by David Gilman
I heard his bicycle bell. And then the key in the front door. “Anybody home?” He always says that even though he knows we’re there. He shouted: “What do we want? Each other! When do we want it? Now! Jez! Where’re you, son?”
Mark wasn’t supposed to be at home, of course, so he couldn’t go downstairs. “Listen,” I told him, “do as I said, get hold of Skimp. We’ll get down to the caravan somehow. I’ve got an idea.”
I went downstairs as he was giving Mum a hug.
“Hey, Jez, how are you feeling?”
He picked me up and hugged me too.
“I’m all right, I thought I might carry on with my project because Mark is letting me use his computer again.”
“What a cracking brother you have,” he said, putting me down again. “You’re all right though, are you?”
I nodded.
“He threw up,” Mum said from the kitchen. “The police were here.”
“Oh yeah? I bet they weren’t selling double glazing, were they?”
“No, I don’t think they have time for second jobs,” I told him.
“I should hope not, with all the burglaries around here.”
Mum told him everything as he tried to rescue the biscuit he had just dunked. He gave up.
“Ah, well. No harm done then. But you shouldn’t go in that old place. They’re quite right, it is dangerous. Don’t go in there any more. Yeah?”
I nodded.
“Good lad.” And he kissed my forehead. “Pity about their shoes, hey?” And he rolled his eyes, making that face.
“Right, I’m gonna grab an hour or so kip. So, if you don’t feel very well come and climb in with me. Mum has got a check-up at the dentist. Okay?”
What you need when you have a major escape plan in mind is not to have grown-ups around. They get in the way. I told Mark my idea and once he’d told me I was a lunatic, he phoned Pete-the-Feet and Rocky as well as Skimp. This will be a combined gang effort. So I waited until I saw Mum reversing down the drive and their bedroom was in darkness. Dad had closed the curtains, which meant he wouldn’t see what I was going to do.
Mark and I each took one of Malcolm’s hands and guided him down the stairs. He made those little chirping noises, which soon quietened when I held him. I stroked his head and whispered to him. “You mustn’t be scared, I am going to look after you, but you have got to be very brave.”
I felt sure that Malcolm was learning more and more English every day. He nodded his head and touched my face, then grinned. His lips came out and made that funny shape and then he kissed me. I had given him Mark’s teddy bear, which he hugged. I knew one day we would find someone to love it again.
Mark came in the kitchen door. “We’re ready,” he said.
He’d brought Dad’s bike round to the back of the house and I eased Malcolm into one of the big red bags and tucked teddy in with him. We used the straps from the pram to tie him in. I signed for him to be quiet and that I loved him. Then I zipped the bag around him and left just enough room for his nose and mouth to peep out for air.
“I’ll go first,” Mark said. “Are you sure you feel strong enough to do this?”
I’d given Malcolm a couple of bananas, and eaten one myself, washed down with a high energy drink. I was sure I could get as far as the industrial estate. It was Mark who had the difficult job of drawing the police away. That’s called a diversionary tactic.
“I’ll see you in Piccadilly,” he said.
“Scott’s Bar,” I replied. Which is what two prisoners on the run say to each other in The Great Escape, a classic war film that Rocky knows back to front and which we have to watch at least once a month. I’ve been to London, but have no idea where Scott’s Bar is – but it means that we’ll escape and be reunited. That’s called being hopeful.
I waited. Mark was on the street, rattling along on his skateboard. Mrs Tomkinson was already in her front garden waiting to give the bin men a piece of her mind because they always drop bits of her rubbish on the pavement. Mark did a very fancy turn, the police car was right there on the corner, and he flipped her wheelie bins open as he went past.
“Hey! You! Mark Matthews! I’ll speak to your mother! You lout!”
Mark tormented her a few moments longer, doing that really annoying heel flip action, which makes the board clank every time. Grown-ups hate that noise.
One of the policemen got out the car and shouted: “All right you, clear off!”
Mark ignored him. He was very casual. He leaned his body back on his board and kicked over the kerb, slamming her lid down again. I could have stood there all day and watched him torment Mrs Tomkinson. “You flaming hooligan!” she shouted.
