by Fiona Shaw
Somewhere behind him, Scar woman was yelling curses, yelling for the hubbers to get down here. But Jake knew she’d lost him. He had a chance.
He looked around. The undergrowth was so dense that it was hard to see anything. Spiders’ webs smeared across his face. Flies buzzed in his hair.
Where was the tunnel?
Then he heard them: the low rumble of motorbikes. The bikers. Another minute, two at the most, before Swift and Cass and the whole gang were helmeted up and gone.
Ahead of him, a patch of clearer earth. He scrambled over and saw what he’d been hunting for: a rusty sheet of corrugated iron lying flat to the earth.
He was into the tunnel seconds later, pulling the iron sheet back over, just room enough to turn himself and crawl forward. No torch, and there was earth in his eyes, his mouth. Blindly he crawled, feeling the tunnel drop down, then rise, and he was pushing up the cover at the far side, heaving himself out.
He looked around. Trees and more trees, and bird noises, rustlings. But no bikes, no human voices. No sign of his gang. Sweat ran down his back. There was no time left.
He ran, straight ahead up the hill, crashing through the trees, and then he was stumbling out on to a broad green path.
Except no sign of the gang, just a man who lifted his gun and pointed it straight at Jake’s chest.
Thirty-nine
Jake dropped to his knees, and the gun followed him. It was pointing at his head now. The man was as wide as he was tall, and he was dressed in black leather with a balaclava over his head, so Jake could only see his eyes: cold, blue, unblinking eyes.
Jake’s stomach turned over and he thought he would be sick.
Still pointing the gun, the man took a step towards him. Jake put his hands above his head.
A voice from the trees shouted: –Don’t shoot, Monster! It’s the boy. It’s Jake!
And there was Ralph, running out, ponytail swishing from side to side. He pulled Jake to his feet and, to Jake’s surprise, hugged him.
–Thought you were a goner, man. Thought the hubbers had got you.
–They nearly did, Jake said. His voice came out wobbly.
–I’ll look after your dog. I promise, Ralph said, and he clapped the balaclava man on the back. –Jake, meet Monster. He’s your ride out.
Monster’s cold blue eyes crinkled to a smile, and he slipped the gun into his belt, picked two motorbike helmets out of the grass, and passed one to Jake. –Come on, he said in a soft voice. –You’re late.
Jake could hear the Land Rovers screaming up the freightyard again. It was the second time he’d escaped from under Scar woman’s nose – she’d be crazy with rage.
Monster gave him a biker’s jacket, big enough he could wear it over his own. It smelled of cigarettes and sweat. And thick leather gloves, for hands twice Jake’s size. Monster took some duct tape from his pocket and taped the gloves firm round Jake’s wrists.
–How long will it take? Jake said.
–Should be two hours … Monster told him.
They were only two hours from the border! He could be in Scotland today!
–Unless we find trouble, Monster went on. –But we got moves for that, if trouble happens.
Monster didn’t seem to hurry, but for a big man, he moved quickly. He led Jake to a small clearing, only a few feet away. Just one motorbike. An old-style one with lots of black and chrome, and high handlebars. Monster showed him where to sit and how to put his feet on the pegs, and the grab bar behind.
–Where are the others? Jake said, and Monster nodded towards the bottom of the hill. He climbed on to the bike, released the brake, put a finger to his lips, and they freewheeled silently down the hill.
At the bottom, the others were waiting, already mounted, in their borrowed helmets and borrowed jackets. He was glad to see them, but itchy to go: the Land Rovers would be on them if they didn’t move.
–Did you say goodbye? Swift said.
He nodded.
–Good. And he saw her whisper something and he glimpsed Cass, harnessed on somehow, in front of her.
–Ready? Monster said. Jake nodded. –Because we’re not stopping unless we have to. Too dangerous.
He raised his arm, and the six bikers kicked their bikes into action and their engine roar filled the air. Down the footpath they rode, a posse of bikes, like they were cowboys from one of his mum and dad’s old films.
