Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
You Asked for It
1 Do as You’re Told
2 Chance of a Lifetime
3 Sunlight and Darkness
4 Silver Screen Scarlet
5 Killer Ending
6 Rectified
7 A Quiet Night
8 Space Enough at Last
9 Scaling the Himmelstreppe
10 Voices from Nowhere
11 Trouble Is a Fellow Passenger
12 Among the Angelenos
13 All the Stage Is a World
14 Down These Mean Streets
15 The Story of Tori Wo
16 You Will Enjoy Dinner
17 Reality or the Vision
18 Hell of a Tour
19 First Evidence
20 The Full Package
21 How to Crash a Party
22 Paths Will Cross
23 Chasing Hollywood
24 What’s the Damage?
25 Director’s Cut
26 Shoot to Kill, Slowly
27 Divided We Stand
28 High Noon
29 Ascent and Maelstrom
30 Hollywood Sunset, Roll Credits
Acknowledgments
Maps
About the Author
About Ian Fleming
Also by Steve Cole
Copyright
FOR GRACE BAXTER
YOUNG BOND: SHOOT TO KILL
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19373 8
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2014
Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications Limited, 2014
First Published in Great Britain
Doubleday 978 0 857 53373 9 2015
The right of Steve Cole to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The Ian Fleming logo is a trade mark owned by the Ian Fleming Estate, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Limited.
Young Bond is a trademark of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd. All rights reserved.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
series, written by Charlie Higson:SilverFin
Blood Fever
Double or Die
Hurricane Gold
By Royal Command
Danger Society: Young Bond Dossier
www.youngbond.com
www.ianfleming.com
The Z. Rex Trilogy
Tripwire
SOMEONE’S MESSED UP, now someone’s gonna pay.
It stood to reason. That was why Mac Reagan was hunched down on the asphalt roof of the Timberfoot Packing Company on Fifth Street.
He wished he’d brought a drink along with the tools of his trade – or a coat, at least. It was lousy weather for May; a big storm was blowing in off the Pacific, and no one knew how hard it would hit. The bulked-up clouds looked set to fall on downtown Los Angeles and its maze of tenements and warehouses. Night was stepping up fast.
And with it, the kill.
Mac’s nerves amplified the noise of the city: the dejected rattle of the Venice Line streetcars heading south along Hill Street; the roar of traffic and clatter of road repairs ripping up the peace outside the swanky Biltmore Hotel; striking workers in Pershing Square chanting amid bamboo and banana trees. The darkening sky lent strength to the neon hoardings as they hummed awake.
Mac looked down at the machine he cradled in his hands. He wiped a grimy thumb over the hard plastic magazine; it was loaded. His finger curled around the trigger without him even thinking.
Mac shuddered, remembering other rooftops, other jobs.
He was ready to start shooting.
‘So. You made it.’
Mac jumped at the voice behind him. It was the Kid – and right behind him, some older guy Mac didn’t recognize, big and broad. They had crept up onto the roof behind him without a sound. But the Kid didn’t normally show in person . . .
He knows. Mac stiffened. He’s here because he knows what I did.
‘You seem nervous, Mac,’ the Kid went on quietly.
‘No, sir.’ The words crumbled from Mac’s dry mouth. Stay cool, he told himself. ‘Sure, I made it. Like always.’ He took his finger off the trigger of his Parvo movie camera and double-checked the 135-millimetre lens was in place. ‘Here I am, all set to shoot the action up close.’
The Kid nodded, but the big guy just stared, eyes like stones wedged into his craggy face, hands holding something behind his back.
‘You’re the hitman,’ Mac murmured, ‘right?’
The guy’s face barely twitched. ‘I’m a whole lot of things.’
Mac pulled a Lucky Strike from a crumpled pack in his pocket, lit up and looked across to the three-storey block opposite. A young woman was at the wide-open window, staring out. He peered at her through the Parvo’s fold-out eyepiece: her face was flawless ivory, and looked just as hard. Long blonde hair hung down to the fake pearls around her neck.
Mac checked the focus. ‘Is she the target?’
‘No. The target is the man who’s coming to see her.’ The Kid tutted quietly. ‘I know her kind. Another starry-eyed sob story who dreamed she could cut it in movies. I hate girls like that. Don’t you hate girls like that, Mac?’
