Outwalkers

by Fiona Shaw

  –Sausages, he said. –It’s bloody sausages. He would kill for sausages. Seriously. And like he understood, Jet sniffed the air and thumped his tail.

  Jake listened hard. Everything was dead quiet. Not even the rain falling on the car roof. Nobody was hunting for him, he was sure, so he’d risk it and try to steal some sausages. After all, if he didn’t find some food soon, he and Jet might as well give up now. He rubbed his neck. –Reckon their hubbing’s not as clever as they say. Jo-Jo was right. And Dad.

  He would leave Jet safe in the Picasso. Get to the shed. Steal some sausages somehow. Get back to the Picasso. Eat. Hole up till morning.

  –Dunno how we’ll ever get to Scotland, Jetboy. But we got to try. I promised them I’d try.

  Although it was dark now, the sky had cleared and the moon threw a bit of light, enough that Jake could scramble his way towards the hut. He watched it for a bit, but the dusty little window was lit up bright and there wasn’t anyone at home.

  He wasn’t in there for more than a minute. He took some sausages out of the pan, golden-brown, warm. Spread the rest around the pan a bit; took a handful of bread slices; some tins of spam and beans from a cupboard. Stuffed them all into his jacket pockets. Water was the last thing: an empty milk carton under the tap, top screwed on, and then he was gone, just pausing at the door to be sure no one was looking his way.

  He divided the sausages and the bread equally between him and Jet, and both ate in ravenous gulps. He opened Jet a can of the dog food, and it went down the same way.

  –Didn’t touch the sides, he said. –You are one gurt lush dog.

  Then a tin of beans, scooping them out with his fingers, one scoop for Jet, one for himself. And when the tin was empty, he filled it with water and held it for Jet to drink from, then stashed it in his rucksack afterwards.

  The yard was quiet again, and with the moon behind a cloud it was dark as pitch.

  Jake scratched Jet’s head between his ears, the place he liked it, until Jet had had enough and shook Jake’s hand away.

  –Looks like we got away with it. Glad I got you, boy.

  He leaned against his dog, breathed in the smell of his fur. It was the smell of home now. The only smell of home he had.

  Sharp lights jolted him awake. He didn’t know he’d even shut his eyes, but he must have slept again. The lights strobed across the Picasso and he ducked down further. They swung away and he glimpsed men with torches. Their voices were echoing and angry. Jet growled, a long, low sound, and Jake put a hand to his muzzle: a caution. The men hadn’t seen them yet, but they’d find them soon enough if they didn’t move. No time to think. He pulled on the rucksack, wrapped Jet’s lead round his good hand, and slipped out of the Picasso’s window. The voices and torch beams moved deeper into the yard, and Jake turned back towards the gates.

  Crouching behind a stack of cars, he peered towards the shed. The shadow of a single man moved about: left to guard things, Jake supposed.

  We stay, the junk men get us; we leave, it’s the hubbers, he thought. Same difference in the end. He saw himself a hero for the day, the other boys crowded around, and then the years ahead in the Home Academy, his escape only a memory. And he saw Jet locked back in that shed, hungry, and mangy and unloved.

  He stroked his dog. Felt how thin he was. Somewhere far back in the mountains of scrap metal, he heard the men’s laughter. Then he made a decision. Got up and clipped the lead to Jet’s collar and took Jet over to the shed. From inside there was the sound of the radio, a song playing, and a man’s rough voice joining in. Then Jake slipped the loop in the lead around the shed door handle.

  –Sit, Jet, he said. –Stay.

  And before he could change his mind, he walked away, towards the gates. The hubbers were bound to catch him in the end, but they didn’t have to catch Jet. Jake would end up back in the Home Academy, but maybe the junkyard men would keep Jet. Maybe they’d have him as a mascot. Maybe Jet wouldn’t have to go back into that shed.

  He didn’t slow down and he didn’t look back. It was the only way he could do it.

  There was a button on top of a post off to one side to open the gates. He’d seen a man press it; it should be easy to find. If he was lucky, the gates would close behind him before the men returned and they wouldn’t know he’d left the yard and he’d get a few more hours of freedom before he was caught. Each extra hour meant more solitary when he got back, but it would be worth it.

