The Runaway

by Claire Wong

  When evening falls, I get ready. I leave behind my coat, even though the sky is overcast. It rustles too much when I move, and might give me away. I empty everything out of my bag, to make room for what I need to bring back. Then I carry out one last check of my fence before slipping out. I make sure the lighter is in my pocket – I will need some light on the way back. If the clouds do not clear to give some moonlight, it will be pitch black in the forest later.

  When I get to the edge of the woods, I sit looking down towards the village for a while. It’s hard to be sure of the time, but I can see lights in windows shutting off as people leave their houses to go to the festival. When most of the village is dark, except for the street lamps on Church Road, I venture down the hill towards the river.

  Maebh once told me that fear was invented to keep us safe and out of danger, but that sometimes it gets too comfortable. She said it likes to set up home and start rearranging the furniture where it doesn’t belong. I think of that now, as my heart pounds with every step I take towards Llandymna. This is my mind telling me that I won’t be safe if I go into the village, but this is also one of those times to overrule that fear and remind myself of what I need to do. I avoid the roads, just in case anyone is driving out tonight, and walk through the fields instead, following the line of the hedgerow down the valley.

  Once over the river, I skirt around the edge of the village, steering clear of the busy spots like the pub, until I am near the road where I used to live. There is a little path that runs along the foot of the gardens, and I use this to get to Diana’s house. I know she will have been out for most of the day, but her neighbours might be at home. I find the space in the hedge where I used to build houses for pixies out of twigs and moss, and crawl through.

  The flowerpots by the back door are arranged exactly as they’ve always been. I lift up the geranium, and there is the spare key. This is going to be easy. I unlock the door that leads into the kitchen and step inside. I don’t dare turn on any lights, in case one of the neighbours is still home to see and mention it to Diana. She mustn’t know I was ever here. In the dark, I reach down to undo my laces and leave my boots on the doormat. I used to hate having to do this when Diana insisted on it to keep her floors clean, but now it’s a matter of secrecy.

  Even though the house is empty, I still tiptoe up the stairs, avoiding the steps that I know will creak under my weight. At the top of the second flight is the attic room that was mine. I open the door.

  It feels like stepping back in time to see all the parts of my old life laid out here. Everything is as I left it, except for where Diana has tidied up some clothes I left on the floor. And my laptop is missing. Maybe the police took it: I know they do that sort of thing on detective shows. I feel angry at the thought of them having access to all the songs and photographs I have saved on there, but at least nothing will lead them to me. That is one of the advantages of not having planned my disappearance: I had no opportunity to leave a trail of clues as to my intentions.

  The bed looks so comfortable that for a moment I consider just lying down on it. But I know that if I do, it will be too easy to decide to stay here, to come back home. Aunty Di could get back from her evening out to find me back here, and we could just return to normal life, the way it was. But I don’t want that life back, and I don’t think it would really be that easy to pick up where we left off. Instead, I go to the wardrobe and chest of drawers, and pull out a few things: a jumper, a pair of trousers, and some fresh socks and underwear. I also grab the blanket from my bed and stuff it into my bag. Next I open up the drawers where I kept my toiletries and pick out some essentials. I have missed feeling clean!

  On the windowsill is an array of ornaments – beautiful things I had collected from the craft stalls at farmers’ markets and school trips – model ships and boxes with Celtic designs on them. I am surprised to remember how many useless things I used to own, but at the end of the sill is a small silver lantern with a candle inside it. That would be worth having, if I can fit it in my bag. I push the clothes further down to squeeze everything in. It is harder to leave this room than I expected, but I close the door behind me and go back downstairs to the kitchen.

  There is so much food here. It takes most of my self-control not to consume everything in the fridge and cupboards. But I need to make sure no one notices I was here. And Diana will spend far more time in this room than the attic. So I can only take things that will not be missed. Reluctantly, I leave the fresh loaf in the bread bin and the cake in its tin, and instead fill a freezer bag with rice from the huge jar, and another with porridge oats, then take a couple of tins of soup from the back of the cupboard – tomato flavour, Diana’s least favourite, so she will not notice they are gone. I then remember the picnic things under the stairs, so I go and pull out a plastic mug and plate that will not be required now until next summer.

