Decider. Part 9

I promised for roughly the twentieth time, which was an indication of the depth of their anxiety, as I'd always kept the promises I'd made them.

'You must all be so tired of moving on,' Mrs Gardner said sympathetically.

'It's not that,' Christopher told her, 'it's the house. It's brilliant.' Brilliant in his teenage vocabulary meant only the opposite of awful (p.r.o.nounced off off-al, ironically).

Roger nodded and agreed, however. 'Brilliant. h.e.l.l to heat, I should think, though, with all that s.p.a.ce.'

'It has a hypocaust,' Neil said, licking his fingers.

The Gardners and Dart gazed at him.

'What,' Dart asked, giving in, 'is a hypocaust?'

'Central heating invented by the Romans,' said my seven-year-old composedly. 'You make hollow s.p.a.ces and runways under a stone floor and drive hot air through, and the floor stays warm all the time. Dad thought it would work and it does. We ran about without shoes all winter.'

Roger turned his head my way.

'Come on Friday, then,' he said.

When I drove the bus back to the same spot on a sunny morning two days later, the ground outside the garage was cluttered not with the debris of decades but with horses.

My sons gazed out of their safe windows at a moving clutch of about six large quadrupeds and decided not to climb down among the hooves, even though every animal was controlled by a rider.

The horses, to my eyes, weren't fine-boned enough to be racehorses, nor were the riders as light as the average stable lad, and when I swung down from the cab Roger came hurrying across from his house, side stepping round ma.s.sive hindquarters, to tell me these were Conrad's working hunters out for their morning exercise. They were supposed to be out on the road, Roger said, but they'd been practically attacked by the six or seven woollen hats still stubbornly picketing the main gates.

'Where do they come from?' I asked, looking around.

'The horses? Conrad keeps them here on the racecourse in a yard down near the back entrance, where you came in.'

I nodded. I'd seen the back of what could well have been the stables.

'They're trotting up and down the inner road instead,' Roger said. 'It's not ideal, but I won't let them out on the course, where they sometimes go, because everything is ready for Monday's meeting. Wouldn't your boys like to get out and see them?'

'I don't think so,' I said. 'Since the slaughter at the open ditch last Sat.u.r.day they are a bit afraid of them. They were very shocked, you know, by that dead spectator's injuries.'

'I'd forgotten they'd seen him, poor man. Will they just stay in the bus, then, while you and I go over the stands? I've spread out some of the original drawings in my office. We'll look at those first, if you like.'

I suggested driving bus and boys as near to the office as possible, which resulted in our parking where the Stratton family's cars had been gathered two days earlier. The boys, relieved by the arrangement, asked if they could play a hide-and-seek game in the stands, if they promised not to do any damage.

Roger gave a.s.sent doubtfully. 'You'll find many of the doors are locked,' he told them. 'And the whole place was cleaned yesterday, ready for Monday, so don't make any mess.'

They promised not to. Roger and I left them beginning to draw up rules for their game and made our way to a low white-painted wooden building on the far side of the parade ring.

'Is it pirates again?' Roger asked, amused.

'I think it's storming the Bastille this time. That's to say, rescuing a prisoner without being captured yourself. Then the rescued prisoner has to hide and not be recaptured.'

I looked back as Roger unlocked his office door. The boys waved. I waved back and went in, and began to sort my way through ancient building plans that had been rolled up so long that straightening them out was like six bouts with an octopus.

I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, so as to come to grips with things more easily, and Roger made a comment about the warmth of the spring day and hoped the sunshine would last until Monday.

Most of the plans were in fact working drawings, which gave detailed specifications for every nut and bolt. They were thorough, complete and impressive, and I commented on it.

'The only problem is,' Roger said, with a twisting smile, 'that the builder didn't stick to the specs. Concrete that should be six inches thick with the reinforcing bars well covered has recently proved to be barely four and a half inches and we're having endless trouble with the private balcony boxes with water getting in through cracks and rusting the bars, which then of course expand because of the rust and crack the concrete more. Crumble Crumble the concrete, in some places.' the concrete, in some places.'

'Spalling,' I nodded. 'Can be dangerous.'

'And,' Roger went on, 'if you look at the overall design of the water inlets and outlets and sewer lines, the drawings make very good sense, but the water and drain pipes don't actually go where they should. We had one set of ladies' lavatories backing up for no reason we could think of and flooding the floor, but the drain seemed clear, and then we found we were checking the wrong drain, and the one from the lavatories went in an entirely different direction and was blocked solid.'

