Running on the Cracks

by Julia Donaldson

  This was more like the old Leo, the Leo who knew what to do. Finlay’s heart lightened briefly, then fell again as he sensed what she must be thinking. If Mary went into hospital, where could Leo go?

  Leo – the Hokey-Cokey

  I won’t think about him. I mustn’t, I can’t bear to. I’ll just think about Mary.

  Here we go. We’ve reached her landing. My key – the one Mary copied for me – is in the lock. The flat is quiet for once.

  ‘Ziggie boy!’ Finlay whispers.

  No dog comes bounding up. Finlay doesn’t say anything, but I can see he’s close to tears.

  I squeeze his hand. ‘At least it looks like Mary’s asleep,’ I say.

  But no. Mary flings the bathroom door wide to greet us. ‘All my brothers and sisters have come!’

  Her hair is frothy. She must have been washing it. But the bottles in her hand aren’t shampoo bottles; they’re small and brown. Her flimsy nightie is dripping wet.

  ‘Mary, you’ll catch cold. Do you want me to rinse your hair? Where’s the towel?’

  ‘It’s with the others. They had to be together.’

  What’s she on about?

  ‘Maybe there’s one in the bedroom,’ says Finlay. He goes to look.

  ‘Are those pill bottles, Mary?’

  In reply, she shakes them solemnly. They make no sound. They’re empty.

  ‘Mary, have you been swallowing them? How many did you take?’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘The toilet’s gonnae swallow them! In one gulp!’

  I look into the loo. It’s full of pills.

  ‘But aren’t they the ones your CPN said you had to take?’

  ‘The CPN. The sea peahen. Did you see the sea peahen?’ She cackles at her pun.

  If only I could talk some sense into her! ‘No, you know I didn’t see him. I had to hide in the wardrobe that time he came round, don’t you remember? But you told me what he said. You mustn’t stop taking the pills.’

  ‘He gave me the wrong message. That Lorraine must have been fiddling with the computer.’

  Finlay has found two towels. He wraps one round her.

  Mary lets me rinse her hair in the basin. ‘You’re good. You’re looking after me,’ she says. The soap dish is full of cigarette ash, but I decide not to say anything.

  I make the other towel into a turban for her. She’s delighted with her reflection. ‘Now I’m the Queen of Arabia!’

  ‘Shall I be your maid, and get some nice warm clothes on you?’

  But she’s reluctant to tear herself away from the mirror. ‘Wait!’ She’s tearing a strip of loo paper from the roll. Now she’s poking it up the tap.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Those who watch shall see.’ She dips the now wet toilet paper into the ash-filled soap dish. Now she’s smearing it on the mirror, trying to write something. It looks like a backwards L. ‘Mirror writing,’ she says. ‘That’s how to get the right message to the other side.’

  ‘Mary, I think it’s more important to get you warm.’

  She lets me lead her through to the bedroom. ‘It’s in a bit of a mess,’ Finlay warns.

  That’s an understatement. Or maybe ‘mess’ is the wrong word. Mary’s bed is in the middle of the room, piled high with a pyramid of bedclothes and towels. The wardrobe door is wide open and all her clothes are strewn on the floor around the bed. No, not strewn exactly – there’s some kind of pattern to it. The sleeves of the dresses and cardigans have been spread out and are touching each other, like two concentric rings of people holding hands.

  ‘It looks like the hokey-cokey,’ says Finlay. I start to giggle – I can’t help it. To my relief, Mary is joining in. But now her laughter is turning into tears.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mary. What is it?’

  ‘The rings!’ she says between great wild sobs.

  I spot a cosy, long-sleeved nightdress among the hokey-cokey players. And there’s her tartan dressing gown. I hope Mary won’t make a fuss if I remove them from the outer ring.

  ‘Finlay, why don’t you make some tea while I get Mary dressed.’

  I pick up the nightdress. She doesn’t object. But what’s this? There’s a hole in it. It’s a cigarette burn. Never mind, it’ll still do.

  ‘Arms up.’ Mary raises them like an obedient child and I slip the old damp nightie off her head, then rub her with the towel. She’s skinnier than ever.

