London Belongs to the Alchemist (Class Heroes Book 4) Page 33

  Sam helped Mrs Cairo roll what was left of Nicky’s corpse over, to reveal the two girls lying underneath him in the tightest of curled-up balls. They were wide eyed, crying and sobbing, but so stunned that no sound came out. Mrs Cairo gathered them to her, holding them in a vice-like grip, looking around her like a wounded dog protecting her litter.

  Sam staggered back, trying to pull herself together. Her ears were ringing, the smoke hurt her eyes and her vision was blurry. She stumbled away from the smog and into the fresh air. She caught sight of the people carrier. It had already reached a small jet parked on the runway about half a mile away. She could just about make out Mr Smith carrying Al onto the plane.

  Before she had properly thought about what to do, she started running…

  Chapter 55

  Barefoot, across grass and tarmac, Sam ran unfettered. She guessed she must be going at something like 60 miles per hour. She pumped her legs and arms with all her might and kept her eyes focussed on the aeroplane on the runway.

  Mr Smith had wasted no time in getting Al on board. As soon as the door was closed, the plane began moving.

  Sam knew she was fast, but as soon as the aircraft picked up any speed there would be no chance of catching it. At the moment it was just trundling along. She took hope when she saw the jet round the corner of the tarmac and then she understood. It had reached the beginning of the runway.

  Urgency and desperation gave her an edge and she sped up. She could hear the intensity of the jet’s engines increase as it prepared to accelerate for takeoff. She pounded across the grass and joined the runway, almost face on to the side of the plane.

  Sam could feel the blast of the engines on her face as she ran alongside the wing and drew level with the door. She jumped up, grabbed at the handle, pulled, and ripped the entire door out of its socket. She pulled herself swiftly into the jet just as the plane thrust forward, sending her careering to the back of the cabin. Sam slammed into a wall panel and lay there, dazed. The rush of air through the open hatch made it hard to see, and when she involuntarily screamed, the breath and sound were stolen from her lungs.

  Mr Smith was in his seat, looking at her over his shoulder in astonishment. Al was strapped into a seat on the other side of the aisle, unmoving.

  The jet lurched unsteadily into the air. Mr Smith never took his eyes off her, but he was powerless to act while the plane was trying to gain height, and Sam had no choice but to hold on to a seat for all she was worth, for fear of being tossed out through the open door.

  As the plane finally levelled off, Sam used the seat as a prop to lift herself off the floor. The turbulence made it almost impossible to maintain her balance. Through the open door, houses, roads and fields became smaller and smaller. She had never felt so scared.

  Mr Smith got up, but the continual shuddering of the plane made it difficult for him to do anything more than cling to his seat. He had a small pistol in his hand but he was unable to aim it at her, and probably he was reluctant to use it in case he damaged the plane further.

  Sam lurched forward, hoping to grab his gun arm. Mr Smith was a powerfully built man, but Sam’s incredible strength enabled her to prise his fingers open. The gun clattered to the floor and skidded off down the aisle.

  Sam caught a glimpse of Al’s face. He was asleep, but his mouth was stuck in a grimace. Alive, but for how much longer?

  A fist smashed into her left temple. There was an explosion of pain in her head and starburst in front of her eyes. The plane lurched, and she felt the weight of Mr Smith crashing into her body and pinning her against a seat. For a few seconds she was off balance and stuck fast. He had one hand on her head and the other holding her right arm, while her left arm was squashed between her own body and the seat.

  “Come with us, girl,” he urged. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  “Get off me,” yelled Sam, and as the plane tilted, she regained her balance and used the muscles in her legs to push back against the Russian. He toppled into the seat opposite, his legs in the air like a beetle on its back.

  Not for the first time, Sam found herself in a terrible position. She was no fighter. The worst act of violence she could ever imagine committing was giving her brother a horse bite when they were arguing. And here she was, unwilling to strike out at this man who was now at her mercy. One punch would probably knock him out, but then it might also kill him. She couldn’t do it.

