by AA Abbott
Mum’s return from the wedding is what drags me from alcohol-induced slumber. Dozing, I hear the front door open and her cheery greeting to the silent household.
Darkening skies outside the window tell me it’s late afternoon. “I’ve just had a bath,” I call down.
“I’ll make a pot of tea,” she shouts back.
I have no choice but to get dressed and pretend I’ve been studying all day. Pulling on an oversized jumper in case the bruises start to show through her Pan Stik, I limp downstairs.
Mum is unimpressed by my appearance when I sit down gingerly in the kitchen. “You must be sweltering in that. Dave turned up the heating today. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”
At the mention of his name, I begin to hyperventilate. I think I would be physically sick if he walked into the kitchen right now.
“Are you all right?” Mum asks.
“I’m tired,” I plead. “I want to go to my room.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” As if she’s only just twigged, Mum adds, “They overload you at that school. I’ll talk to Miss Broadstone.”
“Thanks.” I almost manage a smile, until pain cuts through me as I stand up again. “By the way, Mum, I had a big lunch, so I don’t need supper.”
The lie trips easily off my tongue. Actually, I am hungry, but I would rather stick pins in my eyes than sit at the dinner table with David. I have to get away from him, and that means leaving his house, and his presence, forever. Running away is my only option.
I’ll have to leave Mum too. It’s the hardest decision of my life, but I know it’s the right one. She doesn’t trigger David’s rage, so she’ll be safer if I just disappear.
“Love you, Mum.” I hug her and drink in the appley smell of her hair. Just before tears begin, I stagger away to my room to start packing a rucksack.
Chapter 26 October 2016 - Emily
It’s the final stage of my journey, on a train bound for Weston-super-Mare. I started early, before Mum and David were up, but it’s taken hours. I’m yawning. Adrenaline pushed me out of bed, through the house and to the bus stop, but fatigue and anxiety are overcoming me. I worry, over and over, that Megan may be out. Last night, I rang, texted and messaged her, with no response. Is her phone working? Mine should be fine, as it’s almost brand-new. An awful suspicion begins to form that David may have downloaded tracking software onto it, as he has with Mum’s. Glaring at the iPhone like a traitor, I fiddle with the settings until I’ve found the app and deleted it. I text Megan again.
There’s still no reply. A quiver of panic adds more tension to my hunched shoulders. It’s four months since I last spoke to Megan. We grew apart without even noticing. Megan’s obsession with her new boyfriend and mine for David have driven a wedge between us.
She’s my only friend, though. We’ve known each other for thirteen years. She’s bound to help. All I need is a place to hide for a few days, while I work out where to go and what to do without David finding me.
Miss Broadstone, who wants pupils to show their independence by using public transport, would be proud of me. I took a bus to the edge of Bath, then slipped onto a train without paying. As I learned when I visited Lucretia, the little suburban stations in Bath don’t have ticket gates. Although there are barriers at Bath Spa and Bristol Temple Meads, no-one checks there if you’re just changing trains.
The scenery is familiar now: factories, then fields. We’re nearing my old home. I grapple one-handed with my backpack, easing it over my tender wrist and across my shoulders.
At the village station, I jump out of the carriage, and regret it. Shooting pains remind me of David’s violence. I’m limping as I walk the half mile to the Harrises’ convenience store.
Still sore, regretting putting so much in the rucksack, I shuffle into the shop. A bell rings as the door opens.
To my relief, Mrs Harris is there, serving a customer. “Emily. I wasn’t expecting to see you again, after all this time. How’s your mum and your dishy stepdad?”
“All right,” I mumble. Dishy isn’t the word. David has used me, and Mum, like he uses everyone. Heat rises, sending a red flush over my face.
If Mrs Harris notices, she doesn’t say. “Do you want Megan?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, I’ll fetch her as soon as I’ve seen to Mr Barrett. Watch the till for me, lover, will you?” She bags the purchases, hands them to the old fellow, and vanishes into the stockroom. I hear her calling, “Megan – guess who’s here?”
I don’t catch Megan’s reply, but Mrs Harris reappears and says, “She’s on her way. You’re lucky to catch her.”
