by Fiona Shaw
At the top, Jet ran at Jake, licking his face, his hands, and Jake thought that Jet must have known that he’d been in danger, climbing.
–Hey, boy, Jake said. –I’m fine.
Once everyone was up, together he and Poacher pulled the ladder back and refastened it.
–Good one, mate, was all Poacher said, and he followed Jake into the building.
Ten
Jake was standing at the kitchen window, staring at the trees, when they grabbed him. He didn’t see them coming, and they tied his wrists before he knew what was happening.
They tied the scarf tight around his eyes so he couldn’t see anything. Then they tied his wrists in front of him with a piece of twine, and his legs at the ankles. Someone pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees.
–Don’t speak, Martha said softly. –And don’t move.
And nobody spoke to him after that, though he could hear them whispering, and he heard their feet on the floor, and things being put down. There was the sound of a match being struck and the crack of twigs burning. A floorboard creaked, then there was silence for ages.
He tried to think. He’d got them in here, and he’d seen Swift’s face, and her nod. But she’d marched straight on and put Cass to bed on one of the mattresses. Nobody had smiled. Nobody had said anything, or clapped him on the back, or high-fived him. Ollie hadn’t even made a joke. It was strange.
He felt sick in the stomach. Maybe they didn’t need him any more, now they were in here, and their plan was to wait till it got dark, then dump him outside a hub station.
Something sharp was pressing into his knee, a piece of grit maybe, and he shuffled a bit to try and dislodge it. He could feel sweat running down his back. They were going to kick him out and hold on to Jet.
Where was Jet?
–Jet, he whispered, and he listened for the shifting of paws, or the thump of a tail, but there was nothing. Silence. No chance, he thought. No way you get him; and he clenched his fists and set his jaw.
–Jacob Riley, stand!
He didn’t recognize the voice, and he shook his head. He didn’t want to make their job easier for them.
–Stand! the voice said again.
Jake shook his head, pulled his arms tighter to his body, waited for them to get hold of him, drag him off.
There was silence again, then a sigh. –You have to stand up yerself. We can’t do it for yer.
He knew it this time. It was Poacher, but he didn’t sound angry. More just a bit impatient.
It wasn’t easy, with his hands and his feet tied. His first try, he fell on his face, got a mouthful of floor dust. When he was standing at last, he stood waiting, his heart pounding in his ears, heard the door creak, and then he heard Jet: his claws against the floorboards, his panting. What had they done to his dog? Hands were on him and fear was in his mouth. He had to swallow it down and he would have kicked out except that a small voice somewhere in his head said: don’t.
Hands loosened the twine round his ankles and wrists, and other hands tugged off the blindfold. They stood in a line before him, the whole gang except Cass. Their faces were solemn and in the firelight he could see dark lines painted on their cheeks and a single circle on their foreheads. Poacher, Swift, Martha, Ollie and Davie. Beside Davie sat Jet, his lead wrapped tight around Davie’s hand.
Poacher stepped forward, his hands in front of him barely an inch from his knife. He looked nervous, like he was about to do something terrible. Jake’s heart raced. He looked at Jet. If he was quick, they could make a run for it. He’d grab Jet’s lead and go for the gap between Martha and Ollie. Out the door, down the corridor. He was fast and Jet was faster: he could be down that fire escape before they’d decided what to do. He’d head for the bushes, and Jet would find the hole under the fence, or another one, then they’d go back to the river and on towards the sea …
–Jacob Riley, you have proved yerself today. And you’ve earned yer place as an Outwalker. We stand with you, and you stand with us.
Poacher’s words came to him through a mist.
–What? he said. –What did you say?
–He said you’ve got your place. That was Swift and her voice sounded funny. A bit broken up. –You’re not a bona fide any more. You’re one of us now.
They crowded round him, and Martha hugged him and Davie gave him back Jet’s lead.
–Respect to you, Davie said. –You done the stuff of which I spoke, and he put his hand out.
–But there’s still one last thing we have to do, Swift said, and she nodded at Poacher.
