Everything, everything felt different. The babies rode in prams like miniature space capsules and entered every shop ahead of their mothers, who wore tops like vests that showed smooth gold arms and shoulders and white linen trousers that showed the line of their underwear, and sunglasses perched on top of their heads. He didn’t mean to stare – he didn’t want to be conspicuous – but he couldn’t help himself. The last time he’d taken any notice, mothers wore flowery frocks, babies waited outside, and people stopped to peer in and pat them on the heads like dogs.
About half the people he saw were busy with phones, either pressing them to their ear and chattering away to thin air, or weaving their way through the throngs of people while simultaneously tapping frantically away at the keys. Their progress was smooth and effortless; they never walked into each other, or collided with anything. How had they acquired this new skill? Could he do it too? Would he have to, in order to live in this world?
In the middle of a square, a huge oval corrugated capsule bore the label PUBLIC TOILET. Its shape reminded him of a French pissoir, but he couldn’t see how you got in or out. There were buttons and lights, and something about time limits after which the door would automatically open, and Tom walked away from it in amused despair. How could even this most basic of human functions have become so mysteriously complicated?
He could ask for directions, he supposed, but who could he ask? Who should he pick? They all noticed him, the habit saw to that, but once they’d processed the simple fact of his presence (Whoa look a monk / that’s kind of cool actually / didn’t realise they still existed / oh well), they swerved away, avoiding contact. His habit apparently projected a personal force field that kept everyone at a distance of three feet, in all directions.
A road sign caught his eye – white parallel lines crossed with a zigzag, reversed out of a red oblong – and he seized triumphantly on this icon of familiarity and set off in the direction it pointed in.
Now Davey was lying on the floor of his bedroom. He could not conceive of the strength it must have taken for James to have dragged him, six inches taller and a dead weight, up the stairs. He tried to stand up, but black dizziness pinned him to the floor.
“Not so fucking cocky now, are you?” said James, from some unknown space on the edges of his vision. “I’m meeting your mother for lunch. I’ll be telling her exactly what you’ve done, so don’t get any ideas about spinning her some nonsense when you see her.”
“Are you g-g-g - ” He clenched his fist. He wanted to ask, Are you going to tell her what you’ve done? Are you going to tell her you beat me to a pulp? But the words wouldn’t come. James had beaten all the strength out of him. Defeated, Davey lay quietly and tried to focus his eyes.
“And after that,” said James, “we’re going to talk about what you’ll be doing this summer. You’re going to pass those fucking exams if it’s the last thing you do, I can tell you that much. No more allowance. No going out. Private tutor every day. And I’m clearing out all this shit - ” he saw James wave a contemptuous arm in the direction of the bookcase, stacked untidily high with dog-eared paperbacks and notebooks. “No distractions. We’re taking your CDs as well. You can stay in this room until your tutor reckons you’re ready to sit those exams and actually pass them. And if you fail them again, you’ll stay in here some more, and study harder, until you do pass. Okay?”
Davey closed his eyes. The carpet felt itchy and unyielding against his cheek. He could feel the blood beginning to dry and crust against his skin. James bent down beside him, grabbed a handful of hair so he could lift Davey’s head. Davey whimpered.
“I said, okay? Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
“No,” said Davey.
“Excuse me?”
“No,” Davey repeated. “No, it’s not okay. It’ll n-n-n - ” he kicked his foot against the carpet in frustration. “It’ll never be okay. You’ll have to k-k-k-keep me locked up in here until I d-d-d-die, because I’m n-n-n-n-never going to - ”
“Give over,” said James. His voice was quiet, but his eyes were burning with triumph. “Look, we’ve been fighting this battle since you were a kid, haven’t we? I’ve been trying for years and years to turn you into something worthwhile. Someone your mother can actually be proud of.”
James’ face was inches from his own. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.
“And in all the time you’ve known me,” said James, his voice sounding almost gentle, “have you ever won? Hmmm? Even once?”
