Running Man
Page 3
On the corner of Crawford Street and Ashgrove Avenue a new set of units was being built, and just off the footpath lay a jumble of scrap material, sections of the old wooden fence that once fronted the property, and a large pile of sand. The glint of light came from the far side of the sand pile and appeared to be caused by some kind of medal or coin lying with a sliver of its rim exposed.
Joseph remembered his mother’s instructions about coming straight home, but surely this would not take more than a second. The main obstacle between Joseph and the unknown treasure was a section of soggy ground like a moat at the base of the sand pile. All he needed to do was to jump over the water, take a few steps across the sand, pick up whatever it was, and return in the reverse manner to the footpath. He took his bag from his back and placed it carefully on the ground. He took two small steps back, steadied himself, and then quickly taking one large step forward, leapt easily across the watery sand. But when Joseph’s right foot made contact with the sand, something happened that he hadn’t expected at all. Instead of finding a firm footing, his black school shoe plunged deep into the cold, saturated sand and didn’t stop until most of his leg was engulfed by a thick porridge-like mixture. For a terrifying second Joseph thought he was disappearing into quicksand, but then his other foot landed awkwardly on firmer ground and he was projected forward.
After the initial wave of panic passed, Joseph focused his efforts on extracting his foot and trying to clean himself up. He hoped desperately that no one had seen him. He looked quickly around the nearby houses and in the direction of home. Nothing. Then he looked back up the long gently curving street towards the school and the tall brick tower of St Jude’s Church. And that’s when he saw him. Even at a distance there was no mistaking the dark, ragged form of the Running Man. He was waiting for the lights to change, jumpy and agitated like a caged animal. Joseph struggled to free his leg, but the heavy saturated sand had collapsed in, forming a suction that held like cement. His school shoe had filled with water, and as he braced himself and pulled backwards he could feel it begin to slip from his foot. Joseph swivelled around. The lights were red. The Running Man was crossing the road. His wild hair and the thin, haunted face were now clearly visible. Joseph grabbed his knee and wrenched his body back. His leg gave slowly at first and then slurped suddenly out of the sand, causing him to tumble sideways. He looked down at his foot. All he saw was a wet and grubby sock. His shoe was lost somewhere deep in the soggy sand. He looked up. A soft whimper escaped from his mouth before he could stop it. The Running Man had entered Ashgrove Avenue and was lumbering closer. There was no more than a hundred metres between them.
Joseph scrambled forward and plunged his hand into the sand. He burrowed down with his fingers and latched on to the heel of his shoe, but by this time the shoe had filled with wet sand and no matter how feverishly he tried, it inched only sluggishly to the surface. Once more Joseph threw a frantic glance back over his shoulder. The Running Man was closing in. Forty metres. Thirty. Joseph could now see the manic movement of the Running Man’s eyes. Yet more and more they seemed to catch with his own, like a missile locking on to a target. Joseph strained with all his strength on the shoe. He began to hear the scuffing of the Running Man’s feet, and fear spread throughout his body like a virus. How close was he now? Ten metres? Five? Joseph couldn’t bear to look. Was that breathing he could hear? How close was he now?
Without warning the shoe finally erupted through the surface and shot wet clumps of sand into Joseph’s face and eyes. Clutching his dripping shoe, Joseph surrendered himself to sheer panic. He spun around and stumbled towards the footpath. The gritty sand stung his eyes and he squeezed them closed. When his feet hit the hard surface of the footpath, he ran blindly and recklessly but he knew he couldn’t outrun the Running Man. In terror he hunched his shoulders and strained his neck forward, dreading the cold unreasoning hands that would soon close around his neck. When would he feel them? When? Wh …
Then it was over. Whatever he had run into held its ground, forcing the air out of his lungs and jarring his head back sharply. Joseph felt his legs buckle, but before they failed completely, two broad arms circled round his back and drew him in.
‘Whoa, Joseph! Slow down. S’all right, s’all right, it’s me.’
