Outwalkers

by Fiona Shaw

–Two days.

  –Two days! In those woods, I’m guessing.

  Jake nodded.

  –You must be getting desperate. And if I don’t take you … But you understand, don’t you? I’ve never taken more than two at a time. The more of you in there, the bigger the risk. He put a finger up to touch the photo of the small girl. –A single one of you gets noticed, it’s the end of everything.

  –I understand, Jake said.

  –I’ve been doing this three years. Been lucky so far. Carried forty-seven people and not even my wife knows about it. Lucky and very careful. Coalition party member, signed up. Volunteer hubber. Look like one of the faithful, I do.

  Jake knew the driver would have to make his own mind up. Knew there was no point trying to persuade him. No point telling him that the Home Academy was a cold prison that broke children into pieces, and Jet was all he had in the world. No point telling him that if hubbers got Cass and Swift, they’d be separated and he knew Cass would die.

  He looked at the photos above the windscreen. One showed a woman at a table smiling, and the other was two girls in school uniform. They looked a bit younger than Jake, and they looked the same as each other. They had the woman’s smile.

  Jake waited. The driver was just staring at his steering wheel. His hands on his lap looked like two pieces of meat. Jake stroked Jet’s head, felt the soft velvet of his ears. The driver had dropped his paper on the seat between them, and Jake read the headlines:

  Europe threatens sanctions over zero

  tolerance immigrant policy

  Virus kills fifty-two at religious rave

  He squinched up his eyes to read the date: 23 May. Just over three weeks, that was all, since he’d escaped from the Home Academy. It was hard to believe. The Academy felt like it was years away.

  The driver reached into his pocket, took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Jake squeezed his eyes tight shut. His cheeks went hot. It was no good. He wasn’t going to give Europe threatens sanctions over zero tolerance immigrant policy Virus kills fifty-two at religious rave them the ride. There were too many of them. The driver had too much to lose.

  He put his hand on the door. –You can let me out. Thanks, anyway.

  The driver looked round. His mouth was a thin line in his face, like he was pinching his lips together. –I’ll take you, he said. –So listen up.

  It would be about six hours, all told. He had to do two drops on the way, so they’d have to be bloody sure to hide before he opened the back. Muzzle the dog. Not a bloody sound.

  –Should be into London by eight. Rush hour’s over by then, shops shut.

  –London? Jake said.

  –Yeah, London. Where you hoping to get to?

  –Poacher said Birmingham next, cos it’s heading north, and he knows a place we can go there.

  –It’s London with me, or you lot got to find yourselves another lorry.

  They waited just inside the edge of the wood, rucksacks on, ready. Swift had Cass in her arms and Jake kept Jet close against his legs. Nobody spoke. When Jake told Swift and Poacher where the lorry was going, he saw a look go between them.

  –London, London! Davie chanted. –Catch us while they can!

  –Might see the King! Ollie said. –Might see Big Ben!

  But Poacher shook his head. –London’s the wrong way. We need the north. We got ter go north.

  –We can’t stay here any longer, you know that, Swift said. –You said it yourself. We can’t be picky now. Been lucky so far. With the weather, with the cameras. That cleaner giving me the eye. She’ll have said something, I know she will.

  –We got ter be patient. We got ter wait an’ the right lorry’ll come …

  –No, Poacher. We’re out of time. Doesn’t matter how right the lorry is, if we’ve been caught. Locked up again. I’m not sitting here to get captured by the hubbers. We haven’t got a lift to Birmingham, and we have got one to London.

  –But … London. I bin plenty o’ other places, but I ain’t never bin to London, Swiftie. Got no knowledge there. An’ it’s too dangerous. I heard stories. Plenty of ’em. London’s a terrible place.

  –Going to be terrible here too, any minute now, when we hear those hubbers’ sirens. It’s better to be moving. We’ll find our way north somehow.

  Jake watched the lorry turn. It looked vast, like a house turning. Surely someone, another lorry driver, would wonder what it was doing? Wonder why it was reversing towards the woods? Red light lit the trees and the reverse noise made the birds rise into the air. The lorry stopped, its rear wheels touching the kerb, and the parking lights came on. The engine was still running and the driver was unfastening the rear doors. Then they were climbing the fence, moving fast in a single line. Across the strip of grass to the lorry, and the driver was helping them up, because there was no time to lower the tail lift.

