If I Could Fly

by Jill Hucklesby

  ‘I’d like it to be sunny,’ I tell Alfie. ‘The door should be here and the window there, so I look out over the garden.’

  ‘And what sort of style would Madam like her crib? Georgian, with pillars; Gothic, with gargoyles; eco, with grass on top?’ he asks, pretending to make notes.

  ‘I’d like it to be tall and preferably made of gingerbread.’

  Alfie nods and scribbles on his imaginary pad. ‘And will that be a cherry on the top?’ he says.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘It might have to be a flower. I’m clean out of cherries.’ Alfie has found my plastic sunflower, which is still grimy with soot. He stretches and holds it above his head, indicating where the roof of my new house will be.

  ‘Perfect,’ I say, clapping with excitement.

  ‘Don’t speak too soon. I’ve never made a house before,’ warns Alfie.

  ‘Yeah, but Superman can do anything.’

  Even in the dimly lit darkness, I can tell that Alfie is blushing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cold night air in my hair, eyes streaming winter tears, nose like an ice cube, mouth a big ‘O’, cheeks numb, arms outstretched, gloved hands gripping hard, body arched, foot flapping, scarf-muffled shriek of perfect pandemonium – we’re FLYING!

  ‘ALFIE!’ I’m yelling.

  ‘Whoaooh!’ comes the reply, from behind.

  We’ve chosen our moment, waited until the road was clear, and now we’re careering to the bottom of the hill, weaving from tarmac to pavement, dodging the bumps and cracks, the potholes, rubbish cartons and parked cars. We’re travelling so fast everything around us is a blur. We’re superheroes on silver speed machines: invincible, unstoppable.

  Two silver scooters. Two kids with a mission. Two perfect minutes. Maybe good things always come in twos.

  ‘Sooty,’ Superman is calling. ‘My brakes don’t work!’

  Alfie is zooming past me, a look of terror and delight on his flushed face. His cheeks are vibrating with the speed. His left foot is pressing down on the metal bar which is supposed to lock the back wheel, but nothing is happening, or so he wants me to think.

  Up ahead, the road curves and levels out by a green. Both of us begin to slow and we roll to a halt next to a covered bus stop opposite the beach.

  ‘Jaaeo!’ I declare. ‘This is soooooo cool!’

  ‘Yabradabradoodle,’ agrees Alfie.

  We are not alone. There is an old woman sitting on the wooden bench, waiting for a bus. She is staring with wide eyes at our scooters. Her eyes are moving on to me – not surprising as I must look a real sight in Alfie’s mum’s old pink raincoat and purple scarf-and-gloves combo. It’s not a good idea for us to hang about and I motion to Alfie that we should skedaddle, but there is mischief in his eyes and he sounds the horn on his handlebars.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ the woman murmurs, crossing herself, before getting up and shuffling away. She glances back at us every so often and crosses herself again. Our adrenaline spills over into laughter and we sprawl across the seat, clutching our bellies.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I ask, between outbursts of snorting.

  ‘Banana head,’ Alfie replies, making loopy signs with his hand.

  I’m sorry she was scared by the sight of two dishevelled kids on scooters. Maybe her eyesight was bad and we looked like aliens on silver skis. It’s about seven p.m., an hour before curfew, and people get jumpy.

  It’s been the best night for treasure. We’ve been hunting for books. Books for walls, books for tables, books for a bed frame. We’ve found fifty already, most of them in the paper skip at the town’s official dump. It’s easy to squeeze on to the site through a gap in the corrugated metal warehouse. We go there at night when it’s closed to the public. That way, we only need to avoid the security guards.

  We found the scooters there, right on top of the metal bin. It was the first time I’ve seen Alfie nearly cry.

  ‘Always wanted one of these,’ he said. ‘That’s yabrakickingdoodle,’ he added, once we were far enough away and could try them out.

  Checking out charity shop doorways was a piece of cake on two wheels. We whizzed round, filling our carrier bags with any books we could find amongst the piles of donated items left after closing time. We hung our wares from the handlebars and moved on to roadside skips, which added a backpack and a kite to our haul. Alfie wanted me to take a blue Perspex loo seat with shells in it too, but I told him we only ever take what we need. That’s the rule. Although, on second thoughts, it would have made my bathroom look ten times nicer.

