Breakdown (36 page)

Suddenly there's this great clanging. Bridey straightens up. Something like alarm seems to spike through her. ‘It's Old Maria, the Throckley bell,' she says, her face as white as a sheet. ‘They're summoning us up to the football stadium, by the pithead.'

I sit up.

I wait for her to do something, say something. Tell me why.
Oh God, don't let anything have happened to Tarquin.

Hannah bursts in. ‘We're needed up at Old Maria,' she says.

I don't say anything. I stand up. I'm going with them to the stadium then.
What if it's Tarquin?
Hannah nudges Bridey. ‘C'mon. Her too?'

‘What's wrong?' I ask.
What if they've caught him?

‘Don't know.'

‘I'm scared.' Suddenly I'm petrified.

‘It's nothing. It's nothing,' says Hannah. ‘It'll be all right.' Both women look terrified.

‘
What is it?
' I say.

‘They only ring Throckley bell when there's been a disaster down mine,' whispers Bridey.

I'm stuck in the underworld. I tried to hold Tarquin back. He told me he can't stay underground. He told me to follow him. Nan was right. I should have listened.

‘Let's go,' says Hannah, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. ‘Let any bloody curfew try to stop me. I'll tell them what for.'

I don't know what to do. Go to the stadium by the pithead? Follow Tarquin.
What if they've caught Tarquin? What if they're summoning us there to watch a flogging?

‘Wear this,' says Bridey. She passes me her long dark cloak. ‘Keep the hood closed. You might be recognised in your own. Leave your nan's coat here.'

Follow Tarquin. I must find him. Before he reaches the light and turns back to wait for me.

Hannah takes my hand, leads the way. Her hand's trembling.

We stumble through the dark, taking cuts through alleys that only the women know. There's no sign of soldiers. No noise of army boots marching. Only the bell tolling.

We hurry through the night in silence. Up to the stadium by the Old Maria pithead. Others are on the move. They slide noiselessly out of side streets, all heading the same way.

‘What's happened?' Bridey whispers.

Nobody knows. Hannah crosses over to a group of miners. They talk in low voices, but I catch some of it.

‘They've lifted curfew for tonight,' whispers one man.

‘Another special's got in.'

We don't see any soldiers. I grope along the streets. It's very dark between the houses. I miss my footing. Bridey catches my elbow. I steady myself.

Please don't let it be Tarquin.

Hannah comes back, takes my other hand, grips it tight. ‘Careful,' she says.

‘What's it all about?' I whisper.

‘Don't know.' She's not happy. After a few moments she adds, ‘I think it's the special.'

‘Praise the Lord, it's not the mine,' breathes Bridey.

Praise the Lord it's not Tarquin.

‘More soldiers?' asks Bridey. ‘Why ring the bell for more soldiers?'

If they've lifted the curfew  … 

I glance up at the moon. It's waxing, soon be full. I remember little Lenny when he first saw it. The way he said,
New beginnings
. My heart catches, as if something's sliced it open.

‘Which way is it to Hadrian's Wall?' I say. If Tarquin's OK, I'll leave the stadium and just keep going.

‘Head for Heddon-on-the-Wall, that's the nearest bit,' says Bridey. ‘Only two and a half miles.'

Lenny used to hold my hand. He used to say, ‘It's gonna be OK, ain't it, Missa?'

But it's not OK. The bell tolls on. I bite my cheek.

Please watch over them, Nan. Please.

‘I'll show you the road, if I'm not needed at the pithead,' whispers Bridey. ‘Let's get to the stadium and find out what's wrong first.'

And then I hear it. In between the peal of the Throckley bell. A distant clanging. It sends ice into my chest. I freeze. I listen. The noise stops.
It can't be. Not here. Not so far north.

I must be imagining it.

At that moment we turn in through the old gates to the football stadium. The place glows with an oddly familiar light. A huge fire has been lit in the centre of the playing field. The flames lick up at the air. Smell of burning. Wood. Plastic. Thick smoke. With a shiver I remember the Olympic Stadium in London, the night they chose Lenny. I pull my cloak in tighter.
Thank God he's far away now.

We're not the first there. Figures trickle in through the players' entrance. They stand a little back from the flames, gathered in a wide circle.

Together we inch closer. Bridey lets go of my arm. ‘Wait here, pet,' she says. I can tell by her voice she's worried. ‘Stay in the shadows.'

