Caramel Hearts (22 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Pretending Not to See or Be Seen

Mad Dog's deadline arrives too quickly and, true to her word, she's waiting for me in the smokers' corner after school.

I see Emma, Zadie and Lorna disappearing into the distance. They keep looking back and gossiping, and I take this as a bad sign.

“You've got the bag?” asks Maddy.

“In here.” I tap my rucksack unenthusiastically. Knowing I'm leaving has made me brave. The purse, bills, photograph of Mrs Snelling's dead son – it's all there. Everything except the money.

“Good – you know what you've got to say, right?”

I know what to say, all right. It kept me up half the night as I tried to pre-empt every possible reaction from Mr Morrelly. And I came up with an even better version. I've decided to tell the truth. They can suspend me or do whatever they like – I'm outta here! But now, after another frustrating day of being the school leper, I'm exhausted and my brain hurts. I've given myself a worry headache and I've been jumpy all day. Every time a door slammed, I expected a teacher to haul me out of class and catch me with the bag red-handed.

“We'd better get going,” says Maddy. I must look startled, because she laughs in my face. “You don't think I'm letting you go by yourself, do you?”

Maddy trots beside me, chatting away about nothing in particular, as though she's my best friend. I'm careful with what I say in return. I made the mistake of trusting her once and I'm not about to repeat it. As we cross the playground, Mad Dog suddenly goes quiet.

“What the hell is he doing here? He's got some nerve,” she snarls. “And as for her – she's dead meat, I swear!”

Jack and Sarah are outside the school gates – Jack's banned from the premises – leaning in close to chat. They pause now and again to look around nervously, and seeing them together doesn't sit right with me one bit. Jack looks up and catches my eye. On cue, Sarah spins around and looks at me like she no longer recognizes me – like she can't believe what I've turned into. Unable to bear it, I pretend not to notice them, even though I know I can't pull it off. Head down, I walk in time with Maddy, pretending not to see or be seen. Maddy takes my hand and swings it as we walk, like we're complete besties. But once we're out of their line of vision, she drops my hand and stomps towards the head teacher's office with an ugly grimace on her face, cursing now and again under her breath. When we reach the office, she turns on me and flings me against the wall, holding me in place by the neck of my polo shirt. It could be worse – it could be my throat. But I daren't move an inch.

“Listen, you go in there and act as frightened as you can, cos believe me – if you mess this up, I'll make sure your life isn't worth living.”

Nodding vigorously, I fight the urge to pee.

“You think things've been bad up to now, with this.” Mad Dog tugs at my hair with her free hand. “Next time, you'll get more than a haircut.”

“OK, I get it.”

“Good. Do well and you'll never have to worry about being bullied again. And we'll get that bitch, Sarah, for interfering.”

“I'd prefer not to waste my time with Sarah,” I say, as calmly as I can, hoping Mad Dog will believe me. “Her and Jack deserve each other.”

Mad Dog twists her mouth into a grin.

“We'll worry about that later. When we're officially friends.” Pausing for a moment to give her best menacing stare, Mad Dog eventually stands aside. “I think you look scared enough now. Time to deliver the Oscar-winning performance.”

I take a deep breath and smooth down my uniform.

“What are you waiting for?” asks Maddy.

“Don't you think it'll look a bit suspect if you're here too?” I say.

“I guess so,” says Maddy, and saunters off, checking back on me with every few steps. “But I'll be waiting for you up there.”

“Fine,” I say – like I'm happy about that.

Lifting my hand to knock, I wait until Maddy has rounded the corner, give her a few seconds to make sure she's not going to check back on me, and then bottle it. I'd be mad to tell the truth and, if I follow Maddy's plan, she'll own me for the rest of my life. Racing down the corridor, I use the teachers' exit, cut through the car park and lose myself in the winding streets of the nearest estate. It's only seven hours until the bus. Only seven hours to stay hidden.

* * *

As I climb the steps of the National Express coach – changed into my skinny jeans, favourite Johnny Cash T-shirt and warm coat – I feel my heart and head calming.

This is it! I'm finally doing something brave. I'm ready to show everyone what I'm made of. There'll be no more pushing Olivia Bloom around.

Nervously, I play with my ticket – what if the driver realizes I'm underage? – but I needn't have worried. He waves me on without even looking up. I head to the back of the bus and choose a window seat in front of the toilet. I don't remember anything about living in London – I was too young –I'm looking forward to soaking up the sights along the way.

Repeatedly checking my phone for the time, I wonder how long it will take my family to realize I've gone. If they notice at all. Putting my phone on silent, I decide to ignore their calls if they do try to contact me. Finding Dad is my best hope for a happy life.

Three minutes before the bus is due to pull away, a girl in a green velvet jacket and cherry-red Doc Martens approaches, eyeing the spare seat. I adopt the best Mad Dog scowl I can and shove my rucksack so it covers the spare seat. Intimidated, the girl sits a few rows in front. As the coach pulls away, I slouch down, knees up against the chair in front, listening to “Father and Son”. Things feel better already.

