As I set off down the moss-covered driveway at a painful sprint, there’s a deep, terrible sensation in my gut. It’s like molten lava bubbling before it bursts through the top of a volcano.
There is an explosion coming. I can feel it with every beat of my heart.
Chapter Fourteen
Bam and bam the slam of feet on stone and throb of pain and questions in my brain – Why this? Why now? Look for help, for someone; kids on their way to school, a mum, a dad, a gran, a man in a van, a butcher, baker, candlestick maker, good knight with mobile, an angel with iPhone.
Stop. Breathe. Scan.
Thoughts are colliding in my brain, hot with friction, like an electric blade scything through wood. The streets are empty, apart from the rubbish the gulls are pulling from overflowing bins. Where is everyone?
It’s an offence to knock on a stranger’s door, but it’s a crime to let a friend die, so in less than a minute I am at a house at the top of the hill, and the door is opening, almost before my finger has pressed the bell.
‘I need an ambulance for someone who is ill,’ I explain. ‘Can you help me, please?’
A woman of about sixty, with white hair and a sharp face, is staring at me through thick glasses. She looks curious, but irritated, like a suspicious old person who hates the world.
‘I’m sorry to ask, but it’s an emergency,’ I continue.
The woman raises her eyebrows, sighs and closes the door.
‘No!’ I yell, banging on it as hard as I can. ‘Don’t ignore me. I just need you to make one call.’
There is no response from inside.
Little Bird would never have turned away a child, not even one dressed as raggedly as me. But laws are laws, as Dair keeps saying, and people are afraid.
A church bell sounds somewhere in town. Eight thirty and still no thrum of traffic, no buses bursting with kids and office workers, no hygiene trucks, clearing up the dead animals after last night’s street cleansing.
I haven’t checked my diary for a while and it’s dawning on me that today must be Sunday. This place may be having a lie-in, but I have to find help urgently. I will ask the first person I see. Too bad that it’s a paper boy of about my age, who suddenly hurtles past on a bike, talking into a mobile, balanced between his shoulder and his left ear.
‘Hey!’ I shout. ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ But he is already a dot at the bottom of the hill.
I’m running as fast as my legs can carry me, hoping I might be able to catch up with him on his rounds, but as I near the end of the steep slope I have lost sight of him and his bike.
‘What you runnin’ for?’ asks a small girl with strawberry-blonde ringlets under a pink wool hat. She is playing with a doll’s pram in a front garden next to where I am bent double, trying to get my breath back.
‘I wanted to borrow a phone from the paper boy,’ I tell her. This sounds really stupid.
‘You can use mine,’ she says. ‘If you give me a sweetie.’
‘I don’t have any sweeties, but I’ll get you some – whatever you want,’ I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
‘I want lemon fizzes,’ the girl announces.
‘Then I’ll go to the sweet shop, after I’ve used your phone,’ I say, smiling.
‘Promise?’ she asks, looking very earnest.
‘Promise,’ I agree. I’m not letting myself worry about how I would pay for them.
‘Here y’are, then,’ she says, rummaging under the covers in her pram and producing a plastic handset. ‘You press the numbers on the front and guess who answers?’ she asks darkly.
‘Who?’ I respond, crushed.
‘Barbie,’ she confides, in hushed tones.
‘I need a real phone. I’m sorry.’ I feel totally despondent. ‘Do you have one inside your house?’
‘Course I have,’ she tells me, tidying her pram covers.
‘Would it be OK if I come in and use it? I need to call the hospital.’ Irritation is creeping into my voice.
The girl looks at me for a moment and smiles. ‘You are funny,’ she says. ‘But you’re not allowed inside. Can I still have my sweeties?’
‘Can you get your mum or dad, please?’ I request, trying to stay calm.
‘No,’ she answers sadly, and something in her voice prevents me from pressing her further. There must have been a family tragedy here – maybe her parents died from the virus. I feel sorry and full of panic all at the same time.
