‘Well, that’s three incorrect letters already but we won’t stop there, George. Let’s proceed. We know you’re going to get more than twenty but let’s find out for sure.’
George swallowed and moved closer to the board. His right hand felt as if it didn’t belong to him. He made marks on the board, knowing that they were wrong but unable to control them, and knowing full well that whatever he did he would be punished for; x, y and z were mere slashes on the board. He turned towards Sister Agatha, his face burning. The class was a sea of faces, and he could hear the hiss of their whispers.
‘Well, George,’ she said when the class was quiet. ‘This is for your own good. We have to jog that memory somehow. I will teach you to write if it kills me. You may be stupid but you can learn the basics, one way or another. You’re stubborn and you’re not trying.’
Sister Agatha straightened and raised the belt to her shoulder.
‘Is this what you wanted, George?’ Sister Agatha said, smiling, her plump cheeks puckering like old dough.
‘Sure,’ said George, smiling at the class and holding out his hands.
Sister Agatha pursed her lips. Her lips had a mean tilt. George knew she was going to hurt him, but he also knew that he could take it. There was, he thought, only one positive in having Brendan McLaughlin as your father: it increased your stamina for pain. George would never be able to say he got used to it, but, yes, after a fashion, he did get used to it.
Sister Agatha began her lashes and George counted, blinking each time but never pulling his hands away.
The mountain roads had tight bends and blind summits, but George cornered each bend at sixty miles an hour, his mood dark despite the scenery. When they left Derbyshire, George continued to drive at full pelt through Staffordshire and the West Midlands.
When they reached the Black Country, George saw blue lights behind him. He checked his speed. He had let his concentration drift and was just over the limit. He slowed down, hoping that the police car would pass them, but instead it tailed them and then sounded the siren. As soon as the siren started, Moll woke up.
‘What is it?’ she said, rubbing her eyes at the noise. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter.’
‘Is it the police?’ she said, turning round in her seat, kneeling and peeping behind the headrest.
‘Sit down,’ said George, sharply. ‘Put your seatbelt back on right now.’
Her face darkened at his command but she did as he asked. George flicked his cigarette out of the window. The police car tucked in behind them, lights flashing, urging him to pull over. He slowed down, eyes to the rear-view mirror as he watched the dark-suited men inside the police car. George had never been good with authority. Whatever the reason they wanted to stop him – speeding, child abduction or the abnormality of his licence plates – he knew that it could not go well. He indicated to pull up at the next lay-by. He watched the police car do the same. He drew to a stop then waited as they both got out of the car to approach him. He kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror as he checked that Moll’s seatbelt was tightly fastened.
She began to speak but he shushed her. ‘Hold on to your hat, little lady,’ he said as he put the car into first gear and set both hands on the steering wheel. One policeman bent to examine the licence plates as the second walked around to the driver’s side.
George pulled out so fast that dirt spun from the wheels. He took his foot off the clutch and floored the accelerator so hard that Moll squealed beside him. He watched in the mirror as the police at first started, then ran back to their vehicle. There was a car in front of him on the narrow mountain road, but after he tailgated it for a few moments it pulled over and allowed George to overtake. The police car was over two hundred yards back and then got caught behind the same car, as George sped right through Castleton, startling a woman with shopping who was about to cross the road.
The peak of Mam Tor, a sloping breast of a mountain, disappeared from view as George continued driving south. The Allegro was an old car and wouldn’t go much over sixty, but the tight roads and George’s skill meant that he was able to keep ahead of the police car. He knew that he didn’t have long to lose them. It was not merely a question of driving faster – he knew that they would be radioing ahead for assistance and the only thing saving him was the clear country roads.
‘Slow down,’ Moll whined, her legs straight out in front of her and her hands clinging to the edge of the seat.
‘We need to drive fast now,’ he said, accelerating on the bends to carry them round. There were signs for deer and cattle, but George did not slow down. They were far enough ahead that the siren was faint. His hands sweated on the wheel. At his side, Moll began to whimper. He tried to comfort her, a hand on her knee, but swerved and so returned to concentrating on driving. His eyes scanned the road ahead. It was still bright daylight and they needed to hide and then get rid of the car.
The road was straight and downhill, and the Allegro managed over seventy miles an hour. It was a stretch of road famous for the British Cycle Race, with the hills of the Roaches shimmering green in the distance. Ahead was the town of Leek. George had never been there, but he knew from the map that it was a market town and would be cramped and busy, and he was sure to get caught in traffic or worse. There might even be police in the town waiting for him.
