A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) Page 2

  ‘Does she often leave you?’ Crombie used his gentle voice again.

  Rhyllann spoke quickly. ‘She didn’t leave me. I promised I’d stay round Gran’s. Mum wanted me to go with her and David. Her husband.’ He swivelled to face Crombie – maybe if he tried to be honest. Taking a deep breath, he surprised himself as it all spilled out:

  ‘I do try at school. I’m not clever, not with schoolwork. But I’m in the air cadets, and I can fly. It’s like breathing for me. There’s nothing like it. And I want to join the RAF. To fly. And I need my GCSEs.’ Rhyllann shredded the tissue in his hands. It felt like a confession; admitting this dream out loud for the first time. Everyone assumed he attended air cadets to chat up girls and boss younger kids around. Only Wren knew; somehow.

  ‘I would have fallen behind, and once I fall behind, I’ll never catch up.’ He sounded a complete dork, the chances of a kid like him getting into the RAF were zero. Crombie raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. After a moment or two he said.

  ‘Quite a pair, your Mum and her sister aren’t they?’ He spoke as though he knew them both, he probably did, by reputation anyway. Rhyllann guessed what was coming next and twisted away determined not to reveal any more. Crombie was even more dangerous than he’d thought.

  ‘You and your cousin; you’re very close aren’t you?’

  Rhyllann shifted in his seat. No-one else at school really got Wren, if it weren’t for him, he wouldn’t have any friends.

  ‘Does he ever talk about his Mum?’

  No. Wren never spoke of her, never cried over her. The tissue was confetti now. Rhyllann dropped it.

  Facing Crombie he sneered. ‘You wanna know if she told him where she hid the money? Mister Big-shot Detective? And me thinking you were the soft cuddly type – MacDonald’s and free rides. You went round their house. Why didn’t you look under the mattress while you were there? That’s where she stashed it.’

  ‘No need for sarcasm son, I’m trying to help.’

  But he’d heard that before, and didn’t bother replying. Anyway they were at the hospital now, Crombie had to park up or go round the one way system again. With relief, Rhyllann heard the indicator blinking as Crombie pulled into a space intended for ambulances.

  ‘Thanks for the lift.’ He muttered, tugging at the door catch, which refused to give. As Crombie leaned across to help, his jacket fell open, giving a glimpse of a stapled lining.

  ‘Have to jiggle it a bit, it's temperamental.’ The door swung open scraping against the kerb causing them both to grimace and a few heads to turn.

  ‘Thanks again.’ Rhyllann said wondering if he should take the empty MacDonald’s bag to bin or leave it with the rest of this rubbish car.

  Crombie inclined his head. ‘What’s gonna happen to you now?’

  For a moment, Rhyllann felt confused. Then he brightened.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Mum rings every night. She’ll get the next train back to London.’ He lied fluently. A thought struck him. ‘My auntie: Aunt Sarah. Will they give her compassionate leave or something?’ He squirmed under Crombie’s stare.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your Aunt.’ He said.

  Rhyllann kept his face blank. He was used to bad news. Anyway he’d already given too much away to the shambling hulk.

  Chapter Four

  Wren had been moved from intensive care to a tiny side room off the children’s ward. His right foot was encased in a strange boot like affair; but he seemed to be sleeping naturally and the scary monitors had been disconnected.

  Surprisingly, after cautioning him to be quiet, the duty nurse allowed Rhyllann to stay with Wren. He certainly wouldn’t have allowed himself entry; he looked and smelled as though he’d spent the night crawling in gutters. Which he had. Rhyllann sank into the visitor’s chair, sighing with pleasure as it took his weight. His limbs relaxed and his mind drifted away, putting off the moment when he’d have to visit Gran. Poor Gran. One daughter banged up in prison; the other a fanatical eco-warrior. He knew what she thought of him because she never failed to speak her mind. Only Wren remained her blue eyed boy. Rhyllann snorted, thinking of all the trouble Wren landed him in. Thank Christ that prat David still didn’t have a clue why his new car had developed a terminal case of kangaroo jumps.

