Free Harry Cavendish by Foul-ball Page B

tent shook violently. They heard the sound of a gun being fired and angry voices from within. After what appeared to be a short scuffle, the flap was ripped open.
     
    Proton came out holding a dead chicken by its feet.
    ‘It’s fucking fried now,’ he said.
    Stanton Bosch was beside him.
    ‘Aye, that’s a disappointment. Hilton will be upset.’
    ‘And that is contrary to the wishes of the soothsayer. It’s going to be hard going with the Sibyl.’
    ‘Carry it all the same.’
    ‘What the hell was Lucus thinking?’
    ‘I suppose he ain’t know its importance.’
    ‘He was as good as dead already.’
    ‘Aye, the chicken had him brutal.’
    ‘It escaped from the cage. It was an accident. There was no need to kill it.’
    ‘It was a lucky shot. A dying fall.’
    ‘Stupid bastard.’
    Proton cradled the dead, blackened chicken in his arms delicately, as though it were his baby, and with tears in his eyes carried it to his tent, sheltering it from the wind and the curious eyes of the onlookers.
    The other Guards were left to clear Lucus’ tent and dispose of his remains, splashed all about by Starburst in her frenzy.

Chapter Twenty-Two
    Douglas was there to see her off. She had the poison in a double-bulbed phial, hidden in the head of her polo mallet.
    ‘Good of you to come.’
    ‘Of course I had to, Pamela. See you off and everything.’
    It was chilly on the landing strip and he was dressed for the cold, all wrapped in a fur-lined trench coat with the collar up so that he was bundled like an ancient aviator.
    ‘The team’s over there.’
    ‘Yes, I saw them when I came in. Recognised a few.’
    ‘Course we don’t stand a chance.’
    ‘You never know. Things might work out.’
    ‘Missing a centre forward. One that can shoot anyway.’
    ‘You’ll get through all the same.’
    ‘The dogs, Douglas. Make sure they’re fed.’
    ‘Of course. They’ll be fine.’
    ‘And the trout in the spinney. There’s a run-off from one of the levees. It will need to be seen to.’
    ‘I’ll deal with it.’
    ‘Keep your eye on Traction. Don’t let him near the drinks’ cabinet.’
    ‘Of course not.’
    ‘I’ve never been so frightened, Douglas.’
    ‘Everything will be fine. We’ll see you back in a week.’
    He took her in her arms, gave her a cumbrous embrace and a tight peck on the cheek.
    ‘Chin up, old girl!’ he said. ‘Crampton forever and all that! Just try your best. Maybe you’ll get a result.’
    ‘He has Guards and policy advisers and every kind of protection. He’s not an idiot. I can’t get to him, Douglas. If the Pastry Chef is dead. It is ridiculous.’
    ‘They set you up.’
    ‘Of course, they set me up.’
    ‘But you wanted to go. You didn’t even fight it.’
    ‘Tired of it, Douglas… tired of being here. Tired of being me.’
    ‘Don’t say that.’
    ‘But it’s true.’
     
    They hugged again, one last time, and she went up the steps to the small space-carrier without looking back.

Chapter Twenty-Three
    They buried Lucus there in the scree when the sun had risen. They dug the shallow grave with the tips of their rifles, scratching at the permafrost and making a close box of it. It would have been harder if it wasn’t spring, but the frost kept it firm, and when he was in and Proton had said his piece, four hard kicks covered him with ash.
    Then they were off again, hoping for the summit before nightfall.
    The march was brutal and they walked in silence.
    Again they stopped at noon, but this time the Guards who had been accustomed to eating with Proton withdrew from him and formed a huddle a little way apart. When he saw what they had done, he tried to join them, but they got up all together and moved away to sit down again on the rocks further up.
    ‘Something going on,’ he said to Stanton Bosch. They were standing further up the path, looking down.
    ‘Aye, they’re upset. About Lucus I suppose.’
    ‘I should go and talk with them.’
    ‘No, leave it. Let them