Runners

by Ann Kelley

  He reluctantly tied the boat to the pier again and started off on the journey back to the roundabout. Looking inside the pigpens once more, he kicked at the soiled straw and found an empty plastic bucket. He sniffed inside it. Satisfied, he put the handle over his arm and hurried back, suddenly anxious that Lo had woken and wandered off.

  Lo was awake, listless, but her eyes brightened when she saw him. He thought again how grubby she looked. Tears had made white tracks down her cheeks and neck. And it occurred to him that he was also caked with dirt. They hadn’t bathed or washed since fleeing the city. He still couldn’t believe their luck: the overcrowded truck breaking down a mile or so outside the ghetto. He, Lo, and several other kids had made good their escape before the driver could stop them.

  ‘Where were you?’ she accused.

  ‘Here, drink this.’ She sipped at the water, grimaced and spat.

  ‘Gritty?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take your sock off.’

  ‘Why?’ She only had one sock and she was fond of it.

  ‘Give it to me, go on.’

  She reluctantly removed a pink and blue flowered wellie and the filthy white sock and sniffed it.

  ‘Pooh, smelly feet.’ Lo giggled.

  ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea,’ said Sid, and reached inside his backpack for his spare football socks, which were slightly less grubby than his little sister’s.

  All they had on them was what they were wearing when the soldiers came. Sid had just got back from football practice and Lo was wearing the same thing she had worn all weekend – wellies and a pink net tutu dress and wings. The wings had long gone, torn to shreds by thorns soon after they reached open country, and the wire frame had been abandoned days ago. Thinking about it, he should probably have saved the wire. You never knew when it would come in useful.

  ‘Hold it open, like this,’ he said. He poured a little of the gritty water through a football sock into the water bottle and she drank the vaguely filtered water.

  ‘Still bitty,’ she grimaced.

  ‘I know what will do it.’ Without asking, he took the underskirt of her pink net dress in both hands and ripped off a strip.

  She wailed, ‘No, Sid!’

  ‘Shh! It’s all right, see, makes no difference. Can’t see it, can you?’ she looked as if she was going to cry. Her mouth went down at the corners and her lips quivered. He put the fine gauze over the neck of the bottle, told Lo to hold it steady, and gradually poured the silty water through it. It works, he thought, pleased with himself. ‘Now try it.’

  ‘I found a lake,’ he said as she quenched her thirst.

  ‘What’s a lake?’

  ‘Swimming pool.’

  ‘Swimming pool? Go now! Go now! Go now!’

  A lone black-headed gull sat on the lake, its tiny wake snagging the silk of the calm water. Alarmed, it took off when it saw them, diamonds dripping from its webbed feet.

  Sid tied her to the pier and put the lifebelt over her head and around her waist. She splashed around the sides of the boat, barefoot, in just her pants, squealing with excitement and the cold. ‘I’m swimming. I’m swimming. Look at me, Sid.’

  ‘Shh! Someone might hear.’

  He dunked their clothes in the water, swooshed them around, wrung them out and hung them on bushes to dry. Sun glinted in a million stars on the water. They lay in the shade of a rowan and slept. When he woke he was surprised at how blonde she was. He’d forgotten. Under the filth and grime they were both tanned. He shook her gently to wake her.

  ‘Want a boat ride, Sid. Can I have a boat ride?’ She rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  ‘Another time, all right?’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Because.’ It was what his mother would have said. They drank again and dressed in their damp clothes.

  ‘It’s all floppy, Lo complained. Her fairyprincessdress had once been stiff with starch.

  ‘Nah, it’s nice. Clean, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Smells like sweeties.’

  A blackbird fluttered past them, chittering in alarm. The dusty branches quivered in the light breeze.

  ‘Is this our new den?’

  ‘Nah, roundabout’s safer.’

  ‘I like it here, Sid.’

  He liked it, too. But the boat must belong to someone. That was Sid’s worry. If they camped here, they were more likely to be discovered. The roundabout was a better bet.

  ‘Put your boots on.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t start, Lo.’ He put her wet sock in his backpack and picked up her boots.

  ‘My feet hurt,’ she yelled.

