Taking Flight (10 page)

As I walked down the drive in the cold November midnight I noticed that the rain had stopped and the sky was pricked with stars. Dad's car was waiting, warm and welcoming, on the street. I felt a rush of joy. There was a whole weekend ahead and Fiona had said she might ride out with me on the farm tomorrow. And I was going to
practise jumping in the school. And then on Sunday night when I had to see Declan again … I swallowed.

I would apologise.

I gave Dad as good a hug as I could manage in the car. It felt like much more than two weeks since I had seen him.

‘Hello, darling,' he said. ‘Good party?'

‘Fantastic,' I said.

He gave me a funny look. ‘Vicky, your mouth! What on earth have you done?'

For maybe half a second I considered the truth. Then, buckling up my seatbelt with my face half-turned away I said, ‘Oh that. I got hit in the mouth in PE. It's no big deal.'

Chapter 17

DECLAN

Bitch
. My feet pound it out on the wet footpath.
Bitch. Bitch. Bitch
.

By the end of the street I'm out of breath. Why bother to run? No one's after me. I glance over my shoulder just in case. Nope. The street's empty except for a wee old man walking a small dog in a tartan coat. He gives me a funny look. I look down at myself and see I'm only in my school shirt and it's soaked already, clinging and slapping against my body.

I slow to a jog, then a walk. My heart's hammering. Don't know if it's from running or anger.

It's dark. All the houses have their curtains shut tight. I get to the Lisburn Road. Cars. Lights. People. I stop. Where am I going? I put my hand into the pocket of my school trousers. Locker key, broken pencil, coins: fifty, ten, two. Great.

I cross the road and turn left. This is the way home. To my house I mean. I put my head down and trudge on. Try and stamp out those words. But the footsteps turn
into the words and there's no getting away from them.
No. Wonder. She. Tried. To. Kill. Herself
. Like I need bloody Vicky to tell me.

I go under the bridge. There's this dead long, straight, boring road ahead. I start trying to think, forcing my mind to blot out those words. I imagine getting to my house, breaking in and just hiding out there. But it's a stupid idea. It's the first place she'll look. And when she finds me she'll get social services in. Colette is the kind of person who does things by the book. And there's no way they'll let me stay on my own. Maybe I'll get sent to a foster home or something. No more Princess Vicky. Good.

Yeah, but no more horses either. Shit. Like Mum said, all I do is wreck things. Why did I hit her? Because she deserved it.
No. Wonder. She. Tried. To. Kill. Herself
. I'm back where I started.

Getting over the roundabout's pretty hairy. I run for it. Cars blare. I don't care. Up the hill. My breathing's funny. Some bastard splashes my legs and a car slows. Stops. I keep going. Then I hear the swish of an electric window.

‘Get in.' It's Colette.

I get in.

‘Seatbelt,' she says. I don't look at her face. She pulls off and heads on up the hill. At the roundabout at the top she indicates right, goes all the way round, and straight down again towards home. Her home. I don't know I've been holding my breath till I feel it releasing.

‘Where did you think we were going?' she says.

I shift in the seat. ‘Thought you might –'

She turns to me for the first time. ‘You're soaking.'

‘Yeah.' My school shirt's sticking to me. Mostly rain
but as she turns the heating up I catch the sour reek of sweat.

‘I'm sorry.' For a second I don't recognise my own voice. ‘I didn't mean to hit her. But she –'

‘I know. It was a terrible thing to say. But Declan, you can't go round hitting everyone who says something you don't like. Especially not girls.'

‘I know.' My voice is small.

She won't let up, though. ‘I mean, is that the sort of man you want to be? One who settles things with his fists?'

Like Barry. I can't answer.

‘Come on, is it?'

‘
No
,' I say. Something swells up and chokes me and next thing I'm crying.

Colette says something and I flinch away and try to look out the window. The lights of cars blur and dazzle. I scrunch my eyes shut but the tears force their way out anyway. I bite my lip and choke on a massive sob.

The car slides to a stop though we're not back at Colette's house yet. I feel her hand on the back of my neck. ‘It's OK,' she says, dead soft and nice. I give up. I turn and sort of fall against her and she puts her arms round me and I know I'll never be able to stop.

A long time later I sit up, shivering, and blot my burning face with tissues. My breath shudders but I've got hold of myself. My face feels swollen and raw. There's a banging in my head and I feel sort of outside myself. Spaced out and knackered, like I've been awake for days.

