by Siobhan Dowd
‘Of Mam’s drink.’
‘Your mum’s drink?’
‘Not the colours. The noise. The noise of the ice.’
Then the lightning flashes again and Mam’s taking off the amber ring, feeding it off her hand bit by bit, handing it to me, and her face is white and her hand is shaking. ‘Look after it, Holl. Keep it safe. They’d chop your finger off for a ring like that.’
Look after … Look after …
A last grumble of thunder sounded away in the hills. The water swirled louder and the voices faded. Rain still spat down but the storm had rolled off, fast as it had come. I staggered out from under the bridge, straightening up. I looked at the ring, glowing on my hand. I stroked it, as if I could bring the tiny trapped insect back to life.
Oh, Mam. Don’t go.
I looked around at the river and the banks, the bridge, the trees moving in the wind and the mountains. All the colours had gone grey in the strange storm-light. Then the clouds shifted, the sun slanted through, the greens and browns came back and the birds started up again. I fetched the wig out of the lizard, brushed through it and put it on.
I breathed. There. There now.
I wiped my eyes and smoothed down the dress. I shivered. I’d got chilled standing in the wet. I got the trousers out and put them on under the dress. Dresses over trousers were old, but down here in Wales maybe they were still reckoned cool, who knew.
Solace gave me a pep talk. Holl. If you survived that storm, you can survive anything, girl. You’re unstoppable. Telling you.
My trainers squelched as I climbed back up to the road. I took them off and tied the laces together and dangled them from the lizard’s strap. Then I put the sandals on. They hurt, but they were dry.
I made my slow way back up the side road to the A40. No storm would finish me off. No policeman would recognize me. I was a blonde, all grown up, not a brunette, aged fifteen. I’d thumb my next lift and hit the Irish ferries and I’d be free. Mammy, I thought, stay right where you are. I’m getting closer with every step.
Thirty-two
The Truck of Pigs
The road shone and the light was warm and strong after the storm. I stood at the top of a good clean stretch, near a gate that led into an enormous field of sheep. If you’d tried to count them, you wouldn’t have fallen asleep, you’d have died of old age. I put my thumb out again, the amber glinting on my hand.
Nothing stopped. Cars and trucks passed, loud and fast. When they’d gone, you could hear the sheep baaing and wind tickling the trees.
I tried the dandelion trick again. Still nothing. Maybe I was the only person hitching in the whole of Britain, and maybe Phil was the only person crazy enough to stop.
After a long gap I glimpsed a car coming more slowly and I stuck out the thumb again. The vehicle was white and blue. I yawned. It rounded a corner and reappeared, getting closer.
That’s when I realized. A police car.
Thickhead! I dropped the hand and turned, head down, towards the gate and stared at the sheep. I wagged my finger like I was counting them.
Had they seen me? Were they looking for me?
Had Phil called the police after I’d done the runner?
I was sure the car was slowing, about to stop.
I kept counting like my life depended on it. In my head, they were taking me in and driving me to a cell and then they’d all come – Rachel, the police, Fiona and Ray, the psychiatrists – and they’d talk about me like I wasn’t there. Holly has chaotic high support needs, I heard them say, shaking their heads, just as I overheard a social worker say once.
Chaotic. High. That was me all right.
But the police car quickened after it took the bend. It vanished up the road, leaving me behind. I breathed again. The wind played in the wig. The sheep baaed and I baaed back. One of them stared at me and I swear it was the spit of Trim. It had narrow eyes and a long snout and it looked like it would chew up the whole world and spit it right out. I laughed my head off by that gate and had to rub my side on account of the stitch I gave myself. If Grace had been there she’d have hee-hawed too.
Then I went back up to my spot on the bend.
A bone-shaker of a cattle truck rolled up. It was the kind with a cabin in the front and an open pen at the back, where they cram in the cows. But I couldn’t see in because it was more wooden bits than gaps. I imagined it full of beasts heading for the chop. Soon they’d be swinging on hooks in a butcher’s. I put my thumb out halfway, thinking of Phil being vegan, then my arm dropped to my side. But the truck still stopped.
