H2O

by Virginia Bergin

  WHAT?! I said.

  “That’s what Saskia did, isn’t it?” she said. “How else do you think she got away from Zak’s? Dummy.”

  I kissed the door to my mom and Simon’s room.

  I breathed.

  “Bye, Mom,” I whispered.

  • • •

  BUT I CAN’T DRIVE!!! I thought, lugging bags down the stairs. I DON’T KNOW HOW!

  Get a grip! I thought. Be like Saskia. Be like Halloween Bad Dolly Saskia.

  I got all the phones and Caspar’s precious MP3 player and Simon’s precious laptop and put them—and the chargers—into a bag. Then I rummaged in Simon’s jacket pocket and fished out the keys to our car. Then I picked up the crowbar.

  I got everything straight in my head. I would keep it really simple, like steps you follow on the back of a box of hair dye. (The crowbar wasn’t a step; it was more like the part you don’t read on the back of the box, about what to do if it all goes horribly wrong.)

  STEP ONE. I took a deep, calming breath and unlocked the door and went out into the road and loaded the bags into the car. This went OK.

  STEP TWO. I went back into the house to get the pets.

  This took longer than it should have.

  Darling was easy because I’d done a mini-detour and picked up a pretty little leash and collar for her on the return leg of the looting expedition. I couldn’t bear to go back to Whitby’s house, so I went back out to the car, got one of my new belts, and attached that his collar. I did the same with Mimi. The crazy terrier was too crazy to be saved, my Halloween Bad Dolly Saskia self ruthlessly decided.

  As I led my pack of dogs out to the car, Mimi pulled toward home. So I dragged her. She snapped at me when I tried to pick her up, so I pretty much yanked her up by her neck into the backseat of the car. I put Darling down with her, on Henry’s baby seat, then loaded Whitby into the back with my bags. I went back into the house. I scooted the terrier out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and out the front door.

  “Leave it!” I hissed when he went straight for Mrs. Fitch.

  I opened the gate and he bounded out—then turned, waiting to see what I would do. Wondering whether he was getting a walk, I expect.

  Be like Saskia.

  I shut the gate on him.

  Then I went back inside and got Fluffysnuggles.

  I stood in the hall…the house—the whole world—silent.

  Drip, drip, drip went the kitchen faucet.

  Don’t start blubbing now, I told myself.

  STEP THREE. This was supposed to be “drive off.”

  It went horribly wrong.

  The terrier pranced after me as I walked toward the car.

  Inside the car, the dogs had rearranged themselves. Whitby sat in the front passenger seat, panting his vile breath everywhere; Darling waited cutely in the driver’s seat; Mimi sulked in the back. I scooped up Darling, put her on my lap, and put Fluffysnuggles down on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

  I started up the car.

  That engine, it roared into the silence like a jet, sounding a million billion times louder than the plane that had zoomed low overhead in the night. Loud enough to wake the dead, Grandma Hollis would have said.

  The first thing I had to do was open my window, or I’d be sick from Whitby’s death breath. Then I checked out the pedals, fiddled nervously with the gears. Only my dad had ever let me try driving his car; my mom and Simon went mental when I told them—even though it was on this totally deserted lane in Lancashire (“He let you drive on a public highway!?!”)—and completely, totally, and utterly refused to let me try in our car.

  We kangarooed out of the parking space, bashing next-door-but-one’s car. Whitby fell off his seat onto Fluffysnuggles. Darling didn’t fall but decided the floor was a better bet. The engine screamed, and the car lurched along the road where my foot pressed down on the accelerator as I rummaged around and scooped her up.

  “ animals!” I shouted. It was the nervous tension.

  Oh no. I turned off the engine.

  “Two seconds,” I muttered to the animals, then got out and went back to the house.

  See, now maybe you’ve been thinking what a nice person I am and how I must really love animals and everything. (Well, apart from the terrier.) You know what I had forgotten? The stupid guinea pigs.

