Out of Control

by Sarah Alderson

  Sliding down low into the seats Jay and I peer nervously out the windows. Apart from a few people standing open-mouthed staring at us, and a few pausing to glance up at the fire escape as though wondering where the fire is, it doesn’t look like anyone is following. There’s no sign of the guy in the cop uniform.

  We beat them.

  We fall back against the seats, both of us breathing hard, and it’s only then I realise we’re still holding hands, our fingers linked tight. Jay seems to realise at the same time. His eyes meet mine and after a beat I feel him squeeze my hand and, without even thinking, I squeeze back. Then Jay rolls his head against the seat and starts laughing, gasping for breath, his free hand clutching his stomach. I stare at him wondering if he’s lost it, but then a laugh bubbles up inside me too and bursts free, and in the next instant we’re both laughing so hard that tears are falling down our cheeks. Just as suddenly though the laughter cuts out and we fall silent as if on cue. We sit, staring out our respective windows, our hands still linked across the back seat.

  The driver, finding his moment, finally gets a word in. ‘Where to?’ he asks.

  18

  Jay looks at me. ‘Did you get money?’

  I nod, patting the bag.

  ‘So, where do we go? A hotel?’

  I shake my head. It’s too obvious. And whoever it is that’s after us, they’re organised, meticulous and have access to online data and communications systems – how else did they tap my dad’s phone to find me at the pick-up point? Hotels have to check ID. Hotels keep records. And if two people our age turn up without bags or ID we’d raise more than a few eyebrows.

  ‘Too dangerous,’ I say, glancing out the window and trying to think. An idea starts to take shape, thin and nebulous at the corner of my mind, then jumping fully formed into view in the next second. I turn back to Jay. ‘We need to do the opposite of what they’ll expect us to do. We need to confuse them.’

  Jay’s staring at me with this odd look on his face, as though he’s trying to fathom me.

  ‘Can you take us to an electronics store?’ I ask the driver, who grunts in response.

  ‘Electronics?’ Jay asks, looking worried.

  ‘We need a phone.’

  He visibly relaxes and I wonder what he thought I wanted to buy – ingredients for a cluster bomb?

  ‘What else is in the bag?’ Jay asks.

  I slip my hand from Jay’s and unzip it, noticing that my fingers are trembling slightly. To be honest, other than the things I tossed in there from the safe, I’m not entirely sure myself what’s in it. It’s my dad’s go-bag. Anyone in his line of work always keeps a bag like this at the ready in case of emergencies. I’m glad I thought to look for it in his wardrobe.

  Keeping my eyes on the driver, who’s separated from us by a scarred Plexiglas window, I pull out the NYPD sweater and quickly push the pile of cash and the guns to one side of the bag. Then I start rooting through the remaining contents, pulling them out and laying them on the tacky vinyl seat between us. There’s a small wind-up torch that I test. It works. Of course it works. My dad probably checks this bag every month or so to make sure everything in it is fit for purpose. I toss two trauma bandages and a tourniquet on to the seat and Jay stops playing with the torch to watch. Next is a full water bottle, some dummy cords – small lengths of stretchy rope – a notebook, a permanent marker, a small pair of binoculars, and a switch-blade with a laser-sharp edge that makes Jay inch back in his seat when I flick it open. I open the front pocket and pull out some plastic flex cuffs.

  ‘Kinky,’ Jay says, admiringly.

  I toss some small packets of honey on to the seat beside them.

  ‘Even kinkier,’ he says, his eyes dancing to me. ‘If you were to combine the two.’

  ‘It’s for sugar hits. Instantaneous energy,’ I say, ducking my head so he can’t see the blood that’s rushed to my cheeks. I want to ask him how handcuffs and honey equals kinky, but my mind has already wandered there, combining the two with the image seared on to my retina of him pulling on his jeans and coming up with a very graphic answer. One that makes the blood pump even faster around my body and takes my head places it shouldn’t. I don’t even know how it’s managing to do that. I don’t need distractions right now and the way that Jay is making me feel, that tightening in my stomach whenever I sense his eyes on me, is distracting, among other things.

