Running on the Cracks

by Julia Donaldson

  What should he do? He could creep up on her and get a good look at her face. But then she’d see him and run. If it was the doughnut girl, she was a fast runner, and Finlay wasn’t – specially not with his bag full of papers. She would just get away again, and then what? If he rang the Missing People brigade they probably wouldn’t be any more impressed than they were last time. Unless … yes, that was it! Finlay didn’t have a camera but Mum did, and it would only take a couple of minutes to nip home for it. He turned round and walked quietly till he reached the gap in the hedge. When he was through it, he ran.

  ‘That was quick!’ said Mum. ‘You’ll be on time for once.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said Finlay. ‘But, Mum, I need to borrow your camera.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I want to take some photos of the canal. It’s for our art project.’

  ‘But why now? Shouldn’t you finish your paper round? Can’t you do it this evening?’

  ‘No, the light won’t be right. Oh go on, Mum, please.’

  ‘Well …’ Finlay waited for her to start up about the two mobile phones he’d lost this year, but instead she said, ‘Oh, all right then.’ She was doing her best to sound grudging but was actually pleased to discover this new artistic streak in Finlay.

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ The camera was hanging from a coat hook in the hall. Finlay took it and ran.

  He reached the hedge by the canal and peered round it. There was no one on the swing bridge. He was too late.

  But no! There she was, further down the towpath, walking swiftly away from him, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. Instead of following her along the path, Finlay decided to stay the other side of the hedge on the road which ran parallel to the canal. He crossed the road so that she’d be less likely to see or hear him through the hedge. If he timed it right he could rejoin the towpath at the next bridge before the girl got there. But first he must remember how Mum’s camera worked. He took it out of its case and pointed it at a car. It was simple enough – look through this window, click this button – yes, that was it.

  A man getting into another car gave him a suspicious look. Finlay ignored him and ran, probably making the man even more suspicious, but that was too bad.

  Past the bus stop, past the mini supermarket. There it was, the next opening to the canal. Would he reach it before she did? The hedge was too thick here for him to see through it.

  He stopped running, poised the camera and stepped out on to the canal path. He looked right – no one. He looked left and found himself almost face to face with her. And it was her.

  Click!

  The girl’s eyes widened as she recognised him. Finlay wasn’t prepared for what happened next. She grabbed the camera and ran.

  ‘Stop! Stop! That’s my mum’s camera!’

  Finlay ran after her, through another gap in the hedge, along Endred Close and then right into Struan Drive. She dived into the entrance to a block of flats. Finlay followed. You’re cornered now, he thought. These were the flats he delivered papers to and he knew that there wasn’t another way out.

  He clattered up the stairs after her. As he reached the second landing he was just in time to see her let herself into a door. Finlay knew the door well. It was McNally 2/1.

  Leo – Face to Face

  ‘Hiya, Leo hen! Did you do some nice pictures, aye?’ Mary greets me. Then, ‘What is it?’ as she sees the panic on my face.

  ‘Shh, Mary! Someone’s seen me.’ I beckon her into the bedroom – the room furthest from the front door. ‘He’s there outside – he’s on the landing!’

  ‘Who is? It’s no the bird man, is it?’ Mary’s eyes are glittering, her voice a stage whisper.

  ‘No, it’s that boy … I’m sure it’s him – the one I told you about, the one from the doughnut van.’

  The doorbell rings. ‘That’s him!’ Why did I run here? Now I’m trapped!

  ‘We willnae let him in.’

  ‘But I’ve got his camera, Mary! He took a photo of me and I just grabbed it … Oh, what shall I do?’

  Another ring, longer, louder, and a rapping of the letter box. I clutch Mary’s arm. It’s bony through her thin flowery blouse. She pats my hand in reassurance but her bright eyes look wild.

  ‘Open the door! I know you’re there!’ comes the boy’s voice. And then, louder, ‘Open the door or I’ll call the police.’

  He means it too. What can we do?

  Mary is suddenly decisive. She points to the large old-fashioned wardrobe. ‘Get in there, hen! I’ll stop his blethering.’

  The wardrobe is full of Mary’s charity-shop dresses and blouses. The musty-smelling nylon is cool against my face in the darkness. I can hear her voice coming from the hallway.

