Read Online South by South East by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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chased the cow away and found Tim’s other shoe. A few minutes later we crossed the field leaving the railway line behind us. There was a gap in the hedge and a lane on the other side. We turned left, following our noses. Actually, Tim’s nose had been stung so badly, it now pointed both ways.
But he didn’t complain. He was limping along beside me, deep in thought. For a long time neither of us spoke. Then, at last, he sighed. “Charlotte!” I’d had a feeling he was thinking about her. “You know, I really think she likes me.”
I shrugged. “Well, she was certainly smiling when she pushed you off the train.”
We reached a crossroads. This time there was a sign. Dover straight ahead. But it didn’t say how far.
“How far do you think it is?” Tim asked.
“It can’t be more than a couple of kilometres,” I said. Tim grimaced. “I’m not sure I can make it, kid. I think I’ve twisted both my ankles.”
I looked down. “No you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve got your shoes on the wrong feet.”
“Oh.”
We walked a little further and suddenly there we were. We were high up with the sea – a brilliant blue – below us. The port of Dover was a knotted fist with a ferry and a hovercraft slipping through its concrete fingers even as we watched. And to our left and to our right, as far as we could see, a ribbon of white stretched out beneath the sun. The White Cliffs of Dover. We had made it to the edge of England. But now we had to go further, over the water and away from home.
We slipped into the crowded port without being noticed. Maybe the police were still waiting for us at the station. Maybe they had given up on us and gone. There was a ferry leaving for Ostend in ten minutes. We took it. Despite what I’d been able to save from the bank robbery, we were getting low on cash so we only bought one-way tickets.
But as I said to Tim, if we didn’t find Charon in Amsterdam, it was unlikely that we would be coming back.
THE SECRET AGENT
To be honest, I’m not crazy about Amsterdam. It’s got too many canals, too many tourists and most of its buildings look like they’ve been built with a Lego set that’s missing half its pieces. Also, the Dutch put mayonnaise on their chips. But if you like bicycles and cobbled streets, flower stalls and churches, I suppose there are worse places you can go.
We arrived the next morning after hitch-hiking up from Ostend. That was one good thing about Amsterdam. After three hours with a lorry driver, a cheese salesman and a professional juggler (who dropped us in the middle of the city) we realized that just about everyone in the place spoke English. This was just as well. Ten minutes after we’d set off in search of the Amstel Ijsbaan, we were hopelessly lost. It wasn’t just that we couldn’t understand the street signs. We couldn’t even pronounce them. We found our way by asking people. Not that that was much help.
Me: “Excuse me. We’re looking for the Amstel Ijsbaan.”
Friendly local: “Go along the canal. Turn left at the canal. Continue until you see a canal. And it’s on a canal.”
There were hundreds of canals and they all looked exactly the same. In fact if you went on holiday in Amsterdam you’d only need to take one photograph. Then you could develop it a few dozen times. We must have walked for an hour and a half before we finally found what we were looking for; a low, square building on the very edge of the city, stretching out into the only open space we’d seen. Like the rest of the place, the sign was old and needed repair. It read: AMS EL IJSBAAN.
“There’s no ‘T’,” I said.
“That’s all right,” Tim muttered. “I’m not thirsty.”
We went in. An old crone was sitting behind the glass window of the ticket office. Either she had a bad skin disease or the window needed cleaning. As Tim went over to her she put down the grubby paperback she had been reading and looked up at him with suspicious eyes.
“
Kan
But he didn’t complain. He was limping along beside me, deep in thought. For a long time neither of us spoke. Then, at last, he sighed. “Charlotte!” I’d had a feeling he was thinking about her. “You know, I really think she likes me.”
I shrugged. “Well, she was certainly smiling when she pushed you off the train.”
We reached a crossroads. This time there was a sign. Dover straight ahead. But it didn’t say how far.
“How far do you think it is?” Tim asked.
“It can’t be more than a couple of kilometres,” I said. Tim grimaced. “I’m not sure I can make it, kid. I think I’ve twisted both my ankles.”
I looked down. “No you haven’t,” I said. “You’ve got your shoes on the wrong feet.”
“Oh.”
We walked a little further and suddenly there we were. We were high up with the sea – a brilliant blue – below us. The port of Dover was a knotted fist with a ferry and a hovercraft slipping through its concrete fingers even as we watched. And to our left and to our right, as far as we could see, a ribbon of white stretched out beneath the sun. The White Cliffs of Dover. We had made it to the edge of England. But now we had to go further, over the water and away from home.
We slipped into the crowded port without being noticed. Maybe the police were still waiting for us at the station. Maybe they had given up on us and gone. There was a ferry leaving for Ostend in ten minutes. We took it. Despite what I’d been able to save from the bank robbery, we were getting low on cash so we only bought one-way tickets.
But as I said to Tim, if we didn’t find Charon in Amsterdam, it was unlikely that we would be coming back.
THE SECRET AGENT
To be honest, I’m not crazy about Amsterdam. It’s got too many canals, too many tourists and most of its buildings look like they’ve been built with a Lego set that’s missing half its pieces. Also, the Dutch put mayonnaise on their chips. But if you like bicycles and cobbled streets, flower stalls and churches, I suppose there are worse places you can go.
We arrived the next morning after hitch-hiking up from Ostend. That was one good thing about Amsterdam. After three hours with a lorry driver, a cheese salesman and a professional juggler (who dropped us in the middle of the city) we realized that just about everyone in the place spoke English. This was just as well. Ten minutes after we’d set off in search of the Amstel Ijsbaan, we were hopelessly lost. It wasn’t just that we couldn’t understand the street signs. We couldn’t even pronounce them. We found our way by asking people. Not that that was much help.
Me: “Excuse me. We’re looking for the Amstel Ijsbaan.”
Friendly local: “Go along the canal. Turn left at the canal. Continue until you see a canal. And it’s on a canal.”
There were hundreds of canals and they all looked exactly the same. In fact if you went on holiday in Amsterdam you’d only need to take one photograph. Then you could develop it a few dozen times. We must have walked for an hour and a half before we finally found what we were looking for; a low, square building on the very edge of the city, stretching out into the only open space we’d seen. Like the rest of the place, the sign was old and needed repair. It read: AMS EL IJSBAAN.
“There’s no ‘T’,” I said.
“That’s all right,” Tim muttered. “I’m not thirsty.”
We went in. An old crone was sitting behind the glass window of the ticket office. Either she had a bad skin disease or the window needed cleaning. As Tim went over to her she put down the grubby paperback she had been reading and looked up at him with suspicious eyes.
“
Kan
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