–When we found yer, Poacher said, we cut your hub chip from yer and so you didn’t belong nowhere. But today we’ll give you a new mark and you’ll belong with us.
Jake’s throat was tight and he blinked a few times to clear his eyes. –What mark? he said.
–Show him, Ollie, Poacher said, and Ollie knelt down in front of him and undid the top buttons on his shirt. Yanking it down at the back, he bowed his head, so that Jake could see the narrow scar on his neck where his hub chip had been cut out. But there, below the scar, was something else: a small, tattooed circle with a dark dot at the centre.
–That’s what, Poacher said. –Davie’s gonna do it. Got a good hand with the needle.
–I’ll do it designer quality, Davie said.
–The Outwalker mark, Ollie said. –Means you’re properly one of us now. Not a bona fide any more, but an Outwalker. Inside the gang, and outside everything else.
Eleven
Over the next few days, Cass slept and Swift sat beside her, and the rest of the gang took possession of the house. It became their place, and they could do ordinary things in there: the kind of things Jake used to do without even thinking. They took down the other mattresses hanging on the walls, and they slept whole nights through on proper beds, beneath the heavy hospital blankets. They washed clothes and had baths. Not real baths, but still a sink full of hot water each, and soap and some shampoo that Poacher found. Martha cut everybody’s hair. She even cut all of Ollie’s black curls off.
–Go easy, Jake said, as the first curls hit the floor.
–No, cut it close, Ollie said in a curt voice. Then Jake remembered Davie’s teasing a few days before. ‘Such a pretty boy’, he’d called Ollie.
Martha pointed at Jet with her scissors. –You can stop giving me advice and give that dog a bath, she said. –He stinks.
Jake hadn’t even noticed, but the water went brown with dirt, and gritty, and Jet’s fur went all fluffy after.
Martha collected plants and bits of bark and put them out to dry for medicines. Poacher put up rotas for foraging and they went out at dawn and at dusk with empty rucksacks and they brought back wood to cook with, and eggs and cheese and meat and proper vegetables – onions, potatoes, carrots – that Ollie cooked up into soup and stew.
–You cook like a dancer, Martha said, and Jake knew what she meant. Most of the time, Ollie’s hands and his feet seemed like they were too big for him. His elbows and his knees got in the way when he was climbing, and he ran all knock-kneed. But cooking: Jake could’ve watched him for hours because Martha was right. When he was cooking, Ollie moved like a dancer.
On their third day there, Martha pinned another piece of paper next to Poacher’s, and wrote at the top: Needs.
–Anything you need and you have to get in a shop, she said. –Write it down here.
–Like Wrigleys and chocolate, Jake said.
–No, not like Wrigleys or chocolate. Like safety pins, and blister plasters for the boy with the tender feet, Jake. You steal sweets, that’s how you’ll get caught, because they expect you to do exactly that. So don’t.
Jake didn’t know why she’d lectured him, till Poacher took him out foraging at dawn the next day.
–We gotta get you some spares, Poacher said. –Cos Martha’s gonna take you with her when she goes to town. Be in a few days’ time.
–What’s spares? Jake said.
–S
pare clothes. You ain’t got any, you got to nick ’em. Clothes lines is good now it’s nearly summer. Trousers, shirt, tie, sweater. Not a hoodie. You gotta be nicely dressed. You keep them folded in your rucksack and you only put ’em on before we go into a town.
–Shirt and tie? Jake said.
–Keeps yer neck hidden. Anyone sees a scar where yer hub chip should be, it’ll put the wind up. Martha’s tops to go stealing with cos they don’t notice her. She looks too nice.
–But why me? Jake said. He could feel his heart racing. He hadn’t been near people – ordinary people – since they cut his hub chip out. What if they guessed about him? –What if I’m no good at it?
–Like I said, Martha’s tops. You do what she says, you’ll be fine. But we gotta get you more clothes cos you don’t look good. Poacher tugged at Jake’s jacket, kicked a foot at his trousers. –You go in looking like that, they’ll call in the hubbers straight off, arrest you for vagrancy.
