Dad took up the chalk and balanced it in his fingers. His mouth twitched. He turned to the board and scrawled another Rule amidst his other angry scribbles and crossings-out and madness:
“You don’t need to know any of this useless school stuff, Amber. You don’t need to waste your time on books. On exams. Bits of paper. Only practical knowledge matters.”
It didn’t take Dr Freud to work out what was going on. He didn’t like me or Mum or anyone else knowing things that he didn’t know. He, Ellis Fitzpatrick, was the expert on all matters. Anything else, the actual truth for instance, made him feel inadequate.
“The only useful knowledge is the stuff I can show you, honey. How to keep yourself alive, how to fix things, how to provide a clean water supply.”
He listed the practical stuff he had me do already. And the things he still wanted to teach me.
How to strip a gun.
How to make traps.
How to break into a warehouse.
How to skin a rabbit.
How to evade capture.
How to snare a looter.
How to do as you’re told, Amber.
I was notching them up. If I’d had a special prepper uniform, it would have been covered in tiny fabric badges already.
Dad opened the wood burner and picked up my history folder, scrunching sheet after sheet into a ball and tossing them into the fire. He took my textbook from the table. “This,” he hissed, waving German Social History 1919 to 1989 in my face, “is useless for you now.” He ripped the pages out in chunks and added them to the flames. “They tell you lies. It’s their version of the past. Trust no one.”
I swallowed heavily as I stood there watching history burn.
“You learn nothing from history books.” He rammed the final pages in and forced them down with the poker. “They don’t care about you. I care about you.”
I nodded, impassive.
“You’re my flesh and blood. Blood’s thicker than water.”
The rant continued. I switched off, odd words breaking through: blood, water, water, blood.
I thought instead about other book-burners in history. The ones in those very pages disintegrating before me. I forced the tears to stay in my eyes, defied them to reveal themselves.
Dad turned to the bookshelf with my fiction. The handful of books I owned. He wanted me to react. If I showed I cared, he’d won. I didn’t ever want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hit the bullseye. I shrugged.
Reaction.
No reaction.
What did it matter?
All these Rules and there was still no way to win his game.
He took a paperback – my book, bought with my money – and forced it into the growing mound in the burner. And another and another.
I said nothing.
As the pages crackled and curled, I knew.
His new Rule was wrong but also right, in my topsy-turvy world.
I had learned from history. History had shown me. Where they burn books, they will also ultimately burn people. That was the Heinrich Heine quote I’d used in my essay. That was useful knowledge and it was going to keep me alive because now I knew.
I knew that this wasn’t going to stop.
He wasn’t going to stop.
After the cupboard incident, Josh caved and took the bottom bunk so I had the double bed. When I wake up in the morning, seeing him all squashed up in there, I feel a teensy bit guilty. His feet are hanging off the end. He slept with the sheet over his head to block out my constant bedside light. My conscience isn’t bad enough to make me switch off the light in future or give him back the big bed.
I pick up my advent calendar from the bedside table. Today’s door reveals a choirboy singing. His mouth is a perfect O. What’s with the ruff? Who makes them wear ruffs and white nighties?
Kev’s taking the piss now. First the washing-up, then he’s lined up more toilets and bathrooms to clean after breakfast.
Josh says he has a new cunning plan to earn actual cash which doesn’t involve clearing up anyone else’s bodily fluids. He won’t tell me what, because he is exceptionally irritating. He smirks and taps his nose and drags me back towards the Roman museum, turning down towards the coach park.
“Watch this. Americans en route.”
A coach is unloading tourists, many in plastic ponchos against the drizzle, wearing baseball hats and trainers. Loud voices comment on the weather and how uneven the ‘parking lot’ is.
Josh throws his hat on the floor, takes off his parka to reveal his ‘I walked the wall’ T-shirt and starts singing. I expect it to be terrible, but it isn’t. He’s good. He taps a drum beat on his thigh and his voice rings out. I don’t know the song but it’s a folky one about having your heart broken. A group of Americans gather beside him and give him a clap when he finishes, tossing coins and notes into his hat. “I’ll take any of those Scottish notes that you can’t spend in England,” he says, smooth as anything. He nods to me and I gather up the money before it blows away or they realize what he’s saying isn’t true. I leave a few coins in the hat as a prompt as he starts again. He belts out a country tune that the tourists seem to know and a few clap along while I take the hat along the row.
Too many of them are getting out their phones, recording it. I duck behind Josh, my hood pulled up. “Wrap it up,” I whisper. Having Josh tagging along was to make me less conspicuous not more. Hide and thrive. What was I thinking? Here we are, potentially being uploaded to YouTube. Josh winks at me. I can tell he’s enjoying himself too much. He sings louder and nods at the hat in my hands, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture. He wants me to go round the group again, getting their money. It’s not worth the risk for me and I put the hat on the ground by his feet.
I retreat to the toilet block. I take a cubicle and sit on the toilet with my head in my hands. This is going wrong. I’m not focusing on Dad.
