The canal surface reminds me of a metal ruler stretching into the distance, silver in the moonlight. I tick off the distance by counting my steps. It distracts me from thinking about how tired I am. The walk is easy, as walks go, but I’m aching because although I’m stronger than I used to be—thanks to the food at Ma Lexie’s—I’ve lost all the stamina I built up while walking with Mother. You get into a rhythm. You let go of time.
I try to imagine myself with my old friends walking through the countryside close to home. Instead of Odette, I see Leo up ahead. We’ve slipped out of our homes for a midnight adventure, and we’ll return safely to our beds. We pretend we’re the resistance and special combat troops, working together to blow up bridges. Never in a million years would we pretend we’re escaping migrants, with no real plan, no real destination.
In the moonlight, single oak trees stand like sentries positioned across the countryside. In the middle distance, there’s a security light by a farm building. The only sounds are our footsteps on the gravel path, the swishing of treetops in the breeze and, once so far, a dog barking in a farmyard.
I try to keep my thoughts in a straight line. Don’t ask Odette any questions. There’s no point asking her about the smear on her neck or her fingernails. I can’t trust anything she says. Maybe she wants me along until we’re close to Wales, and then she’ll give me the slip. If the police find us together, I’ll be in as much trouble as her. But I’ve done nothing wrong.
A long line of narrow boats is moored to the bank up ahead. Odette waits for me to catch up and says, “Walk on the grass edge, slowly. Stay close.” We tread past, one deliberate step after another. Pots of geraniums have been placed on the roof of one narrow boat. I’m sure people are living inside. There’s an empty bottle of wine in the bow of another. My backpack catches on a long bramble and makes a loud scratching noise as I tug myself free. I stop, look over my shoulder, check I’m clear of the bramble and press on. We stay on the grass until we’ve left the moorings far behind.
The sky starts to get lighter, and the thin mist that hangs over the canal and surrounding fields won’t hide us for much longer. I’ve already heard a tractor. For the past two miles, I’ve looked for places to hide out. There are gaps in the hedges along the canal path, but they all lead into fields. Even if we tried to sleep in a deep furrow, or under the hedgerow, we could be spotted by farmworkers.
The path takes us under a brick-built bridge, and Odette says we’ll bed down as soon as we find cover. I’m beginning to wish we’d stopped an hour ago. We’ve passed cottages with long gardens reaching down to the canal side. One had a garden shed, close to the canal. I pointed it out to Odette, said we could break into the shed and sleep there. She shook her head. No discussion. I’ve also seen a clump of trees in the middle of a field, but I think they’ve grown around a pond.
About fifteen minutes’ walk beyond the road bridge, we come to a good spot where a patch of woodland reaches the path—like the woodland at the start of our canal walk.
“Here,” she says. We walk thirty or forty paces off the path until we come across a small dip. She says, “I need a pee. Turn around.”
The ground in the dip is damp, so I sit on my backpack. We could sleep on my tarp, but I won’t suggest it because I’ll creep back to the canal path as soon as she’s asleep and put a few miles between us.
I hear her footsteps—they’re quicker than I expect. In my mind, I see her with a rock in her hand. I leap up and twist around.
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
“An animal. I thought I heard an animal.”
She pulls two apples from her bag. “Fruit again,” she says. After a mouthful, she adds, “You know, Caleb, finding the canal was the difficult part. We are free.”
“And when we reach Wales . . . ?”
“We can join the seasonal workers, move from farm to farm, pick fruit.”
“What happens when all the fruit has been picked?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “We’ll work something out. Find an empty house. Grow our own food.” Odette pulls on a hat. “I’m tired.” She lies down and snuggles around her bag.
Odette’s plan is shit.
I move as far as I dare from her and lie down with one arm through the strap of my backpack, like I did when I camped with Mother. What would she think of me? Mother had a real plan, one with simple goals: reach a reception centre, place our trust in the authorities, work for as long as the authorities dictated until we won the right to settle and make a new home. I should never have trusted Skylark. Trusting people like Skylark wasn’t part of Mother’s plan.
