If I Could Fly

by Jill Hucklesby

  Most days, I curl into it like a banana, my feet sticking up at one end, and read to myself out loud, doing different voices for all the characters. I like feeling that there are lots of people around me.

  ‘Can you tell the BBC to shut up, mate!’ Dair often yells from next door. ‘If I’d wanted a costume drama, I would have got a television.’

  I don’t think he minds, really. Sometimes, I know he comes and sits outside my house, just so he can listen. I try extra hard to read well then. I hear him laugh, or sigh, or tut tut, or draw his breath in, if it’s an exciting bit. Once, he even corrected my pronunciation. Tee-totaller seemed the oddest spelling I’d ever seen.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s “teetotaller”,’ a squeaky voice whispered through my window. ‘It means someone who doesne drink a dram. Although I’ve never met such a person.’

  I think Dair loves stories as much as I do. Maybe, one day, he’ll read me one of his favourites or, better still, make one up. It would be more fun than reading the horrible stories on the front pages of the papers about the rising violence on the streets since the food shops have stopped opening every day.

  I don’t want to think about that. I just focus on building my house, making it stronger and cosier. It even has a roof now, made from plastic sheeting, newspaper and pages from magazines, placed over a string frame. When I go to sleep, I’m staring up at wild horses galloping over the prairie, a double page spread from National Geographic. It’s usually too dark to see them, unless there’s moonlight. But in the morning they are always there to greet me – Flash and Racer, Sundancer and Wings.

  I haven’t tried to find the hospital. Every time I think about going, I feel too frightened by the things Dair said. Even going out foraging makes me very nervous. I do it at night, but before the curfew. The pain in my leg means I’m limping and can’t run fast, so getting caught is becoming more likely. Each time I jump into a skip to rummage for treasure, I wonder if a big net will be thrown over the top, trapping me, as the container is craned on to a low-loader and taken to the dump.

  A homeless man was killed last week when the wheelie bin he was sleeping in was emptied into the crusher.

  ‘Nowhere is safe now,’ said Dair.

  Nowhere except my house of books – and that’s where I want to stay, with my little china Buddha and my dancing flower, my chandelier without a bulb and my framed photo of guinea pigs playing tug of war, until I can find the missing jigsaw pieces in my brain and put them back, one by one.

  Dair and I haven’t spoken much since our argument. He’s keeping himself to himself. He hasn’t sat in his chair for days and, apart from ear wigging at story time, he just stays in his space next door, making plans to storm the Hive and ‘set the people free’. Sometimes, he visits the library I’ve set up. He can borrow three books at a time for as long as he likes. But they must be ones from the shelf and not from my walls.

  Andy the bear has a new job. He’s my doorbell now, thanks to some new batteries I found in a paper bag at a bus stop. If I hear, ‘I love you,’ or, ‘I just lerve honey,’ I know I have a visitor. No surprises who it is.

  I would give anything for it to be Little Bird. I want to speak to her so much, to hear her voice, to ask her a big ‘Why?’ Maybe I could call her? I’ll need money to do that – some change or maybe a pound coin. I could find that tomorrow, if I look hard. But if I call her, the FISTS can find me – Dair says the pay machines are bugged.

  I could write to her – but Dad thought our post was being opened before it got to us. If the FISTS are reading the mail, they would identify the postmark and the security teams would start scouring the area, inch by inch.

  I’ve got to think this through, so I’m heading down the stairs to the café, or what’s left of it, where the smashed window pane has created our new entry and exit point. I used to sit in here with Mum during visiting time and there are still a few tables and chairs that escaped the clearance, and a sign saying Have you washed your hands? Don’t spread infection! I haven’t washed them, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. The counter which used to have plates full of scones, cakes and biscuits is empty. There is no fat, smiley woman wearing a yellow apron by the till, and there are no kids with bandages or shaved heads or in wheelchairs waiting to be served.

  I duck and climb through the gap in the window on to the flower bed next to the building. I walk down the path, rose thorns pricking at my arms and catching my sleeve on the way through.