  –Up on top, and get to the front, the driver said.

  Martha first, then Swift and Cass, each disappearing into the lorry’s darkness. Two minutes and the lorry would be moving.

  Jake climbed the fence. He dropped Jet’s lead so the dog could shimmy under, and Jet gave this sharp yip Jake hadn’t heard for ages, and he was running across the tarmac, tail high, lead trailing behind him like a whippy snake.

  –Jet! Jake shouted. But Jet didn’t stop, and on the far side Jake saw another dog, and he saw at a glance she was a female and in heat. No way Jet would listen if he just called. Still got his male pride, his dad used to say. Good lad. And his mum would roll her eyes.

  Jake looked round at Poacher. He was standing there with the driver. –That dog gets back here now or you’re gone without him, said Poacher.

  Jet was sniffing out the other dog. He was doing that prance he always did with females on heat, his tail right up, excited.

  –Come, Jet, Jake called, but he knew Jet wouldn’t. He stepped away from the lorry.

  –Get in, Poacher said. –Last chance.

  But Jake couldn’t leave without Jet.

  –Let him fetch the dog. It was the driver’s voice, and Jake heard Poacher start to say something, but the driver cut him off. –He fetches the dog, or there’s no lift, not for any of you.

  So Jake ran, paying no heed to who might see him, grabbed Jet’s lead, pulled him away.

  The driver didn’t say anything, only gave him a short nod, and soon as Jake was in and Jet beside him, he slammed the doors shut, and a minute later the lorry jolted into gear, throwing Jake to the floor, and he lay there, out of breath, the lorry roar travelling through him.

  After a while, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. He was lying between two stacks of pallets that reached all the way to the roof. He looked up. The rest of the gang had disappeared, but they must be up the top there. Grabbing hold of a pallet corner, he was halfway to his feet when the lorry lurched, and he slammed into Jet and the two of them were tumbled on to the floor again. With his back against a pallet, Jake jammed his feet against the edge and braced himself. Beside him, Jet curled up, head pressed against Jake’s leg. Jake stroked Jet’s head, his soft fur a comfort in the cold, hard dark.

  It was hard to guess the amount of time, but after maybe an hour Jake could feel the lorry slow down. He got to his feet, feeling along the pallets for a gap to slip through, or a handhold to climb with. The lorry came to a stop; outside he could hear gruff male voices. Someone slammed a hand on the side of the lorry, and it echoed inside.

  –Help! he whispered. They were shooting the bolts on the doors now. –Help! he hissed again.

  –Grab it! Poacher’s voice said from above, and Jake saw two hands held down for him. He grabbed at them and felt himself pulled upwards.

  –Come on, Jet, he urged, and he heard Jet scramble up beside him.

  The rear doors opened and the driver’s voice was shouting instructions to someone. Light flooded in and Jake flinched. He knew they were invisible as long as they kept low, but what if one of the men down there climbed up a little way? What if one of them
sneezed?

  An engine sound started up.

  –Forklift, Poacher whispered. It came closer and Jake heard Cass’s whimper and Swift’s sshh. The gang lay there, scarcely breathing, as the forklift reached below the first line of pallets, lifted them up and away. Then the doors slammed them into the dark again.

  –They could leave us a little light on, surely, Ollie said, which set Jake giggling, and then Davie, and Martha. So it was a good thing the lorry moved off a minute later, because if one of the men had opened up the back again, they’d have found a pile of kids there sweating in the dark and laughing their socks off.

  An hour later there was a second stop, and another line of pallets went. But it was ages till the lorry moved, and soon after it stopped for a third time and the driver opened the back doors a little way. There was the rustle of carrier bags, then the sound of the driver clambering in.

  –Water, and bread, jam, bananas, cheese, peanuts, Haribo, dog food, he said. –Making good time so we’ll stop for twenty and you can eat sitting up.