He glanced in the mirror and saw the flashing lights on the top of the last hill. About a mile away, George could see a tractor trailing a wagon. There was no other option.
‘Hang on tight,’ he said, as much to himself as to Moll.
There was an opening in the field at the bottom of the hill and George cut off the road on to the Staffordshire Moorlands. There had been little rain in the autumn and the land was dry so there was sufficient traction in the wheels to take them forward. George cut right across the field, behind a barn and towards the tree-lined river. Moll squealed as the car jumped up and down on the rough grass. George drove in second and third gear, feeling sweat break at his hairline.
The moorland was uneven and he put the car into first gear to climb a small ridge. The car’s undercarriage got stuck on the mud and grass, and George swore, reversed then tried again, this time making it over. On the other side, he drove down the hill slowly, breathing through his teeth, aware that they would no longer be visible from the road. Moll was pitched forward, both hands on the dashboard and her eyes screwed shut.
He drove alongside the River Churnet until he found a spot hidden by tall ash trees that cast the bank into shadow.
George parked the car and looked around. There was no sign of anyone. He rolled down the window and heard the thin whine of the siren above the sound of the river.
‘Why did you do that? What…?’
‘Whssht,’ said George, a finger on his lips and his left hand on Moll’s head. ‘You gotta be very quiet, angel, just a moment longer.’
Moll wiped her cheeks and turned to look in the direction of George’s gaze. The whine of the siren grew louder and George sat holding the key in the ignition. The police car slowed and turned off its siren, and George reached out to take Moll’s hand. She squeezed it and he squeezed back, coursing his thumb across her soft skin. It was close and he knew it. If the police car had seen them branch off, they might not be able to get away. George turned to peer out of the window. The police car kept on driving on the A53 into Leek.
George put both hands on the steering wheel and exhaled.
‘Are you OK, pet?’ he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t like it when you drive that fast.’
‘Well, you’re in charge. I’m not going to drive that fast again. Matter of fact, I think we need to leave the car here.’
‘What do you mean?’
George got out of the car, went round and opened Moll’s door. He helped her out and then lifted her right up so that she was sitting on the roof of the car, looking him straight in the face. She was s
miling again, all blue eyes and eyelashes and gapped teeth.
‘How was the first part of our adventure?’
‘I don’t like fast driving,’ she said, frowning.
He tickled her and she squealed and wriggled. ‘I told you, I’m done with driving just now. We’re going to leave the car and I need to figure out what to do. We maybe need to catch a bus. You remember your name, Batman?’
‘Robin.’
‘That’s right. I want you just to hold my hand and let me do the talking. We’re going to walk into town and we’ll catch the bus and then I’ll get us another nice place to sleep and a new car to drive, OK?’
Moll nodded. ‘And when will we start to go home?’
George lifted her down quickly, to avoid her eyes. ‘We’ll go home after we’ve finished our adventure… after we’ve got where we’re going. Penzance.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s a bit further south, not far now.’
She seemed satisfied with that. George took her satchel out of the back seat and his bag of money out of the boot and tucked his change of clothes and Moll’s new clothes inside, along with his knife and a torch. He took off his jacket and draped it over the holdall. Moll was crouched in the grass picking daisies and dandelions, feet apart and knees together, sucking her lip in concentration. George checked inside the car, and took out his cigarettes.
‘Button, get over here,’ he said suddenly.
She looked up at him, coy; chin over her shoulder.
‘Come and sit over here.’
She went to him and presented him with the posy, standing on her tiptoes and holding the flowers up to him.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ he said, smiling and getting down on one knee to take them. ‘No one’s ever given me flowers before. Really.’
She was pleased, hands clasped behind her back and swinging side to side. George put the flowers into his shirt pocket.
‘How does that look?’
‘Good.’
He lifted her up to the first low, thick branch of the ash tree. ‘I want you to sit tight there and don’t move.’
‘Where are you going?’ she said, her face suddenly shot with concern.
‘I’m going nowhere, but our car’s going for a swim and I want you safe and out of the way.’
She giggled, one hand over her mouth. ‘Cars don’t swim.’
‘Well, this one does.’
