by Fiona Shaw
He meant not to look at his own house. He had to walk past it, and he meant not to look. But it was too hard. He couldn’t bear to see, and he couldn’t bear not to, and when he got close, he turned and looked.
There was a board up outside:
They’d given him a trunk before they took him away.
–Plenty of space for a small boy’s belongings, they’d told him. –The rest will be charitied.
The trunk was made of black plastic and they’d made him fill it with his clothes and his school books, a duvet, towels. But when they weren’t looking, he’d put a photo of his mum and dad in there too, and an old CD his mother had in a drawer, and her green cardigan; and he’d put in his father’s knife with the red handle and fifteen different blades, and his father’s cap and his fisherman’s sweater. Now he only had the photo and the cardigan and the knife, zipped deep in his rucksack. Everything else was left behind in the trunk at the foot of his bed in the Home Academy.
The gate was still broken, and no one had put the missing tiles back on the roof. His dad had been going to do that for months. The windows were dark, and Jake didn’t look in. Down the side of the house he went, walking fast, round past the dustbin to the garden. Jet’s kingdom. The grass was long and the flower beds overgrown. His mother would have hated that. Jake sniffed. Foxes.
–Never had foxes when Jet was here.
He allowed himself one long look down the garden.
–Bye, he said, and he turned to go. But there was a noise. A small whine. He stopped.
He knew that sound.
–Jet? he said, turning back. –Jet?
Another small whine, and this time he was sure. It came from the shed.
Jake ran over. It was padlocked and there was no window. Kneeling down, he put his fingers under the door, and there was his dog, nuzzling at his hand, whining.
–But they said they’d look after you, Jake said. –They promised.
He tugged at the door, but the padlock was firm. He could hear the clink that Jet’s collar made, the name tag chinking against the buckle. He took out his dad’s penknife, flipped open the biggest blade and dug it into the wood around the hasp, but it wouldn’t give. Then he picked at the lock with the toothpick blade, but still the lock stayed firm, and all he could do was lean his head against the rough wood and promise to be back, to get him out of there.
–You and me always, he said, and Jet made small, sad barks in response. Jake tried to keep his voice calm, but finally it was too hard, and there in the garden, hidden in the long grass, he wept.
Mr and Mrs Hadley were eating breakfast. He could hear their voices and he could smell rashers in the pan. He put a hand to the wall. His head was spinning. Then, steadying himself, he knocked on the kitchen door. A figure approached, hazy through the frosted pane. He stood straighter, wiped at his face again, tucked his clothes in. A key turned, a bolt was pulled.
–Jacob! Mr Hadley sounded amazed. –What on earth?
–I’m sorry to disturb you, Jake said. –I’m very hungry. Could you give me something to eat?
Mr Hadley stared at him, then past him at the empty street. –Come in, then. Quick.
Jake took in the room as he sat down. Everything was as it always was. Shoes in neat lines on the shoe rack. Biscuit tin beside the toaster. Polished fruit in the fruit bowl, apples on one side, oranges on the other. Very different from his home.
They sat him at the kitchen table. Mr Hadley dropped the blinds and turned off the computer. They put his plimsolls on the shoe rack. His wet socks made footprints on the floor. Mrs Hadley gave Jake a peck on the cheek, not like her normal hug, and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought she had tears in her eyes.
–I’ll put on some more bacon, she said. –No talking till you’ve eaten. Look at the state of you. I’ll get you some dry socks. And you’ve cut your hand.
She cleaned the cut and put a big plaster on it.
–However did you do that? she said, and then she kind of waved her hand at him. –No, actually I don’t want to know. But we might need to fetch something from the chemist.
–Pat, Mr Hadley said and his voice was stern. –We can’t be seen to … And he didn’t finish the sentence, but Mrs Hadley let go of Jake’s hand.
She put a plate of food in front of him, with a glass of orange juice, and Jake ate every last bit of it. When he’d finished, Mr Hadley sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
–So, what’s going on? he said. He didn’t sound angry, but not friendly either.
