"Quite good?" Hellebore opened his eyes wide in mock amazement: "Quite good?
I'm the best, Bond. Care to have a race?"
"Not now, Hellebore."
"But that's the test you have to pass, Bond, old boy. You have to win a
"I'm not racing you, Hellebore . . ."
"Who said anything about racing me? You couldn't beat me in a thousand years.
No, you're not racing me." Hellebore whistled and a boy in swimming trunks
shuffled reluctantly over from the bushes where he'd been sheltering. It was Leo
Butcher, a robust, cheerful, round boy who played in the school brass band. Bond
had seen him puffing away at a recent concert given by the Musical Society in
"Hello, Bond," he said sheepishly. It was obvious that he had no more desire
to be here than James.
'Hello, Butcher,' said James.
"The deal is . . ." said Hellebore. "You get to race Butcher."
Bond frowned. Butcher didn't look like much of a swimmer. What was the catch?
"What do you say, Bond?" Hellebore slapped Butcher hard across the shoulders,
and Bond saw him wince with the pain. "A race against fatty Butcher here. The
loser gives me . . ." Hellebore paused for dramatic effect, "let's say, their
Bond glanced at Butcher, who was staring at the ground.
"It should be a fun race," said Hellebore. "But I'll warn you, Bond,
Butcher's good. He's the best." The older boys laughed.
"If it's all the same to you," said James, "I'd rather not . . ."
Hellebore suddenly grabbed James by the hair and forced his head under the
surface. Taken by surprise, James swallowed a mouthful of muddy water. He came
up, coughing and retching.
"You race Butcher, Bond. Or me and my good friends are going to play football
with your head. Understand?" Hellebore grabbed him and pulled him on to the
bank. "So, what's it to be?"
James stood up; George's hands had left red marks on his arms.
"All right," he said quietly.
Hellebore clapped his hands. "Good fellow," he said. "May the best man win."
James and Butcher arranged themselves at the edge of the Mead. Butcher was
shivering madly and his knees were knocking together. James wondered what
threats Hellebore had used to get him to cooperate.
"Are you all set?" Hellebore called out. "Two widths, loser pays out the
Try as he might, James couldn't understand what Hellebore was up to. He could
beat Butcher easily -- the blond American must be planning some kind of trick.
"On your marks, get set . . ." Hellebore stopped suddenly. Butcher was caught
off guard and toppled into the water. Hellebore's pals laughed.
"Oh, I forgot, Bond," said Hellebore as Butcher clambered back out again.
"One more thing."
James looked over at him. Here it came.
"You have to stay under the water."
"You heard me. It's an underwater race. As soon as you come up for air,
you're out of the running. If you don't make it back, then whoever gets the
furthest is the winner."
James looked over at Butcher, who looked away.
Oh, well. It wasn't the end of the world. James still had a chance. Butcher
couldn't be that good, and James was pretty confident that he could hold his
breath for quite a while.
"Set! Go!" shouted Hellebore quickly, and they dived in.
James was ready for the coldness this time, but it was worse having to swim
underwater. He could only see about three inches in front of him; it was like
trying to peer through a particularly vile, greenish-brown fog. Indefinable
scraps and dross floated past in the gloom and he thought he glimpsed a pale
shape far off that could have been Butcher, but it was gone before he could see
it clearly. Slimy weeds brushed against his belly and the thought of the eels
waiting below in the mud made him shudder.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...