South by South East by Anthony Horowitz

he shot me now, it would only come as a relief.
    But Scarface had already gone. I was too giddy to get to my feet but as I lay there, exhausted, I saw the assassins running across the fields below. They must have assumed I’d jumped down and got away. Then the nasty thought struck me.
    Had they found Tim?
    It was another five minutes before I found the strength and the balance to get up. Even then the ladder down was a nightmare. I could still feel the motion of the sail inside my head and the ladder twisted away from me like a snake. It was ominously silent below. The only sound was the grinding of the massive stone as it turned in endless circles, crushing whatever got in the way into dust.
    There was no sign of Tim.
    Using my hands to keep myself upright, I staggered round the lower level. There were great sacks of flour to one side and, at the back, a loose heap of the stuff, stretching half-way up the wall. The platform above my head was empty. The door leading out was closed.
    “Tim!” I shouted. “Where are you?”
    Silence. I was starting to worry.
    “Tim! It’s all right! They’ve gone!”
    Then something moved. I turned round. The loose flour, piled two metres high against the wall, was shifting. It was like watching a miniature avalanche.
    A hand reached out, clawing at the air. The whole pile broke open and I was just able to make out a figure, fighting its way free. Flour was everywhere, billowing out into the air. Somehow Tim had managed to bury himself in it. Now he was free.
    He stood there, completely white from head to foot. Maybe Ugly
had
shot him and this was his ghost.
    “Hab day gob?” he asked.
    There was flour in his nose and mouth. He sneezed. Flour cascaded out of his hair and a little pink circle appeared around his nose and mouth.
    “Have they gone?” he tried again.
    “Yeah. Are you all right?”
    “I’m all white,” Tim mumbled. At least, that’s what it sounded like.
    “Let’s move.”
    We stalked out of the windmill, Tim leaving white footprints behind him. The sails were still turning slowly behind us.
    In the last twelve hours we’d been machine-gunned through a cornfield and stitched up by a vet. We’d found Charon’s headquarters and we’d come infuriatingly close to seeing Charon. We’d stolen Mr Waverly’s cheque and we’d almost been shot getting away with it.
    And now we were dead on our feet. We needed a bath and a long, long sleep. Because you had to admit – both of us had been through the mill.

STAGE FRIGHT
    Twenty-four hours later we found ourselves on the platform of Central Station in Amsterdam. We’d paid our bill at the Van Bates Motel and bought two tickets to England. That was the end of our money. And here we were at the end of the line.
    “I don’t get it,” Tim said. He’d managed to get rid of most of the flour but I noticed his hair was still a bit white at the sides. Maybe that was permanent. After the experiences of the last few days I wouldn’t have been surprised. “I thought we weren’t going back to England,” he went on.
    “We have to,” I explained. “We’ve got to warn the Russian – Boris Kusenov. He can’t trust Mr Waverly. Because it looks like Waverly is the one who is paying to get him killed.”
    “Right.” Tim thought about it. “And he can’t trust anyone with hammers.”
    “Yeah. You tell him that.”
    But that was still a puzzle. We had seen Charon handling an antique white hammer. But what was he going to do with it? Bludgeon Kusenov to death?
    And there was something else. South by south east. McGuffin’s dying words. In all the excitement I had almost forgotten all about them. But we still hadn’t found out what they meant.
    “Nick!” Tim pointed.
    It was the last person I’d expected to see. Charlotte Van Dam was walking along the platform, dressed in a light suit, carrying a handbag. I thought she was going to see us but at the last minute she forked off to the left and went into a smart café to