  Behind him, the sounds of the search party grew louder. They were coming back. Shadows loomed in the grey dark and more than once he stumbled. The post must be close by, but he was panicking now. With his back to the gates, he stood still in the dark, his heart thumping.

  Think! It was his dad’s voice. They were at the climbing wall, and Jake was halfway up with no fingerholds above him, nowhere to go. You’re not stuck, you’ve just stopped thinking, his dad said. Now calm down, and think.

  The men sounded very close. He could make out different voices. He had to get out. Then he remembered the keys. He still had the Hadleys’ keys. Fishing inside his rucksack for them, he felt the little penlight.

  –Please work, he whispered, and he flicked it on. A thin bead of light lit the ground, and seconds later he’d found the pole with its button on top and pressed the button down. Slowly the gates swung open and as soon as there was a boy-sized gap, he slipped out. It didn’t much matter where he went because the hubbers would catch up with him in a few hours’ time. And anyway, he didn’t much care about getting caught, now he’d lost Jet.

  Shouldering his rucksack, he set off walking down the road. A half minute later he heard a thud that must be the gates closing and waited for any sounds from the yard. He stopped to listen, but everything was quiet from the scrapyard men. No shouts, even, at finding a dog outside their door.

  The rucksack was heavy on his shoulders; it would be lighter without the tins of dog food. So, heavy-hearted, he started to unpack it. He was reaching inside when he felt something rub against his leg. Startled, he swung the rucksack and the something yelped.

  –Jet? he said, and there Jet was again, tail beating from side to side, lead trailing between his paws.

  –How’d you do that? he said, and he hugged his dog fiercely. He feared the hubbers for his dog even more than for himself. But with his dog beside him, he didn’t feel lonely. Maybe they’d catch him, maybe it would be soon. But with Jet there, he felt he could face anything.

  –You and me, Jet, he said. –You and me, always.

  They walked through the dead time of the night and the roads were empty. The rain had cleared and the stars were out; there was moon enough to see by. At first Jake strode, to get some distance from the junkyard. But nobody was coming after them, so he slowed his pace. He was too tired to move fast for very long. The cut on his hand was throbbing, but he was glad of it because it helped keep him awake.

  They walked alongside the dual carriageway with its dead cat’s-eyes, away from the town, keeping to the ditch, or walking slantwise along the embankment above, keeping out of reach of the car headlights. They needed a place to sleep, but it was too cold and too damp just to sleep outside. The warehouses and barbed wire had given way to scratty fields high in grass, or weeds, and every time a car approached, headlights sweeping the way ahead, before he ducked down, Jake hoped to see some shelter lit up: a shed, or a barn. But all he saw were sleeping sheep.

  After a time there was a sign: Services 1 mile. And below, the images of a cup, and a knife and fork, and a WC sign and a table with a tree. Surely they’d find somewhere to sleep there. He could slip inside and go to the toilets and wash his face in hot water. That would feel good.

  Twenty minutes later, the Services were just ahead. Lit up like a bloody Christmas tree, that’s what his dad would have said. Jake reckoned the picnic area would be their best bet. He could see a shelter, a building of some sort.

  They walked up the slip road towards a big roundabout. No avoiding the lights now. Jet�
�s black fur shone orange under the glow. There were no cars, so they walked straight across.

  At the edge of the car park, he stopped and looked around. The Services seemed deserted. Just a few lorries off to the side, and half a dozen cars dotted about. The cooked air smelled of chip fat and fried meat. The picnic hut was on the far side. They could sleep there.

  –Let’s go, he said, and that’s when they came. Racing across the tarmac, come from nowhere, three hub vans, sirens blaring. Lights hit the car park, seeking lights, brighter and brighter and above his head the roar and whirr of a helicopter. Jake stood paralysed. A voice blasted through the air:

  JACOB RILEY. GIVE YOURSELF UP. THINK OF YOUR TARIFF. JACOB RILEY …

  He ran. It was pointless – he couldn’t escape – but still he ran, tearing under the trees, Jet tugging him on. He passed the picnic hut, picnic tables. But the hub vans had screeched up, and the men were closing in and the helicopter had him in its sights, the white lights strobing through the trees. Brambles lashed at his legs and his lungs were burning. Beside him, Jet strained forward on the lead.

