The Rules

by Tracy Darnton

  He isn’t giving up. “Hang on. There’s something perfect I fished out of a bin in Carlisle a while back.” He pulls a faded T-shirt from the radiator. It’s printed with a Roman helmet and the slogan ‘I walked the wall’. Josh is beaming at me. “I’ve literally got the T-shirt! You’ve got to take me now.”

  “All right. But don’t make me regret it. And it’s a short-term thing.”

  He sorts through the drying clothes, humming. “When are we going? I need to get my pants dry but they’re not far off.”

  “After breakfast in the morning.”

  “Righto, Sergeant Major.” Josh reaches on top of the fridge and gropes for something. “This calls for a little celebration. Do me a favour – Phil keeps a stash of wine in the shed, locked away from any little kiddywinkies.” He throws me the key he’s retrieved. “I have something else to finish off while you’re out of the way.”

  “Like what?” Does he want to snoop through my things?

  “Something nice. Don’t panic, Ms Paranoid.”

  I pick up the rubber torch hanging by the back door and go to the end of the garden, picking my way across the slippery crazy paving. The moon disappears behind a cloud. I unlock the door. I hesitate. It’s the smell that triggers something. The staleness, the damp.

  The shed is dark and small and as I force myself to step inside the torch flickers. I tap it against my leg and it brightens again, shining dimly on a couple of deckchairs. My heart’s speeding up. I ignore it. The door bangs in the wind. The box marked ‘Phil’s stuff’ is on the shelf by the beach things. I carefully lay down the torch to point inside while I select a bottle of Prosecco. The torch flickers out. Panicking, I grab at it, knocking the plastic buckets and spades off the shelf with a clatter. I can’t get the light back on. I fumble with the battery compartment, releasing the batteries, and rub them together in my hands to warm them up but I’m shaking so much that one drops to the ground. I grope around for it by my feet and when I’ve found it I count slowly through the Rules, trying to suppress the panic. They’re painted on the walls, they’re in my head. They’re always in my head. Dad screaming them at me, demanding I recite them back to him.

  Rule: Trust no one. Rule: Always have your Grab-and-Go Bag.

  Though it’s cold out here, I’m boiling hot, sweat patches forming under my arms. Rule: Survival is everything.

  I reinsert the batteries, my shaking hands struggling to close the plastic flap.

  Rule: Honour thy father. Rule: Never break the Rules.

  I’m dizzy. If I don’t get out of here I’m going to keel over. But the light flickers back on. I’m in a shed with punctured beach balls and a windbreak. Josh is calling me from the kitchen door. I wait until my breath stabilizes, counting in for five and out for five. I take the bottle and return to being a normal person. Almost.

  Back in the kitchen, I pour us two glasses with shaking hands and gulp at the wine. Josh is so hyped up he doesn’t notice anything.

  “I brought you a gift,” he says, his cheeks rosy with the cold. Bits of greenery are caught in his hair. “As it’s our last evening before we hit the road.” He pulls me into the lounge, his hands over my eyes. “I give you – Josh’s grotty Christmas grotto. Ta-dah!”

  Sprigs of holly hang over the pictures and lengths of ivy are stretched across the fireplace, woven round the advent calendar, and hanging down loosely at the sides. Two long socks dangle from the mantelpiece, held in place by Sue’s hideous ornaments. The semi-dead fir tree from the front garden is propped up in a bucket, topped by a cardboard star cut from a cereal packet. All Sue’s candles are lit, the twinkling flames reflected in the mirror and casting shadows around the room.

  He’s made something beautiful from nothing at all. I want to tell him, but the words catch in my throat. Instead, I reach out and take his hand and squeeze it.

  He took that one from the Ten Commandments, the edited version. The real one, the original, was Honour thy father and mother. But he purged my mother from history. As far as he was concerned, there was only one person who should get the honouring: him.

