by Abby Davies
‘Please, sir.’ I said. ‘Please may we use your phone? That’s all. We weren’t stealing. I promise.’
He didn’t seem to hear me. Still swearing, he lurched upright clutching a can and tottered out of the room. I looked down at the telephone piece that lay on the carpet, its twisty chain spiralling upward like some kind of bizarre umbilical cord. I could hear a faint dead-sounding tone coming from it and wondered what that meant. Before I could do or say anything, Emma crouched down and grabbed the telephone bit then replaced it on its machine on the table.
‘We can try again,’ she whispered, tugging me round.
‘No,’ I said. ‘We need to get out of here.’
I pulled her out of the room into the hallway. We crept up the short, narrow corridor towards the kitchen. The man was behaving in a weird way so there was no telling what he might do. I knew a little about alcohol and it was enough to make me wary. Mother had told me everything I knew about it, but I felt quite sure, having now seen this man and the way he was acting, that what she had told me about alcohol was the truth. Not everything she had told me was a lie. Most of it, but not all. A strange pain squeezed my heart. I frowned, told myself to concentrate. We had to get out of this place, find someone who was capable of helping us. This man was not trustworthy. Not in the slightest bit.
He had his back to us when we reached the kitchen. I could see the crack in his bottom. It was gross. He stood in front of the oven humming to himself. A tune I had never heard. It didn’t sound anything like the Eagles.
I tried to think straight. We had to get away. If we were quiet and quick, we could creep past without him seeing us and get out.
I hesitated a second, another second, and another, then yanked Emma into the room and towards the door that led outside. Emma tripped, making a scuffling sound. He whirled around, a wooden spoon raised in his meaty fist, a cry bursting from his lips. He reached out and grabbed my shoulder as I pushed Emma forward.
‘Go!’ I yelled – but she didn’t. She stopped and turned around, tears welling in her eyes.
‘Come here!’ the man bellowed, grabbing Emma’s arm. He pulled her towards himself and pushed us out of the kitchen back into the hallway.
‘You’re not going anywhere yet,’ he said with a gurgling cough.
He pushed our backs, forcing us into the living room, shouting at us to sit on the sofa. We did as he commanded. He whirled around and headed back towards the kitchen. I pulled Emma onto my lap and hugged her close, whispering reassuring things in her ear, trying to keep the tremors out of my voice. The fear and worry.
What was he going to do to us? Why wouldn’t he let us go? Mother’s talk of evil men crawled into my mind, and for a split second I found myself wishing the most unimaginable thing: that I’d never discovered that she wasn’t my real mother. If I hadn’t learned the truth, we wouldn’t be here right now; we would be back in the cottage, our food, beds and clothes provided for us …
But not-knowing wasn’t right and she was dangerous. I knew that. I did. Even so, right now, I would rather be in Mother’s company than this man’s. If he wanted to, he could do worse to us than Mother. Much worse …
My body began to shake. I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop the tremors from taking over my limbs. Emma was trembling too. I pulled her closer and she buried her head in my shoulder and began to cry.
Think. Think.
A greasy meat smell wafted into the room.
I looked at the window above the small table. The window was small, but I wasn’t exactly huge. Emma would definitely fit through. I glanced at the door to the living room. He wasn’t back yet, but we didn’t have much time until he joined us.
‘Get up!’ I whispered sharply, pushing Emma.
I ran to the window and unlatched it. It opened about a hand’s width. Emma would fit through, but would I?
I hoisted her up and helped her slide herself through the narrow space between the window frame and the window itself. She fell to the ground on her hands and knees and looked back at me, panic making her eyes wider than ever.
‘Polly?’
‘Go,’ I said.
She stared dumbly at me, still on her hands and knees. I pulled myself onto the sill and tried to slide through, but my chest was too wide. I couldn’t go with her.
‘Go!’ I screamed.
She shook her head and grabbed at my hands.
I pushed her away, looking into her eyes, ‘Run, Emma. Get help. Find someone. Tell them where I am. And about Patrick. Go!’
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She hiccupped. Her face scrunched up into an unrecognizable version of itself, then she turned and fled.
Chapter 30
I immediately regretted what I’d done. If Emma couldn’t find anyone she would die of dehydration or starvation. She wouldn’t know how to find water or food in the wilderness and it was hot out there. Too hot. What if the heat became too much and she fainted and a wild dog came along and … I bit my lip so hard it hurt, unable to complete the thought, fighting the horrific scene that pushed its way into my mind. Other images collided with each other: Mother finding Emma, dragging her back to the cottage, punishing her for running away, or, worse still, someone as awful as the man in this house finding her, taking her back to his house, torturing her, murdering her …
For a second I thought I was going to be sick. I bent over and focused on breathing. Working myself into a state was pointless. I had to think.
‘Hey! Where’s the other one gone?’
I spun around. In one hand the man held a plate piled high with slabs of fatty meat and steaming potatoes. In the other hand he held a can. He took a long swig from the can then entered the room, elbowing the door closed behind him and nearly losing his balance.
‘Hey! I asked you a question!’ he barked. He made his way to the sofa, kicking empty cans out of his path.