  ‘Will you stop that carry-on!’ she says. But now she’s laughing. Why?

  ‘I spy with my little eye!’ She must be looking through the little spyhole in the front door. ‘It’s my wee paper boy all the time. Can ye no put it through the letter box, son?’

  I can’t make out the boy’s reply, but then Mary says, ‘No, wee man, there’s only me – me and the moggie … no, there’s nae lassie here. You’ve got the wrong house.’

  ‘She is here! I saw her! She’s got my mum’s camera!’ The voice is louder now, much too loud for my liking.

  ‘Jist gie me my Morning Post and stop blethering. You’ll be late for school.’

  ‘I’m not going to school. I’m going to the police station!’

  ‘Aye, and I’ll go with you and tell them you’ve been causing a breach of the peace.’

  Mary is keeping up the act but I know it’s no good. The boy means business. And if he carries on at this volume everyone in the flats will find out about me.

  I push open the wardrobe door and call to Mary, ‘You’d better let him in. I’ll give him his camera back.’

  The camera, but not the photograph. It’s an old-fashioned camera, not a digital one. As Mary fiddles with the chain on the door I fiddle with the camera. Click, open, close. Now the film is exposed and the picture will be ruined.

  ‘Where is she? And where’s my camera?’ comes the boy’s voice. Mary has let him in. He’s in the hall. Feeling something like stage fright, I open the bedroom door and make my entrance.

  The boy spins round. We’re face to face – for the third time.

  ‘Is it him, aye? Is it the doughnut boy?’ asks Mary.

  ‘No – she’s the doughnut girl ! ’ says the boy. ‘She stole my doughnuts and now she’s got my mum’s camera. Give it back, you thief !’

  I hand him the camera. ‘Here you are, but stop spying on me.’

  ‘I’d rather be a spy than a thief.’

  ‘Stop calling me a thief !’

  ‘Well, you are one. I nearly lost my job because of you, and now I’ve got to pay for those ornaments.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I didn’t steal any ornaments.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you’re still a thief. Stealing things and running away all the time.’ A new idea strikes him. ‘I bet that’s why you ran away in the first place, isn’t it? I bet you stole stuff from your aunt and uncle!’

  I can feel the blood draining from my face. So he does know. He knows who I am.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m her auntie,’ Mary lies valiantly, but the boy’s not swallowing it.

  ‘You’re not! You’re not the one that was in the paper, anyway.’ He turns on me again. ‘I recognised you the first time I saw you,’ he says, ‘and now I’m going to get the reward.’

  ‘No … listen … you don’t understand.’ My voice feels as weak as my knees. It trails out.

  ‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand,’ he shouts. ‘You just go round stealing things, not caring how other people feel. How do you think I’d feel if I lost my job? How do you think my mum would feel if her camera was stolen? My dad gave her that camera for Christmas.’

  Before I can answer, Mary turns on him. ‘Your da! Your ma! You’re l
ucky to have a da and a ma. How d’ye think this wean feels? She’s got no da and no ma – all she’s got is an auntie who’s a snob and an uncle who’s a pervert and two nasty wee cousins.’

  The boy looks taken aback. Mary seizes her advantage. ‘She didnae want your ma’s camera. She jist disnae want her photie splashed in all the papers. But you widnae think about that, wid ye? Ye’d have her back wi’ that perverted bird man, is that it?’

  ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t know …’

  ‘No, and you didnae think neither. Christmas, you’re on about! Christmas! What about the poor wee lassie? No ma, no da – what sort of Christmas do you think she’s going to have?’ Mary’s really in her stride now and I’m beginning to feel sorry for the boy. He looks embarrassed; he’s fingering his luminous yellow bag of newspapers. Now he’s turning to the door.

  ‘All right. I won’t tell anyone. I’d better go.’

  But just as he reaches for the handle there comes a light tap and a voice from the other side.

  ‘Is everything all right, Miss McNally?’

  ‘It’s Dressing Gown,’ mutters the boy, and as abruptly as Mary began her tirade she ends it with a hoot of laughter. ‘Dressing Gown! Aye, it’s Dressing Gown! I’m fine, Dressing Gown!’ she yells. ‘Never better! How’s yerself, Dressing Gown?’

