Solace of the Road (17 page)

‘Don’t you like pigs?’ he said.

‘I like pigs fine,’ I said.

‘Then what are you waiting for? They don’t bite. Hop in.’

My brain seesawed. I thought of the police car and how I needed to get out of sight. On the other hand, this guy didn’t make me feel safe the way Phil had. I stared hard at his eyes and the lines around them and thought,
He’s just your average truckie, Holl. No axe murderer
.

‘OK,’ I said. I climbed into the cab and put the seatbelt on. I wasn’t as high up as I’d been in Phil’s lorry, and it was tattier and smelled of sweat and old fags. But when we took to the road, the white dividers batted by again like old friends. The truck rattled as if every last one of those pigs was tap-dancing.

‘What’s your name?’ the man said. ‘Mine’s Kirk.’

I’d just spotted a plastic lozenge, dangling from the rear-view mirror. Inside was a picture of a woman, top half. She was blonde, blue-eyed and starkers. My stomach flip-flopped.

‘Don’t you have one?’

‘Hey?’

‘A name.’

‘Oh. Yeah,’ I said. ‘Solace.’

Kirk cocked his head like a confused dog. ‘Solace?’

‘Yeah.’

He chuckled. ‘Some name that. Exotic.’

He’s probably harmless
, I told myself.
Lots of men like pictures like that. Remember that magazine Trim had? That
was way ruder. And Trim was normal, wasn’t he?
Then I thought that calling Trim normal was like calling Hitler a saint. OK, Trim Trouble wasn’t exactly normal. But I could handle him, right?

‘You’re very serious,’ Kirk said. ‘You look like the Inland Revenue’s after you.’

‘Huh?’

‘The taxman.’

‘Oh. Ha ha. No, he’s not.’

‘He’s after me,’ Kirk said. ‘Haven’t filed in five years. D’you want the radio on?’

‘Nah,’ I said. I didn’t want any more news bulletins. ‘Say, Kirk?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What’s with the pigs?’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean, are they
your
pigs?’

‘Nah. I’m just driving them.’

‘So
where
are you driving them?’

‘Like I said. Lampeter.’

‘Yeah, but when they get there, what
then?’

‘I get it.’ Kirk thumped the wheel and laughed. ‘You’re one of those animal rights people.’

‘Just curious. I mean, are they for the chop or what?’

‘This batch is heading to a pig farm,’ he said. ‘They’re for breeding purposes, far as I know.’

‘Breeding?’

‘Yep. You can stop worrying, darlin’. By tonight they’ll be rolling in clover. They’ll be wallowing in mud. They’ll be chomping the acorns.’

‘Hey, Kirk. That’s great.’ I decided he was maybe better than he looked. I didn’t care about the naked woman in the lozenge any more. I just thought about those pigs and how they were safe and how I was safe even if the truck was a bone-shaker, because nobody, not anybody, knew where I was. We drove on in silence, slicing through the puddles left by the storm. The mountains got bigger and mistier. They wavered like blue ghosts.

We passed an old stone pub lit all over with Christmas lights, although it was June and broad daylight. I remember Miko saying once that poor people put up the Christmas lights early because they’re desperate for hope, while rich people put them up late, just before Christmas, because they have plenty enough hope already. I’d never seen lights in June before. The folks in that pub must be flat-out desperate, I thought.

We bypassed Brecon and I sat with my hand draped over the lizard, stroking my mam’s amber.

‘That’s a pretty ring,’ Kirk said, glancing over.

They’d chop your finger off for a ring like that
. ‘It’s junk,’ I breezed. ‘Got it out of a Christmas cracker.’

‘That was some lucky cracker,’ Kirk said. ‘All I ever get is God-awful jokes.’

‘Know the feeling.’

‘D’you want to hear the worst joke ever?’

‘Try me,’ I said.

‘What lives under the sea and murders mermaids?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Go on. Have a guess.’

‘A shark?’

‘Nope.’

‘A whale?’

‘Jack the Kipper.’ He screamed like it was the best thing he’d ever heard, and coming from a Jack the Ripper look-alike, maybe it was.