Colette hands me another tissue. ‘Better?' The front of her jumper is all soggy with tears. I hope there isn't any snot.

‘Yeah. Sorry.'

‘
I'm
sorry. Your mum upset you, didn't she? That's what started this?'

I suppose it is in a way. I nod.

‘Come on, let's get you home.'

‘What about Vicky?'

‘She went to the party. You won't have to see her until Sunday. When
naturally
she will apologise, and –'

I swallow. ‘Me too.'

‘That's OK then.' She says it like it's not a big deal. She starts the engine. When the dashboard clock lights up it says twenty to nine but it feels like the middle of the night.

We're at her house in a few minutes. Half an hour ago I thought I'd never be back here again. The light's on in the hall. No Vicky for two days. I can hardly drag myself out of the car.

Colette seems to know how I feel. ‘Go on,' she says. ‘Get those wet clothes off and I'll run you a bath. Are you hungry? You haven't had any tea.'

I shake my head.

‘Well, I'll heat up some soup anyway. You'll probably feel like it in a bit.'

I move in a blur of tiredness and relief. Let her take control. Have a bath. Eat soup. She hands me two paracetemol and a glass of water. ‘Go on, take those and go on up to bed. You look exhausted.'

There's a hot water bottle in my bed. I hug it. Don't think. Sleep.

* * *

I wander into the living-room with my cornflakes, flick through the TV channels. Saturday morning crap. Then
I hear Colette getting out of the shower upstairs and my stomach dips. Oh God. Last night. My face burns at the memory. I decide to make her a cup of tea and hope she won't mention it.

‘So what do you normally do on Saturdays, Declan?' she asks when we're both drinking our tea.

I shrug. ‘Just hang around and that.'

‘D'you miss your friends?'

‘Not really.'

‘Look, it's a lovely day. What do you say to going out somewhere?' She has this sort of hopeful look on her face and I suddenly wonder what
she
normally does on Saturdays – is she glad to get Princess Vicky out of the way or does she miss her?

‘I don't mind.'

‘Any ideas where you'd like to go?'

‘I dunno.' Then for some reason I remember the houses at the loony bin. ‘Mountains?'

‘Oh.' She sounds a bit uncertain. ‘I suppose – yes, we could go down to the Mournes.' She grins at me. ‘OK, why not?'

So an hour later we're back in the car.

‘Look over there,' says Colette, when the dark shadow of the mountains first hunches up ahead. ‘That's where we're going. We'll be there in half an hour.'

‘I never knew they were so near.'

‘About thirty miles away. Have you really never been there?'

I shake my head.

Half an hour later we're driving into a big forest. The mountains are so close you feel you could reach out and touch them. It's like that
Lord of the Rings
film.

At first it's weird walking on my own with Colette
because I keep thinking she's going to start on about … well, any one of the long list of things I don't want to talk about. Mum. Vicky. Last night. But she doesn't. She just keeps looking round and saying how lovely it is and how long it is since she's been out in the country. I only halflisten. The lower paths are busy with people. Lots of dogs splashing in the river. But soon it starts to get steeper and lonelier. Then we need all our breath just for getting up the path and I stop worrying about what Colette might say. The paths are covered in mushy leaves and the air has a damp leafy smell I never smelled before. Even though I'm sweating getting up the hill, I feel sort of clean.

‘Let's stop for a rest at the end of this path,' pants Colette. ‘Have some lunch.'

I rush to get to the end of the path first. And gasp. ‘Jesus!'

All the way up through the forest you could only catch the odd glimpse of the mountains. But suddenly here they are, huge and bare and grey-green. Nowhere to hide – sort of scary. Sheep turn their woolly heads and stare at me, then go back to eating the grass.

I jump onto the low stone wall and wait for Colette. I try to imagine Mum here. Or anyone I know. Imagine Barry pushing his big belly up that hill.

‘Sandwiches and stuff in there,' says Colette, dumping her wee rucksack on the ground. ‘It's lovely, isn't it?'

‘Yeah.' I struggle to say more. I mean, she's driven all the way here. ‘I've never seen anywhere as … as wild as this. I mean, you can see mountains from Belfast, can't you, but it's not like this.'

She smiles and hands me an apple. ‘Vicky's dad and I used to come here before we were married. It's nice having someone to come with.'

I turn and rummage in the rucksack for a drink when the wall seems to shake.