Mac grunted, shivering as the wind began to build. He’d filmed plenty of girls like her when he’d worked for the movie studios, even dated a couple . . . Funny how fast the last one had walked when the studio closed and the money dried up.
The memories crackled like the smoke in his lungs. No job, no cash, Mac had washed up with some bad-news characters from the LA underworld. They’d put his talents with a camera to new uses. Plenty of rich people were being naughty in the City of Angels, and if Mac caught them on film, well . . . They would hand the mob a whole lot of cash to get hold of that footage. Mac took two per cent of the payout, and the film was filed under ‘Forgotten’ . . . at least until the next time. It was easy work.
Only when a new gang from the Midwest breezed in and took charge did things turn sour; only this last year, when the Kid showed up.
From that point, the stuff Mac was paid to shoot had moved beyond simple blackmail. Stuff that could turn the hardest guts. How many times had Mac had been forced to relive the violence frame by frame at the print lab downtown, making movie prints from the negatives . . .
Through the viewfinder, Mac watched the girl turn to greet a man who’d just walked up behind her – and felt a rush of nausea. The cigarette fell from his slack lips.
‘That’s Louie.’ He turned to the Kid and the big guy, who was holding a rifle now, a Browning automatic. ‘Louie Weiss. He’s a good buddy of mine—’
‘I know,’ said the Kid, smiling now. ‘Such a good buddy, you let him work your shift in the print lab two days ago. The bad news is, the day he does, a whole lot of film reels go missing.’
‘I don’t know a thing about—’
‘Shut up.’ The Kid pointed to the camera. ‘Get shooting.’
‘But—’
‘Now.’
Mac’s heart smacked a sick beat against his ribs as his fingers curled around the leather handle of the Parvo. The magazine rattled and whirled as he turned the crank handle, feeding out the film at sixteen frames per second. Louie stood square in the camera’s eyepiece, pin-sharp at the window beside his new girl; he’d told Mac he was seeing someone new, sounded real up about it . . .
‘All right, I asked Louie to cover me.’ Mac’s grip on the camera was tight and sweaty. ‘I was sick, see? I was sick real bad.’ He was willing Louie to look up and see the Browning’s barrel zeroing in, to get the hell away. ‘Please . . .’
Louie did look up, right at Mac with his camera. The frown on his face froze as a gunshot cracked out. A hole blew open in Louie’s lined forehead and he jerked backwards, lost from sight. The girl opened her mouth to shriek – as a second blast from the Browning tore through flesh and fake pearls. The girl was blown sideways, clutching her gory neck as she fell.
Numb as he gazed on through the eyepiece, Mac realized at last that he was still filming. He slammed the Parvo down on the rooftop, turned angrily towards the Kid.
Straight into the swing of a baseball bat.
With a sickening smack, Mac’s nose broke open. The world spun. In a blink Mac was laid out on the roof, choking on his own blood. The big guy loomed over him, the rifle in one hand, Mac’s camera clamped in the other. Then the Kid stepped forward.
‘There was a whole pile of movies due to be printed and sent out that day.’ The Kid was still wielding the bat; something else he must’ve snuck up here. ‘Guess what, Mac? The wrong film cans went to the wrong addresses. And one extra-sensitive reel of film is nowhere to be found.’
‘Sensitive?’ His head splitting, Mac struggled to his feet, dabbed uselessly at his pouring nose. ‘You mean, the one that was s’posed to go to the private mailbox?’
‘What happened to it?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Did you and Louie think you could blackmail us?’
‘No! I swear it. Look, Louie doesn’t read so well – maybe he . . .’ Still grappling with the sickening rush of events, Mac turned back to the gloomy apartment across the street and the grisly figures sprawled inside. ‘I guess Louie messed up.’
‘I guess you both did.’ The big guy was holding the movie camera in both hands now, ready to start rolling. ‘I think Mac is telling us the truth, Kid. Which means that little movie could’ve been sent out to any one of God knows how many addresses . . .’
‘Let me go,’ Mac pleaded. ‘Come on, I won’t squeal.’
‘You won’t squeal, huh, Mac?’ The Kid raised his baseball bat, motioned to the big guy, and the camera’s whirr rose again into the night. ‘But maybe you’ll scream . . .?’