‘She’s gone. Out there,’ I said softly.
He eased himself down, groaning as he did so and took another swig of drink then placed the can between his right knee and the arm of the sofa and began to shovel meat and potatoes into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing down the food noisily. He followed every couple of mouthfuls with a swig from his can.
‘Gone has she?’ he chuckled, then burped.
‘Please, sir,’ I tried, ‘please can I use your telephone?’
‘Who’re you so desperate to call?’ he said, not looking up from his plate.
I paused. Should I lie or tell the truth?
I swallowed, wiped sweat off my forehead with the back of my trembling hand. ‘My parents. Emma and I got lost in the woods …’
He nodded and looked at me. His eyes looked strange, like jiggling marbles. A memory of Mother and I playing with marbles entered my head followed by one of us playing with conkers tied to string. Sometimes she had been fine. My heart hurt and then I thought about how she had treated me the last few weeks – how she had lied to me for so long – made me believe I was dying. Anger tore through me and I stared straight at the man.
‘Let me use the telephone or let me leave,’ I said as confidently as I could, crossing my arms and lifting my chin, trying to stand tall.
He shovelled the last mouthful of his meal into his mouth and drained the can. He burped again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘All right, all right. You can use the phone – after I check something.’
He put his plate on the floor beside the chair and stood up, swaying slightly. The can fell to the ground, the last couple of drops oozing onto the carpet.
‘Come here,’ he said, slurring his words. He curled his finger at me and beckoned me towards him.
‘Wh-wh-why?’
‘’Cos I’ve got to check you ain’t stole nothin’. Come here.’
‘I haven’t stolen anything. I already told you that.’
‘COME HERE!’ He bellowed the words so loudly that the ground seemed to quake. I jumped and obeyed, walking slowly, figh
ting tears.
‘What’s this stupid thing you’re wearin’?’ he said, waving his hand at my brown sack dress.
I didn’t reply. I stopped a little way from him.
He stepped forward, bringing us so close that his foul body odour enveloped my whole body. From here, I could see an intricate network of spiky red veins on his nose and cheeks. Black hairs sprouted out of his bulbous nose above dry, cracked lips.
I hesitated. A mad thought seized me and I kicked him as hard as I could in his groin. He roared with pain and doubled over. I ran for the door, yanked it open, darted up the hallway into the kitchen, opened the other door and sprinted out of the house.
The black dogs snapped their jaws and barked viciously as I ran past, but they were caged and I was free. I didn’t spare them a second look as I ran past the man’s rusty blue truck and headed in the direction Emma had gone.
Chapter 31
The sun blinded me, my leg throbbed and my feet left bloody prints on the pale, cracked earth. Every few seconds, I glanced over my shoulder, convinced I was being followed by the man from Knackers Yard. I had made it to the next patch of land, which was more a desert than a field. The ground was hard and rough with the occasional clump of sprouting vegetation, so dry and hot beneath my sore feet that it felt like I was running on baked sandpaper. My soles were burning and the pain was becoming unbearable. Not too far away though, beyond this bare stretch, I could see a bright yellow field. Surely the ground there would be cooler, damper.
I looked around me. Heard no one. Saw no one. But I couldn’t stop shaking.
‘Emma!’ I shouted her name over and over again until my voice cracked.
There was no sign of Emma anywhere and I realized with creeping dread that anything could have happened to her. She could have tumbled into a ditch and been knocked unconscious or fallen and broken her ankle. She might have been shot by a farmer, angry that someone was on his private land. Anything could have happened to her. Anything. And it was my fault. I never should have pushed her out of that window.
I slowed down and put my hands on my knees, sucking in huge, warm, pollen-scented lungfuls of air. Tiny flies buzzed around my head and I waved them away and took another moment, one hand shielding my eyes, the other shooing off the pesky little beasts. I scanned the horizon. Saw nothing but fields – and then, far away, five fields away in a north-east direction, a patch of red caught my eye. Was it another farm? A house? It was definitely a building of some kind.
I should have started running towards it, but I didn’t. I froze. Spun around, suddenly certain I could hear a car coming. I listened and listened, but all I heard was the whiny cry of the flies pestering me. There was no one chasing me. Not any more. The strange man was probably still lying on the ground writhing around in agony. A naughty sensation of satisfaction rippled through me as I remembered the shock and pain in his eyes. I didn’t feel guilty. He’d deserved it, and if he came for me I would do it again.
My breath was back. Wincing, I ran on, climbing over a wooden gate into the yellow field, which smelled so strong it made my head fuzzy and my nose run. The yellow plants were as tall as my waist but not so tough that I couldn’t run through them. They were so bright and beautiful. I wanted to stop and admire them, touch them and look closely at their different parts, but I didn’t want to stop.
The ground was softer and cooler here, offering my feet a little break. I ran through the field and climbed over another wooden fence into the next field, which held five brown cows and one calf that could not have been very old at all. It was so scrawny and cute. But the big ones weren’t. They stared at me with their huge, widespread eyes like they were trying to force me to go away with the power of their stare. Though I was dying to stare back at these incredible creatures and unpick them with my eyes, I stared off to one side. I had learned about the way animals acted around their babies in one of Mother’s nature books. I knew that mothers might attack if they felt someone was going to approach their baby, so I took a wide berth, steering clear in case they thought I posed a threat to the little calf. I smiled as the calf tried to gambol over to me and one of the adult cows blocked its path.
