by Fiona Shaw
–This place stinks, Poacher said.
–What d’you mean? It smells wonderful, Ollie said.
Poacher shook his head. –Stinks o’ money. Stinks o’ the Coalition; and he was already turning away. –Right, let’s get out.
–You’re not serious, Davie said.
–It ain’t safe in here, Poacher said. –An’ we leave no mark, remember? That’s a rule.
–We’re safe as bloody houses till the morning, Davie said, pointing to the ceiling. –See that? That’s cutting-edge hub tech, that is. They don’t need any seccas walking round the shop with that stuff. Believe me, I know of what I speak.
Jake wanted Davie to explain more, but Poacher wasn’t listening. –We’ll find food outside, he said, and he walked back towards the stairs.
–Wait, Poacher, Swift said. –Nowhere’s safe. You know that better than any of us. But we’re all hungry. Ten minutes. We can take ten minutes: it’s no more risky than stealing out of bins, which is what we’ll likely be doing tomorrow. So long as we’re careful. So long as we don’t make it too obvious.
Jake watched Poacher stop and turn around. He stared at Swift, then at the rest of them in turn, and there was a pause, like he was deciding. At last he nodded.
–I don’t like it. But ten minutes, then we’re out of here. On my whistle.
It was like the whole gang took a single, deep breath. Like they were standing on the edge of something, and then all at the same time, they swung the doors open and dived in.
Jake saw Ollie grab a handful of olives, and Poacher pull out his knife and cut through the plastic on a side of ham. So much for being careful, Jake thought. If someone finds us now, we’re done for. Then he thought: if someone finds us now, I’ll be mega pissed off cos I haven’t eaten anything yet; and he ran to the nearest table and unwrapped something and took a bite.
Jake never dreamed he could eat that much that fast. It was mad. All you had to do was reach in under the glass for whatever you wanted. He ate pastries, and cake, and mouthfuls of salami, and something made of meringue and cream and raspberries. He didn’t even like meringues. Three minutes in and his hunger was gone. Four minutes and he was full, but he kept on eating because when would he ever be able to eat like this again? Down the next aisle, he grabbed some chicken drumsticks and got a slab of red meat for Jet. That made him pause: watching Jet tear at the meat, his tail threshing the air. Up the next aisle and a movement caught his eye. It was Davie, waving a bottle, under a sign that read ‘Beers and Wines’.
–Get over here, dog boy! Get some o’ this, yer cruddy little orphan. Best place to be.
Jake ran over. Davie was chugging back from the bottle. It had apples on the label; another lay spilt on the floor and there was a smell that was sweet like apples, and heady. Jet sniffed at the liquid, put his head down like he was about to drink, but Jake yanked him back.
Davie twisted the cap on another bottle and took a swig. –Sweet ’n tasty. Do yer good, dog boy. Forget your sorrows. Your mum and dad swilling about in the water. Drink up and you won’t even know you’ve lost ’em.
–Davie! Jake kept his voice low, but he couldn’t disguise the panic. –You’re drunk!
–Helps, you know? Davie held his hands out in front of him. –Look. No shakes. An’ I ain’t ticcing. Nothing.
–I don’t care. If Poacher sees you … Jake whispered. He looked round for Martha. She’d know what to do for him. But she was nowhere near. He couldn’t see her. So lifting a big bottle of water out of the cool cabinet, he twisted off the lid and pushed it at Davie.
–Drink! Now.
He grabbed a loaf of bread, tore it in half and pushed it at Davie.
–Eat!
Jake’s stomach was churning now, watching Davie. He thought if he ate another thing he would be sick. But there wasn’t much time left and he didn’t know what his next meal would be, or Jet’s, or when. He emptied some grapes out of a punnet and poured some water in for Jet. While Jet drank, he found bags of nuts, and biscuits, and bars of chocolate, and sweets, stuffing them into his rucksack. And reaching under the blue light of the meat counter, he took two more big pieces of steak for Jet, rolled them up in shiny white paper, and unhooked a tube of salami for himself. He cut the salami in half, zipped the whole lot in with the rest.