Mac turned but had nowhere to run. He heard the hard whistle of the bat as it swung into his ribs, felt the snapping deep inside. He couldn’t breathe – so he couldn’t even shout out as a further blow pulverized his left kneecap. Reeling, Mac teetered on the roof edge. For a second he caught sight of the Kid’s smiling face, and the neon gleam on the Parvo’s lens.
Then he was flying from the third storey. Straight down.
When Mac opened his eyes he’d hit the sidewalk. Paralysed, broken in a spreading puddle of blood, he heard sirens wail like the city’s last salute.
Should’ve brought a coat, Mac thought again as the first specks of rain bounced off his eyeballs. Should’ve brought the drink. Such lousy goddamn weather for May.
‘ARE YOU JAMES Bond?’ The girl in the trouser suit ran across the old courtyard, flushed and smiling. ‘The new starter, just arrived from Paddington?’
‘Afraid so.’ Taken aback, James looked into her dark, striking eyes. She was about his age, and almost as tall, with bobbed black hair. ‘Yes, I’m Bond. And you?’
‘My name’s Beatrice Judge. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. Welcome to Dartington Hall.’
With a grunt of anger, she punched him in the stomach.
Caught unprepared, James staggered back. A ragtag of girls and boys descended and grabbed his arms. They slammed him up against an ivy-clad wall and stood in a tight semicircle, blocking his way.
James didn’t struggle, more bemused than concerned. Dartington Hall was supposed to be a progressive school – a no-uniforms, co-ed, anything-goes kind of place. But he supposed it would have its traditions, just like anywhere else, and maybe ragging the new boy was one of them.
The girl pushed through the little scrum, her handsome face hardened, trying to intimidate, James supposed.
‘Listen, Beatrice.’ He smiled briefly and coldly. ‘The train to Totnes took hours, the cab from the station broke down on the way, and now I’m supposed to have an entrance interview in the school office. Whatever joke you’re playing—’
He broke off as she pulled a knife from her jacket pocket and waved it in his face – once a table knife, it had been filed to a murderous point. ‘Does this look like a joke, Bond?’
James nodded past her. ‘Perhaps you should try asking that teacher?’
The lie was hardly inspired, but it was enough to distract. As his attackers glanced behind, James knocked Beatrice’s arm aside and shoved her backwards. She fell against her friends, while James turned to the wall and grabbed thick handfuls of ivy. He scaled the brickwork in seconds; the old, gnarled branches gave excellent footholds and the vines would’ve held his weight twice over.
Or three times, it seemed, as Beatrice Judge and two of the burlier boys from her rabble were climbing after him.
What was their problem with him being here?
It couldn’t be greater than my own, he reflected.
It was the third week of June, and James was due to start the next school year at Fettes College in Edinburgh in September. Fettes sounded a lot like Eton, his last boarding school, and held for him neither fear nor a good deal of interest. In James’s book, school was somewhere you did well enough to get by until you were old enough to get the hell out. Now he’d been slung out of Eton, forced to start over. And after all he had been through, James had hoped to have the whole summer to relax before making for Scotland. But Aunt Charmian, his guardian, had business in Mexico and had arranged for him to board here at Dartington in the meantime. She knew someone high up at the school, and hinted heavily that a deal had been struck of which James would approve.
Much as he loved Aunt Charmian, right now he wasn’t holding his breath.
James hauled himself onto the roof and crossed the rain-slicked slates, working out his next move. On the far side of the building the wall was clear of ivy, but a drainpipe offered a quick route to the ground.
He waited, taking in the wider view. The school comprised a large quadrangle set amid acres of rolling Devon countryside. The entrance tower was smart and whitewashed, but many of the buildings on the grounds were as mouldering and creeper-clad as any stately home. Clearly ‘progressive’ here did not mean modern.
A scuffling at the rooftop edge alerted James to the arrival of Beatrice and her backup. He straightened, turned to face them. ‘Care to tell me what this is about?’
‘Care about this, you Eton reject.’ Flanked by her friends, Beatrice advanced steadily. ‘I’m not going to let you just waltz in here and take my place.’
‘Your place?’ James held his ground. ‘I’m only here for a fortnight. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
James didn’t resist as the two boys gripped his arms, biding his time. They were strong, but he could sense their unease.
‘I was down as one of the four,’ Beatrice went on. ‘I don’t board here like the rest of them, see? Different class – I live local, in Totnes. That’s what marked me out. Then we’re told you’re coming here and suddenly I’m dropped. The chance of a lifetime and it goes to you. Like the good stuff always goes to people like you.’
