If I Could Fly (5 page)

It’s like the rainforest in the stories you’ve read me, Little Bird. Full of unknown dangers. Look! Tangled wires like tendrils hanging from a high canopy.
Waay!
Are there monkeys here? And what about those curled-up cables, like coiled snakes? Will they unravel and attack if I step inside?

I’m looking in with eyes narrowed against the failing light. My legs feel like jelly. I’m so tired. So tired of being tired. So tired of the pain in my leg.

A hundred questions hurtle into my head as I hover half in and half out of the jungle of weeds growing up through the floor. Why was the door open? Was it a mistake by the security company whose name is on the board by the road? Does it mean someone will be back to check? Are there regular patrols, maybe with dogs?

It’s no good. The thoughts are tumbling now as fast as a waterfall’s torrent. I don’t have any answers. All I know is I can see my breath steaming like vapour from a kettle. That means one thing. Night is coming. I need somewhere to shelter.

My legs jerk and carry me forward. I’m inside and looking up at the domed ceiling from which a sad, grey bulb hangs like a nose drip on the end of a long cable.

Plip, plip, plop
. Somewhere, a tap is leaking. The sound echoes eerily amongst the empty corridors leading away from the hallway. I’m passing the closed metal door to the lift and slowly ascending the staircase, fingers lightly resting on the dusty wooden rail, eyes straining against the gloom, feet almost arching up on my toes, ready to take flight at the drop of a hat.

Nobody drops hats any more, Paper Clip, you know what I’m sayin’? Keep your eyes open for any kind of dodgyness.

‘Yeah, I know what you’re saying, Crease. Trouble is, there’s so much dodgyness it’s hard to know where to begin.’ I’m whispering back to the shadows,
which is really lame, scaring myself with the sound of my own voice.

I’ve reached the first-floor landing. My eyes do a sweep, first left, then right, down the empty corridors where kids like me used to pad about in dressing gowns and slippers. Opposite, there should be two glass-panelled doors leading to Wonderland Ward. There is just a space. The sign above the doorframe is still there, although part of it is missing. I can just make out the letters. Now it just reads
Wonderland
.

Nothing could look further from the truth.

‘Do you believe in fairies?’ the ward sister had asked me when I arrived, all that time ago. It was a strange thing to say to someone whose face was staring at the inside of a bucket. I think I must have nodded, because then she said, ‘You can come in,’ and she showed me to a bed by the window which had a pink duvet cover. There was a row of books on the tiled sill, held up by two wooden owls either end.

Today, Wonderland is just a long, rectangular space,
empty but for a single armchair at one end. There are eight floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the overgrown garden below. Light from the streetlamps is filtering in through the dusty panes like pointy fingers, accusing me of a crime.

Yes, I ran away, and I’m so sorry, Little Bird, for all the pain that’s causing you.

As I walk over the bare floor, my steps echo – or is it my heart I can hear? I give Andy a squeeze. He is silent. I take him out of his hiding place and show him the spot where I once lay sick and frightened, hitched up to a tube.

‘I had a nice view of the garden, look,’ I say to him, holding him up to the window. His hard nose leaves a hole in the dust. He is limp and unresponsive in my hand.

‘I get it. You’re an “I don’t care” sort of bear,’ I say, cleaning him up and putting him back inside my hoody.
Or maybe you’re really scared, just like me
.

My feet are carrying me forward again, like a sleep
walker, like a drone, like a zombie. I’m approaching the chair, which seems as good a place as any to rest for a while and maybe, later, to drift off into the kind of sleep when you have one eye open, looking for dodgyness.

The chair has wide arms and a low back covered in old dark blue velvet. Its seat is thick and inviting and when I fall back into it there is a
foof
as a cloud of dust rises from its worn fabric. It makes me cough and almost gag, especially when I remember that the particles swirling around me are almost ninety per cent skin. Skin from the hundreds of children who were nursed back to health here. I don’t want to think about the ones who didn’t make it. Have their souls stayed behind, to keep watch? I don’t believe in that stuff, honest to God, but it feels like there are eyes watching me from the darkness and shadows moving between the dust as it falls.