  ‘You’re good,’ she says again, the tears gone now. I help her into the new nightie, and she sticks a finger through the burn hole. ‘Do you see the ring?’

  ‘Yes, and look, there’s one in this dressing gown. Have you been smoking in bed, Mary? You know that’s dangerous.’

  ‘It’s the ring of fire!’ she protests. ‘They all need it.’ She picks up one of the dresses and I see that there’s a burn in that too.

  She’s done it to all her clothes. She must have been doing it while Finlay was out, while we were escaping from … I don’t want to think about Uncle John. I won’t think about him. I must concentrate on Mary.

  ‘Tea’s ready!’ calls Finlay from the kitchen.

  ‘Rejuvenation!’ says Mary, sounding more like her old self.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I call back to Finlay. I really need to talk to him about her. Can we sneak a few minutes on our own?

  I take Mary into the sitting room and pick up some of the cushions which are all over the place.

  ‘You sit down, Mary. I’ll help Finlay bring it in.’ I turn on the telly though I know she won’t be able to concentrate on it.

  In the kitchen, Midget is brushing against Finlay’s legs hopefully, as he stirs sugar into Mary’s big mug of tea.

  ‘Where does she keep the pet food?’ he asks. ‘I suppose it’s under the floorboards or in the bath or somewhere mad like that.’

  ‘I see what you mean about her. She’s definitely getting worse.’ I tell him about the burnt clothes. ‘What if she’d set fire to the flat?’

  ‘She needs someone to look after her,’ he says.

  ‘She likes it when I look after her. She keeps saying so; she keeps telling me I’m good.’

  ‘Yeah, but you can’t do it – not all the time, not twenty-four hours a day. And her pals are hopeless. She should be in hospital.’

  But what about me? What would I do if she went? Could I stay here on my own? Where else could I go?

  I won’t think about me – I’ll just think about Mary.

  ‘How do you think she’d feel about going into hospital?’ I say. ‘I mean, she’s always hanging about that place but she hardly ever talks about when she was in there herself.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d be keen, somehow.’

  I feel the same. The way they all talk about ‘doing a runner’ they make it sound like a prison.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ I ask. ‘Phone someone or what?’

  ‘Squirrel said something about a CPN.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know his number. And shouldn’t we ask her first?’

  ‘She’d never agree. She’d probably just go berserk – even berserker than she is already.’

  ‘But I don’t like going behind her back. It feels like we’re plotting against her. Wouldn’t it be better if we could talk her into it?’

  ‘OK then.’ Finlay still sounds doubtful.

  I find an open tin of cat food in the fridge and hand it to him. ‘You do Midget and I’ll start on Mary.’

  Mary is wandering about the sitting room.

  ‘Rejubilation!’ she says when she sees the tea. She takes the cup and a biscuit, but I can’t get her to sit down.

  How shall I start? ‘Mary, I don’t think you’re very well.’

  ‘I’m not going in,’ she says.

  I’m taken aback. I didn’t think she’d get it so quickly. Then I realise, other people must have had this conversation with her in the past. It’s not going to be easy.

  ‘But you need someone to look after you.’

&nbs
p; ‘They don’t look after you. They look at you. They’re at it.’ She’s pacing faster now. Some tea slurps out of the cup on to the floor.

  ‘I’ll come and visit you, Mary. I’ll make sure they look after you.’

  ‘I need to be here. I need to tell the people. I need to pass on the message.’

  Pointless to ask what message. ‘Can’t you pass it on to the people in there?’ I suggest.

  ‘They’re all crazy in there!’

  She dunks a biscuit in her tea, then waves it about. ‘D is for the Dancing,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t have to be for long. Just till they get you back on the right medicine.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. ‘I’m no taking it!’ she says. ‘I’m no taking the bitter pill. The devil can take the bitter pill.’

  I rack my brains. I remember the first time I met Mary, on that bench, waiting to see Ronnie and give him the Chocolate HobNobs. ‘Ronnie’s in there – you like him,’ I try.

  She’s not listening any more. She’s waving the biscuit about again. ‘I could bring you in some biscuits,’ I say.

  Then I remember something else. There was a nurse with Ronnie, wasn’t there? In a flash, his name comes to me.

