Running on the Cracks

by Julia Donaldson

  ‘We’re having a banquet!’ said Mary. She still held the phone but her expression changed. ‘We just need some mair guests,’ she said.

  Leo – the Banquet

  There are five of them. Five extra guests at the banquet.

  Lorraine is the first to arrive. She’s a lot younger than Mary, probably in her late twenties. She’s been round here a few times before, though I don’t feel I know her, as she doesn’t speak often and when she does it is in a slow, dull voice. I haven’t asked how she fits into Mary’s life – maybe they met in hospital. As usual, Lorraine is sitting slumped on the sofa, chain-smoking. That sofa is my bed, but I’m hardly in a position to complain.

  The other four guests arrive together. Three of them are men and one is a dog.

  I recognise Ronnie straight away. He is the quiet, shuffling man Mary gave the Chocolate HobNobs to in the park the day I first met her. He sits down on the floor in a corner of the room, his knees touching his chin, and takes a can of beer out of one of the two carrier bags he has brought with him.

  Mary pays more attention to the two older men. ‘It’s the President and the Godfather!’ she cries. ‘The reunited ones! The long-lost twins!’

  ‘You’re off your heid, Mary,’ says the one she calls the President. He has long greasy hair, a stubbly chin and a shabby leather jacket. ‘We’re not long-lost. The Godfather’s just been in Ward Seven for six months. They let him out yesterday.’

  ‘They’ve turned the key! They’ve set the leader free!’ says Mary.

  She’s talked such a lot about the Godfather, and I’d been imagining a don’t-mess-with-me Mafioso figure, but in fact he looks quite respectable, clean-shaven, with a short-back-and-sides haircut.

  Mary grabs one of my hands and one of Finlay’s. She holds them up as if the three of us were about to take a bow at the theatre. ‘This is Leo da Vinci. She’s an artist. And Sherlock’s a detective,’ she announces.

  ‘I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,’ says the Godfather solemnly. Then he starts to hand the foil takeaway containers round, murmuring polite but rather odd things like, ‘I can assure you the chop suey is uncontaminated’ and ‘It is perfectly in order to combine chicken with bamboo shoots.’ After that he lapses into silence.

  But if Lorraine, Ronnie and the Godfather are quiet, the President and the dog make up for them.

  The dog is handsome, black, silky and badly behaved. I’m not sure which of the three men he belongs to, and he himself doesn’t think he belongs to anyone. He began by chasing Mary’s cat Midget, who fled into the bedroom. Now he is roaming the sitting room, barking at anyone who is holding a spare rib.

  The President eats with his fingers, only occasionally licking them clean. He talks even more than Mary, while still managing to wolf down large quantities of food. With his mouth full of king prawns, he tells us about all the countries he has been to, which according to him is just about every one in the world.

  ‘Have you been to Egypt?’ Finlay asks. ‘My mum and dad are going to go on this Nile cruise.’

  ‘I lived in Egypt for years,’ says the President. ‘I know the Nile like the back of my hand.’ He holds his hand up, as if to prove it. I can see Finlay is impressed by the chunky gold rings which adorn most of his fingers.

  ‘When were you there?’ Finlay is quite the interviewer.

  The President taps his nose. ‘It was when I was a Prospect,’ he says in a mysterious tone. Then he eyes Finlay appreciatively. He seems to have taken a shine to him. ‘You could be a Prospect,’ he says. ‘He could be the next Prospect, couldn’t he, twinny?’

  ‘I’m sure he would qualify admirably,’ says the Godfather, with a courteous nod towards Finlay.

  The President gestures to the pointless Goth chain dangling from Finlay’s trouser pocket. ‘That’s good, that is. That’s good Prospect gear.’

  What is he talking about? I’m sure Finlay doesn’t know either, but he’s not going to let on. Instead, he changes the subject. ‘So which country are you the president of ?’

  The President belches and wipes some sweet-and-sour sauce off his trousers. He doesn’t look like a candidate for government to me, but I don’t say so.

  ‘It’s not a country, see, it’s a society,’ he replies. He eyes Finlay again and announces, ‘You’ll need a Harley Davidson if you’re going to be a Prospect.’

  Finlay’s face clears. ‘What, a motorbike? Are you talking about the Hell’s Angels?’