  A nasty little thought struck up, and Rhyllann couldn’t sit still any longer. Striding past a startled nurse almost knocking her over as the need for urgency screamed at him, he called back over his shoulder:

  ‘Sorry – can’t stop – just remembered I’ve left the bath running!’

  Rhyllann bolted for home, too anxious to wait for a bus, terrified that someone would get there before him. Someone who would do anything to get their hands on the book Wren had planted in his school bag.

  Twenty minutes later, Rhyllann hung onto his front door jabbing the key into the Yale lock. Panting he stooped to collect a handful of post, little black spots floating before his eyes as he straightened to flick on the light switches. The familiar living room furnished by free-cycle welcomed him, fairly tidy, clean enough. Everything seemed the same as … when last night? Yes. Just last night. He’d finally gotten round to his maths homework after watching Top Gear back to back for two hours, only to discover – flying into the kitchen Rhyllann retrieved the notebook from the corner where he had chucked it in exasperation. Placing it carefully on the kitchen table, he fizzed coke into a glass, yanking back a kitchen chair to sit in and make sense of this nonsense.

  Still annoyed with Wren for using such a girly notebook, he tugged at the lock. This felt wrong, like rummaging through someone’s underwear drawer but he pushed that feeling away: He deserved to know.

  Turning to the first page Rhyllann let out a groan of anguish then began giggling helplessly as he flicked through.

  Only Wren would write in code. Maybe he had an alto ego, and spent nights clubbing with supermodels. This thought made Rhyllann laugh out loud. The pubeless wonder had taken his geekiness to a new level. Closing the covers Rhyllann tried to snap the lock back, cursing out loud when it refused to twist into place, almost crying with frustration when it snapped off completely.

  Hell. I’ll say it was like that when I found it. Knowing Wren would give a dorky smile and say don’t worry. It doesn’t matter. Feeling guilty then annoyed again at Wren for being so geeky, Rhyllann flicked through the diary pages again, wondering what the runic symbols meant. He slowed to study a map, thinking he recognised it as the Scottish Highlands. Flipping to the last page he paused again. Wren had abandoned the code on this page, to issue a stark warning in Welsh.

  “But the treasure is guarded by Caliburn. He who wishes to enter the secret chamber must first ensure he knows of the Celtic rites. Another may enter, provided he is accompanied by one who has been initiated into the mysteries. No other hand is permitted to touch Caliburn, sacred sword of the Celtic Nations.”

  Beneath this Wren had sketched a pair of cherubic looking dragons, curled protectively around a sword.

  Rhyllann shut the book, shaking his head at such naivety. Dragons and magic swords. He’d convinced himself that somehow Wren knew where Aunt Sarah’s stolen money was stashed: Bloody Crombie, putting ideas into his head. Money. It all came back to money. Maybe he could convince social services that it’d be cheaper for them to let him cope with Wren while Gran recovered … Rhyllann sat bolt upright as his mind threw up the one thing he didn’t want to think about; breaking more bad news to Wren.

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll sort it tomorrow.’ He said out loud.

  Dragging his duvet downstairs Rhyllann snuggled on the sofa amused at Jeremy Clarkson raging against bus lanes; feeling envy at the Stig slamming round Gambon’s corner. In the unlikely event he ever got the chance to roar round that deserted airfield, Rhyllann decided he’d use third gear there, bang the gear lever into fifth for the straight …

  Rhyllann drifted off to sleep just before he crossed the finishing line.

  Chapter Five


  It took a second or two to realise it was his mobile and not the alarm going off. Christ! – he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, still wearing filthy trackies. He’d be late for school. Rhyllann rolled onto his stomach, sweeping the floor with his hand. Snatching the phone up, he answered without checking the caller’s name, an optimistic totally unrealistic part of his mind telling him it could be Becky, somehow having got hold of his number.

  ‘Wha?….’

  ‘Rhyllann? Rhyllann Jones?’

  A deep gravely voice rather than the bright tones he’d hoped to hear.

  For a second Rhyllann trod water, trying to remember the story he’d come up with. Working some spit into his mouth he brushed hair back from his forehead, wondering why his throat hurt.

  ‘Hey yeah. Me.’

  ‘Rhyllann, it's Crombie– are you ok?’