  The air is crisp and cool in the garden. It’s the middle of the afternoon and already the light is beginning to fade. I sit on the bench and look at the low, grey clouds, with patches of blue in between. Little Bird and I used to play games with the sky. If you stare up, after a while, your eyes adjust, and you can see patterns and shapes. There’s an old man with a walking stick, a sheep with six legs, a palm tree – waay! – even a monkey!

  And there’s a woman, or a girl, with her face in her hands. Is she crying or screaming? The shape shifts and the clouds move on before I can decide.

  I bring my knees up under my chin and wrap my arms round them. The vision was very unsettling and for some reason my heart is thumping and I’m afraid, almost too afraid to move. From not far away, maybe a mile or two, a familiar fairy song is floating towards me like the gulls on the breeze – la la, la-la la. I think of Mr Carter, the ice-cream man, and smile. I don’t suppose he is selling many of those cones in this weather.

  Moments later, a harsher noise – sirens, moving at speed – jars the peace. There’s a single shot, like the explosion of a firework. Then silence.

  My body is trembling. Images of Crease and Slee, lying face down on the pavement, hand-cuffed, flash through my mind. I shake my head hard.

  Don’t do this, brain. That’s not what I saw. But who knows what is happening on the other side of these walls?

  Suddenly, there is a snap of a branch and I’m on my feet and my eyes are scanning this way, that way, and I’m ready to take off, because no one, no FIST, no Face, no teetotaller is going to take me to that centre where the sun doesn’t shine.

  ‘Grab the BLAGGER!’ yells a deep voice and Dair comes crashing through the undergrowth, plastic mac flapping wide, arms forward like a sleepwalker, eyeballs almost popping out of his head, hair stiff with caked mud, one foot totally bare and bleeding.

  ‘Aaargh!’ I’m yelling, because he’s yelling, but I don’t know what I’m yelling about. And then I see it – a brown and white rabbit with a pink nose and floppy ears, hopping nimbly but with terrified eyes, backwards, forwards, sideways, in any direction to get away from Dair. It is holding up its front right paw and I can see the flesh near the foot is red and raw.

  ‘Dinner!’ Dair shrieks as he rushes past me, and a backdraught of fruits of the forest follows. ‘It’s meat, mate, free-range, full-blooded, bona fide MEAT!’

  ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t eat meat because of the virus,’ I call after him.

  ‘Aye, well this bunny looks pretty healthy to me.’ He crouches low in an attempt to corner the creature between the wall and the bench. ‘In fact, it looks delicious and ma juices are rrrrrunning at the thought of sinking ma teeth into its . . .’

  ‘It’s injured and you’re not killing it,’ I say firmly, picking up the furry ball and cradling it in my arms.

  ‘Finders keepers,’ says Dair, getting closer.

  ‘Losers weepers,’ I counter, fixing him with my sternest stare. ‘Bunny might have the virus – then what?’

  ‘I die full up,’ replies Dair with a shrug. His shoulders are heaving up and down. His neck is low, his cheeks sunken. He looks beaten, like a hyena that has lost its prey.

  ‘It needs a sanctuary, just like us.’ I stroke the animal’s ears, holding it close.

  ‘It’s not living here, if that’s what you’re conniving,’ states Dair, still getting his breath back. ‘I’m asthmatic so there’s to be no fur, no fur –’ he wheezes – ‘no further than the front door.’


  ‘I can have a pet if I like. He can live in my house and he won’t bother you.’ I make my way back towards the café window. ‘At least he’ll be company, which is more than you are.’

  I’ve realised two things in the last five minutes: that standing up for myself isn’t so bad (if I don’t do it, who will?) and that it’s only the second time in my life I’ve been this honest with anyone, spontaneously, from the heart.

  I glance back at Dair. He has his hands on his hips and looks like a pantomime pirate, his mouth open in a big ‘O’, his eyes wide and hurt.

  ‘I hope it bites you, you evil-tongued harpy,’ he retorts. ‘Don’t come running to me for sympathy when your peepers stick together and your body writhes and shakes in agony on account of the poison from its putrid fangs.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I reply.

  Dair is lifting his arms up to the skies in a gesture of frustration and stamping his feet on the grass, like a spoiled kid. Then he stands still and says quietly, ‘I wasn’t really going to eat it. I couldn’t. It’s just that sometimes I . . .’

