by Fiona Shaw
–What Tunnel? Jake said.
–The Channel Tunnel? the girl said, as if it was obvious, doh.
–It’s been closed for ever, he said angrily. –Dynamited before we were even born. After the Faith Bombings. We got taught it in history. They showed us photos.
–Oh no. The girl shook her head. –No, it isn’t. You see …
–Enough, Swift said. –We ain’t got time. But the Channel Tunnel ain’t good for us anyway, cos we’re going north.
–Like I said, freightyard. We go in pairs, Poacher said, deciding. –If we have to run fer it, stay in yer pair if you can. The girl an’ me’ll go first.
The top of the stairs just happened, no signs, only Poacher banging his head against something very hard, his curse echoing back down the steps towards the rest of the gang.
–Ready? Poacher said, rubbing his head.
He waited for each of them to answer. Acting like a gang, whatever they felt like inside.
–Be quick, but don’t run, he said. –Running looks guilty. Let’s go then.
Pushing up with his shoulders, Poacher slid the manhole cover to one side and climbed out. Seconds later and they were all out, squinting, feeling the outside air fresh on their faces, looking about, ready to run.
Jake stared up into the night. He wanted to eat the air, it was so good.
There were no tannoys, no hub police. It was night-time – of course it was, Jake had forgotten that – and they were in the middle of a big, floodlit square that glistened black in the rain. On one side, a Tube sign glowed red and blue in the darkness. There were a few small trees in big pots, but nothing much else to hide behind. But the only people Jake could see had their heads down and their umbrellas up, and they didn’t seem to notice a small group of kids arriving from nowhere.
He looked around. Along one side was a wide, yellow-brick building with two enormous arches of dark, shining glass, and at the top, a clock lit up that read 12.30: gone midnight. Along the other side traffic still streamed past, a dazzling mass of streaky light.
–King’s Cross station, the girl said. –Follow me. And she was already walking off, when Swift called out.
–Jake! She was pointing.
Jake turned. Down a third side of the square was the biggest news screen he had ever seen, reaching up into the night, and in the middle of the screen was his face, peering out from inside his hood:
WANTED in connection with violent death of security officer
WANTED for abduction of young girl At large in London
DANGEROUS. Do not approach INFO: text 010
REWARD offered
The words shone out into the dark. Everyone would see them. Everyone would see him. Heat rushed to the back of Jake’s neck.
–How did they get the picture? he said.
–The escalator, Ollie said. –When they stopped us. Look. You can see it in the background. That hubber. She must have had a camera.
–She was at the MailRail too, Jake said. –With the blond Surfer. Same woman.
–You sure? Swift said and Jake nodded. He felt sick. Someone only had to take his photo and text it to that number, and the hub police would be there in minutes.
–More reason fer us to get away fast then, Poacher said. –Keep yer face covered.
Jake looked over to where the girl stood waiting. In the rain in the dark, dressed in his clothes, Poacher’s beanie pulled down over cropped hair, she looked small and harmless. He felt a surge of anger.
–They wouldn’t be after me, except for her, he said. –She’s too dangerous for us. See – abduction of young girl. That’s her. We leave her here, then they won’t want us so badly.
But Swift shook her head. –We promised her.
They left the square in their pairs. Poacher and the girl went first, then Jake and Davie, up the side of the station. They kept their eyes away from other people and walked like they knew where they were going.
–Keep your hands in your pockets, Jake told Davie. –So they don’t see you drumming. Looks weird. Might get us noticed.
But nobody looked at them. One man smelled of beer, and another smelled sweaty. A woman rushed past so close that Jake felt her coat tails brush against his legs, and she smelled like his mother, her perfume. He gasped and looked round, but she was gone already into the darkness.
The rain was heavy, and as they came round the corner they hugged close to the wall for the little shelter it gave. A few people were slumped inside bus shelters, their faces lit up by the ad screens, but otherwise the street was empty. Cafes and tanning shops, shuttered and dark.
Jake was frightened now, feeling the cool, rainy air on his face like a smack, every time he looked up or out. There was a price on his head, and if they caught him …
He reached down to Jet, patted him. –Stop it, he told himself. –Panicking won’t help.
At least it was raining. There was nobody to see them. Nobody to notice a wanted boy. He tried to breathe more evenly, slow his heart down.
At the far end of the road, through the railings, he saw the trains all put to bed for the night, their blue and red paint shining under the station lights. His mum told him she’d got trains from King’s Cross all the way to Scotland when she was his age. She told him that before the New Wall went up, you’d be sitting in your seat, looking out of the window, and you wouldn’t even know when you’d crossed the border. One minute you were in England and the next you were in Scotland.
–Wasn’t there even a fence? Jake said. –Didn’t they say something over the loud speaker?
And she said no, there wasn’t anything, no they didn’t make any announcement, that it was just normal, people did it all the time, the same as going to Wales or Devon.
–But we’re lucky to have the New Wall, Jake said. –It’s kept us safe. Mrs Martin says lots of European countries would like to make a wall like ours, only they can’t cos they’re not islands and Europe won’t allow it.
