Put yourself in my place. You love your parents but you’ve decided to leave forever without even saying goodbye. You’re gonna do it tomorrow, so this is your last night in the bed you’ve slept in all your life. You’re going out under a trash truck, and any one of four things might happen. You might be seen getting under, in which case the whole thing’s blown. You might succeed in getting under, but be spotted at the gate. If that happens the crew dies and they put you away someplace you’ll never get out of. If you make it through the gate you might lose your hold as the truck speeds along the freeway, in which case you’re dead. Or you might succeed and find yourself without food or shelter in a bleak and alien world.
Would that help you sleep?
Anyway, morning comes and I have to act normal. I feel like the condemned guy must feel, eating a breakfast that’ll never get digested because in less than an hour he’ll be dead. Unreal’s the word, I guess. Or detached.
There we sit, the three of us, eating cornflakes, as usual, and Mum says something like, ‘I’ve packed everything we won’t need before Friday. Have you called the telephone company yet?’
And Dad says, ‘I’ll do it from the office, first thing.’ He’s sold the business and is tying up loose ends.
Mum looks at me. ‘Be sure to remind Mrs Corrigan about your file, Zoe. They’ll want it at your new school.’
‘Okay, Mum,’ I say. My breakfast’s choking me but when will I eat cornflakes again?
Dad’s leaving. To keep from bursting into tears I think about how he sold our home without even telling me. I grip my spoon and stare into my bowl and keep thinking about that till the sound of his car fades away. Even then I have to blink back some tears but my head’s down and Mum doesn’t notice.
I mumble that I’m not hungry, push my bowl away and leave the kitchen. In my room I sit on my bed (last time here) and weep. I do it as quietly as I can, though my parents never come in without asking. I feel I could cry forever, but I have to make it look like I’m going to school.
I pick up my stuff and go downstairs. My eyes are red but that’s okay – Mum knows I’m upset we’re leaving. She’s doing the dishes. I can hear her at the sink. I can’t go in there. I know if I do I’ll abandon my plan. I conjure up a picture of Daz, put on my anorak with the big pockets, call out, ‘Bye, Mum,’ and leave (forever) through the front door.
Wednesdays, the trucks work the commercial section. I pedal that way. It’s eight forty-five and lots of other people are going that way too, but none of them are kids. There’s no school near the commercial section. I feel conspicuous. If Pohlman’s having me tailed they’ll pick me up for sure. At the first intersection I turn off and make for one of the supermarkets. Crossing an overgrown vacant lot I dump my bike and books and other school stuff. It feels like a decisive step. No turning back.
There was this story in all the papers oh – two years ago. A Chippy, Dred fanatic, rode into Fairlawn Suburb in broad daylight under a trash truck. Suicide mission. Sprayed a shopping mall with machinegun fire till the bouncers cut him down. Sixteen, seventeen people died. Anyway the papers printed a diagram showing how the guy rode the truck, and that’s how I’m going out.
In the supermarket I buy stuff I can carry in my pockets. Stuff Chippies can’t get, or can’t get easily, like cigarettes and fancy soap and coffee. I buy a lipstick and a compact and a tin of Germolene and some aspirin and a box of candy. I get butter and cheese and salami. I make my selection thoughtfully, with Daz’s mother in mind. It’s a sort of bribe. I spend quite a lot of my savings but I hang onto some too, aware that the most precious commodity of all out there is cash.
I check out at nine thirty and the road to the commercial section is a lot quieter. All of the buildings that make up the section are similar – long, low structures of glass and concrete, severe and functional but well spaced with smooth lawns and tidy flowerbeds between. Today the flowerbeds have that depressing, washed-up look you get in early November so they match my mood exactly.
I see a trash truck right away, but the sound the trash makes goipg in tells me it’s still almost empty, with a long way to go. I walk on, taking care to steer well clear of the block where Dad has his office.
I find what I’m looking for at ten past ten. The truck is parked up between two factory units and the four man crew is leaning on a wall, taking a break. I walk past. The guys are smoking, chewing the fat. None of them looks in my direction. Beyond their line of vision I turn left and walk toward the door of the building, hoping nobody’s watching me through the windows of tinted glass. Instead of going to the door I turn left again and walk along the front of the factory to the corner. Here I flatten myself against the wall and take a peek. If DS are watching now, they’ll have me for sure. Maybe I’m half hoping they will.
