As it happens, I did find myself straying from time to time, whether due to jizz, chip fat, rat, cat, squirrel or whatever other bell-end happened to have minced across my path. But it was never for long. Occasionally, I’d lose the scent altogether and find myself floundering in fresh air, but then I’d catch a whiff in the old peripherals and I’d be off again, face to the floor. It never left me, not once. Not for all those miles.
I tracked that scent like I’d never tracked anything before. I got a surge of it through a jungle-covered car park and ran so fast I barely noticed the fence. Got myself stuck, didn’t I? Two hours I struggled there, barking, whining, thrashing with my paws in a thorn bush. Eventually I gave up and slunk down, wondering how long it would take for me to become a skeleton, and for my bones to slip down into the earth.
It was getting dark by then. Right proper mope I had, grumping about everything that had happened to me that day – the fire, Reg leaving me, Wally – and I was about to let that mope turn into despair when suddenly I thought, Have a word Lineker, old son, why don’t you try the other way?
So I did, and pop! Out I came like a runt from a fanny. Daft cunt, I am; two hours of pulling and all I needed to do was push. Fucking hilarious. Anyway, I was free again! Eyes shut, nose to the wind … Wait for it, there was Reg and – mercy me, be still my fluttering bowels – there was the girl too.
Little widdle, smack of the chops and that was me on my merry old way again! It can’t be far, I thought, as I trotted up the tracks towards the dangling shreds of London Bridge station, I can virtually taste them. The sun had long made its excuses by then so the streets were dark, but it didn’t matter; I followed that scent like a taut rope, up onto a platform, across the abandoned concourse and out into the night.
And that’s where I lost them.
Charlie’s Barge
REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL
11TH DECEMBER 2021
‘What were you thinking? That pub is not a safe place for a child.’
Charlie whirled around the long, squat room, whisking curtains shut and bolting hatches.
‘Certainly not one dressed like that.’
She gave Aisha’s hair a passing stroke as she hurried to a mount above the door, from which she pulled a shotgun and cocked its barrel.
‘You knew that woman?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘At least I used to.’
‘Then you were lucky. It made her think twice.’
‘What did she want with Aisha? What do you mean dressed like that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? She’s a Straggler!’
‘Straggler?’
‘Yes! An undesirable –’ she touched Aisha’s cheek as she passed ‘– sorry, sweetheart, you’re really not – who fell through the net. You can tell it a mile off.’
She pulled two red cartridges from the box and fed them into the gun’s chambers. ‘Whatever’s the matter with you?’ she said, glancing up at me. ‘Have you never been on a boat before? Sit down, man.’
I was standing, clammy, with my hands pressed against the ceiling. The floor rocked beneath me. Aisha looked up at me from the galley table wearing what I could have sworn was a look of amusement.
Our escape from the pub had seemed like only minutes before, Charlie leading us into the murk and dropping Aisha so that she ran between us holding our hands with her hair flying as if she was being wheeled through a fairground.
We had ducked left and right down countless alleys, through gaps in fences and doors that seemed too small for humans, beneath bushes and away from the flames that lit the bankside until, at last, we had slowed and stopped. For a moment Charlie had stood still until, satisfied with the silence, she had led us along a wall and down some steep steps. A flashlight, produced from some deep pocket, picked out rough, misshapen steps and walls of dripping wet rock. Before long we had reached a wooden door that had taken us out onto a narrow strip of dirt, against which I could hear water lapping. Charlie had bolted the door behind us and it was then that I had found myself suddenly frozen to the spot, for there beneath an overhang and moored at the water’s edge was a barge, rocking gently on shallow water.
‘What’s wrong?’ Charlie had already boarded with Aisha. ‘Why have you stopped?’
I had found I could not speak but, eventually, with much persuasion and a great many sickening rolls of my stomach, I had made it onto the deck and down the hatch.
Charlie snapped the barrel shut. ‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake,’ she said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
I peeled my hands from the ceiling and edged to the table. Charlie checked through a curtain.
