by Olivia Levez
‘I know a top lawyer –’
There you go.
I stare down at my hands. The rip in the left one is really throbbing now, and I am glad. It sharpens things. Cuts through the dream-treacle of my mind. I wish Kit were here to make it better. Or Delilah, with her kind, sad eyes and terrible treats.
‘Ready to go…’
I glance up. We’re on the move, it seems. Daddy’s worked his magic again, just like last time. Just like all of the other times.
Daddy’s car purrs down the lanes. Is that a cliché? I suppose it is. We’re being driven by his chauffeur. I realise I don’t know his name; I’ve never bothered to ask. I look at his face in the rear-view mirror. I can see a dark eye, a cheekbone. A mole in the shape of a triangle beneath his eye. I wonder if he has a wife and family. I wonder if he has children. I wonder if Daddy knows his name.
Beside me, on the seat, is my bag. They had made me wait in the police car while Lovely Legs fetched it from the tack room. I am still wearing my costume under the rain mac that the policewoman lent me. I take out the Kit of Happiness, and empty it of everything but the head girl badge, the photograph and the button. The photograph I rip carefully into tiny pieces. Flutter them out of the top of the window. It feels like the time I cut my plait off: like another piece of me has blown away.
Soon, there’ll be nothing more left of what used to be me.
Soon, I’ll be nothing more than scraps in the wind.
I place the chalk, the button and Beanie’s head girl badge into my coat pocket. Keep checking, intermittently, that they’re still there.
Rain slides to and fro on the windscreen. The wipers push a dead fly to the side and back again. We pass a woodland, and then a couple of pubs, and then a farm. I stare at the rip in my hand, fascinated.
‘I need to stop,’ I say abruptly.
Daddy turns around.
You can tell he’s suspicious; his pale blue eyes wrinkle in his tanned skin. I expect he’s been on a few more Caribbean holidays, since I’ve been away. Made up for lost time with her.
‘We’ve got a long drive, love. Need to make tracks. Stefan’s had a long day.’
So he does know his name. Imagine.
‘I really need to stop. To go to the loo, I mean.’ I change tack. ‘It’s my period,’ I say. ‘It’s really heavy, and my stomach hurts, and I really need to change my –’
The car skids a little in the rain as we draw into the car park of a country pub. JUGGLER’S ARMS, it says on the sign. This will do nicely.
Daddy gets out first. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he says. ‘But I can’t let you go in alone. It’s not that I don’t trust you…’
What a stupid thing to say. Of course he can’t trust me. But I smile nicely. ‘It’s totally fine, Daddy,’ I say. ‘Shall we get a drink, since we’re here? And perhaps Stefan can come, too?’
Daddy keeps a tight grip on my arm as we push past Sunday drinkers and families complete with grannies and daughters and mothers-in-law, all rosy-faced from gin and tonics by the log fire.
‘You can leave me now, Daddy,’ I say, as he hovers outside the ladies. ‘I’ll have a lemonade, please. I’m not going anywhere.’ I watch as he stands on guard outside in the little lobby while Stefan moves to the bar to order drinks.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I repeat.
But of course I am.
The instant I’m inside the washroom I move to the window. It opens easily, but is far too small for me to climb through. I might have been able to once, but not now. Not with my trapeze-toned shoulders. I go inside a cubicle anyway, thinking that I may as well go to the loo while I’m here. I am totally calm. I know that an opportunity will present itself to me. It’s just a matter of when.
I resist the temptation to pee on my hands, even though I’m hearing Kit’s voice telling me, Go on, it’s what the Russian acrobats do, and I flush the chain, wincing at the sharp pain in my palm.
I stare into the mirror above the washbasin. Think how recognisable I am with my vermillion red hair and the weird coat they lent me at the police station. I take off the coat so that I’m standing in my gold show costume. I still have my stage make-up around my eyes. I take a paper towel and wipe away a few smears, pinch my cheeks and lips so that I don’t look so pale, and then wait until someone likely comes in.