I dodged a pile of dung and climbed over another wooden gate. I was now only three fields away. Countryside stretched out on all sides of me and I found myself admiring how beautiful and glowing the landscape was; colours so vivid they hurt; colours so vivid they brought happy skips into my heart. This field was another grass field and easier on my feet. I ran faster, flying over the grass, pumping my arms and legs and feeling like the bird-girl in my made-up book.
I reached the end of the field which was edged by another thorn wire fence. I remembered there were photographs of this type of wire in Mother’s Holocaust book. The only reason I’d seen them was because I’d peered over her shoulder when she’d been reading it. There had been some other disturbing photographs too. Ones I didn’t like to remember because they made me think about how much evil there must be in the world.
Taking more time than before, I climbed carefully over the fence and paused for breath on the other side before walking forward. This was another grass field, abandoned, I thought, until I saw it: a bull. Bulls were dangerous. And really strong. I’d read about them. In Spain, it was a tradition to put a bull in a big ring and taunt it with a red cloth to make it mad.
There was no way I was going to try to make this bull mad. It was black and unbelievably huge. Scary but amazing. It had its back to me, which meant I might be able to sneak past it and get to the other side of the field without it noticing me. If I was lucky.
I didn’t have any time to waste, so I took a few sharp breaths and ran straight up the middle of the field, wincing at the pain in my feet.
Glancing back, I saw with horror that the bull had turned around and was staring at me. One hoof scuffed the ground. With a frantic gasp, terrified it was about to charge, I lunged forward and threw myself through the middle section of a different kind of fence, crying out as it electrocuted me. Needles of pain stabbed all over my hands and arms from where I’d made contact with the wire, reminding me of the time Mother had electrocuted herself changing a lightbulb.
I thudded to the ground and exhaled heavily. I was on the other side of the fence, safe from the bull. That was what mattered. I glanced back to see the bull nosing around in the grass, acting like I didn’t exist.
I scrambled to my feet and limped through the last field, relieved to find the stabbing pains in my arms and hands gone after a few seconds, and happy to see that this field held nothing but sheep and lambs, who all skittered away when I approached.
And there it was: a red-brick building. A very big house by the look of it. An expensive, well looked after house. A house that was completely different to the one I’d come from. Did that mean the owner would be completely different? Despite everything, hope flared in my chest. I was so tired, so in need of rest. My feet were in shreds and I could barely walk another step. I felt tears sting my eyes; this could be the end of it all. The pain and fear and danger could finally be over.
But I had to be careful. A shiny black car sat parked on a white, stony drive facing the front of the house. On the other side of the car was a big patch of grass with a white horse standing in the centre. The horse was watching me. Its musty smell wafted in my direction on the warm breeze. I’d seen pictures of horses, but in real life the animal took my breath away. There was something so strong and sturdy yet fine about its body that made me want to keep looking at it, but I couldn’t. I wondered if there ever would be a good time to take in all the things out here that I’d missed. I really hoped so. But more than that – more than anything – I wanted to see my parents.
My breath hitched as a series of sickening questions attacked – were they still alive? Would they remember me? What if they’d moved on with their lives and forgotten all about me?
The idea scraped an even bigger chunk out of my heart and I rubbed my chest and told myself to focus on t
he present and how I was going to get help.
I looked up the drive and saw that it led to a road. A real road, not a dirt road. I had reached civilization. At long last I might be near a town – a place where I could find a policeman.
Crouching low, I pushed open a large swing gate and darted through. I dashed over to the car and hid behind it, peering round at the house, trying to work out whether it was safe.
The house had a large white door and red-brick walls. A pretty white and black sign reading Greenfield House had been attached to the wall beside the front door. Two pots of beautiful flowers hung from either side of the door, making the place seem warm and kind. It looked so nice. So posh. So light. Curtains were drawn open in all four windows: two downstairs and two upstairs. There were no boards, no tape, no attempts to hide anything. This was a nice, happy, normal home, I felt almost sure of it.
Exhaling to steady my nerves, I left my hiding place and hobbled to the front porch.
I raised my hand to knock but someone opened the door, making me jump.
Chapter 32
‘Oh my!’
A very old woman with short white hair that curled neatly under her chin answered the door. She was small and thin, wearing a floaty, mint-green dress. Her skin was so wrinkly it looked like a scrunched-up paper bag. A white shawl was draped across her narrow shoulders. I could smell something sweet and thought it must be her moisturizer. Her wrinkled hands flew to her mouth as she took in my appearance. I stared back at her, wondering what she saw when she looked at me. What she was thinking. She gripped the door frame and for a moment I thought she was going to slam the door in my face.
‘Harold! Harold!’ she shouted, turning round, her voice hoarse.
She turned back to me and said gently, ‘Wait here a moment, dear. I must get Harold.’
‘Who’s Harold?’ I said, feeling a stab of fear, but she had already retreated into the house leaving the door wide open.