Monster had the widest shoulders Jake had ever seen. He was like a rock, and Jake held onto him for all he was worth.
They rode out of the woods, alongside some fields and on to a wide, empty road. An ordinary road. A lived-on road. Houses, shops, fast food joints: Regal Sandwiches, Angel Blinds, a bike shop, Ming Kitchen, Anglo Pizza, a park, a school. It looked like the life Jake used to have. A sign read:
The bikes split up, leaving space between them. For a moment Jake felt scared – he didn’t want to lose the gang again. But he guessed it was for safety. Six separate bikes would have a better chance of escaping. He squashed his fear down again.
The roar of the bike thrummed through his body and the wind filled his head. His fear for Jet, for the lowlifers, his rage at the Coalition, his longing that was Scotland, the gang, even his grief: they all fell away beneath the throaty purr of the engine, the rush of wind tugging his head in the crash helmet, the world going by. There was just the bike, and Monster, and him.
The road got bigger, and they were weaving round an underpass, and then up and on to a bridge high above a river. On both sides more bridges. A train chugged by above on one, and far below Jake could see the river, wide and green. The air smelled of fish and ozone. Then up the hill they rode, to a tall statue of a grey stone man. A few people were on the streets. Jake saw a boy in school uniform, head lost in his phone. Could have been him a year before. A queue outside a food bank already. Jake couldn’t see any of the other bikes now, but Monster seemed to know where he was going.
On through the waking city and out the other side they rode, and as they left the city behind, Jake felt the bike surge forward. Monster was stepping on it. There was some traffic, but the bike was a wave; it was a dolphin, riding the road. It slipped and turned, carving slick around the cars and lorries, hugging the curves.
He could smell the countryside. He could smell the undergrowth, and the green crops. The early sun lit up the fresh green. The air grew sweeter, then cooler. He could taste the salt in it, then there it was: the sea. No borders, nothing to stop it coming and going. All he could see was the blue line of it, but that was enough.
They were going faster than Jake had ever been in his life and he wanted to shout out, yell into the wind. He was heading for Scotland and the hubbers would never catch him now.
Monster powered down the narrow coast roads, past caravan sites and holiday homes. The beaches stretched as far as Jake could see: yellow sand and green-grey water, and birds. Last year he dug sandcastles with his mum, played Frisbee with his dad. Last year Jet chased seagulls along the sand.
But as they rode on, the beach changed. No birds, and the sand turned grey, the sea brown. The road turned in from the coast here and the hedges became high barbed wire fences, signs posted all along: FRACK FOR THE FUTURE, NORTHUMBERLAND. Surveillance cameras on high poles pointed in to the fields. KEEP OUT. DANGER. TOXIC WASTE. The air smelled metallic and strange.
Beyond the barbed wire was a vast brown field, and dug into the field were concrete pools like huge swimming pools, brimming with grey water. Rising above, a red drill rig. Further on, a line of low bunker buildings with washing strung beyond, a line of picnic tables in front. Three people in blue and red coveralls and cropped hair sat at a table and they turned and stared out of grey faces as the bike went past.
Monster slowed the bike down and brought it to a stop beside a ruined castle. He turned round, lifted his visor. –You OK? Cos you’re shaking.
Jake looked at his hands. Monster was right. –It’s not because of the bike, he said.
–You seen a fracking field before?
Jake shook his head.
–I got a message from the others. We’re making a stop. On account of a helicopter. Anyway, take a minute. I need a pee. Keep your helmet on.
Jake walked over to the info board. It showed a picture of how the castle might have been five hundred years ago. Underneath, it read:
‘The castle’s history is England’s history. Hundreds of years in its construction, besieged by the Scots in 1327, fought over for centuries, now it is peaceful, protected by the New Wall.’