Rule: Stay one step ahead. Focus on the end goal. Survival is everything. I wash my hands thoroughly and splash the cold water on my face. I should be back at Beechwood, messing about with the others, finishing the last of our homework before we break up, staying on track for my mocks after Christmas. Instead of this. Hiding in a toilet block in the North of England.
Josh is waiting for me where I left him, now holding two coffees from the van in the car park. The tourists have moved on to the site. “Where did you go?”
“They were filming us,” I say. “That’s not my idea of being inconspicuous. Hide and thrive, that’s the way to go.”
“Correction. They were filming me. Not you in your massive hat and hood. And so what if we pop up on a Facebook page in Minnesota – you think your dad is looking at all worldwide social media posts to find you now?”
“No, but…”
“I know you and your massive scarf are ducking any CCTV. I do the same at times. Even you can’t be paranoid enough to think your dad can get access to that, are you? He can’t track you.”
I shrug. “He taught me to travel like this. To move around the place as unnoticed as possible. And, well, it’s not just about my dad. There’s his prepper contacts, the police or social services.”
“You said no one was looking for you. You didn’t walk out of Hogwarts without telling them?”
“No! I left a note. I’m nearly eighteen. It’s not a problem.”
“It’d better not be.”
“I liked your singing,” I say to change the subject. “How much did you make?”
“We got forty-five quid for half an hour’s work. Americans are the best for giving money. Our notes are like Monopoly money for them.” His face is bright and excited. “Forty-five quid, Amber! I’ll make a donation to St Cuthbert’s, if you like,” he says with a smirk. “And we could come back here later, when another couple of coaches arrive.”
I’ve got to admit it’s easy money. There’s no way I can risk accessing my bank account and giving away my location. My cash reserves are going down. Maybe Josh is more
useful than I thought. A good stop-gap between The Haven and wherever I end up – Centurion House maybe?
I blow on the coffee and take a sip. “Why didn’t you say you could sing?”
“You didn’t ask. Anyway, so what?”
“Why don’t you do something with it?”
“What, like record a best-selling album? Don’t talk daft.”
He counts the money and places it carefully into his wallet.
“Oi. You!” A red-faced middle-aged man is thundering down the path from the visitor’s centre. “What do you think you’re doing, begging on private property?”
“I was moved by the historical surroundings to give an impromptu concert for our friends from across the Atlantic in the interests of the special relationship,” says Josh without batting an eyelid.
The man stops in front of us and jabs a finger angrily. His whole face and neck is gammon pink. “Hawking, begging, busking, impromptu concerts – whatever you want to call it – are not allowed here. So take your girlfriend and get out of here. Get yourself a proper job.”
Josh pulls himself up to his full height and Angry Man takes a couple of steps back. “Firstly I do not want a proper job like yours, defined by a uniform of green jumper, brown polyester trousers, a name badge and being rude to people. And secondly, this fair lady –” he gestures to me and I turn away – “is not, and has never done me the honour of being, my girlfriend and we both reject your impertinence for suggesting otherwise.”
“Absolutely,” I add.
“This may mean that I have to challenge you to a duel,” says Josh. “Madam, would you be so kind as to retrieve the gauntlet?”
Angry Man looks nervously behind him for back-up, unsure of what he’s got himself into. “Now, hang on a minute,” he says. “I’m going to get my supervisor.”
“Good idea. You’ll need a second for the duel. I’ll wait here and limber up.” He dips into a deep lunge.
As soon as the guy heads back up the path, Josh grabs my arm and says, “Leg it. You don’t want to mess with British Historical Trust.”
We put several hundred metres between us and the car park, before Josh collapses in a fit of giggles. “Are we having fun yet?”
“No. Does that happen a lot?”
“Getting moved on? All the time. No matter what I’m doing. I could literally just be reading a book on a bench but looking scruffy. Though that idiot means we’ll have to find somewhere else to busk. Rule number one – don’t let them get you down. I’ve found I’m less likely to get a smack in the face if I spout a load of posh nonsense. It messes with their world order – I’m a ‘scrounging, homeless druggie’ to them but then if I can string a sentence together in a mock posh voice, they’re not sure where to place me. I’m messing with their minds.” He laughs again, twisting his hands in the air. “All these rules in society we’re meant to follow, to know our place. I don’t have to do it any more.” He turns back towards the hostel. “Take it from me – you don’t have to follow all these rules, Amber.”
When you’re at school, it feels like you’re always being tested with SATs and mocks and GCSEs. The school’s obsessed with league tables and adding value and measuring standards. They go nuts if you wag one lesson or turn up an hour late. They keep an eye on you. That’s why I didn’t quite believe that no one would check on me when Dad pulled me out of school in Year 10. But, it turned out, all he had to do was send a letter saying he was going to home-educate me and that was it. He signed his and Mum’s names at the bottom. I could literally have never been taught anything ever again by anyone and no one would know.
The local authority sent a letter asking to make an appointment to discuss my home education with him but he knew they didn’t have a right to pursue it. If he said no (as he did), that was the end of it. I’d seen the letter sitting on the table. And I thought, hallelujah – someone matronly with a clipboard is going to come.
They will see my woefully inadequate father giving me a woefully inadequate education and they will DO SOMETHING.
