The Camel Trail Page 12

  ‘You stay where I tell you to next time,’ Frankie said and threw him against the side of the car. ‘Get in.’

  Kevin turned and looked at Martin, who was still sitting on the wall with his head bowed. The sudden idea that Martin wasn’t breathing, that he was dead, shocked Kevin into movement. He circled the car and went to Martin’s side. Frankie was looking up the street.

  ‘Martin?’ He touched his arm. ‘Martin?’

  Weak and whispering, Martin said, ‘Did you get the doughnuts?’

  Frankie pulled into the busy car park in front of Clifton Down Shopping Centre in Bristol, spotted a public telephone, and ran the car up alongside it. ‘Don’t move a muscle. I’m keeping my eye on you.’

  He pulled the keys from the ignition and got out, locking the car and stepping into the booth. He dropped some money into the slot and dialled.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Shit, man, where are you?’

  Frankie told Robert to shut the hell up. ‘I need a favour. We’re heading away for a while but I’m running out of bread.’

  Robert was whispering. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Is anyone listening to you?’

  ‘No. Mum’s upstairs. She’s going out of her mind.’

  ‘She’s already out of her mind,’ Frankie said. ‘Has anyone tapped your phone?’

  ‘How would I know? What does a tap look like?’

  ‘Never mind. Look, I can’t tell you where; not yet. I’ll call you in a day or two. Can you get me some money?’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘Does Mum still have her old post office account?’

  ‘If she does, there’s piss all in it.’

  Frankie leaned on the glass wall of the booth and stared out at the boys in the back of the stolen car. Martin looked like he was asleep again. ‘Put some money in it. I’ll pick it up from a Post Office round here.’

  ‘How are you going to pick it up?’ Robert asked. ‘You look nothing like Mum.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Wait, what about Western Union?’

  ‘How does that work?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘I find a corner shop with a Western Union sign outside, give them some money and then you pick it up from a shop near you. You’ll need ID, though. Is that wise? Your face is all over the news.’

  ‘You’ll just have to meet me. Bring all the cash you can.’

  ‘Frankie, no way. I can’t leave Mum.’

  ‘You owe me,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I don’t owe you nothing.’

  Frankie stared back at the car. ‘Have you forgotten that little business with the redhead?’

  ‘That was years ago and you know I had no idea she was—’

  ‘Bald as a baby?’

  ‘Come on, she was fifteen. Could have happened to anyone.’

  ‘Happened to you, though, mate. And you owe me.’

  ‘Frankie, please. Don’t do this to me.’

  ‘One call, that’s all I have to make.’

  Robert was silent. After a moment, he said, ‘Where do I meet you?’

  Frankie replaced the handset on the phone after naming a location, pressed his forehead against the glass wall, and closed his eyes. They couldn’t avoid the cops forever. Sooner or later, someone would spot them and haul them in. He was never much of a man for regrets, but he’d never kidnapped anyone before, either. If the cops weren’t looking for them, if they had a diversion or something, maybe they’d get out of the country without being noticed.

  An idea struck him. He stepped out of the phone booth, came around the car, unlocked it and reached in to Martin. He shook him awake. ‘Time to make a phone call, son.’

  ‘I told you before,’ Martin said in a rasping whisper. ‘I’m not—’

  Frankie dragged him out of the car, stood him upright, supported against the car.

  ‘Stop it, Daddy,’ Kevin called.

  Frankie shut and locked the car again, leaving Kevin inside, and helped Martin into the phone booth. He dropped some more coins into the slot, handed the receiver to Martin, and said, ‘Call your parents.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do it.’ His grip on Martin’s arm tightened.

  Martin dialled and waited. Finally, face animated, Martin said, ‘Mum!’

  Frankie ripped the receiver from him and let go of his arm. Martin, unable to stand without assistance, slumped to the floor of the booth in tears. Into the handset, Frankie said the first thing that came to mind. ‘I’ve got your son.’

