A minute passed. I did not move. I did not blink.
There was a snarling in the darkness straight ahead of me. Something edged out into the half-light from under the black branches. A long, low shape, slinking close to the ground, red eyes fixed on me, mouth open, teeth bared.
I was pressing backwards so violently on the tree that the bark drove its pattern through my clothes and into the flesh of my back. I whimpered, the branch slipped in my sweaty palm,
Then, with a rush and a roar, the wolf leaped at me. I caught a glimpse of the gaping jaw, the yellowed teeth, a blur of blackness enlarging to swallow up the wood. I raised my stick and, as I did so, my right foot lost its balance in the duff. I slipped to the side, fell; the stick swung upwards. There was a confusion of wolf, stick and tree; all three colliding as I hit the ground directly below. I felt the rasp of claw, a shrill thinness of pain, a hot scent, a heavy thud and a shower of bark and blood. Then, all in an instant, the wolf had fallen on to me – half covering my legs – and had risen to its feet, wheeled about where it stood and was gone into the night with a guttural moaning, and blood flashed darkly on my broken stick.
All around in the dark circle of the pinewood, a great howling rose up.
This woke me from my stupor and set me unsteadily on my feet again, ignoring the pain that lashed my arm and the panic that turned my guts into liquid. I ran from the tree, away into the forest, each stumbling step sending an impact-spray of needles all around.
A swift black shape erupted from the trees to my right, leapt at my side. I slashed out with the stick. The wolf wheeled in mid-air and, yelping, half-fell against the nearest trunk. I ran on as the howling burst out anew behind me.
For a while I had a clear path among the pines. I found a narrow depression, perhaps the bed of a dried-up stream, which wound its way between the trees. Here the needle cover was less deep and it was low enough too to let me run at speed, avoiding even the lowest trailing branches. But the light was fading and the depression was inky with deep shadow. Once I missed the place where it turned sharply, and ran right up against a tree, grazing my palm and the side of my face.
Close behind came a dust-storm of needles, stirred up by running claws.
Now the stream bed petered out in a morass of blackness. I missed my footing, fell against a steep bank, began to struggle up it. An eager snarling came from round the corner I had just passed. Frantically, I climbed, slipping on the dry needle-skin, fingers hooking into the damp layers beneath. All the time my stick was lodged between the thumb and finger of my right hand. Low-slung whip-thin branches slashed my face, I smelled the mould on the earth. I got to the top of the bank, launched myself forwards, ran two steps more and the ground disappeared beneath me. I was falling, head over heels, over and over, a gathering snowball of needles rolling down a slope. My stick was dislodged, my hand gave it up, it fell away. I could do nothing except tumble, arms and legs flailing, over and over . . .
. . . and then I hit a tree, driving the air from my lungs and sending me scudding to a stop in a newly ploughed drift.
I opened my eyes. I was lying on my back under a blanket of needles. There was a break in the trees above me. The red light from the dying sun pierced the place where I lay. I tried to lift my head, pain stabbing in my neck and arms. Slowly, slowly, I raised myself on to my elbows, and looked back up the slope.
And the wolf sprang straight at my face.
TWENTY THREE
TRY AS I might, I couldn’t ignore Charlie completely, and that night she forced me right back to my old anxiety. I’d woken up around four and was heading for the loo, keeping one eye closed to try to convince my brain I was still asleep. When I came out on to the landing, I noticed the light shining through the slightly open doorway of Charlie’s room. What was more, there was the faintest sound of music too, like someone was listening to headphones.
I paused on the landing. I had a choice: pee or peek. Well, there was no contest – at four in the morning my bladder beats curiosity every time. But when I finally emerged once more, her light was still on and the music still played. I sidled to the door and looked in, blinking at the brightness.
Charlie was in bed, white as a sheet. I could tell she’d been crying too. She was sitting bolt upright, reading a book and listening to her Walkman. There was an open notebook resting on her cabinet. Even at this distance I could see it was half-scrawled with her spidery writing.
