Escape

by Jeff Povey

  Of course I won’t know where this portal will lead, and am praying it doesn’t take me to a world that’s completely on fire. I may even end up trapped like my dad was, doomed to roam through the universes but even that seems like a better proposition than anything this apathetically dead world has to offer.

  In the empty world I went to investigate the lorry and after climbing into the cabin I was almost burned to death. I thought I could hear voices calling to me, but now I wonder if they were the screams of people who were dying in a world that had been set on fire. If there is a portal here, the danger is that it’ll lead to the charred and burned world and then I’m going to feel just a mite stupid. But I need to know there’s a way out. And if this doesn’t work I’ll think of something else.

  In my real world we’re supposed to stay within the confines of the school grounds during the day. It’s to do with stranger danger and all the panic and fear that goes with the thought that if a sixteen-year-old is out on their own then they’ll immediately fall prey to a sadist or a killer. It’s also to do with the school not getting a bad reputation if, say, one of their pupils does something horrendous while wearing their hallowed uniform. Well, I’m wearing my brand-new shiny blazer and I’ll happily take any punishment, but mainly because I don’t intend to be here to receive it. Besides, everyone here is so disconnected that I don’t suppose they’ll notice me anyway.

  I pass the exact same rows and shelves of produce that exist in my hometown. The only good thing about this parallel world is that the people in it seem normal, no superpowers, no unhealthy violent streak. And definitely no talons. But none of them seem interested in anything. They plod through their lives with no real aim or thought. It’s unsettling, but I can’t afford to stop and dwell on it. These people are not my problem, escaping from them is.

  Their disinterest means that no one is questioning me or looking at me in a strange way. I start to relax. I’m not on the run and that comes as a relief. I’ve been chased more than enough times lately.

  I reach the bottom of the supermarket and seek out the long plastic flaps that frame a doorway that leads to the storage area. The fish counter is next to the doorway and I walk up to the man behind it. He wears a white hat and a white lab coat and has sheer pale blue latex gloves on his hands.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah?’ He’s monosyllabic but seems pleasant enough.

  ‘I need to get out the back,’ I tell him.

  His eyes fall on my blazer. ‘You’re meant to be at school.’

  ‘Running an errand,’ I tell him.

  ‘Won’t your school be looking for you?’ he asks with little interest.

  ‘They sent me,’ I lie. I pretend to reach into my inner jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got a note from them. Permission.’ My hand lingers under my jacket. All I’ve got is a paper aeroplane with the words YOU’LL LEARN written across its wings.

  The fishmonger remains in neutral, not giving anything away of an emotional nature. So much so that I wonder if he has any emotions. He’s more robotic than anything.

  I pull out the paper aeroplane, well enough of it to make it look like I could really have a get-out-of-school note. ‘It’s my dad,’ I say.

  ‘Your dad,’ he repeats.

  ‘He’s working today, driving a delivery lorry, and he forgot his phone.’ I slip the paper aeroplane away and quickly hold up the smart phone New-Mum gave to me. ‘My mum’s housebound and hates that she can’t call him.’

  Lying so easily is obviously a family trait.

  ‘He travels long distance, but I know he should be out back around now,’ I offer, embellishing the lie as much as I can.

  The fishmonger takes me in for a long moment. ‘Why would you say something like that?’ he asks suddenly.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I blink.

  ‘You sick in the head?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him.

  ‘You must be broken then,’ he says, his eyes looking at me with pity.

  ‘Broken?’ I ask.

  The fishmonger’s eyes echo the eyes of the dead fish lying packed in ice all along his counter. There’s something missing from them, even if he has become intrigued by me.

  ‘Everyone breaks. That’s what they say. We’ll all break one day.’

  I plough on. ‘I just want to, uh – to hand the phone to my – my dad.’

  ‘Stop. There is no long distance,’ he tells me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  The fishmonger gazes hard at me. ‘Distance isn’t long,’ he says then turns to a customer, a stick-thin seventy-something with curly brown hair. She has the look of an ancient groupie who can still rock with the best of them. But the look is all she possesses, inside is a husk at best as she points with a leaden finger at some fresh salmon.

  ‘She’s broken,’ the fishmonger says to her. His voice has gone up an octave. He’s either excited or frightened, I can’t tell which.

  The elderly groupie immediately glances at me and tears fill her eyes. ‘You need to hang in there,’ she tells me. The tears are real.

  ‘I don’t, uh . . . I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Says her dad drives long distance,’ the fishmonger adds.

  The elderly groupie wipes her eyes. ‘That’s crazy talk.’

  ‘It is?’

  She starts pointing hard at me, jabbing the air between us. ‘Get a grip, girl, before you do something stupid.’

  ‘We’ve all seen it happen,’ the fishmonger says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell them both. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘You wish, you poor thing,’ the elderly groupie tells me as I back away and I can feel the eyes of customers turning on me.

  Faces turn hostile in a heartbeat.

  ‘Don’t let her put ideas in your heads!’ the elderly groupie calls to them.

  The other customers stare hard at me. Unforgiving and irate. The atmosphere is strangely similar to the classroom where I was pelted with paper aeroplanes. What is it with this world?