  They climbed down from the top of the pallets and sat on the lorry floor to eat in the half-dark.

  –Be long till we’re there? Swift said.

  –Depends on the traffic. Should still be there by eight. Any of you been to London before?

  –No, Poacher said. He sounded angry, Jake thought.

  –Big place, the driver said. –Very big.

  –Bigger the better, Swift said.

  –So d’you know where you’re going, when I let you out? Last drop’s to John Lewis on Oxford Street.

  –Who’s John Lewis? Poacher said.

  –It’s a shop, not a person, Ollie said. –A big one.

  The driver nodded. –Department store. Got everything you could ever want in there, if you got the money.

  –So we’ll get out there then, Swift said, and she bent down to Cass, gave her another bit of banana.

  The driver shook his head. –Shop’ll be shut by the time we get into London, end of the day, but you can’t stay in there. They’ll have scan hubs all through the place.

  Davie began to say something, but Martha kicked him.

  –Wouldn’t wanna stay anyway, Poacher said. –Stay out, stay safe. That’s what we do.

  –So where do other people go from John Lewis? Swift said. –The ones you’ve given rides to?

  –One of the parks. Regents Park, Hyde Park. Or the Tube, I reckon. Bond Street, Oxford Circus, same difference. Doesn’t pay to know too much, but I heard there’s people like you in the Tube. Not on the platforms – only ever see mice on the platforms – but in the tunnels down there.

  –Thanks, Martha said. –For everything; and the driver nodded back to her, and to Poacher and Swift.

  –My sister, the driver said. –It’s why I started with the rides—

  But Poacher interrupted him. –Doesn’t pay ter know too much, he said. –Fer us too. He put his hands together and bowed his head, which was his way of saying thanks.

  The driver got it and did the hands thing back with his big sausage fingers. –Let’s get on then, he said.

  Sixteen

  –Now! the driver whispered. –Two minutes, then the forklifts’ll be over. Good luck.

  –Go well, Swift said, and she slipped down out of the lorry, and the others followed. Jake was second out, with Jet on a tight lead beside him.

  After the dark of the lorry and the hours lying flat, the lights dazzled and Jake’s legs felt like jelly. He didn’t know where they were, but it wasn’t the time to stop and look. He just ran till he reached the wall. White breeze block. Rough. Cold.

  –Where are we? Martha said.

  –Delivery bay, Poacher said. –Didn’t yer feel the ramp going down? We’re underneath the shop.

  –We’re going out of the emergency exit, Swift said. –The driver said there’s some gardens just behind the shop. We go through there first, then the Tube.

  They ran up stairs, along a corridor, through double doors heading for the outside. There ahead of them was the emergency exit and Swift had her hand on it, ready to push. Through the glass, lit up by the street lights, Jake could see a line of buildings at a distance, and some railings which must be the park. He glimpsed a few people walking past. Nearly evening, and they’d be going home, he thought. Lucky things.

  This was it. This was London. He was scared, but excited too. He’d never been here before, but he’d seen enough of it on screens, and heard about it from Liam, when he came back from visiting his grandparents: Houses of Parliament, Coalition HQ, Buckingham Palace. Wembley. And people. Masses of people, everywhere.

  –Down! Everyone! Swift’s voice broke into his thoughts and he ducked, tumbling backwards into Ollie, yanking Jet’s lead so hard that he yelped. –Hub police, Swift whispered. –Don’t think they’ve seen us. Not a sound. And she pointed a finger at Davie.

  The floor was gritty and smelled of cigarettes. The gang waited. Davie drummed silently on to the dirty floor, his fingers a blur, and he didn’t speak.

  Slowly Swift raised her head to the glass in the door, and slowly she lowered it again and shook her head. –Can’t go out this way.

  –So what now? Martha whispered. –We can’t go back down to the delivery bay.

  –Into the shop, Poacher said. –No choice.

  Jake had never seen a place like it, not even in his dreams. It didn’t look like a shop, least not one he’d ever been in. They were in a vast, half-lit hall full of shiny fridges and cookers, pots and pans and kettles and coffee makers. There were shelves piled high with plates and tea towels and mixing bowls, and every other thing you could imagine in a kitchen. Jake had never seen so many cheese graters and whisks and vegetable peelers, and funny gadgets.