A lavatory flushes, and a stoop-backed old lady comes out, someone’s grandmother out on a family treat. She is wearing her best clothes: a matching cardigan and skirt and a lavender flowery scarf. She stares at me, then gives a rich throaty chuckle.
‘Who are you, dear – you’re not a strippergram, are you? Are you waiting to surprise somebody?’
I nod vigorously. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Shhh – don’t say anything.’ The old lady winks at me, and then is almost thrown backwards as the door swings open.
‘Mum! We were getting worried about you…’ The woman’s voice trails off as she sees me. She is wearing a floor-length, faux-leopardskin coat, and sunglasses on top of her head.
‘It’s the strippergram, dear – she’s going to jump out and surprise somebody.’
The old lady throws her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Ooops, sorry. Wasn’t supposed to say. What am I like?’
I giggle. ‘I know, it’s exciting, isn’t it? I wondered if you would mind helping me, though. It’s just that I’ve never done this before, and I really, really want it to be a surprise…’
They lean forward eagerly as I explain my plan, and describe Stefan in minute detail.
Minutes later, I am waltzing out of the ladies wearing the leopardskin coat, a lavender-scented scarf wound around my red hair, and a pair of fake designer shades clamped firmly on my nose. As I pass Daddy holding his spilling pint and a half of lemonade, my fur coat whispers and swishes. He is staring in bemusement at Stefan, who is being dragged away from the bar by a little old lady and a middle-aged woman, with goosebumps on her bare arms.
The door opens, the pub-fug snaps to cold drizzle, and I am free.
Wheels of Fortune
A taxi’s waiting in the car park.
Without thinking, I pull open the passenger door and get inside.
‘Mrs Jones?’ asks the driver.
I nod quickly. The pub door swings open, and a family is spilling out, rosy-cheeked with wine. A teenage boy helps his grandmother down the steps.
For a moment, it seems as though the taxi driver’s changed his mind; he’s staring through me, taking in my grubby face, my leopardskin coat.
I check my wrist for a non-existent watch. ‘I have a train to catch,’ I say tightly.
I think I can see Stefan’s head over the family.
The driver turns on the meter.
‘Where to?’ He winds down the window, and I wonder why, until I realise that I must smell bad.
Unsavoury, that’s what he’ll be thinking. I haven’t had a shower since before my show.
To Paris, I think, and start to giggle.
He stares at me strangely. I make my voice sound normal, and tell him, Hastings.
He unclicks the indicator and finds his place in the traffic. All the time his eyes are watching me in the mirror. The radio’s on, some local station, with an over-bright presenter with a regional twang. Music starts, a track that was popular in another lifetime, when Beanie and the girls would sing along to it in the dorms. It grates. I wish he’d turn it off.
The driver’s eyes meet mine. ‘What wrong with you?’ he asks. ‘You ain’t going to be sick, are you?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say. I try to stop myself shivering.
He nods, changes lanes. Switches stations.
I look out of the rear window for blue flashing lights.
‘So, what are we to do about this growing phenomenon of teenage girl runaways? Is it exam pressure, or are they just trying to get attention?’
‘Well, Trissie, it’s a real problem in society, isn’t it? A spate of copycat runaways, ostensibly trying to shed their old life and al
l its subsequent responsibilities, but, in reality, they’re afraid; they’ve never had to make any real decisions, not like when we were young, and…’
‘And of course there’s a huge reward that’s been put up for knowledge of her whereabouts, isn’t there?’
‘Of course, Mr Stephens is known to be a very wealthy man…’ ‘…somewhere in the region of…’
Too late, I realise what this presenter and her guest are talking about. Daddy or Scally can’t have informed the press yet about my being found.
‘And we believe that Willow’s physical appearance will have changed significantly by now, is that true?’
‘Someone with her psychological template will be switching appearance all the time. Possibly very short, almost brutally short hair – we know that she was very attached to her long locks, that they were linked in some way to her name, so this would be one of the first things to go. And dramatic, outlandish acts of… something to symbolise her new freedom. A tattoo, perhaps…’
The taxi driver’s looking at my left shoulder. I cover it up, hurriedly, even though my tattoo doesn’t show. Wish I wasn’t wearing such an obvious coat.
