Firewallers

by Simon Packham

  It reminded me of Mr Catchpole’s speech in the trenches about what it must have felt like the moment before you went over the top. I shivered in the darkness, wondering how anyone in their right mind would exchange such a cosy existence for a life on the run, trying to convince myself it would all be over by Christmas.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ said Millie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum, reaching for the handle and pushing open the front door. ‘OK, girls, let’s go go go!’

  Mum aimed her keyring at the black Volvo in the drive. It blinked back at us as the locks clicked open, and we scrunched towards it across the gravel.

  I chucked my sports bag onto the back seat and jumped in.

  The man with the camera leaped onto the driveway, barring our exit with his arms outstretched.

  Mum didn’t even ask us if we’d put on our seatbelts. She just stamped down on the accelerator and drove straight at him.

  The man with the camera threw himself sideways into the hedge, somehow managing to press his lens up against the car window and flash at us as we screeched past.

  It ought to have been exhilarating, like something from those bank job movies that Dad only dared put on if Mum was out clothes shopping. And it almost was, until Millie turned round and fixed me with the kind of smile reserved only for the evictees of TV talent shows or the terminally ill. ‘You OK, Jess?’

  I nodded mechanically, but inside it had suddenly hit home. A few days off school were an easy sell to the likes of me. And Mum wasn’t exactly immune to the odd bout of irrational behaviour. But despite the fact that the exams were over and, according to her, most of the teachers were already mentally sunning themselves on a beach somewhere, for Millie to miss a single hour of sixth form college was a really big deal.

  That’s when I realised how serious it was.

  Pee Break

  According to Google, it should have taken approximately nine hours and forty-five minutes, not allowing for the midnight pee break and an unscheduled tour of Coventry courtesy of Sally Sat-Nav.

  But you don’t want to hear about the journey – Mum driving like a lunatic, Millie gradually retreating into a silent world of her own, and me watching classic, epic fail videos on my iPod (the car in the river, the curious incident of the rabbit in the swimming pool, the exploding biscuit tin, the bald fat bloke falling off a table and that one of the birthday cake setting fire to the curtains and all the kids going mental).

  Somewhere between Crewe and Manchester, epic fail videos morphed into epic fail nightmares: Mum and Dad walking down the aisle on their wedding day and the church bursting into flames, Millie opening her exam results for that guy with the camera and pulling out a big fat FAIL, and the Demon Headmaster announcing in assembly that ‘the much debated photograph of Jessica Hudson will be on display in the learning resources centre as a permanent reminder of her crass stupidity’.

  My relief at waking vanished the moment I remembered where I was. Not snuggling peacefully beneath my duck feather duvet while Mum screamed ‘Get a bloody move on, Jessica,’ from the bottom of the stairs, but belted into the back seat of a Volvo with a super-sized crick in my neck and a pounding headache. And when I peered out of the rain-spattered window, it started feeling like one of those nightmares within a nightmare that you get in horror movies. High above me, a rocky peak was disappearing into the clouds. That trip to the health spa was looking distinctly unlikely.

  ‘Where are we?’ I said.

  ‘Bonny Scotland,’ said Mum, sounding a whole a lot calmer than the night before. ‘We’ve been driving all night.’

  ‘So what happened to all that “never drive when you’re tired” stuff? You must be exhausted.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘And what are we doing in Scotland? You never said anything about Scotland.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we stop,’ said Mum. ‘I want to explain properly.’

  The inside of my mouth felt like a sandpaper factory in the Sahara desert. ‘Can we get something to eat? I’m really hungry.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ said Mum. ‘According to Sally Sat-Nav, this is the last service station for the next hundred miles. What about you, Millie? Fancy some breakfast?’

  Millie grunted and turned up the volume on her iPod.

  I love service stations. The smell of fast food, a satisfying trip to a ‘regularly inspected’ lavatory, disposable toothbrushes, little kids on arcade game killing sprees, fruit machines flashing enticingly and the feeling that everyone is on their way to a better place – except us, of course.