  ‘Thy’ and ‘honour’ – old-fashioned words that he used to make his Rules seem more powerful. As though me honouring him was written down thousands of years ago, etched in stone tablets, inscribed in hieroglyphs on a pyramid somewhere. Rather than the reality of shouty big letters on a wall in a rundown farm in a remote part of Wales. But why not? Dad was the supreme emperor of all he surveyed. He was Darth Sidious or Julius Caesar sitting in the arena and watching all I did; he was the one with the power to control how my day went merely by raising his thumb up or down. The power to control how my whole life was going to pan out.

  But even empires must fall one day.

  I’m up before Josh, checking my kit. I pick up the advent calendar from the mantelpiece. I’ve been away a week. Julie could’ve been suspended or sacked because of me. I hope she’s OK because, let’s face it, no one else would give her a job. Today’s door reveals a Christmas tree, covered in gaudy baubles. They’ve been popping up in windows in the village, flashing brightly coloured lights. I prefer the Christmas scene Josh created last night, which I now carefully dismantle, restoring the room to soullessness.

  As we lock up The Haven, all traces of my stay erased, I place my set of keys back in the key box and give the squat little house one last, long look. I can’t come back here. Josh and his big mouth has put paid to that.

  We walk through the village and sit on the wall by the bus stop. It’s strange to be back on the road again not knowing exactly where we’ll be tomorrow.

  “Might snow tonight,” says Josh, sniffing at the air. “Fear not. I’m weighing up the options. It’s between a bijou squat I know or a backpackers’ place where we can stay in exchange for cleaning duties. Off the record, like.”

  I point to my rucksack. “We’d fit right in at a backpackers’. People coming and going. And it’ll be quiet this time of year too. Perfect.” I put on my beanie hat and gloves. He might be right about the snow. I wrap my massive scarf across my face as we get on the bus and make a beeline for the back seat. Josh is a complete bus nerd. He chatters on about how they’re warm, dry, something different to see out of the window, usually no hassle.

  “Mostly it’s just something to do,” he says. “Like the London cabbies with the Knowledge, I’m hot on the bus routes, the fares, the best seats, which ones have charging points. Yeah, baby. I’m your man.”

  Most people would make fun of him for it, but Dad would have rated Josh’s useful life knowledge. And it makes me feel better about letting him stick around for a few days, big mouth or not.

  I’m feeling travel sick on Josh’s beloved bus by the time it reaches the bus station where we need to change. I’m glad of a break in the fresh air though Josh does his best to ruin it with a greasy, smelly burger.

  We’re the only people getting the next bus and the driver is in no rush to start off, wanting to talk about the weather. I just want to sit down out of sight.

  “Going walking?” he asks.

  “Yep. We’re mad keen walkers,” says Josh. “She’s got a map and a compass.”

  “Feel the cold, do you?” the driver calls out to me. “Picked the wrong day to go hiking.”

  “She’s got a thing about scarves,” replies Josh as he walks back through the bus towards me. “They’re her comfort blanket. Soft and cuddly.” He sits right up next to me. “Yep, soft and cuddly, just like you!” He prods my arm. “Bet no one has ever called you that before!”

  “Why do you have to chat to everyone? Can’t we just get on a bus without giving away our life story?” I fold my arms and shrink into the seat by the window.

  Josh manages a whole three minutes without speaking. But he can’t stop himself. He is wired differently, like his gran said. He pulls out a paperback and taps me with it. “The vicar lent it me. John Wyndham. I’m reading all of his now. This one – you’d like it – everyone, nearly everyone, is blind after this b
ig meteor shower and then if that wasn’t bad enough giant man-killer plants are on the rampage. The main characters head for the country like you’re planning. But I’m thinking it’s not going to end well. Plants like the countryside.”

  “Killer plants weren’t on the SHTF list.”

  “It is hard to take seriously as a threat. Think giant Venus flytrap. Maybe it was scarier in the fifties. It was probably on TV – those little black and white ones with the aerial on top. But, and this is where America has the edge in all those disaster or dystopia movies, they’ve always got the Statue of Liberty or the New York library or some massive skyscraper to hang out in. This one’s in Wiltshire! Name me an interesting big thing in Wiltshire.”

  “Stonehenge. That’s in Wiltshire.”