–Does she, his mum said flatly, which was what she said when she didn’t agree.
She told him that in the month before the New Wall, train tickets to Scotland got sold on the black market for £50,000 a ticket; that on the last day, the trains got mobbed.
–I don’t think people really believed it would happen until then. The Wall, I mean. And the Coalition denied all the stories. Managed the English Internet, so people couldn’t read, couldn’t see …
–What d’you mean? Jake asked. –Managed?
–Censored it. Controlled it, like they still do. They must have had it planned for ages. My family, me and your granny and grandpa, we’d moved up to Scotland six months before. We had to leave our house unsold. Couldn’t bring out much money either. In Scotland the stories were everywhere. On the Internet, on the news, on people’s lips. Everyone had seen things, survived things. People locking themselves to carriage tables, hiding in train toilets, crammed in so tight some people suffocated.
–To death? Jake said.
His mother nodded. –You’re old enough to hear some of it now. It’s your country’s history. Children stuffed into suitcases, parents asking strangers to take the cases to Edinburgh and leave them on the platform. They’d rather risk their children’s lives, risk that kind of fate, than keep them in the new England.
She was sombre now, going on.
–People crushed to death against the barriers, trying to storm the last trains out before the New Wall. I remember in the news: a young woman, didn’t look much older than me, pregnant, dead. Hub police pulled people off the carriage roofs. They used tear gas in one train, fired it straight into the carriages. They said on the English news that there had been a riot. They said there were fifteen people dead, three of them children. But the Scottish news said it was sixty-two people.
She looked angry and sad together.
–Five hundred and seventy-nine people died in the Faith Bombings. It was terrible. But the Coalition killed more than that in the year they put up the New Wall.
He remembered how his mum had stroked his cheek then. –It is all true, she said. –And I knew I might never see my parents again. But your father and me, we were childhood sweethearts. All our growing-up years, we’d managed to stay in touch, me in Scotland, him in England. I went back because of your father.
–Jake! Hurry up.
Davie’s voice started him out of his thoughts. He looked around. How had they got here? He couldn’t remember the last few minutes. On both sides of the road he saw steel-bladed railings topped with razor wire, and security lights blasting the dark as they went past, flooding the night so that everything shone in the rain, which fell in sheets of silver.
The rain had soaked in everywhere. Inside his jacket, down his legs, so that his trousers stuck to them. His feet were wet inside his boots. Ahead, Poacher and the girl were crouched close to the railings, pushing at the sharp steel blades, and before Jake could see how, they disappeared through.
The Outwalker sign was scratched on to one of the railing posts, the small circle with the dot in the middle.
–How did they do it?
Davie crouched down, pressed each of the blades in turn till he found the point.
–Lo, thou shalt breach the fenced places, he said. –Ready? And he pressed. A section of the railings hinged down, leaving a space just big enough for them to climb through. Once they were through, the railing snapped back, so you’d never have seen the place.
Buckled concrete stretched like a sea ahead of them, and beyond it long lines of metal containers, and beyond these, a train. Poacher and the girl had run across already, and were crouched between two containers.
–Like Moses crossing the Red Sea, Davie said. –Watch me. And before Jake could reply, he’d set off. The security lighting robbed him of his shadow, and he looked very small under its glare, running flat out. He was nearly across when he stumbled, and crashed to the ground headlong.
Davie! Jake yelled inside his mind, and he set off running, Jet on his lead beside him, running low too, like he knew in his dog mind that they mustn’t be seen.
Davie was on his feet again by the time Jake reached him.
–You all right? Jake whispered, and when Davie turned, he saw that one side of his face had been scraped raw on the concrete, grazed from his eye down to his chin. Blood and rain trailed down his cheek.
–Bad one, Jake said. –Need to get that seen to.
But Davie shook his head, and as if in a trance, he dragged his fingernails down his face, pressing them into his bloody cheek. –Shouldn’t a’ left her. She’s on the far side an’ the sea’s closed over again, Jakey. She’s on the far, far side.
–You gotta run! Come on! Jake said. Because they needed to move, get out of the floodlights. Behind them, Jake could hear Swift and Ollie climbing through the railings, their whispering voices.
Davie pressed his fingers harder, and his tears ran into the blood.
Jake took him by the shoulders. –Don’t do this. Least not for Martha. You gotta cross the sea for her. You’ve got to do good to yourself, not bad. That’s what she’d tell you. He looked around. Any secca could see them here, clear as day. –Remember what Swift said? he whispered. –We’ve got to be strong. He pulled Davie’s hand gently from his face. –Come on now; and he took Davie with him out of the security light and back into the darkness.
Thirty-three
The train was stacked with shiny new cars, wagon after wagon of them, ready to leave. From the loading certificate on the side of the wagons, its destination was Tyne Yard, Gateshead, due to arrive at six o’clock the following evening. Poacher told them the plan, and when the train started slowly to move, they were ready. Poacher ran first for the back of the train, the next to last wagon, crouched low, climbing up between the wagon rails. And one by one they all followed, Ollie, then Swift, pulling Cass up on to the platform. Now Davie was on and it was the girl next, Jake and Jet the last to go.