I’m woken by voices on the canal path. Idiot. I fell asleep. Still woozy, I stay still, waiting for the voices to fade. In a flash, it occurs to me: Ma Lexie will have discovered the unlocked steel door. I imagine her running across the roof to my hut, flinging the door open. I hope she feels bad.
I pull myself to my feet. Odette doesn’t move at all; she’s a dumb rock. I pick my way as quietly as I can back to the canal and start walking. I check the position of the sun. It’s midmorning. The people I heard on the canal path are now far off, walking north. I stride out. I’m smiling. I start to jog in case by some sixth sense Odette suddenly wakes. It’s better she thinks I ran away as soon as she fell asleep.
The canal follows a gentle curve, and after a few minutes I turn around. Odette wouldn’t see me now—the patch of woodland is way behind me. I drop my backpack and take the water bottle from the side pocket. Leaning my head back, I take a swig and feel the two keys move against my chest. I pull the ribbon up and over my head, and I stare at them. Yesterday the keys marked me out as Ma Lexie’s new boy. Holding the knotted end of the ribbon, I swing the keys gently back and forth. With a flick of the wrist, I throw them in the canal.
I’m on my own. It feels good.
I look down at myself. I’d look better in shorts and T-shirt, so I quickly change. Then I jog some more. And as I do, I decide that I’ve made some bad decisions since Mother disappeared, but from today I’ll stick to the plan. I’ll have to find a police station, hand myself in. After all, I have my papers. I can prove who I am, that I’m younger than I look. At least the police will take me to a reception centre, and if I ask nicely they might even look for my parents.
I look over my shoulder again. In the distance, I see a barge heading down the canal in my direction. I stop and watch. As it nears, I see it’s loaded with a heap of earth, with an upside-down wheelbarrow chucked on top. A man at the rudder is looking straight ahead, down the length of the barge, as if his thoughts are a million miles away. But as he approaches, I wave and smile. “Nice day, isn’t it?” I call out.
He raises his eyebrows, woken from his daydream. He nods at me. The barge passes by, and he twists around.
“Want a lift?”
I shout back, “Not today, thank you.”
I can be friendly, but I’m not trusting anyone again. I’ll trust my own two feet.
CHAPTER 4
SKYLARK
Within sixty seconds of her message hitting me, I’d jumped down the hostel stairwell three steps at a time and leapt on my bike, but I didn’t tear up the streets because the sidecar’s been rattling these last few days like it’s full of empty cans, and I really must check it out before it frikkin’ detaches, goes careering off and smashes. I took it slow, but I still made enough noise to wake the whole enclave. Ha! Can’t be helped.
Ma Lexie’s message struck her usual arse-y tone. Get over here now!
Strictly business. She’s not one for small talk. When I’m around her, I act real breezy in the hope she’ll copycat because she’s the type of woman who shows a nice-as-pie face to family and any fella she fancies, but with me and the rest of the world the shutters come down. I kinda wish she could loosen up. Sometimes, I think she’d like to be friends, but she holds back like she has a voice in her head saying, Don’t waste your time.
That night I delivered Caleb to her—dead on
my feet, cold, hungry, way beyond weary—she gave me no thanks for keeping him out of Jaspar’s mitts, and he took some persuading. Ma Lexie quizzed me about the boy, his background, whether anyone would be searching for him. All the while, I prayed she’d offer me a hot meal, a bit of floor space to crash because, by then, the hostel had shut its doors for the night. But no, she offered no food, no floor space, and I doubt it even crossed her mind. Did she realise I’d be sleeping in a stairwell?
No idea what’s lit her fuse this morning. She might have given me a clue. Maybe she’s sick and flapping because it’s market day, or the boys are sick. Anyway, what’s any of that to me? If she doesn’t want me as a friend, she can’t expect favours.
I take the first flight up her stairwell two steps at a time, slowing to a trudge at the top-floor landing, where I hear voices, not from her flat but from the roof. Oh God. Sounds like Jaspar.
Stepping out onto the roof through the open access door, I spot the two of them beyond the solar arrays by the overseer’s hut, so I call out, “I can hear you from the ground floor.” Slight exaggeration.