He had done it several times before – tipped cars into the River Clyde to get rid of evidence. But he was a stranger to this place and he felt alien in the countryside. The quiet and the sweet smell of dung unnerved him. He hoped that the river was deep enough. The Clyde was deeper and darker than all hell. It had been a dry week, but he remembered that there had been rain in the north the week before.
George took a screwdriver from the boot and removed the number plates front and back and then tossed them into the river upstream. He rolled down each of the windows, then put the car into neutral, took off the handbrake and pushed it to the edge. He glanced at Moll for a second, sitting on the branch wide-eyed like an owl. He pushed with all his strength and stood back as the car tipped over the edge and splashed into the river.
Moll wriggled off her branch and shimmied down the tree then ran to the bank beside him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, but she reached for his hand, and they stood side by side watching as the body of the car disappeared from view and sank further, until only the top of the roof could be seen.
‘Damn it,’ said George, letting go of her hand for a second to shake a cigarette from his pack and light it. When his cigarette was lit, he took her hand again.
‘Why are you saying “damn it”?’
‘Because I want it to sink.’
‘It has.’
‘Not all the way. I want it to sink right down.’
The river emitted a gulping sound, there was a creak of metal and the car sank further. George exhaled. It was enough. If the water stayed at that level, the car could go weeks or longer without being discovered, but if the river level dropped, even by a few inches, the car would be obvious.
‘Come on, button,’ he said.
He put her satchel back on her shoulders, picked up the holdall, took her hand and then together they walked towards the town. The grass was soft and Moll jumped from one mound to the other, the pencils rattling inside her satchel. As soon as they hit the road, George slowed his pace. There would be police here. He was sure that the police who had chased him had not seen his face, but he still did not know why they had asked him to pull over. They might have been looking for him, and knew the make of car. He needed to get to Stoke-on-Trent and see if Bernie would take them in.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Moll.
‘I know, precious,’ he said, ‘but I need to sort something out. Hold on if you can and then I’ll get you the best dinner ever.’
She sighed and he squeezed her hand.
‘What’s your favourite thing for tea?’
‘Macaroni cheese.’
‘Good choice.’
‘Is that your favourite too?’
‘Well, it’s up there in my top five.’
‘What’s your number one?’
‘Stovies.’
‘They’re in my top five,’ she said, and he smiled, realising that she was trying to please him.
He was doing his best to stay calm and cheerful for her, but his stomach was now tight with tension. He stuck out and he knew it. He needed to steal a car and get somewhere safe, where they had food and she could rest. Without the car, they were a long way from Penzance and the danger of being recognised was high.
The bus station in Leek was on Ashbourne Road and George found it quickly. A woman stopped him to ask the time and two other men wished him a good afternoon. He hated small towns. It reminded him of how he had felt when he arrived in Thurso: tall and conspicuous. He smiled and rushed his words to try to disguise his accent. He kept Moll close to him as he looked at the timetables. The numbers made sense, but the names of the towns were just letters swarming at him. He felt a pain in his throat, remembering the failure he had felt as a child.
George crouched down beside her. ‘I don’t know if you can do this,’ he said to her, ‘but if I lift you up, can you read the names of the towns to me? I have a friend lives near here. I’ll lift you up and you tell me if you see a timetable for a bus going to Hanley. Can you do that?’
She nodded gravely and held out her arms to be lifted. He held her into his hip, pointing at the town names listed at the top of the timetables.
‘Here,’ she said, pointing after a few moments.
‘Are you sure?’ said George, shifting her weight so that he could peer at the word.
‘Yes… Ashbourne, Buxton and then Hanley.’
He looked at the bus number on the timetable Moll had indicated.
‘X18,’ he said, under his breath. ‘Today’s Friday. Can you find the right day on the timetable?’
Moll leaned forward, sucking in her lower lip and letting both palms rest on the noticeboard. ‘Maybe this one,’ she said, looking worried and unsure. ‘It says Monday and Friday.’
He let her down then took her hand.
‘OK, good job. Now we need to find a phone box.’
There was one at the other end of the station and George pulled Moll inside. He felt safer inside the call box. It smelled damp like a cellar. He reached into his pocket and took out his change and placed all the silver on the metal tray inside the box. There had been a phone book but now only the outer pages remained. George knew that he would be unable to read a phone book anyway, and he wasn’t sure if Moll could either. She leaned against the booth and looked up at him as he picked up the telephone and dialled. He wanted a cigarette very badly.
Redemption Road Page 30