The guest speaker, someone from some university, an expert in fugitive psychology, is still talking. I imagine the presenter leaning forward interestedly, hands clasped over crossed legs.
‘I believe Willow Stephens to have significant attachment issues. It seems she was abandoned by her mother when an infant. Brought up by a string of au pairs and a largely absent father. Boarding school, of course, can trigger emotional disorders in the very young. So, to put it simply, Willow will be very needy, desperate for attention. Basically, she’ll attach herself strongly to the first person she meets.’
He makes me sound like a duckling, cheeping after its mother. The driver’s looking at me in the mirror. We stare into each other’s eyes.
Too late, I realise that this isn’t the way to Hastings.
Double Swan Drop
‘Stop the car,’ I demand. ‘I want to get out. Now.’
The childlocks are never on in a taxi. Just as he slows at the lights, just as he reaches out his hand, I throw open the door and half-dive, half-roll out.
It is easier than in mid-air, trickier than on a trampoline.
I land on the roadside, on my side, knees curled. A perfect landing. People crane their necks out of their cars as I jump up, scramble, run.
I keep to the back roads, hunkering down, ever watchful. Once, I hitch a ride. Once, I fall, slithering down an embankment when I think I see a blue light. And all the time the same thoughts pound through my head as I run:
I must get back to Hastings.
I must get back to Suz.
‘Suz!’ I yell. ‘I’m back. I’m back, and I’m sorry. They’re after me, Suz. I need you.’
That’s when I see it: the board that says, FOR SALE. Deluxe executive apartments. Stunning sea view. Glass atrium. Roof terrace. Spacious. Ready September. Open house: 4–8p.m.
I duck inside the wooden security fence, avoiding the little cabin that you’re supposed to walk through, coloured flags rippling. Haven Homes, it says. Rooms with a view! Only 3 left!
Everything’s changed. They haven’t put the windows in here yet; tarpaulin is stretched over scaffolding planks. Inside, they’ve stripped the place of Suz. No more graffiti. No more Could do effing better, scrawled in chalk.
They’re building a swish atrium, all glass walls and ceilings and funky cube design. It sits glinting in the evening sun, surprised-looking on the Edwardian building.
I know at once that she’s not here. Everything’s stripped back. There’s a brand-new staircase. Floorboards that smell of new wood and new money.
I freeze.
In what used to be our hall-open plan living area-tip-fire pit, there’s a woman handing out drinks, dressed in a red and navy suit and scarf combo, like an air steward.
People are milling and murmuring: a family with a clutch of small kids, several well-dressed couples, an elderly lady with helmet hair.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking a glass of Buck’s Fizz from the air-steward woman. Her eyes rake me: my leopardskin coat, my cherry red hair. I smile back at her, hard.
I shove past a pearled, polo-necked lady with helmet hair and out onto the brand-new landing. Past the newly installed lift and into a room labelled Show Home. A kitchen of gleaming granite. Plates of smoked salmon blinis and glasses of Buck’s Fizz. Out of habit, I take four, stuff them in my mouth and drain a glass. Louis XV ghost chairs. Wallpaper illustrated with giant trees. Up the stairs: beaten metal and orange beech.
Behind me, footsteps. The kitchen is filled with buzzing people, noisily exploring the fridge and walk-in larder.
‘Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.’
Suz isn’t here; of course she isn’t. Not unless she’s found half a million pounds from somewhere to buy a slice of our old house.
I risk a backwards glance, and there’s Air Steward, determinedly clacking after me.
A dead end. Only a balcony, newly sanded and painted. Ahead, the sea winks white fire. I climb over the window ledge. Crouch. Look back briefly. Helmet Hair’s mouth hangs, showing half-masticated blini. I wave back at her.
It’s easy to climb up to the roof – our roof. My circus training makes me spring like a cat, tumble like a tiger –
‘Tigers don’t tumble.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Semantics, Frog. S’just semantics.’
I scramble down the fire escape, take one last look at our house, and then I’m running again.