  I didn’t even know whether they’d still be alive. I unlocked the front door and charged through the house and out the back door into the garden. I think guinea pigs come from Peru, and I guess life must get pretty tough there, because, although there wasn’t a scrap of food or water left, Gimli and Prince Charming (don’t ask; that’s a whole other story) were very much alive and squealed their little heads off for food. I opened the cage and—

  I stopped. It wasn’t because I realized it would take too long to find a box or something; it was because the dogs were going crazy—the girls’ muffled yapping; Whitby booming; the terrier, out on the street, going nuts. Either the ghost of Clarence had arisen and was scaring them to death, or another dog had rocked up and a fight had broken out, or—I ran back into the house, I yanked open the front door—

  Or something had upset them.

  Not something. Someone. Not anyone, either.

  He was standing a couple steps away from me. The rich man, gray-haired. The terrier barged past him into the house, and it was that—that two seconds of the dog barging through—that gave the rich man enough time to lurch forward and stick his foot in the door before I could slam it shut. I shoved against that door with all my might. The terrier started up again, barking like a lunatic right behind me. Behind me, like he was backing me up, like I could actually do something.

  “I only want to talk to you,” he said. “I only want to talk to you.”

  That voice: primped and prim and proper, like his house.

  His fingers wrapped round the door. What I could feel… It was like…you know when you’re a kid and you arm wrestle a grown-up? How they let you think you stand a chance, but really they could beat you instantly? That’s what it felt like. I was pushing as hard as I could, but I knew any second he wanted, he could shove back, and it’d be game over. So I did a Whitby. I sank my teeth into fingers. I bit him as hard as I could. He yelled and pulled his hand free—but his foot stayed in the door.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said.

  I spat his filthy taste from my mouth.

  DO SOMETHING! yelled my Halloween Bad Dolly Saskia self.

  The crowbar was in the car.

  THINK! yelled my Simon-ish me.

  I had no instructions to follow. I looked for something, anything… The den door was ajar. I saw my pee bucket.

  I let go of the door, dived into the den, and grabbed it.

  He did not come in after me. He pushed the door wide open with his fingertip and stood back, nursing his hand. I stood there, in the hall, with my pee bucket.

  The terrier quieted—but maybe not because the door fight was over, maybe because the humans were out-crazying it.

  “Get-away-from-me,” I said.

  My voice so choked with rage and fear and hate it sounded like another person’s—a dangerous psycho person’s. I held up the bucket, like I was ready to soak him. I held it really tight to stop my hands from shaking. I gave it a little swish about, menacing.

  He backed up immediately. He slipped out through the gate. He held on to it.

  “I won’t hurt you!” he said. “Please—”

  “You killed him,” I said.

  “It was an accident—”

  “It was a trap!”

  “I was frightened—”

  “We were thirsty. WE-WERE-JUST-THIRSTY.”

  “I know that. I understand that—”

  “You murdered him.”

  I came at him then—more with rag
e than bravery. I strode down the path, and he turned and ran.

  “Stay away from me!” I screamed after him. “Stay away from my house! MURDERER!”

  I couldn’t stop shaking. I kept thinking he would come back. I kept the pee bucket with me as I locked up the house. I kept the pee bucket with me as I went back to the car. The crazy terrier followed me. I couldn’t leave him now, not when he’d stood behind me, barking at him. I opened the back passenger door. The terrier hopped in, saw Whitby, and growled. Whitby growled back.

  “BE QUIET!” I yelled at them.

  I opened the driver’s door, scooped Darling up with one hand, got in. I put the pee bucket down, jammed it in next to Fluffysnuggles, put Darling on my lap, and shut the door. I put my seat belt on.

  The keys were gone.

  Not knocked onto the floor gone. Not “ooh silly me, I forgot I put them in my pocket” gone. Gone gone.

  I looked around. He was standing in the road, a distance back, holding up the keys.

  “I JUST WANT TO TALK TO YOU,” he shouted. “I PROMISE I WON’T HURT YOU.”