The Santa Cruz was still there in the porch, and the house was asleep just like the last time, curtains drawn. Jake and Poacher made their way round the side, past the climbing frame, past the swing, their shoes leaving trails in the dew.
–Bingo, Poacher said, and through a window Jake saw a pile of clothes stacked neatly on the ironing board. –All ready for yer.
Jake checked the back door. –Locked, he said.
Crouching down, Poacher peered through the keyhole. –Easy. He took a piece of wire from a pocket and poked it through the lock till Jake heard the key drop out. Poacher pushed his hand through the cat flap. –There you go. He gave Jake the key.
Inside, Jake found a pair of black trousers, a white shirt and a blue V-neck sweater, all about his size, in the pile. They looked like school clothes. Poacher locked the door again from the outside and slipped the key back through the cat flap.
–They’ll think it just fell out the lock, he said.
Jake glanced up at the curtained windows. A boy slept inside one of those rooms. Could be me, he thought. Could be me with the garden and the swing, and a pad with all the games on it, and a mobile, and the Santa Cruz; and him out here, dead parents, scrounging other people’s clothes, on the run. There was the skateboard, leaned up against the porch, like it was the simplest thing in the world to own it. He took a few steps towards it.
–Don’t. Poacher’s voice was a whisper.
Jake paused, looked back.
Poacher shook his head. –Security powder, he said. –You get that stuff on yer, it won’t come off. Not worth the risk.
Jake took a last look at the house as they walked away. In an upstairs window, somewhere behind the curtains, the other boy slept on.
Davie had set up a mending shop at the kitchen table, darning and patching and sewing. Soon as clothes were washed and dried, Davie did repairs. He sat near the window for the good light and shouted if you blocked it, even for a second.
Davie did the tiniest stitches Jake had ever seen, his hands so steady and so still; and the whole time he was sewing, Jake didn’t see him flick at his forehead or swipe his hand across his face. He just looked calm. Really calm. First time, Jake thought. He watched Davie sewing. Noticed his fingers.
–How’d you keep your fingernails so clean? he said.
–See here? Davie said, ignoring the question. He was holding out an old T-shirt. It was a pink, threadbare thing with a faded picture of a kitten, and it had been sewn up before. –It’s Poacher’s. Check out the name.
Sewn into the neck was a name label, the kind you have to put into school clothes. It said: Lily Brown.
–Poacher’s? Jake said. He didn’t understand.
–Was his sister’s, Davie said. –Lily, she was.
Jake stared at the T-shirt. It made him sad. Poacher’s dead sister and just this scrap of a T-shirt left to Poacher. All of them, carrying their scraps.
Davie let down the hems on Jake’s spare trousers, and sewed up a tear in the back of his jacket, where he’d caught it on barbed wire. He made a tie for Jake to wear with his spares.
–Poacher’s orders, he said. You got to look like a good boy, Jakie.
Davie wrote down ‘Strong White Thread’ on Martha’s Needs list. And he wrote ‘New Needles’ and ‘Green Darning Wool’.
–Why green? Martha said. And Davie pointed at Jake.
–Cardigan in his rucksack. Got a hole in the elbow. Noticed it when we went through it, after we rescued him.
Davie had been nice since Jake got his tattoo, but he was like a firework. You didn’t know when he’d be pretty, or when he’d go off in your face.
–I can darn it for you, we get the right wool. You won’t know there was a hole, Davie said.
It was an apology, close as Davie would get, Jake knew that. But he shook his head. His mum used to wear the cardigan for gardening. He didn’t want the hole mended.
–Leave it alone, he said. –And don’t go looking through my stuff again.
Ollie made a draughts board from a piece of cardboard and taught Jake how to play. Ollie’s fingers, long and spindly, moving around the counters, looked like spiders. At night they pulled the blackout blinds and everyone except Cass played card games in the candlelight at the table: Cheat and Happy Families. It was nearly three weeks since Jake had escaped from the Home Academy, but it felt like longer. This gang had become his family.
One night, Swift brought Cass to the table, and the little girl sat on Swift’s lap, every so often licking her lips; she watched them play, but mostly she watched Jet. When he was close enough, she stroked him like she’d done with Jake. Even in the candlelight, Jake could see she looked better, the shadows under her eyes nearly gone, her lips less chapped, and when Swift won the most families, Cass clapped her hands together.
