Breakdown (17 page)

‘Maybe it's Tarquin,' Lenny says.

‘Get into the kitchen. If it isn't, get out the back, keep on running and don't come back. You hear?'

Lenny goes ashen grey, shakes his head. ‘No,' he whispers. ‘I ain't gonna leave you.'

‘Yes, you will,' I say. ‘Someone's got to keep on going, now we've escaped from the underworld.' I cup his little face in my hands, thrust his book at him. ‘Take the Torch, like they did from Olympia.'

Lenny looks at me blankly. I push him towards the kitchen. ‘Shush. Just go.'

I stand up. The noise continues, like someone's creeping around outside the door. If it's Tarquin, it's OK. If not I'll give Lenny as good a start as I can.

I choose a pan, heavy cast-iron. I creep back to the dining room, wait behind the door, pan raised. I'll bash their head in. I stand there poised, arm raised. The room fills with the steam of noodles, the thumping of my heart. The door creaks. If it was Tarquin he'd have spoken out by now. Surely? Someone steps into the room.

I don't wait.
He who hesitates is lost.
I bring the pan down.

A hand catches my arm, twists. I drop the pan. It clangs to the floor.

‘Hey, it's me.' Tarquin yanks me towards him, doesn't let go.

I didn't know I was holding my breath. We stand there for a split second, almost touching.

Lenny lets out a little whoop, darts back from the kitchen, throws himself at Tarquin, drags him to the fire.

‘You nearly brained me.'

‘Why didn't you call out?'

‘What if the gang had found you an' was waiting for me to get back?'

‘We got worms,' says Lenny. He holds out the bowl, slops noodles at Tarquin.

And I don't know what's come over me, but I haven't even picked my spoon up. I'm holding back. And I'm smiling.

Lenny stuffs a broken board and a drawer from an old chest on the fire. He fans the flames with his hand. Then with a sheet of cardboard. The smoke billows out into the room and curls up over the mantelpiece. The flames gutter in the hearth. Shadows flicker on the walls.

‘White wiggly worms,' says Lenny.

‘You're soaking,' I say.

Tarquin squats down by the fire, hunches his back, holds his palms to the heat.

I put my hand on his. ‘And cold.'

‘It's snowing out.'

We sit tight together, cross-legged by the fire, eat noodles. Gloopy and slippery and soft. They taste of some distant forgotten flavour. Something I can't quite fix. Something belonging to Nan's world. Hot spice and salt.

They taste good. I'm pretty sure they're OK. They boiled for a long time. Nan says you can eat almost anything if it's been boiled for over five minutes. Except poison. I'm not worried. I'm too hungry to worry.

And I'm happy.

I don't question it. We got out. We found food. We built a fire. Tarquin's back. We're safe. We escaped from the underworld. The noodles fill me up. My stomach must've shrunk to the size of a snail. Suddenly I feel a bit ill. It's not the noodles. It's just that I haven't had anything for a long time.

‘They're out everywhere,' says Tarquin. ‘I didn't get no chance to get nothing much.' He tips out a few potatoes. They're small and have been pulled too early.

‘How bad is it?'

Tarquin glances at Lenny, sees he's not watching. Then he shakes his head. Lenny lifts up his eyes, looks at Tarquin.

‘Where'd you find that?' Tarquin pulls the hood of the fleece down over Lenny's head. Lenny swats his hand off. Tarquin laughs.

‘Missa found it upstairs,' he says.

‘Lenny found the noodles,' I say.

A smile radiates from Tarquin. ‘Clever Lenny. Where'd ya find 'em?'

Lenny beams back. ‘Behind them panels in the wall.'

‘Anything else there? Behind them panels?' Tarquin says.

I look at Lenny. He looks at me.

‘We never checked,' I say. ‘Once we got the noodles.'

‘Look sharp then,' says Tarquin.

Straight away Lenny puts his spoon down, races out of the room. I hear his feet patter down the hall. The door to the front room squeals. So that's where he found the noodles.

