by Fiona Shaw
His stomach rumbled and he tried to remember when he’d last eaten. There was no food left in his rucksack, only a few mouthfuls of water in a bottle. He looked round at Jet. He was sleeping, tail tucked round his legs. Aliya had turned towards Jake in her sleep, and she lay now with one hand underneath her cheek. The other still held Poacher’s beanie. The train pulled past a block of trees and sunlight pulsed in lines across the wagon of cars. Aliya’s eyelids flickered, but she didn’t wake. She looked peaceful, for now. Gently he touched her hair. It was warm with the early sun. He bent towards her. Her hair smelled sweet. A thought rose, a bubble in his mind. He could kiss her, just there, on the top of her head, and she’d never have to know. He bent closer.
The train slowed, a pulling back motion, the smell of rubber, and Aliya murmured something, moved a little in her seat. Quickly Jake pulled away and sat up straighter and looked out of his window again. Heat rushed to his cheeks. What was he doing? Why did he even think that? –Stupid, he told himself.
Once the train stopped and a man walked past, tapping onto a pad. Jake couldn’t see his head or his feet, only his middle. He was sure the man couldn’t see him, but he slouched low in his seat and held his breath. He didn’t wake Aliya and the man walked on.
His turn to sleep finally, Aliya on watch. He tilted back the passenger seat, put his hands beneath his head for a pillow. He wondered if she’d watch him while he slept. He wondered if he wanted her to. He was tired. So tired. His face was close enough that he could breathe in Jet’s dog smell. The same smell he’d had as a puppy, the smell of home.
–Jake. We’re there! Aliya was shaking his arm. –Look! There’s the Angel!
Jake groaned. He didn’t care what was outside the window, he didn’t care about anything, if only he could sleep some more. But he turned and peered out, eyes bleary, only half-focused. The train was moving at a snail’s pace and they were in a broad valley with hills on both sides. Early evening sun shone over twenty or more railway tracks that twisted away like spaghetti, weaving round huge grey warehouses. Container wagons sat on the tracks like giant blocks of Lego.
On the nearest hilltop, just above the train, a huge metal figure glowed in the sunlight, rusty red, with wide, oblong wings. Below, cut into the hillside in broad red letters, its name: COALITION ANGEL. The statue was even bigger than Jake had imagined it. It reached as high as a house: two houses.
–It’s enormous, Jake said.
–Do you know why it’s called that? Aliya said.
–Course, Jake said. –Everyone knows that. Because everyone did. You got taught it in Year Four and Year Five and Year Six. Jake’s teacher had read it to them out of the Cohistory book. About how the Battle of the Angel was the last battle in England’s entire war on terror. And how, after all the Faith Bombings in the cities, the last Faith Bomber was tracked to this valley. And how the best hub team in the country confronted her in the shadow of the Angel, and all she had to do was pull the pin on her explosives and she’d have blown them all away. And she pulled the pin, but she only blew herself up.
–You can see the shrapnel damage, Aliya said, and it was true, you could. The Angel was dented and scarred and one wing was buckled in the middle. The Coalition had left it like that on purpose, so English people would never forget the horror of the Faith Bombings, or the wonder of England’s deliverance.
His teacher had said it was the Angel that protected the hub team, and that was a miracle, and that’s why they decided to change the statue’s name, from the Angel of the North to the Coalition Angel.
–Do you believe it? About the miracle? Jake asked Aliya.
–Do you believe it?
Jake shrugged. –I did when my teacher told us the story. But I don’t trust anybody now.
–So whose side d’you think the Angel is on today? Aliya said.
Thirty-five
They were off the train before it came to a halt, running for cover, crouching down in the weeds. Jet strained on the lead, pulling Jake forward. The weeds smelled of fox, and for a split second Jake was back home, at the end of his garden, playing in the long grass with his dog.
–Keep low, he whispered back to Aliya, and she gave him a thumbs up, but she looked scared. Ahead of them, Poacher and the others were making their way, single file, towards an old wooden warehouse building.
Some way off, men were working. Jake could hear occasional shouts, but they didn’t sound urgent. The men weren’t hunting for a gang of children, or for Jake.
Not yet, anyway.