  ‘Shh! Okay, don’t wear them. You’ll have to carry them, then.’

  He set off with Lo limping behind, whining softly, a boot under each arm.

  They cut across a field, bordered by tall stone hedges.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked. She had trodden on a dry cowpat.

  ‘I think it must be cow shit.’

  ‘You swore,’ she said disapprovingly. ‘What’s a cow?’

  ‘Farm animal. Before Labmeat there used to be hundreds of cows, sheep and pigs in the fields. Farmers fed them until they were fat, then killed them and we ate them.’

  ‘Yuk!’

  ‘We got milk from the cows. Remember milk? White stuff? Ah no, you had soy milk, didn’t you? I had real cow’s milk when I was little.’

  He started singing to her:

  ‘Old MacDonald had a farm, E I E I O

  And on that farm he had a cow, E I E I O.

  With a moo moo here

  A moo moo there…

  Here a moo, there a moo,

  Everywhere a moo moo,

  Old MacDonald had a farm, E I E I O.’

  ‘Remember, Lo?’

  She shook her head. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cow milk?’

  ‘Dunno. Warm, chalky, nice.’

  ‘Chalky?’

  ‘Yeah, like liquid chalk.’

  ‘Yuk! I like soy stuff.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s next to no farm animals anymore. Same as pets.’

  ‘There’s rabbits,’ Lo said.

  ‘Yeah, and birds.’

  ‘In books there’s animoos.’

  ‘Yeah, in books.’

  ‘Cawwy me,’ Lo implored. He yanked her up onto his shoulders once more. He had carried her it seemed forever like this.

  Back at the den she asked, ‘Can we have a barbecue, Sid?’

  ‘They’ll see the smoke, stupid.’

  ‘I’m not stupid. Pooey-face!’ She frowned at him, pouting until she felt a bubble coming. She liked blowing bubbles.

  They ate another tin of baked beans between them. He would have to find more food soon.

  ‘Read me a story, Sid.’ Her eyelids were drooping.

  ‘Haven’t gotta book, have we?’

  ‘Make a story then,’ she begged as she lay on the bed of leaves, the limp net skirt in a circle around her. She bent a leg, held one foot close to her face and picked at it.

  He sighed deeply and lay down next to her. ‘Onceaponatime, onceaponatime,’ he gabbled, frowning, ‘there were two kids who ran away from home.’

  ‘Why did they run away?’

  ‘Listen, will yer? Or I won’t tell you a story.’

  ‘Want the Billy Goat story! Billy Goat story! Billy Goat story!’ She waved her feet in the air.

  ‘Don’t start, Lo.’ He needed to relax, to sleep.

  ‘My feet hurt.’ It was as if she was almost apologising.

  He sighed and looked at the foot she waved in his face. There were burst blisters on her heel and toes. He felt a pang of sympathy. Poor little kid, she had been so stoic. He had been embarrassed when Mam got pregnant with Lo when he’d been a shy and sensitive nine-year-old. He hadn’t wanted to think about his parents having sex. And he hadn’t had much to do with Lo while she was a baby. He had his own life to lead – footb
all, school, his dreams of being an engineer. He had got to know her well really only in the last few weeks. She was amazingly adaptable, accepting the drastic changes in their life as if it was completely normal. At first she had cried for her parents, but now she seemed to have almost forgotten them. He felt a deep affection for his little sister. He had got them this far, he would make sure that she was safe. He’d never had to look after anyone or anything in his life. But he would never forget his mam’s words as they had been taken away –

  ‘Look after my baby, Sid, keep her safe.’

  Lo wished she still had her bit of blanket that she used to rub on her nose when she was sleepy. She couldn’t remember how it had been lost. She picked at her net dress as she sucked her soggy thumb.

  She was asleep before he had to think of what happened next in the Billy Goats Gruff story.

  Darkness came like a friend.

  As he was slipping into sleep a dreadful noise came, like monsters murdering each other. Sid’s heartbeat quickened. He didn’t breathe, he sat up straight, watching for lights. The angry yowls stopped. He sat there for some minutes, listening, watching, tense.

  They slept. The temperature had dropped to a comfortable twenty-six degrees. This autumn was even hotter than usual. Leaves still hung limp on the trees. Grass was the colour of sand.