I didn’t move. A man opened the door and leaned out. He had a plump, round face and curly dark hair on the back half of his head. He was Addams Family meets Jack the Ripper, grinning ear to ear.
‘Want a lift, love?’ he said.
‘Um,’ I grunted.
‘Where to?’
‘Where’re you going?’
‘Lampeter.’
‘No good,’ I said. I rolled my wrist like I was queen of the land. ‘I’m going to Fishguard.’
‘I can get you past Llandovery,’ he said.
I remembered Llandovery from the map, only he said it different, Clan-dove-ry. ‘You mean Lando-very?’
He slapped his thigh. ‘That’s priceless. Like calling that dandelion in your ear a dan-day-leon.’
He screeched with laughter. I had to smile. I took the dandelion from behind my ear and tossed it aside.
‘You coming or not?’ said the man.
‘What’s in the back?’ I could hear things moving and breathing and see shadowy shapes through the slits.
‘Pigs.’
‘Pigs?’ My nose wrinkled. I remembered Phil and his story about the sheep having their ears punched before they were slaughtered. I stepped forward and peered between the slats and made out some pale bristles and dark patches. Then I heard snuffling and pawing.
‘Don’t you like pigs?’ he said.
‘I like pigs fine,’ I said.
‘Then what are you waiting for? They don’t bite. Hop in.’
My brain seesawed. I thought of the police car and how I needed to get out of sight. On the other hand, this guy didn’t make me feel safe the way Phil had. I stared hard at his eyes and the lines around them and thought, He’s just your average truckie, Holl. No axe murderer.
‘OK,’ I said. I climbed into the cab and put the seatbelt on. I wasn’t as high up as I’d been in Phil’s lorry, and it was tattier and smelled of sweat and old fags. But when we took to the road, the white dividers batted by again like old friends. The truck rattled as if every last one of those pigs was tap-dancing.
‘What’s your name?’ the man said. ‘Mine’s Kirk.’
I’d just spotted a plastic lozenge, dangling from the rear-view mirror. Inside was a picture of a woman, top half. She was blonde, blue-eyed and starkers. My stomach flip-flopped.
‘Don’t you have one?’
‘Hey?’
‘A name.’
‘Oh. Yeah,’ I said. ‘Solace.’
Kirk cocked his head like a confused dog. ‘Solace?’
‘Yeah.’
He chuckled. ‘Some name that. Exotic.’
He’s probably harmless, I told myself. Lots of men like pictures like that. Remember that magazine Trim had? That was way ruder. And Trim was normal, wasn’t he? Then I thought that calling Trim normal was like calling Hitler a saint. OK, Trim Trouble wasn’t exactly normal. But I could handle him, right?
‘You’re very serious,’ Kirk said. ‘You look like the Inland Revenue’s after you.’
‘Huh?’
‘The taxman.’
‘Oh. Ha ha. No, he’s not.’
‘He’s after me,’ Kirk said. ‘Haven’t filed in five years. D’you want the radio on?’
‘Nah,’ I said. I didn’t want any more news bulletins. ‘Say, Kirk?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s with the pigs?’
‘Eh?’
‘I mea
n, are they your pigs?’
‘Nah. I’m just driving them.’
‘So where are you driving them?’
‘Like I said. Lampeter.’
‘Yeah, but when they get there, what then?’
‘I get it.’ Kirk thumped the wheel and laughed. ‘You’re one of those animal rights people.’
‘Just curious. I mean, are they for the chop or what?’
‘This batch is heading to a pig farm,’ he said. ‘They’re for breeding purposes, far as I know.’
‘Breeding?’
‘Yep. You can stop worrying, darlin’. By tonight they’ll be rolling in clover. They’ll be wallowing in mud. They’ll be chomping the acorns.’
‘Hey, Kirk. That’s great.’ I decided he was maybe better than he looked. I didn’t care about the naked woman in the lozenge any more. I just thought about those pigs and how they were safe and how I was safe even if the truck was a bone-shaker, because nobody, not anybody, knew where I was. We drove on in silence, slicing through the puddles left by the storm. The mountains got bigger and mistier. They wavered like blue ghosts.