  –Amazing, Ollie said. –I could spend days in here.

  –Sad, more like, Jake said. –Makes me hungry. All this stuff, but no food.

  –Head fer the main stairs, Poacher said. –Find another emergency exit, head fer a park. And he was off again and the gang following.

  –A park, Jake whispered to Jet. –Then you can run; and he felt Jet’s tail brush against his leg. He understood.

  They moved quietly, the carpet muffling their footsteps, Swift at the front, then Cass, Poacher at the back. They passed a dozen tables, each one laid for a party with different coloured candles and napkins and plates and bright cutlery. In the middle of one table stood a silver tree, little unlit candles in glass holders hanging from its branches. Jake saw Cass stop and turn her head at it, her mouth open in wonder.

  –Look, Cass!

  Davie took a box of matches from his rucksack and lit the candles on the tree. The tree seemed to sparkle and glisten in their flames, and Cass clapped her hands. Davie sat down on a chair. It was like a throne, high-backed and painted gold. He picked up a knife and fork, and pretended to eat, the ‘chink, chink’ of the fork against the plate. Jake heard Cass chuckle, and saw Poacher turn, all in a moment. Then Poacher was yanking Davie from the chair, nearly lifting him off the ground by the collar of his donkey jacket.

  –What’re you doing? Trying to get us caught? He blew at the candles, snuffing out their flames.

  –Easy, Poacher. Martha’s voice was calm, but her grey eyes were wide. –He’s only a boy.

  –There’s smoke alarms, fire alarms, prob’ly sound alarms too, Poacher said, but he let go and Davie fell to the floor.

  Davie was twitching now, his arm coming up again and again, swiping a hand across his face, still grinning, but frightened too, Jake reckoned.

  –Wanna stay in the gang, you shut it, Poacher finished. Then he slung his rucksack back on his shoulders and went on.

  They passed an escalator and next to it, a board with a long list. Jake read from the top:

  Luggage

  Haberdashery

  Toys

  Bedroom Furniture

  He wasn’t interested in Luggage and he didn’t know what Haberdashery was. But Toys. Toys was a word from another unive
rse. He’d have run up all the escalators there and then just to walk through that department. They’d have solarplex kits and worldcraft ones, he bet they did. He’d only ever had one kit. They were expensive.

  –Jake! Come on! Ollie said, and he ran to catch up.

  At the far end they found themselves in a big lobby, all bright wood and marble and metal. The floor was so shiny that Jet skidded and his claws clattered. There were lifts on one side and ladies toilets and wide stairs on the other, marble ones with a curving wooden banister. But it was another sign that got them all staring. In front of them was a high arch, tiled in white with little blue flowers, and a sign above in big gold letters: FOOD HALL.

  The gang stared in through the glass doors below, and for a few seconds, even Davie was speechless. The room was decorated all around the edge with painted vines and birds, and from the ceiling great globes of glass hung down, which must be like a hundred glowing suns when they were turned on. On the walls were huge photos of children holding hands. Big children, and little children.

  Like us, Jake thought. He looked round at the gang. And it was like he saw them, and himself, suddenly, like the lorry driver must have: a bunch of dirty-faced kids with filthy clothes and straggly hair and hunger in their faces.

  –Is this for real? Davie said then. Because through the doors, below the big photos of clean, smiling children, they saw food beyond their wildest dreams. Real food. Cakes covered in icing, and chocolate, and cream; and pastries and tarts with fruit, and chocolates – posh ones with pink and purple bits – and sweets, and every kind of biscuit you could imagine. There were cheeses, and salamis, dozens of them, and whole chickens roasted. There were twenty different bowls of olives. Fruit glowed like jewels: raspberries, grapes, bananas, pineapples. There were samosas, and sausage rolls, and little tarts and big tarts, and meat on little sticks, and pork pies.

  Jake had never seen anything like it. Somebody’s stomach rumbled loudly, and Jet gave a little whimper. He had his nose in the air, sniffing and sniffing.