If I Could Fly (16 page)

‘Didn’t he ever try to contact you?’ I ask.

Alfie shakes his head. ‘Mum paid a private detective to find him, but there was no trace. It was like he never existed. The tec said she should leave it and not ask any more questions.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. My back teeth have decided they are so cold they will hit against each other twice a
second. I try to clamp my jaw shut.

‘Tough on my mum. Think she gets lonely,’ adds Alfie. He seems lost in thought.

‘She’s got you.’ I nudge him, hoping to cheer him up a little. He just nods sadly. Now my eyes are stinging with the onset of tears, but they’re not for Alfie’s situation. I’m thinking about Little Bird, and how alone she must feel. I rub my face so that Alfie doesn’t notice.

‘I’m not much company, Caly.’

‘Maybe you should stay home more, then?’ That came out a bit snappy. I don’t like the thought of seeing Alfie less often.

‘That’s not what I mean,’ he says, rubbing a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not –’

Suddenly a bright beam of light sweeps over the bow of the boat. Alfie and I hunker down even further by the engine, covering our faces. We try not to move a muscle.

The scooters. We left them by the fishing huts, one leaning against the other.

‘Oscar One, I have two kids’ scooters, eastern bay by the fishing boats. No sign of their riders. They might be stolen, or the owners might have decided to go for a festive swim, over,’ says a deep voice into a radio handset. ‘Request dog unit on the scene as soon as possible, over. Copy that Oscar One. Out.’

Jaws on paws. My body is trembling, not just with the cold. The light beam moves across the
Aurora
, more slowly this time, searching the nooks and crannies. Discovery is seconds away.

‘After three, jump up, grab the net and throw it over him,’ whispers Alfie. I nod, clenching my teeth together as hard as possible so that their chattering doesn’t give us away.

‘One, two . . .’ begins Alfie. The beam sweeps across me, but then returns.

‘Who’s there?’ shouts the man sternly.

‘Three!’ yells Alfie. We leap to our feet like two ninja warriors and rush forward, scooping up the rope netting on our way. A split second later, we are hurling
it over the head of the policeman, who is rushing towards us, a baton raised in one hand. He stumbles, thrashes around, and we leap off the boat on to the shingle, running as fast as we can to put a distance between ourselves and the
Aurora
. It’s a shame about the scooters, but this isn’t a game any more.

What’s your plan, Paper Clip?
To get out of here, Crease.

‘They’ll be looking for us now,’ says Alfie, gasping. ‘Better get away from the cameras.’ Sure enough, there are sirens not too far away.

‘It’s OK, follow me,’ I tell him.

We sprint across the coast road, slide between parked cars, jump metal gates and vault lightly over garden walls, until we emerge on to a side road bordered by trees. We’re constantly checking behind us for the sign of a patrol car or a white FIST van. Getting captured isn’t an option, not after everything. If Alfie is sent to the rehabilitation centre, it will probably break his mum’s heart. I’m the bad penny.
And I’m going to cost him his chance of a normal life.

‘Alfie, just leave me,’ I call to him.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he replies, frowing.

‘You don’t need to get caught. It’s me they want. I’m the runaway, remember?’

‘Tough tarantulas,’ he shouts, ahead of me.

‘That’s so dumb, Alfie.’ But there isn’t time to argue. My adrenaline is pumping. We seem to be covering the ground at super-fast speed. Before long, we reach the hill that rises towards the hospital and there is a patrol car parked halfway up, its blue lights flashing. Just pulling up behind it is a large, dark van. We can hear the muffled sound of dogs barking.

‘We’ll have to go through the gardens and down the alleys,’ says Alfie. ‘The dogs’ll track us in no time if we stay on the pavement. Stick close to me, Caly, OK?’

We set off again at a fast jog, jumping walls, running over the tops of sheds, bunny-hopping fences. Alfie isn’t even panting. I’m the one who’s out of breath,
fighting a stitch which is threatening to cut my upper belly in two.