  I’d like to take a thousand other things: a wooden spoon, a pillow, a hammer and some nails, the bar of cooking chocolate I used to sneak squares from before tea time, the whole chicken sitting in the fridge waiting to be roasted, and some shoes that aren’t covered in mud. But that would draw too much attention. Before I leave, I run to the hall and pick up one last item: a book from the shelves by the door. It belonged to Uncle Ed and is called A Guide to Foraging in Britain. Now my bag is heavy on my back as I lock the door behind me and slip the key back under the flowerpot.

  To be extra safe, I leave the village a different way, taking the road that goes past Ifan and Nia’s farm. They will be away this evening, celebrating the harvest. But some of their crops will still be on the trees or in the ground, not gathered in. The harvest festival is a tradition these days, not tied to the actual bringing in of the corn. Surely they wouldn’t miss some of their vegetables? I suppose it is stealing really, to help myself to their food, but if I only take a little bit, that can’t be so bad. I know they struggle to sell the misshapen ones anyway, so perhaps if I take those, then I am not depriving them of any income.

  I climb over the gate, because I don’t want to risk letting the dogs escape. Megan immediately comes yapping towards me, but I quieten her quickly when she recognizes a familiar person.

  “Shh girl, it’s just me.”

  She thinks I am going to play with her, and follows me across the yard. I let myself into the vegetable garden at the back. It is hard to see what is what here, but I can make out some tall leafy bean plants with fat pods hanging off them. I decide to take from the end furthest from the farmhouse. I don’t know why. Maybe it feels as if they will be less likely to miss the food further away. I leave the greenhouse alone, because I know that whatever is in there will have taken more work to grow, even though I am aware of the hypocrisy of drawing ethical lines across my theft. I take some beans and two cabbages from the end of their rows.

  “Sorry, Nia,” I whisper as I climb over the fence with my plunder. I never liked Ifan enough to feel I need to apologize to him now.

  Once over the bridge, I scramble back up the hill. Under the cover of the trees, it’s as dark as I expected, so I take the lighter from my pocket and the lantern from my bag. The candle gives a flickering light that casts just far enough to see where I am putting my feet and keep me from walking into a tree trunk, but it also throws shadows that dance eerily around me, so I walk as fast as possible back to my house. When I get there, I set the lantern down in the doorway and unpack my new treasures. I use the candle to start my cooking fire and then wrap myself up in the blanket as I sit and prepare a feast from what I have gathered today. Tonight, I won’t go to sleep hungry.

  *

  I wake with the birds again. I heat up some water to wash with, and unwrap the bar of lavender soap I took from my old bedroom. I even wash my hair, scrubbing it until I can feel that the grease is gone, then rinsing it out over the stream. I change into the fresh clothes, then set about washing my old ones. I hang them over a holly bush to dry out. />
  The exhilaration of making it into and out of the village unseen has not dissipated yet, and the feeling of being fed and clean adds to the effect. I take Uncle Ed’s book and go for a walk, to find a good reading spot. The ground is still too dewy to sit down though, so I decide to be a bit more adventurous. I find a tree with some low branches, and clamber up onto one of them. This must be the view that Lleu gets as he flies through the woods, scanning the leaf-strewn ground for his prey. I sit with my back against the trunk and my legs dangling in the air, and I open the book. I know at once it is going to be a lifesaver. On every page are photographs of native plants, annotated with information on where to find them and how to eat them. A few carry warning symbols if part of them is poisonous. There are so many things in here I would never have recognized. I will have things to eat other than berries and apples for a change!