  I had such a good time I’d even forgotten about home and Dair and Furball for a while. And another really great thing – my leg isn’t hurting nearly so much. The horrible pain is more of an ache now. That’s another reason to celebrate.

  ‘Let’s play skidders,’ suggests Alfie, suddenly jumping to his feet and pulling me up by my arm.

  ‘No idea what that is,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never skimmed stones across the water, Sooty,’ he sighs.

  ‘We don’t come to the seaside much. My dad doesn’t like it.’ I have a mental image of my father throwing down his bag of chips in disgust after a seagull pooped on his shirt several summers ago.

  ‘It’s easy peasy scratch my fleazy,’ says Alfie. ‘Come on.’

  We’re crossing the wide road, scooters in hand, and running over the grass that gives way to a tarmac promenade before I can say nobradoodle. We are racing down narrow steps on to the shingle, which is bathed in deep lilac light from the half moon hiding behind purple clouds.

  We stand on a ridge of stones and look out across the inky blackness rising and subsiding with a great harrumph, like an old dinosaur dragging its weight and sputtering spumes of white foam at our feet.

  ‘Take a flat one, like this,’ says Alfie, picking up a disc-shaped pebble near his feet. ‘Then you lean back, aim, shout, “Fly, filibuster, fly,” and you skim it – see?’ Alfie’s stone zips across the waves, four leaps in a row, before disappearing into the depths.

  ‘I’m not saying that out loud. It’s a stupid word.’

  ‘Then it won’t work,’ he tells me.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter, selecting my weapon, leaning back, aiming and flicking my wrist. The stone leaves my hand, travels no more than three metres, and plops straight down into the shallows.

  ‘Told you,’ he says quietly, shaking his head.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I reply. ‘You’ve just had more practice.’

  Alfie shrugs.

  ‘OK. Have it your way. Fly fili-whatever-you-are, fly.’ I hurl my next missile. It arcs into the inky sky and drops into the sea. I raise my arms in a silent question.

  ‘You’ve got to really shout,’ Alfie explains. ‘A filibuster is an adventurer, a troublemaker, a pirate. Think of the stone as his weapon, which he is hurling to escape capture. Fly, filibuster, fly!’ he yells, this time spinning in a circle before launching his missile. I watch open-mouthed as a stone as large as a brick bounces off the water eight times.

  ‘Fine,’ I say through clenched teeth. I find the flattest, most aerodynamic pebble I can, take aim like an Olympic javelin champ and throw. ‘Fly, filibuster, fly!’ I scream, with all the passion in my heart. I know what it feels like to want to evade capture, after all. Alfie winces and covers his ears with his hands. The stone skims once and plummets into the water.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I sulk.

  ‘You have to yell, then throw,’ Alfie points out. ‘Let’s do it together. Here’s a stone. After three. One, two, three . . .’

  ‘Fly, filibuster, fly!’ we screech, in unison, before hurling our pebbles. They skim three times in synchronicity, like dragonflies, and, where they sink, ripples fan out across the surface.

  Alfie gives me a high five. I still think it’s a lot of rubbish. But sometimes you just have to trust.

  Chapter Twenty

  I’ve never thrown a house-warming part
y before – in fact, I’ve never had any sort of party before. It’s always just me and Mum for my birthday and we celebrate Thai-style. In Thailand, people are given fish or birds to release, one for every year of their lives and one extra for the year to come. Little Bird usually makes me paper birds. We bless them with water and then take them to the park, releasing them to the wind.

  ‘Suk san wan keut,’ my mother calls after them, waving. ‘Happy birthday.’ Then we go to the waffle bar for something extra special. Dad doesn’t come because he says birthdays are a waste of time and who wants to celebrate getting older?

  Today isn’t about the day I was born, though. I want my new home to be full of good energies, so I’ve laid string round the edge of the space like monks do when they are blessing a dwelling. It’s supposed to help you think about how everything is connected. The ends meet on an altar, where I’ve put my chubby Buddha, some plastic flowers and some berries from a bush in the hospital grounds. It should be lotus flowers really, but I’m making do.