  I undid my seat belt. I scooped Darling up, kissed her, and swapped her for the pee bucket. I got out of the car. I didn’t shut the driver’s door. I stood right by it.

  “I didn’t know it was you and your dad,” he shouted. He came toward me slowly, very slowly. “I was scared,” he shouted.

  I said nothing. Not even, “He’s not my dad.”

  “Look, I’m really not going to hurt you,” he said, moving closer, his stupid hands, his stupid evil murderer’s hands, outstretched as if to prove it—my keys in one of them. MY KEYS.

  “And I know you’re not going to hurt me… I know you’re kind… You fed the cat…”

  He’d reached the back of the car now; he put one of his hands on it, as if to steady himself.

  “I can see you really like animals,” he said.

  One step closer…

  He took that step; his hand swept along the side of the car, the terrier jumped up barking like a lunatic, the man jumped back, and I chucked the pee into his prim and proper face.

  I guess poop and pee and bleach sting when they get in your eyes. I bet they sting even more when you think they might be going to kill you. He yelled worse than when I’d bitten him. He dropped the keys; his hands went to his face. I snatched up the keys. The dogs—all of them—were going crazy. I scooped up Darling from where she’d crept back into the driver’s seat, and I chucked her into the back of the car. I slammed the door, stuck the keys into the ignition, and kangarooed out of there.

  Step Three really did last a long time. It was the slowest, crappiest escape in history. When they make the blockbuster movie, I want that changed. I want me to be in some kind of flashy sports car—red—no, white. No. Black. And my hair should be the blonde I wanted it to be, not a ghostly haystack, and definitely not Halloween horror. It should be an convertible sports car, my tiara glinting triumphantly in the sun, my skin zit free, kissing-rash free, and gorgeously sun-kissed (not ORANGE) (and definitely not plastic-coated). Darling would have to be with me, wearing a spiky, punk, leather-and-studs collar. My dog: small but super-mean.

  Whitby could be there too, I suppose, but only if he’s been washed and blow-dried, and has had a serious doggy oral beauty treatment. No scraps of dead people are to be stuck in his teeth. Mimi, the terrier, the guy I left howling in the road—they should just disappear. They’re gone, not in this scene at all. For reasons I don’t care to discuss right now, it’d be a lot better if Fluffysnuggles wasn’t there either.

  I still have nightmares about Step Three. In them, I am Halloween Bad Dolly. I drive a tank. I kill people. I am alone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The car stalled about a hundred times just getting to the end of our road. If that man had come after us, he could have walked, slowly, and still caught up.

  The dogs—all of them—crouched down and shut up as we lurched our way to freedom. Even Fluffysnuggles was probably crouching in terror inside his carton.

  I stopped at the four-way stop, like you’re supposed to, and we stalled again and rolled backward down the hill. I braked and restarted and kangarooed straight out onto the main road—onto the wrong side of the road. That was deliberate; there was more space on the wrong side of the road. I managed the next half mile without stalling or kangarooing. I even managed to get into third gear and only clipped a couple cars, just a little… But I tell you: I did not like it ONE BIT.

  No wonder people get angry driving! Even if they’ve been doing it for years and years, so they’ve stopped bumping into things and stuff and don’t have to actually THINK REALLY HARD about how you do it, it’s basically the most stressful thing EVER. Seriously, when I got to Ashton Road, I pretty much thought I’d be better off on a bike and, at this rate, it’d probably be quicker.

  I braked at the junction, and I stalled. That was OK, in fact, because otherwise I’d have turned right, which would have led me straight into the giant car graveyard of town. Instead, I had a moment to think, so I went left. OK, I kangarooed left. On the right side of the road this time, the side coming into town was lined with abandoned cars. I was just building up to second gear when the crazy terrier decided he’d been quiet for long enough and launched himself at Whitby.

  There was a massive boy dogfight right in my car, with me, Darling, and Mimi screaming and shouting like most girls do when there’s a fight. (Unless they’re in it.)

