by John Young
“Hotel?” I say and nod at the same time.
“Still fancy pizza?” He doesn’t answer the hotel question. A cunning plan, no doubt.
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Good man, pizzas are free for kids.”
“Free?”
“Aye, come on.”
We walk slowly into the town centre. I’m slower than Skeates and have to skip along beside him to keep up. Tonight I can’t even manage the skipping, I’m knackered.
“Hurry up, I could eat that cat,” he says, pointing to a sneaky-looking tabby.
I hop a bit faster and the effort’s killing me. It suddenly dawns on me that I’m not invincible and missing my meds is probably going to take its toll sooner rather than later.
“Shite,” I mutter.
“What?”
“I know why I’m feeling extra grim. My meds!”
“Is it that bad already?”
“Well, it was the last time I missed them for this long. I took a fit and woke up in the bufty in the park.”
He laughs for a second before looking worried. As we arrive at a big chain pizza place, he turns to me. “Well, I hope you don’t do that tonight. Come on, food will perk you up.”
“Can I help you?” asks a surly waiter with a name badge that says ‘Bernard’.
“Table for two please, Bernard.” Skeates has a big smile on his face. “By the window, if you don’t mind.”
“Will this one do?” Bernard points to a table by the door, just vacated by a family of four. We order a water for me and a beer for Skeates and settle in to read the menu.
“International Inverness, eh?”
“What?” I say.
“We’re eating Italian food in Scotland served by a Polish waiter with a French name.”
“Where did that come from? Way too much thought for you.”
“Observation.” He looks all chuffed with himself.
We both order spicy pizzas and devour them. I can’t remember the last time I was this hungry – probably because the meds usually quell my appetite.
“Tarantino should do the next Bond movie,” Skeates says with a mouthful of pizza.
“It would mess their market up.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Bond is family viewing,” I explain. “Tarantino is late-night adult shit and dodgy afternoon gore for sneaky teens.”
Skeates waves his slice of pizza at me, “The Bond books were adult, no doubt. Sex and torture.”
“Did you read them?” I ask, drawn in by the possibility that Skeates actually reads books.
“I did. Someone left a box set at the house. Well, they left fifty diverted en route to Waterstones. I read the whole series one weekend while waiting for someone to collect some other gear.”
“I didn’t think you could read.”
“Piss off.”
The pizza is good and I munch away, happy with the chat. It’s annoying sitting near the door, though, because I keep getting a draft every time it opens. We clear our plates, finish our drinks and wipe the remains of pepperoni off our faces.
“They could do an adult version and a twelve-cert version of each Bond so everyone would be happy,” I suggest as we sit back, digesting the scran.
Skeates laughs, “And who in their right mind would watch the watered-down version?”
“I bought the Harry Potter adult version thinking it was, like, X-rated.”
“What, did you reckon Hermione and Harry were flanging in the magic broom cupboard or something? Or maybe they all swore, like…” He pauses thinking of an example. “Piss off, Voldemort, ya bastart, before I magic yer nuts to witch dust.”
“Expellytesticals!” I mimic swinging a wand about. We chortle like two wee bairns.
“Right, Connor. Time to pay up. When Monsieur Bernard comes back you’re going to ask him where the nearest newsagent is.”
“Eh?”
“Don’t worry about it, just ask.”
“Alright.” I think about questioning his action plan, but I don’t because I know what his answer will be – kids go free.
“You’re going to walk out the door and wait for me in the doorway of M&S down the High Street. You remember where that is? Should take you about two minutes to get there.”
I nod.
“I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just going for a dump.”
The waiter comes back, picks up the plates.
“Is there a newsagents about, mate?” I say.
“Don’t know. The garage at the end of the main street sells papers.” He takes the plates and leaves.
“See you later.” Skeates nods towards the door.
I know what he’s thinking. I don’t want to do it. On the other hand, I’m enjoying the thrill of anticipation.