I look at Tarquin. He's still smiling. His face softened by the firelight. He looks almost handsome. If only I could freeze time. If only we could stay like this, sitting by the fire, food to eat, the night ahead.

I reach out and touch his hand.

‘Tarquin?'

He raises his eyes and looks at me. They are so huge and dark and soft, like Lenny's.

‘Yeah?'

I don't know what I want to say.

‘They're out there everywhere, Melissa.'

‘It's bad?' I know it is.

‘They're checking all the streets.'

‘This one?'

‘Careem means it.'

‘How long before they get here?'

‘Maybe at dawn.'

‘I see.'

‘I ain't never seen so many posses out in one night.'

Lenny comes back. ‘There's more, but I can't get it.'

Tarquin shovels noodles into his mouth, puts the bowl down. ‘Show me where.'

Lenny races off. Tarquin follows. I pick up the bowl, place it near the hearth to keep it warm. I follow them to the living room.

Another high-ceilinged room. Smashed chandelier. Tall sash windows. Radiators twisted off the walls. Parquet tiling all warped and half gone. Polished marble fireplace, carved in intricate swirling designs.

Behind the old panel boards, another space, tucked so far in that even with an outstretched arm you can't explore it.

‘OK,' says Tarquin. ‘I'm going to smash into the wall. See what's there.' He crosses to the window, checks the street. Listens.

I listen too. Pans banging about a half-mile away.

Tarquin pulls his jacket off, picks up a chair. It's heavy, but he lifts it easily. I watch the muscles across his shoulders bunch and tighten under his T-shirt. He wraps his jacket round the chair leg to muffle the noise. Then whacks the chair at the wall. The panel splinters. A leg falls off the chair. He swings the chair again. His shoulder blade spading out. A line of sinew on his jaw. A glimpse of muscle tight across his cheek.

‘You need a hammer,' I say. ‘There's one in the kitchen that might do.' I go and get it.

Tarquin taps the wall with the club end. He gets the claw foot up under the panelling, holds the broken haft tight. He yanks a panel out.

The board yields with a soft squeal. It splinters open. Tarquin claws with the hammer at the pieces until he has a hole big enough.

Pieces of plaster fall out. Dust. Cobwebs, thick and old.

And inside, dark, small and tightly wrapped: a package.

I don't know why it's wrapped up so tightly. It's too dark to see much. Tarquin carries it back into the dining room. He squats down by the fire. Unwraps the packet. It's tied up, rigid in old plastic. The plastic has split and is sharp and dry with age.

Lenny picks up the bowl of noodles, pecks at it, peers over Tarquin's shoulder. Inside the plastic is a padded envelope of some kind with faded writing on it. Inside that is more plastic.

Tarquin peels it all off carefully, like each layer is food. There's a box inside, tied with string. Doesn't look like anything you can eat.

‘Can't see to undo these knots,' says Tarquin. He shakes the package, then squats close to the light of the fire.

I look away. It's probably old bank notes. They aren't any use, except for lighting fires. I stare at the fireplace, the high marble mantelpiece. The pale oblong space where a mirror once hung. I've got to get out soon. Leave them. Now Tarquin's back I can leave Lenny.

I'd almost decided to try and cross London when they were sleeping. But I can give that idea up. Not with gangs out. I'm not strong enough to fight off a pack of dogs, either. I gnaw at my bottom lip. Try to think my way through. I'm going to have to wait. Tomorrow. I promise myself. Tomorrow. Once we've got clear of this place. Well away from Games City.

I look at Lenny, his matted hair falling over his face. Tarquin still carefully untying the packet. His broad shoulders, his jaw line. I feel a stab of something, like a particle of ice has lodged in my throat. I wish to hell there were a valley in Scotland. I wish to hell we could go there.

Just leave them, I tell myself. The sooner the better. On your own you can survive. Get out. Before you start caring too much. I look at Tarquin. Tall. Tough. He'll manage OK. He doesn't need me. Once he knows there's no cottage, he'll probably dump me anyway. He'll probably leave London and go someplace else.

I've never been outside London. The traders say that for hundreds of miles in every direction there isn't anything. It's all been taken and ransacked. But then they would say that, wouldn't they? They don't want anyone else muscling in on their territory.

