The Summer We All Ran Away

by Cassandra Parkin

  “I know hitching is really dangerous,” she said, breathless and girlish. “But I’ve really got to get to London. My mate – Aleesha, she’s called – her boyfriend’s been hitting her and I’ve got to get her back home.”

  After that, she knew it would be easy. As the road grew dark, she yawned a couple of times – easy to conjure, the warmth and comfort of the car making her sleepy – and he hesitantly asked her where she was planning to stay the night. She loitered nearby as he checked in at the desk, and heard him ask in a voice that was noticeably louder than it needed to be if he could change from a double to a twin. A real knight in shining armour, she thought to herself, which was a damn shame given what she was about to do to him.

  Inside the room, Neil elaborately nominated one of the beds as hers, then disappeared into the bathroom for ten minutes. When he came out he had changed into ironed jeans and a black shirt. He had a taxi-sharing friend in the lobby to meet and a pre-conference dinner to go to, he said as he took forty pounds in cash and two credit cards out of his wallet, but of course she must order room service for herself. She quite enjoyed the way he fussed around her, as if she was a brand new rescue kitten he’d just adopted, who might leave at any moment.

  She took a long, hot shower and finally felt warm for the first time in three days. Then she ordered herself two burgers with fries and two large cokes and spent a contented forty-five minutes devouring every last morsel.

  Then she went to the drawer where he’d left his car keys and wallet, took out the remaining cash – there was a decent amount, nearly two hundred pounds – grabbed her rucksack, ran down the back staircase and out to the car park, and stole his car.

  Before they’d let him in the shelter, Tom had to promise he wasn’t carrying any drugs or alcohol and agree that if he did turn out to have lied about this, they would be entitled to evict him. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have found that pretty funny – where did they imagine he was hiding it? – but he supposed it must just be standard procedure. Jane gave him a plate of eggs and bacon and a mug of tea.

  “Want to share your story?” she asked him. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But some clients find it helps.” She hesitated. “Or is there anyone you’d like us to call?”

  “Do you meet a lot of people with someone to call?” he asked, curious.

  “Oh, yes. More than you’d think. Especially the new ones. Like you.”

  He opened his mouth to ask how she was so certain he was new to the streets. Then he remembered the night Jack had turned up at the door of the monastery, and his instinctive opinion: too clean to be homeless. For now, he was still visible, still capable of attracting help, still looking as if help was possible. How long did he have before the street closed over his head?

  “I’ve done what you’re doing, you know,” he said suddenly. “Taking people in, I mean. Helping them. It’s really strange to see it from the other side.”

  “We all spend a night sleeping rough as part of our training.”

  “It’s not the same, though, is it?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not the same.”

  He drained the mug of tea, surprised by how thirsty he was. He wondered what he would do for water, where homeless people went to drink. You could survive without food for weeks, but lack of water would kill you in days.

  “You never answered my question,” said Jane, gentle but persistent. “If there’s someone you’d like me to call, let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No. Yes. No. There’s a man I know, Jack. But I don’t have a number, I’ve only got an address.”

  “Is it family?”

  “A friend.” He bit his lip. “Well, sort of. I mean, we don’t know each other all that well, but, no, I can’t, it’s not fair to ask him. I need to make my own way - ”

  “It’s up to you,” said Jane. “But in my experience, it’s best to make the call. Whatever you’ve done – even if you’re running from the law – you’d be better off in the long run. It’s not too late to go back. Are you alright?”

  Out of nowhere, Tom found himself in the grip of a fragment of memory. He was standing in a crowd in an over-filled hall, Eleanor wedged closely alongside him. The room smelled of hair gel, sweat, and fanatical devotion. The audience had been screaming earlier, but now they were rapt and silent, almost afraid to breathe in case they missed a word of the song. The performance was acoustic, just the singer and his guitar; the backing group had melted away into the shadows. And the words:

  It’s too late to go back

  But there’s still something to do

  It’s hard but it’s simple

  The only way out is through

  Had he been unconscious again? Or had he just been asleep? He grabbed onto the windowsill and pulled himself painfully upwards. The morning sun lit up the dust hanging in the expensive city air. It couldn’t even be ten o’clock yet. His watch – an ugly Patek Philippe James had bought him for his eighteenth birthday – had stopped working. The face was cracked. It must have happened when James threw him to the floor. James had broken it, but it would be Davey’s fault. It always was.

