by Ann Kelley
ANN KELLEY is a photographer and prize-winning poet who once nearly played cricket for Cornwall. She has previously published collections of photographs and poems, an audio book of cat stories, and some children’s fiction, including the award-winning Gussie series. She lives with her second husband and several cats on the edge of a cliff in Cornwall where they have survived a flood, a landslip, a lightning strike and the roof blowing off. She runs courses for aspiring poets at her home, writing courses for medics and medical students, and speaks about her poetry therapy work with patients at medical conferences.
By the same author:
Born and Bred, Cornwall Books, 1988 (photographs)
Nine Lives, Halsgrove, 1998 (audio book, stories)
The Poetry Remedy, Patten Press, 1999
Paper Whites, London Magazine Editions, 200I (poems and photographs)
The Burying Beetle, Luath Press, 2005 (a novel)
Sea Front, Truran, 2005 (photographs)
Because We Have Reached That Place, Oversteps Books, 2006 (poems)
The Bower Bird, Luath Press, 2007 (a novel)
Inchworm, Luath Press, 2008 (a novel)
A Snail’s Broken Shell, Luath Press, 2010 (a novel)
The Light at St Ives, Luath Press, 2010 (photographs)
Koh Tabu, Oxford University Press, 2010 ( a novel)
Lost Girls, Little, Brown US, 2012 (a novel)
Telling the Bees, Oversteps, 2012 (poems)
Runners
ANN KELLEY
Luath Press Limited
EDINBURGH
www.luath.co.uk
First published 2013
ISBN (print): 978-1-908373-76-2
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-55-7
The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.
© Ann Kelley 2013
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Other Books from Ann Kelley & Luath Press
Luath Press
To Sam and Chloe, with love
CHAPTER ONE
DARKNESS SURROUNDED THEM, a deep velvet black, so that she couldn’t see a hand before her. He dragged her wearily through the wood, stumbling and tripping over roots and dead branches, through a shallow stream, their boots heavy now with mud, until they came to a road. It was lighter here where there were no stars but there were fat clouds rushing across the big sky, and the occasional gleam of a segment of orange moon.
She sobbed, her breath broken and ragged. ‘Are we there yet, Sid?’
‘Nearly. Come on.’ He pulled her across the terrifyingly empty space and into more darkness. A military truck coughed and screeched as it slowed to negotiate the bends. The headlights swept across the road.
‘Get down!’
It didn’t stop. They hadn’t been spotted. He switched on the torch briefly to get his bearings. Between densely packed trees and shrubs he saw a pile of abandoned building materials including a length of pipe about three metres long and of a diameter sufficient for the two to stand upright. She was unable to walk any further.
He picked her up and carried her into the tunnel.
‘We’re safe here.’
Lo woke with sun flickering through high branches, dappling the leafy floor outside their new den. Sid was good at making dens. He had made three that she remembered. One was a brick-walled roofless coal shed, which she liked because she could see the stars, but when it rained they got wet. The next den was a smelly old chicken house, but the feathers and dirt made her sneeze and they were discovered and chased out by a gang of kids who threw stones at them. They had had trouble finding another safe place. There were many empty buildings in the city, windows smashed, contents trashed or looted. But other kids had taken them as their own. Eventually, after walking all day through dusty deserted suburbs, hiding whenever they saw anyone, when they were exhausted and frantic for shelter they came across an old bus in a burnt-out depot full of very young kids who shared their drinking water with them.
Teams of them went out each day to scavenge for food. Sid was good at it and the little kids wanted them to stay. That was the best refuge and lasted ages and ages, at least two weeks. She’d liked it there because there were other little girls and they played tea parties with her and she was allowed to be Mother and pour the tea. They admired her fairyprincessdress. It was all pink and she liked to twirl round in it and show off her frilly pants. But a gang of youths had found them and thrown the younger ones out, threatening them with the Reducers, and they had had to run with only a small backpack containing several tins of baked beans, a can of Labmeat, a tin opener, a half-empty water bottle, matches, and the stained photo of their parents that Sid carried in the pocket of his baggies. And their IDs, carried in a waterproof pouch on a string around his neck.
Lo had cried bitter tears at leaving the other bus children, who had scattered and disappeared like scuttling rats.
She wept at lots of things these days: like when soldiers had pushed her and Sid into one truck and Mammy and Dadda into another.
‘Mammy, Mammy,’ Lo had screamed. But there were lots of screaming children in their truck.
Sid had tried to comfort her. He said Mammy and Dadda were going to a Sunshine Camp and they would see them soon. But she had cried so much her head hurt.
She wept when later the same day, after they had run away from the broken-down truck, Sid had thrown away her armband with the yellow sunshine picture on it.
‘I like it, Sid. Why did you do that?’
‘Because!’ he said. And her sobs began again. ‘Shh, don’t cry, Lo.’ He had hugged her to him, aware of how her hair was sticky and unwashed, her arms covered in scabs and grime. They were hiding in a large wheelie bin full of smelly rubbish. No one would look for them in there.