I was tempted to leave her to it; if she wanted to stay up all night she was welcome. She’d been snubbing me completely since the time I’d woken her and I’d given up in disgust trying to be nice. But I could tell she was upset now. She wasn’t even reading properly, just gazing past the page at nothing, eyes boring into the bedclothes. No, I was probably asking for it, but . . .
I knocked very quietly. Charlie didn’t notice. So I pushed open the door a little. The instant I did, she jumped like she’d been electrocuted, terror etched on her face. That’s sisterly affection for you. I put my head fully round the door.
‘Charls, it’s only me. You OK?’
Her shoulders relaxed; she breathed out with a gasp of relief. Weird. I stepped inside and closed the door to. Charlie pushed her headphones back.
‘What do you want?’
‘You look terrified. Who did you think I was?’
‘Nobody. Why are you awake?’
She was sullen and grumpy, but I’m an old hand at gauging my sister’s mood and I could tell she wasn’t unhappy to see me. That was something. I went and sat on the bed and clicked the off switch on the Walkman.
‘You all right, Charlie? What are you doing up at this hour? I’ve got an excuse. I needed a pee.’
‘You’re always needing one in the night.’
‘That’s not true. Anyway, girls have to go much more often than boys. Smaller bladders.’
‘Rubbish we do.’
‘So what are you doing up? You should get some sleep. You look like you need it. Hey – what’s that?’
She’d turned to face her bedside light and I’d suddenly noticed a mark on the side of her face. A graze, a bad one too.
‘Where’s that come from? That wasn’t there this evening.’
She was looking down at the duvet, not at me. I felt annoyed, pressed her for an answer. ‘Well?’
‘I had a bad dream. Must’ve scratched myself.’ Now that was unusual – admitting it, and after last time too. It didn’t exactly explain the graze though.
‘What, you did that? Come on.’ I was working up to sceptical brother mode, but then I stopped short. Charlie was looking really small and frail. I felt I should hug her or something so I patted her feet half-heartedly through the covers.
‘Yeah. And this.’ She took her right hand out from under the cover. It was wrapped in a hankie, but there was a spot of blood showing through it.
‘What the hell . . .’ I grabbed her wrist and unwound the hankie. She had a massive new cut right down the back of her hand. ‘Bloody hell, Charlie. You’re not telling me you did this in your sleep.’
She was. She started getting defensive too, so I didn’t push it. She wanted to talk a bit, for the first time in God knows how long, and that was enough. I tried to listen instead of lecturing.
‘It was a bad dream. I didn’t want to go back to sleep for a bit.’
‘Can you tell me about it?’
‘No. Well, you’ll think it’s stupid. I was chased by wolves.’
‘Oh. A wolf dream. I used to have those when I was really little. I remember one where the wolf was waiting for me in the bathroom when I went—’
‘Don’t!’ Oops. ‘It wasn’t any old wolf dream. It was awful.’ She shuddered. ‘They were chasing me, and I tried to get away, but I couldn’t. And at the end, one of them—’
She closed her eyes. ‘It leaped at me. And I woke up.’
‘Just in time. Did you know that you never quite d— come to a nasty end in dreams? You always wake up just in time. I used to h
ave one when I was at the top of a ladder, falling forward into space. I went whistling down, with my stomach rising up inside to the roof of my mouth, and I was about to hit the ground . . . then – bang! I was awake. Nightmare. Oh – sorry.’
My anecdotes weren’t having the desired effect. Charlie looked like she was about to cry. ‘It’s not like that with me,’ she said.
‘Look, you’ve woken up. You’re OK. Give or take the odd scratch.’ I could say what I liked, but those grazes were weird. ‘Listen, Charls. Nothing bad will really happen with a bad dream. It freaks you out, sure, but then you wake up and you’re OK. You don’t always have bad dreams, do you?’
‘No. But I always dream.’
‘Yeah, but they’re not all bad, are they? Chances are you’ll be fine if you go back to sleep.’
‘No I won’t. I’ll be back with the wolves. And they’ll kill me.’
