Num8ers (21 page)

“He went mad in his cell, started smashing everything up. Took eight of them to stop him, and he died in the middle of it all.”

“He died?”

“They don’t know if someone hit him or if he had a heart attack or whatever. All hell’s broken loose down at the station, anyway. Dad was one of the eight — he’s been suspended for the time being.”

Tattoo Face, not Spider. 12112010.

“Britney?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know when it happened? What time?”

“Just before midnight. Just before the end of Dad’s shift.”

It was like things were slotting back into place again. The ground had shifted beneath my feet for a while, rules bending, but now we were back on solid ground: sickening, nightmarish, but solid ground. The numbers were real. Spider was still alive, but he only had three days to go.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Need a hug?”

I didn’t answer, but she leaned forward anyway and put her arms ’round me. I stiffened, and she must have felt it, but she didn’t let me go.

“It’s alright,” she said. “Everything will be alright. Here, have some of that tea.” She handed it over — hot, sweet tea, best thing I’d tasted for a long time. I drained the cup and we both lay down, curled up at opposite ends of the bed, legs hooked into each other’s. The tea had soothed me; my mind was so full I couldn’t think anymore. I was completely exhausted now; I could feel waves of sleep starting to wash over me.

“Britney?” I said quietly into the darkness.

“Mm?”

“Thanks.”

“You’re alright.”

“I mean it.”

“Shuddup, and go to sleep.”

That made me smile; it was like listening to a reflection of myself. And I did go to sleep, an instant, dreamless sleep, away from the world for a few hours, away from the
tick, tick, tick
of the clock.

I reached for the alarm clock and held it in front of my face. Nearly half-six. It was still dark, but wouldn’t be for much longer. I shifted around in the bed, trying to figure out how I felt.

“Are you awake?” Britney’s voice whispered.

“Yeah.” Truth was, I felt pretty rough. I’d had a few hours good sleep, but I felt tired, a bit queasy.

“We’ll have to be really, really quiet.”

“OK.” We were both in our clothes, anyway, so we got up in the dark and padded downstairs.

“I’ll go in first, make sure we don’t startle Ray.”

Ray?

She opened the kitchen door, and I could hear her whispering to someone. So it was a setup after all. I should have known it was too good to be true. People will always let you down. I looked down the hallway. I could easily let myself out the front door.

“It’s OK, come on.” Britney was beckoning me into the kitchen.

I took another look at the front door, but something told me
to trust her. I walked toward the square of light coming from other end of the hall. She was bent over in the kitchen, holding the collar of an enormous dog, a great big hairy German shepherd. I don’t do animals. Never had a pet, obviously, don’t know anything about them. The way some people fuss over them and talk to them, it’s just odd, isn’t it? They don’t see them for what they are: something other, different, not human.

“Close the door behind you,” Britney hissed. “This is Ray, he’s Dad’s work dog.”

Christ! I was shut in a room now, ten by eight, with a bloody police dog.

“He was looking for you yesterday, too, weren’t you, Rayray? You’ve found her now, haven’t you? Clever boy! Say hello to him,” she said to me, “he’ll be fine.”

“Hello,” I said, trying not to look him in the eye or wind him up in any way.

Britney stifled a giggle. “No, not like that, pet him, on his shoulder, not his head. Go on, he’ll know you’re a friend.”

“Is he going to bite me?”

She smiled and shook her head.

I edged toward him, waiting for him to lunge forward and grab my arm in his massive jaws. Slowly, slowly, I leaned forward and put my hand on the fur at the bottom of his neck and rested it there. I could feel his solid body underneath, warm and full of life, and the fur itself, it was fantastic: clean and
soft. It felt like I was touching a lion. I moved my hand gently. “Hello, Ray. You’re a nice dog.” My words were as wooden as my movements. He sniffed at my leg and then quickly, almost violently, rubbed his huge, hard muzzle up and down my jeans, almost knocking me over.

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing. He likes you. He’s putting his scent on you. Just let him.” I wasn’t going to argue, and so I stood there and let him mark me as one of his own. Not so bright after all, dogs. He hadn’t got a clue he was cozying up to the enemy.