The truck’s about four metres away, between me and the crew. By looking under the vehicle I can see their feet. I glance around. A pickup is cruising up the street. I lean on the wall and pretend I’m fixing a hangnail till it goes by. Then I take a deep breath and walk to the truck, praying no crewman sees my feet, and duck under. In the shadow I crouch motionless, my hair touching the caked, oily dirt under the truck. If DS have been watching, surely now’s the moment they’ll strike? Seconds pass and there’s no shout, no pounding feet. Am I relieved or disappointed? I dunno. I breathe out slowly, looking for the brackets it showed in that diagram, hoping the crew’s break won’t end just yet. I spot them – eight flat strips of steel which fasten the truck’s side-guards to the chassis. They cross at forty-five degrees the right angle between the side-guard and the underneath of the truck. There are four of them on each side. They’re about three feet apart, and I find I can easily wrap my arms round one and swing my legs up through the next so that the strip is hooked behind my knees. The trouble is that this leaves me very close to the side, so that anybody glancing between the slats of the side-guard will be sure to see me hanging like a sloth. Still, it’s a good secure position and the best I can manage.
I dangle. If you think I’m not scared, you’re crazy. I’m terrified. It’s not the danger of being spotted, so much as the thought of what it’ll be like when the truck starts moving. I mean okay, it’s been done before, but that guy knew he was going to die anyway and I’m no Dred fanatic.
Presently, the crew decides to move, and I’m in luck. We’ve no more calls to make. The vehicle bounces a bit but we’re headed straight for the nearest gate. My butt’s clearing the cement by about four inches and there’s a terrific sense of speed. To take my mind off this I turn my head to the right and peer through the slats. We’ve cleared the commercial section and are passing through a leafy residential part. Pedestrians walk dogs and push strollers within six feet of me but nobody looks at the truck. I pray to God to send us no red lights, and we get none.
For some reason, now that it’s actually happening I don’t feel nearly so bad as I did earlier. Adrenalin, I guess.
At the gate there’s no hassle at all. I’m amazed. We stop, but the bouncer doesn’t even leave his kiosk. He just yells something to the crewboss who yells something back, the pole goes up and we’re through. We cruise along the freeway. I’d pictured myself, if I ever got this far, clinging on for dear life as the jolting flung me this way and that, threatening to break the tenuous hold of my aching arms on some greasy gismo. Forget it. The jolting’s minimal till we turn off the freeway, and it’s only minutes to the dump from there.
At the dump three of the men get out and walk off, leaving the crewboss to dump the trash. While he’s doing that, leaning out the cab and looking back, I roll out on his blind side and get down behind a mound. It stinks, but I’m out.
And that’s how easy it is. Of course, they’re not looking for people breaking out. I mean, what Subby in her right mind would choose to be a Chippy?
DAZ
i dint get no sleap that nite even thogh i wos nackert. 2 worid, see. that Pete 1 ov Cal guys and i kiltim. also it com reel cowld and the win
d blue the polifeen sheat down of the broken windo. i after get up and fixit and wen i go back 2 bed i cant get warm even wiv 2 coats over.
Wensday morning our Mam fynd all the tucker stamps gon. ear our Daz she sez wears all the bleedin stamps, i canot tel a lye our Mam i sez (not much i cant) it wos me.
she giv me el. i after take it. i feal roten alreddy and she maykit wors. owm i spos 2 fead the 2 ov us wivowt stamps she sez. dunno Mam i sez. no she sez neever do i.
no brake fast, plus she send me owt in the cowld 2 deel stamps or tucker. How do i know wear is deelas Wensday morning? i take Del gun witch it all i got to deel and hang abowt, aster cupple guys, finely pickup this hardloaf bred and lengf ov sossidge witch the sos-sidge probly dog. After handover Del gun and the guy wont frow in no coffee neever the tite git. Me and Mam eat the bred and sossidge and i dont find no collar init witch is 1 big serprize.
bigger serprize coming thogh.