‘That
is
bad,’ I laughed. Some jokes are like that. A bit like my one about the willows. So bad they’re good. It reminded me of this strange boy in my class at school, Max. He was so not funny, he was funny. He was in a class of his own. Max the Chap, we called him, on account of his BBC radio voice. He was a mega-geek who came top at maths and dressed like he was a mogit from fifty years ago. And d’you know what his hobby was? Bell-ringing. I ask you.
Bell-ringing?
I mean, it’s so uncool, it’s cool. I said to Karuna, maybe we should all go along with old Max and ring a few bells, ding-a-ling. She thought I was joking and laughed at me, but I thought me and Max and Karuna making some giant bells ring out over all south London would be cool.

The mountains got smaller. The road twisted and the cattle truck with it.

‘Those pigs must be flying,’ I said as we went over a bad bump. The white dividing line was unbroken, and painted on the tarmac every so often was

SLOW
ARAF

I stared and wondered what ARAF was. Maybe the
letters stood for something. Maybe ‘All Roads Are Fatal’. I heard Miko wailing in his worst punk voice,
‘falling … falling …
’ Then I got it. We were in Wales, right? So ARAF was Welsh for ‘slow’.

Then there was a sign saying
LLANDOVERY
1
MILE
.

Fishguard was getting closer every bend.

We drove straight through the centre of the town and over a train crossing, then out of the town and down a deep valley with rock-grey sides and plants growing out of them.

We came to a lay-by and Kirk pulled in. It felt like I’d only just got in and the ride was over already.

‘The turn-off to Lampeter’s coming up,’ said Kirk. ‘You might as well hop out here. Unless …’ He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless you fancy riding on with me and going out for dinner, maybe.’

A date with a guy with a hairline halfway back on his head and a loony sense of humour? The blonde in the lozenge swayed and I grabbed the lizard tight.

‘Thanks ’n’ all, Kirk.’ The pigs in the back were scuffling like they wanted out. ‘That’s a real nice offer – only, see, I’ve got to meet my boyfriend.’

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘Yeah. We’re taking the night boat to Ireland. We’re starting over. A whole new life. He’s going to train as a jockey and I’m going to train as a dancer.’

‘A dancer?’

‘Yeah. Strictly posh stuff. Ballet ’n’ all.’

‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed. ‘So you’re moving over there permanent?’

‘That’s right. Me and Drew. We’re Irish by birth, see.’

‘Never.’

‘ ’S true.’

‘Hair like that, I took you for a Swede.’

‘Ha ha. Thanks for the lift.’ I got the door open.

‘Hey, Solace. Before you go. Don’t I get one?’

‘What?’

‘Even a teeny-weensy one?’ He pushed his lips out like there was a chance in a million I might be in business.

‘Not today,’ I called. ‘The boyfriend would be mad jealous.’ I leaped down and slammed the door and waved him on. The truck started up and Kirk shrugged a goodbye and his lips went down like he was broken-hearted, only I could tell he wasn’t, he just thought it was funny. He let the brake out and winked and then his truck rattled back onto the road with the beasts in the back going bananas.

‘Save it for the pigs, Kirk,’ I called.

Thirty-three
154 Vehicles Later

The sun was going down behind the mountains. I’d no idea it’d got so late. I decided to count the traffic.

Ten cars passed. A lorry. Then fifteen more cars. Twenty-six. I thought of Jane Eyre on the high moors, having to bed down for the night in the long grass. She was Airhead Extraordinaire, that girl. She’d left her trunk on the carriage, left all her jewels behind, and now she had nothing. How stupid is that. If she’d gone off with Mr Rochester like he’d asked, she’d have been living it up on the Riviera, dripping with gems, wearing white gloves up to her elbows. But then, that whole story cracked me up.
I’d
have caught on to the wife in the attic at the first cackle. The author lady had something funny in
her top
storey, I reckoned. A white van. Number forty-seven. Here I was in the middle of Wales. I was walking along a green tunnel of road and the air was cool. No way was I going to lie down in a field tonight. I stroked the amber ring. Or lose my jewels, thank you.

A car zoomed up the road like it was in a chase.
Number sixty-three. I’d never heard an engine roar so loud. I put out the thumb but the rate it was going the driver would never see me, let alone stop. It overtook a car in front, taking the bend hard. Then I heard a
screech
.

My hands went over my ears. I imagined the car on its roof, spinning, like in the movies, and the petrol gushing out on the road, and the people inside mashed and all of it on fire. But I’d only heard a screech, not a crash.