  I come to a page that features a picture of plantain, and realize that I recognize it. There is a clump of it growing right next to my house! The page tells me how the leaves are edible but fairly disgusting to taste, and that they are traditionally used as an anti-inflammatory or for healing cuts to the skin. There is even a section on mushrooms, but I am not sure I am brave enough to risk those. I know it’s easy to pick the wrong thing and poison yourself by accident.

  I am so enjoying this feeling of sitting with a book on a sunny autumn morning that I forget to be alert for sounds around me, until the approaching voices are coming from just around the bend in the path. There is no time to run, so I clamber up to the higher branches, above the leaf cover. Moments later, three people appear on the path. I pull my knees up under my chin and try to keep as still as possible. Through a gap in the leaves, I can just about see them. One is wearing a police officer’s uniform. It’s Tom Davies, and with him are those two strangers I met in the woods a couple of days ago.

  “It was around here somewhere, I think,” says the man, “but to be honest, it was the first time we’d been here, so it’s hard to say.”

  “A little further that way,” says the woman. I think her name was Grace. I remember thinking it was a beautiful name. They take a few steps forward and stop right under the tree where I am sitting. I hold in my breath.

  “Thank you,” says Tom. “And can you remember anything else from the meeting? Anything distinctive? Any recollection of which way she went when you parted ways?”

  “I don’t know which way she went,” says the man, “but she had this pet… woodpecker… thing.”

  I stifle a laugh.

  “It was a sparrowhawk,” Grace corrects him, “and she didn’t say much.”

  “She gave us directions back to the road though.”

  “Wait,” says Tom, “you’re telling me she has a tame hawk now?”

  “Yes,” says Grace. “She’d given it a name, too. Something from Welsh legend.”

  “Just when I think I can’t be surprised any more,” Tom mutters, and starts scribbling in his little notebook. “I was afraid she’d be here. Do you know how hard it is to find someone in a place like Dyrys? Even our thermal imaging equipment doesn’t work if there’s a leaf canopy in the way! We’ll have to make some more searches on foot. One more question. Can you tell me why you were in the woods that day?”

  He is still writing, so I think he misses the glance the brother and sister exchange, but I see it from my vantage point.

  “This is where I will be conducting much of my research,” says Grace. “I was keen to see the area where I’ll be working.”

  That does not seem like the sort of information that warrants the look between them. I wonder if they are lying to Tom and, if so, why. What are they up to?

  “OK, thank you very much,” says Tom, as he starts to lead the way back down the path out of the woods. “You’ve identified that it’s Rhiannon and been able to confirm the clothes we believed she was wearing when she disappeared, so I think that’s all I need from you now. Except to ask – and this isn’t so much for the investigation as for her friends and family – how did she seem to you?”

  Tom’s question jolts me with surprise. He sounds as if he is actually concerned for me. I know this was what I wanted, in leaving, but I find that I don’t feel the triumph I had expected. They are walking away, so I cannot make out the answer even though I lean forward on my perch and strain to hear it.

  I have always liked Tom. I know some people think he’s boring and quiet, and he never spoke to me much because he’s a few years older, but he also never tried to show off.

  I wish those two had not told Tom they saw me. But I suppose I’m not so surprised. Now he will have to call his colleagues out and spend more hours searching the woods. And they will just waste their time and get tired, because I already know how to stay hidden.

  I wonder who this brother and sister are, though. Maybe I will make up a story about them this afternoon, to while away the hours. Will they be heroes or villains? I haven’t yet decided. But they are more interesting than any of the people of Llandymna, I am sure.

  I go to my house, where I change the bandage I have had to put on my arm. It is just a strip of cloth torn from the sleeve of one of my tops, to stop the bleeding where Lleu’s claws have scratched my skin. I like the grandeur of having a bird of prey perch on my arm, as if I am a falconer, and it is nice to have some company in the woods, but there is definitely a cost to it. Also, I suspect he will soon realize that I have no intention of fetching him food again, and will leave completely. And how could I, of all people, blame him for that?