Thundering towards us are three horses, manes and tails flying, hooves ringing on the hard forest path. For a second it looks like they're going to run over the top of us but they slow into what I now know is a trot and turn left up the stony path beside our wall. Their riders laugh and call to each other.

I follow them with my eyes as far as I can.

Colette sees me looking. ‘That'll be you this time next week,' she says.

‘Nah. I'll just be shovelling the shit.'

‘Would you like to learn to ride?'

I feel the slow burn of my cheeks. Is it so obvious? I shrug. ‘Not much point.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, you know –' I wave the Coke bottle to show it's no big deal. ‘I'll be going home soon.'

‘So?'

‘Not much riding round our way.'Cept joyriding.' I laugh but it comes out wrong – a hard sort of sound.

‘You don't have to stay there forever, Declan.' She brushes crumbs off her jeans. ‘You're leaving school this year, aren't you?'

‘Yeah, but – where else would I go?'

‘What do you want to do?'

I shrug again. ‘Haven't thought about it.' And definitely don't want to talk about it.

She doesn't start into the usual stuff, though. Instead she starts going on about herself. Which is way better than me having to say anything.

‘God, I remember fifth year. Swotting every night for months to get good grades.'

‘Like Vicky?'

Vicky's always doing her homework. Every night.

Colette laughs. ‘Vicky does
nothing
! Well, she does what she has to and nothing more. She's not as … as
hungry
as I was. I was obsessed. Your mum thought I was mad.'

It
sounds
mad. But then look at Colette now, in her nice house and all, and look at Mum. Not that I could start all that homework and stuff.

‘Vicky keeps changing her mind about what she wants to do,' Colette goes on. ‘She used to say she wanted to be a vet but she's not good enough at science. I think she might end up doing law like her dad.'

‘Oh.'

‘Declan?' She smiles. ‘People don't
have
to end up doing the same as their parents, you know.'

‘Yeah. Can we go on up to the top of that hill?'

* * *

We end the day with fish suppers in a dead old-fashioned café in Newcastle, facing each other across one of those shiny old tables. Every time the door opens, a whip of cold, mountainy air lashes into the warm greasy café fug. Locals queue up for takeaway but we're the only ones sitting in.

‘God, these are lovely,' says Colette, dipping a big fat salty chip into tomato ketchup. ‘I haven't had fish and chips for years. We used to get them every Friday night for a treat when I was wee. From the chippie round the corner.'

‘The Golden Fry?'

‘Yes! Don't tell me it's still there?'

‘Yeah.' I make a chip buttie and squash the two halves together. Butter oozes out and I lick it off my fingers.

‘Can you still get mushy pea fritters?'

‘Yuck, I don't think so! That sounds gross.' I look at Colette, all neat and clean, though her short hair's a bit ruffled by the wind, and try to link her with something as minging as a mushy pea fritter.

She laughs. ‘Frankie never needed to ask me what I wanted; it was always the same.'

‘Fat Frankie? Was
he
there in those days?'

‘It wasn't that long ago. Is he any slimmer these days?'

‘He's huge. No-one knows how he fits his belly behind the counter.'

‘That's what we always used to say!'

‘Too many sausage suppers!' I spear a chip and we both laugh.

‘I'd forgotten all about Fat Frankie till now,' says Colette. ‘Me and your mum and dad used to go there. When we were too young to get into the pubs and didn't have anywhere to go, there was always the chippie. We used to put our money together and share a chip. That's when we were about fourteen or so. After your mum and dad started going out together I didn't really hang round with them.'

‘Did they not want you?'

‘Partly.' She takes a sip of tea. ‘Mainly it was because I was always studying. All I thought about was exams and doing well and getting away from home. I was the odd one out.'

I try to imagine Mum being fourteen and sharing a chip in Fat Frankie's with her boyfriend. ‘I don't remember my dad,' I hear myself saying.

‘No. Well.' Colette looks as if she doesn't want to talk
about my dad. Then her face kind of softens. ‘You're very like him, Declan. I don't just mean to look at – though you do look like him. I mean – you know.'

I don't know. Not really. Just a few stupid facts. He played the guitar. He never had a job. He got killed in a car crash when I was one. How had having a laugh about Fat Frankie led us here?

Colette says, ‘OK, I'll go up and pay.' Just as she stands up her mobile rings, making me jump. It's sitting on the table and I see the display flashing: VICKY CALLING. She grabs it and I hear half a conversation – pretty quiet, because Colette's the kind of person who thinks it's rude to yell into your phone in public.