H2O (18 page)

See, now maybe you've been thinking what a nice person I am and how I must really love animals and everything. (Well, apart from the terrier.) You know what I had forgotten? The stupid guinea pigs.

I didn't even know whether they'd still be alive. I unlocked the front door and charged through the house and out the back door into the garden. I think guinea pigs come from Peru, and I guess life must get pretty tough there, because, although there wasn't a scrap of food or water left, Gimli and Prince Charming (don't ask; that's a whole other story) were very much alive and squealed their little heads off for food. I opened the cage and—

I stopped. It wasn't because I realized it would take too long to find a box or something; it was because the dogs were going crazy—the girls' muffled yapping; Whitby booming; the terrier, out on the street, going nuts. Either the ghost of Clarence had arisen and was scaring them to death, or another dog had rocked up and a fight had broken out, or—I ran back into the house, I yanked open the front door—

Or something had upset them.

Not something. Someone. Not anyone, either.

He was standing a couple steps away from me. The rich man, gray-haired. The terrier barged past him into the house, and it was that—that two seconds of the dog barging through—that gave the rich man enough time to lurch forward and stick his foot in the door before I could slam it shut. I shoved against that door with all my might. The terrier started up again, barking like a lunatic right behind me.
Behind
me
, like he was backing me up, like I could actually do something.

“I only want to talk to you,” he said. “I only want to talk to you.”

That voice: primped and prim and proper, like his house.

His fingers wrapped round the door. What I could feel… It was like…you know when you're a kid and you arm wrestle a grown-up? How they let you think you stand a chance, but really they could beat you instantly? That's what it felt like. I was pushing as hard as I could, but I knew any second he wanted, he could shove back, and it'd be game over. So I did a Whitby. I sank my teeth into fingers. I bit him as hard as I could. He yelled and pulled his hand free—but his foot stayed in the door.

“I won't hurt you,” he said.

I spat his filthy taste from my mouth.

DO
SOMETHING!
yelled my Halloween Bad Dolly Saskia self.

The crowbar was in the car.

THINK!
yelled my Simon-ish me.

I had no instructions to follow. I looked for something, anything… The den door was ajar. I saw my pee bucket.

I let go of the door, dived into the den, and grabbed it.

He did not come in after me. He pushed the door wide open with his fingertip and stood back, nursing his hand. I stood there, in the hall, with my pee bucket.

The terrier quieted—but maybe not because the door fight was over, maybe because the humans were out-crazying it.

“Get-away-from-me,” I said.

My voice so choked with rage and fear and hate it sounded like another person's—a dangerous psycho person's. I held up the bucket, like I was ready to soak him. I held it really tight to stop my hands from shaking. I gave it a little swish about, menacing.

He backed up immediately. He slipped out through the gate. He held on to it.

“I won't hurt you!” he said. “Please—”

“You killed him,” I said.

“It was an accident—”

“It was a trap!”

“I was frightened—”

“We were thirsty. WE-WERE-JUST-THIRSTY.”

“I know that. I understand that—”

“You murdered him.”

I came at him then—more with rage than bravery. I strode down the path, and he turned and ran.

“Stay away from me!” I screamed after him. “Stay away from my house!
MURDERER!
”

I couldn't stop shaking. I kept thinking he would come back. I kept the pee bucket with me as I locked up the house. I kept the pee bucket with me as I went back to the car. The crazy terrier followed me. I couldn't leave him now, not when he'd stood behind
me
, barking at
him
. I opened the back passenger door. The terrier hopped in, saw Whitby, and growled. Whitby growled back.

“BE QUIET!” I yelled at them.

I opened the driver's door, scooped Darling up with one hand, got in. I put the pee bucket down, jammed it in next to Fluffysnuggles, put Darling on my lap, and shut the door. I put my seat belt on.

The keys were gone.

Not knocked onto the floor gone. Not “ooh silly me, I forgot I put them in my pocket” gone. Gone gone.

I looked around. He was standing in the road, a distance back, holding up the keys.

“I JUST WANT TO TALK TO YOU,” he shouted. “I PROMISE I WON'T HURT YOU.”

I undid my seat belt. I scooped Darling up, kissed her, and swapped her for the pee bucket. I got out of the car. I didn't shut the driver's door. I stood right by it.

“I didn't know it was you and your dad,” he shouted. He came toward me slowly, very slowly. “I was scared,” he shouted.

I said nothing. Not even, “He's not my dad.”

