If I Could Fly (18 page)

‘Don’t touch her,’ Little Bird shrieks, rushing forward to push him away from me. He stumbles and falls against the pine dresser. My mother is helping me up, her fragile arms trembling.

He recovers his balance and turns to stare at us both. ‘Tweet, tweet, tweet, you feather-brained parrots. That’s what you do, you squawk and do my head in, twenty-four seven.’

Swear to God, there are daggers in his eyes. With his jaw open and set, he takes a wild step forward and lunges at us with the knife. I pull Little Bird out of the way and cross my arms in front of my face, lashing out with my leg hard against his shin, just as the blade comes down. My mother is screaming. There is a thud and a dull ache in my thigh. There is blood on the knife and my dad is letting out an animal cry so close I can smell the whisky on his breath. From behind, there is a flash of yellow as Little Bird hits him with all her
angry might on the side of his head with our heaviest saucepan. He drops to his knees, confused, but still conscious. The knife clatters to the floor and Little Bird takes it in her hands.

‘Run, Calypso, run!’ she is shrieking. Her voice sounds like the squeal of an anguished gull. But I am hugging her and we are both crying.

I’m crying now, in loud, terrible sobs.

I did as she told me. And my brain wiped the scene from my memory as quickly as a blade slices through flesh. That’s why I had to get away. I understand now. But the puzzle isn’t complete. I don’t know what she did next, only that she is still alive. Where is my no-good father? We are not safe if he is still near us.

Ven for vengeance, for venom, for vendetta.

Is he out there, somewhere, looking for me? I hold Furball even closer while this thought takes shape.

‘Run, Calypso, run!’ someone is yelling, not far away. I know the voice, but my brain is in freefall. I can’t identify it. Maybe it’s just an echo of the past.

BOOM, CRASH, SMASH, BANG!

Suddenly, I am blinded in the full glare of white lights, and I am scrabbling over piles of books, Furball still tucked under my arm. It feels like the world is imploding. All around me, bricks and plaster fall like brown hail. Shards of glass are smashing around my face like jagged rain. Thick clouds of debris are swirling and shape-shifting, just as the starlings do over the beach at sunset.

When the dust settles, I am surrounded by daylight and I am staring at a canary yellow machine. It has a square face on the end, and caterpillar tracks for feet. It is as high as two men. It is a demolition robot, working by remote control. And it is inching forward.

‘Run, Caly, run!’ I hear again, but my legs don’t want to move.

‘
Om mani padme hum
. . . Is this where it all ends?’ I say to Furball.

I’m scanning the space around us, checking for a way out, but there are men in hard hats and overalls
moving about the grounds, a safe distance from the machine and the crumbling building. Any moment now, there will be a yell because we’ve been spotted – a kid and a rabbit, who’d have thought? We’ll be dragged to safety and there will be questions to answer and I’ll be in terrible trouble for leaving my zone, truanting from school, stealing from an ice-cream man, squatting on private land. And being an enemy of the System.

Survivors find practical solutions to their problems
. Well, maybe I’m not a survivor after all. Maybe there are no more solutions. I’m telling my feet to move but they are as heavy as lead. This is how it must feel to stand before a firing squad. Luckily, the robot isn’t tasked with my destruction.

I’m ready for the moment of discovery. ‘This is it, Furball. The end of the line.’ I breathe, half scared, half relieved, hoping that when the alarm goes up, the demolition crew will be kind.

There is a loud whistle and a call of, ‘OK, Charlie,
ready to go,’ and my brain does a somersault, trying to recompute as the robot lifts its neck and stares at me with its featureless face. Am I so camouflaged in dirt, so good at blending with my surroundings, that they can’t see me? I’m yelling and waving my free arm but the machine’s caterpillar tracks are jolting into motion and the noise of it is obliterating everything else.

It is heading straight for me at high speed.

‘Calypso!’ someone yells, trying to get my attention – but the voice sounds distant, almost inaudible through the grinding acceleration of the robot. Any second now, they will see me. In another moment, the machine will stop abruptly on its winding tracks.

It isn’t slowing down at all. Its head is raised high in the air like a dinosaur rearing on hind legs. The noise is making Furball scrabble in my arms. Without thinking, my muscles relax and release her. She jumps to the ground, hopping away over the piles of books and timber. I am crying out but no sound is leaving my mouth.

Why can’t I move?
For God’s sake, brain, DO SOMETHING!

My feet start to scrabble sideways up a mountain of bricks but it’s too late. The beast is upon me. I hold my breath and close my eyes and wait for the thud of impact and the excruciating pain that must follow as my bones are crushed like dry sticks under a heavy boot.

BOOM, CRASH, BANG!
My stomach lurches as I anticipate the moment of collision. My nerves scream. Adrenaline fills my veins with ice. The beast roars and there is a loud explosion in my ears, then a monsoon deluge of masonry that seems to last for several minutes. At last, I open my eyes, expecting to be face to face with my predator and several pairs of shocked eyes.

The robot is behind me. Somehow, by some miracle, it must have missed me. I am standing amongst the ruins of the hospital. There is nothing left.

There is no pain, not even a scratch. Just a weird
sensation that all my body parts have been rearranged. I must be the lucky one in a million; the one that survives against all the odds.

‘Sooty?’ says a soft voice, near me. My eyes find its owner, and focus on the figure of a kid about my height with very big hair.

‘Hey, Alfie.’ I am still rigid like a plank. Seeing my best mate makes me start to tremble, from my head to my toes. My chest is still heaving, but I’ve run out of tears.

