NO RANSOM NECESSARY is an
With his mother already dead in mysterious circumstances,
eleven year-old Jonathon Jacob Ashton’s
life is endangered when his father disappears. Certain one of the Trustees of
his original Will must have be involved in this hostile take-over, before he
dies, Charles Ashton signs his company solely to Jon, and appoints his son’s
bodyguard, Nerysa Na-gah Nuwuvi, as
his guardian. From that point, it's just a matter of staying alive long enough
to find out who was responsible and to make sure they pay - and not in any
currency that would be accepted in a bank.
NO RANSOM NECESSARY
JON
WHY RUN WHEN YOU CAN RIDE?
“Jon? What’s up?” asked Toby. In his
red, black and mud coloured kit, he looked unreasonably happy. He ran on the
spot, hands up, head forward and he pretended to kick. “We don’t have all day,
Jon.”
“Right. I’ll get a
jog on,” I said, “just knock it over.”
“You take your time,”
Toby said. He grinned. “Get it right, again. It’s not like anyone is going to
be blame us, if you miss.”
It was the final
rugby match of the season. The touchline was packed with Tudors. These days,
that only happened at Tudor School. Dressed in their Founders’ Day costumes of
doublets and capes, it looked like every Tudorian for the last four hundred
years had come to support the team. They were doing a great job of putting me
off my game. First, they’d been shouting and dancing. Then they began chanting
my name: Ashton, Ashton.
Earlier, I'd made the mistake
of looking across at them. The supporters were doing a zombie-style shuffle,
clawing at their scarves and creeping forward. They were chanting:
Ashton! Ashton!
It sounded more like
a threat than encouragement.
No problem. With a
quick count, I worked out that at least two hundred people I could see were
relying on me. I only had to kick to convert the try.
That was the truth,
they expected me to win. It wasn’t just because the fly-half was kicking. It
was because I was kicking – Charlie Ashton’s son.
First, I had to
breathe: I figured I should start with the easy stuff. I rolled my shoulder to loosen
them and swung my arms. The pain in my back eased up. The one near my heart was
harder to make go away but that was just the sad thing.
It was time to shoot. I paced back, careful
to control the arc. When I was standing in the sweet spot, the patch of grass
containing the exact spot to being my run from, I held up my hands and linked my
fingers into one tight fist. I eyed the shot, carefully.
Along the line of my arms, I saw my
Head Teacher, Mr Miller, hurrying down from the main school building. There was
another man, shorter than the headmaster, jogging behind him.
He looked familiar, just not familiar
enough. Dad must have sent him.
I couldn't wait for them to get to the
pitch. There were only five minutes left on the clock. Five minutes were better
than none. I kept my breathing steady. Kept control. I tried to block out the
distractions so I could reach the place where kicking the ball between two
posts and over the bar felt easy.
Leaning into my heel, I rocked and
prepared to run.
Concentration complete, I found the
quiet. I eyed the line that was invisible to everyone else. The seam on the
ball was the most important thing in my universe.
Considering how little time was left,
this kick would win it for us. As long as it kept on the line and the ball
didn’t wobble out of orbit.
That was when the crowd went silent.