“Oh, why’s that?”
“She’s―”
Her reply is interrupted by Megan bursting out of the stockroom and hugging me. I wince as pain sears through my arm.
“It really is you. You haven’t changed.” Megan pulls back, appraising me. She looks different: still skinny, but her chest has filled out. The red frizz has been cropped and dyed pink. She has a nose ring. If she’d been out in the street in her jeans and hoodie, I’d have walked straight past her.
“Can we talk?” I glance over her shoulder at Mrs Harris.
“Yeah, let’s go in the lounge.” Megan freezes. “What’s the matter with your arm?”
“Tell you later.”
“You’d better hurry. I’ve got five minutes before Adam’s here.”
“Adam?”
“My boyfriend.” She punches my arm playfully, hitting the sore spot where David gripped me. “You never listen to anything I tell you. It’s been nearly nine months.”
“I forgot his name, that’s all,” I say miserably, following her through the rear of the shop. The stockroom, clean and tidy, is filled with parallel lines of racking. Every cardboard box is labelled. Megan tuts and rearranges a couple as she leads me past them.
Beyond the racks is an open door, leading to the hallway of her house. I hobble into the lounge and flop onto the squashy IKEA sofa. They’ve had it for years; it might be as old as me.
“Do you have any tea?” I have a feeling Megan won’t offer any, and I’m parched.
“There’s no time. Adam and I are off on a school trip, youth hostelling in Wales. Didn’t Mum say?” Megan frowns. “I wish you’d phoned before coming round.”
“I did, and texted.”
“Oh, no. I forgot to give you my new number,” Megan says, unconvincingly. “I got a Samsung with my birthday money. Anyway, what’s up?”
“I’ve run away from home.”
“What?” Megan nearly recoils with shock.
“I said, I’ve run away from home.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say.” The bald facts hide such a long story, and I won’t put Mum at risk by going into it.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Em? I mean, you’re limping all over the place and you’ve got a huge bruise on your wrist. Are you taking drugs or cutting yourself or something?”
“I need somewhere to stay. Can I stop over here, Meg?”
Megan shakes her head. “I haven’t seen you in ages. You can’t turn up and expect me to drop everything. Adam will be here any second now.”
“Could I have your bedroom while you’re away? Or, I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa, or the floor. You’ve got space in your stock room.”
“Look, I’ve really got to go. Talk to my mum. She’ll help you. You know what Mum’s like; you can tell her anything.”
“I can’t.” If Mrs Harris knew what I’d done, she might call the police. She’d certainly phone Mum. Either way, Mum would reject me and David would kill us both.
Megan stares at me. “If you want to stop here, you’ll have to explain to Mum. Anyway, why can’t you stay with your friends from that posh school?”
“There’s no-one―”
The doorbell rings.
“Forget it, all right?” Megan says. “That’ll be Adam. I think you should go.”
I trail after her. She opens the front doo
r to a tall, grinning lad with a matching nose ring. His hair’s hidden by a grey hoodie. They’re not exactly clones, but I can see they’ve been swapping style tips.
“They’re waiting for us.” He points to a minibus. I recognise my old school’s name on it.
“Can I come?” I ask, desperately.
“No, you’re not booked on it.” Megan shakes her head. “Adam, this is Emily. She’s just leaving.”
The last I see of him is his puzzled expression as, defeated, I brush past him.
Chapter 27 October 2016 - Emily
Tears are streaming down my face. Megan was my only hope. I don’t have another plan, but no way am I going home. I limp back to the village station.
A train is due in ten minutes. Maybe I can change to one of the London services at Bristol Temple Meads.
As the train arrives, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in its windows. My reddened eyes are really noticeable. Once I’m fidgeting in my seat, I find my washbag. Hastily, I blot my face with a tissue and pile on concealer. Mum’s Pan Stik has made it into the bag too. I daub it all over my bruises, despite the agony when I touch them.
I’m so absorbed in the task that the train manager is at my side before I notice.
“I’ve got a ticket somewhere.” Fishing around in cagoule and jeans pockets, I pretend to look for it.
We arrive at Parson Street, the stop before Bedminster.
