The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  When I look up again, one of the horses has gone. It's Fanny, the whitish-grey mare who's always a bit skittish. She's jumped the stream, and a small wall. I can just see her munching away at the far end of the next field.

  Cursing mightily I run after her, jumping the stream, climbing over the wall. She lifts her head, still munching as I run up, her tail flicking from side to side. Then just as I get near, she makes a funny whickering noise and canters off.

  This is how we spend the next half hour – her waiting for me to catch up, then galloping off again when I do. I'm sweating like a pig and calling her all the names under the sun, but I daren't go back without her. I just hope to heaven all the other horses are still where I left them.

  Then finally I see that she's galloping towards a great ditch with a thick hedge of briars on the far side. If she jumps that she'll really hurt herself, and I'll never be able to follow. I'm about to give up in despair when I remember my sling. I fit a stone in it and aim for the far side of Fanny.

  Have you ever tried aiming for the far side of a galloping horse? I daren't hit her, so the shot goes wide but still she veers off, taken by surprise. Then I fire another and another. It's working! She's veering back to me.

  The next stone hits her on the leg. I didn't mean to, but she stumbles, then trots on limping. If I've lamed her, Honest Bob'll kill me. Still, it slows her down long enough for me to catch her by the bridle.

  ‘Sorry, Fanny,’ I mutter as she hobbles along. ‘What did you want to do that for?’

  I'm vastly relieved to find that the other horses are still there. My knees are shaking from all the running around, but I manage to lead them back to the vans.

  ‘Where've you been?’ yells Honest Bob, and, ‘What've you done to that horse?’

  ‘She ran off,’ I say. I daren't say I was firing stones at her. ‘She must've stumbled.’

  Honest Bob utters a string of foul oaths such as I haven't heard since Bent Edge Farm, but Balthasar's got Fanny and is feeling tenderly down her leg.

  ‘If that horse is lamed I'll lame you,’ Honest Bob says, but Balthasar looks up.

  ‘It's not broken,’ he says, ‘just bruised.’ He's giving me a peculiar look but all I can think is, I'm starving.

  ‘You've missed breakfast,’ Flo says.

  Great. ‘Isn't there any left?’ I ask.

  But Honest Bob says, ‘You haven't earned any.’ Then he takes Fanny from Balthasar and leads her up and down a bit.

  Balthasar's still looking at me with that searching, peculiar look. ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Doesn't feel like she stumbled,’ says he. ‘Feels like she's been hit with a stone.’

  Suddenly I can see what he's thinking, and I stare at him open-mouthed. ‘I never!’ I say.

  Balthasar shrugs and turns away. ‘Horses don't run off for no reason,’ he says.

  This is too much. ‘I didn't throw stones at her!’ I shout, but he's walking off. I start to run after him, to try to explain, but Honest Bob catches me.

  ‘Go and get that tent set up,’ he orders. ‘And look sharp!’

  There's a look in his eye I daren't argue with. I hold back a bit then go to help Ivan drive the tent pegs in. Balthasar'll have to wait.

  My hands are shaking as I tie the ropes, and my mind's elsewhere. I'm fuming inside. All that effort and now they think I lamed that horse on purpose. Plus I'm still starving. I don't know if my hands are shaking more because I'm angry or hungry. Result's the same though. The knots don't work. First blast of wind and the tent collapses.

  Honest Bob's hopping mad. ‘Can't you even tie a knot, lad?’ he roars.

  I pick up a rope to start again and he skelps me across the back of the head. ‘Go and sit in the van!’ he barks. ‘You're neither use nor ornament!’

  I fling the tent peg down, not quite daring to fling it at him, and storm off. I sit in the van bursting with rage. No one's knocked me about for a long time, and what I'm thinking is, No one'll do that again.

  When I look up Annie's peering in.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ I snap at her and she disappears again, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And there's a lot of them; I've got a lot to think about. All the things that have happened today are helping me make up my mind.

  Then Flo comes. ‘Won't you join us for some food?’ she says, and though I'm starving I can't stand the pity in her voice. I shake my head sharply, once.