He had thrown away his own armband too. They’d all had to wear them in the ghetto.
Most people there were very young or very old, disabled or chronically sick, derelict or pregnant. There was a football pitch, a soup kitchen and even a prison in the ghetto, but no one was allowed out. It was for their own safety, they were told, because life outside the ghetto was chaotic, hazardous, lawless. The news-sheets announced a relocation programme to transport them to a place where they could be looked after.
However, Sid knew better now. He knew from what he had witnessed and what he’d heard along the way, that ghetto people were not going to be cared for. The opposite was true. He’d seen with his own eyes soldiers bludgeoning those who didn’t go quietly. His mother had been dragged away and his father had been lifted from his wheelchair and thrown roughly into the back of the truck.
His mam had been right. She had heard rumours from the other ghetto women and had tried to warn his dad weeks before the razor-wire went up. In the cramped two-roomed accommodation they shared he couldn’t help overhearing their midnight rows.
‘We could get out in the night. Start walking. Go west. To my folks. Sid and I could push your wheelchair.’
‘Don’t be stupid, woman, it’s a hundred miles or more. Haven’t heard from them in years. Don’t even know if they are still alive.’
‘But we can’t just wait to be taken away. It’s like the Nazis. They aren’t going to look after us, they are going to take us to Reduction camps. And we’re going meekly to our deaths.’ She sobbed into her hands.
‘It’s vicious gossip, don’t listen to it.’
Sid had tried not to listen. Instead he’d read his book under the bedclothes. The Life of Isambard Kingdom Brunel. He’d disappeared into another world: a world of huge bridges, of grand buildings and tunnels under the Thames.
Before their life in the ghetto, the bridges over the Tamar had been demolished to keep out refugees. He had been on the river bank to watch with excitement the huge structures fall creaking and crashing into the water. His father, who had worked on the maintenance of the Isambard Kingdom Brunel Railway Bridge for most of his working life, had wept openly.
Their new den was a dry tunnel. Sid had been hard at work already, gathering bits and pieces. They sat on plastic cartons.
‘I’m hungry.’ She scratched her scalp.
‘You’re always hungry, Lo.’ He opened a tin of baked beans and gave it to her. She scooped out the tomato goo with her fingers and sucked them clean.
‘Where are we?’
‘Roundabout.’
‘Where are the rides?’
‘Nah, not that sort of roundabout. It’s like an island, but instead of water around it there’s road.’
‘Is it the country?’ (She couldn’t yet sound her r’s, so it sounded like countwy.)
‘Sort of.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Yeah, it’s safe.’
‘Why is it?’
‘Just is. Come on, we’ve work to do.’
Sid enjoyed building things. He wanted to be a structural engineer, like his dad had been before his accident. This, he thought, is a miniature version of the Thames Tunnel that his hero had helped to build when he was just twenty. Only six years older than Sid. He pretended that he was working with Brunel as he yanked, tugged and manhandled a sheet of corrugated plastic to block one end of the tunnel, then disguised it with dead branches.
‘There you are, Sidney, very well made.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ It comforted Sid, to imagine that he wasn’t alone in this task.
The other end of the den was already hidden by dense bushes and a tree trunk that had fallen close by.
It was like a cave, a wild creature’s lair.
‘Are there wild things?’ Lo was scared.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Wild things what roar and eat people.’
‘Nah. We’re all right.’
‘No rats?’ Lo had seen many large rats in the city and she was frightened of what they could do. One of the bus girls had said a rat as big as a cat had crawled over her in her bed and roared at her.
‘No rats.’ Sid’s experience of wildlife was limited to the moan of feral pigeons, the screech of rats, the rich scent of city fox, and his body’s own wildlife – nits and fleas, and more recently, lice.
‘Can I explore?’
‘I’ll come with you first time, okay? Then we’ll both know the way home, won’t we, eh?’
‘Is it our den, now, Sid?’
‘For a bit, yeah.’
Being careful not to show themselves to the open road, it took about twenty minutes to walk round close to the perimeter of the roundabout, climbing over fallen trees and pushing through brambles and shrubs with a stout stick.
‘Sid, my feet hurt, Sid,’ Lo whimpered. Not surprising, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that they got this far. They had walked over sixty miles in the last ten days or so, following minor roads and disused railway tracks, sleeping in abandoned buildings and old train stations, always heading west. And she was only little.
Lo’s legs were already covered in scratches and bites, so the thorns didn’t bother her much. But her precious dress tore easily and she was upset by its every new imperfection.
‘Where are we going, Sid?’
‘Find Gramps and Grumps.’
‘Why?’
‘They want to see us, that’s why.’ He doubted that Grumps would be happy to see them, but maybe his grandfather would. If he could find them. A town with a ‘z’ in it. He had no choice, they were his only hope. No way could he look after Lo and himself for long. They both needed somewhere safe to stay. He daren’t think about what had happened to his parents. He wasn’t ready to face the horrific possibilities that flitted through his mind.
‘But Sid, how will Mammy and Dadda know where we are?’