All the towns have city boundaries, they say. They defend themselves. They don't let hungry mouths in to eat up their food. The roads have been reclaimed by wind and weather and stubborn plants. If you try squatting in the country, you'll find it tough. All the outlying farms have been burned to stop highway gangers settling there. Highway gangers are everywhere on the road.

Well, that's what they say.

Maybe Tarquin'll join the highway gangers.

He's been living on dogs. There're plenty of them in the city. He can live on them and thieving, I suppose, in London. If Careem didn't find him.

And what about me? I'm going to have to live without Nan. On coupons that I can't cash in. On blighted potatoes.
You can do it
,
I tell myself.
You're safer on your own.
Much safer than mixing with gangers.

A finger of moonlight filters through the clouds, lays a trembling stripe on the floor. It touches Lenny. He sits cross-legged in it, like some strange child God. Lit up in stardust. He raises his head and flashes me such a smile. The ice in my chest hurts. I flick my eyes away.

They'll probably sell you out to the General the minute they know there's no cottage
.

The package lies open, the string neatly balled.

Tarquin is holding something up. ‘Look what we just found,' he says.

I look.

It's a gun.

That changes everything.

With a gun I could get away from here. If anything tried to stop me, I could shoot it. I could go tonight, maybe? After they're asleep?

‘Not much of a gun, though,' Tarquin says. ‘Not a proper one, that's why they wrapped it so tight. Stop it rusting.'

My vision of getting home by morning bursts.

‘It looks like a real gun,' I say hopefully.

‘Yeah,' he says, ‘but it just works on pellets. Look.' He holds up a small container of round silvery balls. He rattles them. ‘It's one of them BB guns.'

‘Can I hold it?' asks Lenny.

‘Yeah.' Tarquin passes him the gun. ‘It ain't loaded.' Lenny weighs it in his hand. ‘Don't like it,' he says. ‘It could hurt my ducks.'

‘Could protect them too,' says Tarquin.

‘Will it shoot?' I say. I've no time for ducks. No use protecting imaginary ducks.

But Lenny's in his magical world. He's standing up and waving the gun around.

‘I'm going to hold the gun,' he says, ‘an' when we get to our cottage, I'm never going to use it on nothing – unless some of those wild dogs come and try and get my pesky squirrels or chase them ducks.' He smiles like he is going to have such fun, sitting on the porch and watching out for stray dogs all day.

‘All right,' says Tarquin, ‘but you gotta let me hold it until we get there.'

‘OK,' says Lenny. ‘OK, you hold it, Tarquin.'

‘Can it kill?' I say.

Tarquin gives me a funny look.

‘It could hurt,' he says. ‘You'd have to shoot at very close range and catch someone right in the neck or eyes, otherwise you'll just fill 'em up with shot.'

‘So it's no use,' I say.

‘It'd hurt a lot if you got filled up with shot.'

I suppose so.

‘Maybe that's all you'd need.'

I think about it. If you hurt an old dog, a wary, seasoned survivor, maybe it'd back off. But young dogs are pushy. They don't stop for much.

‘But we ain't gonna shoot no one, are we?' says Lenny.

Tarquin sighs. He puts the gun inside his shirt, tucks it up under his jeans belt at the back, puts the pellets in his pocket.

‘We're just going to keep it safe,' he says.

We sit round the fire. Put on more skirting board. The flames light up Tarquin's face, dance on Lenny's new top. Nobody looks like they're going to sleep yet. I'm glad. In a weird way I want tonight to last forever.

‘Can I see it?' I say at last.

Tarquin pulls the gun out again and passes it to me. It's warm where it's been pressed against his skin. I have a crazy desire to hold it against my face. I don't.

‘We should load it and keep it there tonight.' I place it on the hearth.

‘In case anyone tries to come in,' says Lenny.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘Keep it handy.'

‘OK.' Tarquin sets about opening up the gun, cleaning it and loading it with pellets.

I fetch more water, boil it and cook more noodles. I shouldn't. But it's kind of like a last supper before I go. 'Specially for Lenny.