It was familiar territory. Builders had minds of their own and often ignored the architect's best instructions, either because they truly thought they knew better or because they could make a fatter profit by shaving the quality.

We uncurled a dozen more sheets and tried to hold them flat with pots of pens for paperweights, a losing battle. I acquired, all the same, an understanding of what should have been built, with some picture of stress points and weaknesses to look for. I'd studied ancient plans a great deal less trustworthy than these, and these grandstands weren't ruins after all: they'd withstood gales and rot for well over half a century.

Basically, the front of the stands, the viewing steps themselves, were of reinforced concrete supported by steel girders, which also held up the roof. Backing the concrete and steel, solid brick pillars formed the weight-bearers for the bars, dining rooms and private rooms for the owners and stewards. Centrally there was a stairway stretching upwards through five storeys giving access outwards and inwards throughout. A simple effective design, even if now out of date.

The door of the office was suddenly flung open, and Neil catapulted himself inside.

'Dad,' he said insistently, 'Dad...'

'I'm busy, Neil.'

'But it's urgent. Really really urgent.'

I let a set of drawings recurl by accident. 'How urgent?' I asked, trying to open them again.

'I found some white wires, Dad, going in and out of some walls.'

'What wires?'

'You know when they blew up the chimney?'

I left the plans to their own devices and paid full attention to my observant son. My heart jumped a beat. I did indeed remember the blowing up of the chimney.

'Where are the wires?' I asked, trying for calmness.

Neil said, 'Near that bar with the smelly floor.'

'What on earth is he talking about?' Roger demanded.

'Where are your brothers?' I said briefly.

'In the stands. Hiding. I don't know where.' Neil's eyes were wide. 'Don't let them be blown up, Dad.'

'No.' I turned to Roger. 'Can you switch on a public address system that can be heard everywhere in the stands?'

'What on earth '

'Can you?' I felt my own panic rising: fought it down.

'But '

'For G.o.d's sake,' I half yelled at him, quite unfairly. 'Neil's saying he's seen det cord and demolition charges in the stands.'

Roger's own face went taut. 'Are you serious serious?

'Same as the factory chimney?' I asked Neil, checking.

'Yes, Dad. Exactly Exactly the same. Do come on.' the same. Do come on.'

'Public address system,' I said with dreadful urgency to Roger. 'I have to get those children out of there at once.'

He gave me a dazed look but at last went into action, hurrying out of his office and half running across the parade ring towards the weighing room, sorting through his bunch of keys as he went. We came to a halt beside the door into Oliver Wells' office, the lair of the Clerk of the Course.

'We tested the system yesterday,' Roger said, fumbling slightly. 'Are you sure sure? This child's so young. I'm sure he's mistaken.'

'Don't risk it,' I said, practically ready to shake him.

He got the door open finally and went across to unlatch a metal panel which revealed banks of switches.

'This one,' he said, pressing down with a click. 'You can speak direct from here. Let me plug in the microphone.'

He brought an old-fashioned microphone from a drawer, fitted plug to socket, and handed me the instrument.

'Just speak,' he said.

I took a breath and tried to sound urgent but not utterly frightening, though utterly frightened was what I myself felt.

'This is Dad,' I said as slowly as I could, so they could hear clearly. 'Christopher, Toby, Edward, Alan, the grandstands are not safe. Wherever you're hiding, leave the stands and go to the gate in the rails where we went through and down the course last Sat.u.r.day. Go out in front of the stands, and gather by that gate. The gate is the rallying point. Go at once at once. The Bastille game is over for now. It's urgent urgent that you go at once to the gate where we went out onto the course. It's quite near the winning post. Go there that you go at once to the gate where we went out onto the course. It's quite near the winning post. Go there now now. The grandstands aren't safe. They might blow up at any moment.'

I switched off temporarily and said to Neil, 'Do you remember how to get to that gate?'

He nodded and told me how, correctly.

'Then you go there too, will you, so that the others can see you? And tell them what you saw.'

'Yes, Dad.'

I said to Roger, 'Have you the key to the gate?'

'Yes, but'

'I'd be happier if they could go out through that gate and across to the winning post itself. Even that might not be far enough.'

'Surely you're exaggerating,' he protested.

'I hope to G.o.d I am.'

Neil hadn't waited. I watched his little figure run.

