We Go Around In the Night and Are Consumed by Fire

by Jules Grant

  Ding.

  I don’t know what that means but I know it’s not good. Me chest hurts. Could the Social have put a Ding on me somewhere to stop me getting away? No way I’m going back there. I get ready to run just as the woman grabs me arm.

  It’s the bracelet love, she says. You’ll have to take it off and go through again.

  I can’t undo the bracelet because me hands are all thick so she undoes it for me, puts it in a tray and round the side of the gate.

  Then Lise is back beside me, gives me a little push.

  Go on now, go back through, she says.

  I walk through again and there’s no Ding.

  Through the gates we get our stuff back out of the trays and I put me shoes on, hand Lise the bracelet.

  It’s fine, she says, you can put it back on now.

  It’s OK I’ve gone off it, I say.

  More queues which take forever, then we’re on to the plane, crammed into two tiny seats in between an old woman and man with a babba. Bloody hell, says Lise under her breath. That’s all we need.

  The plane starts to move. I can hear the engines and through the little window I can see the grass at the edge of the tarmac moving slowly backwards.

  Then a waitress stands up in front, saying stuff and pointing.

  Pay attention, says Lise, you need to know this. It’s safety.

  What for? In case we crash?

  Lise is reading something on her phone, not even looking. We’re not going to crash, she says.

  My chest starts to hurt again. I watch the waitress, make sure I remember what she says, then get the card out from the pocket in front of me, start to learn it.

  Suddenly the engines get louder and louder and the noise is like screaming, hurts me ears. Then a pull in me guts, like a weight being sucked down right through me and out the back and I’m pinned to me seat. I look over at the window, grass scudding by now, top speed. Lise!

  This is the best bit, Ror, he’s revving up to take off.

  He needs to let that clutch out, I say.

  The weight on me chest gets heavier and heavier until I think I can’t breathe, then all of a sudden everything goes slack and me stomach drops out like on the big wheel. Then it all goes smooth and I’m tipped back in me seat.

  Look, says Lise, pointing to the window. We’re up!

  I look sideways, see the ground disappear out of sight.

  Lise! It’s gone foggy! I reach for the card.

  Lise laughs. You daft apeth it’s only the clouds.

  After a while the clouds melt away and the sky is pure blue, the sun bouncing off the metal of the wing so I have to screw up me eyes and squint. There’s nothing to see now except sky but I can’t take me eyes off the window. It’s like summer, I say.

  She squeezes me hand. It’s always summer this high up, she says.

  A warm feeling comes over me. Mam’ll love that.

  A bit later when the engine’s just a hum in the background and Lise has gone off to the toilet I get to thinking about Donna, then Mam again. I try and see Mam’s face but I can’t, then it’s hard to breathe and me heart starts to thud. Then clear as a bell I hear her voice in me head, feel her hand on me forehead brush the hair away like she used to, It’s OK love, she says.

  Lise wriggles back into her seat, gets hold of me hand and squeezes.

  Don’t cry sweetpea we’re safe. It’s all over now.

  I feel tired. I think about what Nan’s doing and who’ll do The Complan, wonder whether I’ll ever see Geet again.

  Maybe not for a little while, says Lise.

  Is Donna coming… on the holiday?

  Lise smiles, pats her knee, I hope so. Now put your head down, get some sleep.

  Then she’s reading with the Closer in one hand and with the other she’s stroking my head. I hear Mam’s voice over and over, It’s OK love, It’s OK love, and things start to sway.

  And then I must have fell asleep.

  38

  I look out over the court through the plastic screen.

  I’m sitting in a long dock, a screw from G4S on each side, a woman built like a tank and a Scouser with a tattoo of a ship on his hand. All I can see in front of me are rows of benches, fat penguins in a line nodding at each other, standing up and sitting down, arms full of papers. Black gowns and wigs, they all look the same.

  I spot Harriet from Jessop’s, second row from the front. She looks back at me, gives a quick smile, blonde curls bouncing, nods her head towards the tall bloke in front of her adjusting his wig.