  –Jacob Riley, stop where you are. Stop, or we shoot the dog.

  The voices sounded angry. Jake gripped Jet’s lead and ran on. The helicopter lights took away every shadow, every hiding place. The trees ended just ahead, and beyond them he could see what must be a building site. Concrete half-walls, piles of rubble, metal bars, strutwork, great lengths of shiny tubing. The air burned in his chest. The hub men called to each other, and he thought he could nearly feel their breath at his neck. He ducked behind some rubble. A quick glance behind him. The men couldn’t see him. Then he dived into the mess of concrete and steel, pulling Jet with him; nowhere left to run.

  The blow was to the back of his head, so he didn’t see it coming. A hard pain, and hands tugging at him, pulling him under. Then everything slipped away – Jet beside him, the men behind, the concrete, the hard light – and he was gone.

  Six

  The ground was hard and cold. He was lying face down, and his head was cushioned on something soft: a pillow maybe, except it smelled of the outdoors. Outdoors and something human, like sweat. He didn’t open his eyes, but he could tell it was dark. There were small sounds, he thought maybe people moving about, and voices somewhere a little way off. But no sirens, no helicopters.

  The back of his head throbbed. He remembered lights and loud noises, and something hitting him. He went to turn over.

  –No you don’t, a voice said, and hands pinned him in place.

  –Let me go, he said, his voice muffled by the pillow, and he struggled to get up. But nobody answered him, and the hands kept their hold.

  But he was wide awake now and thinking hard. They’d be taking him back to the Home Academy. He’d be punished – a year, more maybe, on his tariff. ‘Not punishment, Jacob; further education.’ He could hear the Headteacher’s voice. Soon he’d be back in the dormitory, back in that bed and the trunk at the end of it, and all the others would ask him how he’d done it, and how far away he’d got, and how’d they catch him. He’d be the big fella for a day, two days, and then it would be over, and he’d still have no mum and no dad, and there’d be nowhere left to go now.

  Then he thought of the worst thing.

  –Jet, he said, and he couldn’t bear it, because they would put Jet back in that shed and they’d starve him again, and he’d die in there on his own.

  He didn’t mean to say Jet’s name out loud, but he must have, because someone answered him this time.

  –He’s here. We’ll give him back to yer, after.

  And before he could ask who they were – because the voice was a kid’s voice, which didn’t make sense and so he wondered; was he dreaming still? Because they’d hit him on the head, after all – before he could ask, somebody thrust something under his shoulders so they half lifted him off the ground.

  –Hold him tight, a voice said, which sounded like a girl’s, and all the hands gripped him harder. Then he felt something cold on the back of his neck; and then pain: the sharp, cutting pain of a knife blade. He cried out; he struggled; but he couldn’t move.

  –He’s gonna be sick, someone said, and someone else held a cloth to his mouth.

  –Pain in the neck, another voice said, and there was laughing.

  –Let me go! he yelled.

  –Strong now, boy, someone said and the blade cut him again, and there were fingers digging into his flesh, he could feel them pulling. Bile rose, and the taste of sausages, but he wasn’t sick.

  –Got it. It was the girl’s voice again. –Keep the light still, she said, and now he could feel something pressing, and it still hurt a lot, still stung, but not like before. Not so as he wanted to kill someone with the feel of it.

  –We can stop holding you down, but you’ve not to move, else you’ll open it up. The girl sounded calm, like she was used to giving orders.

  –What’ve you done to me? he said, but his mouth was so dry the words blurred together.

  –It’s glued, but you’ve got to lie still till I say so. D’you understand?

  Jake lifted a hand to show he did, then he lay still, and then he must’ve slept.

  Someone was giggling. There were fingers on his clothes, plucking. Fingers in his pockets. Someone was whispering. He flailed out, shouted, and they went away for a little. Something burned. Not a fire, but there was heat and he longed for cold water. For a river, or the sea.