Freakshow
I find her by the train station, shouting. There’s a line of people waiting for taxis, and their faces are turned away from her; you can tell they’re trying not to look. Suz doesn’t look like Suz any more. She has transformed too. She’s wild-eyed and wild-haired; her dress – which looks like a man’s cardigan – is buttoned up all wrong, showing her belly where it gapes.
I walk up to her, and she sees me without any recognition.
‘Suz. Suz, it’s me, Frog.’
‘And you can fuck off too, ya pompous ass!’ she bellows, twisting around me to shout at a lady with her two children shrinking into her. A group of teenagers are openly laughing, taking pictures with their phones.
‘Come on, Suz, let’s get you out of here,’ I say, glad that I’m wearing my shades. I take her arm, and to my surprise she lets me lead her away from the gathering crowd, over to the car park at the back. ‘Up here.’ I help her climb the steps to where there’s a small park, with a scruffy-looking swing and a couple of lonely benches.
All the time, I’m listening out for sounds of police. Maybe one of the bystanders called them, to stop a public brawl.
‘It’s Frog,’ I repeat.
Close up, I am even more shocked at her appearance. I study her as she attempts without success to light her roll-up. Her hands are jerking and twitching uncontrollably. In the end, I light it for her, and she sucks in, greedily, slumped now and quiet.
I wait till she’s smoked it all. Then she turns to look at me. There are sores around her mouth, greenish grey shadows under her eyes. She twitches occasionally – her chin, her shoulder, her leg – as if she can’t stop.
Then, ‘Frog, is it really you?’ she says. She begins to cry, great ugly snorts that she doesn’t bother to clear away. ‘You left me,’ she keeps saying. ‘You only went and bloody left me.’
I don’t know what to say.
‘It was the fireworks,’ she whispers. ‘I hate those things, because it reminds me. It reminds me.’ But she won’t go on. She won’t go there again.
Instead, she squeezes my arm. I try not to care that she is filthy, really filthy, with nails blackened from weeks of not washing. No signs of soot and chalk dust.
I take her hand, and it is ice. ‘Where are your rainbow fingers, Suz?’ I try to smile.
She shakes her head. ‘I’ve not been so well. I’ve been using too much spice. Drinking a bit too much. My
chalks and drawings got nicked. I don’t really mind. I’ve been too sick to draw much, anyhow.’ She raises her head, and touches my cheek with her cold finger. ‘You clean up really nice,’ she whispers. ‘Real nice.’
She coughs then, a great racking cough that rattles and clatters with sickness. It goes on a long time, and when she’s finished, she leans her head against me, exhausted.
‘I hope you made it to the circus, Frog,’ she says. ‘Did you? Were you a real star? Did you wear my costume?’
I start to tell her of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen, but when I look down at her, she’s asleep on my shoulder.
Hairy Jack
‘Can’t go back, can’t go back to my place, Frog…full of workmen…It has a freaking chandelier, for chrissake.’
Suz is shivering and mumbling, huddled against the wall in the leopardskin fur coat. Behind it are St Clement’s Caves, and I think I know a way to get inside. I check up and down the tiny street; shrink into the wall to let a jogger pass.
It is easy to prise the grille away with my fingernails and a sharp stone. I bend it back, pushing away the ivy. Opposite, there’s a narrow house with a clapperboard front and a balcony. It has cherry-patterned curtains at each window and a little wooden sign on the door saying Seagull’s Landing. Thankfully, it seems to be empty. No one is watching us.
‘Come on, Suz. Quickly.’
She’s far too visible in that coat, standing shivering in the rain. I get a flash of irritation. Why can’t she hurry?
Just as I am about to draw aside the grille, a rain-washed dog walker comes, with two fat labradors. It takes an age for one of them to squat on its haunches and for its owner to rummage about for a plastic bag to scoop up its mess. I stand with my back to the wall, wishing that we didn’t both look so bizarre. Suz is standing in full rain now, in the middle of the alleyway, face upturned to the sky. The rain thrums. Bounces like pins on the puddles. The dog walker – it’s a man, under his hood – casts a glance in our direction. I can feel him wondering about us.