The girl was running, girl-style, arms out, Jake and Jet just behind her, and Ollie and Davie were grabbing at her to pull her up. But she stumbled and fell to the ground, her feet tangling in Jet’s lead so that she took them both down with her. It was only for a moment, and they were up and running again, but it was long enough because the train was gaining speed now.
–Come on! Ollie yelled, reaching out with his long, thin arms, but they couldn’t reach him.
–Next one, Jake shouted, and he didn’t know if the girl had heard him, but he was sprinting beside the final wagon and grabbing the rail and pulling himself up on the standing platform.
–Up, Jet! he called, and his dog was there in a single movement, graceful and easy. Then it was only the girl left, running in her stupid posh trainers, mouth wide, running her guts out. This girl who thought she was so much better than them, and who didn’t know how lucky she was. Besides which, she only cared about herself. Only did that stuff for Martha to get in their good books. All this flashed through his mind in the space of a second, and the thought that came after: no one would know if he left her here, and no one would care.
But he took a deep breath, and gripping hold of the rail, he leaned out from the wagon. –Gimme your hand, he shouted. –Come on! And then she was gripping him, her nails digging into his skin, still running, her breath coming in gasps, and somehow, from somewhere, he found the strength to pull her up till she was lying beside him, sobbing and heaving for breath.
The rain whipped at Jake’s face and the wind cut through his wet clothes. They were out of the freightyard already, lumbering through the city, gaining speed. Dark houses, glistening streets, hub flags, ad boards rushed past.
They’d made it. They were on a train and they were heading north, heading towards the border. They’d done good, like Martha would have wanted. Soon they’d be out of London, and – Jake crossed his fingers, wished inside his head – out of England.
Anger still ran through him like electricity, but he turned his mind away from it and gripped the cold steel rail and stared out into the night.
He pictured his granny and grandpa. Figures standing by a house with the sea in the background. That was the photograph his mum had kept on her chest of drawers. But now in his head they both turned his way, like they were waiting for him.
–We’re coming, he murmured, and for the first time he let himself imagine it. Him and Jet walking into the picture, walking towards the house, towards the figures; he imagined his granny catching sight of him, her hand on his grandpa’s arm, his grandpa shielding his eyes to see, taking a step forward. He imagined how he’d break into a run then, and how they’d hug him tight, and how Jet’s tail would be nearly wagging itself off because he’d know who they were too.
The city lights blurred in Jake’s eyes and he blinked the tears away. He stared forward through the dark to the next wagon, but he couldn’t see any of the others. He looked the other way, down to where he’d left the girl.
The girl had disappeared. The air roared in his ears as he made his way past all the sleeping, shiny cars, up the jolting wagon. Jet kept close to his legs and when he went to pat him, he could feel him shaking, so he crouched a moment and held Jet’s head gently between his hands and spoke quietly to him.
How could the girl have disappeared? He didn’t care about her, but he didn’t want her to be dead. Specially not since he’d half killed himself, pulling her up on to the train.
–Hey, he called. –Where are you?
Lights from the sleeping city came and went as the freight train trundled through, and Jake could see a bit here and there. He scrabbled under the cars and peered between them, calling for the girl. Right to the end of the wagon they went, him and Jet, till he was staring down at the rail track spooling out from underneath him, disappearing into the dark. He walked back down the wagon on the other side and was nearly giving up his search when he heard something.
–Here. I’m here.
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Her voice was faint, like maybe she was hurt, or trapped somewhere. He peered below the car. Nothing. Tying Jet’s lead to the wagon rail, he scrambled up on to the bonnet and scanned along the car roofs.
–Where are you? he called again.
–Where d’you think? Her voice was louder this time and then a movement caught his eye. Crouching down, he stared in through the car windscreen, and there she was, grinning.
Grinning at him. He’d been searching, scared, and she was grinning.
Jake opened the back door for Jet, then pulled open the driver door and thumped down into the seat. He was angry. So angry, he could taste it.
Behind him, Jet’s claws slithered on the plastic seat covering. He turned around himself and settled down to sleep.
Jake sat back, shattered. The girl was still smiling, sitting there with her posh trainers, and no chip ever, and her bright shiny voice.
–I didn’t want to get out and wave at you, in case anybody saw me, she said. –It would have been awful, after everything, if we got caught because I’d waved …
–Yeah, awful, Jake said.
–So I just kept on shouting and waving. But it was funny when I could only see your legs. I couldn’t help laughing. I’m glad you’ve found me. You do look very tired.
Then finally Jake couldn’t stop himself. –You think you’re so clever. His voice was shaking, he was so angry, and he spat the words out. –You’d have been captured, or hurt, if we hadn’t rescued you. And I know what Swift said about Martha’s death not being your fault, and I know you did that stuff for her afterwards, with the water and the sacks and everything, but—
The girl stopped laughing. Jake stared out through the windscreen. Nothing to see except the dim shape of the car in front. It was weird, being in a car that was travelling, but going nowhere.