  The woman on the other end of the line spat a string of obscenities at him. ‘Give me back my son, you piece of shit! Give me back my boy or I’ll—’

  He didn’t let her finish. ‘Shut the fuck up, bitch. Listen to me. You go and get Sarah. You don’t call the cops or you’ll never see your kid again. Get Sarah. I want her standing in front of your phone in five minutes, you hear? Five minutes. I’ll call back.’

  He slammed the phone back on the hook, stepped over Martin to get out of the booth, and unlocked the car again. To Kevin, he said, ‘Pick your friend up and get him back in the car.’ He ran a hand over his face, scratched the stubble on his neck, and surveyed the car park outside the shopping centre. Cities were a good place to hide; it’s only in the backwater country villages that people actually look you in the face. Gaddafi could be walking through the streets of London or Bristol and no one would notice him. Bristol wasn’t the biggest city in England, but until he spoke to Sarah and Robert arrived with some money, it’d have to do.

  He watched Kevin struggling with the weight of Martin as he half walked, half dragged him back to the car. The wheelchair he had stolen would be a privilege not a right. For now, he’d let the boy suffer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sarah had settled on the couch beside Alan with a steaming mug of soup in her hands. He had become something of a rock for her, a crutch for her wresting emotions. After this morning’s talk with Tessa in the church, she had felt physically drained and psychologically wrung out. Too tired to sleep, to angry to cry, she had called Alan on his mobile. She had only wanted a quick chat, a friendly voice, but he insisted he come over.

  They were enjoying a comfortable silence, happy just to be in each other’s company, when someone pounded on the front door so hard the vibrations filtered through the floorboards.

  Sarah jumped to her feet, tomato soup sloshing over the rim of her mug. Alan followed her into the hallway and tenderly touched her shoulder as she cautiously opened the front door. ‘Tess—’

  ‘Sarah,’ Tessa said, her breathing hard and erratic. ‘Phone. Bloody Frankie. Says five minutes. No police.’

  Her stuttered words would have been barely comprehensible if Sarah’s mind hadn’t been ticking to the same incoherent pattern. She turned, handed the mug to Alan, then took it from him again and placed it on the telephone table. She took his hand and followed Tessa next door.

  Gathered round Tessa’s telephone in her front hall, half willing it to ring, half hoping it wouldn’t, Tessa relayed her conversation with Frankie as best she could remember it. ‘But,’ she said, ‘why did he phone me? Why not you?’

  Sarah shrugged and shook her head. Her heart was pounding and her breastbone was hurting. Her breath came in short sharp bursts and she soon felt her lips going numb, her head swimming. ‘Why the hell does Frankie do anything? It’s like a big game to him.’

  She checked her watch. More than five minutes had passed since Frankie made the call.

  ‘Maybe we should call the pol—’ Alan began.

  The phone interrupted him and everyone jumped. Both Sarah and Tessa reached for the phone.

  ‘Listen for background noises,’ Graeme said. ‘Anything to figure out where they are.’

  Another ring. Tessa pulled her hand back from the phone. ‘What if it’s not him?’

  Sarah clamped her upper lip between her teeth, picked up the phone, and said, ‘Hello?’

  S
ilence. Then: ‘Hi honey—guess who?’

  Sarah looked at the others, her eyes already filling with hot tears. ‘Frankie…’

  ‘Shut up. I don’t have long.’

  ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘Bring Kevin home. I just want him safe.’

  ‘He’s fine.’ Frankie’s voice was gritty as ever. ‘Why’d you run off and leave me, honey? Why’d you disappear with my boy without telling me where you were going?’

  ‘You beat me,’ she said.

  ‘That was the old me. You knew I’d changed.’

  ‘How could I know? You nearly killed me. They put you in prison.’

  ‘You put me in prison, bitch.’ The venom was unmasked. ‘You put me away. Why shouldn’t I see my boy?’

  ‘You can,’ she cried. ‘Just bring him back and we’ll talk it through. You can visit. All the time, I promise.’

  ‘No. You talk too much. Now you need to listen.’ In the silence as he paused, Sarah heard nothing in the background, only the whoosh-whoosh of her heartbeat in her ears. ‘You need to call off the cops,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police. I know they’re looking for me. Call them off. Tell them it was a mistake, tell them you forgot I was supposed to take the boys for the weekend, tell them anything.’

