February (8 page)

It didn’t look like the yards had been used in years. I scanned for security cameras. I couldn’t see any—there wasn’t really anything there to protect from thieves—but I kept my head down, anyway.

When I was sure the coast was clear I crawled out and began investigating the area more closely. Not far from my hiding place there was a deep drain: a cement canal that followed the sloping land. I jumped down into it and followed it until I came to the opening of a huge pipe culvert that must have directed the stormwater underground. It was like the opening of a railway tunnel only a third of the size. It was barred, but the bars had been bent, allowing me to squeeze through them quite easily.

Further in, the cement floor of the tunnel sloped away into darkness. This might be a good place to lay low for a while, I thought. I dug around in my backpack and pulled out my torch. The light revealed graffiti-covered walls. Some of the tags I recognised from around the city. There were two that dominated all the others:

It hadn’t rained in ages so I didn’t have to worry about the first warning. But the second one troubled me. It was one I’d seen a lot of in the last couple of weeks and I hoped there was ‘no psycho’ lurking down in the darkness with me. Me and the rats …

I walked on.

I could no longer see the light behind me from where I’d entered the tunnel, and was surrounded in darkness. I flashed my torch around to see that the graffiti and the tagging
had thinned out. Obviously not many people were keen to venture this far into the drain.

I came to an intersection where the stormwater drain had widened and split into a Y-shape, now with two drains leading off into more darkness. Just above head height, my torchlight revealed two deep recesses in the walls of the drain, one on each side, possibly for the maintenance workers to store stuff. I flashed the torch around to check out both of them, deciding that the one on the left looked drier. No-one could see me if I was up there and kept hard-up against the wall. I could camp up there. I’d hear people coming—their footsteps would echo loudly down to me—and I’d be able to get out well before they reached me by disappearing down one of the smaller channels.

I threw my backpack up first and carefully placed the torch up there to give me light. I got a good grip with my fingers and hauled myself up there. The rockclimbing I’d done with Dad in the past helped.

I spread myself out on my sleeping-bag, ripped open a packet of biscuits, and started thinking about the people from my blog who, for whatever reason, believed in me.

And I thought of that strange girl, Winter, and wondered again what game she was playing. I hoped Boges was wrong about her.

I woke up, sore and cramped.

I needed to do something. I couldn’t just keep moving from hole to hole. I was almost halfway through month number two. I was warned I needed to survive 365 days—how far in was I? My brain was too messy to work that simple subtraction out.

Bottom line was that this nightmare wasn’t going to resolve itself. If Winter wasn’t going to help me, the only place I could think of hunting down information was the house I’d escaped from after the first kidnapping.

I needed to know more about my enemies. I’d have to stop being the hunted and instead hunt
them
down.

Hurrying along the dark roads I searched for familiar street names, buildings, houses, anything that I recognised from my long run home after escaping from the first kidnapping. I was determined to find that house again and although I’d only seen a small part of the front
entrance, the tiles and the inside of the broom cupboard, I felt confident that if I saw it again, I’d know it.

But finding the right street—that was another matter altogether.

A couple of times I thought I’d seen something familiar but wasn’t sure. I was looking for a particular intersection that I remembered seeing not long after escaping from the broom cupboard. It had a small church on one corner, a twenty-four-hour carwash with a couple of pinball machines on another, and on the other side was the large fenced-off area of a school playground.

I felt like I was getting warmer.

I was thinking about having to face the long walk back to the drains without having made any progress, when I squinted, straining to see if the little building I was approaching was in fact the church I was looking for.

On the right was a carwash and a schoolyard, dark, empty and eerily lit by the street lights. I hurried closer.

I’d found the intersection!

I stood on the edge of the curb out the front of the church and tried to take myself back to that night—I’d been so filled with fear and adrenaline at the time it was a wonder I remembered anything.

I recalled the distinct sandstone curbing that I’d stumbled on as they’d dragged me, sack slipping from my head, out of the car, and so I began running down the road alongside the church, searching the driveways to find a match. I quickly passed the houses, giving each one a good look, until finally, through the front gates of a large place, I recognised the paving I’d stumbled on. I jumped back as a car made its way down the street and continued past me.