Britney was busy in the corner with her back to me. When she turned ’round, she proudly held up a backpack, black with all sorts of stuff sewn onto it, and badges.

“I’ve put some things in. Your clothes and a bit of food, some water. I’ve got a blanket here, too, but it won’t fit inside. I’ll tie it on with some string.” She fished in a drawer, found a ball of twine, and started wrapping it ’round the rolled-up blanket. I didn’t know what to say.

“Is that your bag?”

“My schoolbag.”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll just get another one, say the strap broke. No biggie.”

From upstairs, there was the sound of the bathroom door opening. We looked at each other. I wanted to bolt, there and then. Britney held her hand up to stop me. After the bog flushed, a man’s voice rang out from the landing.

“Who’s that down there? Britney, is that you?” My heart
was up in my mouth again. Britney opened the kitchen door and shouted up.

“It’s OK, Dad. It’s me. The dog was whining. I’m going to take him out.”

“OK. Thanks, love.”

She came back in, finished tying the blanket onto the bag, then clipped the dog onto its leash and made for the back door, beckoning me to follow her. I closed it carefully behind us, shocked to feel the cool air on my face again. I’d felt out of place indoors, stifled, but now that I was heading back to an outdoor life, the uncomfortable reality of it came back to me.

Britney led me along the back alleys. She was holding the dog, and I had the backpack on. We walked in silence. The paths were so narrow it was single file, anyway: dog, Britney, and me. After a few minutes of twists and turns, we came to a stile between two fences. Britney unclipped Ray, and he jumped over, like it was nothing. We both clambered over after him. Off his leash, in the open field, he was more unpredictable. I kept expecting him to come to his senses and go for me like he was trained to do.

“Is he alright, like that?”

“What?”

“Just running about.”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’ll come back when I call.”

“I mean, is it safe?”

She got what I meant this time. “’Course. You’re his friend now, he won’t go after you. He’ll have a look for some rabbits in
a bit, once he’s taken a crap. The path goes over to that corner.”

I’d expected Britney to turn back once we’d got to the fields, but she walked with me a little way, the dog falling behind and then bounding up to us. We didn’t say much — we’d pretty much said it all last night — but it was fine, walking along together.

“Where are you heading?” she asked after a while.

“I can’t really tell you. It’s better if I don’t. Not that I don’t trust you.”

“No, it’s alright. I understand.”

“It’s a place we talked about, Spider and me. Even though he’s locked up at the moment, I’m going to keep heading there. I’m going to do it on my own, and I think, I believe, he’ll meet me there. Somehow, he’ll make it.”

“I hope he does, Jem. I’ll be rooting for you.” We walked a little way farther, then she said, “That’s the canal there. If you go over that stile, there’s a bridge on the other side. Cross over, and then follow the path left and you’ll be on the towpath. It’ll go all the way to Bath. ‘Bout twelve miles. I’d better take Ray back — they’ll all be getting up soon.”

So this was it, the place where we were going to say good-bye.

“Thanks,” I said, and I really meant it.

“No problem.” She turned her head away, looking toward the canal. “Good luck, Jem. I’ll always remember you. It’s been well cool.”

I kind of wanted to reach out to her, but I didn’t know how
to do it without it being embarrassing. I think she felt the same, and we both stood with our hands by our sides looking at the ground, until it just felt silly and pointless. Then I nodded to her, tried to catch her eye.

“Better get going,” I said. “I’ll remember you, too, Britney.” And I walked down the path and over to the stile.

As I climbed over, I looked back. She hadn’t moved, was just watching me go. I waved, and she waved back, and it felt good, having someone saying good-bye properly, not just leaving without anyone knowing. She kept her hand up for a second, then called her dog and turned away. I jumped down from the stile and, hitching up the bag on my back, walked over the bridge.

The towpath made everything simpler. There was one way to the next place and I didn’t need to make any decisions or choices, just keep walking. With Spider busted, I knew now that it was a question of when, and not if, I’d be picked up, too. To be honest, I felt pretty calm about it all. The worst had happened already — losing Spider, being left sleeping outside in the middle of nowhere, being left without money. And I’d survived the first twelve hours. Well, I’d done better than survive: I’d made a friend. How cool was that?