ZOE
When the truck moved off I stayed down. With the actual escape behind me my mind was free for the first time to contemplate the enormity of the step I had taken, and I found myself overwhelmed by a combination of emotions, the strongest of which were regret, sheer disbelief and rising panic. It was as much as I could do to stop myself jumping up and running after the truck, begging to be taken back. I stuffed my handkerchief in my mouth, closed my eyes and fought for the control which alone could help me now.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. I know that gradually I became aware that I was terribly cold, and that the cry of gulls was everywhere. I pulled the wadded handkerchief from my mouth, wiped my face with it and thrust it into a pocket with the aspirin and the cigarettes.
I was shaking. Stop it, I said to myself. Stop this right now, Zoe, or you’re finished. You’re here. This is real. Regret’s worse than useless and panic’ll get you killed.
I raised myself a little and looked over the mound. Three, four hundred yards away some guys were working, sorting stuff into piles. A little way beyond them was a track, and beyond that was open ground, covered with weeds and scrub. There seemed to be no fence round the dump – nothing to stop me getting up and just walking away. I didn’t do it, though, because I had no idea what the guys’ reaction would be if a Subby kid suddenly materialised among them. What would they do – kill me? They might. Nobody’d ever know. They could belt me over the head and make a hole and plant me and I’d be gullfeed – part of the dump.
I looked around. Off to my left was where the trucks checked in – a little hut beside a muddy track. As I watched, a truck drew up and a man came out of the hut and stood, talking to the driver. Not that way, then. Directly behind me were great drifts of garbage. It was impossible to know what lay beyond them, so I looked to my right. A track marked the boundary of the dump in that direction too, but it must be at least a quarter of a mile away. There were no vehicles, though, and no people I could see. I was in jeans and anorak. If I got up and walked that way without hurrying, maybe nobody would notice me. One thing was certain – if I stayed where I was I’d either be discovered or I’d freeze to death. I stood up and started walking.
Nobody shouted. The guys who were sorting went right on doing it, and the man by the hut continued to talk to the driver. I plodded on with my head down in imitation of the Chippy’s dejected gait. I was walking away from the city but that was all right – once off the dump I could circle round, and it was only eleven thirty.
I made it to the track with muddy shoes, but no trouble. I began to circle the dump clockwise, watching out for people. When I saw the little hut in front of me I made a detour through the scrub, not returning to the track till I’d left it way behind. When I’d walked a half-circle there was a road, half choked with weeds, which seemed to go toward the city. I turned on to it and after that I didn’t see anybody for quite a while. I plodded on, looking for the tallest block in town.
It’s a bit vague, the tallest block in town. If I’d had any idea this was going to happen the last time I saw Daz, I’d have got the street and his apartment number. And if I’d had more time I’d have done some other things, too. I’d have worked out a way to take some of my warmest clothing with me for a start. As it was I only thought how I’d need both hands free to hold on to that truck, and so I’d brought nothing that wouldn’t go in my pockets. I could’ve worn some extra things as a way of getting them out but I hadn’t. In short, this had to be the worst-organised expedition ever mounted.
The weeds thinned out as I approached the city. I was passing between broken buildings now, and I began to see people. First there were some little kids in the ruins. I guess ruins make neat places to play if you’re a kid. This bunch were standing in a ring, laughing and poking with sticks at something on the ground. I didn’t look their way because I didn’t want to attract their attention, but as I drew level one of them, a tiny, dirty-nosed girl called out, ‘Hey missus, come see what we got.’ I pretended not to hear, but then the others started calling and I was scared their noise might bring people so I went over.
It was a dead man. They’d found a dead man and filled his nose, mouth and one ear with twigs and grass stems. They’d removed his boots. A little boy was wearing them round his neck. If this’d been Silverdale I’d have shooed the kids away and called a cop. Here, I was at a loss. I said, ‘This poor man is dead. You should tell somebody – an adult, not be fooling around like this.’ They gazed at me as if I was something from another galaxy, and the biggest boy – the one with the boots – eyed me shrewdly and said, ‘He’s ours, missus. We found him. You wanna buy his doodies?