  The men outside had left, perhaps because so few passers-by had stopped to admire their work. Davey wondered briefly why they had chosen this quiet and expensive residential street to work on, where the most likely reaction would be demands that they wash it all off again.

  They had drawn a picture of a large country house, standing on high ground. The walls were a soft rosy colour, either because it was painted that way or because of the warm, sleepy light of the setting sun. A single light burned in one small window. Across the top right-hand corner of the picture, written in flat white lettering, was the word LANDMARK.

  The car was easy to drive. Far easier than the decaying heap of junk belonging to her father, which pulled hard to the left and had a tendency to stall at traffic lights. It was tempting to put her foot down and scream down the outside lane as fast as she could go, but she needed to stay inconspicuous. She cruised down the M6, keeping an eye out for the police. It had been three hours. Neil’s dinner was probably finished, he might already be back in the hotel room, discovering she’d cleaned him out and stolen his car.

  As she approached the junction, she realised that going to London, at least in this car, was possibly the worst plan she could come up with. She’d told Neil she was headed there. If they were going to look for her anywhere, they’d be sat on a bridge over the M40, waiting for the black Audi A4 to cruise smoothly by beneath it. She flicked on her indicator and turned onto the M5.

  The M5 was quieter, the traffic moving faster. She drove and drove and drove, foot pressed hard against the floor, fighting to stay awake, stopping at a quiet garage to use the Ladies (disgusting) and nick several cans of Red Bull (easy, the attendant was doing a Sudoku puzzle). The fuel gauge crept inexorably downwards; the tank had been full when she stole it, but even a car this size would run out of petrol eventually. The motorway came to an end and forked into two A roads. Because it was the easiest choice, she picked the left-hand fork.

  Now she was driving over empty moorland, nothing for miles but grass and the occasional pony. She was getting tired. She rummaged in her rucksack for another can of Red Bull, gulped it down, and carried on.

  Was it safer to find a lay-by and sleep in the car? Or should she head for a big town and sleep in a doorway? She could even afford a crappy hotel room if she wanted, but she’d rather save the money for now. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Five hours since she’d stolen the car, it must have been reported by now. Best to ditch it. Large town it was.

  As she parked up in a scruffy-looking side street, a police car nosed its way down the road towards her. The jolt of adrenalin made her jump and curse. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and began to walk away. The police car continued its leisurely progress. A trickle of sweat ran down her spine. Had she shut the door properly? Fuck, was the interior light still on
? She didn’t dare look back to see.

  The sound of the car slowed; the engine was idling. They’d stopped. Two coppers in the car. One to inspect the vehicle. One to run a check and see if it was reported dodgy or missing.

  As soon as she reached the corner, Priss began to run. Downhill was easier, so she ran that way. Her Doc Martens thumped the pavement as she ran down and down, through traffic, over junctions, past shop windows, faintly registering the change in smell from petrol fumes and rubbish bags and frying-oil to diesel fumes and salt and rotting seaweed, getting damper, getting cooler, and then suddenly she was on a busy quay and people in going-out clothes were climbing onto a pleasure-boat, clutching plastic beer glasses and laughing in the kind of accent that made Priss want to scream and thump them very hard. She fumbled breathlessly in her rucksack, found the cash she’d stolen from Neil, hurried aboard and collapsed onto a seat, chewing her nails until the boat pulled away from the quayside, before finally allowing herself to relax.