  I don’t want to name the other things.

  I focus on the remaining contents of the bag – digging up some energy bars and a rubber doorstop and tossing them on to the growing pile.

  ‘What the hell? Did you pack the kitchen sink as well?’ Jay asks.

  ‘I didn’t pack it. It’s my dad’s go-bag.’

  ‘Go-bag?’

  ‘Yeah, the bag you keep packed and ready if you ever have thirty seconds’ warning to run for your life.’ I risk a glance at him. He’s playing with the handcuffs still and my skin scorches as I suddenly remember the way his hands felt around my waist when he caught me, how much trust he put in me to follow me out that window and up on to the roof.

  ‘What’s the doorstopper for?’ Jay asks, picking it up and examining it as though it might have a secret compartment or a hidden lever that when depressed transforms it into a blow dart or a block of plastic explosive.

  It is just a doorstopper though, unfortunately.

  ‘It slows down someone trying to sneak into a room or force entry. It can buy a few seconds,’ I tell him, remembering the time my dad explained the contents of his go-bag to me. He was getting ready for a trip to Afghanistan and I was watching him pack while my mum huffed downstairs, pouring herself one extra-large gin-and-tonic after another. My dad didn’t know it but I had nightmares for months after he showed me the contents of his go-bag, worrying about him being in a situation where he might need it, my imagination taking me to some very dark places, fuelled partly by having watched Star Wars the week before, followed by several CNN reports on Al Qaeda. It was only when Felix reassured me that Sand People weren’t real, and neither was Darth Vadar, that I began to relax. He also told me that my dad was the best soldier he’d ever known – an ex-recon marine no less – and that if I was going to worry, it should be about the people who were stupid enough to choose him as a target. Thinking about that now makes me feel slightly better. My dad will be back soon. And then whoever is chasing me is going to regret every single bullet they’ve fired.

  I do a final check of the bag and my fingers close around something small and soft. I pull it out, my heart already skimming close to my ribs. I stare in amazement at the tiny worry doll, made from wool and beads, slightly battered and faded, that sits on my palm.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jay asks. ‘A cunningly disguised grenade?’

  ‘No. It’s . . .’ I pause, staring at the doll. I haven’t seen it in almost ten years, not since the day I slipped it into my father’s bag. The same day he showed me the contents and explained their uses. I wanted him to have something to remind him of me – of home – if he ever found himself on the run from baddies. That he’s kept it all these years makes tears sting furiously behind my eyes and my throat constrict as if the tourniquet is wrapped tight around it. ‘It’s just a good luck charm,’ I manage to say, dropping the doll back into the bag.

  As I start to pack the other things away, my hand brushes a tag attached to the bottom of the bag. With a tug, I tear it free, hearing the tear of Velcro. Beneath the false bottom of the bag, is an envelope. I wrestle it free and pull it out the bag.

  Jay watches as I turn it over, catching my eye briefly, nervously, as I slide my finger inside the flap and rip it open. Inside is a photocopy of my father’s passport, his birth certificate, and then another scrap of paper with a series of numbers on it. A phone number perhaps? Jay’s head is pressed against mine as we study it.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ he asks.

  I’m about to shrug when the taxi driver interrupts. ‘OK. Electronics store. That’ll be ten
dollars fifty.’

  My head jerks up. We’re outside a Best Buy. I shove the rest of the things into the bag and peel off a twenty-dollar bill from the stack in the bag, pushing it to the driver and telling him not to bother with change.

  19

  We walk out of Best Buy fifteen minutes later with two no-contract smartphones and six extra SIM cards.

  ‘Where now?’ Jay asks, carrying our booty.

  ‘Payphone,’ I say, already scanning the street for one.