'We went to see an old factory chimney being blown up,' I said to Roger. 'The boys were fascinated. They saw some charges being set. It was only three months ago.' I spoke again into the microphone. 'Boys, go down to the gate. It's very very urgent. The stands are unsafe. They might blow up. Just run.' I turned to Roger. 'Could you unlock the gate for them?'

He said, 'Why don't you?'

'I'd better check those wires, don't you think?'

'But '

'Look, I've got to make sure Neil is right, haven't I? And we don't know when when the charges are set for, do we? Maybe five minutes, maybe five hours, maybe after dark. Can't risk it for the boys, though. Have to get them out at once.' the charges are set for, do we? Maybe five minutes, maybe five hours, maybe after dark. Can't risk it for the boys, though. Have to get them out at once.'

Roger swallowed and made no more objections. Together we ran from his office round to the front of the stands, he taking the key with him, I wanting to check that all five were safe.

The little knot by the gate grew to four as Neil reached them. Four, not five.

Four. Not Toby Not Toby.

I sprinted back to Oliver's office and picked up the microphone.

'Toby, this is not not a game. Toby, get off the stands. The stands are not safe. Toby, for Christ's sake do what I say. a game. Toby, get off the stands. The stands are not safe. Toby, for Christ's sake do what I say. This is not a game This is not a game.'

I could hear my voice reverberating round and through the building and out in the paddocks. I repeated the urgent words once more and then ran round the stands again to check that Toby had heard and obeyed.

Four boys. Four boys and Roger, walking across the track to the winning post. Not running. If Toby were watching, he'd see no reason for haste. boys. Four boys and Roger, walking across the track to the winning post. Not running. If Toby were watching, he'd see no reason for haste.

'Come on, you little b.u.g.g.e.r b.u.g.g.e.r,' I said under my breath. 'For once in your life, be told be told.'

I went back to the microphone and said it loud and baldly. 'There are demolition charges in the stands, Toby, are you listening? Remember the chimney? The stands can blow up too. Toby, get out of there quickly and join the others.'

I went back yet again to the front of the stands, and yet again Toby failed to appear.

I was not a demolitions expert. If I wanted to take a building down to its roots I usually did it brick by brick, salvaging everything useful. I'd have felt happier at that moment if I'd known more. The first priority, though, was obviously to look at what Neil had seen, and to do that I needed to enter and climb the central stairway, off which led the bar with the smelly floor; the members' bar which should have been much busier than it was.

It was the same staircase, I'd noticed, that on one landing led off through double-doors to the Strattons' carpeted and cosseted private rooms. According to the plans and also from what I myself remembered of it, that staircase was the central vertical artery feeding all floors of the grandstand; the central core of the whole major building.

At the top was a large windowed room like a control tower from where the Stewards with ma.s.sive binoculars watched the races. A modern offshoot from there ran up yet again to an eyrie inhabited by race-callers, television equipment and the scribbling cla.s.ses.

At other levels on its upward progress, the staircase branched off inwards to a members' lunch room and outwards to ranks of standing-only steps open to the elements. A corridor on the first floor led to a row of private balcony boxes where prim little light white wooden chairs gave respite to rich and elderly feet.

I went into the staircase from the open front of the stands and sprinted up to the level of the smelly members' bar. The door of the bar was locked, but along the white-painted landing wall outside, at about eighteen inches from the ground, ran a harmless looking thick white filament that looked like the sort of washing line used for drying laundry in back gardens.

At intervals along the wall the line ran into the wall itself and out again, and finally a hole had been drilled from the landing through into the bar, so that the white line ran into it, disappearing from view.

Neil had made no mistake. The white washing line look-alike was in fact itself an explosive known as 'det cord', short for detonating cord, along which detonation could travel at something like 18,000 metres a second, blowing apart everything it touched. At every spot where the cord went into the wall and out again there would be a compressed cache of plastic explosive. All explosives did more damage when compressed.

Det cord was not like old fuses spluttering slowly towards a bomb marked 'BOMB,' as in comics and ancient westerns. Det cord was was the explosive; and it seemed to be winding up and down through the walls of the stairwell for at least one floor above me and another below. the explosive; and it seemed to be winding up and down through the walls of the stairwell for at least one floor above me and another below.

I yelled 'Toby' with full lungs and whatever power I could muster. I yelled 'Toby' up the staircase and 1 yelled 'Toby' down the staircase, and got no response at all.

'Toby, if you're here, this place is full of explosive.' I yelled it up the stairs, and down.