Both meninstinctively made their way to the bulky cabinets in the centre of the roomand began to search indiscriminately among the files.
‘Where do Istart?’ Guy whispered.
Morton exhaled andlooked in awe at the room; he had no idea where he should start. ‘I don’t know, just look for anything we can hold against them. Oranything to do with the Coldricks or the war.’
East SussexArchives had a great number of obvious downsides but at least they had a decentsystem of cataloguing that made some semblance of sense to the public. Here the system only had to make sense to one person – the archivist.
‘Do you knowthe archivist at all?’ Morton asked.
‘There isn’tone; it’s just another job for the secretary,’ Guy answered, pushing closedanother drawer. ‘That’s that cabinet done. What now?’
‘We’ve just gotto keep searching,’ Morton instructed, as a pang of despair crept into hishead.
Pushing shut aheavy drawer containing land purchases in the eighteenth century, Morton took adeep breath and looked around the room. Time was running out. There had to be some kind of logic to the material gathered here. Hiseyes moved slowly and systematically around the shelves, trying to piecetogether some kind of order from the haphazard assortment of documents. In his peripheral vision, Morton spotted something of interest. Turningto a stack of nondescript folders at the bottom of a nearby shelving unit, hehad just selected a red box file when he heard a low unnatural thud behindhim. He turned. Any doubts that Morton had about Guy’s allegianceswere dispelled; he was lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, possiblyunconscious, possibly dead. Morton’s nemesis, Daniel Dunk stood like ademented Bond villain over the body.
For someone whofelt so inadequate in so many ways, it surprised Morton greatly to discoverthat his fight or flight reaction was actually to fight. Without thinkingabout it – because if he had thought about it he would very likely havereconsidered – Morton picked up a bronze bust statue of Sir Winston Churchillthat stood proudly on a lectern nearby and threw it at Daniel Dunk. SirWinston seemed to cut through the air in slow motion – at least it was slow incomparison with the raft of thoughts firing through his brain. What ifSir Winston struck Dunk on the head and killed him? There wascertainly no pleading self-defence. Then again, there were always storiesthat incited outrage where the burglar got knocked out by a defiant home-ownerand the home-owner was the one locked up while the burglar walked off scot-freewith compensation. He was that burglar.
Morton wasactually slightly relieved, and not at all surprised, that Sir Winston fellshort of his target, crashing down at Dunk’s feet. Not even close enoughto bruise his big toe but at least it showed Dunk that he was a force to bereckoned with. Well, sort of. The only damage he managed to inflictwas on poor Sir Winston, whose nose had been severed from his face.
Dunk emitted aprimeval grunt as he lunged across the cabinet that separated them, his handsaimed at Morton’s throat.
Morton againsurprised himself by instinctively punching Daniel Dunk in the face. Notonly had he punched him but he had punched him hard, sending Dunk to thefloor. He had, quite literally, floored someone. Amazing. Thelast fight that he’d had was with Jonathan Stainer in the third year at primaryschool. And he’d lost.
Without missinga beat, Morton sent his right foot into Dunk’s ribcage, wincing when he heardwhat sounded like the cracking of bones. It was enough; Dunk was down andout of action, so Morton grabbed the rucksack and the box file and ran from theroom. He didn’t know what to do about Guy but, whether dead orunconscious, he was still left with the problem of a large immoveableAustralian. He dialled Juliette; it was time for phase two of the plan.
As Morton ranback in the direction that they had entered the house he could hear some kindof commotion going on nearby, the sound of men running towards him. Hehurried down the narrow passageways and reached the large oak door that led tothe outside world. He yanked on the handle but it was locked.
The angry shoutsof several men were drawing closer; they had entered the passageway and wouldappear within seconds.
Morton’s fightor flight reaction was now severely leaning towards the latter.
He tried thedoor again but it was locked fast. Then he spotted the small green buttonbeside the door. He pressed it and the heavy clunking mechanism releasedthe door.
He ran out intothe cold darkness of the shingle car park. As he turned to run behind thehouse, he caught a glimpse of blue flashing lights. Then the sirensstarted, echoing violently around him, hurtling towards the house. Apolice car and a police riot van – both heading this way. Good oldJuliette. It was hopefully enough to clot the flow of enraged securityguards who would now stop at nothing to hunt him down.
Morton didn’thang around to find out if the plan had worked or not, he kept on running untilhe reached the woods that he hoped led past the shooting box. From therehe could make his way back to the village and the sanctity of his car.
By the time hereached the shooting box, Morton was sweating and suffering tachycardia. He needed to stop just for a moment to catch his breath. He leant upagainst the abandoned building and tried to regulate his breathing. Helooked out into the dense woodland but could see nothing - it was like staringdown a bottomless well with squinted eyes. He hoped that if he were beingchased, his assailants would make enough noise for him to know that they werefollowing.
It was time tomove on, to get out of Sedlescombe once and for all. Morton ran over tothe point in the fence that he had entered by previously but found it had beenrepaired. He was fully prepared for this eventuality and pulled out thewire-cutters from the rucksack. He hoped that this would be the last timehe would have to sabotage the Charingsby