  It’s an exclusive event. The guest list only has two names on it. You can guess who they are.

  Alfie is standing outside my front door singing ‘Why Are We Waiting?’. I’ve told him he can’t come in until everything is ready. Looking around, I’m proud of what we’ve achieved together. This is the first time Alfie will see the place neat and tidy, though. I’ve tried to make it cosy. There’s a heavy beach towel hanging over the missing pane of our entry and exit point to stop the wind whistling in, and tea-light candles are warming the space with a yellow glow.

  In honour of the occasion, I’ve even tied my hair back with a flower clip which matches the long purple cardie I found in a charity-shop rummage box. ‘Freakin’ Friday,’ the man behind the counter said when he saw me. I must admit, I look pretty weird most of the time. As the days are getting colder, I’m adding more layers.

  ‘You do what you have to do to survive,’ Crease told me. I know that now. I used to be sad that Dad wouldn’t let me paint my room green. Now I’m just grateful for a roof over my head and every single precious thing around me that I’ve collected.

  My favourite piece of treasure is the orange and gold material I discovered wrapped on a roll at the rubbish tip. There was enough of it to make two sets of curtains for my windows and a cushion cover. They wouldn’t win any prizes for needlework but the way their threads sparkle in the light like tiny stars is awesome.

  ‘What are you doing in there – painting a mural?’ Alfie sighs outside the door.

  ‘Keep your hair on. One more minute, promise.’ Everything looks set. There’s one last thing to do. I reach for a red and gold plastic box with a figure of an Indian bride and groom on top and open the lid.

  A tinny back-beat starts to pulse and then there is a surprisingly loud ‘ya na, ya ya ya’ intro. An upbeat Bollywood pop song kicks in, filling the café. The bride and groom are spinning. I open my cardboard front door with a flourish. Alfie is making animal shadows on the wall with his fingers in time to the music. He starts to jiggle, moving his head from side to side. He motions for me to join him.

  ‘I don’t know the steps,’ I protest.

  ‘Mum’s got a bhangra exercise DVD. Just do what I do,’ says Alfie, taking my hand.

  I follow his moves and we dance round the café, into the corridor and along to the reception, which is in almost pitch darkness. When the track ends, I have to run back to close and open the lid again, so we can carry on with our crazy dance. After about ten repetitions, the batteries of the music box have died and we’re both out of breath, hot and giggly.

  ‘Yabradabradoodle,’ Alfie exclaims, when I lead him into my house and he sees the transformation. ‘Waay!’ He gives me a high five.

  ‘You’re learning Thai. I’m impressed,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a cool crib, Caly.’ Alfie whistles as he looks around.

  ‘Arctic, more like.’ I make shivering motions to back up my point. ‘Better than a doorway or a wheelie bin, though. And it’s detached, with a garden.’

  ‘In the Middle Ages, it would have been luxurious,’ Alfie says.

  ‘Exactly. I’m queen of all I survey. For now,’ I add, because who knows what’s round the corner and whether it has fangs?

  Nee seua bpa jo-ra-kay, kon dee. Escape from the tiger and into the crocodile, sweetheart.

  ‘You could come and live with me, if you like.’ Alfie is giving me a strange look, reading my fears.

  ‘What would your mum say?’ I ask. I think I already know the answer. Kid on the run equals major trouble.

  Alfie shrugs. ‘She’d like it if I weren’t on my own.’

  He’s just saying that to be kind and there’s probably some truth in it, but there’s no way she wouldn’t try to deliver me back to my parents, or haul me off to the authorities. If I were sixteen, I could make my own decisions. But being thirteen doesn’t amount to a beetle in a banyan tree. I’m not ready for the first and I’ll never be ready for the second.

  Even so, it’s the only really nice thing that anyone has said to me in ages. I do something unexpected, and give Alfie a hug. He looks surprised, embarrassed and pleased all at the same time.

  ‘Babe magnet,’ he says.

  ‘Dream on.’ I let go of him quickly. We are both looking anywhere but at each other.