“Shut the fucken door, then,” shouts Jaspar.
I clang it closed, noisier than necessary, and head over to them. A family standoff from the looks of it, and I guess I’m being dragged into it. Ma Lexie is shrinking into herself. Her head is dipped, and she holds her fist to her mouth. Jaspar strides away from her, stops and swivels, stabs a finger towards her, opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. Instead, he walks right up to her. She looks up into his face, and he stoops, his nose almost touching hers, and I bet he’s going cross-eyed trying to focus on her that close. I walk through the arrays, stopping some distance away as if in deference—giving them quality family time.
He snaps, “Not happy. Not happy at all.” Like he’s repeating a tough-guy line from a movie, which makes him ridiculous, laughable. He should hear himself.
He turns to me and says, “The kids have all fucken scarpered.”
I twist around, looking across the roof.
He calls across: “Don’t you fucken believe me?” He turns back to Lexie. “I could’ve put them lads to work at the yard. And you go all soft and give that kid a sodding key.”
I’m cringing. Oh shit, Ma Lexie. What’s he going to do? He’s mad enough to punch her, and she needs to brace herself, but instead she’s staring up at the sky as if she’s given up, as if she doesn’t care if a smack’s coming her way. I jump in because I can’t stand Jaspar, the witless wonder, and I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end. “They won’t get far, Jaspar. They’re only kids. I’ll put the word out. And you should—”
“Shut it! Don’t tell me what to do, you with them stupid feathers. I’ve got people on it. Right?”
Ma Lexie backs away from him, then edges towards me. “Skylark’s right, Jasp. They’ll have no idea where to go. And I’m sorry, it won’t—”
“Too late for that. You never learn, do you, Lex? Warned you before, haven’t I? Eh? Don’t get soft. Don’t get mumsy.”
She nods and hugs herself as if she’s caught outdoors wearing a thin dress on a freezing cold day. She’s shrinking right in front of my eyes. Christ, Lexie, you need to stand up to Jasp because that’s the way you deal with a bully like him. Tell him. Tell him there’s nothing special about those three lads. Plenty more where they came from.
I can’t believe Caleb could be so dim. Two small kids will slow him down, and it’s far easier to spot a threesome on the run. And none of this would have happened if Ma Lexie hadn’t been pissing about yesterday, sending Caleb on a walkabout. Bet she hasn’t fessed up to Jaspar about that, about hitting the kid. What a mess.
I count to five in my head to try and calm myself, because today was supposed to be my lazy day before going back on the road. Jaspar kicks the shed door closed. It bounces back. I suppose he wanted a quiet Sunday morning too, especially as he’s had a late night, judging by his bloodshot eyes.
“What about your local police pals?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ve covered that. I’ll hear if they’ve picked them up.” He turns his head and spits. “It pisses me off to have this fucken hassle. If we get them back, Lex, they’re working for me from now on. You’ll have to manage on your own. Do your own sewing and stuff.”
There’s a hell of a banging across the street, so I glance over but can’t see any movement on the rooftop garden. I look back at Jaspar, who starts off on Lexie again. “Why should I help you out when you’re doing your best to—?”
We all stare across at the next block, at the roof garden. Someone’s pounding on the access door from the stairwell, and it sounds like they’re whacking the metal door with a hammer. Muffled shouting, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. More hammering and Jaspar, hands on hips, explodes: “What’s the bloody racket over there?”
Ma Lexie, no doubt glad of the interruption, walks across to the parapet wall, leans over and shouts, “Mr. Entwistle!” She waits and calls again. I join her at the railing. His face appears at the top-floor window.
“Up here, Mr. Entwistle. What’s going on?” she calls.
“The janitor’s gone missing. The door to her flat is unlocked. And her girl’s not opening the roof door.”
“Someone must have a spare key.”
Mr. Entwistle shouts back: “Her daughter has one. She’s on her way but someone’s getting impatient up there.”
She throws him a thank-you wave and turns back to face more music from Jaspar.