Chapter Forty-Two

Trapped in One Spot Isn't Fun

The National Express coach sails along the motorway. A smattering of chimney-littered industrial towns and smog-choked cities whizz by, reminding me of Egerton and the life I'm leaving behind. My favourite part of the journey is the long stretch of winding road after Nottingham. It's pitch black, but I know the darkness is filled with green fields, horses and sheep – like the countryside we travelled through on the train to Whitby.

As the coach gets further away from home, I can't stop replaying events in my head. My mind is like a film trailer, showing various scenes from my life – good and bad. After a while, it gets so muddled, I no longer know why I'm running away and whether it's the right thing to do. Then I see the stolen bag as I search for my iPod, and it all becomes clear again. I had hoped to be rid of it by now, but chickening out of coming clean to Old Mozzer means I'm stuck with it. I hunker down and try to sleep, thinking up ways I can get rid of the bag in London. Before long, my eyes start drooping, but every time the driver changes gear or brakes, I'm jolted awake.

My phone vibrates, making me jump. The screen shows “Home”. I press the reject button and try to
snooze again. But it vibrates a second time with a text from Harriet.

LIV, WHERE ARE YOU? H XXX

I quickly delete it. Deep down, I wonder how Mam and Harriet are feeling, but I tell myself I have to stop thinking that way, they're no longer my problem – not that it works.

To remind myself why I'm here, I reread Dad's address – even though I have it memorized. I study the Tube map, but I almost know the route off by heart too. Still, I don't want to make any mistakes.

Circle or District Line from Victoria, change at Tower Hill for the DLR to Cutty Sark, Greenwich. From there, I follow the map to the “X” I've drawn to mark Dad's house. A twinge of fear makes me shiver, and I think how different this would feel with Hatty or Sarah by my side. But the image of Sarah and Jack together pops into my head, and the thought melts away. I focus instead on the happy moment ahead – when Dad welcomes me. I wonder whether I'll hold it together or whether I'll cry. Maybe
he'll
cry? I hope not. I'm no good when people cry. That's Hatty's area of expertise.

The journey is longer and more uncomfortable than I imagined. Even though I can spread myself across two seats, my muscles ache and my neck feels snapped out of place. Six hours trapped in one spot isn't fun – it's not the adventure I expected.

When the bus pulls in at Peterborough Station, I decide to stretch my legs, but it doesn't really help. Only the
excitement of London at the other end keeps me going. I'll finally meet my dad – and that is worth any amount of discomfort.

By the time the driver shouts “London, Victoria”, I'm tired, hungry and agitated. But the instant the coach pulls to a stop in the huge, fluorescent-lit coach station, excitement bubbles inside me. I spot a sign for the Underground and feel a new surge of energy. Fingering the address in my pocket, I climb off the bus and head straight for the bowels of London's transport system.

Fighting my way through the turnstiles, I can't believe how many people are rushing about at such an early hour. Where could they all be going? A man with a briefcase bumps into me as I stop to figure out which direction of the District Line to take.

“Sorry!” I call after him, but he keeps walking, like I don't exist. No change there then. It seems everyone is busy and important, with places to be. Well, I have places to be, too.

“Greenwich, here I come!” I say, heading down the escalator to my first Tube.

“Get outta the way, will ya!”

It takes a moment for me to realize I'm not following etiquette – I should stand on the right. The left is for impatient people, scaling the escalator at top speed, dashing off to goodness knows where.

“Sorry!” I call, for what feels like the umpteenth time.

What's wrong with people? It's a good job the Tube is amazing – otherwise I might be put off. Wait till I tell Hatty about this, I think, then I realize – I might never see my sister again. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I concentrate on the journey.

The Tube whizzes along at top speed, sparking its way in and out of tunnels and twisting round corners like a giant, engine-powered snake. Changing lines isn't that complicated – I just keep a close eye on the stops shown above the doors. When I get off, I let myself get caught up in the crowd until a space opens. Then I stop and check my bearings. It's easier than I expected – more straightforward than the labyrinth of colours on the Tube map suggests.

But when I reach Tower Hill, it all starts to go wrong. As I exit the Tube in search of the DLR, an announcement comes over the Tannoy.

“Passengers are advised that all services to Lewisham have been terminated due to an accident at Canary Wharf. A replacement bus service is available outside the station.”

Lewisham – that's the train I need! I knew it was going too well. Joining the claustrophobic throng of grumbling passengers queuing for the replacement bus, I feel like I'm swallowing dust, not air. I spot a lady in the regulation neon-orange uniform and head over to her. Waiting my turn, careful not to make eye contact or get in anyone's way, I realize my turn will never come, so eventually I jump in.

“Is this bus for Greenwich?” I ask, showing my ticket.