  ‘Why?’ Sarah’s voice cracked, turning the word into two syllables.

  ‘Ask no questions, tell no lies,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Where are you taking them?’

  ‘We’re going where the sun shines brightly,’ he sang. ‘We’re going where the sea—’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was ghostly but firm. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Why should I call the police off? Why should I stop them from hunting you down and killing you slowly?’

  Without hesitation, Frankie said, ‘Because I’ll kill the cripple if you don’t.’

  Sarah glanced at Tessa and Graeme. What? Tessa mouthed. Sarah looked at the wallpaper, avoiding all eye contact, and took a breath. ‘Let me speak to Kevin. If I know he’s all right, I’ll do what you want.’

  ‘You don’t trust me to look after my own son?’

  ‘No. If you’ve hurt him—’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘I want to speak to him.’

  She heard Frankie sigh, ever so slightly, then a rustle, his voice muffled by his hand on the receiver or the mouthpiece pressed to his chest. Then: ‘Mum?’

  She cried. ‘Oh, God, Kevin. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum.’ He sobbed. ‘I want to come home.’

  She could see nothing through her tears. ‘I want you home, too, honey.’

  ‘Martin’s getting weaker,’ Kevin said, and then Frankie was back on the line.

  ‘Call the cops off. I won’t ask you again.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Sarah screamed. ‘Put him back on! Give me back my son!’ Her legs buckled and Alan steadied her. The receiver shook violently in her hand.

  ‘Call the cops off,’ Frankie repeated, ‘or you’ll never see either of them again.’ The phone went dead.

  Sarah vomited on the carpet.

  ‘We have to tell the police,’ Graeme said.

  Alan looked up from his seat beside Sarah. ‘You heard what she said. If we tell the police—’

  ‘But they can trace the call. Check with the phone company to see where he was. Anything. We can’t just sit on this.’

  ‘Sarah?’ Alan said, his voice soft and comforting. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Sarah wiped her red and puffy eyes and pushed the tissue under the cuff of her sleeve. ‘I don’t know. I can’t think. We have to tell them. There’s nothing else we can do.’ She had chosen not to mention Frankie’s threat to Martin if she didn’t call off the manhunt. Instead, she made vague comments about never seeing the boys again, about Frankie making her life a living hell, which no doubt he would do if he remained at large. ‘If we don’t tell them to back off,’ she said, ‘he’ll get away, leave the country or something.’

  ‘But the stations and airports are on the lookout. He’ll never get passed them. He’ll be taken into custody immediately and you’ll get the boys back,’ Alan said.

  ‘Stop playing devil’s advocate,’ Graeme said. He was red in the face with rage. ‘We need to track him down now, before he leaves wherever the hell he is. Hunt him down and get Martin and Kevin back before he does God-knows what to them. He’s an evil bastard. Could be capable of anything.’

  ‘He could do “God-knows what to them” if he finds out the cops are on to him,’ Alan said. ‘We need to be careful.’

  ‘He won’t hurt them,’ Sarah lied. ‘Kevin said they’re doing fine.’ She groaned into her hands. ‘I don’t know what to do. Tessa?’

  Tessa shrugged her shoulders. Tears clung to her lashes like fat drops of dew, dried slowly on her cheeks. Her voice quavered. ‘I just want Martin back.’

  Sarah closed her eyes, her mind an emotional fug. Into her fingers she said, ‘Let’s call the police.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Sarah stood, looked at Alan, and nodded.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A cream-coloured Bentley wedding car, replete with white ribbon from bonnet to windscreen, conveyed a nervous-looking bride and her red-nosed father to some church or other—probably the one they passed two streets back—and Frankie whistled admiration. ‘What I’d give for a go in her.’

  Kevin wasn’t sure if he meant the car or the bride.

  They had left their stolen car behind, parked conspicuously in an inconspicuous alleyway between a row of terrace housing and a high wall that circled an austere school building. Frankie walked two paces behind the boys, keeping a constant watch on them, while Kevin pushed Martin in the stolen adult-sized wheelchair that made him look as though he’d drank from the same bottle as Alice and suddenly the world was too big for him. Phlegm rattled in Martin’s throat when he coughed and wheezed.