The familiar sound of Mr Cousins’ voice and the strong cradle of his arms around Joseph’s shoulders caused a tremor of relief. As he buried his face in Mr Cousins’ white apron and smelt the rich, spicy aromas of the shop, the great shuddering sobs that he fought so hard to hold in finally overwhelmed him. When Joseph had calmed down sufficiently, Mr Cousins cupped his hands on his shoulders and gently eased him back.
‘You OK now? Here, use my hanky. I thought it was you. I just took a peek around the corner ‘cause you seemed to be running late.’
Joseph looked down the street and back up towards the church. There was no sign of the Running Man.
‘Looks like you got yourself in a bit of a mess. Don’t worry, we’ll clean you up at the shop so Mum won’t give you too hard a time. All right?’
After receiving a sniff and a small nod, Mr Cousins felt encouraged to continue more brightly, ‘What were you up to, anyway? Digging for buried treasure?’
Joseph turned and pointed to the small silver shape at the side of the sand pile.
Mr Cousins squinted and let out a knowing, ‘Ah! Yes, I see it.’
Carefully avoiding the wet patches, the shopkeeper picked his way to the spot. He squatted down, reached forward and pulled something from the sand. He moved his glasses to the very tip of his nose and squinted over the top of them as he turned the object slowly in the palm of his hand.
‘Hey, what d’you know. It’s an old St Christopher medal. He’s supposed to protect you when you travel. Here, you have it. But promise me, no more gold mining expeditions, OK?’
Joseph promised. He was not hungry for adventures.
Back at the shop Mr Cousins was just about to take Joseph to the rooms behind the counter to help him clean up, when he spotted Mrs Davidson crossing the road outside.
‘Uh-oh. Here comes your mum. Must have wondered what was keeping you too. Guess you gotta face the music, Joey boy.’
It was a long time before Joseph could be convinced to walk home alone again. He never told his mother about the Running Man’s part in that day, and Mr Cousins certainly didn’t seem aware that he had been a factor. As far as anyone was concerned, Joseph had just panicked when he’d become stuck in the sand and lost his shoe.
When his father heard the story at Christmas, he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Too scared to walk home by himself because of a bit of sand? Jesus, we better not take that holiday to the beach, then!’ And added as an afterthought to Joseph’s mother, ‘You baby him too much.’
Joseph didn’t mind what his father said. He was just thankful that Mr Cousins had saved him from the Running Man. But he knew he wasn’t free of him. In fact the fear and mystery that surrounded the strange phantom that stalked his neighbourhood had only deepened, and Joseph often searched for answers in those frantic, dark seconds before Mr Cousins’ arrival. He thought he could remember something brushing by and the feel of rough cloth on his cheek. But was it real or just childish fantasy? Had the Running Man scuttled past without caring? Had he even noticed the small boy floundering in the sand?
Many questions bubbled to the surface of Joseph’s mind, but one floated and lurched like a drowned man with the terror of the sea forever etched on his face: What would the Running Man have done if Mr Cousins had not been there? From this unanswerable question sprang the nightmare that, throughout his childhood, would wrench Joseph from his sleep.
Now, when he was fourteen years old and, to use his father’s words, ‘almost a man’, it had returned.
The Running Man dream was always the same. In it Joseph was a child once more, alone on a long, curving sweep of road. Nothing much else is clear. There are probably houses and trees and fences, but only the road an
d footpath matter. He is walking, but already there is a stale, distorted edge in the air. The light dims and the shadows deepen.
Joseph turns and sees the Running Man in the distance. Every atom of his body cries Run! but the harder he tries, the slower he becomes. His school bag pulls at his shoulders, tilting him back off balance. It drags down heavier and harder. Finally he manages to slip painfully free from it, but as he tries to run the muscles in his legs weaken and cramp as if they are turning to stone.
And all the time the Running Man looms larger.