  ‘He’s always talking about the Hell’s Angels,’ says Lorraine in her flat voice.

  So that’s what he’s the president of ! Or does he just think he is?

  The Godfather offers round some more rice. ‘I believe that boiling destroys ninety-nine per cent of known germs,’ he tells us.

  ‘Got any Buckies in there?’ says the President to Ronnie.

  By now there is a collection of empty cans and bottles at Ronnie’s feet. Silently, he produces two green bottles with yellow labels from one of his bags. He hands one to the President and begins drinking the other himself. I’m not sure what it is, but the air is growing fumier by the minute. The President slurps away, appearing to have forgotten all about motorbikes and Prospects.

  The room falls quiet. But something is stirring in my mind. Something troubling.

  What was it Mary said about Ronnie that day in the park? ‘Ronnie’d do a runner if they gave him Unaccompanied’ – that was it. At the time I couldn’t make sense of it, but now I know what she meant: if they let Ronnie have time out from the hospital ward without a nurse to keep an eye on him, he would run away, get drunk and not come back.

  Why is Ronnie here now? Is he really better? Has he been discharged from hospital, like the Godfather? Or has he ‘done a runner’?

  And what happens when someone does a runner? Does the hospital get the police to track them down? Supposing the police come here and find me? Suddenly I don’t feel like eating any more.

  The dog can tell that my appetite has gone. Sensing his advantage, he puts his paws on my lap and snuffles at my plate.

  ‘Down, Zigger,’ commands the President.

  Zigger ignores him. He snatches a chicken wing and retreats with it into a corner where he growls menacingly.

  ‘That dog of yours is getting too much for me, Ronnie. I’ve had him for three weeks now. You’ll have to take him back,’ says the President.

  ‘They’ll no let Ronnie keep a dog on the ward,’ says Lorraine. ‘They willnae even let a dog visit the ward.’

  ‘Aye, but Ronnie’s no going back to the ward, are you, Ronnie? Ronnie’s done a runner!’

  So I’m right. I feel the panic rising in my chest. They’ll come after him, I know they will. They’ll find him, and they’ll find me.

  ‘Well, he’s no staying wi’ me this time,’ says the President. ‘It’s been bad enough having the dog but I’m no having the pair of them.’

  ‘Ronnie’s no trouble,’ says Lorraine. All the same, I notice that she doesn’t offer to put him up.

  Ronnie himself doesn’t join in this conversation about his future. But he puts down his bottle and looks sad.

  ‘They can stay here!’ says Mary.

  My heart sinks.

  To my relief, Finlay comes to my rescue. ‘But, Mary, what if the police come? We don’t want them to find Leo.’

  There is a murmur of agreement from all Mary’s friends. She hasn’t told them exactly who I am, but as soon as the word ‘police’ is mentioned, they are automatically on my side.

  The President softens slightly. ‘It’s Ronnie or the dog,’ he says. ‘One or the other. I’m no having both of you.’

  ‘You have Ronnie, we’ll have the dog, won’t we, Leo hen?’ says Mary.

  ‘But what about Midget?’ I ask.

  ‘They’ll be pals, Midget and Zigger! They just need to get to know each other. It’s just like wi’ you and Sherlock.’

  I feel like telling Mary she’s too kind-hearted, but I can’t keep bos
sing her about. And anyway, if she wasn’t so kind-hearted I wouldn’t be here myself.

  Ronnie seems happy with the arrangement. He smiles and hands round some cans. I shake my head but Finlay takes one.

  ‘Finlay! You’re only just thirteen,’ I say.

  ‘So what? You’re not my mum.’

  ‘No, but I bet she wouldn’t want you to. I bet she doesn’t even know where you are.’

  ‘So? Stop preaching at me. It’s not like your auntie and uncle know where you are.’ Finlay takes a defiant swig of his beer, then winces and splutters.

  ‘I was building houses when I was twelve,’ says the President with a yawn. What on earth has that got to do with anything? It’s probably not true anyway.

  Suddenly I’m fed up with the lot of them! Fed up with the smoky room and the smell of drink. I wish I could walk out of this crazy new world I’m living in, out into the cold clean night air. But of course I can’t. I’m trapped.

  Mary must have caught the look on my face. ‘What’s the matter, hen? Do you no like our chinky?’ She is eyeing the half-eaten food on my plate.