I peer through the gloom. Outlined against the fire crouch miners. Stooped and grimy. They look a lot older in the dark, like lean stick figures bent with age. Bone thin, like twisted wire. Their working gear still tied round them. Smell of smoke. Of coal. That dusty metalled scent.

Then I hear the sound again. And this time there's no mistake.

Instantly my blood runs cold. Hannah lets out a squeal, clutches my hand tight.

It can't be.

Oh my God. It is.

It comes again, clanging over the air. Pans banging.
Steel on pans
. There's no mistake.

The sound of the Blah-Blah.

Everyone strains forward, trying to see. I feel my heart pounding. My knees dissolving.
Who can be banging out the Blah-Blah?
In the centre of the field two groups face each other.
Oh my God, it can't be.
We crowd forward. Tense. Terrified.

‘Don't be seen,' hisses Bridey.

I pull the cloak tighter. Drag the hood lower.

Suddenly Bridey turns to me, grabs hold of my hand. Her palm's slick with sweat. ‘I don't know what's happening,' she says. ‘They never ring Throckley bell unless it's bad. If anything happens, get out of here, then follow me.'

The pan banging reaches a crescendo. I make out the two groups by the fire. On the far side, lit up in a dull red glow, a battalion of soldiers, all in uniform, rifles at the ready, lined up in ranks.

At their head, the General.

Beside them, in front of the flames, armed with every kind of weapon going, is a tiny crew of gangers. Just three. Two hang back. But there's no mistaking them. They hold dogs, a pack of street dogs. More than ten cross-bred Staffs, on short, tight leashes.

And at their head, silhouetted in his long black coat is Careem.

Careem steps forward. His gangers bang their tin pans. There's a hush. Everyone strains to hear his business.

Careem raises his hands. In each one is a long bone. He waits till the noise subsides. ‘Careem, of Bone Cross Bone Crew, salutes you miner people,' he says. He knocks the bones together. He makes the word ‘miner' sound like ‘minor'.

He waves the bones at the two gangers with him. ‘My main mans, Kaylem Hardcore and Nailey Smiles, greet your peeps.'

Careem knocks the bones again. ‘Times is hard and it's Dog's Law, but we're better off working as allies. So we come up here on account of our mainer man, General Hammond.' Big banging of pans from Kaylem and Nailey. ‘We're joining up with these soldier mans to retrieve a little lost property what got lost up here.

‘Yeah,' continues Careem. ‘So me and my boys from Games City, us Bone Cross Bone Boys, gonna get up a horde with them soldiers, and use our tracker dogs to hunt that bitta lost property down. And we gonna mash up any of yous that's hiding it.'

An intake of breath goes through the crowd.

‘Jesus help us,' whispers Hannah.

Careem waves the bones again. A hush falls. ‘Now give me and da General and him soldier-brothers a cheer,' he says.

There's no cheer.

‘I expect a better greeting than that,' says the General, his voice low and dangerous.

There's a few coughs and then silence.

‘I've entered into a deal with these men,' he says. ‘If anyone impedes the progress of our search, I will take them down to the prison farm.'

Deadly silence. Everyone knows, at the farm they'll be flogged half to death. Everybody knows he's lifted the curfew to come and tell them that: personally.

‘If anyone wilfully hides an escaped convict, or aides and abets them in any way, I will take them down to the prison farm. If anyone fails to inform me of what they know concerning the whereabouts of escaped convicts, I will take them down to the prison farm.'

He raises his arm. Lets his message sink in. ‘These are no idle threats.' He brings his arm down. The soldiers fire a round of shots into the night.

‘Right on,' joins in Careem. ‘We's allies, innit, so we're going to start up the hunt here and now – so you peoples can see. My dogs is trained – I brought them with me all the way from my ends. And they knows who they's looking for. They'll know if you been with them. They'll sniff up their scent on your clothes.' He holds up something, a piece of cloth that hangs wispy, frail. ‘My main man, Nailey, gonna be coming round your houses. So you better think 'bout that, and what you're gonna tell my mainer man, the General, when we catches you.' Careem pulls the dogs forward, gives them something to smell.

And then I realise what it is.

The green dress, the one I wore when I was taken to the General.

The first dog sniffs it. The second lifts its muzzle and howls into the night air.

And immediately the stadium is filled with a wild baying.

Hannah gestures: Go! Go!