‘Keep going,’ he encourages. I manage a small smile to reassure him. But then, overhead, there is the ominous noise of blades slicing through air. It’s a bug, approaching fast, a bright beam lighting everything in its path.

‘Along here,’ says Alfie, taking us into a narrow alley which runs between two houses. ‘Keep your head down.’

The alley leads to a labyrinth of rough paths around the back of the houses, some filled with garden refuse, others blocked by old mattresses or washing machines. There is even a Shetland pony tethered in one, munching something in a bucket. It makes a small disgruntled noise in its throat as we pass. I feel so sorry for it. The owner must be trying to hide it from the killing squad.

The path leads to a high wooden fence – the dead end we were dreading. While Alfie hesitates, I increase my speed and leap, attempting to scale it with a running
climb, just like the Feathers would. Just like Slee did, that day at the Town Hall. I’m on top and down the other side before you can say ‘jumping bean’.

How’s that, Crease? I’m one of the gang now.

Alfie is by my side before I can catch my breath. I look at him, surprised, impressed and very puzzled.

‘Like I said, I’m a quick learner.’ He shrugs.

I really want to quiz him, but the bug in the sky has fixed its gaze on the ground and is circling with its huge, white eye.

‘In here,’ says Alfie, half pushing me into a shed and closing the door behind us. The shed smells of petrol and, weirdly, chicken poo. A lawn mower takes up most of the space, but we manage to drop down on to the wooden floor, gratefully.

‘That was so close,’ I say.

Alfie is nodding. He rips off the black plastic liner and screws it into a ball. ‘We’ll stay here till the morning.’

‘I might get to see the sunrise after all.’ I smile. Alfie doesn’t smile back. His face is fixed in concentration.

‘How’s your leg now?’ he asks.

‘Good,’ I reply. ‘Hardly a twinge.’ Alfie doesn’t seem pleased. He closes his eyes.

‘Dair thought it was probably just a torn muscle,’ I add. Alfie doesn’t respond. ‘You hate it when I talk about him, don’t you?’ I say. Alfie opens one eye and looks at me.

‘Don’t you?’ I repeat. ‘Are you jealous, or something?’

‘No,’ he answers quietly.

Check out every angle, Paper Clip. See it every which way.

I decide to leave the touchy subject of Dair. ‘What is it you were going to tell me, anyway?’

‘It’s not the right time. I thought it was, but –’ Alfie shrugs.

‘Right time for what? I don’t get it, Alfie. I tell you everything and you shut me out.’

‘Sorry. I don’t make the rules,’ he says.

‘What rules? You’re talking rubbish.’

My brain is racing, throwing up questions. What if Dair’s dead and Alfie knew all along? Why didn’t I ever
think of this before? Suddenly, my mind is tumbling full of suspicion.

‘Are you keeping stuff from me because you think I can’t handle the truth?’

Alfie pulls his own hair in frustration. ‘It’s complicated, Caly.’

‘What is? Look, I’m not a little kid. I’m a MISYO, in case you haven’t noticed.’

‘OK. OK. You and me. We’re –’ Alfie pauses, searching for a word.

‘Just about to have a mega row,’ I warn. I’m starting to lose it with my best mate.

‘Different.’

‘Yes, you’re a boy and I’m a girl.’ I wipe a large cobweb away from my face, crossly.

‘More than that.’

‘Are you ashamed of me, or something? Is that why you won’t let me meet your mum? You never invite me over. If she’s as nice as you make out, she wouldn’t turn me in.’

‘It’s not that.’ Alfie sounds hurt now.

‘I think you just want to have me as your secret friend when she leaves you by yourself. You scared of the dark or something? Is that it? You just want someone to hold your hand?’ That was mean.
Alfie, I’m so sorry.

‘You need to listen to what I’m saying,’ says Alfie, anguish in his voice.

‘So tell me about Dair, about the fire, about what really happened that day. You know things, don’t you? I want the truth, Alfie, or we’re history. And I’ll be out of here, bug or no bug, before you can say –’

‘I’m trying, Caly. But the rules . . .’ he starts to explain.