  “Just big rocks in a circle – not a building to hide in, is it. They’d never shoot a blockbuster there.”

  I close my eyes and let him witter on. Just for a while it feels normal. Like I’m back at Beechwood, lounging around the common room, listening to the others talking about movies I haven’t seen, trying to pretend I belong there.

  I must have nodded off with the motion of the bus because I wake up to find Josh shaking me. “Stop dribbling and snoring. We’re nearly at the backpackers’ place.”

  We’ve gained a couple of elderly passengers while I’ve been asleep but neither of them is getting off at our stop. I scramble to pull up my scarf but it slips as I manhandle my huge bag down the aisle.

  “Enjoy your walking,” calls the driver and pulls away, giving us a cheery wave.

  I shouldn’t have let him see my face like that. And we could have flown across Europe in the time it’s taken us to do this journey from The Haven.

  The backpackers’ hostel is a large, stone Victorian building set back from the road in a flat landscape. Not pretty, but solid and reliable. Too large to be a private house, way too ordinary to be a stately home. A minibus of French teenagers is unloading noisily by the front door. I thought it would be less busy than this in December.

  “Stick with me, Olive,” says Josh with a wink. He pushes past the French group with a loud ‘Excusez-moi, mes enfants’ delivered in a broad Yorkshire accent, pulling me through by the hand.

  “All right, Kev!” he says and high-fives the harassed-looking man on reception. “Need some help for a few nights? Brought my cousin, Olive.” Josh leans in and whispers loudly, “She’s no trouble, very quiet. Completely mute after a terrible incident with a trumpet. Just one of those tragic accidents.”

  “Still spouting nonsense, I see,” says Kev. He pushes a key across the counter. “You can have room 11. Report back in half an hour and I’ll have some jobs for you.”

  I don’t know whether I’m pretending to be mute or not, so I just nod and smile stiffly at him and follow Josh.

  “What was all that about? Mute?”

  He smirks at me. “I thought I’d have a break from you telling me off – though not sure Kev quite believed the trumpet story.”

  “I don’t tell you off.”

  “You do. And you have a killer death stare. Giving me daggers over too much jam on my toast.”

  “We do three nights only and move on,” I say. “I don’t want to stay anywhere too long.”

  “Promise. Though you’re going to love it so much you’ll be begging me to stay.”

  He unlocks the door to room 11. It’s a family room with a double bed and bunk bed, uncomfortable chairs and table and an en-suite bathroom with a grubby shower curtain. The only decoration is a faded print of a Roman soldier hanging above the bed and a dusty vase of dried flowers on the windowsill.

  Josh stretches out across the double bed, kicking off his shoes, and tests the springiness.

  “I don’t like bunk beds,” I say flatly.

  He flips his lower lip with his finger and says, “Diddums!” and shows no sign of moving.

  I unpack my clothes and arrange them in the correct piles, socks ready in shoes. I don’t sit on the bunk bed. I pointedly sit on the chair until Josh ‘unpacks’. He opens a drawer and tips in the contents of his bag. I hold myself back from tidying it or saying anything. Everything has its place. I know it’s weird to other people. I push in his drawer, so I don’t have to look at it as we leave to report to Kev. He wants us to spend an hour cleaning straight away.

  The ‘mute Olive’ routine from Josh is wearing thin. It wasn’t funny in the first place, but he doesn’t know when to stop with it. Josh doesn’t have a filter, doesn’t pick up when he’s being annoying. I leave him in the corridor mopping floors while I go back to the cupboard for the glass cleaner. As I reach for it off the top shelf, the door swings shut behind me. There’s no handle on the inside. Now I can see the paper sign on the back of the door saying ‘Caution – keep the door wedged open while using this cupboard’. It’s like a nonsense rule from Alice in Wonderland as I can only read it when it’s too late. I pull at the woodwork and doorframe, before the panic takes hold. There’s no gap to prise open.

  I knock loudly. Josh will come. It won’t be long before he’ll miss me. Surely?

  “Hey! I can’t open the door. Hello!”

  It’s just a cupboard. The same cupboard it was before the door shut. The light’s on. I’ll be out in a minute, tops. Everything is fine.