  ‘You still haven’t told us where we’re going,’ I said, biting into my stale doughnut.

  Mum poured three sachets of sugar into her cappuccino and glanced anxiously at the rolling news channel on the giant screen above. ‘You remember my friend Sue?’

  ‘What, Sue the nutter?’ I said.

  ‘She’s not a nutter, Jess,’ said Mum, smiling. ‘She’s just eccentric, that’s all.’

  Sue was Mum’s best friend at university. In fact, she went out with Dad a few times before deciding that he and Mum were ‘a match made in heaven’ and setting them up on a blind date. On the face of it, Mum and Sue didn’t have much in common (Sue was arty, and according to Dad she’d never had a ‘proper’ job or a ‘proper’ relationship in her life), but they’d managed to stay in touch long before Facebook turned friendship into an Olympic competition. Every couple of years or so, Sue would turn up at our house with weird presents, like that wooden board game we never worked out how to play and the one-eyed glass dog that was supposed to ward off evil spirits.

  ‘What about her, anyway?’ I said, remembering how she’d tried to persuade Dad to have a go at ‘rebirthing’.

  Mum gulped down a mouthful of cappuccino. ‘Well, you remember that YouTube video I showed you?’

  Millie sussed it out way before I did. ‘Oh no. No, no, no. No, Mum, NO. Absolutely no way.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Mum. ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Millie. ‘I’m not spending the next six weeks with a bunch of tree-hugging weirdos.’

  ‘They’re conservationists,’ said Mum. ‘What’s weird about that?’

  I suddenly realised what she was getting at. ‘You’re not seriously thinking about taking us there, are you? You said you’d rather go fly fishing with Jeremy Clarkson than live without a hot bath. And what’s all this about six weeks?’

  ‘Sue wrote to me a couple of months back,’ said Mum. ‘Their doctor had left suddenly, and she asked if I’d consider helping out for the summer holidays. Of course, your father was having none of it, so I didn’t give it another thought. But now —’

  ‘Mum, we can’t,’ I said. ‘Dad will think we’re abandoning him. And you saw their video. It was horrible! That lot – what do they call themselves again?’

  ‘The Dawdlers,’ said Mum.

  I knew it was something ridiculous. ‘Yeah, well that says it all, doesn’t it? Think about it. Living with them would be like going back to the Dark Ages. And anyway, according to you, Sue was never going to stick it out for longer than a month.’

  ‘Well, she has,’ said Mum. ‘They must be getting desperate because I had another letter last week.’

  ‘I still don’t see why they’ve got a YouTube video in the first place,’ said Millie. ‘I thought the whole point was that they didn’t use any technology.

  ‘They don’t,’ said Mum. ‘That’s why it’s so perfect.’

  ‘How do you work that one out?’ said Millie.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Mum. ‘No internet, no television. No phones, no newspapers.’

  ‘And no photographers,’ added Millie.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mum. ‘It’s about the only place on earth we can get away from it all.’

  I couldn’t believe it. She’d laughed louder than anyone when we’d watched their leader guy doing a big speech about how the worldwide web had ‘enslaved humanity’,
and how a life without microwaves and satellite telly was the only answer. But now she was making out it was the best idea since peel-off nail varnish.

  ‘Why can’t we just go to a hotel or something?’ I asked. ‘This stuff with Dad, people are going to forget about it in two minutes. We don’t need to run off to some stupid island. Tell her, Millie.’

  The Golden One was checking out the rolling news channel too. ‘Maybe Mum’s right. Maybe it’s for the best.’

  She’d certainly changed her tune. But what could I do? I was miles away from anywhere and at least three years from my first major credit card. ‘Then we have to tell Dad where we’re going.’

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘He’s got his phone turned off anyway. I’ll write to him. I think there’s a mail boat or something. You never know, Jess, you might even enjoy it.’

  ‘Look, Mum, you can drag me off to the middle of nowhere, but please don’t insult my intelligence, OK?’

  ‘You’d better pop to the loo again,’ said Mum. ‘We’ve got fifty more miles to go yet.’