Pulling Jet with him, he jogged up past the fish counter, and down past Patisserie. There was Swift holding a bunch of bananas, and Poacher, tipping pork pies and samosas into a bag. There was Martha wrapping up some cake.
–Martha— he began; but then Poacher called: –Two minutes; and Jake remembered the thing he most wanted to find of all, in here. Raisins.
Up and down the aisles he hunted, and as Poacher called the minute, he found them. Strawberry-coated, the little pink boxes said: ‘Goodies for Good Little Girls’ on the label.
–Not my style, he said to Jet, –but Mum would be pleased, eh? And he stuffed a box into the last small space in his rucksack as Poacher whistled. Time was up.
Seventeen
Davie was drunk. Drunk as a lord. That’s what Jake’s mum used to say. So drunk he was falling over and giggling. So drunk that they couldn’t leave the shop. So drunk he wasn’t scared when Poacher went crazy.
In the lobby outside the Food Hall, Poacher and Swift went into a huddle. Jake leaned against the stair rail. He felt sick, longed to lie down. He watched Cass on the stair below him, back to the wall, knees tucked in, and Jet beside her, how she had her hand on Jet’s back, her fingers dug into his fur, then stroking him.
–My mum used to shop here sometimes. Before, you know … Ollie whispered. –Used to buy proper Italian pasta. She said she’d bring me when I was older.
Jake was impressed. You had to be high up in the Coalition, or have a lot of money, to shop in places like this. It was like the total opposite of food banks. If you were poor enough, you got Universal Credit and your hub chip got you into a food bank; and if you were rich enough, it got you into places like this. You could only get in with the right info on your hub chip. It wasn’t in the laws, and they didn’t tell you at school, but everybody knew how it worked.
–My mum used to bring me back Spanish oranges, and marzipan fruits, Ollie said.
That was when Davie kicked off his wellies and started doing these slides down the lobby floor, taking a run-up and whooping, one end to the other, and back again. It looked fun. Jake would have joined in except he felt so queasy. But then Poacher stepped in, face dark as thunder.
–Stoppit, Davie … he said, and then: –Yer carry on doing that, I’ll deck yer.
But Davie went right on.
–I mean it, Poacher said, and now Davie was chanting under his breath:
–Fight! Fight! Fight! – like they used to at school.
–Shut up, Poacher said. He was twice Davie’s size, but Davie was too drunk to shut up.
–Fight! Fight!
Then Poacher brought his hand down, fast, in a hard blade of a blow and caught Davie down the side of his head.
Martha was there before Davie even hit the ground, and she drew a knife. She drew a knife, pointed it at Poacher, her grey eyes hard. –You touch him again, I’ll cut you, she said, and Cass’s hand paused in its stroking.
Poacher gave Martha this long look, but he put his hands into his pockets and turned away, and she put her knife back in its sheath.
Martha got Davie cleaned up in the ladies’ toilets and he didn’t look so drunk after that. But Jake wasn’t surprised when Swift said, change of plan, they’d spend the night in the shop, head for the Tube in the morning.
–What about Security? Ollie said. –The seccas will have Tasers and stuff in a shop like this.
–Davie was right, Swift said. –Cutting-edge hub kit. Sensors activated by hub chips so they’ve got no need for patrols. We’ve got no hub chips, so I reckon we can sleep easy.
–Where are we going to sleep? Jake asked her.
–Where d’you think?
They
climbed the silent escalators on all fours. Davie was shivering and very pale. He looked like he might throw up. He was muttering something under his breath and every minute or so he was doing his face swipe, three times always, like he was swatting a fly on his cheek, but angry and hard, so that he’d made his cheek red with it.
Jake kept his eyes on Ollie’s trainers, just in front of him. The steel escalator steps were steep and cold, their sharp edges bruising his shins. With each step, they seemed to suck out his energy and by the time they reached the first floor, his arms and legs felt like lead. Beside him, Jet trotted from step to step, waiting each time for Jake to catch up.
Questions buzzed in and out of Jake’s mind like little flies: When could they sleep? Why did Martha draw a knife? What if Swift was wrong about Security? How would they get out of London? What if they got to Scotland and his grandparents were dead?
What if they never got there?