  I turn and quickly push through the plastic drapes and head into the storage area. There are a few members of staff working there, opening boxes and crates of fresh produce to stock the shelves with. None of them talk much and all of them seem quiet and subdued. Some look my way, but no one comments. It’s like they just can’t be bothered. Which works for me because I obviously don’t know how to say the right thing. Best to stay quiet until I discover why I’ve upset these people so much.

  I move deeper into the storage area before finding the exit door that leads out into the grey September chill. It’s been raining and I splash through several puddles as fast as I can – because I’ve already spotted the lorry. It’s definitely the same one that my father crawled out of. The memory of following his burned skin trail last time springs into my mind, but I quickly shake away the grim image. The lorry is parked in the exact same spot as it was in the empty world.

  My heart is beating hard by the time I reach the lorry. The tall, towering cabin can only be accessed with the aid of steps and a handle to hoist yourself up. It takes me less than a second to climb high enough to be able to open the shiny metallic black door. It’s not locked which means the signs are becoming more and more hopeful. I should be wary of what lies inside, but I can’t help myself and bundle in behind the wheel, and await the surge of heat that represents a gateway to a burning world.

  Which doesn’t come.

  But that’s good, I think, that means the world has stopped burning.

  But what do I do now? How do I open this portal?

  I sit there for a moment, not knowing what to do next. I was hoping that if there is a portal to another world then surely something will magically happen. The white light that seared through the classroom detention should be happening here as well.

  Right about now . . .

  But there’s nothing.

  I scan the dials, the read-outs, the speedometer, everything and anything along the dashboard. Perhaps th
ere’s a switch. Stupid as that sounds, I try flicking every switch and lever I can find. I even jar the gearstick back and forth.

  Nothing.

  ‘C’mon,’ I urge to no one in particular. ‘C’mon, c’mon.’

  Why didn’t I think this through? Just say my dad did create a super-equation so powerful that it opened a door to the omniverse then I need that same equation.

  I check my phone. I’ve still got twenty minutes of lunch break left. Eight and a half of them I’ll use to get back to the school. Assuming I do go back there.

  ‘C’mon, portal, show thyself,’ I say, channelling my inner Harry Potter. Maybe if I had a wand and garbled some pseudo Latin the portal would magically open up.

  ‘I know you’re here,’ I tell the air in front of me. ‘If it worked in one world it has to work in another.’

  Of course it doesn’t have to work at all; the Moth would be the first to tell me that the law of portals in lorries on one world doesn’t equate to the law of portals in lorries on another. But I’m desperate. I want out of this weird world where people don’t talk much and stare with empty, dead-fish eyes.

  I check the time again. I’ve been in the cabin for five minutes and there’s no heat, no voices and no interdimensional transportation.

  I try the switches and levers again.

  Same result.

  Nothing.

  I sit back, fighting the rising disappointment. If I could, I’ d drive the lorry away from here. That’ d scare the hell out of my dad and New-Mum. Though I have no idea where I’ d go. There’s no long distance according to the weird fishmonger. Whatever that means.

  ‘Hey!’

  The voice breaks through my crushing disappointment. It’s a voice I know only too well.

  Johnson.

  ‘Hey!’ he calls again and I turn and look out of the driver’s window. New-Johnson is snake-hipping his way towards the lorry. He’s smoking a cigarette and his black desert boots glide through the small puddles as if he’s walking on water.

  I hadn’t seen him at school, but then if he’s anything like the real Johnson he’ll have been cutting classes.

  He climbs easily up the steps to the cabin and draws level with the driver’s door, his face appearing next to mine. He blows smoke towards me and it bounces off the door window.

  ‘Got a licence to drive that?’ New-Johnson asks.

  I wind the window down a little. His bright blue eyes take me in. But there’s none of the familiar look of the original Johnson, or even Other-Johnson. The one that tears right through me.

  Again he’s identical in every way. Apart from the one thing that counts above and beyond everything else. He doesn’t appear to like me very much.

  ‘You new?’

  That same question.

  ‘So what if I am?’

  ‘You can get out of the lorry for starters,’ he orders.

  ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’ I counter.

  ‘Doesn’t matter who, it just matters that you get out.’

  There is nothing beaten down or cowering about this Johnson. Nothing seems to worry any Johnson in any world.

  ‘Make me.’

  ‘You want that?’ he asks.

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to,’ I assure him.

  But he moves with grace and speed and, before I know it, the door is open and I’m being dragged out of the cabin. I fall and land hard, which is something I do a lot of these days, in a crumpled heap.

  New-Johnson jumps down with little in the way of care or remorse. ‘I’m saving you by the way,’ he tells me as he flicks the stub of his dying cigarette over my head. ‘You won’t know it but I am.’

  He wanders away without another word. My arm is sore and when I move it my elbow feels like it’s on fire.

  ‘Johnson,’ I call after him.

  He stops and looks back.

  ‘It’s me,’ I tell him. ‘Rev.’ It’s a wail more than words and I can already feel how much this world is breaking me down. It’s killing me, wearing away my spirit bit by bit.

  ‘You don’t know me but you do,’ I tell him.