  ‘But you've not had breakfast,’ she says, and I look away. Flo sighs. ‘Wait there,’ she says, and she comes back a minute later with some broth and bread. Part of me still wants to hold off but I can't help myself. I fall on the food like a ravening wolf.

  Flo watches me, clucking and tutting. ‘You don't want to mind Honest Bob,’ she says. ‘We all have our bad days.’

  Good of her to say it, and the food's good too, but I still don't want to talk. Sighing, she takes my bowl away.

  A bit later, Honest Bob himself comes by. ‘I want a word with you,’ he says and I glare at him sullenly, then shift myself out of the van. He's looking at me like he's got something to say but he can't think how to say it. I look up at him warily, in case he's thinking of hitting me again. He rubs his fingers through the bristles on his chin.

  ‘As I understand it, you're planning to leave.’

  I stare up at him. Has he read my mind?

  ‘Speak up, lad,’ he says. ‘I thought you were only travelling with us to Manchester.’

  I nod, looking away.

  ‘Well, we're here now,’ he says. ‘And what I want to know is – are you taking the little lass with you?’

  ‘She's my sister,’ I mutter.

  ‘What?’ he barks.

  ‘I said, she's my sister,’ I say loudly.

  ‘She's no use to you,’ he says. ‘But I can use her. You can leave her here.’

  So that's it. I'm not even surprised.

  ‘Annie won't stay without me,’ I say, but he waves a hand.

  ‘She'll be looked after here,’ he says. ‘Better than you can. I mean, where are you going, eh? What are your plans?’

  There's that word again – plans. Makes me nervous.

  ‘Speak up,’ he says again.

  And I say, ‘I haven't got any.’

  Well, I have, I suppose, but I'm not telling him.

  He nods. ‘Thought not,’ he says. ‘Well, if you've no plans and nowhere to go, what kind of life can you offer her, eh?’

  I'm not answering this, so he goes on. ‘Well, that's what I'm saying. Leave her here. Flo loves her and she'll go down a storm with the crowds. You'll be better off on your own. So… how about it?’

  How about it. Free at last. No one to look out for but myself. He's waiting for an answer and I don't know what to say. So I say, ‘What's it worth to you?’

  Honest Bob's eyes open wide, then narrow and he gives a short, barking laugh. ‘Well, well, I thought it might come down to that in the end,’ he says, with a smirk on his face that makes me want to kill him all over again.

  ‘What's it worth to me?’ he says, and he studies my face carefully then reaches into his back pocket and draws out a shiny coin. Looks valuable. ‘It's worth this much to me, lad – take it or leave it.’

  Clear as a bell I hear my mother's voice saying, Take care of your sister, Joe.

  ‘Make it two,’ I say. Honest Bob laughs more harshly this time.

  ‘Don't push your luck, lad,’ he says, and I back down from the look in his eyes. I reach out my hand and pocket the coin, wondering how much it's worth.

  ‘But I'm telling you, she'll not stay if she knows I'm going.’

  Honest Bob nods. ‘Then she'll not have to know that you're going, lad.’

  I stare at him. He sits down on the steps of the van. ‘You can go tonight, when the performance starts. No one need know. And by the time she realizes, you'll have been gone too long to follow.’

  No one need know. No explanations, no goodbyes. Not to Balthasar or Flo. Not to Annie. I
just disappear like a rat in the night. Well, it would be easier. Because how do you explain to your sister that you're leaving without her, and not coming back?

  Honest Bob's waiting, half a smile playing about his lips.

  ‘Done,’ I say, and it sounds in my ears like the single tolling of a bell.

  ‘Grand!’ says Bob heartily. ‘Sorted then. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a show to put on.’ And he strides off whistling.

  Slowly I climb back into the van. My head's all mizzy and my thoughts are whirling like a snowstorm. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the coin, all the little ridges round its edge. Maybe it's a sovereign. I never in all my life thought I'd own one of them. And I'm lucky, because I was planning to leave anyway. So the joke's on Honest Bob, because if he'd known he needn't've offered me anything.

