Margaret took one of the crisps. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but I was in a car accident and the decision to expel you was taken on the day I was off. It’s not what I would have wanted.’
‘I know. I don’t blame you or nothing…’
Margaret sighed and ran her hands through her hair. ‘There was nothing I could do. Even if I had been at school, there’s no saying I could’ve stopped it happening.’
Stephen sniffed.
‘You shouldn’t have had a knife in school, Stephen. You shouldn’t carry a knife at all.’
‘I know, miss.’
Margaret put her hands on the table. ‘I wanted to see you get your A Levels.’
‘One day, maybe.’
‘God, Stephen…’
‘That’s why I came, like. I just wanted to come and see you, ’cause… it was just, like, y’know, what you said to me about trying my ’ardest. Well, after I got expelled, I thought I could give up or I could ’ave another go —’
‘You can; it’s not over,’ she interrupted.
‘I’m applying to college. I thought you could be my reference, like.’ Stephen pulled course information from his pocket, and an application that had been printed from the internet and was dog-eared from its journeys.
Margaret exhaled with relief and smiled. ‘Good for you, Stephen. Good for you.’ Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her lips together.
‘It’s just a practice, like. I’ll do it online.’
Margaret unfolded the form and smoothed the creases. Out of habit, she looked it over for spelling and other errors. Stephen had neatly printed each line and everything was correct. He was applying to do three A Levels.
‘Are you all right now?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You were in that really big pile-up on the M11?’
Margaret nodded.
‘And you were all right. Figure you’re a pretty good driver, huh, miss?’ He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth.
‘It wasn’t skill, it was luck.’
Margaret brushed a hand over the application form on the kitchen table. She did it to signal a change of subject and also to steady herself. The talk of the crash had brought a tremor to her fingers again. ‘I’m proud of you for doing this… and all by yourself. It’s just what I would’ve wanted you to do. You get knocked down, but you get up again, remember.’
Stephen shrugged. ‘Only ’cause of you. You’re the best teacher ever.’
When Stephen left, Margaret went upstairs and splashed cold water on her face. She leaned on the basin and stared at herself in the mirror. It had been easier to sit and talk to Stephen, who expected her to behave professionally, than it was to face her husband each night. It was a strain to hide how she was feeling from Ben and the children.
She went downstairs slowly. She could hear the children laughing at the film they were watching. She went into the kitchen and opened Ben’s laptop, then Googled nervous breakdown.
She read the text, biting her lip: Severe stress-induced depression, anxiety or dissociation in a previously functional individual. The disorder will mean that the individual can no longer function on a daily basis. A nervous breakdown bears great similarities to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
She hadn’t been able to go through the box that she had taken from her father’s house. When she started to look at the collected articles and pictures she felt physically sick – yet the contents of the box, the burned man and the memory of being trapped inside her burning car were Margaret’s constant present. Whatever she did, those feelings were inescapable.
She had called the hospital every day to check on Maxwell and now she thought of him again, alone and friendless, no loved ones knowing that he was hurt. She wanted to go and see him again. She needed to see him.
Before she closed the computer, she checked her Facebook account. Ben had sent her a message to say he was bored waiting to meet his interviewee and would be late home. She sent a message back although she knew that he was no longer online. She took long slow breaths as she left the kitchen and returned to the living room. The film credits were rolling; Paula was practising her gymnastics and Eliot was trying to copy her.
‘Can we go outside?’ said Eliot.
‘Not now, it’s too dark.’
‘But I can take my torch.’
‘No. It’s too dark. It’ll be time for dinner soon.’ Margaret glanced at her watch, wondering when Ben would come home. She didn’t feel up to an argument. ‘Come on,’ she said, sitting down and patting the couch beside her. ‘Come on, we’ll read another chapter of your Roald Dahl book.’
She had been reading George’s Marvellous Medicine to Eliot.
Eliot leaned into her as she broke the spine of the book and struggled to focus. Paula was trying to do headstands, then looking up at her mother intermittently, red-faced with effort. Reading to her children was what Margaret loved most, and yet even this precious time was no escape. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might break through her chest.