“Go on you – expellytesticals!” He waves his fork as if it’s a pretend wand.
I hesitate for no more than a second before heading out into the dark, wet night, knowing full well that the defence Skeates has given me isn’t good enough. If he’s caught, I’m caught too. Any claim that I didn’t know about legging it wouldn’t wash with any sheriff. I know, too, that he’s getting me off the scene because I can’t run as well – I would get us both nicked.
I feel guilty and obvious and I wait to be collared, but I turn to see Skeates still sitting there, with his foot up on the chair beside mine. He smiles and waves me away with his magic fork.
Against my better judgement, I don’t head to M&S. I don’t want to miss what happens, so I hide behind some black bags in the doorway of Ann Summers, with a view to the window of the pizza place.
Skeates is chatting to the waiter. The waiter leaves, Skeates stands and casually walks out. Before the door closes he sprints up the street in my direction. The waiter appears again, sticks his head out the door, dithers and then bounds after Skeates. The guy is a runner and even from where I am I can see that Skeates will lose the race.
I’m not worried about Skeates getting caught – I’m worried about Skeates reacting badly when he is. Thieving a pizza is one thing; thieving a pizza with violence is another. So after Skeates runs past Ann Summers I kick a black bag out and Bernard the waiter goes headlong over it.
He swears and sprawls face-first on the ground. Poor Bernard. He lies there for a moment and I crouch, thinking he’s spotted me. He looks up, I curl into a ball in the dark corner behind the remaining bags. I can hear him swearing, and I don’t look, expecting him to come and grab me. Seeing nothing but bags, he turns his stare to Skeates as he disappears around the corner. Bernard decides he has no hope of catching him and returns to the restaurant.
By the time I get to M&S, Skeates is panicking. “Where the hell were you? I thought you’d been caught.”
“Saving your bacon, mate.” I tell him about the black bag, feeling all smug.
“Connor me lad, you are full of surprises. Out-bloody-standing.” He holds his hand up for a high five.
“I didn’t do for you. I did it for Bernard who was about to get the kicking of his days when he caught you.”
Skeates just laughs.
Chapter 14
Campervan
Skeates heads back towards the bus station and I scamper along beside him. The adrenaline of the waiter-chase has left me feeling much better and the wee rest and food has helped too. One of my meds is a steroid, which gives my system a boost. There’s always a downer when you stop taking them, which is why doctors usually reduce the dosage gradually over time. Going cold turkey like this isn’t great, and it’s noticeable when my body starts to miss them, so I’m chuffed that things are feeling grand right now.
“So what’s this ‘hotel’ of yours?” I ask. “The bus station will be shut by now.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“So what’s the scam?”
“You are one cynical wee eejit.”
“So, you aren’t going to break in?” I say, sarc
astically.
“Well, sort of.” He explains, “All the buses are laid up at night in a big yard. They have their destinations logged on the front, so all we have to do is find one going south and we have a cosy dry night and transport to boot. It’ll be like our own campervan with chauffeur.”
I have several questions. How do we get into the depot? How do we get on a bus? What happens if we’re caught? What if the driver asks us for tickets? I don’t bother asking any of them. Skeates is a schemer and he’ll have all the answers. Putting all my trust in someone who one week ago was my arch-nemesis is a leap of faith on a whole new scale. The funny thing is, I don’t feel worried about it. I feel confident in his cannie judgement of things.
That is until we arrive at the depot. I now feel a right numpty.
“So there’s a big wall,” he says before I can complain to him about the big wall.
“Yep, and how do we get to the other side?”
“This way.” He leads me round to a car park. “There.” He points to a lamp post. “Up that.”
“Up that?”
“Yes, up that.”
“What? Up that?”
He wedges himself between the lamp post and the wall. “Come on, it’s nothing.” He slowly makes his way up inch by inch, always looking in control and comfortable. Near the top he lets go with his hands and waves. “See? Easy!” He swings his legs over onto the wall and shouts, “Right, your go!”
