfalls, they were silent. They crossed the room and disappeared. For a moment Emily was nonplussed, but then she guessed the reason.
They’re clearing out, she thought. Trying to take the pressure off him.
When the exodus had finished, Emily continued on into the lobby. Muffled voices from above indicated that not everyone had gone – negotiations with Marcus were still taking place. She could distinguish his voice occasionally, louder and more strident than the low mumble of the negotiator. He didn’t seem to be calming down.
Emily climbed the spiral staircase for the final time, up to the room on the second floor, directly below the roof of the tower. It was a place she had not investigated properly before. Someone had left a large metal lamp leaning against the wall beside the stairwell. It carved the room in two, throwing a bright yellow light against the ceiling and opposite wall, while leaving the rest in shadow. There had once been four ways out of the room. Three were blocked with railings and bird netting, but the fourth arch, although pitch black, was open.
Marcus’s voice sounded clearly through this arch and Emily began to detect snatches of what he said: ‘. . . as I come out you’ll lock me up, I’m not a fool . . . I took possession and by rights it’s mine . . . when you broke in you got what was coming . . .’ He was speaking too fast, the words tumbling out all over each other. Emily hastened her pace, crossed the room and looked through the arch. Beyond was a narrow passage that had perhaps once led to a balcony running around the hall. For the first few metres it was dark and roofed, but after that the ceiling ended abruptly and the upper portions of the passage were flooded with light from above. Emily realized she was directly below the battlements on which Marcus stood.
She walked a little distance along the passage until she stepped into the open air. Thick snow crunched under her feet. The harsh white light picked out the ruined walls on either side, lower now and fractured, ending in a mess of flint and ice. A little further on, the floor of the passage itself became unsafe and railings barred the way. The stonework beyond was smothered with grasses poking through the snow.
Emily turned round and looked up. Marcus was framed against the sky, like a gargoyle spotlit from the side. He was crouching awkwardly, hands gripping the rough stone of the battlement beside his feet. His hood was hanging torn and loose and his hair was matted and wild; a patch just over his temple was thick with something dark. He was gazing at the floor and much of his face was in shadow. Someone further off was talking to him – low, calming words – and with a jolt Emily realized that she had heard the voice before. It was a man, but it was not the police officer who spoke – it was Marcus’
s father.
‘. . . you don’t want to be here,’ the voice was saying. ‘None of us do. Come down and we’ll talk things over.’
‘Go away.’ Marcus’s voice was barely recognizable. ‘I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t want to see you. Keep back or I’ll do it! I will!’
‘If you come down, you won’t have to see me, I promise. I’ll keep well away – Just as long as I know you’re safe, I’ll be happy.’
In the darkness below, Emily gritted her teeth. The hypocrisy of the man was sickening! His wheedling sounded almost convincing; you’d almost believe he cared. But it would have no effect on Marcus now. She feared for him. Without raising her voice, so that she did not attract anyone else’s attention, she whispered urgently upwards.
‘Marcus!’
No good. He was turned away from her, he could not hear. She was too far down, invisible below. Emily considered the walls. The inner one was low, only a little above waist height, but ahead it rose sharply. It was about a metre wide; this thickness was all that separated her from a hideous two-storey plummet to the bottom of the hall. It was also caked with snow and ice.
In doubt, Emily checked on Marcus again. He was gently swaying, utterly worn out. She cursed – he would not be thinking straight. He was going to do it, she knew he was. Unless . . .
Clumsily she hoisted her leg onto the wall, then rolled herself bodily onto the stones. The deep snow wet her face and soaked instantly through her jeans. With great care she got on all fours, trying not to notice the black emptiness at her side, and began to inch her way up the steeply angling masonry.
Up in the light, the father was still spinning his lies.
‘How many times do I need to say sorry? I know I’ve been mad when you’ve gone off, but you worry me, that’s all. I don’t want anything to happen – ’
‘Yeah, right. You just want to lock me up; you restrict everything I do – ’
‘No I don’t! And even if I did, it works both ways, Marcus. You’ve hurt me too.’
A little way below, Emily made a face of disbelief. He was absolutely shameless! Flint ends were stabbing her palms and pricking her through her jeans with every shuffle forward. She could not go any faster – the rubble steepened here – but if she got a little higher she might make herself heard.