Part 16 (1/2)

It would take them no more than thirty seconds to land, get out, and come and get him.

He kicked open the door and ran for the line of trees a hundred feet away. Some part of his hyperactive brain was waiting for the bullets. They never came.

He didn't look back as he reached the trees. There was no shouting, just the sound of running feet, the whine of the helicopter's engines as they slowed down.

He sprinted at random through the forest. The mist was still heavy on the ground. It wrapped itself around him, obscuring logs and rocks. He barked his s.h.i.+ns, tripped, got up and kept running. It was deadly quiet.

There was a fallen tree, its leaves hanging down, heavy with moisture. He got on his hands and knees and crawled under it, turning instinctively to face back the way he'd come, flattening himself against the frozen ground.

He couldn't stop shaking. But it was the cold. The fear hadn't hit him yet, not in any way he could process. He pushed his head down against his arms and listened as the soldiers came through the forest towards him.

They had slowed down, which meant they'd lost sight of him and were trying to work out which way to go. Possibly they'd realized he'd hidden. By the sound of it, there were only two or three of them, crunching about in their heavy boots.

There was nothing for it but to lie very still and hope they didn't see him. Fear not, Ranger! he told himself.

The walking sounds came closer. He caught a glimpse of one of them, a big uniformed man. British Army. s.h.i.+t. If this was just because of Greenham, he was going to strangle Ms Randrianasolo.

They walked around him and past him, deeper into the forest.

He waited ten minutes, counting the seconds in his head, and dying for a cigarette.

It was absolutely still. He was still shaking inside his anorak, wis.h.i.+ng to G.o.d he'd worn something warmer.

It had always been summer when he and his role-playing friends had headed out into the park to play war games, 'shooting' one another by calling out one another's name.

The aim of the game was to get back to the base without being seen.

Once, he'd hidden between a couple of bushes, wriggling into the leaves with his eyes closed to avoid a poke in the pupil. Instead of running around looking for people, he'd let them come to him, saying their names very quietly as they walked past his invisible hidey-hole.

In the end he'd 'shot' four of the other players. They'd all gone grumbling back to Morgue Rock to wait out the rest of the game.

After twenty minutes, he'd become bored waiting for the fifth player to stumble past. With only one other player still in the woods, it'd be easy to slip back to base without being seen.

And then he'd stood up.

And player number five, who'd been standing right behind him for ten minutes, said, 'Joel.'

There was a hard bulge in one of his anorak pockets, sticking into his ribs. He slid his hand carefully down and pulled out the communicator.

He could get up and run, but he was between the soldiers and their helicopter. He could wait for them to come back, on their way back to the chopper, but they might find him - or radio for more soldiers to help in the search.

There was only one thing for it. Slowly and carefully, he brought the communicator up to his frozen face, and hoped to G.o.d that player number five wasn't standing right behind him.

12 Interrogation Blues

'Come along, granddad,' said the Caxtarid.

He half-dragged the small man across the landing. Indigo gave an embarra.s.sed smile to a couple heading for the stairs. They sniffed and pushed past the two young men and their inebriated grandfather.

Indigo unlocked the narrow wooden door. Roze pulled the small man up, then walked forward, pus.h.i.+ng him through the door into their room. With a sigh of relief, Roze dropped him face first onto the bed.

'He's not that heavy,' said Indigo, locking the door.

'Yeah, but he's a dead weight.'

Indigo reached down and rolled the little man over. 'I don't see what all the fuss is about,' he said, looking down at their prisoner.

Roze sat on the bed. The embroidered cover was a strange texture under his fingers. No stranger than anything else here, he thought, s.h.i.+vering in the thin, cold air. He rubbed his eyes. The little man blinked up at them, sleepily.

'Caxtarids,' he murmured.

Roze started back. 'How'd he know that?'

'He knows a lot of things,' said Indigo. He reached down beside the bed and picked up his rucksack.

'I've got to get these contact lenses out,' said Roze, as Indigo rummaged in the bag for his tape recorder. He wandered into the tiny bathroom, with its smell of lavender and mould. 'Can you hang on a minute?'

'We need to get on with it before he wakes up,' said Indigo. He blew into the microphone, puffs from his cheeks, watching the sound levels. 'Okay,' he said, sliding up next to their captive. 'What's your name?'

Dreamily, the Doctor told him.

Roze called out, 'Must be hard getting that on the front of an envelope.' He plucked out the second contact lens, trying not to flinch, and slipped it into its little wet container.

'Very funny,' Indigo was saying. 'And what's today's date?'

'The eleventh of December, nineteen eighty-three.'

Roze tilted his head, looking at himself in the mirror.

Were his roots starting to show? Indigo might be able to get away with his metallic red hair, but two people with the same dye job... it was a shame about the contacts. The sparkling red and gold of his irises looked good with the black hair.

'How many fingers am I holding up?'

'Three.'

'All right. Looks as though it's working.' Indigo glanced up as Roze came back out of the bathroom. 'If we have to leave in a hurry, you're in trouble.'

Roze felt in his s.h.i.+rt pocket for a pair of sungla.s.ses, just in case. 'It's not like he's a big threat...' He sat down on the bed, and started emptying the man's pockets in case there was anything useful there.