  ‘I’m just not very hungry.’ I don’t add that I hate the glutinous bright red stuff you get from Chinese takeaways. Dad sometimes used to cook for us – proper home cooking, and it didn’t look or taste a bit like this.

  As if Mary can read my thoughts, she says, ‘You’ll have to cook the next banquet yourself.’

  ‘I can only do a few things,’ I say. ‘I could try to make my dad’s special Village Dumplings – but I don’t know where I’d get the ingredients.’

  ‘There’s a Chinese supermarket in town,’ says Lorraine. She has perked up a bit, though the President is now asleep and snoring beside her.

  ‘A Chinese supermarket! Let’s go there after school tomorrow,’ says Finlay. He’s trying to make it up with me after getting so stroppy about the drink.

  It is a tempting idea. ‘But suppose I get spotted?’

  ‘They’ll all be Chinkies there – you’ll blend in,’ says Mary.

  ‘But on the way there, I mean?’

  ‘I bet everyone’s forgotten about you,’ says Finlay. ‘There hasn’t been anything in the papers for over two weeks. I know – I’ll lend you my school sweatshirt.’ He adds, unnecessarily, ‘I never wear it anyway,’ as he fiddles proudly with the zip of his Breakneck hoody.

  I’m beginning to feel a bit better. Perhaps I really can start going out again – and not just at the crack of dawn to do my drawings.

  Mary’s bell rings. The good feeling drains away.

  ‘Hide, Ronnie!’ whispers Lorraine.

  Mary opens the bedroom door. ‘You too, Leo hen.’

  Oh no, I don’t want to be cooped up in the wardrobe again – not with Ronnie.

  The dog is quicker off the mark than either of us. He races into the bedroom. Midget yowls, the dog barks, and a voice from outside shouts, ‘Open up!’

  ‘It’s no the polis – it’s Squirrel!’ says the President.

  And now everyone is laughing, and gathering round the newcomer, who is a young man with a stack of papers. He has prominent front teeth and a red ponytail. It’s not hard to see why they call him Squirrel.

  ‘Hiya, Squirrel!’ says Mary. ‘Meet my wee pals. This is Leo – she’s a hideaway, like Ronnie. And Sherlock here’s a paper boy, same as you!’

  ‘You don’t work for Rab, do you?’ asks Finlay.

  ‘No, I sell The Big Issue. It’s ‘cos I’m homeless. Well, I live in a hostel.’

  ‘You’ve no sold many the day,’ says Lorraine, picking a copy up and flicking through it.

  ‘No.’ Squirrel looks despondent. ‘It’s the rain. Everyone was in a rush.’

  ‘I’m no in a rush! I’ll buy one!’ says Mary. Then I see her smile widen and her eyes brighten in the way I’ve come to recognise – the way that means she’s going to say something over-the-top.

  ‘I’ll buy them all!’ she says. ‘Aye, I’ll buy the lot of them.’

  I’m about to try to stop her, when Lorraine says, ‘Look at this!’ She turns her open paper round to show us.

  There’s a big picture of me.

  ‘What does it say?’ I grab another paper from the pile. While I’m finding the page, Lorraine starts to read aloud in a halting voice.

  ‘MISSING – LEONORA WATTS-CHAN. Leonora left her aunt and uncle’s house in Bristol on 10th September this year and has not made any contact with them since then. They supposed at first that she was in London, where she used to live before her parents were tragically killed in a plane crash, but now it is believed that she may be hiding somewhere in Glasgow.’

  The sick feeling comes back, worse than ever. How do they know I’m in Glasgow?

  I look at Mary. Her eyes are a-glitter with the drama of it all. Then I look at Finlay. He looks like Macbeth in the banqueting scene. Guilty.

  Finlay – in the Doghouse

  Friday after school was Finlay’s favourite time of the week and Rab’s worst one. It was when the paperboys got paid.

  Only one period left to get through now. Miss Cottrell was handing the English essays back.

  ‘Yours was very good, Finlay,’ she said, sounding a little surprised. ‘Specially the last paragraph about Macbeth’s guilty conscience. Maybe you’d like to read Macbeth in the next scene. Ailsa, Laura and Siobhan, you can be the three witches.’

  Finlay felt himself flushing, but he picked up his book.