We passed an old stone pub lit all over with Christmas lights, although it was June and broad daylight. I remember Miko saying once that poor people put up the Christmas lights early because they’re desperate for hope, while rich people put them up late, just before Christmas, because they have plenty enough hope already. I’d never seen lights in June before. The folks in that pub must be flat-out desperate, I thought.
We bypassed Brecon and I sat with my hand draped over the lizard, stroking my mam’s amber.
‘That’s a pretty ring,’ Kirk said, glancing over.
They’d chop your finger off for a ring like that. ‘It’s junk,’ I breezed. ‘Got it out of a Christmas cracker.’
‘That was some lucky cracker,’ Kirk said. ‘All I ever get is God-awful jokes.’
‘Know the feeling.’
‘D’you want to hear the worst joke ever?’
‘Try me,’ I said.
‘What lives under the sea and murders mermaids?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Go on. Have a guess.’
‘A shark?’
‘Nope.’
‘A whale?’
‘Jack the Kipper.’ He screamed like it was the best thing he’d ever heard, and coming from a Jack the Ripper look-alike, maybe it was.
‘That is bad,’ I laughed. Some jokes are like that. A bit like my one about the willows. So bad they’re good. It reminded me of this strange boy in my class at school, Max. He was so not funny, he was funny. He was in a class of his own. Max the Chap, we called him, on account of his BBC radio voice. He was a mega-geek who came top at maths and dressed like he was a mogit from fifty years ago. And d’you know what his hobby was? Bell-ringing. I ask you. Bell-ringing? I mean, it’s so uncool, it’s cool. I said to Karuna, maybe we should all go along with old Max and ring a few bells, ding-a-ling. She thought I was joking and laughed at me, but I thought me and Max and Karuna making some giant bells ring out over all south London would be cool.
The mountains got smaller. The road twisted and the cattle truck with it.
‘Those pigs must be flying,’ I said as we went over a bad bump. The white dividing line was unbroken, and painted on the tarmac every so often was
SLOW
ARAF
I stared and wondered what ARAF was. Maybe the letters stood for something. Maybe ‘All Roads Are Fatal’. I heard Miko wailing in his worst punk voice, ‘falling … falling …’ Then I got it. We were in Wales, right? So ARAF was Welsh for ‘slow’.
Then there was a sign saying LLANDOVERY 1 MILE.
Fishguard was getting closer every bend.
We drove straight through the centre of the town and over a train crossing, then out of the town and down a deep valley with rock-grey sides and plants growing out of them.
We came to a lay-by and Kirk pulled in. It felt like I’d only just got in and the ride was over already.
‘The turn-off to Lampeter’s coming up,’ said Kirk. ‘You might as well hop out here. Unless …’ He shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless you fancy riding on with me and going out for dinner, maybe.’
A date with a guy with a hairline halfway back on his head and a loony sense of humour? The blonde in the lozenge swayed and I grabbed the lizard tight.
‘Thanks ’n’ all, Kirk.’ The pigs in the back were scuffling like they wanted out. ‘That’s a real nice offer – only, see, I’ve got to meet my boyfriend.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Yeah. We’re taking the night boat to Ireland. We’re starting over. A whole new life. He’s going to train as a jockey and I’m going to train as a dancer.’
‘A dancer?’
‘Yeah. Strictly posh stuff. Ballet ’n’ all.’
‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed. ‘So you’re moving over there permanent?’
‘That’s right. Me and Drew. We’re Irish by birth, see.’
‘Never.’
‘ ’S true.’
‘Hair like that, I took you for a Swede.’
‘Ha ha. Thanks for the lift.’ I got the door open.
‘Hey, Solace. Before you go. Don’t I get one?’
‘What?’
‘Even a teeny-weensy one?’ He pushed his lips out like there was a chance in a million I might be in business.
‘Not today,’ I called. ‘The boyfriend would be mad jealous.’ I leaped down and slammed the door and waved him on. The truck started up and Kirk shrugged a goodbye and his lips went down like he was broken-hearted, only I could tell he wasn’t, he just thought it was funny. He let the brake out and winked and then his truck rattled back onto the road with the beasts in the back going bananas.