  As she tried not to listen to the stories being told around her – stories about other superior boat trips, taken in Lausanne, Sydney, British Colombia and the heroic amounts of alcohol they’d all consumed – she saw a huge house, rose-coloured and beautiful, in the middle of what looked like empty moorland.

  When Jane came back, she had an extraordinary expression on her face.

  “I managed to find a number,” she said. “Eventually. It took me quite a while. You didn’t tell me your friend was a famous musician. And I never knew he lived in the West Country. I’ll be honest, when I realised whose house you were talking about I nearly didn’t make the call.”

  “I, um - ”

  “He wasn’t there,” said Jane. “But a lady called Kate answered the phone. She said it would be fine, of course Jack would want you to stay with him. She said she’d organise a train ticket for you and she’d come and meet you at the station.” She smiled faintly. “Whoever you are, Tom, you’re a lucky man, do you know that?”

  Davey moved feverishly about his room, bundling things into a bag. What should he pack? What would he need? It was difficult to concentrate through the taunting voice in his head; the sound of James’ voice, saying the words Davey knew he would say if he was here: Where the hell do you think you’re going to go? You idiot. You’re a failure, Davey. Running away is just the kind of thing I’d expect from a spineless little toe-rag like you.

  “Shut up, shut up,” he wailed to himself. He stopped by the drinks cabinet, took out a bottle of Stoli vodka, and swallowed several hot, oily mouthfuls.

  Don’t even know what to pack, do you? You’ve never been anywhere on your own, have you? When I was your age I was already living on my own, fending for myself. You’d never last five minutes without me and your mother to look after you. Look at you, failed your A-levels for the second time, can’t drive, you’re completely bloody unemployable.

  And where the hell are you going to go, anyway?

  He had no idea, but he knew he couldn’t stay here any longer. He had to run. He went back up to his room, stared wildly around. What else, what else, what else?

  As he slung his bag over his shoulder, he heard the key in the front door.

  chapter sixteen (always)

  The canopy over Davey’s bed was the same faded red damask as the curtains. Last night the curtains had been tightly closed, but now they were folded tidily against the bedposts, the extravagant loops of old gold rope back in place. He’d gone to sleep with his head resting on Isaac’s shoulder, but he had woken alone.

  “I’m gay,” Davey said to himself, trying out the sound of the words. As personal announcements went, it felt about as significant as I’m left-handed.

  “I’m gay,” he said, more loudly, trying for drama. Surely it should sound more apocalyptic than this? He pictured James, glowering like a basilisk. Had James sensed this about him, all those years ago? Was this why he’d tried so hard to mould Davey into someone else?

  “I’m gay,” Davey told this imaginary James. But he couldn’t imagine what would happen next. Sighing, he pushed back the sheets.

  A tiny scrap of paper lay on the empty pillow. It was a corner torn from one of Priss’ notebooks, he recognised the smooth, yellowy paper, the elegant, closely-spaced grey lines. Written in meticulous handwriting, condensed into the smallest possible space, was a brief message:

  You’re lovely

  - I

  Davey stowed the note carefully in his back pocket, and went downstairs. The horrific discoveries of last night felt distant and unreal, separated from now by an ocean of time; time in which he’d discovered he was entirely different to how he’d always imagined himself, someone greedy and needy and demanding and impetuous, someone who begged without shame and cried out in bliss, someone who did things he’d never dared to dream about. He laughed to himself as he went down to the kitchen.

  “Morning,” said Priss. She looked white and tired, and as she went to the coffee pot, she limped painfully on her bandaged ankle. “You’re up early. For once.”

  “I’m gay,” Davey told her.

  Priss poured coffee into her mug in a luxurious brown stream. “D’you want some? I’ve made about a gallon.”

  “I said - I’m gay.”

  “Duh.” Priss reached for another mug.

  “What do you mean, duh?” Davey demanded. “Are you even listening to me? I only just found out myself! How can you possibly have known?”

  “Because it’s fucking obvious,” said Priss, yawning. “It’s, like, the third thing anyone notices about you. Tall; dark hair; gay; nice shoes. Probably not a murderer.”