‘Oh my God, you’re one of
them,
aren’t you? And you know what? I think
you
started the fire.’ I’m on my feet, turning the latch on the shed door, already feeling the rush of cold air on my face.

I’m opening my eyes. Closing them. Opening them, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours – a black, cold, dreamless sleep, like being immersed in a tank of frozen chemicals.

I’m back in my house of books, lying on my bed, still wearing the black bin liner. The events of last night are filtering back into my consciousness: the big wheel, the fishing boat, the policeman; escaping, leaving the scooters behind. Running for our lives. Hiding from the bug in the sky.

An argument.

My chest tightens when I think of how angry I was with Alfie. The anger has subsided into hurt now. I don’t understand his secrecy. I thought we were mates. We’ve spent all these weeks together and for the whole
time he’s been holding something back. Something he doesn’t want me to know, because he thinks it will change things between us forever.

It doesn’t make any sense. He’s just a thirteen-year-old kid, like me. Why did I think for a minute that he could have started the fire?

There are rules
, he said. Yeah, Alfie, there are rules in friendship too. Number one, you don’t keep secrets. And, in my book, mates come before rules anyway.

So now I have the puzzle of Alfie to add to the other puzzles. There are still so many pieces missing. I feel quite sick and when I touch my forehead, it is cool and clammy. Even the dull light coming though my curtains is hurting my eyes.

It could be a reaction to the overdose of adrenaline in my system that helped me duck and dive my way out of trouble each time the bug eye looked my way.

You would have been proud of me, Crease. I kept them guessing.

The alternative is that these are symptoms of the
virus. I don’t even want to go there.

On top of all of that, anxiety for Alfie is gnawing at me like a starved rat. I don’t know if he got home, back to his bedroom with maps on the wall. If he didn’t, and he’s in detention, should I tell his mum what happened? That I’m the bad penny who rolled into his life? Have the police got there already, with their harsh knock on the door and their rule book?

My thoughts are gathering momentum, whirling out of control. The big wheel in my mind has sheared off its axis. I can hear crowds screaming below as the frame hurtles towards them. The sensation of falling at speed is so strong in my gut that I have to lay my head down and hold it with my hands.

‘Alfie!’ I’m calling, but he and his big hair are nowhere to be seen. Wherever he is, he can’t hear you, my rational brain is telling me. You abandoned the only friend you had in the world. You must face your fate alone.

That’s weird; each time I blink the clock has
moved on another hour. I must be drifting in and out of consciousness. My mouth is dry. My temples are throbbing. I need water. An instruction from a wilderness survival book I once read drifts across the haze in front of my eyes:
Do not become dehydrated. Your body will start to shut down.
I must get to the rain container in the grounds.

I’m crawling to the window, feeling my way like a blind beetle, forcing myself through the gap to the outside world. I’ve done this a hundred times before but today I seem too big for the space. My head is scraping the frame, my arm grazes itself on a small fragment of glass in the wood. My bad leg, which has been well behaved for ages, decides to deliver a spasm of excruciating cramp.

I’m rolling up, clutching my calf muscle. Pain is searing up my leg, across my pelvis and up my spine. I stand, shakily, in an effort to get my blood circulating. I’m half hopping and half leaning against the wall. My sight has narrowed into tunnel vision, which is a sign
that I’m going to pass out. I’m digging my fingernails into my palms to send my brain a different signal, but it’s no use. It feels like my fighting spirit is leaving me, seeping out of my pores, trickling from my eye sockets in slow tears.

Survival depends on key factors: Don’t panic. Problem solve and find practical solutions. Stay positive.

I can see the text from the manual as if it is on the page. Next to it was a photo of a grizzly bear the writer had escaped from. Amazing that he had time to take a picture.

The slamming of car doors close by snaps into my brain like an electric shock. I feel a jolt through my body and the tunnel widens into normal sight. I’m picking up the vibration of male voices from the wall before my ears detect their low rumbling. Moments later, there is the high-pitched squeal of power tools against metal and wood and a small quake as the front door is prised open.