–I ran away, Jake said.
–You ran away? From the Academy?
Mrs Hadley had put her hands to her head. Jake could see her, there by the cooker, out of the corner of his eye.
–I’ve got this plan. Also, I needed to see Jet. I promised my parents I’d look after him, and I thought he’d be with you, but he’s in the shed at home.
–You shouldn’t have done that, Mr Hadley said. –They won’t like it if you do that.
–And the countryside, Mrs Hadley said. –You can’t go running through the countryside these days, Jacob. It’s much too dangerous.
–Mum and Dad took me for walks in the countryside, Jake said. –Nothing happened. The countryside didn’t kill them.
The Hadleys looked at each other, but they didn’t answer him.
–Anyway, Jet needs me, Jake said. –And it’s like a prison in the Academy.
–You shouldn’t talk like that either, Mr Hadley said, and Jake saw him glance at the computer, even though it was harmless; turned off.
–The Home Academy is your home now, Mrs Hadley said. –That’s why it’s called that. And you’ve got your Mother and Father there. That’s where you need to be. It’s the best place for you now.
She sounded kind. But she didn’t get it, Jake could see.
–But I told you. Jet needs me, and I can’t have him with me there. That’s why I made the plan. Once you’ve heard it, and once you agree, then I won’t have to go back.
Mr Hadley was shaking his head and he had a face as if Jake had done something bad. –You can’t do this, he said.
–But you haven’t heard the plan yet, Jake said.
–You have to go back, Mr Hadley said, and he was standing up, fishing in his back pocket for his mobile. –I’ll have to let them know.
Jake was braced, ready to run for it, but Mrs Hadley put her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
–At least let him tell us his plan, Simon. They’ll be here soon enough.
Mr Hadley rubbed at his neck. –Not at all regular, he said. –It’s set out very clear, what we should do.
But he sat back down, and Jake told them. They could be his parents. The Coalition said every child had to have two. They could be his now. He couldn’t get to his grandparents because they were in Scotland. And the Hadleys didn’t have any other children, so they’d get a son, and a bit more money. And he could go back to his school down the road, see his friends. And fetch Jet out of the shed.
That was it. That was his plan.
Jake looked up at Mrs Hadley. –What do you think? he said. –You’d have me as a son, wouldn’t you?
But Mrs Hadley’s face had gone sad, and Jake could feel everything falling away.
–We could keep Jet outside if you wanted, he said. –He wouldn’t mind.
Because maybe that was a bit much to expect, to have Jet inside the house. They’d always seemed to like him before, patted his head, but in that careful way that people do who’ve never had a dog. Maybe that was why Mrs Hadley looked sad, because she couldn’t say yes to Jet being inside.
Mr Hadley was shaking his head now, and he’d gone red in the face. He was pacing up and down, making the tablecloth flutter. Sweat patches had appeared under his arms, even though it wasn’t that warm. Jake had a bad feeling in his stomach, and when he felt like that, pretty much always he was right.
–The Home Academy is the place for children like you, Mr Hadley said. –The tribunal said so.
A proper Mother and Father and a proper education.
Jake shook his head. They didn’t know what it was like in there. –It’s a horrible place, Mr Hadley, he said. –They’re not like my mum and dad at all. Not in a single way. And there are lots of sad children. And if you cry, you get sent to the safe room and you’re locked in there on your own till bedtime. It’s like Jet being locked in that shed where he’s lonely and miserable. He hates it in there. He was whining.
Mrs Hadley put her hand across the table and patted Jake’s arm. –You’re getting to be a big boy now, Jacob. And you know, it’s not your shed any more, dear. Not any more. Nor your home, I’m afraid. Do you know, there’ll be a new family moving in tomorrow and they seem very nice. Friendly. They’ve got young children. And Jet will stay, because they’d like a guard dog, used to living outside.
–No! Jake said. He didn’t mean to shout, but she still had her hand on his arm, like she was keeping him there, keeping him down. –He’s my dog and he doesn’t want another family. He wanted to shut his ears, keep their words out. They weren’t meant to be saying these things. They were meant to be saying other things. Things that would give him a chair at their kitchen table and his own bed in the little boxroom next to the bathroom upstairs.