  ‘I’ll be fine if you can just keep the noise down,’ comes the voice, huffy now. Mary shrieks with laughter again: all the excitement seems to have gone to her head. The boy looks a bit alarmed and catches my eye.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Mary? I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ I suggest. It seems mean to leave the boy out. ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘Aye, of course he does, don’t you, wee man?’ says Mary. Her aggression has been transformed into generosity now that we are all somehow allies against Dressing Gown. ‘And I know what he’ll be wanting as well – Chocolate HobNobs!’

  Talking to the Birds – 2

  Wakey wakey. Look what Daddy’s got you. A special treat. Chickweed. Oh dear, are we all ruffled? You didn’t like it in that van, did you? No, nasty van. Never mind. It’s all right here really. We’ll get used to it. We don’t care about the others anyway, do we? We’ll be all right on our own. Yes, that’s Chirpy’s perch. Chirpy chirpy, perchie perchie! Look in your mirror. You’re pretty, aren’t you? There’s nothing wrong with looking. Daddy was only looking. He was waiting for the bus, just like those silly girls. Whoops – it’s gone in your water. Silly Daddy to put the water under Chirpy’s perch. Silly Daddy!

  Finlay – Sherlock

  Finlay took his English file and his copy of Macbeth out of the black bag with the skull patch on it. He nudged his teacup to one side of Mary’s wobbly dining table and the plate of Jammie Dodgers to the other. (After a few heavy hints dropped over the last few days, Mary had finally realised that he preferred Jammie Dodgers to Chocolate HobNobs.)

  Leo leaned over Finlay’s shoulder as he opened the file. ‘Are you sure you’re OK about helping me again?’ he asked her. ‘It’s just I’ve got a bit behind …’

  ‘I know. Too busy taking photos and catching criminals. No, it’s fine – I love Shakespeare.’

  ‘You sound just like Ailsa Coutts.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘She’s this girl in my class who understands all the thees and thous. She keeps blabbing on about what motivates Lady Macbeth. Our English teacher loves her.’

  ‘Why don’t you get her to help you then?’ Leo sounded a touch offended.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t bother with a loser like me.’

  ‘Oh, so I’m second best then?’

  ‘No, you’re dead good at explaining things.’

  ‘All right, then.’ Mollified, Leo seized the book. ‘Where have you got up to? Has Macbeth killed the king yet?’

  ‘Yes, and now he’s just had this other guy bumped off – you know, his friend, Banquet.’

  Leo laughed and Mary let out a wild cackle. ‘Banquet! That’s a good name. How do you do, Banquet? Sit doon, Banquet – have a cup of tea.’

  ‘It’s not banquet, it’s Banquo,’ said Leo gently.

  ‘Sorry, I was getting mixed up – we’ve been doing the banqueting scene.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a great scene.’

  ‘It is if you don’t have to write an essay about it.’ Finlay read aloud the heading he had scrawled at the top of the file paper: ’ “Is Banquo’s Ghost Meant to be Real?” ’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘Of course he’s real,’ said Finlay. ‘Shakespeare says so. Look it says here: “Enter Banquo’s ghost and sits in Macbeth’s place.” ’

  ‘But don’t you think that’s really meant to be happening in Macbeth’s mind?’ said Leo.

  ‘Aye,’ chipped in Mary. ‘It’s like wi’ Ronnie on Ward Seven. One time he saw this chimney sweep talking to him oot the telly, but the telly wasnae on. There’s that much funny stuff going on in people’s heids.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Leo. ‘After all, no one else can see the ghost – and remember what Lady Macbeth says: “You look but on a chair.”’

  Finlay felt doubly annoyed. Not only did Leo seem to know the play off by heart but she obviously thought that old Mary – who probably hadn’t even read it – had a better grasp of it than he had.

  ‘I suppose you always come top in English – like Ailsa Coutts,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Leo. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t even go to school.’

  ‘I know you don’t any more, but I mean … well, before …’

  ‘I never did. I was home-educated. Mum and Dad used to take me to see a lot of plays and then we’d talk and talk about them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Finlay. He never knew what to say when Leo mentioned her parents. Maybe better get back to Macbeth.