At that, James almost laughed out loud.
‘So . . . I want you to tell the school you won’t go.’
James raised an eyebrow, felt it brush against the curl of dark hair that hung down as always over his forehead. ‘Go where?’
Beatrice nodded to the boys, who started dragging James back to the edge of the roof. ‘If you refuse to take the trip, I’ll be back in.’
‘In your nice padded cell, you mean?’ James shook his head. ‘I think you should know, I don’t like being told what to do.’
‘Be reasonable, Bond.’ Beatrice followed him to the precipice. ‘A fall from here won’t kill you, but it’ll break plenty. You won’t be fit to travel, and I’ll be back on the trip.’
‘What trip, for heaven’s sake?’ The crowd had dispersed; James was staring down at bare flagstones twenty feet below. ‘You think the school will let you do anything after you’ve tried to cripple me?’
‘It’s your word against ours.’ The knife was back in Beatrice’s hand. ‘We’ll say you were showing off up here to impress us, and you slipped.’
‘Well, it is slippery up here . . .’ Suddenly James jerked his right shoulder forward, pivoting on his left foot as he tore his arms free. The rapid turn caused both boys to lose their footing. James booted one up the backside and sent him sprawling into the other; the pair collapsed perilously close to the roof edge. Beatrice swiped at him with the knife but James dodged and kicked her feet from under her. As she went down, he turned and sprinted for the other side of the roof. He had no idea what Beatrice was talking about, but he wasn’t about to humour her a moment longer.
‘How’s this for showing off?’ James swung himself over the ledge, caught hold of the drainpipe and shinned down it, dropping the last six feet. He landed lightly with a crunch of gravel, then ran for the cover of the nearest building, more engaged than afraid: challenge, fight and flight, and he had barely been in this stupid school five minutes! A mystery too, just to add some unexpected spice. What was this trip Beatrice was so concerned with?
Curious, James peered out from behind the wall. No sign of Beatrice and friends still on the roof. Were they waiting for him to sidle back for his entrance interview at the office?
Perhaps a tour of the grounds first, James decided.
As he walked the length of the building, he saw that it contained a number of classrooms. The pupils inside were dressed casually, and James thought briefly of the miserable starched collars and top hat he’d had to wear at Eton. He paused at the end of the block, peering in; there were at least four teachers working with different groups, though James’s attention was fixed mainly on the girls. To see so many here was a strange and arresting sight after years of boys-only boarding. A blonde was looking at him now with some interest. She was cool, with haughty good looks and long hair, a little older than him – maybe sixteen.
She gave him a smile. James didn’t return it. For all he knew, every girl in the school was out to break his limbs on the flimsiest of excuses.
‘There he is!’ Beatrice and the boys were back.
James gave a cheery wave he hoped was infuriating and ran across a yard towards a cluster of old buildings. The largest bragged a portico, an open-fronted gallery supported by columns on the outer wall.
‘Shall we see if you have more luck pushing me from this roof?’ he called recklessly. As he gripped the nearest column and shinned up onto the portico, he wondered if the blonde girl in the classroom was still watching him.
‘Who cares?’ he muttered.
Without a backward glance, James scrambled across onto the flat roof of the neighbouring building; it smelled of horses. He ran lightly across the old planking – then gasped as rotten wood splintered underfoot and he plunged through it into darkness.
JAMES KNEW THAT a drop from this height would make Beatrice’s dreams come true; he flailed about for anything that could break his fall. His fingers chanced on a roof beam. There was a painful lurch through his upper body as he gripped on hard, dangling high above the hay-strewn ground.
Ridiculously, given his predicament, and not for the first time, James found himself wondering why he felt this endless compulsion to take risks. There had to be some other, kinder way to bring colour to life . . .
‘Good God!’ The cry carried over the restless shift of startled horses. ‘Where’d you drop in from?’
James, clinging still to the rafters, peered into the gloom. A figure was sitting outside one of the stalls, looking up from a large book he’d been reading by torchlight.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said James. ‘I don’t suppose you could move some of those haybales to soften my landing?’
The figure dropped the book indignantly. ‘Do I look as though I’m built for hard labour?’
James realized the boy had not been sitting after all, but was standing. He was a dwarf, his body wide and compact, his hair a dark, unruly thatch.
James raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You’re . . .’