‘They don’t know this place exists,’ she murmured. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
‘Where are we?’ I asked.
‘London Bridge,’ she replied, letting the curtain drop. ‘The ruin created a deep well, which is why you can see water and dents beneath the bankside. They’re not all safe, but this one seems to be holding.’
She peered cautiously above her. ‘Not like the last,’ she added.
She took a breath and looked around the barge with worried eyes, still checking. There wasn’t much inside – a few books stacked on a shelf, some pictures, pots, and a well-worn cushion. A solitary plant grew on the shelf above the hob, and a framed letter in spindly writing.
Finally she lowered the gun and her eyes turned to me. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Because,’ I began, still reeling at the sensation of floating, ‘because you brought us …’
‘No, Mr Hardy, why are you here on the river.’
‘How do you know my name?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve been following you since you bumbled into the market this afternoon. Haven’t you heard of caution? A little bit of stealth? You may as well have carried a target around your neck. In fact …’
She frowned, then strode over to Aisha. The girl flinched as Charlie reached for her neck and pulled out her tag.
‘I don’t believe it,’ wailed Charlie. ‘You even kept this on her? What were you thinking?’
‘I wasn’t, I… I thought it might help get her where she needed to be.’
‘Help those bastards identify her and pick her up more like.’
She tapped it. ‘Target; it says target. Do you know what that means?’
‘I suppose … I suppose I do now, yes.’
She released a frustrated rasp and tucked the tag back, catching Aisha’s eye as she did. ‘I’m sorry, poppet,’ she said, folding a hand around her cheek. ‘Sorry.’
She fell into the last seat at the table and took a pouch of tobacco from one of her many pockets, from which she began to roll a thin cigarette. ‘So tell me, please,’ she repeated. ‘Why are you here?’
I told her. When I was finished she watched me, motionless, leaning back in her chair with her legs crossed and a straight blue line rising from the glowing tip of her cigarette like a chimney on a still night. Eventually she took one last drag and stubbed it out. She looked sideways at Aisha, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth.
‘I expect you’re hungry, poppet, yes?’
She got up and began to move pots around the stove.
Aisha looked at me, holding her nose with her eyebrows raised.
Charlie served us bowls of beans and sausages, which we ate in silence as she smoked. I saw Aisha glancing at her, nose twitching between mouthfuls.
‘I haven’t operated since spring,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s been too dangerous since they stepped up operations, and since that camp …’ She made a face as if she’d tasted something sour, and put out her cigarette. ‘To be honest with you, I’ve been spending the last few weeks planning my escape.’
‘Escape?’ I said.
‘Yes. From London. It’s funny, I’d always wanted to leave before but it never seemed like the right time. Some places have a way of keeping you, don’t they?’ She pulled a loose strand of tobacco from her tongue. ‘It’s extremely dangerous, Mr Hardy, crossing that ri
ver. And there are dangers on the other side, too. It’s not safe.’
‘Where is?’ I meant it – a real question – but I got the feeling she thought I was just being clever. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I can’t pay you. I don’t have any money.’
‘I don’t want money,’ she spat, turning away. Her look of disgust softened when she saw Aisha rubbing her eyes and giving an enormous yawn. ‘You’re tired, sweet girl.’
Aisha nodded, bleary, with a fuzz of loose hair dangling over her face.
‘Come with me,’ said Charlie, holding out her hand. ‘You can sleep in my bed tonight.’
Aisha followed her through to a poky room at the back of the barge, the entire floor area of which was dedicated to a bed. After some ruffling of covers and whispers, Charlie returned, pulling the door to.
‘A drink, Mr Hardy?’ she said.
I nodded, although she had already swept a bottle and two tumblers from the galley shelf.
‘It’s Reginald, by the way.’
She stopped and turned. ‘Reginald,’ she said, and returned to her pouring.
So that’s something.
‘Do you live alone?’ I asked.
She paused, with a half-turn and cocked eyebrow over her shoulder. I cringed. I meant nothing by it; I mean nothing by anything. I certainly was not, you know, it’s a young man’s game, all that nonsense.