‘Save it for the pigs, Kirk,’ I called.
Thirty-three
154 Vehicles Later
The sun was going down behind the mountains. I’d no idea it’d got so late. I decided to count the traffic.
Ten cars passed. A lorry. Then fifteen more cars. Twenty-six. I thought of Jane Eyre on the high moors, having to bed down for the night in the long grass. She was Airhead Extraordinaire, that girl. She’d left her trunk on the carriage, left all her jewels behind, and now she had nothing. How stupid is that. If she’d gone off with Mr Rochester like he’d asked, she’d have been living it up on the Riviera, dripping with gems, wearing white gloves up to her elbows. But then, that whole story cracked me up. I’d have caught on to the wife in the attic at the first cackle. The author lady had something funny in her top storey, I reckoned. A white van. Number forty-seven. Here I was in the middle of Wales. I was walking along a green tunnel of road and the air was cool. No way was I going to lie down in a field tonight. I stroked the amber ring. Or lose my jewels, thank you.
A car zoomed up the road like it was in a chase. Number sixty-three. I’d never heard an engine roar so loud. I put out the thumb but the rate it was going the driver would never see me, let alone stop. It overtook a car in front, taking the bend hard. Then I heard a screech.
My hands went over my ears. I imagined the car on its roof, spinning, like in the movies, and the petrol gushing out on the road, and the people inside mashed and all of it on fire. But I’d only heard a screech, not a crash.
A car came in the opposite direction, lights flashing, horn tooting. It must have been a near miss.
I grinned. Trim would have died to be in a car like that. I imagined him shooting up the motorways, Grace at his side, telling him to hug the white line smooth and strong.
But the smile went from my face when I remembered the little Kavanagh brat with his toy cars. I didn’t like the Kavanaghs because they always sided with the kid, their pride and joy. I was the charity girl, a bit like Jane Eyre with her awful cousins. Anyway, this kid had a whole fleet of cars that he raced round the kitchen table. I remembered him zooming a green car off the edge so it clattered onto the flo
or. He stamped on it and went, ‘You were in that, Holly Hogan. Now you’re dead.’ He had this scream when he didn’t get his way that pierced your brain. If I’d screamed like that, I’d have been spanked, but he never was.
My time at the Kavanaghs’ went on I don’t know how long. Then this one day I woke up and found Mam’s picture, which I kept propped up by my bedside, all torn to pieces on the bedspread. And I screamed, big time, louder even than that boy. There was a bit with her bare foot and ankle in the sand, torn. Then half her arm, keeping a floppy hat on against the wind. Her middle was ripped so you could see half of her green bikini. Her face was shredded so small you couldn’t see anything, no lips, no eyes, nothing. I howled fit to bring the roof down. Mrs Kavanagh came in and shouted at me. I pointed at the torn picture and said how the kid had done it because he hated me. She snorted and said how I must have done it myself, because her boy would never do that, would he? I drummed my feet on the mattress. Then the bedside lamp went flying through the window. And that was the end of the placement.
A hundred cars and lorries, dead on, and no lift.
Grace had had ten placements, which made her Placement Princess in Templeton House. But none had gone right. Trim hadn’t had any. You’d have to be mad-crazy to take him on. As for me, the one with Fiona and Ray was definitely the last. Your name’s made out of cloud, Holly. I squidged my eyes tight, but I kept hearing Ray’s voice.
I thumbed and thumbed. A hundred and thirty and counting. These funny biting flies buzzed round my head. I waved my hands round and walked faster, but they just followed. It was enough to drive you crackers. To see me hopping and itching, you’d have thought I was crazy.
Nobody was going to pick me up acting like this.
A bus came by and I tried sticking my hand out, but it didn’t stop.
I counted 153 cars and lorries, and one bus. Which makes 154 vehicles passing and no ride.
Hurry, hurry, Holly Hogan, the song went through my head. Before the road disappears beneath your feet.
At this rate I’d be sleeping in the long grass after all.
Thirty-four
The Boy on the Motorbike