‘Charlie, dreams don’t work like that.’
‘Mine do.’
‘Oh well—’ I wasn’t getting anywhere with this. ‘Look, you try and get to sleep and I’ll stay with you for a bit. I’m not tired now anyway.’
‘I’m not either. I’ll be OK for tonight. Go back to bed if you want.’
‘Don’t worry. Look, do you want to play a game or something? There’s Ludo under your bed.’
‘How do you remember that? No, I’ll be OK. Go to bed, J. I’ll read. It’s almost five and you’ve got to go to school.’
This was true. And I had a test. ‘Well, if you’re sure . . . You’ll be back at school next week. Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘Well . . .’ We were running out of things to say. I was too tired to come up with much more now. Bed beckoned.
‘All right. But listen, if you have any more bad dreams, come and see me.’
‘I’m not sleeping any more tonight.’
‘Please yourself. But remember what I said. See you tomorrow then.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for coming in.’
‘That’s OK.’
I went back to bed, and slept fitfully, dreaming about Charlie and her bleeding hand and face. When the clock finally went at seven and I stumbled out into the light, I looked into her room again. And she was still there, sitting bolt upright among her sea of pillows, plugged into her earphones, looking at nothing.
TWENTY FOUR
5.30am: I mustn’t sleep.
James can’t do anything. The wolves have got me. I felt their breath on me as I woke. They’ll be there waiting when I next go back. They’ll kill me the instant I sleep. I don’t know what to do. Maybe they were there to stop me catching Max. Maybe I was getting close . . . But it hardly matters now – I can’t escape.
7.00am: I’ve made it to morning though I’m dead tired. And now I know what I have to do. It’s the car scrap yard. It has to be. They’re trying to get me before I reach Max. If I can find him at the yard today, before I sleep again, maybe I can get past the wolves, get to a new place, like Kit said.
If I don’t, I’ll fall asleep tonight and die.
THAT DAY WAS a bad one. It went sickeningly slowly. James went to school, Mum went out to work. I was tired all over; there was nothing I wanted more than to curl up on the sofa and steal an hour or so’s kip. But I couldn’t – if I didn’t want to die. What was more, I was aching all over from the fall on the slope. I’d really bashed my neck and it was stiff and painful to move. Worse than that and the cut on my hand was the gash where the first wolf’s claw had ripped my side. It wasn’t very deep but I didn’t like the look of it at all, even when I’d treated it with Savlon. It stung like mad under my top. But I was still glad James hadn’t seen it or there’d have been hell to pay.
Of course I cycled down to Bullock’s Yard straight away to see if I could get in. But there was too much going on: men in tow-trucks bringing cars, big lorries pulling out with stacks of wheels, fenders, hubcaps, windscreens. Even the big car-crusher was in operation for half the morning, slamming the life out of corroded old wrecks, leaving the flattened shells to be hoisted up on to the stacks by crane.
I loitered around the gates and wandered round the perimeter of the fence, looking for the hole Max and I had made. I found where it had been, right on the far corner away from the gates, up by the bushes shielding the railway. Someone had filled it in with barbed wire, but it was a bit of a slovenly attempt and I thought I might shift it with the wire cutters and Mum’s oven gloves. The other option would be climbing the fence. That was possible; it was made of looped wire and the loops were big enough to fit my shoes in, but the top was smothered in razor wire. On balance, the hole had it. My inspection ended suddenly when one of the men passing in a lorry shouted at me to clear off. I obeyed.
After that I went home and got my kit together: gloves, cutters, torch. Then, since I didn’t have anything to do until the evening, I mooched around our area of town on the bike. There wasn’t much going on, so I made for the New Park, which is on the opposite side of the town to the canal and railway. This whole area used to be filled with slag heaps and quarries filled with poisoned water: the by-products of the steelworks that were dotted round our town. A few years ago they began turning most of the valley that side into parkland, bulldozing the slag heaps into the quarries, draining the poison out and covering the whole lot with new earth. Then they sculpted a series of lakes and streams, added a few plantations, wood-chipping pathways and a naff cafeteria with columns by the entrance. It’s all very dull, but it is green, I suppose. Max and I were more interested in the workings they’d left up on the hill beyond the park. We’d get ice creams at the caf, then climb up to the quarry edge and chuck stones into the water.