‘Will you get my lemon fizzes now?’ she asks, softly, her blue eyes round with hopefulness. Any other time, I would say yes. Any other time, I would get her more bags than she has ever dreamed of.
‘Gotta go,’ I say, and give her a little wave. Her small hand waves back. The other one is wiping tiny tears from her eyes.
I’m jogging with a heavy heart, weighing up my options. There is an answer to my problem. If I find the hospital, I can get an ambulance for Dair myself. And maybe I can also find the friendly doctor and get some help for my thigh. If it comes out that I’ve been near Dair, I will be quarantined, so I must be careful what I say.
More than anything, I want to speak to Little Bird, to hear her say she loves me. Something in my encounter with the small girl has left me with a deep, scary fear that I may never see my mother again.
Suddenly, an image of her face flashes through my mind. She is mouthing something at me. There is no sound, just the shape of the word, repeated many times. I struggle to lip-read. Is this my imagination playing tricks or is it a real memory? ‘Ra, ra, ra,’ she seems to be shouting, yet her tongue moves to the roof of her mouth each time.
Caly, you idiot, it’s obvious what she’s saying. She is telling you to run.
My throat has tightened. I can’t breathe. I have to stand very still. I lean against the wall outside a newsagents, which is closed. There is a sign on the door that reads: ‘Due to illness, this shop will be shut until further notice.’ I see the phrase but it has no meaning. A large piece of my puzzle has just fallen into place and the shock of it has caused my knees to give way.
Little Bird was trying to protect me – from what; from whom?
Nine dongs of the bell. The tolling is morphing into the noise of sirens, which are approaching at speed from the direction of the town centre. I’m trembling at the thought that someone has reported me, and I start to move towards the cover of a deep doorway. Just moments later, a fire engine thunders past me up the hill, followed by a police patrol car with its warning lights flashing.
None of the passengers look at me as they pass. All the same, I try to conceal the expression of complete terror which must be etched on my face. Idiot, Caly. These guys might be the short cut to the help Dair needs. Tell them what’s happened, then disappear.
I’m attempting to jog back up the hill, my good leg taking most of the strain. I don’t remember it being this far – but memory isn’t my strong point. I’m rehearsing what I will say to the emergency team when I find them: ‘There’s a man who is very ill on the first floor of the old hospital.’ That has all the information, without implicating me, I hope.
But what do I do if they ask me to show them where?
Say you heard him shouting from the window. Say anything to stay out of their grasp.
Focus on getting up this pig of a hill. I’ve decided the local residents must have legs like mountaineers. Maybe they are all artists too, as the houses are painted pastel shades of blue, green, lilac and pink. Looking at them is like watching a picture book unfolding.
I don’t like the way the story is going, though. A large crowd has gathered in the street and is blocking my path. Plumes of black smoke are rising into the clear blue sky from behind the terraced houses at the top of the incline. It must be a huge fire and all these people have been evacuated from their homes.
But as I battle my way through the groups of bystanders, I begin to realise that the smoke has a much more terrifying source.
The hospital is alight, orange and
yellow flames poking through the top floor windows like serpents’ tongues. The fire engine is parked in the grounds, near the bench where I found Andy. Fire fighters are standing on a platform, directing large hoses through the windows. All the glass panes are missing, probably blown out by the ferocity of the heat inside.
There is a lot of commotion. The police have cordoned off the area in front of the danger site and are telling the crowd to ‘Keep back, for your own safety,’ through loudhailers.
‘DAIR! FURBALL!’ I’m yelling, trying to push my way through the mass of bodies, some in dressing gowns and pyjamas, clutching mugs of hot liquid, jostling for the best view. I’m hoping with every fibre of my being that my furry friend has followed her animal instincts and hopped away to safety.
No one is being allowed through the barrier, but, being what my dad calls a ‘short arse’, I manage to duck under it and I’m running to the first person in uniform I can find. It’s a motorbike cop, who is speaking into a microphone on his crash helmet. I grab his arm to get his attention.