  I remember the last time I hugged Little Bird. The image of it has taken me by surprise. I can see us both crying. And there is pain in my side. It isn’t distant, like the memory, but very real, very here and now.

  ‘Do you miss home?’ Alfie asks, out of the blue. He’s doing it again, the telepathy thing, which is too spooky.

  ‘Some things so much it hurts,’ I confide. ‘My mum . . .’ I begin, then have to break off because of the lump in my throat.

  ‘She’ll be missing you,’ Alfie says, giving me another strange look, almost as if he knows what I am about to say.

  ‘I went back to make sure she was OK. Couldn’t go in, though, in case the FISTS had set a trap. I saw her through the window. She seemed to sense me there and came outside. I just wanted to put my arms round her. She was talking to herself, saying weird things. And there was a cop there.’ I’m finding it hard to continue. Tears are welling up in my eyes.

  ‘What’s your mum like?’ Alfie asks, holding my gaze.

  ‘Little – no, tiny. Really pretty. Black hair. Almond eyes. A small mouth, like a rosebud. Cheek bones which curve in a smile. The smallest feet, honest to God, I don’t know how she stands up. And she’s got this great laugh, like birds singing,’ I tell him. A laugh I would give anything to hear again.

  ‘Must be fun to come from two places in the world,’ Alfie observes.

  ‘Never really thought about it like that. It sort of feels like I don’t really belong anywhere,’ I try to explain. ‘I’d love to go to Thailand and meet my other family. Don’t suppose it’ll ever happen, though. Not if my dad has anything to do with it.’

  ‘He didn’t buy her over the Internet, did he?’ Alfie asks. He’s hit on a raw point with Little Bird.

  ‘No, course not! She met him on a snowy day in London, in the Bricklayers’ Arms pub, six weeks after arriving in England and eight weeks after giving all her savings to a European man who promised her a job and a chance to study in the UK.’ I tell the story of how Dad thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, how she fell for his flattery when he said he would help her. She found out later that Dad had made a bet with his friend the barman that he could marry her before the month ended. He won five hundred pounds.

  Never trust a promise.

  ‘At least he hung around. Mine did a runner, or something,’ says Alfie. ‘Mum hasn’t a clue where he is. Don’t think she cares now.’

  ‘Parents,’ I groan.

  ‘Better off without them sometimes.’ Alfie is watching me. I know he’s noticed that I’m shivering. It isn’t with the cold, but the sudden recollection of a sequence of events: the sound of breaking glass; Little Bird scre
aming and telling me to run; me, leaving through our back door in the kitchen and sprinting up the side passage, away into the night. Sirens wailing, in the distance.

  ‘Funny things, memories,’ Alfie says quietly. I nod. He’s reading my mind again, I could swear. ‘Some of them are best left behind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes it’s best not to know about the past. Your mind blanks it off for a reason,’ he says.

  ‘I have to know what happened, Alfie. Until I do, I’m stuck here, in limbo. I don’t know what to do for the best. Keep hiding? Go home? The answers are somewhere in here,’ I tell him, hitting my skull with my knuckles. ‘My stupid brain won’t let them out.’

  ‘You’ll find the key, when you’re ready,’ Alfie says, sounding very certain. He has picked up a small power ball from my shelf and is bouncing it on the floor. He knows I won’t be able to resist trying to grab it from him. I think he’s trying to cheer me up.

  He runs away from me and escapes into the garden. I’m hot on his tail.

  He stands by the wall, throwing the ball from hand to hand. I have an idea. I run at him, leap, let my feet walk up the bricks, then push off and land perfectly, snatching the ball from the air. A sharp pain stabs my left leg. Worth it, though.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’ Alfie is dead impressed.

  ‘Friend of mine. A free runner. I’ll teach you if you like.’

  Alfie doesn’t respond. He’s concentrating on catching me out. We dodge round each other while I’m bouncing the ball. Alfie tries to intercept it. I feel really light on my feet, even though it hurts to move. Must be fitter than I thought. Crease was right when he said free running is all about expressing yourself through motion. My body language is telling Alfie he’s lost this contest. I do a forward flip just to prove the point.

  ‘OK. You win.’ Alfie shrugs and grins, but I notice his eyes aren’t smiling.