  The courtroom is huge. At the other end there’s a platform with a door on each side and a bench across it. In the middle I can see the top half of a big leather chair.

  In front of the platform there’s a table facing this way, penguin behind it, gown but no wig. He stands up and says something I can’t make out and then everyone stands up. The woman screw on my left grabs my arm, pulls me up to my feet. The judge comes in from the side door, walks across the platform, sits down in the leather chair. She waves her hand and everyone sits down.

  The tank pushes me back down. Piss the fuck off, I tell her. I look over to the visitors’ seats by the side of the swing doors but there’s no one I recognise.

  The brief in front of Harriet stands up. He’s saying something but I can’t hear what it is. Then again, I don’t suppose it makes any difference if I can hear what’s going on or not – it’s not like anyone’s asking me anything.

  There’s a soft sucky sound as the swing doors close. I look up just in time to see Marta slide her tail into a seat by the door. The star.

  Donna Jane Wilson, stand up, goes the judge.

  The screw behind me grabs my arm and heaves me up to my feet. He touches me one more time, I swear I’ll chin him. The judge looks straight at me and some of the penguins turn their heads to me for a neb.

  Donna Jane Wilson. You have been charged with possessing a firearm with intent, threatening behaviour, resisting arrest and assault of a police officer. The trial date is set for the third of March. A pre-trial review hearing has been set for the twentieth of January. You will be remanded in custody until that date or further hearing. I’m adjourning your case until then. Do you understand?

  I nod at her and smile. No Santa then?

  A few giggles. The judge pretends she hasn’t heard.

  The clerk at the front stands up again says, The Crown against Kevin Whitehead, or some other poor sod.

  Marta nods over at me and I manage a wink before the screws push me out and into the back corridor that goes down to the cells.

  I ask if I can go to the toilet – dicky guts.

  You can wait, says the tank.

  I tell her I’m bursting and it’ll be hours till we’re back. There’s a bog just down the corridor, I says.

  I want to kick myself, pray they don’t ask me how I know, but it turns out the rumour about screws and planks of wood is pretty accurate, as it goes. What harm can it do? says the Scouser.

  They search me in the corridor outside the bog door. Then I push the door open and I’m in.

  The light comes on automatically. Three toilets. I go for the middle one, look up. Above me I can see the ceiling tile is loose and there’s a gap. I stand on the toilet seat, jam a leg against each side so I’m suspended, hope that crappy divider stuff holds. I walk myself up until I can put my shoulder under the loose tile, push it up. I get my elbows on the lip, then my legs go free and I heave them up after me.

  I’m expecting a crawl space but it’s more like an aircraft hangar. Wires feeding the lights, huge ribbed pipes everywhere, joists like walkways. Goes on forever and I can pretty much stand up.

  I bend down, ease the ceiling tile back, snap it tight.

  Beside me there’s a bucket, a zip-up overall and a blue plastic hair cap inside. I put the cap and overalls on, grab the bucket.

  Across the roof space I can see a yellow duster tied up to the pipes, then another, and another.

  I make my way
across the steel beams. At the last duster I pull up the tile. I look down through the gap and I can see a corridor, thick green carpet below me.

  I stick my head through and there’s no one about. A few yards each way and the corridor turns and disappears so I just have to risk it.

  I let myself drop down through the gap. It leaves a hole in the ceiling but there’s nothing I can do about that now but pray no one looks up.

  I straighten up, put the bucket over one arm, adjust the hair cap and pull it down at the front. Try and decide which way to go. Christ, I can’t just stand here.

  Then I hear voices coming towards me but there’s nowhere to go. I’ll have to blag it.

  Jen and Sonn’s cousin Ali walk round the corner with Mina, overalls on, pulling a cleaning cart behind them. Jen grins out at me from under her cap.

  I fall in step and we walk round the bend, smack into Wallace and Gromit waiting outside the toilet, kicking the carpet.

