Running on the Cracks
RUNNING ON THE CRACKS
Running on the Cracks
Copyright © 2009 Julia Donaldson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Egmont UK Ltd
239 Kensington High Street
London
W8 6SA
Visit our web site at www.egmont.co.uk
First e-book edition 2010
ISBN 978 1 4052 4937 9
To my sons Ally and Jerry,
and in memory of Hamish
This is the bit I’ve planned. I know what I’ve got to do, but it would help if my hands would stop shaking.
It would help if there was more space too. I should have gone into the Disabled loo instead of the Ladies. The cubicle is tiny; the gap under the door feels huge. What if anyone peers under it? Instead of seeing two feet plonked apart, facing forward, they’ll see a bulky school bag and various clothes going in and out of it.
First, off comes the brand new snooty blazer with the High School crest on it. Poor blazer – it’ll never enter the High School now.
A door swings. Footsteps, coming towards
me. Another door bangs in my ear. Someone is in the loo next to mine. I freeze with my tie half unknotted.
Don’t be so paranoid! No one’s looking for me yet.
I unbutton the white shirt and slip out of the black skirt.
An echoey announcement wafts through the air. It’s for the Exeter train, not mine, but there’s not much time left.
I rummage in the school bag. Beneath the empty files and folders and the unused gym kit I can feel the familiar battered corners of my sketchbook. But that’s not what I’m looking for.
Here it is, the secret carrier bag. And inside it, the jumble-sale clothes.
I still think that jumble sale was a brainwave. A total disguise, and such a cheap one – only £3.50 altogether for the beige hooded anorak, the white t-shirt and red sweater, the definitely non-designer jeans and trainers (how Caitlin and
Flo would slag me off if they saw them!) and the pair of sunglasses.
Actually, I’m not so sure about the sunglasses any more. Maybe they’ll just draw attention to me. After all, the clothes aren’t summery. In fact, they’re too hot for this warm September day; but then Glasgow is bound to be colder than Bristol, and it’ll be winter all too soon.
Now for the cleverest trick of all. Folded up inside the carrier bag is a flimsy nylon hold-all – another jumble-sale bargain. It cost all of 40p, and is big enough to contain my school bag and all its contents. Now I won’t have to leave the school bag in the station or risk having it spotted and identified on the train.
The hold-all even has a zip pocket for my purse. No need to check the contents of the purse really, but I do. A ticket and £39.60.
The wrong ticket.
That’s all right, though; it’s all part of the plan. Instead of a ticket to Glasgow I’ve bought a Standard Day Single to Paddington. The ticket
will be as unused as the school uniform, and it cost a lot more than the jumble-sale clothes, but it was worth it. Along with my note it should put them off the scent for a while. ‘I’m going to see the Dali exhibition at the Tate Britain,’ I told the ticket clerk. He’ll remember me now. That’s the plan, anyway.
The £39.60 is just enough to pay for my ticket on the Glasgow train if I have to, but I hope I won’t. I’m planning some more sneaky visits to the loo, timed to coincide with any ticket inspections.
I remember Mum’s scorn for fare-dodgers. ‘Sorry, Mum, but this is different,’ I tell her. I don’t really believe in Heaven, but I still find myself talking to her – and to Dad too.
The transformation is complete, and the Ladies is all mine again. Furtively – no, casually; I mustn’t look furtive – I emerge and look at myself in the mirror.
The clothes and hold-all are nondescript, which is the effect I wanted. My face is
unfortunately not nondescript at all. I look Chinese, like Dad, instead of English like Mum. (For some reason thinking about Mum and Dad isn’t hurting so much as usual – I suppose the excitement and nerves are covering up the hurt.) If my hair had been long I could maybe have cut it, but it’s short, black and shiny. Hood up? Hood down? Sunglasses on? Off ?
No time for dithering, as a crescendo of train wheels and a floating announcement remind me: ‘The 9.45 for Glasgow Central is now arriving at Platform One. Calling at Cheltenham Spa, Birmingham New Street, Preston, Carlisle and Motherwell. Platform 1 for the 9.45 to Glasgow Central.’
Suddenly I feel sick. It’s the thought of all those stops and starts. It’s going to be a long journey, and I don’t know what’s at the other end.
‘Who’s walked off with those bloody
Telegraph
supplements?’ Rab was in his normal mood, shouting at any paper boy within earshot and filling the already thick air of the depot with yet more cigarette smoke.
‘I saw you put that pile of
Herald
s on top of them,’ said Finlay.
Rab shot him an ungrateful glance. ‘What’s that black muck on your fingernails?’ he asked.
‘Nail varnish,’ said Finlay with a faint sigh that was intended to be withering.
Rab gave his nearest to a chuckle. ‘What do they call that shade then? Black Death?’
Actually, it
was
called that, but Finlay wasn’t
going to tell Rab. The nail varnish had been a bargain at the Barras market; so had the spiky bracelet. They’d have been more than twice the price in Inferno.
Finlay scooped up his bundle of papers. ‘BODY FOUND BY BIN MAN’ was the headline on the
Morning Post
at the top of the pile. As he rammed the papers into the luminous yellow bag with the strap designed to cripple young shoulders, he had a vision of himself as a modern-day Oliver Twist. Rab was Fagin, of course – exploiting his troop of innocent defenceless paper boys, stunting them, insulting them, poisoning the air they breathed.