And the more Mrs Tomkinson shouted the more it attracted other interested parties in the street. Peacock’s Feather couldn’t contain herself any longer. She was yapping and barking.
“Shut that flaming dog up!” Mrs Tomkinson yelled.
By now the policeman was halfway across the street. That’s when Peacock’s Feather got over the gate and went for Mark. He spun around, crouched and zoomed past the policeman, who was then between Mark and the demented dog-from-hell. The policeman was, to be kind, a tad overweight. Dad always says police officers seem to be getting younger all the time. I think they’re getting fatter. The policeman saw the insane dog and ran. He couldn’t get into his car so he lumbered across the road and climbed over Mr Brumley’s fence, almost skewering himself on the posts. His trousers definitely couldn’t take the strain and there was a long rip down his leg. And then the dog cornered him. The other policemen got out the car and bravely tried to call off Peacock’s Feather. She turned on him. He ran back to the car.
You can’t say you don’t get value for money from our local police.
Once he was back in the car, the policeman tried to drive it between the dog and the other cop. And that’s when I launched Operation Free Malcolm. I pedalled out into the street and turned away from the crazy scene outside Mrs Tomkinson’s. We were on our way to freedom!
I used every back alley and back street I knew. Some of them were cobbled and the bike rattled as we shuddered across them. A small face with a tea cosy on it looked out the zip bag. His teeth chattered as we went over every bump and cobble.
My eyeballs bounced up and down in their sockets. I started to feel giddy. This probably wasn’t the best day in the world in which to escape. I pulled up the bike and leant against the wall and threw up again. We’d have to get onto a better road, otherwise I’d keep puking for the rest of the day and Malcolm would have no teeth left.
I was sweating and had the shakes but I had to keep going, it wasn’t that far to the industrial estate. Then, as I turned the corner into Smith’s Lane, I saw Mark scorching along the pavement like the Silver Surfer. I suddenly felt very proud of my older brother. As I clattered down the alley I could see he was parallel to us on the other street. I pedalled faster, keeping pace with him.
And then I heard the siren.
There was a flash of blue and yellow and a police car overtook him. The same two policemen who had been keeping watch on us jumped out the car and cornered Mark. Exertion and fear made me breathless. I didn’t know what to do. Malcolm chattered and hid behind the fingers of his hand as he cringed back into the darkness of the bag. He was probably picking up on my nervousness. I saw the cops questioning Mark. What could they be saying to him? He hadn’t done anything wrong except irritate Mrs Tomkinson and the whole street does that on a daily basis.
Jet Fuel For Your Body said the label on the bottle I pulled out my pocket. I glugged the purple liquid down as fast as I could. A small hand snaked out the bag. Malcolm was thirsty. I left him a third of the bottle and passed it inside to him. Suddenly the bag was bouncing almost out of the rack. Malcolm was screeching like he’d swallowed some of Dad’s home-brewed wine, which everyone thinks is wonderful for cleaning the kitchen floor. Dad thinks they like it and no one has the heart to tell him otherwise. Dad! It must have been Da
d who’d set the police on us. Mrs Tomkinson and Peacock’s Feather must have made such a racket that Dad would have woken up, seen that his bike was missing, that I was missing – and then he’d have gone running out the house looking for me. Then the police would have seen him. “What’s wrong, postie?” (he’d have dozed in his uniform) they would have asked. “Someone’s nicked your bike?” they’d have said, gobsmacked.
I suddenly realised that this could be a major criminal offence, stealing the property of the Royal Mail. Not only that, but if they zoomed off before questioning Dad properly they might think that the Royal Mail’s letters and parcels had been stolen.
The bike was bouncing because Malcolm was going ballistic. I felt panic surging up like gunge from an unblocked drain. I couldn’t leave him zipped up in there any longer. I wrapped my fleece around the crossbar, making a saddle for him to sit on. Then I eased him out the bag. That seemed to help in calming him down a bit and he clung to me. I held him close for a moment and I couldn’t tell whose heart was beating faster, his or mine. I carefully sat him on the crossbar and secured him with the pram straps. He gripped the handlebars in the middle and rocked backwards and forwards. Then I started pedalling like crazy.