  ‘We just bought two phones,’ Jay says, holding up the bag and waving it in my face.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Jay, to give him credit, doesn’t ask any more questions, but as we walk I shoot him several sideways glances and note that the muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and although he’s tired – the shadows under his eyes have shadows – he’s still on high-alert, his head twisting left to right, eyes quick, ready to register any movement or person that’s out of place. I wonder whether I should have kept one of the guns on me, stuck it down my waistband, but that’s a stupid place to stick a gun. And besides, the last thing we need is to get arrested and find ourselves in another police station. That thought is quickly followed by a sobering reminder that Jay is technically a fugitive.

  When this is over, how much trouble is he going to be in? My fingers itch to reach out and take his hand again. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe to let him know that I’m grateful he’s stuck around? That I’m sorry for dragging him into this? Or maybe because I want to make sure he’s not going anywhere? But I stick my palms to my sides. Back in the cab it felt like the most natural thing in the world, holding hands, feeling his pulse feeding my bloodstream. It felt like we were somehow invincible so long as we stayed inseparable. But now, out on the street, it would be just weird. Out of place. I mean, we’re still strangers, more or less.

  I try to shut down all my thoughts about it – about him. In less than a day he’ll be gone – either he’ll have to hand himself in to the police or he’ll be a fugitive for the rest of his life. Either way, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.

  We walk in silence for two blocks before we find a payphone that works. The downside to the world going digital and to everyone owning a cell phone is the gradual disappearance of payphones from the world. Like horse-drawn carts they’re a quaint icon from another time. At least we’ve found one that actually works, even if it is coated in something that appears to have been secreted by some kind of prehistoric sea creature.

  I ask Jay to hail a taxi and have it sit with the meter running at the kerb and then I start making phone calls. It takes Jay all of about ten seconds to hail one and then he sits inside it with the door hanging open, watching me, his foot tapping on the sidewalk. I have to turn my back, but that doesn’t help much as the feeling of sitting on an anthill returns.

  When I’m done with my calls, I pick up the bag and walk over to the cab. Jay scoots along the bench seat and I slide in beside him.

  ‘The High Line please,’ I tell the driver, pressing my temples in a futile attempt to head off the headache that’s starting to thump behind my eyes.

  ‘What was that about?’ Jay asks. ‘Who were you calling?’

  I hold up my dad’s credit card. ‘I just booked a flight leaving from La Guardia to San Francisco.’

  Jay’s eyes flash dark. He rocks backwards and away from me.

  ‘And a ticket from Grand Central to Philadelphia.’

  Now his frown becomes a scowl.

  ‘And a double room at The Greenwich. All on my dad’s credit card.’

  The scowl fades and a grin slowly eases across his face. ‘You think they’re monitoring his card?’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe. Probably. And if they are, then that should keep them busy for a while. Even if they don’t fall for it, they’ll still need to check, just in case.’

  ‘Why didn’t you use one of the cell phones we just bought?’

  ‘Because if the number turns up on any of the switchboards I just called they’ll be able to trace the SIM card to the Best Buy and then they’d know what we bought and the other SIM numbers. And a payphone’s a payphone. We’ll be long gone before they figure out that we used this one.’

  Jay shakes his head at me, still smiling. ‘You’re cunning. Man, you’re nothing like I thought you were when I saw you in the police station.’

  I bite my lip and let my hair fall in front of my face. What did he think I was? I want to know. But sure as hell, I’m not going to ask.

  He fills me in anyway. ‘You got balls,’ he says.

  I slice my eyes in his direction.

  ‘OK,’ he flounders, ‘not actual, literal balls but, you know, balls of steel.’

  I finish packing up the bag, zippering it shut a little too forcefully. I’m not sure I want him thinking I have balls – literal or actual or made of steel.

  ‘You don’t want to risk the room at The Greenwich?’ Jay asks as he sinks back into the ripped vinyl seat of the cab. ‘Jesus, that sounds good right about now.’