“Look, I'm really not going to hurt you,” he said, moving closer, his stupid hands, his stupid evil murderer's hands, outstretched as if to prove it—my keys in one of them. MY KEYS.

“And I know you're not going to hurt me… I know you're kind… You fed the cat…”

He'd reached the back of the car now; he put one of his hands on it, as if to steady himself.

“I can see you really like animals,” he said.

One step closer…

He took that step; his hand swept along the side of the car, the terrier jumped up barking like a lunatic, the man jumped back, and I chucked the pee into his prim and proper face.

I guess poop and pee and bleach sting when they get in your eyes. I bet they sting even more when you think they might be going to kill you. He yelled worse than when I'd bitten him. He dropped the keys; his hands went to his face. I snatched up the keys. The dogs—all of them—were going crazy. I scooped up Darling from where she'd crept back into the driver's seat, and I chucked her into the back of the car. I slammed the door, stuck the keys into the ignition, and kangarooed out of there.

Step Three really did last a long time. It was the slowest, crappiest escape in history. When they make the blockbuster movie, I want that changed. I want me to be in some kind of flashy sports car—red—no, white. No. Black. And my hair should be the blonde I wanted it to be, not a ghostly haystack, and definitely not Halloween horror. It should be an convertible sports car, my tiara glinting triumphantly in the sun, my skin zit free, kissing-rash free, and gorgeously sun-kissed (not ORANGE) (and definitely not plastic-coated). Darling would have to be with me, wearing a spiky, punk, leather-and-studs collar. My dog: small but super-mean.

Whitby could be there too, I suppose, but only if he's been washed and blow-dried, and has had a serious doggy oral beauty treatment. No scraps of dead people are to be stuck in his teeth. Mimi, the terrier, the guy I left howling in the road—they should just disappear. They're gone, not in this scene at all. For reasons I don't care to discuss right now, it'd be a lot better if Fluffysnuggles wasn't there either.

I still have nightmares about Step Three. In them, I am Halloween Bad Dolly. I drive a tank. I kill people. I am alone.

The car stalled about a hundred times just getting to the end of our road. If that man had come after us, he could have walked, slowly, and still caught up.

The dogs—all of them—crouched down and shut up as we lurched our way to freedom. Even Fluffysnuggles was probably crouching in terror inside his carton.

I stopped at the four-way stop, like you're supposed to, and we stalled again and rolled backward down the hill. I braked and restarted and kangarooed straight out onto the main road—onto the wrong side of the road. That was deliberate; there was more space on the wrong side of the road. I managed the next half mile without stalling or kangarooing. I even managed to get into third gear and only clipped a couple cars, just a little… But I tell you: I did not like it ONE BIT.

No wonder people get angry driving! Even if they've been doing it for years and years, so they've stopped bumping into things and stuff and don't have to actually THINK REALLY HARD about how you do it, it's basically the most stressful thing EVER. Seriously, when I got to Ashton Road, I pretty much thought I'd be better off on a bike and, at this rate, it'd probably be quicker.

I braked at the junction, and I stalled. That was OK, in fact, because otherwise I'd have turned right, which would have led me straight into the giant car graveyard of town. Instead, I had a moment to think, so I went left. OK, I kangarooed left. On the right side of the road this time, the side coming into town was lined with abandoned cars. I was just building up to second gear when the crazy terrier decided he'd been quiet for long enough and launched himself at Whitby.

There was a massive boy dogfight right in my car, with me, Darling, and Mimi screaming and shouting like most girls do when there's a fight. (Unless they're in it.)

I told myself that's why I had to pull into the school. I flung open the door and the terrier leaped out—sneaky Mimi scrambled out too—and they both went skittering off while I hammered on the horn.

Call it a charitable act. Know that I was scared.

So, yeah, I hammered on the horn.

• • •

Ever heard of a backseat driver? No? It's someone who sits in the back of the car and tells the driver what they should be doing, basically a know-it-all who should get out and walk. I felt like I was in shock from the whole three-step escape thing, and really I just wanted to be quiet for a while, but after ten minutes in the car with the Spratt, I was starting to lose it.

How they even came to be in the car was like this:

“Oh, all right. Hey,” I said casually as the black plastic creatures emerged from the staff room. (Can you imagine that? He hadn't just gone to the
school
; he'd gone to the
staff
room
.)

I bet that kid hadn't been out of her plastic wrapper all night, and Darius had re-bound himself. Did I mention that none of my steps had included putting on any kind of waterproof clothing? Um…no. I was just wearing what you would wear, jeans and stuff.