  Who Pays the Ferryman?

  Sally Sat-Nav had already sent us to Coventry. Now Millie was doing exactly the same thing. She hadn’t said a word since the service station. She’d just plugged in her headphones and closed her eyes.

  Not that there was anything to see, only mile after mile of boring countryside. Snow-capped mountains through one window, a craggy coastline out of the other. And not a single shop in sight. I was starting to wonder if a few weeks of torture at St Thomas’s might not have been the easier option.

  Sally Sat-Nav seemed to be having a nightmare too. According to her, we’d finally reached our destination.

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Mum, pulling up on the grass verge. ‘It looks completely deserted.’

  All I could make out was a white wall of surf. ‘This is stupid, Mum. Why don’t we just go home?’

  ‘I thought I’d explained all that,’ said Mum. ‘Now get your coats on. Sue was certainly right about the weather up here.’

  Mum opened the door. An icy blast shot through the Volvo, instantly killing the suffocating warmth.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Millie. ‘I’m staying here.’

  ‘Fair enough. Looks like it’s just you and me, Jess.’

  I kind of liked that. It was never me and Mum. The only one-on-one time we ever got was when she popped upstairs for a little chat about my inability to make ‘appropriate lifestyle choices’ (lucky she hadn’t heard about the photograph) and the necessity of taking my schoolwork more seriously before it was ‘too late’.

  ‘OK then,’ I said, pulling on the disgustingly red and bulbous anorak that Mum had somehow believed was an appropriate fashion choice for school. I’d never worn it, of course, but the chances of running into another St Thomas’s kid were just about unlikely enough to risk it.

  ‘We’ll be back in a minute, Millie,’ said Mum. ‘You can get our bags together while you’re waiting.’

  Whatever Millie muttered was partially censored by the wind, so Mum chose to ignore it. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’

  It stank of dead fish, and the air was so thick with rain and seawater that it was like going through a car wash without your car. We stumbled across the slippery pebbles towards the deep-throated roar of the sea. My hair was . . . Sorry, I don’t really want to talk about my hair right now. All I knew was that the moment we got there I’d be smothering it in anti-frizz serum.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mum, pointing into the distance, and upping her pace to a middle-aged jog.

  ‘Mum, wait,’ I said, struggling to keep up with her.

  Down at the water’s edge a small stone jetty jutted out into the sea. ‘Now careful on these steps, Jess, they’re really slippy.’

  It was the first time since primary school I’d felt glad to have ‘wrapped up warm’. A watery wall of death flew skywards every time a wave battered the jetty. Hood up and head down, I trailed Mum across the treacherous granite.

  At the far end was a white noticeboard wearing a blue lifebelt. Pinned to the noticeboard was a fading piece of paper in a plastic wallet.

  VISITORS TO THE ISLANDS

  SOUND THE KLAXON THREE TIMES

  AND WAIT FOR THE FERRY

  ‘Go on,’ said Mum, pointing at the red button. ‘You do it.’

  I hesitated for a moment, knowing once I’d pressed that thing there was no turning back. But like I said, I didn’t have much choice. Plus, I kind of wanted to hear what noise it made.

  Three immense blasts, like an enormous passenger ship coming into harbour or a choir of gifted and talented whales, echoed out across the bluey-green waters. The ferry was on its way.

  ‘Right,’ said Mum. ‘Let’s go get our things.’

  Millie wanted to wait in the warm. Mum started off with gentle cajoling, moving swiftly on to the ‘bad cop’ act that she’d perfected on me. ‘Look, I’m not going to ask you again, Amelia. Just do as I say or I’ll have to . . .’

  Millie flashed her a one-fingered salute.

  ‘Sorry, Jess,’ said Mum. ‘I think your sister and I need a little chat.’

  She walked round to the other side of the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. The central locking clicked shut.

  The windows had misted over, so I couldn’t even study their body language, let alone hear what Mum was saying. But it must have been pretty persuasive, because three minutes later the Golden One emerged from the car clutching a brown holdall and my Where’s Wally? sports bag.