‘Mum, stop it,’ said Eliot, elbowing her in the stomach.
‘Stop what?’
‘Your hands are all shaky. I can’t follow the words.’
18
Big George
Thursday 3 October, 1985
In the morning, they set off again. There was only an inch of Irn Bru left in the bottle, and George let Moll finish it. He looked down at her as they left the Cheviot Hills. With her newly cut hair, there was a chance that she might not be recognised, but she was still a little girl in a crumpled school uniform with spots of blood on her collar and skinned knees scabbed over.
They left Northumberland National Park and headed south. There were farms on either side of the road and signs for deer and cattle. The car was running low on petrol, but George thought he could make it to Newcastle, which was only an hour away. They drove through towns like Longframlington and as they neared residential areas, an idea came to George.
At Morpeth, he veered off the road and drove into the town, rolling his window down and weaving through the housing schemes.
‘Where are we?’ said Moll. ‘Are we going to visit someone?’
He didn’t answer her. It was a quiet scheme of red-brick council houses with small fenced gardens. George hunched over the steering wheel as he peered out on either side, scanning the yards. It was another clear day – dry and bright although there was a chill in the air. He turned into another street and sure enough there were three different yards strung with washing. He crawled along the kerb inspecting the clothes on offer until he saw what looked like a boy’s green tracksuit.
‘Wait here,’ said George.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m gonna borrow something.’
He narrowed his eyes and scanned the street but there was no one around. It was after nine and people would be at work and at school. He vaulted over a wall into the garden and was startled by the sound of a dog barking inside the house. He yanked the tracksuit off the line, sending the pegs flying, jumped the wall again and slipped back into the car, throwing the tracksuit into the back seat. He drove out of Morpeth slowly, looking into the rear-view mirror until he was sure that they had not been seen.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Moll, as he turned on the radio.
‘As soon as I see a shop, we’ll stop and we’ll go and get something hot for lunch, I promise. Can you hold on?’
He turned to her, and she nodded, and he winked at her.
It was late morning when they arrived in Newcastle and George parked in a multi-storey car park near the high street.
‘Take your shoes off,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because we need to get this on you.’
‘Why? I don’t like it.’
‘We’ll get you something you like. It’s just… so you’ll be warm when we’re walking on the street. It’ll do for now.’ He bit his lip, watching her, but she kicked off her shoes and so he
leaned over and fed one foot and then the other into the tracksuit bottoms.
‘Pull them up and take off your skirt.’
She did as he asked. The skirt was a pleated kilt and he helped her undo the second button.
‘They’re all wet.’ Her face was peaked.
‘It’s only for a wee while, till we get you something better.’ He held out the tracksuit top and she fed her arm through.
‘It doesn’t smell nice.’
‘I promise we’ll get rid of this as soon as we can.’
‘I’m hungry,’ said Moll again, when they got out of the car. The tracksuit was oversized and he could see patches of dark green where the fabric was wet. The white of her school blouse was still visible and so he zipped her up and pushed the collar inside.
‘Where will we go to eat?’
‘I’ll find some place. Maybe we should get you some proper clothes first, then we’ll go get something to eat.’
The car park smelled of dank, wet concrete. It was only half full of cars, but there were no people around and George was relieved. He offered Moll his hand as they descended the stairs to the street and she took it and kept hold of it all the way to the high street, where he took her into C&A.
As soon as they walked into the department store, it seemed as if every shop assistant turned to stare at them. George realised what a sight Moll was, with her shorn hair and damp, oversized tracksuit. He was nervous and almost left the store, but instead he pulled Moll in the direction of the escalator and they ascended towards Men and Boys.
‘Your hand’s all sweaty,’ she said, pulling away from him.
‘Well, stay close to me,’ he said. ‘We need to be in and out of here, quick smart. You’re hungry, aren’t you? We need to get out of here and get you something to eat.’
She was quiet but sullen, following him around, looking at the clothes.
He picked out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, several T-shirts, socks and pants for boys aged seven to eight, and then they went for shoes. She chose a pair of Batman trainers.