‘If you get any of that Black Death on the papers you’ll be the next body in the bin!’ Rab yelled after him.
‘You’ve just dropped ash on the
Scotsman
,’ Finlay couldn’t resist calling over his shoulder. It was the sort of remark that would get him into trouble at school or at home – answering back, as it was unfairly called by his teachers
and parents, who considered they were the only ones entitled to make personal remarks; but old Rab wasn’t going to hand out a Notification of Misconduct form or order him to tidy his room, and he couldn’t afford to sack him. Finlay had only been doing the paper round for three weeks but he felt he had the measure of Rab: his bark was worse than his bite.
Who were the sadists who designed and positioned letter boxes? There were the ones at the very bottom of the door, so you had to kneel in a puddle to push the paper in, the ones that always tore the paper (maybe they had a cunningly concealed serrated edge) and the ones that resisted newspapers altogether, preferring to snap hands off.
The garden gates were almost as bad. Some didn’t want to open and some didn’t want to close – but if you left them open you could be sure that some Neighbourhood Watch busybody would spot you and complain.
Finlay was relieved when he reached the
block of flats on the corner of Struan Drive. This was the easiest building – no gates, no paths blocked by wheely bins or burst bin liners; it only took about two minutes to deliver ten papers to the flats.
He tramped up the stairs, enjoying their echo. His feet beat out the heavy rhythm of ‘Stone Sacrifice’ from Breakneck’s new album. When he reached the second floor the strap across his shoulder transformed itself into a guitar strap and he played the solo in his head as he fumbled for the
Morning Post
. Here it was: ‘McNally, 2/1’ scrawled across the top above the ‘BODY FOUND BY BIN MAN’ headline.
But there were already two papers poking out of 2/1’s letter box. Today was Tuesday. He dimly remembered now that the weekend paper had still been there yesterday.
Maybe McNally 2/1, whoever he or she was, had gone away on holiday and forgotten to cancel the papers.
Or maybe they were ill. Maybe they’d had a stroke and were lying on the carpet, trying to claw themselves towards the phone.
Maybe they were dead.
Finlay pushed today’s
Morning Post
into the letter box. Instead of thudding down to the floor it stuck beside the two others; this must be one of those doors with a wire cage inside it to catch the post. He squatted, pushed the metal flap up a bit and peered inside. There was a light on.
That didn’t mean anything. Maybe they’d left it on to fool would-be burglars.
Was there a smell coming from the flat, or was he just imagining it? A ripe, meaty kind of smell – not mouthwateringly meaty, though; nothing like bacon or burgers. Could it be the smell of a fresh human corpse?
What was the time? Finlay glanced at his wrist before remembering that he’d discarded his embarrassing watch in favour of the new spiky bracelet. But it must be about twenty to
nine. He ought to get a move on. There were five more floors in the flats and then the whole of Endred Close to do. He was going to be late for school again as it was.
But in his mind he could see the headline, ‘BODY FOUND BY PAPER BOY’.
Finlay wasn’t sure if he wanted to find a body or not, but if there was a body to be found he didn’t want someone else to find it; he didn’t want to be in the small print: ‘Neighbours and even the regular paper boy had failed to spot telltale signs.’
He put down his yellow bag and tapped at the door. Silence. He tapped again, louder. Silence. Or was there something? A faint thud? He pushed the letter box again and peered in.
Two green eyes in a tabby face stared up at him. The cat opened its mouth in a silent miaow.
‘Whit d’ye think ye’re doing?’
Finlay spun round. A grim-looking woman in a fleecy dressing gown was standing in
the doorway of Flat 2/2.
‘I was just a wee bit worried about Mr … Mrs … McNally,’ he spluttered.
‘
Miss
McNally,’ said Dressing Gown, eyeing him up and down. She obviously thought he was up to no good.
‘She’s not been collecting her papers. Do you think she’s all right?’
Dressing Gown’s scowl softened slightly.
‘She’ll just be having one of her downers, that’s all. This time next week she’ll be dancing the Dashing White Sergeant. All night long, knowing her.’
‘I see,’ said Finlay, though he didn’t really. ‘Is her cat all right?’
‘Oh aye, right as rain. She’ll neglect herself but no the moggie. She spends all her benefit on cat food, that one does.’
Of course – that ripe meaty smell, fresh but mildly revolting, had been the smell of cat food. Finlay should have recognised it, considering the number of times Mum had
made him feed Mungo, even though she knew it made him want to puke.
Dressing Gown wasn’t volunteering any more, but she stayed in her doorway; under her scrutiny there wasn’t anything Finlay could do other than shoulder his bag and clatter on up the echoey stairs. He couldn’t get back into the rhythm of ‘Stone Sacrifice’ and he felt foolish to have been carried away by fantasy. Now he would definitely be late for school. He would miss registration yet again, and that almost certainly meant another Notification of Misconduct form, to be taken home and signed by Mum or Dad. Another N of M form meant no pocket money next week. And that meant the electric guitar was one week further away. At this rate he’d never get to be in Ross McGovern’s band.
Well, there was nothing he could do about that now. Except, perhaps … Finlay’s thoughts turned from corpses to forgery.