But Jake couldn’t shake the fracking field from his mind, or the three people sitting at the table. It was quiet here, but it wasn’t peaceful. Still people getting hurt. Still the bad happening. He thought of Jet, wounded and suffering. Ralph might not be able to save him, however hard he tried. And if he couldn’t, then Jet would die without Jake there. Jake turned away from the castle and its info board, and he stood beside the bike and tried to think of nothing at all till Monster returned.
On they went, and Monster kept to the small roads. More empty beaches, more ruined castles. No sign of any hubbers. Then Monster slowed the bike right down. Ahead Jake saw a give way sign and he could see moors beyond. Monster lifted his visor, called back: –I’m gonna gun the engine soon as we turn. So hold on.
The surge pulled straight through Jake’s body, like a plane taking off. He gripped Monster’s waist and held on, the two of them sitting high and the gears singing higher and higher.
Monster’s mood had changed. Jake could feel it. Then he saw the black speck in the sky: the helicopter. It was flying very high, but if he could see it, then he guessed it could see them.
The bike slowed to turn. A green sign read:
Monster swerved the bike right and they thundered down the lane. Two minutes later they were streaking along a causeway with a sky so big it looked as if it would swallow them up. They rode past dunes and then they were on to the island, fields of sheep, a car park, houses, gift shops, cafes, people.
People who looked at the bike and looked away; people who had no idea that Jake was a fugitive in his own country, wanted by the hub police. He was glad of the crash helmet, to hide his face.
The streets were narrow now, and Monster rode more slowly. Somewhere above them, Jake could hear the chug-chug sound of the helicopter. Out the far side of the village and they rode, with the sea on their right, towards a castle on a crag. Boats leaned, beached in the mud, and holidaymakers stood against the sea for photos, in another world from Jake’s. Monster rode on till he reached a line of large upturned wooden boats, their keels pitched in black towards the sky, a couple of men slouching beside them, staring out to sea.
As Monster slowed the bike to walking pace, a door opened in one of the boats and with his feet down for balance, Monster rode the bike inside and the door shut behind them.
The boat shed was crowded and hot, everybody crammed in around the bikes. It smelled of fish and petrol; the smell turned Jake’s stomach. Storm lanterns threw long shadows over everything. The gang had pushed old tyres, orange buoys, a pile of fish nets, to the sides and in one corner Poacher and Swift sat in a huddle on a pair of plastic fish boxes. Coils of rope and yellow oilskins hung from nails, and Swift had spread an oilskin smock on the ground for Cass.
Jake counted. All the gang and four bikers. The two men slouching outside must be lookouts. Aliya gave him a thumbs up from the far side of the shed. Someone passed him a plastic box full of sandwiches.
Jake hadn’t felt hungry on the bike, but now he was famished. He took a sandwich, bit in. Cheese and chutney. Just like his dad used to make, crusts cut off and everything.
–Hungry, dog boy? Davie said.
Jake took another bite. It was like tasting home. He finished the first sandwich and took another, then a third. He wished he could eat for ever.
He lifted his wrist and felt the smooth leather on his cheek. It smelled of Jet.
In the half-silence of the shed, the helicopter noise got louder.
–Have they seen us? Jake said.
Davie shrugged. –We’ll know, soon enough.
It sounded as if it was right above them, a whirring, urgent roar. Jake could feel the violence in the air, and he fought a rising panic.
They waited.
The bikers had their hands on their belts; Poacher too, and Swift, ready to draw their knives and fight. Then the roaring lifted away, and another minute and it was quiet again. Only the tourists’ voices outside. They waited five minutes, and another five, and still the air stayed silent. Then a nod from Monster and the bikers did up their jackets.
–We’re off, Monster said. –We’re going to be decoys. Helicopters are hunting for bikes, so we’ll draw ’em away. We’ll aim for the land border and throw ’em off.
–What’ll we do? Swift asked.
–Nothing for now, another of the bikers said. –Food’s on the table, and tea. No light when it gets dark, and don’t nobody go outside, OK?
–Don’t answer for anybody, Monster said, –unless they knock five times. Like this. And he rapped a beat on the side of his bike. –Sit tight. Someone’ll come for you.