‘Hugo Grande – by name, if not by nature.’ With sudden, obliging urgency Hugo set about constructing a haystack below James. ‘Wherever did you blow in from? Wouldn’t be Eton by any chance, would it?’
James let go of the beam, landed safely in the hay and rolled over onto the dirty ground. ‘Seems like everyone here has me at a disadvantage.’
‘So you’re the fabled James Bond.’ Eyes bright with interest below his thick brows, Hugo held out a hand to help James up. ‘Parents sent you here as a last resort, eh?’
‘Aunt, actually.’
‘Ah. Orphan, then?’ Hugo spoke bluntly with no trace of awkwardness. ‘That’s rough, James. Well, I’m sure your aunt’s decent.’
‘She is. As a rule.’ James rubbed the tender leg he’d put through the roof. ‘I’m glad you were here to help, but shouldn’t you be in lessons?’
‘Bunking off,’ Hugo said cheerfully. ‘Cosy here in the stables. And no one cares if you skip classes.’
‘There’s no punishment?’
‘For demonstrating one’s independence? Naturally not! No rules and regs at Dartington Hall. To the progressive mind they’re Tyrannous and Restrictive.’ Hugo lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Although, James, I’m afraid there’s one girl who may be keen to give you a whipping.’
‘Beatrice Judge? She’s already tried.’ James flexed his leg and glanced towards the door.
‘Steer clear of that one – brutish little psycho. Well, I say “little” . . .’
‘What’s it all about, Hugo?’
Hugo looked surprised. ‘Why, you’re taking her place on the Great Expedition, of course. Your aunt’s thick with Gillian, they sorted it out between them.’ He held out his arms expansively. ‘You, my dear James, are going on the adventure of a—’
‘Shhh.’ James had heard a noise at the stable doors. ‘Someone’s coming.’
‘Could be Beatrice! Hide!’ Hugo immediately hurled himself at the haystack and tried to burrow inside. But James held his ground and curled his fingers into fists as the door creaked loudly open and—
‘James Bond?’ The words had an American drawl. A petite woman with strong features stepped into the stable. She wore cream trousers with wide legs pleated at the top, a multi-coloured blouse, and several bead necklaces. Her long red hair was only partly tamed by the floral headscarf she wore. ‘I’m Gillian de Vries, the Director of Education here at Dartington Hall.’
James relaxed and inclined his head. ‘How do you do, Miss . . .?’
‘Just Gillian, please.’ She looked past him to where two legs were protruding from the hay. ‘Have you lost something . . . er, Hugo?’
‘Only my dignity!’ Hugo burst out and dusted himself down. ‘Sorry, Gillian – we thought you were Beatrice Judge.’
‘Ah! No. I just intercepted her and her friends; a witness with a weak stomach came and told me what was happening. I’ve sent them to the Head for . . . further discussion. James, you must give your side of the story, of course.’ Gillian suddenly seemed to notice his dishevelled state. ‘You’re hurt?’
‘Not by Beatrice.’ James glanced ruefully at the hole in the roof.
‘I see.’ Gillian nodded. ‘There were once sheets of corrugated iron protecting that old wood. But some of the children used them for rafting on the River Dart and never put them back.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Nothing broken?’
James shook his head.
‘Shame! That would be a lesson learned, wouldn’t it?’ Her laugh was an earthy chuckle. ‘Not to worry.’
‘The poor fellow does worry,’ Hugo piped up, ‘as to why a local girl would attack him the moment he—’
‘All right, I’ll take things from here, Hugo. Off you go.’
Hugo looked aghast. ‘To lessons?’
‘It’s a big ask, I know. But perhaps you could give it a try.’ As Hugo left, shaking his head, Gillian turned to James. ‘So. Your entrance interview.’ She sat down, neatly and cross-legged, in the straw, and gestured to a rickety old chair in the corner. ‘Save ourselves a walk, shall we?’
James couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘If you like . . . Gillian,’ he said, pulling up the chair and sitting down.
‘I suppose that after the rigidity of Eton, the way we do things at Dartington Hall will be something of a culture-shock for you. If you feel uncomfortable, I hope you’ll say so.’ Gillian’s appraising gaze searched out James’s face; he saw her eyes linger on the scar on his cheek. ‘Why were you expelled, James?’