Sprites and ghosts, ghouls and vampires. They all seem possible in the night.
Keep it real, Paper Clip
, Crease would say. And he would probably tell me to
Sit in the
chair, make a plan and stop crying. You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out of it
.

Did I? I could never have chosen this, never in a month of Sundays. And if they catch me? They will alter my brain. Game over.

My thoughts are jumbled, like a stir-fry of noodles and peppers, twisting together, a mass of slippery strands. The pain in my thigh is burning like chilli in your eyes. The more you rub, the worse it gets. But the chair is soft and is letting me sink into it. It’s the nearest thing to a hug I’ve had for a long time. I realise how much I’m longing for that safe feeling of being held; to be so close to another heart you can hear its beat.

I miss you, Mum. There are reasons why I am here and you are there. I will remember. I will understand. And maybe that’s the day I will be able to come home.

I’ve rested here long enough. I’d like to sleep but pangs of pain are jabbing their spears into my belly. It’s so hard to move. I’ve morphed into the squishy seat. It’s sucking me into its springs and padding. My eyelids
are heavy and my head is starting to loll. Grip the arms and count to three, then stand up – good plan. Here goes. One, two . . .

‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MA CHAIR? YES,
YOU
, CHOP SUEY!’

There is no time to move. The man who shouted is standing over me. His face is so close to mine I can smell the onions on his breath and see the peppermint whites of his eyes. His dark hair hangs in straggles across his face. Under the black plastic sheet that covers his frame, I can see layers of clothes – at least two shirts and a jumper. His trousers are held up with green string. Wafts of old sock assault my nostrils. But there’s another smell lingering underneath – something unexpected but familiar.

‘I said, what are you doing in ma chair?’ he repeats slowly, threateningly.

‘Sitting,’ I reply truthfully.
Idiot, Caly. You broke the rule. You got caught.

‘I didna give you permission to sit in ma chair.’ The
man grabs my arms and pulls me upwards. The force of it sends me spinning into the wall. ‘Next time, you have to ask,’ he growls, smoothing out the velvet on the seat.

‘Sorry,’ I reply, stunned. You should be polite to crazy people, Gran says, because you never know what they’re going to do next. There are different types of crazy, though, from mad axe men to nice people who have lost their marbles.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asks, noticing me rubbing my elbow. The tone of his voice is softer now, kinder.

‘It’s nothing.’ I’m working out my chances of escape. If I run, can I make it to the stairs, flip over the banister and drop to the ground floor without breaking every bone in my body? Crease and Slee could do it. But I’m just a stupid kid, with no easy way out.

‘So you decided to crash my pad, then, Chop Suey?’ the man accuses.

‘I didn’t know it was yours,’ I reply carefully. ‘And I’m not Chinese, if that’s what you think. I’m Thai. Well, half, anyway.’

‘You are, are ye?’ he says, walking towards me. ‘Little Miss Saigon, eh?’

I don’t want to tell him that Saigon is in southern Vietnam, a totally different country. And that its proper name is Ho Chi Minh City. My neck is flushing hot with indignation and fear.

‘Ma pad, that’s correct. And if you want to share it there’ll have to be some rules, savvy?’ he says matter of factly.

I feel as if I’m on a treadmill and the moving panel beneath my feet is accelerating faster and faster so that my legs won’t keep up. I wasn’t going to stay here – only for one night – but if he’s not Mad Axe Man crazy, is it such a bad idea? Just until I’m stronger? Just until I’ve worked out where I’m going?

‘OK, what are the rules?’ I ask, playing for time. Even in the semi-light, I can see him swallow heavily and rock backwards on his trainers, which, I notice, don’t match. Ha! So, there are no real rules, just the ones he’s about to make up.

‘Number one,’ he begins. ‘You don’t sit in ma chair without permission and never in the morning when I’m reading the paper.’