  They hadn’t noticed the paw prints of badger and the spoor of the fox that had investigated the den in their absence. The badger had a sett in the middle of the roundabout. Her tunnel went down and under the road, and had several exits in the woods on the other side. She returned, bad-tempered and sore after the battle with a young male. He had come off worse and had lumbered off, nursing wounds to his face and shoulder.

  Many rabbits had burrows on the roundabout, and night and day they gathered on the edge to feed on grass, noses and whiskers twitching. The pair of buzzards kept watch overhead and one suddenly swooped to pick off a kit. Before sunrise the ghost-white owl flew back low over the road from vole territory on the other side.

  Sid woke, checked that Lo was still deeply asleep, then explored the whole of the roundabout. It was a low circular mound. There were only bushes and trees, no other piles of building materials. But it was thickly planted and he felt strangely safe. It was like an island, a desert island. Shady and cool. Green. No one would think of looking for them there. And the proximity of fresh water was ideal, not too close, not too far away. They could rest up here while Lo’s blisters healed. He tunnelled through the leaves and tangled branches, his fingers stained purple by the blackberries he ate as he came across them. There were nuts on the leafy earth. He didn’t know what they were, but he knew he had had some one Christmas. He cracked open the shell between two stones and ate a hazelnut. He searched and found more. His stomach was cramping. He had to find more food. When he got back, Lo was sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  ‘I got you some berries, look.’

  She took a blackberry, spitting out the seeds.

  ‘I’m going to leave you here and find us something to eat.’

  ‘Why? Why can’t I come?’

  ‘Because.’ His mam was always saying that, and it had always irritated him. He fought to find the words to persuade Lo with a sensible explanation. ‘You’re going to stay because you’ve got sore feet. Don’t go near the road, yeah? In case someone sees you. Stay here. Eat the blackberries.’

  He wasn’t worried that Lo would stray off the roundabout. Since leaving the ghetto he had instilled in her a fear of empty spaces, of the openness of the road, aware that a small figure crossing could be seen for miles. And he was concerned about the state of her feet. The blisters needed to heal before she walked any great distance.

  He shrugged on the empty backpack. He left her the bottle of water and the torch, in case. In case he didn’t get back before dark. In case he didn’t get back at all. He had thought about tying her to a tree but decided against it, in case he didn’t ever get back to set her free. And anyway, it was a long walk to the quarry to fetch the rope.

  ‘You know how to do it. Like that. See?’

  He switched on the torch and switched it off again. Don’t turn it on unless you have to,’ he warned. ‘And don’t make a noise or someone will find you.’

  ‘Okay. Kiss bye-bye.’ She held her cheek up to his lips. He sighed and pecked it briefly.

  ‘I lost my wellies, Sid,’ she whispered.

  ‘You didn’t! Where?’ He looked around in vain. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  Her lips started to quiver.

  ‘Never mind, don’t cry. I’ll find them.’

  He tried to remember when she had had them last. She had been carrying them when they left the lake. Had she put them down in the field where the cowpats were? He’d have to go back and look. A Reducer could find them. Or the TA. They would know then that there was a small child nearby.

  ‘Be good, be safe,’ she said.

  It was what their mam had always said when he set off to the ghetto school. He’d hated school. Now he longed for those lost days when he had gazed out of the dusty windows, bored out of his mind, yawning in the airless room that smelt of feet and chalk and adolescent sweat.

  ‘You too,’ he said, frowning. ‘I’ll be back soon as poss. Eat the beans if you get hungry and don’t go near the road. And Lo – if someone comes, tell them you’re eight, Okay?’

  ‘I’m eight,’ she said, doubtfully. ‘Why must I say I’m eight when I’m only five and a half?’

  ‘Just say you’re eight.’

  It was hopeless, he knew. She was obviously very young, and anyway, once they checked her microchip they would know exactly how old she was.

  He opened the can and left the lid on.

  ‘Don’t cut yourself on the lid,’ he warned her. ‘Open it with a stick, okay? Like this.’