‘Do they fit you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ jumping up and down. ‘They’re bouncy.’
As an afterthought, he bought her an anorak and wellington boots and a pair of thick gloves, a baseball cap and a scarf.
Moll curled her fingers over the checkout desk and put her lips to them. The man folding and bagging her clothes winked at her. George risked tapping Moll on the shoulder. ‘Stand up properly,’ he whispered.
He didn’t know how to predict her, had no idea what she would do. She looked up at him and he held his breath, but then she did as he asked. He smiled at her, and touched her head. She blinked slowly and shrugged at his appreciation.
He wondered if she knew that he had kidnapped her. All she had to do was tell the shop assistant that he had taken her, and it would all be over. He couldn’t remember being a child. He had only snatches of memories, mostly bad. He couldn’t remember how children thought and processed things.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said, whining now, when they got outside.
He hunkered down beside her and straightened the tracksuit on her shoulders. She was pale and wearying and he knew she needed to eat, but even though she looked almost like a boy now, she was still attracting glances in her damp, oversized clothes.
‘Let’s go back to the car and change and then we can get lunch,’ he said.
‘No, now,’ she whined.
There was a little shop off the high street and he bought her a packet of crisps and a can of Coke. She walked slowly, crunching the crisps and spilling little dribbles of Coke down the green tracksuit. By the time they got back to the car, the Coke and the crisps were finished.
The car park was still deserted. George pulled the tags off the jeans and T-shirt and asked her to change.
‘Can you manage by yourself?’ he asked.
She nodded, and so he walked ten feet away and smoked at the edge of the car park, looking down at the city. He was finished with his cigarette before she was done struggling into the new clothes. Finally, he went to help her: shaking her into the jeans and buttoning them up and wrestling the sweater on to her. She put on her Batman trainers and he knelt to lace them.
‘I can tie my own laces,’ she said.
He stood back to let her, but she took an age, and his own stomach rumbled as he waited. She made a big loop and a small loop, whispering instructions to herself.
‘You sure you don’t need me to help you?’
‘No!’
He sighed, looking over his shoulder. He put her school uniform into one of the carrier bags and put it in the boot. Finally, she stood up, her laces tied.
‘You look good.’ He placed the baseball cap on her head and led her to the wing mirror so that she could look at herself.
‘I look like a boy.’
‘You look cool.’
‘I look like a boy.’
‘Let’s go get something to eat.’
The streets were busy and he held her wrist as they navigated people on the pavement. She stopped and dug her heels in and pulled against him until he released her.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t like getting my wrist held.’
‘It’s busy. You could get lost.’
She had her hands pushed into her anorak pockets and was glaring up at him, fixing him with her good eye. The pavement was dirty with litter, and the street smelled of car exhausts. The sharp scent of vinegar and the sweet smell of potato wafted from a chip shop across the street, and George felt hunger again cramp his stomach.
She pushed past him, hands still in her pockets, so that she seemed to shimmy as she walked. He didn’t want to argue, so he let her walk a pace in front of him, tugging at her jacket when he needed her to turn a corner. At the main road, George took a pinch of her jacket and tried to take her across when the traffic had stopped.
‘No,’ she said, scowling at him again. ‘You can’t just walk across. You have to wait for the green man.’ She reached up to press the pedestrian button.
George sighed deeply and put his hands in his pockets, then found that she slid her hand through his arm as they waited, as she had when he took her from school.
‘If you’d gone when I said, we’d be across by now.’
‘But it’s not allowed,’ she said, pressing her lips together as she looked up at him.
Across the road there were shops and department stores and she was distracted by a busker with a guitar, cymbals between his knees and a drum on his back, singing out of tune, and then by a street vendor selling small battery-powered dogs that yelped and wagged their tails. She crouched down to look at them, pointing and smiling up at George. He asked her if she wanted one, but she shook her head. When they left the toys, she continued to walk slowly, her head turned by Goths with flowing purple skirts, an old man asking for spare change, and a Sheik with a long black beard.
‘Have you ever been to a big city before?’ he asked her.
Redemption Road Page 22