Rain In My Heart (19 page)

            
 ‘
Trust me, Kate
,’
he added, between kisses.
 ‘I’
ll get us out of here. 
I’
ll keep us safe.  Are you ready
?
’

I knew he was referring to his plan about crossing to the ridge with the homemade zip wire.   The idea still terrified me, but the alternative - staying here, waiting for the never-coming rescue team, in the dark and the cold, without food, without communication, with the flood water rising, and Byron in hiding - it was
n’
t exactly a better option.

Our intimacy was disturbed by the beep of a phone. We both startled.

'That's my ring tone!' said Leon.  'Although it sounds a bit warpe
d…
wher
e’
s it coming from?'

            We listened and realised it was coming from the door to the stairwell.  We both dived forward, pulled the door back, to discover all our phones were there, in a pile on the floor.  At first I was delighted.  I picked mine up.  Then I realised it had been smashed.  Each of the handsets had been smashed, their keypads snapped, their screens cracked.  The only one with life still in it was Leon's.

'Hello?' he said, lifting it to his ear.    

He cupped his other ear, walked away, like he was struggling to hear.

'Hello?' I heard him say.  'Hello? 
Hello
?'

           I waited in silence, prayed for good news.  When he came back, looking baffled.

‘
That was so bizarre,' he said.

            
 ‘
What
?
’

            
 ‘
It was the school caretaker
-
’

            
 ‘
And?  What did he say?  Wha
t’
s happening about rescue?  Did you tell him how desperate we are
!
’

            
 ‘
I tried.  I don't know how much he heard though. The speake
r’
s been smashed.  I could hear him, but I don't think he could hear me.  He was saying something about the town still having problems with electrical fires.  He just wanted to check we were okay, bu
t
– ’

              He pulled a face. Rain drummed on the glass.

            
 ‘
He also said something about whether I'd managed to get through to the rest of the school building yet, whether I'd found the key.  The way he was talking, it was like w
e’
d already had a conversation.  Honestly, it was so
weird - '

            I shivered, remembered the phone-call Byron had taken on Leo
n’
s phone, pictured the key that had been hanging round his neck, the one he'd been clutching after his knee had been hurt. I opened my mouth to speak, took a breath, gulped.

'I guess he was talking about key to the link corridor,' said Leon, oblivious.  'It must be in here somewhere.  Thank god!  Let's start looking.  We'll find it.'

            'I'm sorry,' I whispered, dread overwhelming me.  'I think it's already been found.'

Chapter Thirty Seven

I explained to Leon about the call Byron had answered on his phone.  How he'd hidden in the store cupboard and pretended to
be
Leon, how he'd obviously taken the key the caretaker had described, and more importantly, how, despite the danger, despite how hungry, frightened and desperate we were, he'd kept it secret, kept it hidden from the rest of us.  As soon as I finished explaining myself, I realised I'd made up my mind about him. I was done.

              'That's it then,' said Leon, through the shock.  'No more time to waste.  We're leaving.      We're not hanging around to be slaughtered by a psycho.'

           This time I agreed with him.

         
 ‘
The rope
,’
he said.
 ‘
I
t’
s all about the rope.  I
t’
s got to be strong.  We need length, so we need to get to work.  And we need Curtis on board, too.  I
t’
ll never get done with just the two of us
.’
             

‘
Curtis is still in the cupboard
,’
I said.

              Leon huffed.

            
 ‘
Well,
I’
ll go talk to him then. 
I’
ll get him out.   You stay out here, keep a look out for our crazy friend.  If you catch sight of him, shout.  Do
n’
t tackle him on your own
.
’

            
 ‘
Okay
,’
I said.               

            
 ‘
And stay away from the stairwell.'

              He kissed my head then pushed off to get Curtis.  I stayed by the candle to make the most of the little light it offered.  Shadows bounced off the walls.  The thunder had calmed, but every now and again, there was a rumble.  I was so cold I could
n’
t feel my toes.

Moments later, Leon dragged Curtis out of the cupboard.

            
 ‘
Yo
u’
re wasted
!
’ heraged.
 ‘
This is
no way
the time to get off your face!  What were you
thinking
?
’

              Curtis just stood there, swaying.  Had he found more bottles of beer?

            
 ‘
Wha
t’
s going on
?’
I said.

            
 ‘
H
e’
s drunk
,’
said Leon.
 ‘
Tha
t’
s wha
t’
s going on.  Totally mash-up drunk
.
’

'So whaaat,' said Curtis.
 ‘
Woz it got to do with you?  Think you're soooo clever don't you, Mr Perfect, Perfect Prentice....sooooo much cleverer than your stupid, dumbass, stupid, clown-faced sidekick, The Curtmeister...well, I don't care anymore. I don't give a shit. Not 'bout you.  Not about anyone
.
’

His words were slurred.  His eyes were droopy.  I reached out to him, but he shook me away.

‘
Leave me 'lone, Katy-Katy-Waty-Katy.  I do
n’
t need you fuzzing over me neither
.
’

Then I saw, on the floor beside him, a plastic bottle.  It looked like cider, really cheap, the sort of stuff that gets passed round at Heavy Metal gigs.  By the look of it, Curtis had downed the lot.  He was properly drunk.  My sister got like that once.  She came back from a frien
d’
s house, tripped over the doorstep, told everyone she loved them, then threw up in a wicker bin.  And of course
I’
d seen Marshall like tha
t–
too many times.

              I nodded at the bottle.

            
 ‘
Bad DRINK
,’
Curtis slurred.
 ‘
Tastes like soap
.
’

            
 ‘
He claims he found it in the cupboard
,’
said Leon angrily.

              Curtis picked the bottle up and offered it to me.