But it was out now; too late to take it back. I fumbled with my fingers as she finished pouring, and brought the two glasses back to the table. She set mine before me, fixing me with a look that made me feel like a naughty boy being humoured.
‘My husband hightailed it out of the city as soon as it all kicked off,’ she said, sitting down. ‘I might have gone with him, but, well … what was the point?’ She folded her arms and made a mute, wide-eyed face. ‘How do you like that? Twenty-five years of marriage and he pisses off at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Where did he go?’ I asked.
‘No idea. His sister’s in Nottingham probably. They were always close.’
‘Maybe he’s still there,’ I said hopefully.
She shrugged. ‘Good luck to him, I say. Me, I couldn’t give a shit. Cheers.’ She lifted her glass.
‘Cheers,’ I said, hesitantly, raising mine. The liquor was sweet and strong and I winced as it hit my throat.
‘The problem was we were never tested,’ she said, gazing into the glass. ‘Things have to be tested to survive, don’t they? Things have to be put under pressure in order to strengthen, and our marriage was not. We had our own careers, our own lives. We weren’t rich by anyone’s standards, but we never struggled. We had no children, no health worries, stable jobs.’
‘What did you do?’
She cocked her head and frowned. ‘What do you mean? You think I haven’t always been a ferry-woman?’
She stayed that way for a moment, frozen in deadpan, before finally she let out a deep, fruity laugh. ‘I was a social worker,’ she went on. ‘Young offenders mostly. My husband, wherever he might be, was a journalist. I suppose if there’s one thing we shared it was that we both wanted justice.’ She shrugged again and gave me a thin smile. ‘Waste of time now though, eh?’
‘You helped other people,’ I replied. ‘That’s not wasted time. That’s good, that’s noble.’
She puffed through her nose. ‘Noble. Perhaps.’ She rolled her eyes around the squat walls of her boat and let them fall in a dark corner. Something seemed to lift her expression. ‘I tried for a while after it all happened. I thought if I could help people get to where they needed to go, keep them safe, it might make things better. But now with the camps …’ She shook her head. ‘Truth is I’m tired of it all. I’ve run out of fight.’
‘So you can’t help us?’ I said.
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said.
After a pause she took a breath. ‘I know a team on the other side of the river,’ she continued. ‘They run contraband along the disused Tube lines. They’re good people and I trust them. I can hook up with them at Charing Cross and they can transport her north. They’ll look after her.’
‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘Can they take me as well?’
‘I doubt it. It’s risky enough with a child.’
‘But I promised her I would get her to safety.’
‘Then this is the best chance you have.’
She was right, of course. I had already lost Lineker, and had barely made it to the river without losing Aisha too. How could I hope to navigate whatever path lay on the other side? There would not always be a Charlie Jenkins to help.
‘She’s not your burden, Reginald,’ said Charlie.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘That is not the word I would use at all.’ My words felt hollow and clumsy. Embarrassed, I drained my glass. Charlie refilled it.
‘I’ll need to cross early, though,’ she said. ‘It’s too dangerous in daylight.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Don’t mention it.’
We drank and talked some more, mostly about her life, her childhood and the places she’d travelled. I took care to direct the conversation away from my own life, for no other reason than that I found talking about it distinctly uncomfortable. Charlie kept a close watch on the windows but there was no sign of our pursuers and as the night wore on her checks became more infrequent. She kept our glasses full and I found myself becoming somewhat tipsy, as I noticed, was she. Occasionally I made her laugh. I had no idea why, but then I freely admit that the mechanisms of the feminine mind are quite lost on me.
As the night wore on, my thoughts – as they tend to when bottles drain – began to darken. The night was cold and I wondered where Lineker was, and whether he had found a place to shelter.
Charlie must have noticed my change of mood because she filled the glasses and corked the bottle. ‘One last drink,’ she said. She knocked hers back, motioning for me to do the same, which I did. When I had finished she leaned over to replace the bottle on its shelf, placing her hand on my shoulder to help. But it lingered too long and, as her neck and bosom pushed close to my face, she squeezed.