  ‘Yeah. Hi Mr – DI … erm … Detective Crombie. Yeah fine. Never better.’ He slurred, playing for time.

  ‘Son – I’m calling to speak with your mother – is she there?’

  Rhyllann sat up, shrugging off the duvet, rubbing at the crick in the back of his neck.

  ‘Erm no, sorry.’ The words echoed around the room, emphasising the emptiness of the house. Should he say she was at the hospital? On the train?

  ‘I spoke to her last night; she’s asked a neighbour to pop round. She’s getting the very next train – but.’ Rhyllann thought quickly. ‘She’s gotta book twenty four hours in advance for a supersaver ticket or such like. Else it costs an extra two hundred pounds or something.’ He gabbled, hoping Crombie didn’t hear the lies. But Crombie was talking to someone else, distracted.

  ’Ok son, get her to call me on this number a sap. We’ve a firm connection now to that other more serious incident and your Gran’s intruders. I really need to discuss it with her. Rhyllann – I’d be a lot happier if you stayed at home today.’ Crombie hung up abruptly.

  Rhyllann snorted as he lurched to the kitchen to hunt out breakfast, mentally listing the mountain of tasks in front of him today. As if he was gonna take notice of Crombie, ordering him around like some troublesome little boy. Crombie’s “serious incident” was obviously a ruse to get hold of Mum. Then with a sinking feeling he remembered he still had to tell Wren about his Mum, Aunt Sarah. I’ll get one of the nurses to do it. It’ll be better coming from a professional anyway, Rhyllann decided as he walked to the hospital.

  First though, he visited Gran. She shared a room with two other elderly ladies. Screens swathed in a lilac silky material provided a degree of privacy, the beds looked clean and comfortable. Taking a seat, Rhyllann curled her hand in his. It looked tiny, parchment white peppered with brown spots. Years ago he’d tumbled into a nettle bed. Gran plunged straight after him, yanking him upwards and out of reach of their wicked stings, without flinching. He sighed heavily, stooped to kiss her cheek and after checking no nurses hovered with awkward questions pelted down the stairs towards the paediatric department.

  He found Wren stomping up and down the children’s ward on crutches, his boot encased leg stuck out in front of him. Catching sight of Rhyllann, he waved wildly.

  ‘Annie – look at me.’

  He burst into a chorus of Jake the Peg, bouncing on the crutches. Rhyllann cringed; if Wren weren’t his cousin he would beat the crap out of him. A few of the other kids giggled, and the nurses clapped. Wren bowed theatrically.

  Dumpy little nurse Rita said: ‘You’re certainly much brighter!’

  Wren bowed again. ‘Can I go home now?’ He asked. Adding. ‘I can stay round my aunt’s house.’ Appealing to Rhyllann when she hesitated.

  ‘Annie – I can stay round your house can’t I? Aunt ‘Tricia won’t mind looking after me will she?’

  Caught off guard Rhyllann mumbled. ‘Yeah – course – no problem.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Wren said with a huge grin, allowing Rita to help him back to a room just large enough to contain a single bed and cabinet. The ceiling remained the same height as the main ward, creating a disproportionate shrinking sensation. Rhyllann gritted his teeth. Once they were alone, he turned on Wren.

  ‘What the hell are you up to? You know very well …’

  Wren punched him. Hard.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here. How long d’you think it’ll be before those men come looking for me?’

  Rhyllann studied him intently, and knew. ‘They’ve been here haven’t they? You’ve seen them again. Who are those guys? What do they want?’

  Wren crossed his arms and glared. ‘Are you going to help me, or am I going to tell Social Services about your Mum?’

  ‘You little toerag. You wouldn’t!’

  The mutinous look crumpled into one of exhaustion, Wren climbed onto the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry Annie. Of course I wouldn’t. ‘

  Pretending not to notice the tears, Rhyllann perched next to him.

  ‘Brawd, you know my Mum ain’t here. I can’t get hold of her. I can’t even leave a message. The doctors aren’t gonna let me discharge you.’ Even though they were alone, Rhyllann spoke softly, in Welsh.

  Wren gripped his arm, eyes glistening with mischief this time.

  ‘What we need is a woman to wheel me out.’