  But even that thought only makes me feel a bit better. I sit in the van as the light fades, trying to sort out my head, think what I'll do next. Another thought strikes me and I search around the van and find a square of cotton. I fold this up, knotting the corners into a kind of sack and hunt around for things to stuff into it – brassware, pretend jewels from the chest, even a wig. Booty. You never know what you might need to bargain with. A hunk of bread goes in next and I hunt around a bit for more food. I tie a spotted neckerchief round my shirt and find a cap for my head.

  When I turn round again, there's Annie. My stomach flips over, then falls. ‘What are you doing?’ I say. ‘You're on in a minute.’

  She says nothing, just stands very white and still, watching me.

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘You'll miss the show.’

  Nothing. I give a snort of impatience and carry on scouting around.

  Then she says to me, ‘Don't go.’

  ‘What?’ I say whipping round. ‘Who told you?’ realizing too late I've just given myself away.

  Annie looks up at me with her luminous eyes. ‘Don't go,’ she whispers.

  I spot a tasselled scarf with tiny mirrors sewn on, and stuff that in my sack as well.

  ‘It's too late, Annie,’ I say.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean, no?’

  I glare at her, but she steps forward, putting her hands on my shirt. ‘Take me.’

  I shake her off. ‘What good'd that do? You're better off here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stop saying that. Look, they like you here… it'll be your home. And you'll be a star, on stage every night. And Flo'll look after you like you're her own.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you can't come with me. I don't want you.’

  She stumbles towards me, clutching my shirt again, and I'm horrified to see there's tears in her eyes. I don't cry, and neither does Annie.

  ‘Give over,' I say gruffly. Then she's on me, her fingers clutching my shirt.

  ‘Take me,’ she says.

  One by one I prise her fingers off my shirt and shake her off. But she flings herself at me again and harsh, dry sobs come bursting out of her. My head feels like it's bursting and I have this nightmare feeling like I'll never get rid of her. So I tear her off me so hard she falls over, grab my sack and run down the steps of the van.

  ‘Get lost,’ I say. ‘Don't you come following me. It's over.’ And I make a sign with my hands like I'm cutting through the air. ‘Do you hear?’

  Even so, as I turn my back I hear her following with her snuffling breath.

  Desperate now I quicken my pace, and when I still can't shake her I stoop and pick up a stone. ‘Get back,’ I say, ‘or I'll stone you!’

  And the next step she takes I fit the stone in my sling and aim it. It whirrs past her feet and she holds back. ‘I mean it, Annie,’ I say. ‘Next one'll hit.’

  I'm as good as my word and the next one hits her shoulder. She stumbles and the next thing I know she's crying loudly, bawling like a calf.

  I turn and run before everyone hears. Faster and faster I go, leaping over the ditch, jumping the stile, racing towards the houses at the end of the field. My own eyes are hot and wet and I rub them angrily. You won't stop me, Annie, I'm thinking. Not this time you don't.

  I can still hear the noise of her crying as I turn into the street – the sound I've not heard since our mother left us at the workhouse. When I look back I can just make out her blurred shape, unmoving, by the vans.

  I don't like it, of course I don't, but she'll get over it, I tell myself – and as I round the corner another kind of feeling takes over me. A kind of fierce joy. I'm free! I tell myself in time to the pounding of my feet, and I jump up on to a low wall and run along it. Free, free, free!

  Part II

  Lost and Found

  1

  Graveyard

  I don't stop running till I get to the end of the long street and turn off into the little ginnel where the grid was. I'm going so fast I almost miss the grid, then my foot slips on it and I bend over and haul it up. Before I can stop and change my mind I drop my sack into it so that I have to follow. I lower myself into it, clinging to the edges of the hole with my fingertips, then I let go. It's further than I thought and the drop hurts my feet. I pick up my sack and limp off into the darkness.

  Soon the darkness is total. Like I wave my hand in front of my face and I can't see owt. Still I stumble on, trusting to memory, my nose full of the stench of rotting things.

  It's not long before I realize I'm lost. The tunnel twists and turns and there's smaller tunnels leading off to either side. I'm sure I should go along one of these, but I'm blasted if I can remember which. Everything's different in the dark. There's the stench and the eerie noises rumbling around.

