Ash Road by Ivan Southall Page A

was managing to stand up or how he had managed to walk more than fourteen miles. Fear and fright and dismay had pushed them past a sensible limit. What a nightmare the hours of darkness had been, hiding from passing traffic, dodging lights, sometimes running with their packs jolting and jarring and chafing at them. Their feet were like balls of fire. And their shoes had been in Harry’s pack all the time. Harry had bundled them up and stuffed them in his pack and hadn’t even known he had done it.
    Lorna brought the blanket and Harry took it from her. At that moment Pippa came round the side of the house.
    She met Graham’s eyes first. ‘He’s nice,’ she thought. But Graham didn’t notice Pippa for what she was or wasn’t; he saw her as just one more hazard to be overcome, one more person who might take news of what he had done to the authorities or to his parents, one more reason why he had to get away by himself. He didn’t want even Harry or Wallace. Much of what had happened was Harry’s fault, anyway. ‘We’re going to stick together,’ Harry had said, while they were still hiding not far from the fire. ‘We’ll make for the Pinkards’ straightaway. No one’s there. All we’ve got to do is find the place. Jerry said if we got there before he did to make ourselves at home. That’s good enough for me. It’s the perfect place to lie low.’
    Harry had meant it for the best, but it had been a mistake, for it had turned them into a recognizable and fugitive group of three. They should have separated and agreed to meet up again at the Pinkards’ in a couple of days. Graham was sure that guilt was stamped indelibly upon him. He was sure that the first keen eye, the first searching look would imply, ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ If the daughter of this sick man had not been so afraid for her father’s life she surely would have spotted it herself. Now there was this new girl, this keen-eyed, alert girl. Graham felt instantly that she was as sharp as a tack, but apparently she wasn’t, for her glance moved swiftly from him to Lorna and from Lorna to old man George. ‘Lorna,’ she cried, ‘what’s happened to him?’
    Lorna stared at her. ‘Where’d you come from? I’ve been ringing your number. Everybody’s number. I couldn’t get an answer anywhere.’
    â€˜Mum’s there,’ said Pippa, not fully understanding. ‘Dad’s there. Stevie, too, I think.’
    â€˜But no one answered. I rang and rang. Oh, Pippa, my dad’s awfully sick. I don’t know what I would have done if these boys hadn’t turned up. I thought your dad could drive him to hospital, but I couldn’t get an answer. They’re not home, Pippa. Honest, they’re not—’
    â€˜But they are—’
    â€˜I can’t get the Robinsons, I can’t get the Fire Station, I can’t get the doctor or a taxi or an ambulance or anything. People just don’t answer. Where is everybody?’
    â€˜They must be there,’ insisted Pippa. ‘They’ve got all the packing to do. We haven’t even had breakfast yet. You must have dialled the wrong number.’
    â€˜But I didn’t.’
    â€˜Well let me try.’
    â€˜Try if you want to, but I’m telling you they’re not there.’
    The boys, prompted by a single thought, found themselves looking at one another, for the girl called Pippa followed the girl Lorna indoors. ‘Right!’ said Harry.
    As one, they scuttled round the side of the house and took a short cut across a garden bed towards the path. Then they saw Peter, and Peter saw them. They almost ran him down.
    They halted a couple of paces apart, Peter, startled, no longer even partly sure of himself, confronted by Wallace and Harry, each aghast, but apparently threatening in their attitude—boys that Peter knew instantly and