For a moment, James longed to let it all out; to talk of the plots, their course and filthy currents, that had dragged him down close to death . . . of the maid at Eton who’d proved to be so much more . . . Then he took a hold of himself. He wasn’t about to rake over those embers any time soon.
‘I can’t really talk about it. Forbidden.’ James tapped his nose. ‘Official Secrets Act.’
‘Ah! I see.’ Gillian smiled. Clearly, she thought James was joking. ‘Well, I hope in time that we’ll pry out some details of your time at Eton. It’s your background that offers such an intriguing contrast to our other three subjects . . .’
‘Subjects?’ James frowned. ‘Is this something to do with the trip Beatrice mentioned?’
‘Poor Bea got wind of the trip prematurely – she was only ever an outside possibility.’ A shadow passed over Gillian’s face. ‘I’m afraid there’s no convincing her that you didn’t conspire from afar to steal her place.’
‘Her place where? What is this trip?’
‘Aha! Well, we’re all rather excited here, James.’ Gillian had brightened again. ‘The Head has sanctioned a rather special school expedition. Five of us will be visiting Dr Tobias Leaver, the great American philanthropist and experimental educationalist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘I was a student of his in San Francisco, long before I came to England. He’s been a huge inspiration to me over the years . . .’ She smiled self-consciously. ‘In any case, Dr Leaver currently runs a progressive academy in Los Angeles under the patronage of Mr Anton Kostler. Through his partnership with Kostler’s Allworld company, he’s already founded academies with a reputation for excellence in Kenya and Australia, and he’s planning others . . .’
Kostler, Allworld . . . The names chimed in James’s head. ‘You mean, Anton Kostler the Hollywood producer?’
‘That’s right. Executive-in-Chief of Allworld Studios.’ Gillian knelt up in the straw, her smile growing wider. ‘A fully fledged “movie mogul”, and a passionate supporter of progressive education to boot. He’s looking to build more academies across the world, and Dr Leaver hopes to persuade him to invest in Dartington Hall – subject to some research into our current methods and pupils.’
‘Why doesn’t Dr Leaver just come here to see us?’ James wondered.
‘Because Mr Kostler has the final say in all his enterprises, and feels he can’t possibly spare the time to make a trip to England.’ Gillian rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘Happily, he allows us lesser mortals to make a pilgrimage to him. And more happily still, the timing is propitious for the ride of a lifetime . . .’
James was starting to see where she was headed. ‘This trip Beatrice mentioned . . .?’
‘We leave in under a fortnight – hitching a transatlantic lift to Los Angeles aboard Mr Kostler’s personal zeppelin, as it passes through on studio business.’ Gillian smiled and extended her hand. ‘That is, if you’re willing to travel with us . . .?’
Travel to America, in an airship? James felt the familiar flicker of excitement as his lips stretched into the first genuine smile he’d given in an age. Fair enough, Aunt Charmian, he thought. You were right after all. Thank you.
‘I’m willing, Gillian.’ James rose from his chair and shook her hand. ‘Willing the next two weeks away already.’
LATER, LOOKING BACK, James would remember Dartington Hall as chiefly a sunlit place. His brief spell there – barely twelve days in all – felt such an escape from the strict expectations of Eton.
There was no sense of oppressive authority; the teachers were as soft as wool and endlessly encouraging. Pupils were viewed as individuals pursuing their own ends within the community, largely governing themselves. James was astounded to find there was no fagging, no rushing to obey when an older boy bellowed for service. The only running James had done was round the grounds before lessons each morning for his own enjoyment.
Like seniors of both sexes, he was billeted in a large, modern, quadrangular building called Foxhole, all smart red brick and gleaming grey roof-tiles. His study-bedroom was small, with cheap, modern furniture; there was no sense of history trying to smother you with its musty blanket of tradition here. And while it felt strange to have girls around, as both neighbours and classmates, the novelty was enjoyable – particularly since Beatrice Judge now gave him a very wide berth. After their run-in and her subsequent talk with the Head, she’d been acting the model pupil. Well, good luck to her, thought James – just so long as she left him alone.
That went for everyone else too. Because his stay was so short, James saw no need to make any new relationships. He’d stayed cordial with classmates, and found Hugo agreeable company, but had no real desire to make new friends. Friendship meant trust, and trust could be betrayed. It was a lesson James had already learned the hard way.
Never again.
