‘Our camels,’ Bastian shouted suddenly.
‘We’re not going back,’ said Nabulus. ‘I’ll tell the University to collect them in the morning, or what’s left of them.’
Many of those in a rush come unstuck and so it was with poor Holroyd and with the back wheels caught in quicksand, the waggon was abandoned as they continued on foot.
They stopped by the river to rest, the moon reflected on the surface.
‘When are you leaving us, Holroyd?’ groaned Nabulus.
‘Next month, Sir, I finally found a position in Scotland.’
‘You should have told me, I would have gone easier on you.’
‘Guard, help locate my pistol, it fell from this tree branch into those bushes,’ said Holroyd pointing into the undergrowth.
The guard looked at Nabulus, ‘Oh, go on, what harm can it do?’ his boss told him.
Yet it did serious harm when he stepped onto the illegal fur trap, the spikes snapping shut on his ankle. Nabulus and Holroyd ran to his side as he screamed for help. Between them they pried the trap open with a little help from Nabulus’s rifle, and Holroyd soon covered the bleeding wound with a strip of cloth ripped from his shirt.
They helped the guard stumble and hop to join the prisoners but only saw the crocs jump into the river after them.
‘Where’d they go?’ asked Nabulus.
From the other side of the bank, Bastian and Jambit saw Nabulus kick the side of the tree before they disappeared into the jungle as wanted men.
* * *
Bastian and Jambit were standing in the treehouse Holroyd had built and hoped he’d shown no one else its location deep in the jungle, high in the canopy. Wire nets were fastened across the windows to stop any monkeys moving in. They collapsed on the floor unaware of the huntsman spider watching them.
In the morning, after the sunlight had dappled and filtered through the leaves, Bastian could see the village auditorium through the fixed telescope, and the cleaners sweeping the seats before the morning performance. It still felt good to be alive and he wondered how his parents were coping. No matter how good the care, it was impossible to ignore that Scotland was your final destination. But what were they doing, holding hands, reminiscing, laughing and playing with the others, or looking out to sea?
Bastian froze as he heard two or three villagers beneath him on the warpath and he saw the glint of a pitchfork through the branches. Further back Nabulus was searching the river hoping the crocs had left some evidence of a midnight feast.
The village was on high alert with the runaways threatening the people’s way of life. Bastian waited a good ten minutes before breathing a sigh of relief and poking his fingers through the net, trapped like the village rainbow lorikeets kept as pets, which uniquely was frowned upon by the STP but not a points offence.
Bastian was knelt on the floor in prayer as someone climbed the rope ladder to the treehouse. He still had his feet and fists but didn’t want to anger a posse given a licence to kill.
‘Don’t worry it’s only me,’ said Holroyd, as his head pushed up through the hole in the floor. ‘I hoped you’d remember this place.’
Bastian helped drag him inside. Holroyd looked a mess with his split lip and he was covered in a thick layer of sweat from running or fear.
‘What happened?’ Bastian asked.
‘Nabulus flew into a rage and nearly killed me, blamed me for your escape.’
‘And why should we believe you?’ asked Jambit of the man who only yesterday was taking them to the cells.
‘This might help,’ he said lifting up the back of his shirt. ‘Go on unroll the bandage.’
His back was covered in lashes, thick red stripes from a whip.
‘Nabulus whipped me senseless before fetching the MHCA.’
‘You going to report him?’ asked Jambit, fastening back the bandages.
‘And let the Party play cat and mouse with my life, no thanks. I’m leaving the village soon and these marks give me every reason to empty my desk ahead of time. Nabulus won’t risk complaining.’
‘So, have you come to say goodbye?’ asked Bastian.
‘It was foolish of you to have investigated FA892,’ said Holroyd, as he glanced at Jambit.
‘I’ve forgiven him,’ said Jambit.
‘Holroyd, what’s the secret of FA892?’ asked Bastian.
‘That those in power create an illusion of the real world and you will only see what they wish.’
‘Right now, I could do with an illusion,’ said Bastian.
‘The future might look pretty grim at the moment,’ began Holroyd.
‘You mean we still got one,’ said Jambit.
‘I came to offer you a way out.’
‘I ain’t taking snake poison,’ said Bastian.
‘Me neither,’ said Jambit.
Although they had both considered taking an overdose from the opium packets littered around them.
‘Escape to Norway,’ said Holroyd.
‘On the clouds,’ scoffed Jambit.
‘In a way, on the supply airships that leave from Scotland.’
Jambit laughed.
‘Hear him out,’ said Bastian.
‘My girlfriend is incarcerated at Angole,’ said Holroyd.
‘The penal station?’ asked Jambit.
Bastian already knew as much but hadn’t told Jambit.
‘The very same,’ sighed Holroyd.
There were village songs about Angole, its harsh conditions and the bloodthirsty rogues that ran it, encouraged by the Party to keep the citizens grateful for their lot. It was a cruel inhospitable hell trapped between the desert and a rainforest.
‘These last two years we have been planning her escape, but it has proved impossible. I need help, and it would appear so do you,’ said Holroyd.
‘What do we do?’ asked Bastian.
‘Follow my instructions carefully, make contact and bust her out, she knows the rest.’
‘Her name?’ asked Jambit.
‘Wildflower. A taskmaster will help you on the way.’
‘No one has ever escaped from Angole,’ said Bastian.
‘And no prisoner has ever had a hot air balloon. I worked in the surveyor’s department in London at the Ministry of Cooperation. There’s a site in the nearby town that moors such a craft.’
‘And what makes you think it’s still there?’ asked Jambit.
‘A letter from the last owner, but it was never reclaimed.’
‘What about May?’ Bastian asked.
‘Agrinda has offered her a place at the University