The shop was quiet as the grave and high as a cathedral. It smelled different from any place Jake had ever been, like someone was pumping special air in that was scented with a little bit of different things all at the same time: perfume, and clean wool, and bread, and the air in the hills.
Four floors they climbed, to the top, then Poacher led them through stands of bathroom stuff, round the edge of Lighting and past Sofas until they reached the Bed Department.
A bed department, big as a football pitch, Jake reckoned. Twenty, thirty different beds set out there, big ones and bunks, beds covered with fake leopard skin and beds covered with roses. There were nightlights by the children’s beds. A rabbit glowed pink in the shop’s half-dark, and an owl shone blue and green. Just the sight of all of them had Jake yawning. And not just him: everybody was doing it, everybody except Poacher.
–Choose quick, an’ stay close together. We got an early get-out, Poacher said. –I’m setting a watch. So don’t get too comfy.
–Keep your boots and rucksacks close, Swift said. –In case we have to leave smartish.
Jake was given the last watch: 3.30 till 5 a.m. He pulled off his boots and loosened the laces, so they were ready to pull on quickly: Mrs Hadley’s boots that he’d stolen that first morning of his escape. They looked pretty knackered now, but at least they didn’t look like girl boots any more, all the pink gone to grey.
The bed was cold and soft with pillows piled three-high. The pillows smelled like clean clothes. They smelled like the wind. He lay back and the pillows rose around him in a white cloud and he breathed in the smell. He patted the space next to him.
–Hey, boy, he said, and Jet leaped up, did that dog-turning thing three times, lay down and was asleep. Jake was bone-tired too. But not sleepy. Too much going round in his head.
–The rabbit’ll watch over us, Ollie said, and he made the nightlight wave a paw.
The bed warmed up and Jake shut his eyes, slipped one hand under Jet’s side. It was like being back home. He kicked out his legs and swam deeper under the covers. He was drifting, drifting, and it was his parents’ bed around him, as wide as the sea. He was swimming under the covers and he could hear his mum singing in the shower, and there was his dad’s voice calling up from the kitchen.
–Jake! A hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He opened his eyes. –Your watch, Ollie said, shoving the timer at him. Ollie got into the next bed, pulled the duvet to his chin and closed his eyes.
Jake set the timer for his hour and a half, pulled on his boots, tied the laces. Then he sat back up in his bed, stacking a pillow against the headrest to lean against. He looked across the shop. He had a good view from here: he could see all the beds, through the Bathroom Department and the Bed Linen and the Lighting Department and right across to the escalator. There were the emergency exits. Before they’d gone to sleep, Poacher had shown them their get-out routes, the one to the left past the children’s beds and the one to the right under a hundred different lamps.
–If yer have to make a run for it, keep crouched. Make it hard for ’em to see yer, Poacher had said. –An’ the stairs, they got good banisters for sliding. Safe ones. We can git down faster than any adult that way.
Already the day was streaming through the skylights. Jake looked at each of his sleeping gang. They didn’t look tough or hard right now. They looked like a bunch of kids tucked up for the night. Even Poacher. Even Davie. Kids who’d be shouted for in an hour and called to breakfast and sent to school with a pack-up box.
He’d always had a pack-up at school, and it always had the same things: sandwich, bottle of water, apple, crisps, biscuit, raisins. His mum was stricter than Liam’s or Josh’s and he didn’t always get the crisps and she wouldn’t let him have squash to drink. But then Liam and Josh never got raisins and the raisins were the best bit. Sometimes his dad would forget them, but not his mum. They’d be tucked in there, in a little twist of paper, and sometimes, if she was going away for work, she’d put a message on the paper: ‘Eat up your carrots. I love you.’ Or: ‘Don’t keep your dad up too late. Boys need sleep too. Love Mum.’
The sadness rose like pain, and he buried his head in Jet’s fur. –Dad, he whispered. –Mum. And it was strange to hear the words out loud, because he never said them any more.
He didn’t cry for long because he had to keep watch. So he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and looked across the shop, and back to the beds.
Ollie was still awake, watching him. –Can’t sleep, he said. –Too strange in here.
–Yeah.
–You all right?