Doodies is Chippy for clothes. I shook my head.
‘Boots?’ He lifted them so I could see the soles. ‘Good boots for your fella. Goin’ for peanuts.’
‘I – I don’t have -.’
‘Stamps, then. Gimme stamps.’
I’d been about to say I had no fella. He thought I had no cash. I shook my head again. ‘Look, I don’t want – you shouldn’t be doing this. This is a corpse. You can get diseases. All sorts of nasty things. What would your parents -?’ I didn’t know what I was saying, really. I just wanted out of there.
The boy peered at me through red-rimmed, narrow eyes. ‘You – you Subby, encha?’
His companions regarded me now with a fresh interest. I nodded. ‘Yes. That is, I was. Not anymore. I ran away. Do you know a boy – a man, called Daz?’
He eyed me scornfully, ignoring my question. ‘Ran away?’ He laughed, jeeringly. ‘Gerraway, missus. Subbies don’t run away. You kickout, right?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I ran away. D’you know a man called Daz? He wears a black leather jacket.’
‘Black leather granny! You kickout, encha? Wanna place? Gimme peanuts, I show you a place. Good place. Dry.’ He grinned, thrusting out a grubby palm.
I shook my head once more and turned away. Behind unbroken cloud the sun was falling westward. I knew if I didn’t find Daz before dark something would happen to me. Watching these kids had convinced me of that. They were just little kids, but they looked and behaved like rats. Thin, darting, glitter-eyed rats. If they’d known what was in my pockets I think they’d have killed me for it, small as they were. I hurried away and their cries pursued me. Kickout, they shrilled. Kickout, kickout, kickout.
I was now approaching the centre of Grandma’s beloved Rawhampton, or what was left of it. I’d spotted a very tall building some minutes before and was hurrying toward it in the hope that it would turn out to be Daz’s block. I’d seen a bit of the town from Ned Vol-sted’s car the night we went chippying, but it’d been practically dark, and anyway you don’t see things all that well from a car. That brief glimpse certainly hadn’t prepared me for the panorama of desolation which now unfolded around me.
The streets were cracked and broken and littered with every sort of debris. Long puddles of foul, stagnant water lay in gutters clogged with filth. Here and there sat the rusting carcasses of cars and trucks, completely stripped and without thei
r wheels. Some were evidently in use as dwellings, because I saw makeshift curtains strung over glassless windows and signs of life behind them. And these weren’t the worst places. Among the rubble of smashed and burned-out buildings, people had made shanties out of crates and plastic sacks and cardboard boxes. Little fires smouldered before some of these and listless children huddled in the smoke, poking the flames with sticks. There was an unpleasant smell, strong in some places, faint in others, but always there.
I’d just begun to think every building in the city must be derelict when I came to a row of little shops. Plate glass windows gleamed dully behind heavy-gauge wire mesh, and there were crudely painted signs above. One said RUDY’S DOODIE’S – bought and sold – cash stamp’s xchange. Another said TUCKER-savage dog on gard. A small, home-made handcart stood outside this shop and in the cart, swaddled in rags, lay a baby.
As I gazed around, the enormity of the step I had taken began to dawn and I wondered whether, if I were to run all the way back to the dump and get under a truck, I might get back into Silverdale before anyone realised I’d gone.
It was pure fantasy and I knew it, but a sort of panic was growing in me and my mind was searching frantically for something to keep it from snapping. I knew if I dwelt on my situation now I’d start screaming, and that if I screamed forever it wouldn’t change a thing. With a terrific effort I tore my mind away from thoughts of undoing what could never be undone, and walked on into how things really are.
How things really are. Daz had told me he lived with his mother in an apartment, and like you do I’d formed pictures in my mind of what I imagined his mother and the apartment would look like. They were nothing fancy, these imaginary pictures. I’d seen apartment blocks and a selection of their inhabitants through the windows of Ned’s car, and of course I’d been fed all my life with stories about how Chippies live. I knew I wasn’t about to walk into some antiseptic glass palace and meet a beautifully turned-out matron whom Daz would introduce as his mother, but I’d no idea how bad it would actually be.
Daz 4 Zoe Page 9