  ‘Turn right,’ Frankie said, and Kevin thought his dad didn’t have a clue where they were going. It was one direction after another, this way then that, and Bristol had become a blur of grey concrete and greyer rain clouds. At one point, as they looked left down a couple of streets, Kevin could just make out the lighter grey swirls of a river in the distance, but then the view was gone as they turned another corner.

  He stopped pushing Martin’s chair and arched his back, twisted his stiff neck, and flexed his arms.

  ‘Keep going,’ Frankie hissed.

  ‘Why’s everything uphill?’ Kevin asked Martin.

  ‘Just keep moving,’ Frankie said and nudged Kevin’s back.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Kevin pleaded. ‘I’m sore.’

  Frankie made a disapproving grunt and pushed Kevin to one side. ‘Give it here. You need some muscle on you, son. Come on.’ He pushed the chair with such a jolt that Martin shuffled in the too-big seat and slumped forward. Frankie grabbed his shoulder and pulled him upright, patted his head like he would a dog, and powered on, leaving Kevin trailing behind, his legs pistoning to keep up.

  At the next street corner, Frankie came to a halt and made the screeching sound of brakes, like a child with a toy car, as he pushed Martin’s chair alongside a low wall. He hovered at the doorway of a mini-market until Kevin caught up.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Frankie said. To Kevin, his father sounded tired.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ He turned, pushed the door of the shop, then turned back to the boys. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, and took the handles of Martin’s chair, ‘let’s all go in. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.’

  Inside, the warmth of the shop made Kevin’s fingers and cheeks tingle. Frankie parked the wheelchair by the magazine rack and said, ‘Stay here. I’ll be watching.’

  Kevin watched as Frankie walked across the shop and joined a small queue in front of the cashier. ‘Is he going to rob the shop?’

  Martin shrugged and coughed.

  Kevin crouched beside him and
whispered, ‘We have to get your medicine.’

  ‘How?’ Martin wheezed.

  ‘My Dad can take you to a doctor.’

  ‘He’s a wanted man,’ Martin reminded him.

  Kevin frowned. ‘I shouldn’t have stopped you from going when he told you to back in Wadebridge.’

  Martin didn’t look up at him. ‘Too late now,’ he said. ‘Anyway, who would you play I Spy with if I wasn’t here?’

  Frankie stepped up in front of the woman behind the cash desk as the last customer left. Kevin held his breath and waited for the fireworks, but Frankie was smiling as he spoke.

  ‘What do you think he’s saying?’

  ‘“Do you come here often?”‘ Martin whispered. ‘Maybe he wants to make babies.’

  ‘He’s going to rob her. I know it.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a gun or a knife.’

  ‘He could threaten her,’ Kevin said.

  They watched as Frankie reaching into his coat pocket and pulled out—a weapon?—his wallet. He withdrew a banknote and held it out the old Asian woman behind the counter when she passed him over a pack of cigarettes.

  Frankie glanced over his shoulder at the boys and Kevin quickly looked away. He scanned the shelves of magazines: celebrities losing weight; stars falling in and out of love with other stars; the miracle ‘preemie’ baby, whatever that meant; a newspaper headline that read boys kidnapped by convict dad.

  He made sure Frankie wasn’t looking their way, tore the newspaper from the stand and scanned the first paragraph. Cornwall, nine-year-olds, one boy disabled, man convicted of attempted murder—it was a story about them.

  ‘Lean forward,’ Kevin whispered.

  ‘What?’

  Kevin pushed the newspaper down between Martin and the seatback, took a step away and clenched his hands together behind his back. He could feel his cheeks burning, and the sudden urge to scream for help was overwhelming. He took a step forward but retreated again, nerves getting the better of him. He wasn’t sure he could speak even if he tried to.

  Frankie was oblivious, laughing and chatting casually with the woman behind the counter. Had she read the article? Did she recognise the man in front of her?