When she sat down her face was different. Her eyelids were low, her lips softer. Her breast swelled. I was terrified.
‘Now,’ she said, smoothing her dress and letting her eyes perform a little dart around the table. ‘Sleeping arrangements.’ She caught my eye and smiled innocently. ‘Hmm. The seat behind you pulls out so you can sleep there, and I’m more than happy to sleep with our little cargo. However …’
Another deep breath.
‘If you’d prefer …’
She let the words hang like a baited hook. I failed to bite. ‘There’s someone else?’ she said. ‘You’re married?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, cradling my glass, ‘I was.’
She paused, her sexual armoury dismantling before me.
‘Were you tested?’
It was my turn to hesitate. ‘Yes,’ I said at last. ‘Yes, I would say we were tested.’
Like I said, I do not understand how women work or how they do these things. But somehow, Charlie knew the exact question to ask.
‘Reginald,’ she said, as if she was unwrapping a bandage, ‘why were you so afraid of my barge?’
So I told her. I thought I wouldn’t, but I did.
Norfolk
REGINALD HARDY’S JOURNAL
11TH DECEMBER 2021
Providence seemed to guide us out of London that day. Every traffic light was green, every junction clear, the traffic on every motorway moving like a well-oiled machine. We reached the Norfolk coast as the sun dipped in its cloudless sky and Isla, my daughter, lay half asleep in her mother’s arms. As I walked to the door of the first cheapish-looking bed and breakfast, the ground was still warm and the hedge buzzed with evening insects.
It was September 2001, and we had just moved into Seton Bayley tower. We were supposed to be unpacking, but the heatwave had turned Sandra mad with
the idea that we should enjoy the weather and take an impromptu holiday instead.
‘They’ve got canals there on the Broads, Reginald,’ she had said, jumping up and down. ‘We can hire some bikes, go on a little ride, stop at a few pubs, enjoy the countryside. It’ll be nice!’
I had not been quite so enthusiastic.
‘Please? It’ll be good for Isla too.’
Two feet thumped through from the other room.
‘What good for me?’ Isla gasped as she caught sight of the view. ‘I can see Londinn!’
Sandra’s eyebrows lifted in a silent plea. I found her impossible to refuse.
So we left, leaving our new flat littered with unopened boxes.
They only had one room left at the bed and breakfast – a posh one which we could not afford – but when the landlady saw Isla’s sleepy face lift from Sandra’s neck, she clutched her bosom and said we could have it at the normal rate. Sandra squealed at the four-poster and posed on the balcony that overlooked the sea. They had a table for us in the restaurant where we ate steaks and fat chips, and Isla was allowed a baked bean sandwich. I tried some wine – something French, I was told – which I was surprised to say I enjoyed, and then we all had ice creams that were too big for us, and I had to finish off both the girls’ as well as my own. Tipsy and full, we made our way upstairs, brushed Isla’s teeth and laid her down to sleep. Then we sat out on the balcony, holding hands, and Sandra smoked as we watched the sun set and the stars come out over the roaring surf, and there was no need to say a single word.
The next day, after a sleep so deep I forgot who I was or where we were, we got up, had breakfast and went in search of bicycles. The man in the shop was a friendly chap with a lazy eye who fitted a child’s seat on the back of my saddle. He gave us a map of good routes along the canals and told us not to worry too much about when to bring the bikes back – tomorrow was fine, or the next day.
‘You seem like nice folk,’ he said. ‘Life’s too short and it’s far too nice a day to be rushing anywhere.’
We drove to a car park with the bikes rattling in the back of the van, then started out on a long, straight track by the water. It was hard at first but we soon settled into a rhythm and I grew used to the bumps and the regular stops to let others pass. We waved at barges and dog walkers, and gave fellow cyclists nods as if we were part of some secret club. Isla shouted at the ducks, and waved big helloooos to the tractors in the fields.
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