I walked all day, past handfuls of boats, little knots of houses. There were joggers pounding along the flat path, and people on bikes. I just ignored them, head down, putting one foot in front of the other, no eye contact.

Funny, it was probably the first day I’d walked the whole time, not hiding out and resting. I guess all the emotion and not eating much was catching up with me and I was in pretty poor shape, but I kept going. I was like a zombie, too tired and numb to think much anymore, just following the track, on and on. It was so much easier walking with a backpack. Jesus,
Spider and I had made things difficult for ourselves — grabbing whatever we could get our hands on, cramming it into plastic bags. What a pair of retards. My eyes started stinging just thinking about him. Where was he? What were they doing to him now? The only way I could cope was to keep going, one foot in front of the other, on and on, heading west.

I could tell I was getting near to the city when the towpath started getting busy: There were family groups; kids on bikes or scampering along with their dogs; older couples arm in arm, enjoying a Saturday afternoon stroll in the winter sunshine. Eyes down, I still picked up on their wariness, the mothers shepherding the kids away.

One little tot blundered into my legs and stood staring up at me. I almost felt my hair stand on end. This little thing looked right into my face, with big, brown, trusting eyes and two trails of snot coming out of his nose. 04032053. He was going to die in his forties, this kid with no idea what death was yet.

I sidestepped, my legs shrugging off his sticky grasp, and pressed on, while behind me his parents scolded him gently in a “don’t you just love him?” kind of way. Two minutes down the path, I fancied I could still feel the damp warmth of his hands through my jeans.

I was feeling edgy again now. People, gathered together, were dangerous. The odd one or two you could deal with, but crowds were something else. I tried to pick up the pace, but I
didn’t have it in me. All day I’d felt the need to keep going, to get there, wherever there was. Now I was worn out and getting scared again. The sun was starting to drop behind the hills.

The landscape around me was changing as the light began to go. Pale buildings clung to the hillsides to left and right. Streetlights were popping on, giving the stone an orange glow, picking out the shape of the city’s fingers reaching out into the fields. Soon there were buildings closing in on both sides. I was almost in Bath. Today, I wanted the light to stay. I didn’t want to be alone in the dark.

I never used to be frightened of anything — figuring that life had already thrown about the worst it had at me by the time I was six — but the last few months had shaken all that up, the last few days, especially. All I wanted now was to find somewhere safe to bed down for the night, to curl up and sleep. I wanted to switch off, blank out the world for a while. A deep chill swept through me. Is that what my mum was doing when she was shooting up? Escaping for a few hours? Was it all too much for her? Looking after a kid on her own? Living in a grotty flat? Let down time after time? I’d never understood it before. Why she’d do that. But I was beginning to see how attractive a bit of oblivion could be — it was just that I didn’t want to find it the way she had….

There was something strange about this place. Where I come from, canals are dirty places, running along the backs
of warehouses and factories. This was different. It was edged with white-painted metal gates and fancy bridges, with carvings in the stone.

Soon the path left the canal and led to a road. I was actually on a hill — weird when you’ve been walking on level ground all day. The road went up and down to the left and right of me, while the canal carried on flat, underneath it, on the other side. I crossed over and peered over the stone bridge. Couldn’t see a great deal now, but could make out the shapes of boats tied up. Not sure there’d be anywhere to kip down along there. I’d be better off if I could find a park, or the bottom of someone’s backyard. I set off up the road and then turned right into a quieter one. It was like something off the TV, a movie set, with a cobbled pavement and tall houses.

It was the time of day when people had their lights on but hadn’t yet drawn their curtains. Every second or third front window was like a little TV screen, bright in the gathering gloom, drawing your eye in. People on their computers or watching the telly, some sitting reading.

Made me feel lonely, seeing a snapshot of other people’s lives. They were warm, secure; there were cooking smells wafting out, soon be dinnertime; they had people, they belonged. I made myself move on — no good thinking what other people had. I needed to find somewhere to sleep.