For James, Dartington Hall was perhaps the closest he’d ever come to freedom. He’d been entered for Eton at birth by his father; how differently his life might have gone if he’d been sent here! But Eton was all about tradition and old values. Stability had been what his parents wanted for their son, and James felt sure they would never have endorsed a school that encouraged dissent and questioning.
Whatever, his days at Dartington remained golden in James’s mind.
Almost up until their very end.
On the afternoon before the Great Expedition began, James lay on his stomach alone in the fresh-cut grass watching the other pupils about their business. He liked to take the details all around him and compile a profile of the living moment: a game of roller-hockey in play on the roof of the gymnasium . . . some boys nearby, scuffling in a feebly plotted fight . . . a group of girls by the pond, laughing and gossiping around a gramophone, enjoying the sunshine.
‘Now’ was the only time that truly mattered, James reflected. The past was a cold and bloody place; why linger there? History only mattered in as much as it shaped you as a person: the person who must face up to whatever fate – and a well-meaning aunt – was going to throw at you . . .
‘So – ready to go, new boy?’
The low female voice brought him sharply from his thoughts. James rolled over to find a barefoot girl looking down at him; the girl he’d noticed in the classroom on his first day. He’d seen her around a lot since. Her blonde hair was centre-parted, with deep waves, and pulled back into clusters of smaller curls at the base of her neck. A simple, custard-yellow dress accentuated her slender form, the hem brushing around her calves. There were smears of black around the hips where she’d obviously wiped dirt from her still-grubby hands.
‘Ready to go?’ James crossed his arms behind his head and gazed up at her. ‘I’ve been ready to go since I got here.’
‘Well.’ A half-smile pulled at her lips. ‘Just thought I’d make the effort to introduce myself before we fly off into the blue tomorrow. I’m Boudicca. Boudicca Pryce.’
‘Boudicca? I thought it was Boadicea?’
She sighed, looking weary. ‘If we’re talking about the first-century warrior queen of the Iceni, take it from me – Boadicea is a medieval misprint of her real name, which happens to be Boudicca. My parents are language scholars, you see.’
‘Right.’ James nodded, thought back to dull hours at Eton spent wrestling with Roman histories. ‘Doesn’t the name mean “Victorious”?’
‘It means my parents smile smugly every time they’re told they spelled it wrong.’ Boudicca shrugged. ‘I let my friends call me Boody; it’s easier and annoys the hell out of my father.’ She held out a black-smeared hand. ‘And you, so rumour has it, are . . .’
‘James. James Bond.’ He took her hand and shook it, noting the smuts and broken fingernails. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t get those studying languages.’
‘I prefer workshops to libraries.’ She sat down beside him. ‘How have you found Dartington Hall?’
James shrugged. ‘I’ve hardly been here long enough to notice.’
‘Oh?’ She looked at him, and he saw the blue eyes held flecks of hazel. ‘I’ve seen you about, new boy. You stay quiet. Keep in the background. But you’re always watching. It’s as if . . . you’re expecting trouble.’
Old habits die hard, thought James, with a pang of unease at her scrutiny. ‘Perhaps if I’d watched more closely, I’d have noticed you spying.’
‘I wasn’t.’ Red prickled on her cheeks as she looked away. ‘I just use my eyes.’
James nodded and pointed to her oil-stained palms. ‘And your hands?’
‘I’m interested in machines,’ she explained, rubbing at an especially black smudge. ‘So much power and precision. I like to know how they work. Zeppelins, for example . . .’ She grinned. ‘Do you remember the Graf Zeppelin landing at Hanworth in ’32 for the twenty-four-hour round-Britain flight?’
James smiled. ‘I went to see it arrive.’
‘Me too!’ Boudicca laughed. ‘I longed to be on board, but at forty pounds a ticket, my killjoy parents wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Well, now your chance has come!’ James shook his head, wonderingly. ‘Imagine, we’ll clear the Atlantic in just two and a half days.’
‘Top air-speed of eighty miles per hour.’ Boudicca smiled. ‘Of course, if my mother drove us in her Sunbeam, we’d probably make it in twenty-four hours straight!’
‘What’s she got?’
‘Six-cylinder, four-seater coupé. In racing red.’
‘Nice.’ James knew the type. ‘I’ve acquired a Bentley Mark IV. It’s with a friend right now. But it goes like a dream.’
Boudicca snorted. ‘You’re too young to drive!’
‘Perhaps I have a maturity beyond my years.’