‘Feed you up,' I say. ‘Get you ready for the long trek.'

I encourage Lenny to eat twice the amount that's fair. If I can, I'm going to go off with the rest of the noodles and the gun. As soon as I get the chance. So that's only right, isn't it?

‘When we get to the cottage,' says Tarquin, ‘I'll go hunting. I'll catch you something nice and cook ya a supersonic ganger special.'

Lenny rubs his tummy.

‘And we won't have to eat wiggly worms.'

Lenny lets out a clucking noise.

‘I like the worms,' I say.

‘Here.' Tarquin picks out a noodle and dangles it in the air. ‘Open your mouth.'

I open my mouth. He lowers the noodle in. ‘There you go,' he says, ‘my little chick.'

After Lenny sleeps, Tarquin says, ‘How're we getting to Scotland, anyway?'

I bring my head up, sharp.

‘
How was you getting there with your nan?'

Make up something. Anything. You'll be gone tomorrow.

‘We were going on a trading boat,' I say. ‘Nan had links.'

‘Them links still good?'

‘We'll have to check,' I say. ‘Get to the riverbank where they trade.'

‘OK,' says Tarquin. ‘Does the river go all the way?'

I blink.

‘Don't know,' I say. ‘We'll have to find out.'

‘OK. We'll find out.'

He smiles as if he'd like to say more, keep on talking. But instead he makes a space for me to lie down by the fire. ‘You're tired,' he says. ‘Sleep.'

I lie down. I am tired. I close my eyes. As I drift off I hear him murmur, ‘
Alors, à demain, ma belle amie, quand nous allons voyager vers l'avenir, ensemble, sur le grand fleuve du destin. Jusqu'à demain.'
^[1]

I turn my head, sleepily open my eyes.

‘What d'you say?'

‘Just good night.'

He's got his arms wrapped around Lenny. Firelight dancing across his face.

I wake in the night. The room's dark. I feel good – not cold, as I ought to. Though the fire's out. My face and arms aren't squashed or numb with the pressure from the floor. Instead of the floorboards under my head, there's something soft. I sit up. It's the thick curtain, carefully folded. Around me a coat.

Someone has lifted up my head, gently. Somebody with the softest of touches has tucked the curtain in, pillowed my cheek, covered my shoulders.

I look through the gloom, make out the shape of the gun laid ready on the hearth. The last packet of noodles. I should take them.

Go.

Now.

I look at Tarquin, curled up around Lenny.

Coatless.

And I can't do it.

Not now. Not like this.

Before dawn, we leave through the back. Sleet drives down. I keep my hands in my coat pockets, trying to warm them. We hack a way through a tangle of dried out brambles in the garden. Lenny gets the worst of it. He's not big enough to stamp them down. Tarquin goes ahead and tries to hold them aside. ‘Hurry,' he says. They spin out of his hand and whip back. Lenny doesn't say anything.

We climb over the garden wall, into another back garden. The going there is pretty much just as bad. Impassable in some places. The bushes are high and dense. We start crawling through them instead of hacking them down. It's cold and wet. Almost freezing. The sleet is relentless. I hug Nan's coat around me. It's ripped but still warm. I'm glad of it, and the shoes. I love you, Nan.

We make it to the end of the row of houses. Scratched, shivering. Tarquin is edgy. The sleet turns to fine snow.

‘Reckon they've guessed we're outside Games City by now.'

Lenny clutches my sleeve.

I glance down the street. No dusting of snow to give us away yet. Nobody's going to know we camped in that house, unless they check.

‘Be OK, Lenny,' I say. I bend down, kiss the top of his head.

Tarquin checks the gun's in his belt, crosses into the street. The snow's settling.

‘Melissa, you go last,' he whispers. ‘Drag a branch or something behind you. If they see the snow's been disturbed, they won't be able to tell by what or how many.'

I haven't got a branch. My hands are too sore from battling with the garden. I don't want to go back there to get one. I take off Nan's coat. I drag that behind me.

We make it down two streets.

Before they find us.