  ‘Here’s your bag, Jess,’ she whispered, the weather conditions making it impossible to decide if she was crying or just windswept.

  Either way, she looked so miserable that for the first time in fifteen years it seemed like I was the one who should be looking after her. I’d been trying to convince myself that all Mum really wanted was some thinking time, that a short break from Dad was just what she needed to get their marriage back on track. Maybe I could convince my sister too. ‘Don’t worry, Mills. It’ll be OK, I promise. They’ll work things out, I know they will. And then we can all go home again.’

  People had written songs about Millie’s laugh. Well, that guy at college, anyway – the one in the band with a silly name (Salmon Fishing In Yemen) who had this massive crush on her. But the laugh she laughed now was nothing like a ‘warm warm scarf’ or even a ‘hot hot bath’ and it certainly didn’t make you ‘really really wanna get her autograph’. It was angry and bitter, with a touch of madness about it.

  ‘We’d better get down to the jetty,’ said Mum. ‘We don’t want to miss the damned thing.’

  It kind of reminded me of the time we got stranded at Heathrow Airport – except that lasted three days, of course.

  Mum sat on the suitcase with her head in her hands. Its tiny plastic wheels were pretty useful in an airport, but on a pebbly beach they were about as handy as hair straighteners at a convention of Buddhist monks.

  Millie was blowing her head off with a bass-heavy ditty that sounded more like dubstep than her usual brand of indie whining.

  I was concentrating on the horizon. The magazine Mum bought me at the service station was more saturated and out of control than my hair, so I’d given up on twenty ways to banish split ends and stood mesmerised by the slow rise and fall of the waves, desperate for anything that could break the tension.

  Dad would have known what to do. He was brilliant at the airport, ferrying Mum and Millie a constant stream of skinny cappuccinos, me a year’s supply of Tic-Tacs and gummy bears, and keeping us entertained with his impersonation of the indecipherable flight announcer.

  No one else was going to make the effort. It was up to me to get the ball rolling. ‘I don’t think Dad would have parked on the grass like that.’

  ‘Dad’s not here, is he?’ snapped Mum.

  Thirty uncomfortable seconds later, I tried again. ‘Did you know side plaits are making a comeback?’

  ‘Really,’ said Mum, gnawing hard
on her bottom lip.

  I’d given up by the time I spotted the small white boat in the distance, riding the waves like a roller coaster. As it got closer, I saw that the ferryman was a bloke of about Dad’s age, but with even less fashion sense (we’re talking yellow cagoule with matching trousers here) and a disgustingly shiny bald head. Even so, I was almost as relieved as Mum when he started pulling up alongside the jetty.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she said. ‘Now remember, if he asks any questions, don’t tell him your real names.’

  After several attempts, the ferryman managed to wrap a rope around the big metal post on the side of the jetty and pull it tight. ‘You rang, milady?’

  Why did every bus driver and ferryman in the world think they were some kind of a comedian?

  ‘Er, yes,’said Mum. ‘We need to get to one of the islands.’

  ‘Then you’d better step aboard, me hearties.’

  He didn’t sound very Scottish. He didn’t sound much like a pirate either – more like Mr Catchpole’s Captain Hook in that terrible staff pantomime.

  ‘You two girls had better go first,’ said Mum, already turning her traditional shade of green.

  There was about a metre’s drop into the boat. Millie stepped calmly off the side of the jetty, earphones still blazing, and made her way to a seat at the front. I’m not that great at heights, but with the help of the ferryman, I stumbled gracelessly to what I remembered from the Year Seven trip to the Lakeside activity centre was called amidships.

  Mum stood nervously on the edge, like a young ostrich contemplating flight. ‘Would you mind taking my suitcase? I’m not much of a sailor, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said the ferryman. ‘Neither am I. Joke,’ he added, clocking how anxious she looked.

  ‘Well, please don’t,’ said Mum, grabbing his hand and screwing her eyes tight shut.