“Shall I come round later?” asked Priss, picking her blouse up off the floor of the toilet.
Mark hesitated. “I might be out later.”
Priss shrugged. “Okay. Tomorrow, then?”
“Um, yeah, maybe. I’ll call you, alright?”
He changed in the station toilets, stuffing his habit in the unpleasant space between U-bend and the tiled wall. Then he went to look at the destinations board. Paddington didn’t feature on any board he could see, but Kings Cross must be close enough. The ticket clerk looked at his envelope of cash with deep suspicion, but sold him the ticket anyway.
“This can only be used on the specified train,” the clerk told him. “If you get on the wrong train you’ll have to pay a penalty fare. Platform Three, over the bridge.”
“Thank you,” said Tom. The clerk handed him two oblongs of green and orange card, which he presumed must be his tickets. He stowed them carefully in his left pocket, re-folded the envelope and shoved it in his right and set off to look for Platform Three. The force field was still in place. People moved out of his way as he approached, careful not to catch his eye. Was it so clear that he was an outsider?
As he left the ticket office, he saw a tired, middle-aged man, wearing fusty-looking clothes and worn shoes and an expression of amused bewilderment, approaching the plate-glass door. The man had no coat and no luggage. Even to Tom’s eyes, he looked poor and lost and isolated, possibly even homeless, but he seemed strangely cheerful about it. He stopped politely to let him pass through first.
It was only when the other man halted too that he realised he was looking at his own reflection.
“Your problem,” said James, “is you’re weak. You’re weak and pathetic and useless. But I’m going to make you into a man if it kills us both. I won’t raise a spineless little bastard.”
The worst thing wasn’t the pain, or the dizziness, or the blood, or even the fear. It was the bone-deep knowledge that James was right. James was stronger. James was stronger, because his mother would choose James over him.
“Okay.”
He hoped James would let go of his hair now and leave him in peace, but instead he felt the painful pull on his scalp become more intense.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Okay,” repeated Davey. His voice was a slow croak.
James smiled. The look in his eyes could probably have passed for affection. “That’s right, pal. And it’s for your own good, you know. In ten years’ time you’ll thank me for this.”
Welcome to MSN Messenger
Online: Elvisgirl, EdwardBulwerLytton
U there m8?
come on U dozy twat i can see UR online
mark U no its priss rite? talk 2 me
hey priss how RU?
at last it speaks J wassup? wot U doin?
not much just chillin U no
tht U wr out 2nite?
WTF RU checking or summat? changed mind OK?
fucking hell m8 only asked
soz
should think so 2 U twat J can still come over if U like
no its cool im busy
ok whats wrong
nothing
YY there is am not thick talk 2 me
nothing wrong its cool honest just not in mood 2nite
this isnt fkn booty call you twat weve got work 2 do
I said not 2nite ok?
priss? U there? sorry L
never mind fkn sorry whats wrong w U?
j
ust in funny mood tonite
like last week u mean? and 2day B4 PE? starting to thk U only
want me 4 sex m8
you utter bastard
?? didnt say a fkn word!!!
YY i no U fkn didnt cos theres nthg 2 say is there? FFS all that BS abt partnership n stuff UR just like all other men only wanted 2 get into me
look Priss its not like that OK
YY it is EXACTLY lk that fk me all that fkn shit about NY was
just to get me to shag you wasnt it
id lv 2 meet U hun but shld warn U tho am not lk utha guys J
???