  As Mr Smith recovered himself, she could see in his eyes that he knew he had nothing to fear from her. He pulled himself back on to his feet and raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture. No easy task when the plane was bumping and the wind was swirling around the cabin.

  “You won’t do anything to me,” he shouted above the noise of the jet and the howling gale. “I think you’ll be more comfortable if you just sit down. Because of you we need to land and arrange for another plane.”

  At that point, the door to the cockpit swung open. The pilot was sitting at the flight position, visibly struggling to control the aircraft, and bellowing over his shoulder at Mr Smith. Sam couldn’t understand what was being said as he was speaking in Russian, and it didn’t help that Mr Smith suddenly looked very concerned and started barking back, also in Russian. Following another sharp exchange between the two, Mr Smith hurried into the cockpit and leaned forward, looking left and right through the window.

  Sam crouched down next to Al. He was moaning softly. His eyes were open but he was clearly in terrible pain. How was she going to save him? She must somehow force Mr Smith to land the plane. She would have to man up, as James always said. Shouldn’t that be ‘girl up’, she found herself wondering?

  Mr Smith staggered back into the cabin and pushed Sam out of the way so he could look through the window.

  Sam looked too. The jet was dangerously low. Houses and roads were no more than a couple of hundred metres beneath them. Then she caught a glimpse of another plane, a military jet. Then a second one. One was behind and to the left of them, at a higher altitude. The other she saw briefly as it drifted across from left to right in front of their plane. They must have been scrambled to intercept them. Of course. That’s what happens when a plane goes mad, isn’t it? You get shot down by the RAF. Everyone knew that. She’d only been watching something about it on the news the other day.

  “They’re making us land, aren’t they?” Sam shouted in Mr Smith’s ear.

  He looked angrily at her.

  “Be quiet,” he directed.

  “They’ll shoot us down, you idiot,” Sam yelled, as he pinballed his way back to the cockpit.

  She checked Al again. He was sweating, his face was pale, his mouth was clenched in a fixed expression of pain. There was nothing she could do for him, except get him to hospital.

  She struggled to her feet as the jet lurched from side to side. This was desperate now. Those fighters would have no qualms about blowing them up. Maybe she could make the pilot see reason.

  Mr Smith was shouting instructions at the pilot who, in turn, was clearly trying to listen to the message coming through his headset from the fighters.

  “Land the plane,” shouted Sam. “They’ll missile us.”

  Sam got the impression that the pilot agreed with her. He looked from Mr Smith to her, then nodded. Mr Smith’s response, however, left no room for misinterpretation.

  Through the window, Sam could see one of the fighter jets ahead. It performed a manoeuvre where it dipped its wings up and down, then drifted off to the right. Clearly they were expected to follow.

  The pilot looked at Mr Smith, who shook his head.

  “We’re all going to die, you moron,” Sam bellowed in his ear as he pushed past her, back into the cabin. Sam watched him as he checked the windows both sides of the plane. Then he stumbled across his gun, left discarded on the floor. He snatched it up, marched back to the cockpit and levelled the weapon, not at Sam, but at the pilot.

  He barked more instructions in Russian.

  “I can’t l
et you do this,” shouted Sam. A show of strength was what was needed now. How Mr Smith thought he was going to get out of this situation alive was beyond her imagination. But if she didn’t do something drastic, they would all be killed.

  She brought her hands up in front of her face and concentrated. Flames sparked into life. That got Mr Smith’s attention and for a second he lowered the gun, struck dumb by disbelief, perhaps.

  The pilot took his chance and turned the plane so that it aligned with the fighter jet in a show of compliance.

  Mr Smith raised his gun again. Sam had no idea who he intended to shoot, her or the pilot, but in the confined space she knew she would be in the firing line first. On instinct she darted forward, arms outstretched, reaching for the pistol.