  I’m not taking any notice. I’m already thinking about a name. I’m going to call this rabbit Furball.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You’re going to like it here,’ I’m telling Furball, who turns out to be a she, not a he. I’m stroking her soft stomach as she lies upside down in my arms. I’m hoping the cotton patch soaked in aloe vera and tied with ribbon round her bad foot will help it heal. Just holding her makes me happy. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.

  ‘I wonder where you lived before,’ I say to her. ‘You don’t look like a wild rabbit. You must have had an owner. Did something happen to you? Did you have to run away?’ Her eyes watch me, unblinking and unreadable.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ I whisper, hesitating to make it a promise, for those should never be trusted. The possibility that similar experiences have caused our lives to collide makes me shiver. Perhaps this derelict hospital is really an ark, and more and more strays will come to take refuge from the hostile world outside. Maybe the old wards will fill up and the corridors will be full of children playing skittles and racing toy cars.

  Maybe Dair, Furball and I are just the beginning?

  ‘I’ve got a family too,’ I explain. ‘A mum and a dad. And a gran. But I had to run away from them too. Something bad happened – my brain won’t tell me what it was – and I’ve come a long way and now I’m here. If you had looked at the kids in my class, you would never have picked me out as the one who would be living rough, hiding from the FISTS. I was always the mouse, squeaking quietly. I wonder what they’re saying about me, the rest of 9B. Most of them won’t believe I’ve gone. They think my life’s sorted. Parents, house, happy family, no worries. But it takes more than a hutch and some hay to make a happy bunny, eh, Furball?

  The rabbit is scratching her ear, sharp claws moving so quickly I can barely see them. She is wriggling now, agitated. I put her down on my carpet and she hops to the front door. After sniffing the air around her, she scrabbles at the floor, as if digging a burrow, twitches her tail and promptly hops back inside again.

  ‘Are you telling me this is your new home?’ I ask. Then a thought occurs. ‘I want to show you something, Furball. We’re going to go and stand by the window, just for a minute. There’s someone I want you to meet. Don’t be scared. Here we are. I’m just going to hold you up – there’s no need to scratch. You see that face over there? It’s watching you, and watching me. I think it likes you. Yes, look, it’s waving a hand. Hey, that’s the first time it’s tried to communicate.

  ‘What do you think it means?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Spiky tickles on my face, my chin, my hand. The brush of soft fur against my forehead. Small teeth pulling at the threads in my sleeve.

  ‘Morning, Furball,’ I say sleepily. When I open my eyes, her two pink ones are staring at me intently. ‘What’s up?’

  Furball turns and hops out of my bedroom, heading towards the front door. I crawl off my mattress to see where she is scampering to and I’m surprised to find her balancing on her hind legs and scratching at the plyboard barrier with her front claws. I’m happy to see that her injured paw is mending nicely – that’s good news after only five days.

  ‘Waay, Flufty, what’s the rush?’ I glance back at my alarm clock shaped like a chicken – one of my newest acquisitions. ‘It’s only eight o’clock.’ Her scrabbling is getting more frenetic. ‘OK, OK. I’m coming.’

  It’s a cold morning. I can see my breath rising like spirals of candy floss round a stick. I wrap the big travel rug from my bed round my shoulders, shove my feet into the bear slippers which are two sizes too big and pad to join Furball.

  When I push the door open, she bunny hops at full speed across Wonderland to the corridor and then just looks at me, her ears flicking back and forth in a very agitated fashion. If she could speak, she would be saying, ‘Come on!’

  I follow her with a reluctant sigh, my bad leg causing me to suck my breath in as I feel a stab of pain. Furball is already heading off down the stairs. Bounce, bounce, bounce and she’s at the bottom. As I shuffle after her, amused, thinking she is having a mad moment of rabbit rebellion, I soon see the reason for her strange behaviour. The shock of it makes me move faster. I’m jumping three steps at a time, leaving my slippers behind.