They followed the others, running parallel with the warehouse until they were crouched behind a pile of rubble, waiting their turn to run across an open stretch of concrete about the width of a tennis court. Away in the distance Jake could see the men loading wagons now, using a big crane.
–When it’s your turn, look straight ahead and just go, he told Aliya. –Don’t look round at the men, not even a glance, and don’t stop and start. He waited for her to tell him she knew it all, but she only nodded and bit her lip a little.
She wasn’t very quick, but she got across, and Jake and Jet came after her, running round to the far side of the building. The others were there already, a little huddle of kids catching their breath, taking a moment before the next thing.
Jake pictured the Angel, watching them. On our side so far, he thought.
He felt as if he’d been doing this for ever: escaping, running, climbing, hiding. Finding empty buildings, abandoned rooms. Eating left-over food. Sleeping in forgotten places. He wanted to stop somewhere. To stay and not to go. He wanted to belong.
He tried to bring to mind his grandparents by the sea, and the house behind. That was closer than ever now, but it didn’t seem real any more.
–A’right? Poacher clapped Jake on the arm, patted Jet.
–Poacher! Jake said. –Some stuff you need to know, about the virus, the meet …
But Poacher had his hand up. –Not now. We need to get inside quick. Door’s locked here, but the window’s not, an’ I reckon Davie’ll fit, just about. So we’re gonna punt him up an’ he kin pull the bolts fer us.
–It’s important, Jake said. –Really important.
He heard Jet growl, but it was Poacher he kept watching, because he saw the black rings below his eyes and he saw how Poacher’s fingers danced on the handle of his knife. Poacher was as exhausted as he was, and when he was tired …
–I said not now, dog boy. Poacher’s voice was angry. He looked over at Aliya, jutted his head at her. –You kin leave us, soon as we’re outta this yard. We done our side then.
Jake could see her form a reply, and he willed her not to answer. But Poacher had already turned away, and now Davie was punted up to the window, pulling it open, slipping round and inside it like an otter – Jake had seen them on a screen once, how they moved, smooth like oil – and then Jake heard Jet’s growl. Heard it properly, because it hadn’t stopped, Jake realized.
Jet was growling at something Jake couldn’t see, something down the far side of the warehouse.
–Jet! Jake called, but Jet went on standing, paws planted, hackles raised, growling. And Swift had noticed, and was picking up Cass; and Ollie, who ran to the warehouse doors, banged on one.
–Davie! Open the doors! And Swift was calling too.
Jake headed for the warehouse corner, fishing for his penknife, and then he saw it. A huge, grey dog trotting towards them. A sleek-headed, muscled brute, studded collar, ears pinned back, lips in a snarl, eyes blazing. It paused, sizing him up. Jake clipped the lead on to Jet’s collar, flipped open his penknife. Then he shouted round to the others: –Guard dog! Get inside! Fast!
The dog lunged forward, running full pelt, all the power of those bunched muscles hurtling at them, saliva whipping across its cheek, teeth hungry. And Jet had squared up, feet planted foursquare, angry, hackles raised along his back. He gave a long, low growl.
Behind them, Jake heard the sound of metal on metal, Poacher calling instructi
ons, urgent, to Davie.
–Come on! Jake pulled on Jet’s lead. Because they needed to run. Now.
But Jet stood his ground. He wouldn’t move. The dog was nearly on them. Jet’s ears were flat to his head, his tail high and still, except for the faintest electrical quiver at its tip. Every ounce of him was focused on the guard dog. Every ounce of him ready.
Jake glanced back. Davie had the warehouse door cracked open, and they were squeezing in, only Ollie and Poacher left outside.
–Come on! Jake said, both hands pulling on Jet’s lead. The guard dog was close enough, Jake could see the whites of his eyes.
Then the dog leaped.
It leaped, jaws wide, straight for Jake’s throat. And in that same split second Jake felt the lead whip from his hand and Jet had launched himself at the guard dog.
Everything was turmoil, and fur, and sound, and the two dogs were up on their hind legs, twisting and lunging, snarling and yapping, biting at each other, their teeth bared. Jake watched with horror, but he couldn’t get near enough to pull Jet away.