–Just missing stuff. Just wishing it was all ordinary. Like this was a sleepover and my mum was gonna make me a pack-up again. I looked for raisins in the Food Hall.
It sounded silly when he said it out loud, but Ollie only nodded, like it was a natural thing to hunt for, so Jake tried to explain.
–It’s cos of my mum. Cos she always put them in my pack-up, on account of her great-grandpa. Five times great, she told me. Six times for me. She used to say each one. Great-great-great-great-great-great.
–Your mum sounds like fun, Ollie said. –So what about him? What’s he got to do with raisins?
Jake checked Ollie’s face again, but he wasn’t smirking. He just looked curious.
–My mum used to tell this story, Jake said, –About how he got shipwrecked …
–Shipwrecked! Ollie sat up, bolstered a stack of pillows behind him. –For real? In a boat?
Jake smothered a laugh. –Keep your voice down, you’re frightening Jet. Because Jet had growled and sat up. Jake patted him. –Lie down, boy, it’s only Ollie; and he went on with his story. –Yeah for real. In a lifeboat in the Atlantic, and there were sharks, and men going crazy, and dying from drinking sea water, real adventure stuff. And after days and days, it was only my great-grandpa and another sailor still alive. And all they had left to eat was raisins, and then they were down to the last two …
Jake paused, looked around. Everyone was asleep, everything was quiet. He leaned back against the pillow and took a deep breath. They were safe here. Better in these beds than in a lifeboat for days.
–E allora? Ollie whispered, and Jake knew what he meant, even though he didn’t understand the words.
–They got rescued, he said. –And my great-grandpa got married and never went to sea again.
–Else you might not be here hunting for raisins, and telling me this story, Ollie said with a grin.
–True enough.
–You know what I’d like to do? Ollie said. –Stay here for, maybe, a week. Hide out in the day till the shop shuts, then eat in the Food Hall, and sleep up here at night.
–Yeah, be nice. Jake yawned. He could fall asleep again right now at the drop of a hat.
–So did you find any raisins?
Jake rummaged and found the pink packet.
–The pink is not so cool, Ollie said.
–I’m giving them to Cass. She won’t mind. And he slipped them into his jacket pocket to give her later.
–Imagine your grandpa o
n the lifeboat, and he opens the box, and the only thing to eat is these girly pink raisins.
Jake laughed at that thought and Jet gave another growl. –Ssh, Jet. I’m only laughing, Jake said.
–But I can top you for pack-ups, Ollie said. –My dad would put pignoli in mine for a treat.
–Pignoli?
–Little almond biscuits, chewy in the middle. They melt in your mouth. Ollie closed his eyes and he made a little chewing movement.
That set Jake off giggling again, then Ollie too, and the more they tried to stop, the worse it was, till they were laughing so hard they had to bury their faces in the bedclothes.
This time Jet’s growl stopped Jake’s laughter dead: a deep, low rumble that Jake could feel more than he could hear.
–Jet? Jake said, and a sliver of ice ran down his back. Jet’s ears were flat to his head now, and his hackles were raised. Jake gestured to Ollie to be quiet. Then he heard them: men’s voices, two at least, and getting closer.
–Stay, he told Jet, and he slipped off his bed. Two steps to Ollie’s and a hand over his mouth too.
–Got our own sharks now. Two of them, probably got Tasers and batons. On the far side. Be here in less than a minute.
Ollie’s eyes widened and Jake took his hand away.
–Seccas? Ollie said.
Jake nodded.
–Porca vacca, Ollie whispered.
Jake’s mouth was dry, but he kept his voice calm. He was thinking fast. –No time for us to escape. Not all of us. So we’ve gotta be decoys.
–Us? Let ourselves be caught? Ollie said.
–Yup. Maybe. That’s all Jake said, but inside he was raging. If the gang got caught, it would be their fault, his and Ollie’s, but mostly his. And he’d rather be dead than that.
–No! Ollie’s voice was a whisper, but it had the force of a scream. –I can’t do it. I’m going to be sick. And I have to get to Scotland. I have to get to my dad.
The men’s voices were louder. Tasers could fire from up to a hundred feet away, and they could take out three people in one go. Three people before reloading.