U utter twat UR seeing some 1 else
??? no im not
YY UR. FFS RU sum sort of msn fkwit or smthng? UR msg
sm1 else RITE NOW & U just xpost w me go bk n chk history
U fkn loser. again
?? WTF Priss is just sum guy not another girl honest so Ive
got 2 wndws open so fkn shoot me
fuck off mark am not fkn thick not that fkn thick anyway just
fkn thick enuff to shag U when UR bored n horny rite
look Priss im sorry shldnt hv dun this pm at skl i no it wasnt
fair on U but U came on rl strong and
dont even thk abt pulling that shite U >o<
lk ok UR rite sorry this isnt how I mnt 2 tell U its just run its
course U no? was gr8 rly gr8 but
NY was nvr fkn real 4U was it? was real 4 me not 4 U
lk I mnt it at the time all rite
no U didnt U just knew wot I wanted 2 hear n said it FFS how
stupid am i NY FGS I wld hv dun it 2 wld hv gone w U wld rly
hv dun it thats how much U got under my fkn skin
oh come on don’t get all hvy on me priss pls it does my hed in IT DOES YOUR HEAD IN?
shit soz didnt mean it like that i dont mean 2B horrible i just look im sorry ok? can we talk about this?
priss?
dont B so childish priss UR still signed on now UR msn loser rite? J
Elvisgirl has signed off
The Underground was like something out of a Bosch painting; long echoing tunnels, vertiginous escalators, people pushing impatiently past him, knowing where they were going, and what they would do when they got there. He hung around and watched in fascination as an endless stream of people walked confidently up to the machines in the wall, manipulated the information they found there, received their tickets. The sense of adventure was still on him, he could still feel the schoolboy fizz of excitement in his belly; but he was also a middle-aged man who had seen more strange people in the last six hours than he had seen in the previous thirty years, and his feet were tired.
At the foot of a white-tiled pillar, a woman sat quietly, her hands in her lap, her head bowed, radiating the word despair. The crowds brushed past her as if she did not exist.
Why was she sitting there? She must be homeless.
My God, he thought in sudden horror. So am I.
But no there was one crucial difference. He had money and a destination, and she had neither.
He put his hand to his right pocket, and realised the envelope was gone.
Davey wanted to stay asleep, but his body wouldn’t let him. He could feel oblivion retreating like an ebbing tide, leaving him to face the pain. When he opened his eyes, the light hurt them. He whimpered, then cringed. How could such a pathetic sound come out of him? No wonder James hated him.
What had happened? James must have beaten him again, that much was clear, but why? What had he done this time? And where was his mother? It was hard to stay focused. The thought frightened him. Had James done something really serious to him this time?
He thought he could hear music.
“Okay, so who’s missing?” Mr Jones ran a finger down the register. “Alisha?” He looked around. “Alisha, come and sit back down in your own seat, please.”
“I’ve changed seats,” said Alisha, looking demure. In the seat beside her, Shaun snickered. One hand rested ostentatiously on the desk. The other was out of sight. They were sitting very close to each other. A few strands of Alisha’s hair, silky and meticulously straightened, trailed across Shaun’s shoulder.
“No, you haven’t,” said Mr Jones. “Move back.”
“Fucking fascist,” Alisha muttered, quietly enough so that he could ignore it. She stood up, pulling her skirt down. Shaun brought his hand back out onto the desk. Mr Jones grimaced, and prayed he wouldn’t have to watch Shaun sniffing his fingers for the rest of the lesson.
“Katie?”
“She’s off sick, sir.”
“Okay. Priss? Has anyone seen Priss?”
“She’s not here, sir.”
“No sh- No, I can see that,” he said. “Anyone got anything more than she’s not here?”
There was no question about it; his right-hand pocket was empty. Had he dropped it? Or had one of the myriad strangers he had brushed against stolen it from him? He clutched blindly at his left-hand pocket, and heaved a sigh of relief. He still had the tickets, at least. The tickets, and a handful of change, enough to buy, enough for - he stopped in perplexity. How much could he buy with this strange handful of metal shapes, this crumpled sliver of paper?
He leaned against a cool, tiled wall and examined each coin in careful detail, knowing how strange he must look, not caring. The note was worth five pounds. The thick round coins with the milled edges were worth one pound each. When had pound notes disappeared? He shook his head in bafflement. The fifty pence was unchanged, familiar. Its miniature double was a twenty-pence piece; a sensible innovation, he thought, and found himself nodding approvingly. Did they still make ten-pence pieces? If so, he didn’t have one. Instead he had this miserable dot of nickel, so small he was tempted to try and pick it up with a moistened finger, that was, apparently worth five pence. What had happened to one-pence pieces, he wondered? Did they still exist? Had they shrunk down so small that he’d be unable to find them?