I was wrong.
No one came.
Josh leans over me and invades my space with his morning breath and unbrushed hair. “I’m reduced to getting my kicks from whatever tiny picture is in your advent calendar.”
“It looks like a jar of ashes today. Cheery.”
“It can’t be that. Give it here.” He squints down at the card. “Must be myrrh or frankincense. That’s Christmassy. Always in the nativity play, though I can’t tell you what it is exactly, or how to spell either of them. Something smelly and oily?”
“Maybe. Today is a disappointing window. One of life’s disappointing days.”
“You make it sound like a horoscope, predicting the future.”
“Yesterday’s picture was a choirboy.”
“So?”
“And you unveiled your secret singing voice. Mystic. I meant that, as in life, some days are better than others. Occasionally you’re pleasantly surprised. Rarely, in my case.” I smooth out the card again and review all the windows so far.
“So now your advent calendar is a symbol for life in the twenty-first century.”
I shrug. “Why not? Sadly, the signs for how today’s going to turn out are disappointing. Must be all the toilet cleaning ahead of us.”
We sit silently, contemplating the many ways today might deteriorate and I worry that I’ve jinxed the day. Until Josh laughs and says, “You’re mad, you are. It’s just a picture.” But he still places the advent calendar carefully back on the bedside table, like a holy relic.
I’m so tempted not to do Kev’s list of jobs this morning. I want to look into where Centurion House might be – suss out where the national park starts. But Josh reckons he’ll be back here soon and wants to keep Kev’s stupid exploitation scheme going. He accuses me of being in a bad mood because I’m not facing up to seeing my dad.
“It’s the underlying stress,” he says. “Classic. This is exactly why you’d benefit from meditation. You can run from this stuff but you can’t hide.” He points at my clothes piles. “Like, what the hell’s all this about?”
“I’m tidy, that’s all. That’s a good thing.”
Everything has its place. Sets of clothes should be laid out in order, ready to put on in an emergency.
He winks at me then stacks the five piles on top of each other and throws them on the bed. A shoe rolls off on to the floor, the sock missing. I grip the sides of my jeans with both fists to keep my hands still and to stop me wailing at him and jumping straight to the piles to sort them out.
“Try living on the wild side once in a while,” he says. “See you downstairs for Kev’s tasks. Then we can forage some elevenses in the kitchens.”
As soon as he’s gone, I scramble to rearrange my kit. I empty out my whole Grab-and-Go Bag. I check and double-check the equipment piles and repack them carefully where they should be. Perfect. And then I realize – I didn’t see the rolled-up notes I kept in the pillowcase. I look again, my palms getting sweatier and sweatier. My neat packing thrown all over the place like a jumble sale. I can’t find it.
My money’s gone.
I could forage from an early age – he taught me – because those who know the difference between edible and poisonous will survive. Wild food was different from in the States, so he had to learn too. Wild garlic was my favourite. Roasted or nibbled raw. Berries were easy.
Mum and I used to gather sweet, ripe blackberries on the way back from primary school. I’d hand them over with red-stained fingers and we’d make crumble while she told me stories of dragons and magic.
We had a trip once to the beach when I was little and Dad was around. Not for playing beach cricket or paddling like I’d done before with Mum. We met up with another prepper family and had a day of foraging. Seaweed, cockles. We had a fire on the beach in the evening and ate sea beet and samphire with razor clams. That was a good day.
There were good days. Days that felt like an adventure.
>
I tried to hang on to those days when things were bad. When I missed the daylight and my nostrils were full of the smell of stale earth. I tried to remember the smell of the sea and the food cooking and picture the sunset.
Once Dad was back in our lives for good and moving into full-on prepper mode, Mum really struggled. Her memory was shot from the pills she was taking. She tried. Dad would get so impatient and the more he got angry, the more flustered she became. She’d hesitate, looking down at the confusion of leaves and roots and say falteringly, “Yes, edible.” Dad rapped her on the head with his knuckles. “Anyone in there?” And she shrank further within herself. “You’d be dead in hours. I’ve told you this before. Why won’t you listen to me? Are you just plain stupid?”
I didn’t want to be sworn at, to be dragged by my hair and have my face rammed into rotting fungus, so I learned. Quickly. Some mushrooms are tricky to identify but I would never make a mistake.
Though no one is infallible, right?
I find Josh pouring chemicals down the disabled toilet on the ground floor.
“Give it back. Now,” I say.
“What – the Domestos or the toilet brush? You’re very welcome to either.”
“My money. You took it. It was my bloody contingency money and you took it.”
“I did not! How much? Christ!”
“You took that money from the church. If you’re happy to steal from Neville the vicar, from God, then why not me?”
“You’re way off, Amber. I explained about that church money. A handful of coins – meant for people like me. There’s no way I’d nick your money.”
“The door was locked, Sherlock.” I glare at him.
“Kev then? He’s got a master key,” he says. “Or one of the other staff. Or people like us, passing through.”
“I’m stuffed without that money, Josh.” I kick at the plastic bin, knocking it over.
“I wouldn’t, Amber, I swear. Search me for it, if you like.”
The Rules Page 7