  I risk another glance sideways at him. He’s grinning at me but there’s that flicker of something behind his eyes, like shadows flitting across a storm-drenched sky. ‘We could test out some of the contents of that go-bag,’ he adds, a touch of mischief sneaking into his voice.

  I arch my eyebrows at him, even though my insides have just looped around my stomach and pulled it into a stranglehold.

  ‘The doorstopper. I was talking about the doorstopper,’ he says plastering an innocent expression on his face. ‘What did you think I was talking about?’

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the only thing we’d be testing out would be the sharpness of the switchblade, but all of a sudden his expression changes. His attention has switched to the TV screen in front of me. Another downside to the march of progress – non-stop media wherever you go. In New York the taxis all seem to have TV screens broadcasting at you; a mixture of lurid, totally biased news read by supermodels and uber-tanned, strangely wrinkle-free older men, interspersed with advertisements. Jay is leaning across me, hitting the volume button.

  It’s the news channel – same set-up as always – the woman newscaster looks like she just stepped off a runway show at NY Fashion Week. She’s the eye candy while the male newscaster beside her lends the grey-haired gravitas. This is one of the many reasons I don’t watch the news in the US.

  I’m about to ask Jay to turn it off when the male newscaster puts on his grave face and starts talking in a sombre baritone about the shocking events of this morning. My blood starts to thicken and turn cold, and suddenly images appear on the screen of the police station that Jay and I escaped from just a few hours ago. The camera’s pointed at the front of the building, which is swarming with police in blue NYPD jackets. Crime scene tape barricades a battalion of press, and several vans are parked in the way, partially obscuring the view of the front steps. As the newsreader talks about an unknown assailant attacking the 84th Precinct Police Headquarters in Brooklyn, in the background we watch trolley after trolley of black-bagged bodies being wheeled out into the waiting vans.

  The ticker tape across the bottom of the screen announces that thirteen policemen and civilians have been killed and a further six wounded.

  Without realising it, I’m gripping Jay’s hand, crushing it, and his other hand is on my right knee, doing the same.

  An image of the shooter then flashes on to the screen. It’s a grainy image, taken from CCTV somewhere in the police station. A shudder races up my spine just as a cold sweat breaks out all over my body.

  ‘Turn it off,’ I whisper hoarsely.

  Jay shakes his head slightly. ‘No,’ he says, ‘we might find out something useful.’

  The camera returns to the brightly-lit studio where the supermodel and the granddad are posing with their shocked faces on for the camera.

  ‘The Police Commissioner has refused to comment on the likely identity of the killer or the motiv
e behind this terrible atrocity,’ the man says, ‘though they are claiming that the killer is not, I repeat, not a police officer. Members of the public should not approach him under any circumstances, as he is armed and considered extremely dangerous.’

  After that I catch a few words about panic, public disorder, demand for answers and the Mayor of New York sending condolences, before Jay frees my knee from his grip and punches the off button.

  We both fall back against the seats, barely breathing. Neither of us says anything for a long time and I shift my gaze from the blank screen to the streets outside the window; to the Chelsea townhouses and tourists in sneakers holding guidebooks, to the achingly hip couples strolling hand in hand, to the storefronts and billboards screaming at me to buy overpriced jeans and perfume and to call 1-800 GET THIN, and for a moment it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not. It’s like watching a television show. But I can’t tell which side of the screen I’m on any more.

  20

  The High Line is an old freight railway that runs for almost two miles from the meatpacking district up Manhattan’s West Side. Some nice folks, my dad included, sponsored its transformation a few years ago from derelict rail line into a park that’s now frequented by supernannies who dress in designer clothes and push thousand-dollar prams, awed tourists with their frayed Lonely Planets, picnicking school-kids, and New Yorkers looking for some sunshine and peace amid the chaos. It’s an oasis. And the reason I like it so much is because it’s elevated. It sits above the streets, offering a panoramic view in all directions.