  Chapter five

  Llandymna

  Maebh sits in the front room of her house, dreaming. No one has been to visit her today, and in the quiet of a morning spent between a few small rooms, her mind has reached back into old memories. She is thinking of Emrys: that boy who would spend hours watching the wind. Some days on the walk home from school she would spot him, hiding in one of the farm fields to be free of the taunts of the other children. And there had been times when Maebh was one of them, and then Emrys would hide from her too. She hates those particular memories. His face, his eyes so determined not to show any fear, his rare smile: these images have faded with time, but remain in her thoughts. It had taken her so long to see the injustice of how he was treated, and only then had she seen that there was something wonderful about the boy who looked so weak on the outside, as if all the strength he was owed had been exchanged for kindness and gentleness.

  Before the accusations, before he became withdrawn and despondent, there had been a quiet, calm light that shone out of him. Maebh was always surprised when others could not see it. She thinks she has seen something like it in his children. Grace has the gentleness, the calm that can be mistaken for indifference. Adam, on the other hand, has the open, unthreatening demeanour. Talking with them yesterday, she felt almost as much at ease as she did all those years ago. Maebh stops herself abruptly. What right has she to decide what they are like? She clears away the attempts to pin down their characters. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks away, and Maebh finds the sound irks her more than usual.

  Rhiannon

  The police have been back here again. I knew they would come, after those two strangers brought Tom into the woods. They formed a line, like an infantry squadron readying for battle, and then beat their way through the undergrowth around the place Tom was shown. It scared away every bird and squirrel in the area, so how they thought they would catch me like that, I don’t know.

  All the same, it felt strange to see. It reminded me of news reports where the police search for a body rather than a missing person. I found myself wondering if they’ve ever considered that I might be dead. I am almost glad those two visitors saw me, so at least there will not be some kind of murder investigation. I wonder who they would suspect in that case. Would Diana be accused of breaking under the strain of bereavement and taking it out on her troubled ward?

  I watched th
e searchers from a safe distance until Lleu started circling, and then I became afraid he would give me away, so I withdrew inside my camouflage fence. I didn’t dare light a fire until they had gone, so I am eating late now. I have some rice boiling away slowly on the fire. Then it will be time to work again.

  After eating, I take my bag and my knife and go out. I have been watching the hazel trees for a few days now, as the nuts grow pale and fat in their green wrappings. Today I intend to find out if they are ripe or not. I go to the trees and sit down among them, and wait. I listen for the right sound. Sparrows chirp amicably to one another, a blackbird trills, and a jay shouts as it flies low through the woods in a flash of pink feathers. Then I hear the chatter I am listening for, and look up to see branches bend and spring back under the weight of a grey squirrel darting from branch to branch. It leaps into one of the nearby trees, and I watch as it takes a hazelnut, inspects it, and then bounds down the trunk to the ground, where it begins to bury its treasure among the leaf litter.

  “You’ll never find it again,” I tell the squirrel, who ignores me, “but thanks for checking them for me.”

  Now I know the hazelnuts are ripe enough to eat. The squirrel would not bother trying to store something it couldn’t dig up for a much-needed meal on a cold winter’s day.

  I fill up my bag with as many hazelnuts as I can reach from the lower branches. Then I take a long stick from the ground and use it to shake the higher branches. The crop starts to rain down around me, and I gather them all off the ground. The squirrel retreats to a higher point in the tree, nervous of the competition for food. I test a few of them, and they are good. What’s more, they will last better than the fruit I have been gathering. I can store these for days when there is nothing on the trees or hedgerows to feed me.

  Something cracks, not far away. I drop to the ground. Have the police come back? I peer up over the slope where I lie, and see a lone figure through the trees. It is not a police officer. Of course, it couldn’t have been. They always come here in groups, and they never venture this deep into the woods. It is that woman from before – Grace. She is dressed in sensible clothes, with her hair tied up in an olive green scarf, and she carries a clipboard in the crook of one arm. She seems to be writing something on it.