A car came in the opposite direction, lights flashing, horn tooting. It must have been a near miss.

I grinned. Trim would have died to be in a car like that. I imagined him shooting up the motorways, Grace at his side, telling him to hug the white line smooth and strong.

But the smile went from my face when I remembered the little Kavanagh brat with his toy cars. I didn’t like the Kavanaghs because they always sided with the kid, their pride and joy. I was the charity girl, a bit like Jane Eyre with her awful cousins. Anyway, this kid had a whole fleet of cars that he raced round the kitchen table. I remembered him zooming a green car off the edge so it clattered onto the floor. He stamped on it and went, ‘You were in that, Holly Hogan. Now you’re dead.’ He had this scream when he didn’t get his way that pierced your brain. If I’d screamed like that, I’d have been spanked, but
he
never was.

My time at the Kavanaghs’ went on I don’t know how long. Then this one day I woke up and found Mam’s picture, which I kept propped up by my
bedside, all torn to pieces on the bedspread. And I screamed, big time, louder even than that boy. There was a bit with her bare foot and ankle in the sand, torn. Then half her arm, keeping a floppy hat on against the wind. Her middle was ripped so you could see half of her green bikini. Her face was shredded so small you couldn’t see anything, no lips, no eyes, nothing. I howled fit to bring the roof down. Mrs Kavanagh came in and shouted at me. I pointed at the torn picture and said how the kid had done it because he hated me. She snorted and said how I must have done it myself, because her boy would never do that, would he? I drummed my feet on the mattress. Then the bedside lamp went flying through the window. And that was the end of the placement.

A hundred cars and lorries, dead on, and no lift.

Grace had had ten placements, which made her Placement Princess in Templeton House. But none had gone right. Trim hadn’t had any. You’d have to be mad-crazy to take him on. As for me, the one with Fiona and Ray was definitely the last.
Your name’s made out of cloud, Holly
. I squidged my eyes tight, but I kept hearing Ray’s voice.

I thumbed and thumbed. A hundred and thirty and counting. These funny biting flies buzzed round my head. I waved my hands round and walked faster, but they just followed. It was enough to drive you crackers. To see me hopping and itching, you’d have thought I was crazy.

Nobody was going to pick me up acting like this.

A bus came by and I tried sticking my hand out, but it didn’t stop.

I counted 153 cars and lorries, and one bus. Which makes 154 vehicles passing and no ride.

Hurry, hurry, Holly Hogan
, the song went through my head.
Before the road disappears beneath your feet
.

At this rate I’d be sleeping in the long grass after all.

Thirty-four
The Boy on the Motorbike

Vehicle 155 was a whole other story. It didn’t have four wheels, only two. A motorbike. It came round the corner so fast I only stuck my thumb out just in time. A miracle. It pulled in just ahead of me.

I hip-hopped up to it fast as I could in my high heels. It was like going up to an alien invader on account of you could see no face, just a black space helmet and black leathers.

‘Hi,’ I called.

There was no answer.

Maybe this alien didn’t speak English.

When I got nearer, the alien pulled his head off. Joke. He pulled his helmet off. I half expected there to be no head inside, but it was just a boy with spotty cheeks. If I had acne that bad, I’d wear a helmet too, permanent.

‘Do you want a ride?’ he asked in a sing-song voice.

‘Yeah, ta.’

‘I’m only riding myself,’ he said.

‘Whatever.’

‘Where you going?’

‘Fishguard.’

‘Fishguard, is it? That’s far.’

‘Got a boat to catch.’

‘Can’t take you all the way there.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Me and Andúril here’ – he tapped his bike like it was a racehorse – ‘we’re just cruising.’

‘Andúril?’

‘The bike’s name. Haven’t you heard of Andúril?’

‘Nah.’ He waited and I could tell he wanted me to ask. ‘So who’s Andúril?’

‘You mean,
what’s
Andúril.’

‘OK,
what’s
Andúril?’

‘It’s Aragorn’s sword, right?’

I blanked.

‘Aragorn in
Lord of the Rings
, right?’

‘Oh, yeah. The thingy with the orcs and elves.’

‘The blade that was broken has been remade,’
he crowed. He tapped the bike and revved it up.

I had to smile. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Remade.’

‘D’you want to get on then? I’ll take you to Llandeilo,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can get a bus from there.’