  ‘Dair! What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing? Waiting for the number seven bus?’ he answers quietly. He is lying on the floor of the old reception area, staring up at the domed ceiling. In the murky light of this winter morning, his face looks grey and his cheeks are as sunken as desert pools.

  ‘Did you fall?’ I ask, kneeling next to him.

  ‘No, cherub, I thought I would jump from the top step to see if I could fly,’ he answers with difficulty. He notices my look of increasing panic and decides to cut the sarcasm. ‘I didna fall. I was going out to get us some supplies and my head was spinning like a big wheel so I lay down in this very salubrious spot and here we are.’

  I peer into his eyes. ‘You’re a very strange colour.’

  ‘That’s good. If I looked well, I would be worried,’ he says, trying to give me a little smile, which looks more like a grimace. I put my hand on his forehead. The skin feels like ice. My fingers almost recoil.

  ‘Cold?’ he murmurs.

  ‘As a box of frozen fish fingers,’ I confirm. I’m thinking he would be much better off on my mattress, wrapped in blankets.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ It’s as if he’s reading my mind. ‘Don’t bother your wee self about me.’

  ‘You can’t lie here on this floor. I’ll help you upstairs, come on.’ I’m pulling at his arm, which is heavy and uncooperative. Slowly, Dair begins to respond and I take his weight as he attempts to stand. We sway from side to side, like a pair of drunkards.

  ‘You’re a good kid,’ he tells me, attempting a wink.

  With an arm round my shoulders and a hand on the wooden rail, Dair ascends the stairs, one at a time. He is trying to sing something about a stairway to heaven, which I hope isn’t a bad sign. Furball is hopping behind us, her nose twitching.

  I try to guide Dair towards my house, but he shakes his head and mutters, ‘Ma chair, if you please,’ through chattering teeth. He is almost bent double now, his feet, in their mismatched trainers, scraping along the ground.

  ‘There,’ I say, relieved, as his large frame slumps down into the soft, blue cushions. I lay the rug over him and try to tuck it in, but his trembles have become more like convulsions and his arms are waving about erratically. I know what I have to do.

  ‘I’m going to get help. You need an ambulance.’

  ‘No,’ he replies emphatically. ‘It’s no use, cherub. It’s too late. I’m sorry.’ His eyes are holding mine with a terrified gaze.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I argue with him, tears pricking behind my eyes.

  ‘It’s what happens when you don’t do your job p
roperly,’ he says through chattering teeth.

  ‘What job?’ I ask.

  ‘Looking after you.’

  ‘We look after each other, that’s the deal,’ I say.

  ‘Ye have to keep fighting them, Calypso, or they’ll take away everything that makes you who you are. Keep asking questions. Accept nothing you are told.’ Dair is almost clawing at the scar on his left temple. ‘Promise me you will.’

  ‘What did they do to you?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘Put a microchip inside my brain. I was just a bairn. But they didna win. Nobody tells Dair McFarlane what to think. So c-c-cold,’ he says, his body trembling.

  ‘I’ll get more blankets.’ I run the few metres to my house and grab all the covers I can find. When I return to Dair, I see he has broken out in a sweat, even though he still feels freezing to the touch. I try to swaddle him in the extra layers, but he is thrashing about, trying to push them off. Furball is lying close to his feet, making a funny gurgling sound in her throat. I think it must be fear.

  ‘Do you think you’ve got the virus?’ I ask, bracing myself for Dair’s reply.

  ‘No. This is something much worse,’ he whispers. ‘You must take this, so you can get into the Hive and destroy it.’ He is pressing the metal bottle top into my palm.

  ‘Keep it safe until I get back.’ I bend and am about to kiss Dair on the top of his head.

  ‘Away wi’ ye, ye blitherer,’ he says, and he gives me a fleeting smile before closing his eyes.

  There isn’t a moment to lose. I rush to find my trainers and jacket and am still dressing as I descend the stairs again. Crawling through the hole in the café window will take too long, so I release the catch on the front door and open it, leaving it ajar for the medics I hope to persuade to come.

  Never get caught.

  Don’t worry, Furball. I’ll get Dair the help he needs. I’ll watch them take him away and when it’s safe, I’ll come back here. I won’t let them take me in. I won’t.