Black Feathers

24

Too late, Gordon tried to use his father’s knife; too late because the Wardsman had seen him coming long before Gordon knew he was there. The grey-coat sidestepped. Gordon, whose breathless flight had in its final moment become a charge, stabbed without aiming. His knife hand was left in the Wardsman’s influence as the rest of his body left the ground. He landed on his back on the rammed soil of the tunnel floor, all the breath driven from his body. The Wardsman stood over him, cleaning the blade on a grey handkerchief. Gordon scrambled away from the man and came up with his back against the tunnel wall. The Wardsman followed, glancing out of the tunnel’s mouth for a moment.

Gordon knew he hadn’t the strength to run again without being caught. Not yet. He needed a few more moments to recover. As the Wardsman approached, the blade of his father’s knife catching the light from outside, Gordon felt the end of his life come into reach.

All this, and for what? They’ve taken my family and I haven’t even lived yet. There’s meant to be more than this. So much more.

The Wardsman knelt down in front of Gordon. He folded the blade into its handle and held it out. Even in the tunnel’s half light Gordon could see the man’s hand was trembling.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Gordon. Don’t be afraid.”

Gordon looked into the man’s face. He saw not the cold eyes of a Wardsman, but the eyes of a beaten man; a gentle man who had done things he would always regret, things he had done in order to survive.

“Take the knife,” the man said. “You’ll need it.”

Gordon searched his eyes for treachery but the Wardsman could not hold his gaze. The knife remained proffered and so Gordon took it, all the time expecting cruel recrimination. None came. The man only looked up again when Gordon had put the knife in his coat pocket.

“There’s very little time. You must listen to me and then you must run. You must keep running and you must never let them take you. Do you understand?”

With what little wind had returned to his lungs, Gordon asked:

“Who are you?”

The man, less and less a Wardsman as the moments passed, seemed close to tears.

“I wish we had the time to sit and talk, Gordon, I really do. But if I give you my name and the Ward catch you, then they will know my name soon enough. We have to keep it like this.” He touched Gordon’s hand. “Whatever happens, I will cherish this moment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No. I’m sorry. Of course you don’t.” The Wardsman reached into his raincoat pocket and drew out some folded sheets of paper. The paper was wrinkled and battered but the Wardsman treated it as if it was a sacred artefact. He handed it to Gordon. “Letters from your parents. They’ll help you to understand.”

“You’ve seen them? Are they all right?”

The man looked away again, flint and iron rising in his eyes.

“They’re fine. They send you their love.”

“What about Judith and Angela?”

“There’s no time, Gordon. Get up.”

“Tell me about my sisters.”

The Wardsman backed away and looked outside.

“Please get up. There are only minutes left, at best.”

Gordon struggled to stand, his legs sore and fatigued.

“Just tell me if they’re OK.”

The man’s eyes met his again. They were Wardsman’s eyes now, hard and sharp with cruelty behind them.

“I haven’t seen them.”

The Wardsman grabbed his shoulder and hauled him deeper into the tunnel.

“Pike’s coming,” he whispered. “It’s time for you to go. I’ve left you some things by your camping gear. Be sure to use them and be sure to read the book. Go into the tunnel as far as you can – it’s a few miles long. You’ll reach a pile of rubble eventually. You’ll be able to dig through. Seal it up behind you and you’ll be safe on the other side. I’ll stop them from searching in here for as long as I can.”

Gordon turned to go.

“Wait,” said the Wardsman. “There’s one more thing. Remember you can trust the Green Men.”

“What? Trust the who?”

“Just don’t forget what I’ve told you.” The Wardsman’s eyes softened for a moment. He held out his hand. “It’s been my honour to meet you, Gordon Black.”

Gordon left the hand unmet. The Wardsman nodded, not showing any wound.

“Go,” said the greycoat. “And do us all a favour. Stay alive.”

Gordon heard the limping machinery of Mordaunt Pike approaching, loud and surprisingly fast, his breath like steam and pistons. It was that which made him turn and run into the tunnel. He ran softly, touching the wall for guidance. Behind him he heard Pike reach the tunnel’s entrance.

His voice was a growl.

“Where’s the boy?”

“I haven’t seen him yet, sir.”

“He came this way. I saw him.”

The Wardsman played it well. Gordon found himself grinning.

“If you had him in sight all the way, I would have seen him, sir. He’d have come right to me.”

There was a pause.

“He was in sight when I left the house. I saw him come onto the bridleway. There’s nowhere else he could have gone.”

Gordon could feel Pike’s eyes roving deep into the darkness like searchlights. He was certain the sheriff could see him.

“With respect, sir, these hedges are full of breaches and animal runs on both sides. He’s only a puny runt and he could have squeezed through any time he felt like it. I suggest we send men into the fields as soon as possible, or we may lose him.”