I look each way to see if anyone is coming. A man is out with his dog but he walks the other way. I wedge myself between the wall and the lamp post and follow him up, using his shimmy method, which I wouldn’t say is easy for me, but it’s easier than escaping the Children’s Panel. It only took Skeates about thirty seconds even though he clowned around all the way up – whereas I’m slower and weaker, and the longer I take to climb up the weaker I become. I have to stop a few times and my legs start to shake, my caliper banging against the lamp post. I jam myself in between the metal post and the wall to rest.
“Come on,” he hisses down at me in an anxious whisper.
My foot slips and I grab hold of the post, heaving breath in. I must’ve been doing this for at least five minutes. I look up to see his arm outstretched to help me, but I’m shaking with exertion, too scared to let go.
“Connor, here, hurry up and grab my hand.”
One, two, three, I count in my head and stretch up to his fingers. My leg slips and I dangle in the air, swearing. My arm feels like it’s being ripped out of its socket as Skeates hauls me up onto the wall.
The top of the wall is slimy but I press my face gratefully into it nonetheless while I try to catch my breath.
“See? Easy. You’re a regular wee ferret.”
I don’t feel like a wee ferret. The wall is narrow, slippy and looks a hell of a lot higher from up here than it did down there. Whilst I clamp on with a leg and arm either side, Skeates prances about impatiently, telling me to get a move on.
“Along here,” he ushers once his patience has run out.
Thankfully I’ve recovered from the climb and the vertigo enough to move and I follow him along the top of the wall for about twenty feet – he scampers and I crawl. He waits at the end and we step onto the edge of a flat office roof. I sigh with relief that it’s stable. We head for the far end and he helps me down onto a metal stairway. At the bottom there are twenty-odd buses parked in a row and we walk around looking for a suitable one.
“Here we go, Stirling. That should do us.”
“Yeah, and how do we get in?”
He walks around the back, opens a flap on the side of the bus and pulls a lever. The door opens with a hiss of hydraulics. I can’t help but laugh.
He grins like he’s just invented time travel and we climb in. I don’t ask how he knows these things, I just follow him. I’m so ready to sleep, and probably already suffering from the steroid drop, but I ignore the thought. The moment my head hits the back seats of the bus my lights go out. I vaguely hear Skeates complaining about me taking the best spot as I dissolve into unconsciousness.
***
I wake to movement and realise that we must be well on our way, even though it’s still dark. The rumble of the bus against asphalt competes with the swish of passing traffic. Early start to Stirling – we weren’t expecting that. I look up to see the purplish haze of a new day beginning, with storm clouds ahead. We’re travelling on a motorway and there’s no sign of Skeates. I’m all alone at the back of the bus.
I peek down the empty bus in the hope that I can see him. He isn’t there. I can’t see the driver either as his seat is lower than the passenger section. I don’t believe Skeates would just leave me, either from malice or for amusement. Even so, I can’t see him anywhere.
The scabby bastart. He’s abandoned me.
I shouldn’t blame him. I’d only have held him back. I wonder why there are no other passengers. It occurs to me for a moment that Skeates has stolen the bus and that he’s the one driving it. I peer down towards the driver and glimpse the top of a balding head, so I dismiss the thought.
Well, I won’t make it to Shotts without Skeates so I may as well lie low here and then head to the nearest hospital when we arrive in, I presume, Stirling. Problem is, I’m desperate for a pish. The clock on the bus says it is coming up to 6 a.m. – we must have only just left, so there’s no chance I can last all the way there. I start to crawl quietly down the corridor between the rows of seats, praying the driver doesn’t see me in his wee mirror. I slip down the steps into the recess and try the door handle – it’s locked.
I hear footsteps on the aisle and crouch down in the hope that they’ll walk past. It might be a ticket man or conductor. Funny, I didn’t see anyone when I looked. He must have been in the footwell beside the driver at the front of the bus. Shite, the only reason he would come down here is to go to the toilet or if he had seen me. I hear the expected voice of discovery.