  I try to breathe deeply. I lean back on the door and scan the space. About twelve cubic metres. No window. I close my eyes. In my head I’m back there. Locked in, with the complete darkness and the stale air. The scuttling rats.

  I count through the Rules again, like I did then. Like I always do. My mantra, my creed.

  Rule: Prep for the worst.

  Rule: The only useful knowledge is the stuff that keeps you alive.

  I bang on the door and shout. This time it’s more frenzied.

  Rule: Use your weakness as your strength.

  Rule: Honour thy father.

  I take the mop and metal bucket and bash them together like a clanging drum.

  Rule: Stay one step ahead.

  The minutes are ticking by. This is how it starts, measured in minutes then hours then days.

  I can’t breathe. I pull at my top to relieve the pressure of something pushing on my chest. I’m going to die. My hands are going numb. I stretch out my fingers and lean against the wall.

  “Open this damn door!” I shout.

  The door opens and Kev’s there, frowning. I swear he looks at the back of the door for damage rather than checking I’m OK.

  “Why the hell haven’t you got a proper door on this cupboard? Have you heard of a handle? Of health and safety?” I explode in a red-faced torrent.

  Josh is powering up the corridor. “It’s a miracle!” he says. “She can speak again! I’ve got this, mate.” He enfolds me in a hug. I’m sure he wants to stop me from taking a swipe at Kev. He pats my back. “Olive, the new trauma has replaced the old trauma. You can speak once more.”

  More nonsense from Josh and a promise to tidy up has Kev shuffling back to reception.

  “That was truly hilarious,” says Josh, ignoring the fact that I’m shaky and pale. “Did you see Kev’s face?”

  I feel faint. The adrenaline has drained away. I sit down.

  “Amber? You’re OK, yeah?”

  I nod but say nothing. I don’t want him to know how a stupid cupboard full of mops and buckets can reduce me to this.

  “Just claustrophobic,” I say, still not moving. Josh tidies away our stuff and pulls me up.

  “We need to get out of here for a bit before you lock yourself in any more small spaces. Come on, we’ll see the local attraction before it shuts – it’s why there’s a hostel here in the first place. Some Roman ruins.

  “I’m not in the mood for…”

  “What? Enjoying yourself? Unwinding? Learning something? I bet your dad isn’t spending every waking minute thinking about you. Why do him the honour of having him on the brain all the time? Get something else to think about. It works for me.”

  H
e has a point. But it isn’t that easy. I can’t get those photos of Dad out of my head.

  “We can dress up as centurions and you can hit me with replica weapons,” adds Josh. “That’ll cheer you up.”

  “Centurion House! That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember. Of a bug-out place up here. Dad said it had the starriest skies he’d ever seen because it was near an observatory in the national park. I couldn’t remember the name until you said that.”

  “See. Aren’t you glad you brought me along?”

  Dad threw my history folder across the table, scattering its contents. I stopped myself from picking it up, clasping my hands tight behind my back.

  That was how the fear got you. What was the right thing to do? What would get the least reaction from him? You become unsure of yourself. Of your own responses.

  You, the essence of you, learns to back off, to fade away, into what he wants to see.

  Mum had got good at it. So good she became a shadow before my eyes.

  I didn’t want to become a shadow.

  Option 1: Pick up the folder, clear up the mess.

  Option 2: Ignore it. Do not argue that the essay was important. Agree he was right to treat it as he did. Because, somehow, in Dad’s world, my getting educated was an affront to all he stood for. Because he knew everything we needed to know, right?

  Here’s the tricky thing about dealing with someone like Dad. Yesterday’s correct response could be today’s red rag to a bull. And he was doing this now because he hadn’t forgotten about me answering him back that morning. He was petty. That at least was consistent. At some level, this was payback brewing.

  All I knew was that my preferred Option 3 of screaming in his face was the wrong one. I forced my lips tight shut to stop me doing exactly that, wavering instead between Options 1 and 2. Not wanting an escalation of hostilities.

  Too late. It was coming anyway.