In the mornings, Jake took Jet outside and threw sticks for him. It was the first time they’d done this since before his mum and dad had died. They went out very early before the moon had gone from the sky. The dew was still like diamonds on the wild grass, and Jet ran trails through it.
–Wild dog, Jake would say to Jet with the stick in his hand, and his arm lifted, ready to throw. –Crazy dog. And Jet would turn and turn about his own tail, ears sharp, muzzle high, doing his dog dance.
Jet would have run all day, if Jake had let him.
On the fifth morning, Jet ran for the stick, and picked it out of the grass, and tossed it about like a live thing; and then something made him pause and drop the stick and lift his head, and stare at a patch of nettles.
Jake thought at first it was another dog.
It was a fox. A young dog-fox. Whip-thin, slender as an eel, its brush tipped with white.
Jet stood stock-still, ears up, tail back. Closer the fox came, only a few feet away now, its thick brush low, its dark ears flicking at every crackle of the grass, every wind shift. It lay down, paws in front, and suddenly Jake understood.
–You want to play!
Still Jet paused, and then he bounded at the fox, and the fox switch-backed away, sharp as lightning, and Jake watched them chase and zigzag through the grass.
A sound behind him – Poacher’s soft step on to the fire escape – and the fox was gone.
–Could a’ bitten him, Poacher said. –You should a’ called yer dog away.
–They were playing, Jake said. –Just playing.
–An’ the virus? Kind a’ game would that be, ay?
And before Jake could reply, that the virus wasn’t real, Poacher had gone back inside.
On their sixth day in the house, Ollie took Jake hunting for herbs. They found thyme – Ollie made him taste it – and wild rosemary growing near the house. The sun was high, and they took off their shirts and sat with their backs to the warm bricks.
–Shut your eyes, it could be Nice, Ollie said. –Could be Positano.
–Where?
–Somewhere hot and chic and foreign. About as far from here as I can imagine.
With the sun on his face, Jake shut his eyes. The air
smelled sweet.
–So how come you know how to cook things?
–Best way to make sure you get enough to eat, Ollie said. –I’m always hungry. Low blood sugar: that’s what my dad says.
–Low what?
–If I get too hungry, I get really faint. Literally, I can’t walk. And I get very bad-tempered. So if I do the cooking, I can slip myself a bit of raw egg, or some cheese, or—
–So it’s just a way to get more to eat than everyone else? Jake said.
–Well, no. Actually the blood sugar thing is true, but I know how to cook because of my father.
–Your father? He taught you? Jake opened his eyes. His dad couldn’t cook for smoke.
–He’s the best cook in the world. Better than any of the TV guys. Italian food’s the best food in the whole world.
–Your dad’s alive?
–Porca vacca, you’re like the Inquisition. All these questions, Ollie said.
–Porca what? Jake said.
Ollie ran his fingers through his cropped hair, gave a shrug. –It’s Italian, he said.
–So, is he? Your dad? Jake watched a beetle clamber over the ground between them. A hard shell: that’s what they all needed.
–Yep. He is, Ollie said.
–What about your mum?
Ollie picked up a stone and flung it. He threw like a girl, with his elbow and his wrist, and the stone didn’t go very far.
–You do it like this; it’ll go further, Jake said, and he showed him.
–Thank you for the demo, Mr Man, Ollie said, and he picked up another stone. The beetle had climbed halfway over a stick when Ollie lifted the stone over it, held it like a weapon. Jake thought he was going to bring it down, crush it. But the beetle crawled on into the shadows. Ollie dropped the stone. –I’ve got my mum’s eyes. That’s what my dad always says. Her blue eyes and his black curly hair. Ollie’s mouth was set in a line and his eyes had gone hooded. –I wish my mum was dead, he said. That would be better. You go in and her room smells like pee. They keep her clean and they change her, but it still smells. It’s near where we live – lived, I mean – but that makes it worse. And she doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know anyone.