  Mr Smith screamed as the heat from her flaming hands tore through his suit and seared his flesh. The gun fired, deafening Sam. She pushed forward, hoping to stop him from pointing the pistol anywhere near her or Al. Mr Smith yelled as both his sleeves were now on fire. He began shooting indiscriminately. Windows smashed, more air rushed into the plane and it lurched sickeningly to the left. When the bullets ran out Mr Smith head butted Sam, sending her reeling backwards. Instinctively, she extinguished her flame.

  Mr Smith frantically batted his arms against the seats, the side of the plane, even the floor, in order to put out the fire on his clothes. When he finally sprang to his feet he launched himself at Sam.

  He’d barely made contact when the two of them were hurled against the wall at the front of the cabin. Something was horribly wrong — the plane had its nose down and was dropping from the sky. Sam pushed Mr Smith off her and struggled to her feet. She caught a glimpse of the cockpit. It was strewn with blood. One look at the remains of the pilot’s head told Sam that he’d been hit by one of Mr Smith’s stray bullets.

  The Russian punched Sam again, knocking her to the floor. It saved her life. She heard several sharp bangs, the rending of metal, a scream and then something heavy fell on top of her. She forced herself to look and the first thing she saw were Mr Smith’s lifeless eyes. She gasped in shock.

  There were bullets holes in the plastic fascias all around her. The RAF had fired on them. And now Sam could hear another noise. The sound of a failing engine. Oh my… it was actually happening.

  She pulled herself clear of Mr Smith’s corpse, reached for the door of the cockpit and dragged herself closer to the pilot’s seat. She desperately wanted to check on Al but she had to get to the pilot’s headset, which dangled tantalisingly by the man’s lifeless hand. She didn’t like to think about how the headset had been ripped off.

  She slipped in the blood that swamped the cabin. Her left hand, arm and that entire side of her body were soaked in it. She tried to ignore the revulsion she felt, and instead pulled the headset over her ears and grabbed the microphone. There was a burst of static and a voice that she couldn’t hear properly because of the roar of the engines and the tearing wind. She caught only one word. ‘Missile.’

  “Please, please don’t shoot, I’m a 14-year-old girl, you shot my kidnapper. My friend is hurt, please help,” she screamed.

  She tried to get onto all fours, and ended up slipping and sliding in the sticky wetness. The pilot’s body was slumped forward on the steering stick thing. The yoke, she suddenly thought, baffled as to how she even knew that. She wrenched on the stick. She had no idea how close to the ground they might be, but she knew they needed to go up. The whine of the engine changed and the nose of the plane began lifting again.

  She could finally make out the words that were coming through her headset.

  “We will shoot you down if you do not—”.

  “I can’t fly a plane, I’m 14 years old,” she yelled back at the unseen voice. “Tell me what to do.”

  Sam was finally able to get to her feet and look out of the window. She was flying over fields and houses, but almost skimming the rooftops.

  “Pull up, pull up,” said the voice in her ear. She couldn’t even see the fighter jets anymore. They must be above her and behind.

  “I’m trying,” yelled Sam. “You shot the engine!”

  “Stay calm, miss. Ahead of you is open sea,” said the clipped voice in her ear. There was no attempt to be reassuring, Sam noted.

  “Pull back on the stick. Try and keep the plane up until you reach the water,” the voice ordered.

  Sam made sure she didn’t accidentally rip the stick out of its socket, but it was shaking like it would vibrate to pieces.

  The ground rushed past at an alarming speed. Sam could see people, make out their frightened faces as they either gawped or ran for cover. But the voice in her ear was right, she could see a large expanse of water ahead. She had reached the coast. The plane was still dropping, but as she passed the last house, crossed a road and soared over the beach, she was finally over the sea.

  Now what? Should she ditch the plane in the water? It suddenly occurred to her that she couldn’t simply let go of the stick. Nor could she sit down in the pilot’s chair without unstrapping the body from the seat, and if she tried to do that she would have to let go of the stick.

  “Take the plane down as gently as you can, miss,” said the voice in her ear.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me how to land it?” she shouted.

  “There’s no time for that. Just lower the plane as gently as you can until you touch the water,” instructed the voice.