One by one the bikers went, and Poacher locked the door behind them.
Cass stood up from the oilskin and came over. She was wobbly on her feet, as if the tiny piece of strength she used to have was draining away again. Tentatively she put her hand out towards Jake. Surprised, he waited. Cass didn’t really touch anyone except Swift.
With a single fingertip, she touched the collar, and looked up at his face.
–She wants to hold it, Ollie said. –Cos it’s Jet’s. That right, Cass?
Cass kept her finger to the collar.
–OK. Jake unbuckled it and put the coil of it on the ground in front of her. –Here you go.
Carefully Cass picked the collar up. She held it as if it might break. Placing it on her oilskin, she unfurled it, keeping it flat with both hands down. Then she picked it up at one end and, just as Jake had, put it against her face and shut her eyes.
After a few minutes she was asleep, and Jake was staring at the collar. Something was catching the light. Not the buckle, but something on the inside leather.
Gently, without touching Cass, he took it back and held it up to the light. There, set inside a small hole inside the collar, was a tiny metal disc, an oval about the size of his little fingernail. Bending the collar away from it, Jake prised it off, a drop of hard glue still stuck to one side. He turned it over in his palm. The collar already had a name tag, so what was it?
He looked at the collar more closely. His dad had bought it only a few months before the accident. Jake remembered because they’d added their phone number to the name tag. –Should have done it years ago, his dad had said. But this disc looked like somebody had hollowed out a space for it, with something like a kitchen knife maybe, then glued in the disc. And that somebody must have been either his mum or his dad.
–Davie? Jake said. –Look at this. It was stuck into Jet’s collar.
Davie turned the disc over in his hand as Jake had done, squinting at it.
–It’s hinged, Davie said, and running his nail down the length of it, he pressed. The disc fell open and inside was the thinnest electronic gizmo Jake had ever seen. It was smooth except for two tiny indentations, and when Davie held it closer to a lamp, Jake saw that one was coloured red, and one green.
Jake shook his head. –What on earth …
–I think it’s for you, dog boy, Davie said. –Reckon your mum and dad got something to tell you.
Forty
Jake didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to find out what his mum and dad had hidden so carefully. He wanted to shut his ears and be back on the motorbike, the wind and the noise driving everything out, thoughts and feelings. But everybody was waiting.
He pressed his fingernail into the disc’s tiny green indentation.
Something tingled against his palm; and into the room, like she wa
s there and alive, and he could touch her, his mother spoke, her voice clear as day. She spoke his name.
‘Jake. If you’re listening to this, that means we’re both dead.’
Poacher grabbed his arms to stop him falling, and sat him down on an upturned crate. Jake’s breath was unsteady, his heart thumping. He’d been right. It hadn’t been an accident.
‘Before we say why, your dad and I need to tell you that we love you very much. The thing we’ve always wanted, since you were born, has always been for you to be safe, and to be amongst those who’ll love you well. We hope, since you’ve found this message, that you’re with Jet, and that he’s a comfort. We hope you’re with your grandparents. Or with friends. We love you, Jake.’
His mother’s voice was unsteady. Jake felt as if his heart would break. Outside the shed there was the sound of children laughing. Inside you could hear a pin drop. On the recording, Jake’s mother took a deep breath. The gang listened on.
‘We’re going to speak quickly, Jakey, because perhaps your life is in danger, perhaps you haven’t much time, and what we have to say is very important. Important for the whole country. You’ll have a task to do once you’ve heard this message, just as important as our task as scientists. So make sure you’re ready to listen, Jake, and when you’re sure, go on.’
Jake pressed the red indentation and the recording stopped.
–Play it, Jake. We ain’t got time, Poacher said.
–Dunno if I can, Jake said, because he couldn’t bear it. He didn’t want their task. He wanted them. He wanted his mum and his dad. He wanted Jet.
He looked up. His gang were watching him. Maybe they were his family now. Maybe that was enough.