–Jet wants me, he said, and he pulled his arm away and shoved his chair back.
–Where are you going? Mrs Hadley said. –Jacob?
–Thank you for the breakfast, he said politely.
–You haven’t anywhere else to go, Mrs Hadley said. –Sit down, Jacob.
Mr Hadley got up and locked the back door. –Right, he said. Nobody’s trying to upset you. You just stay in here for a minute while Pat and me have a word.
Soon as they’d shut the door, Jake stood up, quiet as he could. He listened. Something wasn’t right, with both of them out there and him in here and the back door locked. He could hear their voices, but not what they were saying. Then he heard, unmistakeable, the sound of the telephone keypad. They were phoning someone. And he knew that he had to get out of there, and fast.
He grabbed his plimsolls off the shoe rack, then paused. Walking boots. Mr Hadley’s would be too big, but hers looked about right. Leather, thick soles. Jake wouldn’t have been seen dead in them six months ago – they were mostly pink – but he was going to need boots like these now. Besides, Mrs Hadley wouldn’t be using them these days, surely. Not with all the virus threats. She’d believe it all.
He pulled the boots on. They’d have him down for a thief now too, but not much he could do about it.
In the biscuit tin, he found what he was looking for: a red penlight keyring with three keys attached.
–Yes! he said, triumphant. He put the keys in his pocket and a half packet of biscuits in his rucksack.
There was a mobile in the biscuit tin too, in a pink case – Mrs Hadley’s, with the PIN written inside the case. Jake was halfway to slipping the mobile in his pocket too, because there’d be cash on there and he could buy some food with it. But then he thought again. Leave the mobile, he told himself, because food or no food, if they didn’t catch him by hubbing, they’d do it through a mobile.
He could hear Mr Hadley’s voice from the hall. Then he heard his own name. Mr Hadley spoke it slowly and clearly and in full, as if he was talking to someone official on the other end: Jacob William Riley, he said.
Jake’s heart missed a beat. No doubt then. The Hadleys had shopped him. He carried a chair over to the sink, climbed up quietly and opened the kitchen window. Throwing his rucksack ahead of him, he twisted into the window opening, first one shoulder, then the other. A moment to balance on the sill, and he was down in the front garden and running. Down the drive, past the car and on to the street.
Behind him he heard the Hadleys’ kitchen door open and Mr Hadley’s voice, a roar behind him:
–They’re coming for you, Jacob William Riley.
Back round the corner he ran, no time to be careful, no time to hide his face even. Every minute counted. Through the broken gate, down the side of the house, across the grass to the shed. There were his tracks in the grass from less than an hour ago – still only his tracks, he was glad to see.
Jet had heard him, or smelled him, and he was already at the shed door, scratching, barking.
–Hold on, Jet. Quiet, boy. I’ll have you out of there.
Taking out the keys on the red keyring, he found the shortest of them and slipped it into the padlock, and as he pulled the padlock free of the hasp, a tornado of black fur barrelled into him, knocking him backwards, down on to the grass, and Jet was there, licking his face, butting his head against Jake’s, yipping loud.
Jake wrapped his arms around him and held tight. His cut hand throbbed, pressed against Jet’s fur, and he didn’t care. It was twenty-seven weeks and four days since he’d last hugged anybody. He pressed his face into Jet’s fur and held him.
–Hey, boy, he said. –You and me always. Like Mum said. Like I promised.
But Jet felt different from before, and after a minute Jake stepped back from his dog and stared. What had the Hadleys done to him?
–You’re half-starved, he said. The Hadleys hadn’t looked after Jet at all. His collar was loose round his neck and the shine was gone from his fur. They must’ve barely fed him. They’d deserted him, just like they’d deserted Jake.
Back in the shed, he looked along the shelves. There were the tins of dog food, just like always. He pulled back the rings on two, emptied them on to the floor, and watched Jet wolf them down. Then he refilled the water bowl at the tap and watched his dog drink.