“I’ll see you later,” the train manager says. She presses a button to open the doors, and steps down onto the platform.
Thrusting washbag into backpack, I drag it to the next carriage. The train is virtually empty, and no-one alerts the train manager as I exit just before the doors close again.
Although I’ve never been to Parson Street before, it’s not hard to get my bearings. The station is next to a main road and buses are thundering past. I decide to catch one, recalling that Bristol’s bus station is a hub for long distance coaches. Perhaps in another city, I’ll find a job and a place to live. There are youth hostels everywhere. Megan doesn’t have to travel to Wales for the hostelling experience: there’s one in the centre of Bristol.
First, I need to buy pop. This morning, I filched bread, cheese, chocolate and crisps from the kitchen, even the spare cash Mum keeps in a tin for door-to-door salesmen. It’s now obvious I should have taken something to drink as well.
Luckily, there’s a small convenience store nearby. I squeeze a litre bottle of water into the backpack and buy a can of Coke to drink straight away.
The city centre can’t be more than two miles. I change my mind about taking the bus. To save the fare, I start walking. It’s slow going: my bag is heavy and I ached all over before I started.
I stop outside a phone repair shop. A poster in the window announces they buy phones for cash. Taking the iPhone from my pocket, I wonder how much they’d give me for it. It would be a good idea to sell it. While I’ve deleted David’s app, I’m sure the police can trace a mobile phone easily.
A hand tugs at my elbow, causing a spike of pain. “I’ll buy your iPhone for two hundred quid,” a deep voice offers.
I turn to the would-be iPhone buyer, trying to hide my surprise. His voice is deceptive. He looks younger than me, a short, red-haired lad carrying a skateboard. “Well?” he demands.
“In cash?” I’m dubious, but I’ll take it if he has it.
He whips a wallet out of his jeans pocket, making a show of removing ten twenty-pound notes and waving them in my face.
“All right.” Briefly, I think about wiping my contacts first, so he can’t send weird messages to my friends. There’s no time, though, and why would he do that anyway? I snatch the money and give him the phone.
Without a word, the boy vanishes down the street. Suddenly feeling rich, I catch the next bus into town. It doesn’t actually stop at the main terminus, but the driver explains where to get off and how to get there.
The bus station is like a corridor with a long glass wall. Doors open onto the bays where vehicles stand on the tarmac. I hobble inside and join a queue for coach tickets at the National Express desk. Journeys are announced for London Heathrow and Blackpool. A flurry of activity follows, as passengers jostle to catch them.
Finally at the front of the line, I ask for, “A half fare to London today, please.”
The man at the desk is old and cynical. He’s given other customers a hard time and has no qualms about starting on me. “Don’t try that one. You’re sixteen if you’re a day. Anyhow, if you were underage, you’d need a letter from your parents giving you permission to travel.”
“Cheapest full fare, then.”
“The cheap fares have sold out, my lover. Half-term, isn’t it? The late coach to London is twenty-one pounds. Best I can do.”
I hand him two twenty-pound notes.
The sales clerk picks them up and peers at them. “Bad fakes.” He slaps them down on the counter. “The serial numbers are identical.”
I gawp at him.
“Stop wasting my time,” he snaps. “There are six people behind you.”
“I’ve got another ten pounds,” I say, spreading the change from my purse in front of him and desperately adding it up. “Where can I go with that?”
“Nowhere today. I told you, it’s half-term. Coaches are full.”
“All of them?” Dismayed, I wonder if I should try Temple Meads. From there, you can travel as far as Scotland, but I’m sure trains are more expensive than National Express. They’ll probably spot the notes are forged, too.
“Get out of here, or I’ll call security.” The man’s temper is rising. “I’ve got enough to do without you kids causing trouble.”
I shuffle away. Wincing as I remove my backpack, I flop onto one of the painfully hard seats in the waiting area. At least it’s heated and there’s a view outside. The clouds are edged with grey, as if rain will fall at any minute. I stare at graffiti on the bleak wall opposite, watching as coaches come and go. Each has a luggage hold, in which the driver places a passenger’s bags once he’s checked their ticket. Could I sneak in and stow away behind a large suitcase?
