Читать книгу Perfect - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 17

It’s been one hour since Mary May left with my beloved granddad in tow, carting him off as if he’s some kind of criminal. I’m still huddling behind the tree, exhausted, hungry, cold, and very afraid. I can smell the smoke from the pit, smouldering under the earth, cooking the food that probably no one will eat now that Granddad is gone. I feel an overwhelming guilt at his being in this position, and I’m scared of what they’ll do to him in Highland Castle.

I’m scared, too, of what he might be thinking. Does he fear he burned me alive? I wish there was a way to tell him I wasn’t there, in the pit.

When all the vehicles left, initially I was afraid to move, thinking it was a test or a tease, that as soon as I came out of the woodwork they’d grab me. Then I waited, thinking perhaps the farmworkers would come for me, but they didn’t, in lockdown at this hour by their Whistleblower, Dan.

It’s after the 11:00 PM curfew, the time when checkpoints and searches on individuals increase. It’s not a good time to be roaming alone, though at least I can move around under the cover of darkness. I’ve decided that going back to the farmhouse is out of the question, despite its warmth and the welcoming light on the porch.

Perhaps I can make it to Granddad’s nearest neighbour. Can I trust them for help?

But then what did Granddad tell me? Rule number one: Don’t trust anybody.

Suddenly I hear a vehicle return. A door slams. Followed by two more. They’re back. I feel so stupid now. Why didn’t I run? Why did I allow them to return to get me?

I hear footsteps nearby. Male voices I don’t recognise, and then one that I do, clear as anything.

“Here’s the pit,” Dahy says. “She was in here.”

Can I trust Dahy? Or is he the one who called the Whistleblowers in the first place? Has he sold me out, or has he been forced to help another Whistleblower team to find me? I don’t know who to believe. I’m cold; I’m scared; I could either jump up and yell “Save me!” and ruin everything I’ve done to get to this point, or I could sit tight. Sit tight. Sit tight.

“She must have gone into the forest,” another man says.

I see the light from a torch stretch in front of me, illuminating the black forest for what seems like hundreds of miles. Tall, thick tree trunks for as far as the eye can see. Even if I run that way and the Whistleblowers don’t see me, I’ll be lost in no time.

It’s over, Celestine; it’s over.

But even though I tell myself that, I’ll never give up. I think of Crevan’s face as he hissed at me in the Branding Chamber asking me to repent; I think of Carrick’s hand pressed up against the glass as he watched it all unfold, the offer of friendship. The anger burns through me; I hear the footsteps near my tree and I unfold myself from my cramped position. I stretch my arms and legs, and on one, two … I fire myself out of the hole, catapulting into the woods, startling whatever is living nearby and I sprint with stiff legs.

The men jump into action straight away.

“There!”

The torch moves to find me; I dodge its line of fire and instead use it to see what’s in front of me. I dodge trees’ long, thin pine needles; duck and dive; and hear them closing in fast behind me.

“Celestine,” a voice hisses angrily, coming close. I keep running, I smack my head against a low branch and feel momentarily dizzy, but I don’t have time to stop and centre myself. They’re closing in on me, three of them. Three frenzied torch beams as they run.

“Celestine!” A voice calls louder, and another hushes him.

Why are they hushing? I’m dizzy, I think I’ve cut my head, all I know is that I need to keep running; it’s what my mum told me to do. Granddad said don’t trust anyone. Dad said to trust Granddad. I need to keep moving.

The torches suddenly go off and I’m running in pitch blackness. I stop still, my breathing all I can hear. I don’t know which way is forward or which is back the way I came; I am utterly disorientated in the dense forest. Panic descends again, then I take control. I close my eyes, allowing calm to encapsulate me. I can do this. I turn round, trying to see light from the farmhouse in the distance, or any clues. As I move, twigs snap between my feet.

Then I feel strong arms round my waist, a smell of sweat.

“Got her,” he says.

I fight against his grip, but it’s no use: there’s no room to move. I keep trying anyway, wriggling with all my energy to hopefully exhaust him, hit him, scratch him, kick him.

A torch goes on, someone is shining it in my face. Both my captor and I look away from the harsh light.

“Let her go, Lennox,” says the man holding the torch, and I stop wriggling immediately.

The arms release me, and the torch is passed to Dahy, who holds it so that the speaker is illuminated.

The man is amused.

The man is Carrick.