‘Come on,’ he says gently, holding out his hand. I glance over my shoulder at the yellow beast, whose hazard lights are flashing. Its engine is still turning over, but it is motionless, its head lowered. ‘How’s your leg?’ Alfie asks.

This seems a really stupid question. I’ve just had a whole three-storey building fall around my head, nearly been run over by a demolition demon and all
Alfie wants to know about is my leg. Now I’m thinking about it, it’s sore. But it would be, wouldn’t it?

‘It hurts,’ I say, irritated.

‘Good.’ Alfie seems relieved. He is still motioning for me to take his hand. ‘There’s still time.’

‘Time for what, Alfie?’

He looks awkward, like there’s something he really wants to say but can’t find the words.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ He clasps my hand. As his fingers wrap round mine, I feel some strength returning and I try some shaky steps. ‘No rush,’ he soothes. I’m looking at the men in hard hats, who are busy moving around the site, concerned only with the task of clearing the area. They are taking no notice of us and I don’t know whether to be puzzled, angry or relieved. Despite my efforts, I’m going nowhere fast.

‘Sit here for a minute,’ suggests Alfie, lowering me on to the wooden bench, which has escaped the attention of the robots.

‘You got back, then?’ I say at last, when my head
stops feeling like it’s floating in jelly.

‘Well, I wasn’t going to stay in that shed with the chicken poo forever,’ he replies, obviously slightly hurt.

I’m taking in the view, which is adding to my confusion. Everything has changed. There is just rubble where the hospital stood. It’s like being in a monstrous lunar park. The scale of the devastation is so great, I am lost for words. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something white and brown disappearing in and out of the bushes.

‘Furball!’ I exclaim, but I’m feeling too weak to get up. Alfie gets on to his hands and knees, reaches into the undergrowth and lifts Furball up, putting her on my lap. She looks unhurt after her ordeal. I bury my face in her fur and breathe in her musty warmth. Then I remember the events my memory replayed a few short minutes ago. My chest starts to convulse, my throat tightens and a river of tears begins to pour from my eyes in an unstoppable flow.

Alfie puts an arm round me and holds me tight.
‘Everything’s going to be all right. Promise.’

‘Don’t,’ I tell him. ‘Can’t trust promises. Can’t trust anyone. I know why my leg is hurting. I remembered. It’s so horrible.’ I press myself deeper into Furball’s softness. ‘I just want to go to sleep.’ The torrent is subsiding.

‘We need to leave,’ says Alfie, suddenly standing up, a trace of urgency in his voice. He has both his hands on my shoulders and is gently shaking me back to consciousness. In the jumble of thoughts and images in my head, I am connecting with the fact that Alfie is bunking off school today. And he’s doing it for me.

‘Not leaving Furball,’ I say.

‘You don’t have to,’ he assures me, pulling me up on to my feet.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask feebly.

‘Anywhere. As long as you keep moving.’

Alfie is frog-marching me along the pavement, his arm through mine. He is almost taking my full weight. I am carrying Furball and half walking, half stumbling, trying to keep pace with this boy who seems to have lost his marbles. He has a manic look of determination on his face. We’re heading away from the hospital on a road that runs parallel with the coast. From here, there is a 360-degree view. To the south, on a flat, grey sea, there’s a long cargo boat with a gunship escort. I know that all the carriers bringing food from Europe have to have protection now because of the risk of hijack. At any other time, I would be excited to see this – I’ve only ever watched it on the news before. But right now I’m not concerned about the dwindling state of our national supplies. I am staring north, in the direction of home.

‘What did you mean, there’s still time?’ I ask, when we pause for Alfie to retie the laces on his stupid trainers.

‘There are some things you need to know,’ he answers.

‘What things?’ I’m losing patience.

‘Not here, Caly. Just another few minutes.’ His cheeks are flushed bright red from bending down.

‘No, Alfie,’ I snap, tugging my arm away from his. ‘I don’t want to play this game any more. Just tell me this Big Thing, whatever it is, and get it over with.’

‘Aargggh,’ he shouts in frustration, running his hands through his hair. ‘You are really stubborn. I’m trying to make it as easy as I can for you. I’ve never had this trouble before.’

‘You’ve got five seconds, then I’m walking away and you will never see me again.’ My voice is low as I try to control my anger.

‘You are nearly in the same club as me,’ he begins.

‘Time’s up,’ I tell him.

‘That’s not fair. I didn’t hear you counting!’

‘I didn’t hear you saying anything interesting. Bye, Alfie,’ I say, turning and striding, as fast as I can in my state, away from him.

‘Right, then,’ he calls after me. I imagine he is almost stamping his foot at me.

‘Yeah, whatever.’ I keep walking, without glancing back.

‘Calypso?’ he shouts. There is something in his voice that makes me look round. Alfie is standing in the middle of the road. He is facing me. Behind him, there is a mini-bus full of school kids, driving at full speed. It’s gaining on him fast. This is a stupid stunt to get my attention. Clearly, Alfie has lost not just his marbles but his sense of self-preservation.

‘ALFIE! Get out of the road! Are you barking up a fruit and nut tree?’ He doesn’t move, just stares at me. The mini-bus doesn’t even brake. Honest to God, it drives through him and continues along the road, past where I am standing with my mouth open. The
children ignore me, apart from a girl with plaits sitting at the back, who sticks out her tongue.

Alfie shoves his hands in his baggy jean pockets and starts to walk towards me. When he is standing in front of me, he reaches out and, with the tip of a finger, pushes my jaw up into a closed position.