  He showed her how to prise up the lid, and pushed it down again. Having second thoughts, he removed the lid completely and buried it. He couldn’t risk Lo cutting herself while he wasn’t there.

  He blew a kiss at the forlorn little figure in the limp tutu.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS HE REACHED the dry-stone hedge of the cowpat field and went to climb over, he heard someone whistling. Not the cheerful tunes his dad used to make before his accident, but a mournful, monotonous sound of one repeated phrase. He peered over the hedge. A raggedy man, grey head bent, was on the far side of the field, a baseball cap in his hand. Sid’s heart beat faster. He had to get to the wellies before the man spotted them. The pink and blue boots stood out from the surrounding brown of the parched grass. How could he not see them? What was he looking for? Sid saw the man bend and pluck a small round mushroom and put it in the baseball cap.

  He slipped down into the field while the forager’s back was turned and flattened himself on the earth. He crawled slowly on his belly in the direction of the boots. The man was headed towards him now. How could he not see the boots? But he was concentrating hard on his quest for food, looking only at the immediate surroundings, searching for the horse mushrooms that appeared each morning before the dew had disappeared. Sliding carefully towards his goal, Sid held his breath while the man, unaware of the boy a few metres away, gathered his harvest of fungi. As the man turned to pluck a particularly good specimen, Sid made a mad dash for the boots, snatched them up and ran for the stone hedge, leaping over it triumphantly.

  The man looked up and yelled, ‘Oi, kid, what you at?’

  Sid ignored him and ran as fast as he could.

  ‘Hayle 3 miles’, the sign said, with the Cornish place name Heyl in brackets. Someone had crossed out the name and spray-painted HELL over it. No vehicles passed him. They mostly seemed to travel by dark, the Territorial Army. He passed a grey low building. Derelict. No skeletons inside, only the smell of old blood, like the taste of metal on his tongue. He took a poker from the blackened fireplace and tucked it into the belt of his baggies. No food in the cupboard; the fridge was full of black mould and furry stu
ff growing on plates, like alien green and purple flowers. He tried the taps. Nothing. Only rust. In one bedroom he found a grubby cot blanket and a knitted toy rabbit. He nearly went without them, but thinking of Lo, stuffed them into the bag. There were no clothes in the wardrobes.

  The skeleton of a cat was curled in an armchair by the stove. It looked beautiful, he thought, its sharp teeth intact. The fur, lying around it, as if it had shaken it off, had turned to grey dust. He remembered a ginger cat, called Tiddles, when he was as small as Lo, before Lo was born, but it had been taken in the DARP – the Domestic Animal Reduction Program – and Mam said she could never have another unless they moved to the country. She had always wanted to move to the country, but Dad said they weren’t allowed pets in the country either, and anyway no way would he move to the sticks.

  A rank smell came from the sitting room where someone or something had shat in a corner; the sleepy buzz of fat blue flies; dead moths on the window ledge.

  He took a swig of water from the bottle and had a look in a shed – sticky cobwebs, a spade, a garden fork, wire, gardening gloves, a rusty lawnmower, a hank of rope, a can of weed killer. Setting off again along the road, he kept close to the verge, ready to leap into a ditch or bushes if he saw a movement anywhere. But there were only crows coughing hoarsely in trees, a flock of starlings swirling like a horizontal tornado along the hedge tops in the distance. A field of poppies glowed under the grey sky. Like his mother he had always wanted to live in the country. ‘Now I am. Funny, innit?’ he said to himself. It occurred to him that his blue T-shirt, on was probably as visible for miles as the poppies were. He tore it off and put it in the bag. At this rate there’d be no room for food, he thought. He should have hidden the boots somewhere and picked them up on his way back to the den.

  Filling leaf plates with blackberries and acorns, Lo sang to herself a song she half remembered, something about teddy bears and a picnic. If you go down the woods today. She ate the berries and licked her fingers. She tried an acorn but it was too hard so she spat it out. Her head itched and she scratched it with torn fingernails. She picked off a ripe scab from her arm and it bled, so she licked it. Wandering close to the den, she found a bit of short dead bough with a knob on the end and called it Rosebud. She made a dock-leaf dress for her and scolded her for getting it dirty. Back at the den she and Rosebud had a tea party.