  ‘How now, you secret, black and midnight hags,’ he began. That was quite a good description of Laura and Siobhan actually, with their black clothes, long hair and white Goth make-up, though not of Ailsa with her regulation sweatshirt and neat chestnut curls.

  Sweatshirt! That reminded him. He’d forgotten to bring his own sweatshirt in for Leo. It was supposed to be her disguise for going to Chinatown with him after school.

  After the lesson he hung back, hoping someone might have left their sweatshirt in the English room, but nobody had. He was surprised to see that Ailsa had lingered too; she was taking an unusually long time packing away her books.

  ‘Erm, Ailsa …’ Could he pluck up courage?

  She looked up, as if surprised to see him.

  ‘You were good in that scene.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. So were you.’

  ‘Can I borrow your sweatshirt?’ he blurted out.

  Ailsa laughed. ‘What for? I didn’t think you were into school uniform. I thought it was all Goth gear and crazy music.’

  ‘It’s for this friend … she really needs it, but I promised not to tell anyone why.’

  ‘Well, don’t lose it.’ Ailsa took the sweatshirt off, hardly ruffling her curls. ‘Did you know Ross McGovern has asked me to be in his band?’ she said.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes – don’t look like that. I do play the drums, you know. Ross said you might be going to join it too?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve got to get myself an electric guitar first. Thanks for the sweatshirt anyway.’ Finlay thrust it into his bag and went on his way. Ailsa was quite decent really, and he felt mean having badmouthed her to Leo – another addition to his burden of guilt.

  At the paper depot, Rab was handing out the meagre wages as if his slaves were diddling him out of a fortune.

  He eyed the skull on Finlay’s school bag and said, ‘Where’s the crossbones then?’ before grudgingly taking three grubby fivers out of the till.

  ‘Hey, I’m supposed to get seventeen pounds fifty this week. I did Glennie Avenue again on Monday, remember?’

  Rab muttered something about dropping someone’s Sun in a puddle, but then reluctantly put the extra coins into Finlay’s palm. ‘Now you can afford some nail varnish remover,’ he said, with the nearest to a chuckle that he could manage.

  Finlay ignored him manfully and set off along the canal towards Struan Drive. There was loud country-and-western music coming from Mary’s flat; it was her favourite Johnny Cash song, ‘I walk the line.’ He rang the bell and immediatel
y the music was drowned by loud barking.

  No one answered straight away. Finlay waited, and soon enough he heard the familiar crowing laughter from behind the spyhole.

  ‘It’s no the polis, it’s Sherlock!’ Mary called out as she opened the door.

  ‘Is that the Prospect?’ came the President’s slurred voice above the music from the sitting room.

  Zigger the dog rushed up to Finlay, placed his paws on his chest and licked his face.

  ‘You can come out, Leo, hen! It’s only our Sherlock,’ shrieked Mary.

  Leo emerged from the bedroom into the smoky hallway. She didn’t look specially relieved.

  ‘It’s you again,’ she said rather coldly.

  ‘Are you coming then?’

  ‘Coming where?’

  ‘Remember we’re going to buy that Chinese food.’

  ‘You’re joking – how can I now?’

  ‘But I’ve got you that sweatshirt. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll be fine now that everyone knows I’m in Glasgow.’ She glared at him, and he couldn’t think what to say.

  Mary burst into song. ‘I walk the line, and she’ll be fine,’ she sang, changing the words of the Johnny Cash song which was still blaring out, and dancing around the tiny hallway. She took Zigger’s paws off Finlay’s chest so that the dog became her dancing partner.

  ‘Because she’s fine, we walk the line.’ The two of them disappeared into the sitting room.

  Leo lowered her voice. ‘She’s been like this all day. I’m sick of that music. And now the President and Lorraine have come round. They’re boozing away, and it’s so smoky! I hate it. I’m going to go mad trapped in here.’

  ‘Then come with me.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I’ve got to lie low, haven’t I? Thanks to you,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘I’m sorry. I did ring that Missing People number, but it was before—’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I know. Anyway, you’d better go.’

  Finlay hated being dismissed like this. ‘Well, if you make me a shopping list for your village dumplings, I’ll go on my own,’ he said.

  Mary was dancing back into the hall with Zigger. ‘Aye, Sherlock can get the messages,’ she said.