“Are you
crazy?!
It's going to rain any second! What are you
doing?!
” blathered the Spratt. “GET BACK IN THE CAR!”

Did I mention that I hadn't even looked at the sky? Um…no. I had vaguely registered that it looked OK and stuff, but somehow, in the meantime, it had gotten to be not OK. An army of little blobby clouds was advancing across the sky, rank after rank of them, lined up, marching. Altocumulus stratiformus, legions of them. The ones directly above our heads didn't look that scary to me (though, actually, altocumulus stratiformus is perfectly capable of sprinkling a little rain on you, just for kicks), but they must have been marching too slowly for the rest of the army because, behind them, the ranks were blundering into each other, massing for a full-scale invasion. I whipped Darling off my seat and got back in the car, plunking her in my lap. Darius and the kid got in too, squishing plastickly into the back, next to Henry's seat.

“What ARE you doing?” said Darius, ripping away the plastic from his face so he could better nag me.

Whoa. Me, Darling, and Whitby turned around to get a good look at the newcomers. Whitby, the big dope, seemed none the worse for his car fight and lurched toward them to say hello; the kid—and gutless Darius!—flattened themselves against the seats like Whitby was some sort of savage beast.

I grabbed Whitby's collar. “Stay!” I commanded (like I had some sort of control over him).

Yeah, and what are YOU doing?
I thought.
Hiding
in
the
staff room
until
teacher
comes
and
tell
you
what
to
do?

“I'm going to London,” I said.

Annoyingly, Spratt didn't fall to his knees and beg to come with me—which would have been hard, sitting in the backseat of a car with Whitby within savaging distance, but you know what I mean.

“What for?” he said.

“My dad lives there,” I said. It sort of hurt a little to say it out loud. I got hold of some random sob that wanted to come out, and I stuffed it back down.

He thought about that for a moment.

“Hn,” he said. There was another tedious pause before, “I don't think going to London's a very good idea,” he added.

Whoa No. 2. Now I was not asking whether he thought my plan was a good plan or not, but if there's one thing I've learned (the hard way) from going on “social media” and that, it's that you sometimes have to just hang on for one second before you blast off some kind of devastating response to rudeness and brazenness from someone you don't really know all that well—particularly if you want something from them, like an invitation to a party or something. So I buttoned it—though obviously mentally toying with various devastating responses, blending them with colorful choices from the tempting palette of swear words I like to have available at all times.

“But I suppose we might as well come with you for a while, then,” said Darius after another age.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” I said.
You
can't leave
me
.

“Just until we decide what to do,” said Darius.

“Yeah,” I said, “'course.”

Until they decided what to do?
They?
Did that GBK ever even actually speak?

And how they nearly came to NOT be in the car ten minutes later was like this:

“Maybe you're letting the clutch out too quick,” said Darius when we stalled for the second time on the Ashton Road roundabout.

It was about the five hundredth helpful tip he'd given me in the last mile—after he'd whined about there not being enough room in the back and couldn't he just take out the baby seat—
Henry's
seat—and I'd said no. No way, no. And don't lean on it like that either.

“You need to change up a gear. Put it in second!”

“Do you want me to drop you somewhere?” I snapped. “Like here?”

“I'm just trying to help,” said Darius.

“Yeah?! Why don't
you
drive, then?!”

“I can't,” he said. That figured. Probably he still rode a bike with training wheels or something. “I'm not allowed to right now.”

“
Allowed?!
Hello?! Allowed? Guess what, Darius Spratt—”

Saying his name shouldn't have mattered ONE BIT, but I knew as soon as I'd said it—like, YEURCH! He knew I knew his name.

“I'm not
allowed
to drive either!” I yelled.

The GBK rustled a little.

Not in front of the kids, huh? I stalled the car, flung open my door, and got out. I breathed for a second—for not enough time at all—and I knocked on his window and beckoned him. I beckoned him like one of Dan's gaming-fantasy–hero types challenges a victim to a fight.

He got out.

“This is not a good idea, Ruby,” he said, looking at the sky.

It's fairly humiliating to have to say this, but the cloud army had kept up with us. It was as if we hadn't moved at all.

“What are you, my
dad?!
” I blurted. The weird thing was I meant Simon, and not my
dad
dad, who would basically never say something like that. No matter. I raged on. “I'm not
allowed
to break into police stations! I'm not
allowed
to break into shops! Or other people's houses! I am not allowed to STEAL DOGS and I am not
ALLOWED
to dye my hair RED.”