The attendant shakes her head.

“No, this is the 617A. You're looking for bus 617B. You just missed one, but there'll be another in the next few minutes. Are you in a hurry?”

It's bright, but still early. “Not really.”

“You could always avoid rush hour by taking another route on the DLR.”

As another busy person bashes into me, the idea sounds attractive.

“What route?” I ask.

“I reckon Blackheath would be your best bet. Fewer people, and you could walk through the park.”

The bus is noisy and packed, and my bones ache from the long journey. I remember seeing the park on my map and a walk sounds nice. It also means I'll be calling on my dad at a more reasonable time.

“OK.”

“Head to London Bridge, then get the DLR to Blackheath – you can use the same ticket. Ask someone for directions to the heath and follow the path to the big metal gates of Greenwich Park. The village is on the other side, at the bottom of the hill.”

Before I can thank her, three suited workers mob her – all talking at the same time. I slip away from the crowd, heading back towards the Tube.

When the DLR pulls into Blackheath, I take a deep breath and skip out, checking the battery on my phone. There is more than half left – plenty of juice to last until I can charge it at Dad's place. I follow the exit signs and stride out of the Tube station into the cold air, map in hand. The streets are filled with people carrying newspapers, laptop cases and coffee. I stop an old man to ask for directions. He points across the main road that cuts through the shops and station, towards a side street.

I, Olivia Bloom, am getting good at life.

The heath is easy to find. It's a wide expanse of grass with a long path cutting through it – reminding me of the Rec back home. The rising sun casts long shadows on the pavement and my heart sinks as I think how much Hatty would love walking here, watching the place wake up. With every step, I think
about home. What are Mam and Hatty doing? Have they called Sarah and Jack to see if I'm with them? As soon as Jack and Sarah enter my thoughts, I swallow hard and lift my chin an inch or two, shoulders pulled back.

“I don't care about any of them,” I say aloud to the crisp air. “They can all go to hell.”

As I repeat my mantra, the shadows seem to shrink and my heart feels free. Spotting tall, wrought-iron gates ahead, I speed towards Greenwich Park.

The park is the biggest I've ever seen. Tall trees with thick, dark trunks – big enough to hide behind – line the paths. Their leaves flutter, concealing noisy birds. One swoops from the tree – a luminous green parakeet – and I rub my eyes, thinking I'm seeing things until I spy another and another. Brightly coloured flowers bud and bloom in neatly arranged flower-beds. Red-bricked domed buildings, tiny teashops and ice-cream stands line the walkways.

Despite its size, the park feels packed. Groups of ladies in sunglasses, pushing weird-shaped pushchairs, chat loudly as they stroll. Dog walkers with multiple leads march their way across the grass, pulled by various breeds – pugs, Dalmatians, terriers and Labradors. Lines of young children holding hands jostle by, tugging at the high-visibility vests covering their jackets. They chatter and nudge each other as their mams and playgroup leaders complete headcounts or point out things of interest. It reminds me of nursery. I liked school back then. I liked lots of things.

The park opens up to an expanse of concrete littered with people taking snaps of the cityscape. I pause, taking
in the view. I can't make out any of the famous landmarks I've seen online or on TV. Buildings like crooked teeth bite into every part of the jumbled landscape: gleaming high-rises and proud, red chimneys. A web of cranes lines the blue sky. It feels like every brick, block of concrete and steel rod is tumbling in on me. I turn, bumping into a Chinese lady wearing a padded jacket, a camera strung around her neck.

“Sorry! Do you know where Greenwich village is?”

The lady smiles and nods.

“Greenwich,” she says, pointing down a steep, sloping path.

“Thank you!”

My heart thumps as I race towards the village. I pass people pushing prams uphill – sometimes, it takes two as the angle is so steep. I can't understand why they'd bother, just to get a view of a big, ugly city.

After a while, the long, meandering path leads to a glass building. Outside, there is a huge ship in a bottle, mounted on a concrete column, and a sign reading Maritime Museum. I wonder where I'd sail to if I could commandeer the bottled ship. Whitby, probably. The thought catches me unawares. I walk off without looking where I'm going, and bang into someone.

“Are you OK?” asks a voice in a thick, foreign accent as I stumble.

A stocky, darkly tanned man in a long coat and red scarf waits for an answer. I blush – I was so caught up in my own thoughts, I hadn't noticed him. I'll have to be more careful. Anything could happen in a city this size.

“I'm OK.”

The man shrugs, then jogs towards three friends who are waiting up ahead. I sit on the concrete wall outside the museum. A water feature trickles through the centre of its blocks. Listening to the calming sound, I watch the four friends flick water from the wall at each other, then leave through the spiky black and gold gates.

I suddenly realize how close the park gates are. How small and alone I am. Feeling sick, I lean over and take deep breaths before checking my map.

Dad's house isn't far.

All I have to do is navigate the few winding roads to where “X” marks the spot.