holly hedge, past the patio where George was smiling, where Martins was still looking pained. All the time the pounding feet of Crane behind him.
The second time round, Holt led.
The third time round, Holt led. The third time round hurt him, because he tried to increase his speed. Ten years since he had run competitively, school sports, and even then he hadn't cared for it. Stepping up the stride, trying to break Crane, trying to open the gap. Legs hurting, guts hurting, lungs hurting, and all the time the stamping tread of the man behind him, and the bastard carried 77 lbs weight on his back.
The fourth time round, Holt led. As though they were held together by elastic, when Holt lengthened his stride, Crane stayed with him. When Holt slowed then Crane stayed back. The fourth time round and Holt understood. He was a plaything.
The fifth time round, Holt led. His own breath coming in hurt surges, his legs leaden, his head rolling.
Crane was behind him, struggling more now, but in touch. No chance now of Holt running him out. Survival was the game. Survival was keeping going. Survival was pride. He could not win, he knew the bastard would take him on the last circuit. Jane's face was in his mind.
Jane's face back in his mind after being gone, absent, for days. .. Jane, darling, lovely Jane… Jane whose body he had known.. . Jane who was going to share his life… Jane who was watching him
… Jane who was now safe… He was screaming, 'Why did you have to stand in front of the old fool?' Couldn't hear his own voice. Could only hear the beat of Crane's feet, and the wheeze of his breath.
The sixth time round, Holt led. He led at first. He led past the summer house. He led past the beech tree.
He led past the rose beds, but Crane was at his shoulder.
He led past the rhododendrons, but Crane was beside him, only fractionally behind. He saw Crane's face. He knew he had lost when he turned his jerking head to see the composure of Crane's face. Past the holly hedge and he was following Crane home. His legs were jelly. When he reached the patio, Crane was already unslinging the rucksack. He lay on the grass, beaten.
'Put those stones back where I found them,' Crane said. 'Then go take a shower.'
The dog was licking his face, large and gentle strokes of the dog's tongue. The patio was empty. Crane and Martins and the grinning George had left young Holt to his self pity, to his picture of his girl. He retched, he had nothing to lose. It was raining. At first he could not lift the rucksack. He crawled to the rockery, dragging the dead weight behind him with the dog nuzzling at his ears. He tipped the stones out of the rucksack onto the wild strawberry strands.
The dog followed him inside and he didn't care that the dog, with muddied feet, was not allowed in the house, didn't give a damn.
Holt stood at the door of the dining room.
Martins and Crane sat at a table at the far end of th room. Crane was wiping the perspiration from his neck with his napkin.
His voice was a stammer, the weakness of it betraye him.
'Why, Mr Crane? Why was that necessary?'
'So you get to understand my meaning of fitness.'
'What happens if I am not fit?'
'On the way in, you slow me down because I have to travel at your speed. On the way out if you are not fit, I ditch you. And if I ditch you, you're dead or you're captured. If you're captured you'll wish you were dead.'
Martins said, 'You're making a fool of yourself, Holt.'
'I'm not your son, Mister Martins. Don't talk to me as if I were your poor bloody son.'
'Watch your mouth, and remember that I was a field operative for the Service before you were born. I won't get another show like this, I'm going to make damn certain this one works. So get a grip on yourself. She was your girl, and you never heard me say it would be a picnic. And get that bloody dog out of here.'
9
It was a miserable drive for Holt.
He was relegated to the front seat with George at the wheel and taciturn. Martins and Crane were in the back of the old Volvo, and behind them, separated by stout wire mesh, was the Rottweiler. George was disgruntled because Martins had told him that the state of the car was a disgrace and had refused to leave until the sides had been hosed down and the floor mats shaken out and the ashtrays emptied. Martins was deep in his papers and Crane slept beside him with the ease of a man who catches his rest where, whenever, he can find it.
George drove well – as though it was the only thing he was good at – and he concentrated on the road ahead.
Holt was on his own again.
But then for eleven days he had effectively been on his own, and he had given up the struggle to be party to the planning of the operation. He could cope. He was good at being alone, had been since childhood.
Childhood in a country general practitioner's home, with Mum doubling as receptionist/secretary and nurse, had dictated that there were long times during the school holidays when he was left to his own devices. Being alone was not being lonely, not in Holt's book. Being alone, being able to live in a personal capsule, was fine by Holt. Noah Crane was another loner, Holt thought; they should have had a rapport, except that Crane was too damned good at being alone to share even a common purpose. It had been good last night in the drawing room, after another awful Mrs Ferguson supper, when Martins had launched into a sermon about 'the long arm of vengeance' and 'the moral evil of terrorism', about 'those who have deeper convictions, stronger wills, greater determination, will surely triumph', about 'the satisfaction of going the other side of the hill to strike with a mailed fist'. High grade crap, and Crane had shown what he thought of it. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. They should have been friends, young Holt and old Noah Crane. That they were not friends was a pity, nothing more, and he'd get there, sooner or later, if it killed him.
He knew they were going to an army camp. He didn't know more because he hadn't been told, and by now he had stopped asking. For a change it was a crisp and clean morning, bright and fine. A good morning for a walk on the wilderness wildness of Exmoor, even a good morning for sitting next to George who spoke not a word and sucked peppermints. They went west across Salisbury Plain, past the ancient hulks of Stonehenge, across the great open spaces that were criss-crossed with lank tracks, past small stone villages with neat pubs and Norman churches. The first time in eleven days he had been away from the crumbling damp pile and the overgrown garden that was encircled by the ten foot high chain-link fence set along concrete posts. Thank God for it, being away. They came to the small, bustling town of Warminster and they followed the red painted signs towards the military camp.
They were checked at the gatehouse. They were saluted as they drove through. Holt didn't turn to see, but he fancied from the rustle of movement behind him that Martins would have given the sentry an imperial wave of acknowledgement. They pulled up outside a square red brick building.
They were escorted to an upper room that was filled with the warm smell of fresh coffee, all except George.
They were in the military world. Friendly handshakes, warm greetings. There was a long heavy box on the floor, half pushed under the table from which the coffee and biscuits were served.
The cups and saucers were back on the table. Three officers in smart pressed uniforms and polished boots, and Martins in a tweed suit, and Holt wearing his sports jacket, and Crane in the same trousers and the same poplin anorak that he had worn since he had arrived.
Ready for business.
'How many marksmen?'
'Just one,' Martins said. 'Mr Crane is the marksman.'
Holt thought the soldiers had assumed that he, Holt, was the marksman. Surprised, they stared at Crane.
Another day that Crane had not bothered to shave.