  Davey took the mug she was offering him and sat down.

  “Did you honestly not know?” asked Priss.

  “No.”

  “Christ.” Priss grinned to herself behind her mug.

  “So where is everyone?” asked Davey crossly.

  “Why? D’you want to tell them as well?”

  “No! I mean, well, I suppose I - I’m not expecting them to be interested or anything, but actually, I - I think we ought to talk about, you know, the, um - ”

  “I heard them talking in Kate’s room last night,” said Priss. “While you and Isaac were fucking each other’s brains out.” Davey blushed. “They’re not sure what to do. Tom thinks Jack might have done it, he feels dead guilty about dobbing him in. I caught him looking at the phone this morning like it was going to bite him.”

  “Stop being such a wanker.”

  Jack cradled the phone between his ear and his neck, and reached for the pen that lay, tantalisingly out of reach, on the smooth teak surface of the console table. The phone slipped away from him and rattled against the table leg. He picked it up guiltily.

  “ - better not have thrown it at the wall,” said Alan. “Are you still there?”

  “Of course I am. Sorry, I dropped the receiver.” He reached for the pen again. It was no closer than before.

  “I’m not your mate,” said Alan menacingly. “I’m your manager. Or I would be, if you’d let me, you know, fucking manage you and your career? Ten dates. That’s all I’m asking for. Ten dates. It’s nothing! UK only, and we’ll get a private helicopter to take you back to the country pile afterwards. They’ll be the hottest tickets in the whole fucking town - ”

  Jack suppressed a yawn. They’d stayed up late last night, drinking and talking out on the veranda, wrapped in blankets as the night became chillier. They were celebrating Isaac’s first draft of the Landmark album cover, although Isaac had been oddly reluctant to show it to him. Instead he had rolled it up into a long tube and walked the five miles to the village post office to send it to Alan. Jack had only known what it was because Mathilda mentioned it at lunchtime. He’d tried not to be jealous that Isaac had confided in her. After all, Mathilda wasn’t responsible for what Isaac told her, was she? It was only Mathilda’s response that mattered.

  He suddenly discovered a large, loopy knot in the cable. If he untangled it, the phone might
stretch far enough for him to reach the pen.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Alan. “I can actually hear the sound of you not listening to me.”

  “I’m listening,” protested Jack.

  “No you’re not. You’re waiting for me to get bored and start talking about something else instead. That’s how well I bloody know you, Jack. I can actually sense when you’re not listening to a bloody word I’m saying.”

  “Sorry! Sorry, I’m listening now.”

  “Forget it, pal. Now I am bored. For fuck’s sake. That’s how well you know me, right?” There was a click then a long, slow sigh as Alan drew deeply on a fresh cigarette. “How’s the new album coming?”

  Jack winced. “Slow. Painful.”

  Alan laughed. “You always say that.”

  Did he? Maybe he did. Maybe it was always this terrible. He seemed to spend hours just staring at the page, trying to fit together the words with the music in his head, getting nowhere. It was so much easier to lay down the pen and dream about Mathilda instead.

  The cable was free, surely now the phone would reach. He stretched out, grabbed the pen, enjoyed the small thrill of victory. Now he just needed some paper.

  “Going back to this tour,” said Alan, fortified by nicotine.

  “Let’s not,” suggested Jack. “I hate it when we fight.” He found a folded piece of paper in his pocket and took it out. It was covered over in writing so dense it looked like it was written in another language. Was this actually his work? He peered at it in appalled fascination.

  “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

  “I’m not marrying you.”

  “Fuck off. Don’t you ever call me a fucking poofter, okay?”

  “Jesus. It was just a joke.”

  “Yeah, well, some jokes aren’t funny. Not that I’ve got anything against poofters, I’m sure their mothers love them. Would you do the tour if I got you a babysitter?”

  “Sorry, mate, did you say a babysitter?”