  The Scouser smiles. Iya geeals. No rest for the wicked, eh?

  Ali grins back at him, Yeah you’re not wrong mate.

  I do a Salford, nod without looking, Iyoh.

  We walk past.

  We’re at the next corner as the Scouser turns to the tank. What the fuck you think she’s doing in there?

  Then it’s all I can do not to run.

  By the time we get to the fire exit we’ve got the giggles. I half-expect it to be locked but course it’s not.

  Ali and Jen park the cart, I push down on the bar and the sunshine hits me, day cold and clear, smells great. I take a deep breath.

  Across the car park, security hardly looks up from his paper, flicks the gate switch on autopilot. See yer ladies, he says, without looking up.

  The gate takes forever to slide open and even though it’s cold, I’m starting to sweat.

  When we step through and away, I can’t really believe it. The gate slides shut behind us.

  We turn right up the street.

  Parked up ahead there’s a dark green lorry, engine running, driver in overalls and a cap messing around with a tailgate. As we get nearer, she pulls it down, steps aside.

  Ali and Jen keep on walking between the lorry and the wall.

  I catch sight of Mina’s face, turn to give her a hug. She buries her face in the crook of my neck. I’ll miss you, she says.

  Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch, I say.

  She looks up at me and smiles, eyes shining. You don’t mean that, but it’s OK.

  She’s probably right. What is it about this woman still makes me feel like I’m a first class shit, even when I’m saying and doing stuff I’d never have dreamed of doing before?

  I kiss the top of her head. Gotta go. Thanks for everything babe.

  She pulls away. Ahh get lost now, she says, you be safe.

  I watch her run after the others until she’s well past the lorry…

  Then I walk right on up the tailgate, plastic bucket and all.

  When the tailgate closes behind me it’s pitch dark. I step forward, trip over something. Down on my knees I feel around. A holdall.

  I feel the engine rev, then a jolt and we’re moving away.

  Slowly things take shape in the blackness. High up there’s an air vent. I reach up to slide the clip. The grid swings open, letting in tiny strips of light. The lorry shudders down through the gears, dust dancing with the movement. I make out the bike secured to the far side of the lorry with straps, a single mattress strapped up alongside.

  I open up the holdall, scrabble inside, take out a pair of jeans and a shirt, my leather bike jacket. Under the jacket is my phone and my knife. In the pocket is a wad of money, my legit passport and my UK driving licence.

  I get changed, ball up the overall and cap, shove them back in the holdall, put the knife and cash in my sock. I put the phone in my top jacket pocket. I’ll keep it till I get the clean one, transfer the contacts.

  I let down the mattress and stretch out, too wired to sleep. For some reason I get to thinking about Louise, how I tret her so bad just because I didn’t love her, how she didn’t deserve it, not after two years. She was always there in the background, even though I’d leave her standing at the bar to work the room, sometimes not even go home. How I’d call round the next day, sheepish, and her eyes would be puffy from tears and I’d pretend not to notice. And the last time, how she cried in my arms and all I felt was trapped. Never gave a thought to how she might be feeling, couldn’t wait to get away.

  I was reaching for my pants. For God’s sake Lou stop crying, it’s pathetic.

  What do you expect? she says.

  Why don’t you ever just get angry? I can’t stand it.

  Angry? What’s the point? You can’t deal with anyone else’s feelings.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  You’d just have left me.

  I’m leaving you now, so what’s the difference?

  Why d’you have to be so cruel? she says. Just because I’m not Carla.

  I look at her. What the fuck are you talking about, not Carla?

  She gives a short laugh, hard, hollow.

  You’re the only one who doesn’t see it, she says.

  It must be hours later. I wake with a start. The lorry swerves sharp to the left and brakes, tyres squealing, then we come to a dead stop. Then I’m straining my ears, heart going like the clappers, but there’s only the sound of a car whizzing past, then the rattle of a lorry. Must be at the services for the changeover.