A man sits down next to me. He’s sandy and bearded, his neat ginger hair streaked with grey. His black puffer jacket makes him look like a Michelin man in silhouette. As he’s carrying a guitar-shaped vinyl holdall, I guess he’s a musician.
There are plenty of empty seats, so the stranger must want to talk. After my encounter with the ticket clerk, I’m not in the mood for it. I cringe. With some difficulty, I shift in my seat, edging away from him.
He stretches his legs, the guitar wedged between them. “Jobsworth, isn’t he?” He points to the desk.
“I s’pose.” I don’t really understand what he means.
“It’s more than my job’s worth,” he says in a falsetto voice. In a more normal tone, he adds, “Do you really want to go literally anywhere? How about Birmingham?”
“That works.” It’s a big city and a long way from Bath. I frown. “If only I could afford it.”
“I’ve got a spare ticket. Here.” He produces a carefully folded piece of paper from the jacket.
Once he smooths it out, I can see it’s an email to someone called Ray Cross. “You’re Ray?” I ask.
“That’s me. Ray from Ray and the Ravers. We gig all round Birmingham and the Black Country, and beyond. Oh, never mind,” he says, clearly noticing my blank expression. “Read on.”
The printed email is a ticket on the 6.30pm coach to Birmingham today. “Don’t you want it?” I ask Ray.
“No, change of plan.” He yawns. “My agent called me at ten o’clock. Woke me up. He’s got us a last-minute gig tonight. I had to pay for another fare on the earlier coach. This one’s not refundable. You can have it for cost price. Three pounds.”
“Could I swap it for a bar of Dairy Milk chocolate instead?” It’s dawned on me that I’ll need cash to pay for a bed tonight.
“If you’d offered whisky, girlie, we’d have a deal.” He relen
ts. “Go on, take it, free, gratis and for nothing. I can get the three quid off my tax.”
“They’re charging eighteen pounds today.”
“Leeches, the lot of them.” He scrutinises me for so long that I blush. “Listen, girlie. You don’t look like a Mr Ray Cross. The driver probably won’t care. But if you want to avoid another of those,” he glances pointedly at the ticket guy, who is having a heated argument with another passenger, “make sure to board the coach with a large group. Tag along. He won’t bother matching up all the tickets.”
“Thanks.” I tuck the sheet of paper in the front pocket of my black cagoule. It’s not my favourite coat, but I chose it this morning because it keeps the rain off and it won’t attract attention.
“Want another tip? It looks like you’ve been in a fight. None of my business. But if it happens again, knee him in the balls. It never fails. And I speak from bitter personal experience.” Ray chuckles ruefully.
“Er, thank you, Ray.” Embarrassment deepens my flush. I imagine fighting back against David, stemming the violence in which he seemed to take delight yesterday. Then I remember how I used to crave his touch. I shudder, my eyes filling. Hoping Ray doesn’t notice, I rub them.
Ray’s face is sympathetic. “I won’t hug you, girlie, because I don’t know what sorrows you carry. Take it from one who knows that all sadness will pass.” He reaches into a pocket again, fetching a squarish foil-wrapped package. From its size, it’s easy to see it contains sandwiches. “You have these. Cheese and tomato. I was at my mum’s for her birthday, and she insisted on making them for the journey. I’m a vegan, but she never learns.”
“She thinks vegan and vegetarian are the same?”
Ray laughs. “I knew you’d get it.” He stands, clutching the guitar. “My coach is boarding over there. So long. I didn’t ask your name?”
“Eh―” I begin, before realising that could be a bad idea if I really want to disappear. “Erin.”
“Well, Eh-Erin, see you around in Birmingham. Remember, Ray and the Ravers.” He salutes in farewell.
I watch him as he troops through the gate, showing his new ticket to the driver and taking the instrument onto the coach with him. Suddenly hungry, I open the foil packet. The sandwiches are tasty and I scoff every crumb. My brain seems to work better once I’ve eaten, and I wish I’d talked to Ray more. I could have asked him where to stay in Birmingham. With ten pounds in my purse, it won’t be a posh hotel.