  I told myself that’s why I had to pull into the school. I flung open the door and the terrier leaped out—sneaky Mimi scrambled out too—and they both went skittering off while I hammered on the horn.

  Call it a charitable act. Know that I was scared.

  So, yeah, I hammered on the horn.

  • • •

  Ever heard of a backseat driver? No? It’s someone who sits in the back of the car and tells the driver what they should be doing, basically a know-it-all who should get out and walk. I felt like I was in shock from the whole three-step escape thing, and really I just wanted to be quiet for a while, but after ten minutes in the car with the Spratt, I was starting to lose it.

  How they even came to be in the car was like this:

  “Oh, all right. Hey,” I said casually as the black plastic creatures emerged from the staff room. (Can you imagine that? He hadn’t just gone to the school; he’d gone to the staff room.)

  I bet that kid hadn’t been out of her plastic wrapper all night, and Darius had re-bound himself. Did I mention that none of my steps had included putting on any kind of waterproof clothing? Um…no. I was just wearing what you would wear, jeans and stuff.

  “Are you crazy?! It’s going to rain any second! What are you doing?!” blathered the Spratt. “GET BACK IN THE CAR!”

  Did I mention that I hadn’t even looked at the sky? Um…no. I had vaguely registered that it looked OK and stuff, but somehow, in the meantime, it had gotten to be not OK. An army of little blobby clouds was advancing across the sky, rank after rank of them, lined up, marching. Altocumulus stratiformus, legions of them. The ones directly above our heads didn’t look that scary to me (though, actually, altocumulus stratiformus is perfectly capable of sprinkling a little rain on you, just for kicks), but they must have been marching too slowly for the rest of the army because, behind them, the ranks were blundering into each other, massing for a full-scale invasion. I whipped Darling off my seat and got back in the car, plunking her in my lap. Darius and the kid got in too, squishing plastickly into the back, next to Henry’s seat.

  “What ARE you doing?” said Darius, ripping away the plastic from his face so he could better nag me.

  Whoa. Me, Darling, and Whitby turned around to get a good look at the newcomers. Whitby, the big dope, seemed none the worse for his car fight and lurched toward them to say hello; the kid—and gutless Darius!—flattened themselves against the
seats like Whitby was some sort of savage beast.

  I grabbed Whitby’s collar. “Stay!” I commanded (like I had some sort of control over him).

  Yeah, and what are YOU doing? I thought. Hiding in the staff room until teacher comes and tell you what to do?

  “I’m going to London,” I said.

  Annoyingly, Spratt didn’t fall to his knees and beg to come with me—which would have been hard, sitting in the backseat of a car with Whitby within savaging distance, but you know what I mean.

  “What for?” he said.

  “My dad lives there,” I said. It sort of hurt a little to say it out loud. I got hold of some random sob that wanted to come out, and I stuffed it back down.

  He thought about that for a moment.

  “Hn,” he said. There was another tedious pause before, “I don’t think going to London’s a very good idea,” he added.

  Whoa No. 2. Now I was not asking whether he thought my plan was a good plan or not, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned (the hard way) from going on “social media” and that, it’s that you sometimes have to just hang on for one second before you blast off some kind of devastating response to rudeness and brazenness from someone you don’t really know all that well—particularly if you want something from them, like an invitation to a party or something. So I buttoned it—though obviously mentally toying with various devastating responses, blending them with colorful choices from the tempting palette of swear words I like to have available at all times.

  “But I suppose we might as well come with you for a while, then,” said Darius after another age.

  “Yeah, sure, whatever,” I said. You can’t leave me.

  “Just until we decide what to do,” said Darius.

  “Yeah,” I said, “’course.”

  Until they decided what to do? They? Did that GBK ever even actually speak?

  And how they nearly came to NOT be in the car ten minutes later was like this:

  “Maybe you’re letting the clutch out too quick,” said Darius when we stalled for the second time on the Ashton Road roundabout.