  Then I realise. There’s no light at all now coming in through the vent so it must be dark outside, means no lights out there which means we’re not at the services we’re in the middle of nowhere. Which means there’s only one other option and it comes with a uniform. Fuck I wish I could see.

  I hear the front cab door slam shut, realise I’m holding my breath. I get on to my feet, feel my way to the back of the hold, crouch down by the bike.

  A bang at the back doors and I hear the bolts sliding back as another thought hits me. Christ, the driver. Those doors are going to open and I’m going to be staring down a Darts nine millimetre with nowhere to go. I’ve underestimated Danny, or Kim, or someone. What the fuck was I thinking?

  I can hear two voices now, maybe three.

  There’s no way I’m going down without a fight. I pull my blade out of my sock, offer up a prayer for whoever remembered to pack it, flatten myself against the wall of the lorry right up beside the door. They’ll expect me to be as far back as I can get, which means if I’m not where they think I might get past, get away.

  The door starts to open. I kick it hard and wide with my foot, catch the fucker behind it, hear a yelp as sheet metal connects with bone, see a torch drop to the ground. I don’t hang around to count how many there are, leap as far as I can, out into the night. Now I thank God it was dark in there. If they had a torch, I’ll be the only one who can see.

  I hit the ground running, a layby. To one side there’s a hedge and a ditch, behind it the trees.

  A woman’s voice behind me. Donna! Where the fuck are you going?

  I glance back across my shoulder, skid to a halt. One woman sits on the ground holding her face, shakes her head at me. In front of the lorry, a beat-up old Luton.

  My driver lifts her arms, palms wide, says again, Where are you going?

  My fucking face, says the one on the ground.

  I walk back over, blade still in my hand because you never know.

  Changing lorry, duck, says the driver, tucking her shirt in at the back, didn’t they tell you?

  I look around, Yeah? So how come we aren’t we at the services?

  She grins. You want to be on Crimewatch, babe, do a turn for the cameras, feel free to ride back to the services. But you’re on your own with that one. A layby is way safer.

  I weigh them both up. Could be on the level.

  Where are we?

  Just outside London, says the driver. Need to change here.

  I need your names and your
contact, I say.

  No names, no ID, says my driver, we was promised.

  I grip the blade in my hand, raise my eyebrows.

  Leanne, she says with a shrug. Run haulage in Stoke, took my orders from Crewe.

  I look at her properly now, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes friendly, hands rough as you like. I wave a hand to where the one on the ground is still prodding at her nose.

  I look down. Long red curls under a baseball cap, a million freckles, smear of blood on her face. Who’s she?

  Karen, she says, standing up. Walthamstow Rugby Club. Your lift to the south coast, she says, or I was. Any more tricks like that, Jackie Chan, and you can fucking well walk.

  I weigh it up and nod. Open the van up, I’ll get the bike.

  In the lorry I put the knife in my belt and strap the bag tight to the bike, while they let down the ramp. Just push it down, says Leanne.

  I take no notice and start up the engine. I jump on, pull the throttle right back, jam my foot on the accelerator, shoot out over the ramp. Whatever their names are, they jump to one side just in time as I fly past, skid into a turn and face them, No offence ladies, I just can’t take the risk.

  Then I’m out past them and gone.

  39

  After twenty minutes across country I feel safe enough to pull over, get out the map and the torch.

  I follow the A-roads and my nose until I’m well clear of London, cut across to the A22 and head down for Eastbourne, making reasonable time because it’s dark. The fuel gauge is low so I pull over, top up from the spare gallon I keep strapped to the back. If I have to refuel again I’ll find a parked car without a locked petrol cap, use the pipe. Can’t risk a garage and the CCTV.

  The land seems flat to me, no proper hills. I cross the A27, see a signs for Brighton, remember how we always swore we’d get there some day, for Pride. Never did though.

  Down through Eastbourne I head for the front. Morecambe with a makeover, everything white. I take the coast road as it turns, climbs away to the cliffs. In my mirror I watch the lights of the town fall away, tiny sparkles from a ship on the sea.