  ‘So you think Macbeth’s a bit mental then?’ he said. ‘I think that’s what Lady Macbeth thinks too. She says something about how he often has these fits and how everyone should take no notice and just get on with the banquet.’

  Mary cackled again. ‘Take no notice and get on wi’ the banquet! That’s good advice, that is! I’ll tell that to Ronnie and the Godfather. Take no notice and get on wi’ the banquet!’

  Leo smiled, then turned back to Finlay. ‘But don’t you see, Lady Macbeth just says that about Macbeth having fits to cover up for him? She’s trying to put the guests off the scent. Macbeth doesn’t really have fits. The real reason he sees the ghost is because he feels so guilty. I mean, he’s just murdered his friend. Think how you’d feel if you’d murdered … well, me for example.’

  ‘Aye, say you’d killed her after she’d taen your doughnuts!’ Mary was getting into the spirit of this argument. ‘You’d feel guilty then, wouldn’t you, wee man?’

  ‘No I wouldn’t – it would serve her right!’ said Finlay, and they all laughed. But underneath the laughter Finlay realised that he did have a faintly guilty feeling about Leo. Why should that be? As she had more or less said, they were friends now, not enemies, and she had helped him with his homework for the last two days. So where did that guilty feeling come from? Finlay tried to push it to the back of his mind.

  Mary was still laughing. Why did she laugh so much? ‘Take no notice and get on wi’ the banquet!’ she crowed yet again, thumping Finlay on the back. ‘Aye, let’s have a banquet. Let’s get in a chinky!’

  Finlay didn’t think you were supposed to call a Chinese takeaway a ‘chinky’. It was what his English teacher and his mum would call ‘politically incorrect’, specially when there was a real Chinese – well, half-Chinese – person in the room. But Leo didn’t seem to mind. At least, not about that.

  ‘Listen, Mary, you can’t keep spending your money on us like this,’ she said. ‘You’ve already bought me those clothes, and all those lovely oil pastels.’

  But Mary was flapping a leaflet about gleefully. ‘I’ve just got my DLA and I’ll spend it how I like. I’ll spend it on a banquet!’ she said. She picked
up the phone.

  ‘What’s DLA?’ Finlay whispered to Leo.

  ‘Disability Living Allowance,’ Leo told him. ‘It’s this money she gets every month from the government.’

  ‘One spare rib special, one sweet-and-sour king prawn, one chicken with ginger and pineapple, one beef in oyster sauce …’ Mary seemed to be ordering the whole menu.

  ‘We’ve got to stop her,’ said Leo.

  But Finlay’s mind had leapt in a different direction. ‘Hey – that restaurant could be the one your gran and granddad run,’ he said. Excited, he gripped Mary’s arm. ‘Ask them if they’re called Chan!’ he mouthed.

  Mary, catching the excitement, interrupted the flow of her own order. ‘What are you? Chans? No? Sure there’s no Chans lurking in the sweet and sour? You fish them out if there are – my wee girl here is looking for her granny and grandpa.’

  ‘I’ve just had a thought there,’ said Finlay, when Mary had at last put the phone down. ‘We could order food from a different place each week, and ask each one the Chan question. That way we can track Leo’s grandparents down without anyone sussing us out.’

  Mary clapped her hands. ‘You’re our Sherlock Holmes!’ she cried.

  But Leo looked doubtful. ‘That would take ages. There must be loads of Chinese restaurants in Glasgow.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Finlay reached for Mary’s Yellow Pages. ‘Here we are – Restaurants, Chinese,’ he said, and then, ‘You’re right,’ as his finger ran down the long column. ‘There’s fifty-six.’

  ‘So one a week would take over a year,’ said Leo. ‘Anyway, I don’t even know if they’ve still got a restaurant.’

  But Mary was undaunted. ‘Sherlock! He’s our Sherlock!’ she said. ‘Hand over the book, Sherlock! We don’t need to wait a week. Let’s try this one – The Amber Wok, I bet they do a good banquet.’

  ‘Mary, no!’ Leo tried to grab the phone. ‘We’re going to have far too much food as it is.’