‘You get the paper?’ I ask warily. There’s only one daily now, published by the Office of Media and Communications, and photos of missing kids are always run in a banner across the centre pages with a reward offered for information.

‘With ma chips,’ he replies. ‘I like the crosswords. But don’t interrupt, do you hear, Miss Saigon?’

‘I’m Calypso,’ I state. I’ve had it with nicknames, especially ones that aren’t even geographically correct. ‘That’s what you should call me. And what should I call you?’ I demand, keeping my voice low and even, like Little Bird when she is soothing my dad’s ‘niggle niggle’ – the temper he comes home with after visiting the social club and discussing ‘the state of things’ with the crowd there.

‘My name’s Dair. Dair McFarlane,’ he replies, giving me a little salute as an afterthought.

‘Cool,’ I say, which sounds a bit ridiculous in the circumstances. Neither of us moves. There is an awkward silence. ‘So, rule number two?’ I prompt. Dair looks confused for a moment, as if telling me his name has let the cat out of the bag.

‘Ay, rule number two,’ he nods. ‘I live in Willows Ward next door, but ma chair needs space around it, so you can have that half of Wonderland Ward,’ he tells me, waving a finger at the space at the end of the room.

‘Why can’t you just move the chair next door?’ I ask logically.

‘Look, Little Miss Clever Chopsticks – the chair stays exactly where it is. You don’t touch it, you don’t move it, you don’t put your person in it, you don’t take any kind of liberty with it at all, ever. Do you understand me?’ His voice is harsh suddenly and he’s pacing up and down in front of me, like an army major reprimanding his troops.

I nod, observing him, recalculating my escape plan, in case things go bad in the next few moments. I’m not
fully focused, though. There’s a distraction. That sweet, surprising aroma again. My brain won’t connect with the clues my nose is giving it.

‘Rule three,’ he continues, speaking faster than before. ‘Everything is to be neat and tidy at all times. Including the bathroom. No clothes left draped or dripping. No food containers or remains – or the rats will be your bedfellows and feed on your eyeballs. Above all, no hair on the floor or in the plughole of the sink.’ I can see his shoulders shudder. ‘There will be regular inspections and anyone, that means you, breaking these rules will be disciplined by the judge, that means me, and punished.’

That’s it. Crazy or not, he’s got it coming.

‘You’re not in charge of me,’ I point out boldly. ‘You can’t order me about, just because I’m a kid. We don’t need to have anything to do with each other. We don’t even have to speak. This isn’t your pad. It’s a derelict hospital. You’ve broken in, just like me. We’re the same: outlaws. There are three floors and about
a dozen rooms to choose from. I don’t even need to be in the same place as your precious chair. I’m going to sleep downstairs, as far away from you as possible. Tomorrow I’ll probably be gone, because this isn’t what I planned. It’s not what I came here for. I wanted nurses, the kind doctor and some painkillers. I’ve got to get better, so I can remember. I have to, do you get me? Because otherwise, I can’t –’

‘Here y’are,’ Dair is saying, motioning me to approach him. ‘No, come on, I won’t bite – grrrrrrr – no, really, I’m joking you.’ Something in his manner is persuasive. I’m about to burst into tears. I want to respond. Tentatively, I move towards him. He puts his hands lightly on my shoulders and swivels me gently, easing me down into the chair.

‘Rest your heed,’ he says, crouching close by and staring at me with a worried expression. ‘I didna mean all those things I said. Except about the chair, OK?’ I make a motion to rise but Dair shakes his head. ‘I’m making an exception,’ he explains, ‘this once, mind.’

‘It’s a nice chair,’ I say, all fight spent.

‘It is, that’s a fact,’ Dair agrees, stroking the velvet arm. ‘Can ye keep a secret?’ he whispers, gazing into my eyes.

‘Um, yeah,’ I shrug.

He motions for me to lean closer. ‘I’m a wanted man.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Bonny Calypso, mate, it’s not that hard. Look at me. What do you see?’ Dair stands up in front of me and struts about.

I’m searching for words that won’t offend him.