And then the guard dog got Jet. Got him on the back, by the scruff, sank his fangs in, and Jake saw Jet’s body give with the shock, the force of it. The guard dog was throwing Jet one way and then the other, blood spattering the ground. The dog was tearing at Jet’s flesh, his saliva frothing pink with Jet’s blood, and Jet was weakening under the force of the bigger dog, Jake could see it.
Jake stepped forward, his penknife held out in front of him. If he could just get close enough to use it. But the dogs were rolling on the ground now and he was scared he would miss the guard dog, scared he might plunge the knife into Jet.
Maybe Jake had distracted the guard dog, and so maybe the dog weakened his hold on Jet. Or maybe Jet was waiting for his moment, Jake didn’t know. But in that moment of Jake stepping forward, somehow Jet found the strength to shake free. He gave a last yelp, whipped around and sank his teeth into the guard dog’s neck.
It can’t have been more than thirty seconds, but it seemed like for ever, Jet holding fast, teeth sunk deep, and the guard dog turning this way and that, blood pouring from his neck, his movements slowing and slowing. Only when the guard dog lay absolutely still, when his body had become soft as a puppet, did Jet let go, collapsing into a bloody heap beside him, and the two dogs lay on the dirt ground, both of them motionless.
Carefully Jake stepped forward, penknife in hand. But the guard dog lay in a glistening red pool, and his eyes stared out at nothing.
Bending to the ground, Jake slid his arms beneath his dog, and lifted him up, and walked towards the warehouse doors. Jet’s eyes were closed. Jake wasn’t sure if he was breathing, or not. His neck was a mess of blood and froth and fur. He put his face to his dog’s warm side. Could he hear a heartbeat?
–Don’t be dead. Jake spoke into Jet’s black fur. –Please don’t be dead.
Poacher’s voice broke in. –Jake! Get in here! Now! And gently Poacher lifted Jet from him and took him into the warehouse. And Davie had hold of Jake’s arm, his green eyes wide, and he pulled him inside and slammed the door shut.
–Yer dog saved you, dog boy, Davie said.
Stumbling over to where Poacher had set Jet down, Jake sank to the ground. –Jet, Jake said quietly, and it wasn’t his imagination, he did feel Jet move. Just the slightest of movements. He was alive. But he didn’t lift his head, or beat his tail.
–Drink, a voice said. Swift’s. A bottle of water beside him. –We’ll use the rest to clean Jet’s wound. You, and she pointed at Aliya, –your T-shirt’s cleanest, it’s in Jake’s rucksack …
Swift went on talking, and Jake understood what she was saying, but he wasn’t listening. He was praying. Or maybe not praying, because he’d never prayed, but he was pleading with something, or somewhere, not to let Jet die.
–We ain’t got boiled water an’ we ain’t got antiseptic. Medicines all went with Martha, right, Davie?
–Yeah. All gone, dog boy, Davie said, and he sounded sorry about it.
–But it’s gonna look better when it’s cleaned up, Swift’s voice went on as she ripped the T-shirt, poured water over a piece of it. –Hold him now, Jake heard her say, –cos it’s gonna hurt him like crackers when I do this.
And Jake felt Jet rear, his head snapping round at them, at him and Swift and Davie, and Cass too, because she had sat down on the floor and put her hand on Jet’s back: all of them holding him down.
–Now you got to keep this pressed against the wound. Swift handed him another piece of the T-shirt. –To stop the bleeding.
Jet’s wound was severe and the bite had gone deep into his shoulder. Without proper treatment, the wound would become infected, and then … Jake pressed the piece of T-shirt to the bloody, matted fur on Jet’s neck and it grew wet beneath his fingers.
–He’s shivering, Davie said, and he was shaking his head to and fro and to and fro. –Martha …
–Shock, Swift said. –Gotta keep him warm. Gonna have to move him very soon. Her hand on Jake’s shoulder was gentle. –Poacher and Ollie have gone to find a place to hide. Or a way out. Because as soon as they find that guard dog, they find us.
Jake was trembling again. Aliya was talking to Davie, putting her hands on his hands, and a thought came to Jake that this was what Martha used to do. Swift was opening her rucksack. His eyes felt wide with horror, and his chest was tight and his throat was dry. This couldn’t be happening. Not Jet. Not Jet. Not Jet.