‘There’s a sick man in there. You’ve got to help him. Please,’ I’m begging.
The cop looks at me, frowns and dismisses me with a flick of his wrist, as if I’m a fly that has settled on his skin. He is walking away, still speaking into his headset, joining colleagues who are moving the tape to allow another fire engine through.
‘Will someone listen to me? There’s a sick man on the first floor!’ I scream, but the vehicle’s siren and the noise of the crowd are drowning me out. I shout until my voice goes hoarse. There’s nothing for it – I’ll have to take matters into my own hands and force them to follow me in.
As I begin to run towards the burning building, I feel the intensity of the flames and start to choke on the smoky fumes pouring from inside. Any moment now, I expect a fire fighter to lunge at me and try to stop me gaining entry. Instead, I am almost crushed by several men in protective gear, running out of the building.
‘Get back!’ they warn and two seconds later there is a massive CRACK and the sound of splintering wood and bending metal and, suddenly, the whole roof falls in, in slow motion, sending clouds of debris in all directions.
The crowd falls silent. Everyone stands still. Then there is coughing and hushed murmurs of surprise. When the dust settles, the blackened top floor is completely exposed, like a giant doll’s house. Only the shell of the walls and windows remain. Parts of the floor are also gone. If I ever get back inside my house, I will be looking straight at the stars.
Acrid fumes of charcoal and wet wood hang in the air. The dramatic collapse has put out the fire, so the water hoses are being reeled in. A policeman is confirming that there are no casualties on the ground (what about inside?) but he asks for an ambulance in case anyone is suffering from smoke inhalation.
I don’t understand any of this. My head is hurting trying to make sense of it. There was nothing flammable on the second floor – just empty rooms and floor boards. There was no electricity or gas to ignite a blaze.
I don’t believe Dair would have started this fire. He was just sitting in his chair – too ill to move. Surely they would have seen him when they swept through each floor and brought him out! I can’t think about the other possibility: that he was still there when the roof fell in. That I’ve let him down so terribly and I will never set eyes on him again.
‘Yeah, it could be arson,’ the policeman in charge is saying into his radio. ‘There were reports of a hobo living rough here and evidence of personal belongings found on the first floor. Get this – it was all kept in a house made of books. Clearly a nutter. No sign of him before the roof went, no body remains, although he could have been hiding somewhere. We’ll do a final sweep through to secure it, then get the place boarded up. Sooner it’s demolished the better.’
The hospital is steaming gently in the winter morning sun. Has my house been destroyed too? Did the strength of a thousand paperbacks, two Bibles, a Koran, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, a fishing encyclopaedia and The Complete Works of Shakespeare withstand the onslaught? Did those big-booted feet of the emergency team kick their way through my rooms?
Have I lost my world for a second time – and the only friends I had in it?
As the crowd begins to disperse, I notice something glinting on the ground and stoop to pick it up.
‘Finders keepers,’ says a voice close to me – honest to God, it’s Dair’s, I would swear to it – but when I turn round all I see are the backs of strangers, moving away slowly.
Clutched in the palm of my hand is a metal bottle top. It looks just like Dair’s special one. ‘Promise me you’ll keep fighting them,’ he said. I couldn’t promise, not just because of a metal disc. Sorry, Dair. It’s not a key to Hive. It’s just a bit of junk. But I’ll keep it, because I know you want me to. Maybe they were still out to get you, just like you thought. Each time I hold the disc, it will remind me to stay strong and watch my back.
I tuck it deep into my trackie pocket.
No body remains. The words resonate in my mind, a chilling reminder that Dair is missing and that I must pull myself together if I want to survive. I’m at crisis point and there is only one person who can help me; the same person I must warn before it’s too late.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m at the checkpoint where all vehicles are scanned before entering, or leaving, the zone. It took nearly two hours to make it this far. My thigh is throbbing and I feel weak with cold, despite the old jacket I found in a skip after setting off. I was going to try to go across country, but it will soon be curfew time, and I can’t risk being seen leaving the controlled area.