I just managed to see Mark being put into the back of the police car as I clattered away across the cobbled alleyway. I wondered how long he could hold up under questioning. Rocky always said you should be able to last at least two days under interrogation. That’s what the soldiers in the Special Forces do in their training. But I don’t think twelve-year-old Mark Matthews of 16 Wentworth Drive fell into that category. And if Dad was part of the interrogation team I probably had less than ten minutes before Mark cracked.
When you’re scared it’s good sometimes just to make a noise. Otherwise the noise gets trapped inside and can jangle your nerves and turn into a monster’s claws that start climbing up inside, trying to scratch its way out of your belly button. So what you do is open your mouth wide and just shout: “Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Except of course when you’re bumping over cobbles it comes out as: “Ag-ug-ug-ug-ug-ug-ug,” as if you were gargling.
An important thing to remember is to watch out for flies.
There’s a video sequence on the CCTV camera near the main road, next to the Flying Fish & Chip Shop, of a nine years, eleven months and thirteen day old boy on a bike wearing a beanie, with his mouth wide open and tears streaming from his eyes because it was so cold. On the crossbar is a monkey wearing a Steven Gerrard Number 8 red shirt and a tea cosy on his head and he’s clutching the handlebars. The monkey looks terrified but in fact, as I told everyone later, he’s having a wonderful time, it’s me who couldn’t see where I was going. I’m the one who’s scared stiff. No question. Another camera just past the betting shop shows the same two wide-eyed primates whizzing past an old lady, who gets such a fright she drops her shopping.
Then, when the boy on the bike – me – swallows a fly and starts coughing and spitting, they narrowly miss a Dairy Crest delivery van, thanks to the extraordinary skill of the monkey who tries to duck out of the way of the impending crash and forces the rider – me – to swerve just in time.
The milk van shuddered to a halt on the cobbles and a dozen bottles of full-cream milk spilled onto the road. The monkey and me then swerved out of sight into Millbrook Lane, which, as everyone round here knows, is a dead end into the industrial estate.
I didn’t know about the cameras until later, but when they hauled Mark away I thought that any minute there was going to be a helicopter chase. You know, like you see on those television shows where the police are in hot pursuit of joyriders travelling at high speed. Though, I wasn’t sure whether a Royal Mail bicycle qualified for high speed, but the joy bit turned out to be true.
Once I realised we weren’t being chased and had wiped the tears from my eyes, spat out the remains of the fly and got the bike onto a smooth surface, we scorched along. It was downhill with no traffic and I did a Titanic number and raised my hands off the handlebars. Malcolm did the same. I was laughing and Malcolm did his screechy thing, which told me he was having fun as well.
Down through the bottom bend, past the tile shop, around the corner from the Big Discount Carpet Warehouse and then finally, as the road narrows, a quick surge up onto the pavement past the side entrance to Scanlon’s Wrought Iron Works: Established 1987.
It’s down there, under the old tin-roofed sheds, where Skimp’s dad has his caravan locked up. This was where Malcolm was going to live until we could think of a way of getting down to the docks, stowing away on a container ship, and getting him back to Africa. Though we hadn’t worked that part out yet and might have to settle for smuggling him into Whipsnade Animal Safari Park.
That’s when I got hurt.
Just as I pedalled hard around the corner I saw Skimp and Pete-the-Feet in the distance standing next to the shed. Skimp’s dad’s car was there and he was waving his finger and shouting. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because of the noise from the extractor fans of the iron works.
Rocky was standing next to Tracy, who was talking nineteen to the dozen with her hands. Skimp’s dad made a really ugly face and yelled at her – right in her face – and she stepped back. Skimp grabbed his dad’s arm, trying to protect her, but his dad gave him a clout around the head. It was obvious he had sussed out that Skimp had stolen the keys. The whole gang had been caught.