Now Joseph feels as if he is inching through heavy syrup. His feet cling to the ground and his legs ache with the strain of movement. It is as if he is glued to the footpath. Everything is warping and twisting. The footpath is no longer cement but heavy sand. He can barely drag his feet across the surface, and as he struggles to complete a step, he sinks in deeper and deeper until the sand is almost to his knees. Frantically he edges forward, using his hands to gain some leverage, but the sand collapses, leaving him floundering and even more hopelessly bogged.
Now Joseph can hear the shuffling strides and the hoarse panting of the Running Man.
Suddenly, just in front of him, Joseph sees the old St Christopher medal. For some reason he thinks that if he can reach it he will be safe, but just as he stretches out his hand it begins to sink into the sand. He lunges desperately, but only senses the cold metal brush against his finger before the sand swallows it. He digs feverishly. Further. Further. Nothing.
The Running Man is right behind him. Joseph is helpless. His bones feel fused and rigid. He knows two large hands are reaching down for him, dangling just above his neck. He must turn around. It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. He knows it, but the fear is real. A shadow falls over and around him. It is damp and cold like a grave. He knows what he must do. He has no choice.
With all the courage he can find, he wrenches himself from the sand and turns to face the Running Man … It is over.
And that’s how it was on the night that Joseph drifted off to sleep with the shadowy figure of Tom Leyton filling his thoughts. As always, Joseph burst from the nightmare before the Running Man’s face could come into focus. He sat up sharply in his bed, his muscles tense and his breathing quick and shallow. For a fleeting moment he was a child again, until the scattered jigsaw pieces of time and place slotted together into a recognisable pattern and the dark but familiar shapes and textures of his bedroom grew reassuringly around him.
The clock on the side table glowed two a.m. Joseph twisted around to look out the window at Leytons’ house, where a faint light still shone from what Joseph imagined was Tom Leyton’s room. He was about to lie back down when a movement in the neighbours’ yard caught his eye. Someone was behind the big mulberry tree that arched over the old incinerator by the side fence. Joseph waited. The figure moved slowly to the front of the tree. Although the moonlight yielded only a vague outline, Joseph knew he was looking at Tom Leyton.
Joseph eased himself closer to the window. He laid his arm on the sill, leant his chin on the back of his wrist, and waited. Tom Leyton rested his forehead against the trunk of the mulberry tree and stayed so still that the tree and the man seemed to blend into one and Joseph began to wonder whether he was there at all. Gradually though, Tom Leyton peeled away from the mulberry trunk and took a few steps in the direction of his house before stopping in front of the incinerator.
It was a square cement structure about waist high, with large cracks running like lightning bolts down its sides. At the base of one wall was a small grille and a large section of another wall had broken off and crumbled inside. Joseph had never seen it used. He watched now as Tom Leyton placed his hands on the edge of the cement and stared into the black heart of the incinerator. The stillness and darkness fused man and object together like some primitive sculpture carved from a single block of stone.
Joseph cocked his head slightly. He thought he could hear something, and edged a little further forward on the window sill. Just as he did so, Tom Leyton thrust back his head and looked above him into the night sky. Joseph pulled away from the window and watched from the safe shadows of his room. From there Tom Leyton’s face was merely a patchwork of dappled shadows and unknown contours framed in long hair and beard. Tom Leyton began to lower his head slowly, but as his line of sight matched Joseph’s, he stopped. Joseph held his breath and although he was sure that he could not be seen, he found himself frozen like an escapee caught in a blaze of spotlights.
Finally Tom Leyton turned and retreated slowly across the lawn, up the back steps and into the darkness of the doorway. It was not until he heard the click of the door lock, and saw the light from Tom Leyton’s room swallowed by the darkness that Joseph breathed the tension from his body. For the second time that night, he fell back on his bed with his head swirling with thoughts of his puzzling neighbour.
There was so much he didn’t understand and so much that confused him, but there was one thing of which he was certain. No one, not even Caroline, would be able to convince him to use Tom Leyton as the subject for his drawing. Not even for one session.