            
 ‘
Fancy a swig, Katy
?
’

            
 ‘
No thanks
.
’

              I took the bottle from him, sniffed the rim.  It smelt rancid, like cider, but sour.  Curtis tried to snatch it back.

            
 ‘
Yo
u’
ve had enough
,’
I said, pulling it away.

            
 ‘
Oh, do
n’
t be zuch a kill-joy, Katy-Waty,' he mumbled.
 ‘
Juz trying to kill some time.  Join me, come on
!
’

              He staggered and fell.  Leon caught him and held him upright.

            
 ‘
Do
n’
t collapse on us, now, Curt
,’
he said.
 ‘
Man up. We need you
.
’

              He dragged Curtis over to the candle, sat him in front of abox of fabric.  Curtis slumped to the floor and started stroking Leo
n’
s face with a square of purple fun fur.            
 ‘
Get off
!’
said Leon.
 ‘
Focus, will you?  W
e’
ve got work to do.  W
e’
ve got a rope to make
.
’

              Curtis looked around.

            
 ‘
Wez
Byr
o’
? Wez my friend?  I got him good, did
n’
t I
?’
                           

            
 ‘
We have
n’
t seen him
,’
I explained.

            
 ‘
And nor do we want to
,’
added Leon.

            
 ‘
Yeeeah
,’
said Curtis, lolling to one side
,‘
because a crazy dude like that, h
e’
ll want revenge...'

‘
Which is why we have to hurry,' said Leon.  'Focus on the rope.  The quicker we get it finished the quicker we can leave.  But keep your voice down.  We don't want him to hear.'

Then his gaze shifted to the side.

'And just so you know,' he said, 'if he
does
try anything, we have the means to defend ourselves
-
’

He had three wooden batons, ex-parts of the painting easels, by his legs.  He handed one to each of us.

‘
I
t’
s not much
,’
he said.
 ‘
But i
t’
s better than nothing
.
’

I wanted to believe he was being over-dramatic, that he was creating a threat where there wasn't one.  Nonetheless, I took my baton, curled my fingers around its base.

              For twenty minutes, we crouched in the dark, batons at our sides, binding material.  Leon showed us a way to plait and twist several strips together, then plait and bind them again, to build strength.  Progress was slow, especially given that Curtis was next to useless.  And even though Leon and I worked constantly, in twenty minutes w
e’
d only made enough rope to stretch from one chair leg to another.  We needed meters of this stuff.  I did
n’
t say anything, but the master plan seemed dafter than ever.  At least it was keeping us busy though.  It was better than sitting waiting, waiting for god knows what. 

              The thunder ceased, but the rain and wind continued.  And it was cold now, so cold.  My clothes were sodden and my skin was starting to feel clammy.  An unstoppable chatter had taken control of teeth.  I was happy to keep busy, just to distract myself from the constant shivering.

              Byron never showed of course, but Curtis kept making slurred remarks.

‘
Told you so.  Not to be trusted.  Never trust lurky Byron.  Freak had it coming
!
’

              Eventually, we had a meter of rope.  We double-checked the bits Curtis had made, to make sure they were secure, then Leon explained how we were going to hitch it to the window frame, tie a chair to the other end, then lob the chair into the trees on the ridge, where it would hopefully act as an anchor.

            
 ‘
You
really
think this will work
?’
I said.

            
 ‘
Got any better ideas
?’
said Leon.
 ‘
Le
t’
s face it, even if Byron
has
gone, the art room wo
n’
t be safe forever.   I swear the wate
r’
s still risin
g
– ’

              It had been building steadily, inching its way up-wards.  I could tell by the lampposts.  An hour ago they were half submerged.  Now, they were two-thirds submerged.

              We began to work twice as fast, even though Curtis gave up and lay on his belly.  One meter.  Two meters.  It was when we were onto the third meter that the sinks started to shake.

            
 ‘
Did you see that
?
’

            
 ‘
What
?
’

            
 ‘
The sinks, over by the pottery wheels, they just shook.  I swear
.
’

              At first, I assumed it was Curti
s’
s imagination, some drunken delusion, but sure enough, the sinks shook again, all four of them.  Their heavy ceramic bulks juddered against the wall, knocking the jars of paintbrushes and sponges that were stored on the shelf above.  Suddenly, jets of brown water exploded from the plugholes, four muddy fountains.

            
 ‘
What the -
?’
said Curtis.
 ‘
I
t’
s going the wrong way!  The wate
r’
s draining the wrong way!  I
t’
s supposed to go
in
to the plughole
!
’

The surrounding pipes started to creak and vibrate. 

‘
Oh, no
!’
said Leon. 

He clasped his hand over his mouth. 

‘
The drainage system
!’
he said
.‘
It's been overrun! Ther
e’
s nowhere for the water to go anymore, so i
t’
s finding its exits wherever it can.  And i
t’
s not going to stop, not unti
l
…’

Before he could finish, the pipes beneath the sinks ripped from the walls. Water blasted through the crumbling plaster.   As if our thoughts were synchronising, Leon and I instinctively leaped towards the mess, desperate to stop the flow, to keep the dirty flood out of our space.  We tried to bung the wall with bundles of fabric, but it did
n’
t help. The water kept coming. Eventually we were forced to step away.  As it pooled around our feet, I silently prayed that the floorboards were strong.

‘
Yuck
!’
yelled Curtis.
 ‘
This is
n’
t just floodwater!   I
t’
s full of scum
!
’

              He was right.  The substance now coming through the walls was more like the raw sewage Byron had warned us about, thick with mushy globs of toilet paper, tampons, excrement.  We gasped, choked, coughed.  The smell was putrid.  I could
n’
t believe w
e’
d been on all fours, trying to stop it with our bare hands.  I could
n’
t believe that our sanctuary, the one high, dry place where w
e’
d been safe from the flood, had finally been overcome.