It wasn’t right at that moment I got hurt, it was half a minute later. I slammed on the brakes, lay the bike at an angle, stuck my foot out, slid across the gravel, and shouted at Malcolm to hold on while I did my totally unexpected and brilliantly executed slide.
It was just after that I got hurt.
I turned the bike and pedalled like mad. Malcolm’s feet gripped the crossbar, he was hanging on for dear life, bobbing up and down, chattering away. For a moment I thought he was just making a fuss about my daring escape, but it wasn’t that. Two men had appeared around the corner, right in front of us – it was Potato Face and Comb Head!
They yelled at us and ran with their arms outstretched, trying to stop us getting past them.
I jigged the bike left and right, standing on the pedals, pumping my legs as fast as I could. I was sweating so much my beanie felt as though it was soaked.
And then, around the corner came the police car with Mark in the back. Potato Face and Comb Head were between us. If one lot didn’t get us the others would.
There was a gap in the wire mesh fence – I went for it.
Potato Face lunged and missed, and yelped in pain because he landed in the gravel. I was too scared to laugh or call him names because I was trying to navigate through the back yard of the iron works where there’s all kind of things stacked. There are gates and doors and fencing, oil drums and pallets and a sharp piece of aluminium stripping that’s come away from the edge of a crate.
That’s when I got hurt.
It caught my leg as I flew past. It really hurt. My jeans ripped and there was a scorching tear across my skin. I had to ignore it because Malcolm was throwing me off balance and I had to concentrate, had to keep going. Comb Head was right behind me. For someone that old with such a bad hairstyle he could run really fast.
That’s called deceptive.
I could hear him grunting with effort. Malcolm was screaming. He’d looked behind us and seen Comb Head just about close enough to grab me. A forklift came out the works’ shed with rolls of piping on the front. The driver saw a kid on a big red bike, and a monkey wearing a Liverpool FC shirt with his ears sticking out a tea cosy, and he slammed on his brakes.
The pipes rolled. They just missed us. But they didn’t miss Comb Head.
I didn’t even look back at the forklift truck driver shouting and swearing. Or at the policeman running down the yard towards them. I hunched my shoulders and ran on the pedals, making them go like crazy.
We had escaped.
But my leg hurt a lot, warm blood trickled down inside my trousers. Either that
or I’d wet myself.
No. It was blood.
I was shivering with nerves and the cold wasn’t helping. It was getting dark and we had only just managed to get out of the industrial estate. There were some abandoned warehouses right on the edge of a disused railway line, and it was so overgrown it gave us a good place to hide.
I wrapped Malcolm in my fleece and he huddled next to me while I tore the bottom of my T-shirt to wrap around my leg. It would have been easier ripping Steven Gerrard’s shirt, and I’m sure he would have understood, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Dad had spent a lot of money on it and he promised me that one day, when I got better, he would take me into the dressing room to meet the greatest footballer in the world. It was the getting better bit that seemed to be taking a long time.
By then the blood was crusty on my leg and when I pinched the cut together it hurt more than I’d imagined. I screwed up my face in pain. Malcolm watched me and then hid behind his open fingers. No one ever gives up in films when they get shot or injured. They just grit their teeth and carry on. Gritting teeth doesn’t really do much to help the pain go away, and makes your jaw ache, but it did make me feel better. I felt like I was a soldier on the run, deep in enemy territory. Now we needed a warm place to sleep.
I checked my backpack. All I had left was a packet of crisps, a Snickers bar and an apple. Malcolm stuck his head in the bag. He came out with the packet of crisps, which he quickly tore apart. The crisps went everywhere. He was covered in them. You had to laugh – so I did. We both ate the crisps, not minding that they had been covered in dirt by Malcolm when he trampled all over them, while I sat and thought out a strategy.
It’s at this point where superheroes could change into something else and escape from a situation like this, but I’m not a superhero so I had to work it out for myself. Malcolm chewed the crisps, not very elegantly I have to say, and if Mum saw him she would say: “Keep your mouth closed when you chew, Malcolm. You weren’t born in a zoo.” But of course in this case she’d probably be wrong.