Someone jostled his elbow, sending his precious hoard flying. He scrabbled madly to collect it up again. His adventure was turning sour on him.
No, he thought stubbornly. He was still out, on the other side of the wall, and free. He’d make out somehow. Nothing worth having was easy.
What was that music? Davey sat up, flinching at the pain in his head and his ribs and his stomach and his back and his left leg, then warily climbed to his feet. Blackness crept around the edges of his vision, then receded again. He limped over to the window. The sunshine streamed heartlessly in, oblivious to the shooting pain it set off in Davey’s head.
Outside in the street, two men knelt on the pavement. They were perhaps a few years older than him, one fair, one redheaded, dressed in the coolly shabby kind of clothes that Davey automatically associated with art students. They were sketching something on the pavement in chalk. He had seen people do this before; usually the result was a strange, ghostly copy of an Old Master, immaculately rendered but with all the colours a little too pale, a little too thin. The man with red hair was adjusting a set of portable iPod speakers.
“What do you fancy?” he asked. His companion shrugged agreeably.
“You pick.”
“Something from the master, I think.” A flick of the wheel and a complex, haunting tune spiralled up from the speakers, climbing the heavy air and insinuating itself in through the bottom of Davey’s sash window.
Davey closed his eyes. He had learned long ago that, when the pain from one injury became too unbearable, he could distract himself by focusing on another instead; it was as if his brain could only process a certain amount of pain at one time, and which pain he processed was within his gift to choose. Crammed awkwardly into the window frame, he began making a slow tour of his injuries. Head. Ribs. Stomach - ow, ow, bad one, don’t go back there. Back. Leg. Head. Ribs. Sto - no, Back. Leg. Head. Ribs. Back. Leg. Head. Ribs. Back.
As night fell, the words novelty and adventure began to dissolve, to be replaced with a darker and
more frightening vocabulary. Alone. Homeless. Vulnerable. Hungry. Tired. He fought them as well as he could, but they stalked his footsteps as he hopelessly roamed the crowded streets. Did nobody sleep in London? Were these the same people he’d seen earlier, or was there some sort of shift system? Eventually he was too exhausted to continue, and squatted hopelessly in a doorway. When a woman around his age touched his elbow, he stared at her in dumb terror.
“It’s alright,” she said, very gently. “I’m Jane, I’m an outreach worker. I know most of the faces around here. You’re new, aren’t you?”
Priss knew exactly why the driver had stopped – even with her hair plastered to her skull and her huge baggy anorak on, she knew how she looked – but that was okay. It was getting late and it was pissing with rain, he had a nice car and he was going in the right direction. He held the door open, making elaborate efforts not to invade her personal space and put the heater on to try and dry her out.
Priss’ new driver turned out to be called Neil, which was pretty much the name she would have given him if she had to pick. He was about thirty-five, maybe a bit older. He was sort of ugly, boringly dressed, a bit skinny, the should-have-gone-to-Specsavers type. He told her he worked in IT, and was on his way to a conference on the security implications of cloud computing. She could imagine him playing World Of Warcraft in his spare time. He was formal and polite, asking conventional questions about where she was going, why she was going there, what she did.
She began with two truths, one lie. She was headed for London, she was going there to meet a friend, and she didn’t do anything, she was still at school. When she told him her age, she felt the car twitch and slow as he involuntarily took his foot off the accelerator and clutched the steering wheel a little tighter.
“Erm - ” he was stammering a little. “I um, I hope you don’t think I’m, I mean - ”
You mean you hope I don’t think you’re a disgusting old pervert for wanting to get my knickers off, Priss thought cynically. She smiled, and looked at him shyly from underneath her eyelashes.
The Summer We All Ran Away Page 24