  How much further? I think, and I can hear Digger's voice saying, There's tunnels everywhere under Manchester.

  Course they might not be in the tunnels any more. They said they had to move territory. A small part of me wonders why they couldn't just stay in the tunnels. I mean, I don't like them, but they're a grand place to hide. Weeks and Bailey or anyone could come looking and not find you down here, not if they looked for a hundred years. Why didn't the Little Angels just set up camp in the tunnels?

  Doesn't take me long to find out. There's another twist in the tunnel and the rumbling noise gets louder, building to a roar. I don't know what it is, so I carry on, and then, with a gushing noise, the water comes. Not just water neither – filthy, stinking slime, and before I can shout sh*thole I'm up to my waist in it, gagging from the stench.

  Panicking I grab the tunnel wall and hold on fast, my sack between my teeth. There's dead animals in the water and hair and something hard that knocks my arm and drifts away. I cling to the side of the tunnel for dear life and the next gush almost sweeps me along. Worst thing would be to fall over in this lot, floating face down in the filthy slutch.

  I hang on and on, digging my fingers into the cracks between bricks, only breathing when my head feels like it's bursting. If the water doesn't knock me over, the smell of it might knock me out. Either way I'm done for.

  Slowly the gushing dies down and I'm able to take a step or two forward, wading through the filth, still clinging to the tunnel wall and fearful of slipping. I plough on, determined to haul myself out at the next sign of a grid. But when I do find a grid it's way above my head, and the walls are too slippery to climb.

  Cursing myself I plough on, wondering when the next tidal wave'll come my way. Why didn't I just try the streets? I could have found my way to Angel Meadow and tried to remember the way we'd run. And hope I didn't run into Weeks, of course. But right now Weeks is looking like the least of two evils. By a long way.

  Have you ever tried wading your way through waist-high sh*t in the pitch dark, carrying a sack in your teeth? It's not long before I'm totally wore out. The next grid I find is lower and I can jump up and reach it – but not lift it up, of course. However did I think I'd lift it from the underside? Either I was born stupid or I've gradually lost my brains as I've got older.

  Things go on like this and the w
ater won't have to knock me over – I'll just lie down in it and let it carry me away.

  Finally, when I'm all out of ideas and hope, I see a light. Someone's left the lid off a grid! I stagger towards it, hope flaring in me like one of them gaslights with the wind in its pipe.

  Have you ever tried getting out of a wet tunnel? Clambering up and slithering down, banging elbows and knees. If I wasn't so desperate I'd give up.

  Anyway, what seems like hours later I'm lying face down in the mud. To one side of me there's a clump of nettles, to the other a large stone. But at least I'm in the open air.

  That's all I do for a while – lie down and breathe. Then I realize I've lost the sack, and I close my eyes in despair. Because I'm not going back down again. No way.

  I push my hand into my pocket and find the coin. That's still there at least. Maybe I'm not being punished for selling Annie.

  When I look up again the first thing I see is a stone. It's covered in moss but someone's carved lettering on it – them funny sticks and swirls that make up words. If I could read it might tell me something I need to know.

  Slowly I get to my knees. There's not just one stone but hundreds of 'em, all with markings. Mist swirls round and clings to my face and with the mist comes a silence, though it's not like the silence of the open moor. My hand tightens on my coin. I know what this place is. A graveyard!

  Well, I'm not staying here to be spooked. I get to my feet, feeling sick and wobbly after all that swirling muck. My leg hurts but I hobble on as fast as I can. Where there's a graveyard there's usually a church. Maybe I can shelter a bit in the doorway. I hurry past the stones and dripping thorns, trying not to think of all them stories where the devil appears in churchyards to steal your soul.

  I'm not very good at not thinking about it and before long I'm clammy with fear, teeth chattering like magpies, and very sorry for myself. I'm sorrier still when a stone rises up in front of me and grabs me by the neck.

  ‘Who goes there?’ it cries in a terrible voice. ‘Hold still or I'll cut your throat!’