  Rhyllann laughed. ‘Yeah right. Who shall we ask? Who shall we get to be Mummy?’

  He didn’t like the way Wren continued to smile at him, ducking his head to peer from under his fringe. Rhyllann shook his head.

  ‘Oh no – no way! We’ll never get away with it! Ow! Leggo!’ He yelped; as Wren grabbed his hair, twisting it into a pony tail.

  ‘Awwh – c’mon Annie! Where’s your sense of adventure?’ he giggled. ‘You know you’ve got the legs for it!’ Rhyllann slapped him away, drawing back.

  ‘Get lost!’

  Wren giggled again, then sobered. ‘Their busiest time is just after lunch, come then. All you need is a flowery top, jeans’ll be ok, maybe with a sparkly belt.’ He broke off, thinking.

  ‘Scarf. Wear a scarf round your neck. Some make up. Oh and carry a newspaper, Daily Mail – or a woman’s magazine.’

  Rhyllann stared. ‘You’ve given this some thought haven’t you?’

  Wren nodded happily. ‘Don’t forget to bring some clothes for me.’ He said closing his eyes.

  Rhyllann thought about putting a pillow over his head. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. All his mates had normal families, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. He had Wren, Mum, Aunt Sarah and Gran. He didn’t count David, his step-father. No-one counted David though he supposed mum must see something in him.

  He almost envied Wren, snoring softly now. Okay, so he’d never known his real dad either, but at least he didn’t have to put up with an interloper.

  Rhyllann decided he might as well go home, and ring the school secretary with some half arsed excuse. With a shock he realised tomorrow was Friday, he’d been off school nearly all week. He really needed to get his life back on track. Rhyllann was almost out the room when he heard Wren crying.

  ’I’m sorry Gran, so sorry.’ Sighing, Rhyllann turned back and shook him awake.

  ‘You’re dreaming brawd, don’t worry, Gran’s gonna be fine.’

  Wren tried, then suddenly gave a genuine smile.

  ‘Annie – I’ve just thought – d’you think they’ll let my Mum out to visit Gran?’ Hopefulness entered his voice.

  ‘Maybe.’ Rhyllann muttered remembering he still had to brief one of the nurses.

  ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night Auntie.’ Wren whispered, closing his eyes again, blond hair curling around an angelic face.

  Christ. He really should put a pillow over his head.

  Chapter Six

  Around the corner from the Eagle nestled between a video hire shop and tobacconist sat AA Draines. Which Crombie thought a bloody good name for a betting shop. He picked his time carefully, no bookmaker would be inclined to chat once the race meetings started.

/>   This must be one of the last independent shops in the country, no attempt had been made to bring the place up to date, no fruit machines, no screens flashing the latest odds, not even a telly showing whatever meeting the BBC had decided to cover for their afternoon racing. Instead Draines relied on "The Blower", an overexcited disembodied voice blaring out the action as it happened. At the rear stood a schoolroom sized blackboard, with a few non-runners already chalked up. As various meetings begun around the country it would fill, prominence being given to the race about to start. Once that race was over, the winners and runners up would be chalked on one side, together with the all important starting prices. The board would be rolled up as the day progressed, with earlier races disappearing from sight obliging latecomers to request how their horses had fared. Punters wrote out bets standing at a chest high shelf underneath the newspapers’ racing pages tacked to the walls. The one concession to luxury was a forlorn water dispenser complete with plastic cups gathering dust.

  The blackboard stood behind a counter known as ‘the jump’ where staff took money, rang up bets and worked out returns. Staff this early in the day being Irish, and the manager, Bill. The board man would be in later. Irish manned or rather womaned the till, collecting betting slips from customers, peering quickly to ensure they were legible and the stakes had been worked out correctly, checking the odds were still current all in the blink of an eye. She practised favouritism turning a blind eye to the fact that odds had shortened, or accepting bets even though the race had just started. Those she didn’t like had their slips thrust back at them for the slightest mistake and were curtly told “No good. Write it out again.” In another life, Irish would have made an excellent school marm, as a poker player she would have excelled, her face rarely showed a flicker of emotion. Her manager perched on an identical bar stool, head down reading the rest of the day’s mutilated newspapers, his real work would start this afternoon.