He would tell her so tomorrow.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning Joseph woke to the muffled sound of voices. He had slept late, and when he looked out the window he could see his mother below, engaged in a conversation over the fence with Caroline Leyton. He knew by the polite but troubled expression on his mother’s face that Tom Leyton and the portrait were at the heart of the discussion. He was convinced that his mother would be relieved when she was made aware of the decision he had come to the previous night.
As he dressed and pulled up the covers on his bed, Joseph heard his mother come in the back door and place the few shopping items on the kitchen table. He was about to go out and set her mind at rest when the shrill voice of Mrs Mossop caused him to stay put.
‘S’only me. Thought you might like to share a cuppa. I’ll pop the kettle on while you’re putting those things away?’
Mrs Davidson’s voice came back cheerfully enough, though sounding a little flustered, ‘Oh well, yes, that would be nice.’
‘I couldn’t help but noticing you talking to Caroline Leyton. Not like her to be so chatty. Not bad news I hope?’
Joseph froze. There was precious little that went on in the neighbourhood that Mrs Mossop could help noticing, he thought bitterly. She had always reminded Joseph of a bird, something like a crane, with her thin, upright posture and the neat formality of her clothing. Once he had drawn a caricature of her that way with a long beak exaggerating the sharp features of her face. His mother hadn’t liked the drawing, labelling it as cruel, but his father just laughed and said it was just like Mrs Mossop sticking her beak into everything, fossicking around for juicy snippets of gossip.
Joseph leant his head against the wall. ‘Oh God, please don’t say anything about Tom Leyton,’ he whispered to himself. The next voice he heard was his mother’s.
‘No. Nothing like that. It was a bit strange, actually.’
‘Strange?’
Joseph grimaced. It was too late. He saw Mrs Mossop now, not like a harmless crane but more like a bird of prey, with its eyes widening as if sensing movement in the grass. He knew that she would never let such a tasty morsel pass.
‘Oh it’s nothing really. Just a suggestion, that’s all.’
‘A suggestion? What would she be suggesting then? She hardly speaks to a soul and now she’s coming up with suggestions! Whatever it is, it’s obviously upset you.’
‘No. Don’t be silly. I’m not upset. It just surprised me a little, that’s all.’
‘If she’s offended you, just let me know and I’ll give her a piece of my mind quick smart.’
‘Look, no, it’s nothing like that. Really.’
‘Well … I’m not trying to pry into your business, but if she had anything to say about me I think I have a right to know.’
‘No, it had nothing to do with you … really.’
‘Still, I wouldn’t put it past her. That brother of hers is not the only strange one in that house.’
‘Well in fact that’s what she wanted to talk about.’
Suddenly the tinkling of tea being vigorously stirred stopped and Laura Davidson realised what she had done. Mrs Mossop placed the teaspoon deliberately into the sink. When she turned around, her face was aglow with anticipation.
‘Her brother? Tom Leyton? She spoke to you about Tom Leyton?’
Joseph sat heavily on his bed and placed his head in his hands. Mrs Mossop had found her quarry and was moving in for the kill.
‘It was nothing, really. It’s not that important. Just something about Joseph drawing her brother for some school project they’d been talking about.’
‘Joseph drawing Tom Leyton!’
Laura Davidson felt herself being chased out into the open, with Mrs Mossop poised to swoop.
‘It was just a thought …’
‘I hope you said no in the strongest possible terms. The idea!’
‘I haven’t said anything one way or the other. It was just a suggestion. Nothing will probably come of it anyway. We were just talking. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.’
Geraldine Mossop looked hard at her younger neighbour and in a low voice that Joseph strained to hear, spoke with steady determination. ‘Laura, you might think that I’m an interfering old fool at times, but I know a thing or two and I know what I’m talking about here. I can’t be certain about Caroline Leyton, although we’ve never really gotten on, but I’ve told you before, that brother of hers is bad through and through.’