  ‘You like Jim Docherty, don’t you?’

  At last she’s standing still. ‘Aye, Jim Docherty is good. Jim Docherty is the best. Aye, I like Jim Docherty.’

  ‘Jim would look after you.’

  ‘Aye, Jim would look after me. I like Jim Docherty. He’s the best. He’s the best of a bad bunch. He’s not in the bunch. He’s good.’

  Am I finally getting somewhere?

  Finlay comes in. ‘Midget’s being very polite. I think she’s leaving half of it for Zigger,’ he says. ‘I wish he’d come back.’

  ‘Finlay, Mary was saying how much she likes Jim Docherty. Why don’t we ring the hospital?’

  Finlay – Comings and Goings

  ‘Jim’s not on yet. He’s doing nights this week. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. Can I give him a message?’

  Why was nothing ever simple, Finlay wondered. ‘Could you ask him to phone Mary McNally?’

  ‘Who’s speaking, please?’

  ‘I’m … a friend of Mary’s. I’m a bit worried about her.’

  ‘Is she there? Shall I speak to her? Tell her it’s Yvonne.’

  ‘Mary, it’s Yvonne. Will you speak to her?’

  But Mary didn’t think much of this idea. ‘Yvonne didnae let me use the washing machine,’ she said.

  Yvonne overheard and said something about not mixing whites and coloureds, which Finlay didn’t feel was getting them very far. Then she offered, ‘I’ll get Jim to call when he comes on. But if you’re really worried about her you should ring NHS 24. That’s the proper procedure. If they think she sounds bad enough they’ll send the rota doctor out to assess her.’ She gave Finlay the number.

  It sounded quick and simple, but it wasn’t. The evening slipped into night as they phoned, explained, waited, talked Mary back into it, answered the phone, explained again, waited again. Leo packed a bag for Mary and kept her as calm as possible. ‘But I can’t face seeing the doctor,’ she told Finlay. ‘I’m sorry. It’s because of him. You know.’

  ‘The bird man!’ said Mary. It was funny how she could still be so quick off the mark.

  ‘If he’s told the police I gave him the slip then I bet my picture will be in the paper again – maybe even tomorrow. No one must see me here.’

  Finlay didn’t really see why not. She probably wouldn’t be able to stay here any more once Mary had gone – or would she? ‘OK,’ he said, but when the doorbell rang and she went off to hide in the wardrobe he wished he’d tried to dissuade her. Even with his skill at fabrication, he wasn’t sure how he’d explain his presence in Mary’s life.

  The doctor was small, tired-looking and grey. If he was surprised to find a thirteen-year-old boy in attendance he didn’t show it. He listened politely to what Mary had to say about messages, leadership and dancing, then asked her to count backwards from a hundred, subtracting seven each time. She obliged with ‘97, 85, ten to five, half past six’. When he asked her to name some common animals she came up with ‘cat, dog, all my family’. The doctor was convinced, and he phoned for an ambulance.

  As soon as he went, Mary snapped out of her compliant mood. ‘They can’t get me!’ she said. ‘They’re at it. You’re at it too!’

  ‘I’m not. I just want you to be safe.’

  ‘I’m leaving!’

  Leo had reappeared. ‘Mary, you can’t.’

  ‘I can. I do. I will. I can conquer.’ She marched towards the front door. Her hand was on the handle.

  The phone rang.

  ‘It’s Jim Docherty, Mary.’

  She hovered, hesitated, then took the receiver.

  ‘Jim, they want me to go in. I won’t go. I’m counting on you, Jim. I’m counting backwards. You’re the best, Jim.’

  Finlay couldn’t hear what Jim said, but it did the trick. After the phone call there was no more talk of escape. Instead, she paced around the room, saying ‘Jims are good and Ronnies are good,’ over and over again until the bell rang and Leo hid again.

  The two young ambulance drivers introduced themselves as Paula and Paige. Luckily, Mary took to them. ‘You’re not Jims or Ronnies, but you’re goodly,’ she said.

  ‘Have you got a coat, pet?’ asked Paula.

  ‘Have you got a bag, pet?’ asked Paige, and then, turning to Finlay, ‘Are you a relation?’