Before he could get one word out about that, I finished my hissing, spitting rant: “In fact, I am not
allowed
to do anything!”

“I'm epileptic,” he said.

What?!
What?
You
what?!
My mouth gaped open and shut, open and shut, like a goldfish. Beanpole Boy turned crimson.

There was this really terrible, awful pause. Then we both looked at the sky and got back in the car.

“I like your hair,” he said quietly. “I think it could really suit you. The thing is—”

“I know my face is kind of orange, all right? I know,” I snarled.

I started up the engine, and we lurched off down the road. Darius Spratt leaned forward to speak to me.

“So, the thing is I was going to ask if you have anything to eat or drink, Ruby?” he said. “It's just I looked in the back and…”

We stopped in Ashton village, on the pavement, right outside the shop. The door was wide open. When I took my hands off the steering wheel, they left behind serious driver's hand sweat.

We got out; the cloud army was behind us now. I gave the Spratt this big, fake smile, one I usually saved for Simon, on the rare occasion that he got something wrong—triumphant with a hint of withering smugness.

The shop had not been looted like the shops in Dartbridge; nothing was smashed. Stuff had been taken, but the shelves weren't stripped bare, and nothing had been left strewn about on the floor. No windows had been shattered by bullets; no dead people lay about. Probably the people who had come there had even paid for what they had taken because there were little piles of money left on the counter by the till.

Ashton village; that's the kind of place I would like to live someday, a place where people don't go NUTS and trash stuff and threaten to kill each other, etc., etc., just because the world is being destroyed by a killer space bug.

“Wait a sec,” said Darius.

I dunno where he went, off foraging for more backwash peanuts, I expect. I didn't pay attention—like normally I wouldn't pay attention to newspapers either, but I got kind of
mesmerized
by them. It was just weird: Saturday May 23—all of them. There was some National Health Service scandal thing splashed all over the big papers, but the little ones all stuck to the main story: “BBQ BRITAIN SIZZLES” (with a picture of the outline of the country burned onto a giant, greasy sausage); “MAY MELTDOWN” (Retirees in swimwear). Then the news had stopped.

The magazines were still current, though. I loaded up with every fat, glossy, drool-worthy, style-soaked magazine I had never been able to afford, and some celebrity dirt-dishing mags I probably could have afforded but wouldn't have been caught dead buying—even though what was in them was, like, totally fascinating and you desperately wanted to know about it.

Darius came back. He had stuff. (Healthy stuff.) For a moment, he just stood next to me; I thought that in spite of the fact that he was Nerd Beanpole Boy, we were somehow sharing some weird moment, about how everything had stopped and seemed like it never would be the same again. I bit my lip; I kind of wanted to say something about it all, but I didn't know what.

“They didn't even get the weather right,” said Darius.

“They never do,” I said. I swear those Simon words came out of my mouth without even calling in on my brain.
I
didn't pay any attention to weather forecasts; I just moaned when it was rainy or cold, and was glad when it was sunny.

“Still, I suppose we ought to take some papers,” he said. “To show our kids.”

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!

I looked at him in complete and utter horror.

“I don't mean
our
kids,” he said, turning crimson again. “I mean
kids
kids…any kids…kids in the future.”

“Oh,” I said. If I hadn't been orange already, I think it would have been obvious that I had gone bright red too. Did he seriously think that I had seriously thought…that I would EVER…

“I mean, these papers might be worth something one day,” he said. “But probably not… It's not like there won't be tons of them left. Dead people don't buy papers.”

I looked at him again then, ready to tell him that was a horrible thing to say—YEURCH!!!! He was looking up at the top shelf, at the bare-boobed-and-bottomed smut-fest magazines even polite Ashton villagers must have read…and the stuff no one in their right mind would want to read, like
Trainspotters
Monthly
, or whatever. He reached out and took the last—hey, probably the ONLY—copy of
New
Scientist
.

“Oo, great,” he said, eagerly leafing through it.

I mean really—REALLY—is there no end to the monstrous cruelty of the universe? I truly was in the company of a nerd. Possibly the last boy on Earth…and he was a nerd. Not a geek—geeks were useful and cool and kind of hot—but a nerd. A deeply unsexy nerd who had just thought I had thought—really, I can't even repeat it.

That snapped me to my senses; for the sake of the GBK, I scooted around the shop; I loaded fizzy drinks, chewy candy, cheap chocolate, chips, and bubblegum into one of their plastic bags. For the sake of shocking Darius Spratt, I also took a packet of cigarettes.