‘Don’t start, Lo. Watch out.’ He lifted her over a prickly bush. ‘Why don’t you tuck your dress in your pants.’
‘Don’t want to.’
‘No water, but it’s good here,’ he announced. They had come back to where they had started, a yellow flowering gorse bush and a clump of tall teasels behind a large arrow sign.
‘What’s it called?’
‘What do you mean?
‘What’s its name, the roundybout?
‘Don’t know. We’ll give it a name, shall we?’ He pushed a stray lock of matted hair behind her ear.
Lo scratched her leg and frowned. ‘Fairy Island.’
‘Nah. Don’t be stupid.’ He hit at a thick clump of branches to make a way through back to the den.
‘I’m not stupid. And you’re a pooey-face.’ Lo paused, looking up through the mass of leaves at the cloudy sky. ‘Green Island’.
The roundabout was a thick mass of shrubs, bushes and tall trees and supported a small zoo of wildlife, though nothing that wanted to eat children. Lo was right. It was a green island.
The resident badger was aware of their presence and the barn owl in the high tree had heard them arrive as he was delicately eviscerating a rat.
The badger was digging for worms in the warm earth when the humans arrived. She lifted her heavy striped head and sniffed the air. They smelled bad but not in a dangerous way. The skinny fox who had his den on the roundabout was roaming far away.
CHAPTER TWO
AT THE FIRST GLIMMER of dawn Sid left Lo sleeping in the tunnel. He had made them a bed with a polythene sheet covered in dead grass and dry leaves, a huge pile that smelt of earth and autumn. Over the last weeks they had acquired the habit of snatching the blessed oblivion of sleep when they could, day or night.
He hid behind one of several curved metal barriers that edged the island and listened to the two roads within his sight for a few minutes. Nothing came or went, only a gang of twenty or more motorbikes going too fast, leather-clad riders leaning at dangerous angles around the bends. The roar they made was scary and made his stomach churn. He went back to the tunnel to check that his little sister hadn’t been disturbed by the racket. She was snoring softly. Nothing woke Lo. Mam said she was always a good baby.
A pair of buzzards circled high in the white hot sky, mewing harshly. He made a dash across the road into the wood, his stout stick at the ready for whoever or whatever challenged him. In this case it was only brambles.
After about a kilometre he passed an abandoned piggery, five pens still faintly smelling of pig – a sweet meaty scent – (another possible den, he filed into his brain for the future). Nothing in them – only a gnarled tree growing through one; rusted feeding troughs outside. The yard tap squeaked when he turned it, but no water flowed. A hundred metres away he found what he was looking for: fresh water. A flooded quarry. The sides were steep, the water level low. He walked around its edge, climbing trees to get a better look at what was ahead. He watched as a fish touched the lid of the water and sent out ripples. Beyond the concentric circles he saw a moulded fibreglass dinghy tied to a short wooden pier. Crouching, he made himself small, picked his nose thou
ghtfully, and watched for a few minutes to make sure there was no one there. He climbed down and continued around the edge until he came to wooden steps to the pier. Fixed to a pole was an orange lifebelt.
Filling up the bottle with the greenish water, he waited for the silt to settle and drank deeply, refilled it and screwed the lid on. He stayed under the pier for a long time, watching branches dipping into the water, a cloud of mosquitoes shimmering in the sun. A movement startled him. A grey squirrel leapt from one tree to another like a slow motion film, feathered tail flickering over its back.
Sid had never been anywhere this quiet. Tranquillity. That was the word for it. There was no menace in the silence, only the sounds of birds and insects, the hiss of wind in leaves, the smell of water and green things. Reflections of clouds passed beneath him as he looked longingly at the boat. Walking all the way around the quarry he looked for signs of life, but saw no paths, no broken twigs, nothing to indicate that anyone had been there for many months. He saw a bright green grasshopper climbing up a tall grass. He knelt to watch a spider mend the web that he had inadvertently broken as he stepped through it. A dancing pair of brown speckled butterflies flickered in the corner of his eye. The scent of honeysuckle soothed him. He had no idea that there was so much wildlife in the countryside. A ladybird landed on his hand, and he examined it closely as it crawled up his arm. Red and black, like a small armoured car, he thought. Seven spots. ‘Fly away ladybird, fly away home…’ he couldn’t remember the words of the nursery rhyme. Something about a fire and losing its children. Even ladybirds had a hard time. Obediently, it folded back its red and black carapace, opened its wings and flew off.
Fly away home. He would never see his home again. He sniffed hard.
There were oars in the bottom of the boat, and a dark puddle of rainwater in which mosquito larvae wriggled. He got in, rocking the dinghy, put the oars in the rowlocks, untied the rope and rowed off into the middle of the water.
He’d never done it before, but he soon got the hang of it. Now, the muscles on his arms felt stretched and good. It was such a normal boy thing to do. It was a long time since he’d done normal. It took him some time to circle the flooded gravel pit. A hatch of dragonflies shimmered above the water. A wood pigeon cooed sadly. Woo, woo, woo-oo.