“Oi you! What are you doing down there?”
I look up. It’s Skeates!
“Skeates, ya bastart. You scared the shit out of me!”
He creases up laughing. “I just came to check on you and to have a wazz.”
He holds up a set of keys and grins at me like he’s really clever or something.
“Let me in, you plàigh.”
“Say please, Connor.”
“Piss off.” I snatch the keys from him, dive into the toilet, slam the door and relieve myself.
“Where the hell are we?” I ask when I come out.
“On our way to Aviemore.”
“Aviemore? I thought we were going to Stirling.”
“It’s a special charter. Going to pick up some skiers.”
“And why are we still on it?”
“I told the driver we’re going to see your dad and you haven’t seen him for years. It turns out that Charlie – the driver – spent a bit of time in prison and is only too glad to help us on our wee journey. Especially when he heard that you were ill. Happy days, eh?”
“I’m going back to sleep.”
Chapter 15
It’s a Bit Slippy
The bus driver drops us off just outside Aviemore at 8 a.m.
“Thanks Charlie,” we shout and walk up the road towards town.
“It’s freezing,” I moan.
“It’s a ski resort, it’s supposed to be cold, ya wassack. You told me you always wanted to ski.”
“Aye right, like I wanted to go to the moon too. Anyway, there’s no snow, what do they do, water-ski?” I reply as rain drips down the back of my neck. I wrap my arms around me against the wind, and Gumbo’s fisherman’s jumper sticks out from under my jacket like a dress.
Despite the cold, there’s an excited buzz in the air that I can’t quite grasp. I look about at the people carrying ropes, boots, boards, skis, even the odd kayak. Must be nuts to go kayaking this weather. Even so, I envy them. I’ve never done anything like that. I’ve never grinned in anticipation of careering out of
control down some hill or river.
Even the shops are named after adventure, I note, as we walk past a place describing itself as the ‘Last Bastion of Recklessness’. A selection of t-shirts with cartoon skiers decorate the window display. One says ‘Recklessness is a Human Right’, with a picture of a snowboarder doing a flip underneath. The atmosphere is infectious.
“Breakfast, Doris?” Skeates asks as I shake off my jealousy. After all, I’m on my own out-of-control pursuit: dicing with death.
“I thought it was Marilyn?” I say. He looks blankly at me. “Yeah, breakfast sounds good, but not a free one.”
“Come on, kids go free.”
I glare at him.
“Alright, in here.” He leads me into a café where we gorge on bacon butties.
“Never been to Aviemore before. It’s like a town in an old Western.” I look out at the bleak street. Shops with wooden fronts and pillared walkways line each side of the road. It would probably be awesome in the sun or under a thick coat of snow. Now it’s dank with rain and howling wind, bringing with it a shower of leaves and rubbish.
“Aye, you’re right there,” he says. “But no horses.”
Just as he says that, a horse trots its rider past the window and we both crease up in childish laughs. On the other side of the street a crowd of colourful plastic-coated people with skis line up at a bus stop.
“Look at yon folks, Connor. Fancy joining them?”
“Do I look like I can go skiing? Trouble enough walking. I’d be likely to fall and break my neck,” I say, but wish I could. YouTube makes it look like a laugh. “Can you ski?”
“Not yet. Come on.” He makes to leave.
I nod to the bill and he says, “Kids go fr—”
“Yeah yeah, free. Come on, pay up.”
Reluctantly, he leaves money. He knows it’s a small town and we can’t exactly blend in here. Skeates leads me across the road to join the bus queue. He barges in between two girls, who stop talking, look as us and laugh. They’re dressed like they’re on a march to the North Pole, while Skeates and I are still in the same clothes we were wearing when we escaped the Children’s Panel. I’m crazy thankful for Gumbo and his six-sheep jumper.