  He stays silent, brooding, staring at me.

  ‘I need your help.’ I get to my feet, brush myself down. His cigarette ash speckles my blazer, but I will happily wear it like a badge. ‘You always help me,’ I tell him, my eyes meeting his. ‘Always.’

  He touches his chin in thought. I dare to offer a hopeful smile.

  ‘I don’t care that you threw me out of that lorry,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not even going to ask why anyone would do that. But you know me, or at least you will know me, and when you do you’ll be right there, at my side.’

  ‘That right?’ His eyes keep taking me in. The school blazer does nothing for me, but he’s looking closer now, peeling it back and working his way into me.

  ‘I guarantee it,’ I say.

  A new look flashes across his face and his eyes seem even bluer.

  ‘Name?’ he asks.

  ‘Already told you,’ I hold his look.

  The slightest of smiles curls the corners of his mouth. ‘Yeah. You did, didn’t you?’

  This is better, I think, this is headway. I’m reaching out and finally someone is there. And it had to be a Johnson because we echo through time and space and there’s nothing anyone or anything can do to stop it.

  ‘Can we meet?’ I ask him.

  ‘Meet?’

  ‘Meet up. You and me. After school.’

  New-Johnson considers this for a long moment and I know he’s tempted. But, before he can answer, his phone vibrates with a text message and it tears the moment to shreds. He flips out his phone and grins at the message.

  Worse follows as he forgets all about me and turns towards the storage-area door while answering the text.

  ‘Later?’ I call after him.

  But he doesn’t answer.

  ‘Hey!’ I call. ‘Johnson!’

  But the text has absorbed him and I doubt he hears me. The tiny connection I managed to forge with him forgotten in an instant.

  NO ONE KNOWS BETTER THAN I DO

  Carrie slipped from Non-Ape’s grip two more times and he claimed it was because she was so skinny he couldn’t get a proper hold of her. It’s more likely that he saw something and got distracted. Like a cake shop. I felt every sickening jar and smack and crunch for her as she flew from the car roof and ended up lying in the road.

  I think we’re twelve miles from home. I haven’t heard from my dad since he appeared in the wing mirror, but one glance at the Ferrari’s speedometer tells me we are hitting a hundred miles an hour as we approach the tunnel Non-Lucas died in, so we’ll be there soon enough.

  ‘We might need to stop and pick someone up,’ I tell the Ape.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Lucas,’ I tell him. ‘Their Lucas. The evil one.’

  ‘Want me to run him over?’

  ‘No. I said pick him up.’

  ‘I can run him over.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Foot down and bam!’ The Ape grits his teeth.

  ‘I said we’re stopping—’

  ‘—Gotcha!’ He laughs. ‘So gotcha!’

  The Ape veers between infuriating and even more infuriating. There isn’t much else to him which is exactly why I hold him in such high esteem. I think I’ve grown to love that he drives me insane.

  ‘Gotcha!’ He sounds the Ferrari’s horn.

  ‘We already established that.’

  He sounds the car horn again just for good measure. ‘Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha.’

  I feel Johnson shift under me as he tries to quell a laugh. ‘How come you always fall for it?’

  ‘I do it to humour him,’ I tell him tetchily.

  ‘Gotcha!’ The Ape adds.

  ‘He’s smarter than you,’ Johnson whispers.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘What if I just glance off him?’ the Ape asks, thinking I’m going to fall for the same joke.

  And just for him I do
.

  ‘What did I just say?’ I pretend to be at the end of my tether.

  ‘Gotcha again!’ The Ape points a big stubby finger at me.

  The Ape roars into the mile-long tunnel and I feel Johnson shift under me. His long legs are not designed for a Ferrari.

  ‘Shouldn’t be much longer,’ I tell him.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ he says playfully. ‘You can sit here all day long.’

  The tunnel flashes past, the lights embedded in the walls hypnotically bouncing off what’s left of the broken windscreen.

  ‘The Moth!’ I shout. It takes even me by surprise.

  ‘Where?’ the Ape asks.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Something flashes into my head, an image, a thought. It scratches at my brain so hard it hurts.

  ‘Rev?’ Johnson puts a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘He’s here,’ I tell them. ‘The Moth is here. Slow down, slow the car.’ An image of the Moth’s face is battering at my forehead. ‘Stop the car!’

  ‘Which one? Stop or slow?’ the Ape teases.

  ‘Stop!’

  The Ape immediately stands on the brakes and the car fishtails, skidding left and right before he eventually gets it back under control.

  As the momentum dies away, I glance in the rear-view mirror and see Carrie’s body come rolling to a stop some thirty metres behind us. Non-Ape has once again lost his grip on her.

  ‘Rev?’ Johnson asks again.

  I try and clear my head, but the Moth’s face keeps looming. ‘He’s around here somewhere,’ I tell Johnson. ‘The Moth is close.’

  My heart is racing. I don’t know why I can sense or see him, but who cares? He’s got to be within spitting distance, I’m sure of it.

  ‘He’s in my head, Johnson.’

  ‘How though?’ he asks.

  ‘Hey!’ Non-Ape bends into view, his massive head and face staring into the car. ‘Why have we stopped?’