Pike’s ranting breaths echoed into the tunnel behind Gordon as he ran deeper into the dark.

“What about in there, Knowles? It’s the perfect hiding place.”

“It’s perfect for us, sir – the tunnel’s a dead end. We checked the Ordnance Survey maps before we came out. If he tries to hide in there, we’ve got him.”

Pike’s fire was going out by the sound of it. And with its dampening, some reason was returning. His voice was suddenly distant – he must have turned to look back from where he’d come.

“Damn him. He’s away across the blasted fields, isn’t he? Parker’s in the car at the house. Tell him to get into the fields on that side and you take this side. And call in for more men.”

“Sir?”

“What is it, Knowles?”

“You’re bleeding. Shall I call for medics?”

“I’ve already phoned it in. They’ll be here by now. Sheriff Skelton’s need is somewhat greater than mine.”

That was the last Gordon heard of the conversation, but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t trust Knowles not to turn him in. Couldn’t it be that Knowles was merely setting a trap? All Gordon could do was get as far away as possible, and the tunnel was his only route. When he was sure that the torch could not be seen from the tunnel mouth, he switched it on.

Much farther along than he remembered leaving it, he came to his pile of equipment. Beside it was a small backpack, nowhere near the size of the rucksack he’d had to leave behind, but it would do. He crouched and opened the pack carefully, all the while expecting something bad to happen. It contained food, another torch with a spare battery, a book similar to his own notebooks, a jumper and a scarf. Strangest of all, his collection of feathers had been returned. Minus their shoebox now, they were bundled with string and wrapped in a piece of cloth. He repacked everything as best he could and shouldered the pack. He carried his tent separately and used the new torch to save the batteries in his own. Even shining the beam right into the centre of the tunnel, there was no end to it. He set off as fast as he could, wanting only the comfort of knowing he could sit down and read the letter from his mum and dad in safety.

As the adrenal high of fear and flight receded, Gordon felt the weariness of a soldier after battle. He had fought an enemy greater than himself in both strength and number, he had inflicted damage in the skirmish and he had escaped with his life. For now he was at liberty, though it wasn’t the most princely of freedoms to walk through a tunnel as long and dark as a mine shaft. Nor did this freedom afford him any real choice about where he went; stop, turn back or go forwards wasn’t a sparkling variety of options.

The torch was a luxury. He used his fingers and the wall of the tunnel for guidance to preserve the batteries. His legs were heavy and his right arm hurt from gripping the lock knife so tightly during his escape. His back was bruised by Knowles’s throw and from lying on hard, uneven ground the night before. The worst pain was around the cut in his thigh. It pulsed, radiating heat and soreness with every step. The wound had reopened underneath the new bandage; he could tell from the dampness seeping into his trouser leg. He’d clean and re-dress it as soon as he found somewhere safe to stop.

Images of what the Ward might do to his family sprung in his mind, each scenario worse than the one before. And now that he’d tangled with Skelton and Pike – blinded Skelton in one eye, for sure, and cut Pike to the bone – there was no telling what they might do, purely to satisfy their ire. Gordon knew he could save them. If he gave himself to the Ward, they’d probably let his family go home. When they realised he wasn’t the person they were looking for, they’d let him go too – after some kind of punishment, no doubt. Maybe he’d even have to go to prison for a while, but when he’d completed his sentence, he could go home and he would always know that he’d done the right thing. It was his chance to make everything right.

Yes.

This was the way to do it.

Even though he’d made the decision in his head, his legs kept walking him farther into the darkness.

“Come on,” he said out loud. “You’ve got to go back and give yourself up.”

Still, he walked on.

“Stop!” he shouted.

And then he was still.

The command echoed back and forth, disappearing away from him.

“I’ve got to go back,” he whispered, but he couldn’t move. Tears welled. How could he be so useless? Even now, knowing the right thing to do beyond any doubt, he still couldn’t act on his conviction. His body aching, his brain no longer able to think clearly, he dropped to the tunnel floor and sat there, blind and exhausted in the darkness. The air smelled of mould and damp and broken open soil. It was thick and cold and hard to breathe. He shrugged the pack off and let it drop beside him.

Why is this happening to me? What have I done wrong?

There was no answer.

Suddenly, all Gordon wanted was his mum and dad. He didn’t care about the future, didn’t care about escaping or saving batteries or anything else. He just wanted them. And he had them, at least a small part of their thoughts, on those pieces of paper from Knowles. He pulled the sheaves from his backpack and switched on his torch.

The pages were crumpled and the writing had been hasty by the look of the scrawl. Still, he could recognise his mother’s and his father’s hand in the script and that alone was enough to bring a small smile to his teary face. Two letters: one from Mum and one from Dad. There was nothing from Judith and that brought fresh tears. How he’d have loved to read just a few words from her right now.

Needing his mother’s comfort most, he read her message first.