At the entrance to New Park, a couple of grumpy workmen were busy erecting a stall. There was a sign up on the railings:
NEW PARK FÊTE
This Saturday and Sunday.
Games, Stalls, Tombola
Win a Panda!
I assumed the panda in question was a toy one, but you never knew. Whatever, the idea of a fête made me feel sick. It reminded me of the Great Fair in the forest, which Max might already have found, and of the Dance, which he might already have joined. And here I was, grubbing about in a cheesy park with nothing to do except wait until dark, and feeling like death but unable to sleep . . .
Town parks always depress me. I cycled off home.
Evening came eventually. I had tea with Mum and James and they talked a lot. Mum was off on a secretarial course in the morning. She probably felt guilty that she’d be away for the day because she suggested a cinema trip after tea. I refused; I was tired. James backed me up on that one. I wished I could have talked a bit more to him about what was happening because I was really scared about what the night would bring. What if nothing happened? What if Max didn’t come? I couldn’t make my brain work to think it all through.
The trickiest bit came now. I went to my room early and put off the light. I wanted to lead by example, encourage them to get to bed. It worked well enough. James soon turned in and Mum followed around ten to watch the TV in her room. I waited in the darkness, fully clothed under the duvet. I’d give them an hour, then get going.
It was a dangerous time. Sleepiness swamped my bones, pulling me down against the mattress, spinning my mind in lazy circles. I felt a terrible temptation to forget the plan, to let go and drift away . . .
. . . into the mouths of wolves. I forced my eyes open, furiously drummed my fingers against the bed, beating out the seconds. Time passed. Mum’s light went off. My fingers went on drumming.
At last it was time. I got out of bed and reached for my rucksack which held my essential kit. I didn’t make yesterday’s mistake. Plenty of layers to keep out the November chill. Now, through my door and down the stairs, keeping a wary eye on James’s darkened room. Keys from the table, out the back, bike all ready, back gate open. Out and away, down the alley in record time. Away to the yard.
It was another cold one,
with a nearly full moon peering out from behind a few livid clouds. There were still a few cars on the roads so I rode on the pavements without bothering to switch my lights on. The street by Bullock’s Yard was empty as usual, the hulking columns of dead cars standing out starkly against the moon. I rode right round to the corner nearest the railway. What time? Twelve. Maybe one more train coming, otherwise I would be left alone.
At the fence I drew the wire cutters out of my pack. I put the oven gloves on and felt up and down the wire loops till I found the edge of the barbed wire. I didn’t use my torch. That was for emergencies: there was always the night-watchman to consider. Clumsily, I set about cutting. I couldn’t see exactly what I was doing but I tried to slice as many wires as I could around the edge of the old hole. The fragments of barbs played havoc with Mum’s gloves, but I didn’t care. The cutters were doing their job and the wire was falling away. Max would be proud of me.
In about five minutes I had disposed of the barbed wire and extended the hole a little into the bargain. The gloves and cutters went back in the pack and I took a last look round. No one was in sight. Then I was through the fence and into the yard.
When I stood up straight I had the immediate sense that Max was somewhere near. It was curious; I didn’t hear him this time, or see him, but his presence was very close. A slight breeze blew from behind me, setting the long grass rippling at my feet. The nearest stack of cars was a metre or so away. It was almost entirely in shadow, but the crushed and gaping side windows of each car made the stack seem like a pile of giant skulls. There was a gap, the width of a man, between this and the next heap. I edged toward it, trying to recall exactly what Max and I had done when we had come here over a year ago. We had been trying to get to the car-crusher at the other end, daring each other alternately to pass each stack. In the end we hadn’t made it: the watchman had been prowling and we’d sped silently back to the hole.
The Leap Page 11