He looked towards the bottom of the garden where the brambles tangled, and his mum had her compost piles and his dad had his sawhorse. He looked across the tall grass to the remains of his mother’s vegetable garden. He would give anything to stay here and play with Jet, even just for a few minutes.
He heard the minibus before he saw it: a flash of blue and red as it passed the house. But he knew what it was. Where it had come from, where it was going, and who it was looking for, and in an instant he was on his feet. He took two tins of dog food from the shelf and stuffed them into the rucksack. Then, grabbing Jet’s lead from inside the shed door, he took a last, quick look at his home.
–Time to go, he said, and with Jet at his heels he ran between the brambles to the gap in the fence and through.
Four
He was running, keeping Jet on a tight lead beside him, weaving through the supermarket car park, round parked cars, listening out for the minibus siren, expecting any minute to see it loom up in front of him. A whole life ago, he used to play out here. What to do next? Where to go? Mr Hadley’s voice was still sounding in his head, booming and angry: They’re coming for you. And they were, Jake knew. They were only streets away and they had him on their screen. They were coming to grab him, and he’d be taken back to the Academy, given years extra on his loan tariff for this and he’d never see Jet again. Jet would be locked in that shed and they’d treat him cruelly, and he wouldn’t understand why.
–Stop it, he told himself. –Think.
Because there was something at the back of his mind, something someone had said that could help him escape right here and now. If only he could remember.
They talked a lot about escape in the Academy, the teachers and the students. –Don’t attempt a departure. That’s what the teachers told them. They called it ‘departure’ because escape made the Academy sound like a prison. But nobody was fooled. The Academy was a prison. So escape was what it was.
But it wasn’t only the teachers. The boys in the dormitory didn’t say much different. There was no point escaping because they just hubbed you and brought you back. Besides, they said, you’d have to be in the countryside, and that was where the virus was, and who wanted to risk getting cancer, or growing an extra head. They’d all seen the pictures. One of them told a story about a boy who’d escaped for two days before they caught him. He’d hidden in the river, breathing through a stra
w, but they still found him. He had to go up before the Headteacher and she added another whole year to his tariff.
Only JoJo had said different.
Jake pictured him: a small, geeky boy with big ears and a limp, who nobody paid any attention to. But Jake was paying attention now, standing stock-still beside a big, posh car, because JoJo had told them something else as well, and that’s what Jake was trying to remember.
He slapped his head. –Think!
Then he remembered. Junkyards. That’s what JoJo had said.
–Junkyards is where you can be safe, he’d told them. All that metal. It messes with the hubbing, all that magnet stuff. You get inside one of them, they can’t track you.
–Cheers, JoJo, the boys had said. –No problem. And they’d laughed at him, because finding a junkyard was the least of it.
–Course, Jake said now. –The junkyard. And Jet wagged his tail like it was the best thing he’d heard in ages.
They were past the supermarket entrance, round by the vast blank walls to the back. This was where the lorries parked up to unload. They used to do stunts off the loading ramp, Jake and his mates. His mum had found out once and he’d got into trouble. Did he know how dangerous it was? But it was nothing to the danger he was in right now, and he’d have given anything to have his mum march down and shout at him and order him home.
But his mum was dead, and his dad was dead, and there was only him and Jet.
–Let’s stop here a minute. I gotta catch my breath, he said, and he made Jet sit beside him while he hunched in the shadows between two huge container lorries. ‘Eat English’, it read on their sides, and there was a picture of a family eating a roast dinner. Jake stroked Jet’s head. –Good boy, he said.
Then he heard it. The hub-van siren. It was playing ‘Our English Shores’, just one line of it, over and over: ‘Our English Shores stand clean and proud, Our English Shores stand clean and proud …’
–That horrible song. That’s what his mother had always called it. You had to learn it in Reception class, everybody did, and then you had to sing it every morning after Register, all the verses. In the Academy they’d stood at the end of their beds and sung it before breakfast every morning.