  Finlay had considered being a grandson from the country, but Mary told them, ‘He’s Sherlock. He’s my pal.’

  ‘Do you want to come with her in the ambulance?’

  Finlay hadn’t thought of this. He couldn’t really go with Mary and leave Leo. ‘No – no, I’ve got to get home.’

  ‘Shall I phone for a taxi?’

  ‘No, it’s OK, it’s just round the corner.’

  Paula switched out all the lights.

  ‘Have you got your keys, love?’ Paige was leading a surprisingly meek Mary out on to the landing. Finlay and Paula followed.

  The door of flat 2/2 opened and Dressing Gown appeared. She eyed the company with a look which said ‘I saw this coming’.

  ‘I can take the cat in,’ she said. ‘I did last time.’

  ‘Or I could come and feed her,’ said Finlay.

  Dressing Gown gave him a funny look. ‘You stick to your paper round,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a detective,’ said Mary.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Paige, and started to lead Mary down the stairs.

  ‘Someone from social work will probably come round tomorrow to make sure it’s secure and to sort out about the cat,’ said Paula to Dressing Gown.

  Outside, the ambulance gleamed white in the dark street. Finlay felt a wrench as Mary climbed in.

  ‘Have a nice time,’ he said. That sounded stupid. ‘I’ll come and visit.’

  He waved and set off as if for home.

  Round the corner he waited till he heard the ambulance drive off. He waited some more – long enough, he hoped, for Dressing Gown to stop nosing about and get back to bed. Then he crept back and up the stairs.

  ‘Leo,’ he whispered through the letter box.

  She let him in. The flat was still dark. Officially it was empty. Dressing Gown mustn’t see any light under the door.

  She mimed for him to take off his shoes, and they padded through to the sitting room where just the table lamp was switched on. ‘I’m so glad you came back,’ she said.

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  Her face crumpled. Tears came. Her body shook with sobs. She flung herself on to the sofa and lay there, heaving.

  Finlay had seen Leo cry before, that evening at the Yeungs’, but not in this uncontrollable way. He didn’t know if she was crying for herself or for Mary, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t feel embarrassed the way he normally would. He knelt on the floor beside her, took her dangling h
and and felt a return squeeze.

  The sobs subsided. She sat up. ‘There’s so much to think about, isn’t there?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. But I feel sort of dazed.’

  ‘You’re tired. You’d better go home.’

  ‘I’m not going home,’ Finlay said. ‘Not tonight. I’m not leaving you on your own.’

  ‘But what about your mum and dad?’

  ‘I’ll ring them. I’ll make something up. But not this second.’

  They sat in silence. Midget padded in, jumped on to Finlay’s lap and began kneading and purring. Finlay thought about Dressing Gown and the social worker who was supposed to call tomorrow. But he felt too tired to talk about that now. ‘We’d better get up early,’ was all he said.

  ‘We’ve got our paper rounds, anyway.’

  ‘Hey, Midget, what’s up?’ The cat had tensed, stopped purring. Her ears were pointing backwards as if she was listening to something.

  Then they heard it too. The click of claws on the stone staircase, and the trailing of a lead.

  With an exchanged glance but no words, they went to the front door. Finlay opened it a crack, and Zigger came bounding in.

  Phoning Rab

  ‘Hello, is that Rab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Finlay Grant’s mother.’

  ‘Well, tell him to get out of bed and get down here.’

  ‘So he’s not with you?’

  ‘No, and neither is that pal of his. And Scott Paterson’s already doing a double round – I’m gonnae have to do the Z run myself. WHIT DO YOU MEAN, YOU’VE LOST YOUR BAG? These kids don’t bloody care. Mind you, that wee lassie’s maistly dead reliable. Must be your son’s influence. I expect they’re painting each other’s fingernails. Whit time did he set off?’

  ‘That’s just it – he didn’t. We haven’t seen him since yesterday after school. I’ll have to phone the police again.’

  ‘That’s a bit drastic if you ask me. IF YOU LOSE THIS ONE, I’M TAKING IT OFF YOUR WAGES. Your son’s most likely carousing with his pals. Have you tried that Chinese lassie?’