  It was quiet when he next woke. They’d turned him over and he lay on his back now. Pain beat through his neck and he didn’t try to move. He just opened his eyes. It was nearly dark, but after a minute he could see that he was in a tunnel. The sides were made of stone with green stuff growing on it, and over his head the roof curved in sooty bricks. He could see light pooling at one end. A rough blanket covered him, scratchy against his hands, but he was cold, and despite the pain, he was hungry and thirsty.

  –Hey, he said. –Any water?

  No one answered him, but something scurried away, and soon after he heard voices.

  They sat on either side of him, a girl and a boy. They weren’t grown-ups, least he didn’t think so, but not kids either. The boy held a torch that swung their shadows up and down the tunnel walls. The girl had a cup of water.

  –Drink, she said, and she held it to Jake’s lips. He knew her voice. She was the one who had ordered him held down. The cup was tin and the water tasted funny. Most of it slid down his chin, but he swallowed a few mouthfuls. –You can have some more in a minute, she said.

  –Where am I? What’ve you done to me? Jake said.

  The boy started to say something, but the girl interrupted him. Her voice was soft and harsh at the same time.

  –We’re asking first. You give us some answers, then you can have your questions.

  They asked him for his name, and where he’d come from, and why he was on the road. They asked him if he’d got parents and he shook his head.

  –They dead, then? the girl said, and he nodded. –Long time ago?

  –September.

  –Illness or accident?

  –Accident. Both of them. A car accident on the way home from work.

  –What about the dog?

  Jake’s heart jumped. They couldn’t have hurt Jet. They couldn’t have. –He’s called Jet. He’s mine since he was a puppy. I rescued him yesterday. They had him locked in the shed.

  –He’s a problem, the girl said. –We’ve got to find him food too now, and he could give us away, barking.

  Relief flooded through Jake. –I’ve got tins of dog food in my rucksack. And after that I can find him food. And he’s quiet when I tell him, always. Jake’s voice was husky and his throat felt raw. –Anyway, I’m not asking you to do anything for him, or me.

  –He can stay fer now, the boy said, and he turned and shouted something down the tunnel. They must have had Jet waiting outside, because almost immediately Jake could hear him, his claws scuffling at the tunnel floor, giving little
yips of excitement.

  –Whoa, easy, a voice said. A younger boy’s voice, younger than the others. Then Jet was there, nuzzling Jake’s cheek with his nose.

  He stroked Jet’s head, scratched his ears. –Lie down, Jake said. Because partly he wanted to show them how obedient Jet was, and partly he needed Jet to be still, on account of his neck hurting so much.

  –Nice dog, the younger boy said, leaning in close. He kept flicking his hand across his face, like he was on his way to hitting himself, but the others didn’t seem to notice. –We going to keep it? We going to eat it?

  –Zip it, Davie. You’ll freak him out. Shove off, the girl said, and the boy flicked his hand across his face a last time, gave Jet a last stroke, and disappeared.

  Lying on his back, unable to turn his head, and with only the boy’s torchlight, Jake couldn’t see very much of his captors, and what he could see he didn’t understand. They were wearing weird clothes, and parkas, and the girl wore a green beanie, pulled right down near to her eyes. The girl was pale like a ghost, her skin nearly white. And as pale as she was, the boy was dark, black skin and black hair. His hair was all matted up and in braids.

  –Where’s the grown-ups? Jake said. –Who are you?

  It was the boy who answered. –I’m Poacher and she’s Swift. Because she’s swift. And there ain’t no grown-ups here. Not like you mean, anyway.

  –Why not? Jake said. –Why aren’t there any grown-ups? What’ve you done to me?

  The boy – Poacher – leaned in towards Jake. He had some stubble on his face and his hair smelled – not nasty, just smelly. –Slow down with the questions, will yer? Only yer not giving us time to answer you. They had yer in their sights. Hub vans, helicopter, the business. Put the wind up them, yer must’ve. We rescued yer, two of us did. Got yer out through them tubes. Too big for grown-ups. Yer’d be back in your Home Academy by now if we an’t.

  –But how’d you know I was there?