He hadn’t noticed Cass get up. She placed a blanket carefully over Jet’s body and sat back down again. It was her blanket, the one Swift always covered her with when she slept. They sat quiet. The warehouse was dark, stretching out behind them.
Jake listened to Jet’s breathing. It was very rapid. Then, behind him, he heard footsteps.
–Ain’t no way out ’cept through those doors, Poacher said. He was out of breath and covered with dust. –No loose boards, nothing. Low ceiling, so there’s a floor above, but no ladder up, or stairway, or lift. Nix.
–And nowhere to hide, Ollie said. He pointed a thin finger behind Jake. –Shelves right to the end and stacked tight with old luggage. Suitcases.
Jake turned. He saw what Ollie meant. From floor to ceiling, the shelves were jammed full.
–Suitcases? Aliya said.
Ollie looked at her like he hadn’t noticed her before. –Wheelie bags, rucksacks, laundry bags, carrier bags. Crates too, and cardboard boxes, or what’s left of them. Maybe rats ate them.
–Whatever yer can stuff stuff into, Poacher added. –All got labels, special Coalition labels, names an’ addresses. Thousan’s of ’em. Scottish addresses mostly.
–So do you think they’ve been abandoned? Aliya said. –Or …
Ignoring her, Swift turned to Poacher. –Is Ollie right? Nowhere to hide?
And Poacher nodded. –An’ the seccas’ll be here soon, looking fer their dog.
Swift motioned to the gang. –Sit. An’ you, listen by the door, she said to Aliya. –You’ll be going home soon. Adventure over. You can write it up in your diary, show it to your friends.
–She’s not … Jake began, but Aliya shook her head, and he swallowed his words.
Poacher ran his fingers into his dreads, looked down at his feet. He looked around at them. –Seccas’ll be here any minute. Might be last time we’re together, so just listen. Cos being as I’m yer leader, I’m speaking now. We got a long way together, proper Outwalker gang. We got close to the border …
Jake looked around. Everyone knew what Poacher was talking about. Even Cass. Maybe especially little Cass. Swift had both hands around her sister’s shoulders and there were tears in her eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that that was it. That the whole journey, everything they’d gone through, would end suddenly, here in this cruddy warehouse stuffed with lost possessions. That Martha’s dying had happened for nothing at all. Ollie’s face was blank, no expression. Davie was doing his drumming, both hands. He had his eyes scre
wed shut. Jake touched Jet’s head. It felt hot, like he had a fever.
–But they got us in their sights and we got nowhere left to hide, Poacher was saying, –an’ no way out this warehouse ’cept these doors. So we’re gonna give it a go, as a gang, but …
–But what about her? Jake said, nodding towards Aliya. –She’s told me things about the virus, and the Coalition. Important things, and she’s not one of them.
–Not one of us either, Swift said. She licked her finger and ran it through the dust. Then she crouched before Cass and painted a circle on her forehead. –Outwalkers first, all of us. They can’t change that, whatever. Chip us again, separate us, lock us up, tariff us and send us to the fields, they can’t change it. Outwalkers for ever.
She licked her finger again and painted the circle on her own pale forehead, then everyone else did the same. Jake remembered his ceremony: the gang in a line, their faces painted, his own face painted too. He put his finger to his neck and felt the small circle tattoo, just below his chip scar.
Inside the gang and outside everything else. That’s what it meant. I won’t ever forget it, he thought.
Then Aliya was running towards them, eyes wide, pointing back to the door. She spoke between gasps. –They’ve found us! They’re outside. I could smell him. His perfume. Then I heard them. Him and her.
–Who? You heard who? Poacher said.
–Noel, Aliya said. –The blond Surfer. And your Scar woman. From the Tube.
Thirty-six
Behind them, the grating sound of the warehouse doors being opened, and voices. Angry voices.
They walked between the high shelves, trying to hide. Swift took the front, carrying Cass, Poacher the rear. Jake carried Jet, wrapped in Cass’s blanket, till his arms burned with the strain, then Ollie took over.