“Find your own labourers, got it, Lex?” he says. “I found you a nice flat and wangled the janitor’s job. As far as I see it, I’ve done enough. I don’t want all this stupid add-on stress.”
Not that I owe her anything either, but I decide to do her thinking for her. She’s punch-drunk. “Lexie can deal direct with me for her labour from now on, Jaspar. Not a problem. But can she still have free recyclables from the yard?” He nods. That was easy, so I ask for more. “Can she still use your safe?”
He throws his head back. “I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to the family. But, to tell you the truth, Lex, it’s about time you stopped leaning on us.”
She comes to her senses at long last. “It’s true, Jasp. You’ve all been kind since Ruben . . . I know you don’t owe me. I messed up with the kids, but that won’t happen again. I need this business. Don’t know what I’d—”
“All right. All right!”
Ha. I should be a politician. No, a diplomat. That’s it. In my line of work I know about persuasion and calming people down. “Come on, Lexie,” I say and take her arm. “Business as usual. I’ll give you a hand setting up the stall. You’re running late already.”
Jaspar rolls back his shoulders as though purging acid from his muscles. “Both of you.” He stabs at each of us with that mean finger of his. “Come to the yard when the market closes. We need to talk. And Skylark, if you hear anything about our little band of brothers, tell me, soon as.”
With that, the three of us head off towards Ma Lexie’s work shed, and as we take our separate paths through the solar arrays, the neighbour’s roof door swings outward. Three people step out onto the roof, fan out and start calling for Odette. And, as we reach the work shed, a man’s voice, loud and clear: “Oh my God!” We all swivel around to see him emerge from a small shed. “She’s dead!”
“What the hell?” says Jaspar. He grabs each of us by the arm and pushes us into the work shed.
“Let go, Jasp. I’ll find out what’s happening,” says Lexie. She hurries across the roof, leans over the parapet and calls to Mr. Entwistle. She waits half a minute and calls again. My mind’s doing frikkin’ somersaults. The girl’s dead? The janitor’s missing. What’s going on? Has the janitor murdered the girl? If she has, why would she bother running off? The girl’s bound to be undocumented.
Mr. Entwistle reappears at his window and shouts up to Lexie. “The janitor’s dead! Blood everywhere.”
“The janitor? Where’s the girl?” calls Lexie
.
“No sign of her. Gone.”
Jaspar and I are rooted to the spot. Ma Lexie returns to the work shed. She says, almost to herself, “The boys are gone. The girl is gone . . .” She looks at me, focusing. “I’ve seen Caleb wave to her. Told him not to.”
I’m trying to make sense of it all, thinking aloud. “So . . . as soon as Caleb got the key . . . the girl murders her boss, and they all run off. Four kids on the run. And one of them’s a murderer.”
Jaspar isn’t listening. He’s ahead of us. His frown lines tell me he’s already working out what to do. He isn’t angry when he speaks to Lexie. Just cold. “Listen and do as I say.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. “Don’t tell anyone our boys are gone. Go now, set up the stall, Lex. If anyone asks why Caleb isn’t with you, tell them the kid works for me. Yesterday was a one-off. Yeah?”
Boy, he spins a story right quick. Ma Lexie nods, grabs the trolley and turns to me. “Carry the clothes boxes down the stairs for me.”
Jaspar cuts in. “As soon as you’ve done that, get back here, Skylark. Lexie can set up the stall on her own.”
“Tell me what to do,” I say.
“Get rid of any sign of them three kids,” says Jaspar. “Their bedding, their chairs, plates, clothes, everything. The police—if they can be arsed with an enclave murder—will be over here asking if Lexie saw anything from this roof, heard any noise last night, any argument. We don’t want them guessing we’ve had workers up here with no papers. And God knows we don’t want them guessing our kids did a runner too. As long as they’re looking for a runaway girl, a girl on her own, they’re not likely to find her or any of them. If they do, we’ll be in the fucken firing line.”
Ma Lexie’s trying to gather her stuff, her feet doing a quickstep, like she’s trying to go in three directions at once. She stops. “Jasp. Could be a coincidence. Don’t you think? The girl might have run off on her own.”
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