  This wasn’t how it was in the films, thought Sam. Somebody always told the brave, plucky heroine how to land the plane. The reality was going to be very different. Despite what the voice in her ear said, she was pulling at the stick for all she was worth and it wasn’t making much difference. The plane was going down. She was almost blind to the sea rushing below her. They were going to crash. The plane would break up or blow up. And what about Al? Even if she managed to survive the impact, would he?

  “James,” she cried out, desperately willing her brother to teleport into the cockpit and take her and Al to safety at the last moment. “Jaaaaaaaaaammmessssss.”

  It never happened. The sea leaped up towards her. The last thought that popped into her head was that she hoped it wasn’t too cold.

  There was a sickening thump, a deadening impact, and Sam was thrown through the cockpit window.

  Chapter 56

  Earlier the same day

  Lolly was woken up by Bill at six o’clock in the morning, and for a few moments she didn’t know what day it was.

  Bill had insisted she sleep in his bunk over the top of the cab. He had promised her she would be safe in the lorry, and then he had gone off somewhere else to find a bed. The cab had a strangely comforting smell of coffee, biscuits and cigarette smoke.

  Lolly felt cocooned and safe under her heavy blanket, and she very reluctantly stuck her head over the edge of the bunk. It was a cold morning. Bill was standing outside looking polite and sheepish, knocking on the door of his own lorry.

  Lolly slipped down from the bunk, adjusted the shirt-turned-dress-turned-nightdress so as not to embarrass Bill, and opened the door.

  Barbara came sauntering cheerfully over the gravel carrying brown bags of food and a tray containing clothes.

  “Breakfast,” she announced, handing over the bags to Bill. “Coffee, bacon and egg baps, and I’ve put a couple of muffins inside.”

  Lolly could have kissed the woman. Barbara handed the clothes to her.

  “Clean things for you,” said the woman. “My daughter is away at university now. She still has stuff she won’t throw away and they’re about your size. You’re a lovely girl Lolly and I don’t want your grandma seeing you in Bill’s old shirt. She’d have a fit.”

  Lolly actually felt herself blushing. She’d completely forgotten the lies she had told these people, and a part of her now wished it was all true.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  “There’s showers and facilities at the back of the cafe, I’ve told the men you’ll be going in so nobody will
disturb you. Go on, smarten yourself up.”

  It was funny hearing this woman tell her what to do. Like Yvonne Blake.

  Lolly quickly ate her breakfast and then went for her shower. She turned the dial to get the water as hot it would go, until the shower room was practically all steam. She just stood there for several minutes, trying to ease the tension in her body. Then she dried herself off with a rough, but clean, towel. The Deborah Lippmann polish on her fingers and toenails was badly chipped. Didn’t look good. But all her cuts and bruises had healed and her left arm didn’t even twinge. She was back to normal.

  Lolly examined the tray of clothes. She’d never worn anything second hand in her life. Barbara had chosen an above-the-knee floral dress and some Ugg boots. Obviously she wanted Lolly to look sweet for her fictional grandmother. Lolly would have preferred something more practical this time around, and they weren’t entirely to her taste, but just having a fresh set of clothes to put on would be heaven. To Lolly’s relief, the woman had gone out and bought new underwear for her. Lolly would have drawn the line at some other girl’s knickers. When she saw that Barbara had added a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste among the clothes, she gave an involuntary squeal of delight.

  She longed to get back to her own house, her own bedroom and her old life with Daddy. Once she had rescued him, she had every confidence that he would magically be able to return things to normal.

  Five minutes later she was back in the passenger seat of Bill’s cab, feeling refreshed, confident and full of purpose. She waved goodbye to Barbara as they trundled along the uneven ground out of the lorry park.

  ***

  Bill dropped her off at Piccadilly Circus just after nine o’clock. The journey had been terrible, but Lolly had enjoyed listening to the man’s stories from when he used to be a chauffeur to a number of film stars. There was more traffic around than Bill had been expecting, some roads were closed, and there was a large number of people wandering around carrying placards.