‘Perhaps.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Mother won’t let me out on the road until my seventeenth, next year. Still, she thinks I’ll pass that wretched driving test without too much fuss.’ She closed her eyes and tutted. ‘When you’re clever at passing tests, parents come to expect it.’
‘Do they?’
The words came out harder than James had meant, and Boudicca noticed. ‘That sounded vain, didn’t it? Sorry. False modesty is more becoming.’
‘Perhaps. But honesty’s more refreshing.’ James saw that her eyes had lost a little of their glacial tint. ‘Is that why you were chosen for our trip – all those tests you’ve passed? Or because if the engines break down we can let you loose with a spanner?’
‘I suppose it’s unusual for a girl to be interested in engineering,’ she considered. ‘It was the ethos here at Dartington that encouraged me along that path. Plus – just to add to that refreshing honesty – academically I’m in the top two per cent here. So’s Hugo – only I have to work like hell at it, and he doesn’t.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Dr Leaver is interested in the effects of his dwarfism on his education. Hugo says his parents only sent him here so he can join a better class of circus when he leaves.’
‘Sounds like Hugo,’ James agreed, ‘putting himself down before others try.’
Boudicca looked at him. ‘And so to you. Why are you on board, new boy – background more than brains?’
‘Gillian says that Dr Leaver wants to measure my Eton education against your unconventional schooling. Though my aunt knows the old boy, so I don’t know how many strings she’s pulled or how hard.’ He stretched out on the grass. ‘Still, there it is, and I’m not going to turn down a trip like this for the likes of Beatrice Judge and her foot-stamping.’
‘You had a close call. She’s dangerous.’
‘I’ve known worse.’
‘Well, anyway, you’re not the only one coming along because of who he knows.’ Boudicca smiled wryly. ‘Daniel Sloman represents a “typical” Dartington Hall pupil. But by “wild coincidence”, his uncle is Stuart Sloman – soon to be one of Anton Kostler’s screenwriters at Allworld Studios.’
‘Well, fancy that,’ said James. ‘What’s Danny-boy like?’
‘He’s all right. A bit full of himself. Wants to be an actor. Or rather, he wants to be a star.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘Dan’s put on lots of shows and founded a film club here. Leading-man looks too.’
James smiled wanly. ‘I hate him already.’
‘You should love him, new boy,’ Boudicca teased. ‘See, Kostler sent the zeppelin to transport movie bigwigs from all over Europe for some grand event he’s throwing. He wants his new screenwriter in Hollywood as soon as possible, and since there’s just about space on board, we’re allowed to tag along.’
James was impressed. ‘So our fellow travellers are all in the movie business? Our trip is sounding more glamorous by the moment. What’s Stuart Sloman written?’
‘Oh, nothing I’ve heard of. Stage plays and low-budget film stuff. He’s been writing for years, working in Dan’s father’s chain of cinemas to pay the rent. This is a dream break for him.’
‘And for us, Boudicca!’ James declared.
‘Mmm.’ She paused, studying her palms again. ‘The girls all talk about you, you know. Boys too. There you stand: tall, dark, tantalizingly aloof, with a mysterious past . . . I was starting to wonder if you weren’t simply pretty-but-dull, someone to avoid on this trip wherever possible.’
‘So that’s why you came over – to see?’ James searched out those cool blue eyes. ‘And the verdict?’
‘You can call me Boody, new boy.’ Abruptly, she rose and brushed loose grass from her dress with brief, precise gestures. ‘Now, I must finish packing.’
‘I suppose I should start.’ James had been reminded by Gillian that all suitcases would be collected at six tonight to be weighed and loaded aboard the zeppelin – hand luggage only was permitted on boarding tomorrow.
He got to his feet. Boody looked at him. ‘When you’re through, you should come to Dan’s film club tonight.’
‘Film club?’
‘It’s held down in the basement beneath the common room. When his dad’s cinemas made the switch to sound movies, Dan inherited a silent projector and a lot of old silent shorts to play on it. And tonight . . .’ Boody’s smile held secrets. ‘Dan’s invited Hugo and me to a special screening after hours. I’m sure he won’t mind you joining us, since we’re all to travel together. I mean, I don’t know what Dan’s got hold of, but it’s sure to be fun.’
It was a friendly offer, James reflected.
Friendship meant trust. Trust could be betrayed.