The darkness is protecting me. I’m hiding at the back of a toilet block. From here, I can see all the cars and lorries in the queue. One by one, they are being swept by a scan gun. Then the automatic barrier lifts and they drive away.
Crouch low. Breathe. Make a plan.
I’ve decided to stow away in the back of an open truck. I need to choose carefully. It mustn’t have sides that are too high. I’ll need to cat leap in once it has passed through the barrier. It will be moving, so I’ll have to use all my free-running skills to keep pace with it and make the leap. My heart is banging in my chest, reminding me that time is ticking away. What if there isn’t a suitable vehicle? My spirit sinks at the thought of a journey overland, through the night.
I look at the queue of cars stretching back into the darkness. There are two lanes of them and the thrum of their engines sounds like a swarm of bees moving closer, very slowly. About fifty metres away, there are raised headlights. As they approach, I see they belong to a large black van with an open back, and scaffolding poles tied down inside.
This is the one. There’s nothing else in the line that I can get into. It’s now or never. I try to steady my breathing, which has become shallow and panicky. I watch the van intently as it moves forward and stops on the scanning grid. There are two people in the cab: a stocky male driver and a younger man with spiky hair. A blue light sweeps over the vehicle. There is a high-pitched beep beep noise and the barrier begins to rise.
Bam and bam, my feet are slamming on the ground. Head down and push and push and whoooah, the rush of air against my face! Speed up and force my legs to sprint, so fast they are a blur of motion. Three, two, one and LEAP and land and grip the side and flip and tip and curl and roll and holy mangoes. Made it!
I’m on all fours, crouched between scaffold poles and the side of the van, ribs rising and falling heavily. I’m so full of adrenaline I can’t feel any pain in my bad leg. The poles are a great camouflage. I slide underneath them. I mustn’t relax. I need to be ready to jump out once we reach the barrier at the end of the motorway, the entrance to my home zone.
It’s a bumpy, noisy ride. The van is travelling fast, making the poles rattle and clank together. I’m estimating that the journey will take about half an hour. It’s hard to gauge the passing of time. There is nothing to do but stare at stars.
I’m al
most lulled into sleep by the motion so I make myself try to join the dots in the sky. One giant spider’s web later and we seem to be slowing down. Darkness is replaced by bright light – we must be approaching the next control point.
Time to skedaddle. I’m peering over the side of the van, waiting for my moment. The vehicle slows to a crawl. I take a deep breath and vault as silently and lightly as possible, landing on the tarmac. As soon as my feet touch the ground, I am off, like a bat flitting away from the dawn. I’m hiding in the bushes at the side of the road before you can say mai pen rai.
I know the direction to take. I can see the Social Observation Tower in the distance, lit up like a skinny needle. My house is east of here. I’ll follow the main road towards town, staying out of sight behind the grass banks, and cross when the traffic thins to a trickle.
I’m running on autopilot. Seconds, minutes, hours. I have no idea how long I’ve been pounding across wet soil, grass, tarmac and pavements. I only know one thing. My feet are taking me home.
There is no one about by the time I reach the trading estate. I follow the road as it weaves between warehouses. Very soon, I am jogging up the alley which leads to our back gate. It is locked. I vault the fence and stay crouched amongst the plants by our shed. There are lights on downstairs. The curtains are drawn in the lounge but the kitchen blind isn’t down, so I can see it in detail. It all looks so familiar. There is even a trace of lemon grass on the night breeze. I want to walk in the back door like nothing has happened, hold my mother so tight and hear her say she loves me.
But I can’t go in. The FISTS might have set up listening devices. I must watch and wait and hope that my mum is here, that she comes outside. She’s the reason I’ve risked coming home. I need her to tell me everything is going to be all right. But that might be impossible. I have to warn her that she’s in danger. She’s the mother of a free runner, an enemy of the System.
If I Could Fly Page 6