Bridey's on her feet. She hurries me back down the alleys.
‘Quick!
' She brings out a bag. ‘There some bits of food in here,' she says. ‘I packed them in case we were stuck waiting at the pithead for our men. Let's get going.' She gives me the bag, drags me into a half run. ‘I'll come as far as the outskirts with you, get you on the Hexham Road, show you the way to Heddon-on-the-Wall. That's where your boys will head for. We need to hurry.'

I know we do. Already I can hear the pans banging, the dogs howling. I can imagine them sniffing the air, searching for my scent.

‘Let's get to the back streets.' Bridey moves quickly for her age. Underfoot the road is uneven. I jog beside her, trying to keep up.

‘You keep my cloak,' she says. ‘It's good you have it. Less scent to give you away.'

I drag her cloak tight around me. ‘Thanks,' I whisper.

‘Down here.' She drags me through narrow streets lined with houses.

‘Your nan's coat'll be safe with me, pet. I'll be like your nan now. I'll wash it and darn it and hide it. Always keep it for you.' She leads the way round the next corner.

I grab her hand. ‘What makes you so good?' I whisper into the darkness.

‘Love, my pet,' she says, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes. ‘And hope. Never give up on it.'

We cut across old fields. Scrub-covered with thick bushes at the back of semidetached houses. Most of them ruined: ceilings fallen in, front drives crumbled. They rise threateningly beside the road, still enough of them left to house robbers. Behind us the sound of the pans.

I'm trembling. I swear the blood in my veins is trembling. My legs feel like mashed potato. I try to get a grip.

Bridey crosses the road. I run stumbling after her. ‘Careful at the end here. Sometimes stones drop,' whispers Bridey. ‘Don't walk directly below the ledges of buildings.'

‘OK,' I whisper, straining to look up.

‘The kittiwakes used to nest there long ago. Their droppings loosened the stonework.'

Fleetingly I wonder what kittiwakes are, what it was like so long ago.

We scramble through the playground of what was once a big school, tripping over loosened turf. Rusted swings creaking in the night. The pans sound closer. I stop wondering about anything except moving as fast as I can. The wind picks up, the first thin blowing of rain starts again. The moon goes behind a cloud. It's dark. If we get caught in another rainstorm, we'll be soaked. I think of Lenny out in only his little jacket.

We turn our faces away from the wind; push our hands deep into our pockets. Through the dark I see a flash of lightning.

We cut into the back garden of a house. We pause and listen. Except for the pans, everywhere's quiet. Not even the rustle of dead grass. They sound so much louder than before. ‘Listen for a change in the rhythm,' I say. ‘They use the pans to talk to each other when they're out hunting.' We strain our ears. The panning rises and falls like some savage drumbeat. Behind that the baying of dogs.

They're out there, testing the air, finding my scent, tracking the way we've come.

Aristaeus chased Eurydice along a river bank, hunted her with dogs.

We struggle through the garden. Old rose bushes tear at my cloak, I trip on a flowerpot. Like shadows we pass along the side of the semidetached house. Must once have been beautiful. A ruined conservatory. Broken glass.

We pass it all, picking our way as fast as possible, through the shards of glass. Then quickly on, until we are at the road. We stand panting on what must once have been a dead-end street.

‘Down there is the Hexham Road,' whispers Bridey, glancing back. Anxious face. Pinched cheeks. ‘It's straight and quick, but easier for them too.'

‘You ought to go back,' I say.

‘I'll come just a little further, see you onto the road.'

‘I'll take it,' I say. ‘Maybe Tarquin went that way.'
Please wait for me. Please be there waiting.

We reach the main highway. Deserted. Overgrown. The pan beat is much closer. There's another noise too. I can't quite place it. We scan the road behind. I settle the bag across my shoulder. Look out over the dark country. The road's empty. A long way off, the shiny skin of the river. Lying so still.

I think of that other river.

Oh Nan, are you still there waiting for me in the green hollow? If it hadn't been my birthday, none of this would have happened.

And it seems as if I hear her voice  … 

Your birthday was important, because you were born for a purpose, Melissa. That is why you bear your name, honeybee. The Gods are waiting. The underworld must be held back. The sacrifice must be made. The bulls must be slain. Aristaeus must be defeated, and the bees freed.

‘Please go back,' I say. A sudden feeling of doom.

‘I'll take you just a bit further.'

Then the rhythm changes. An insistent drumming. A great clamouring, like all the dogs in England are on the scent.

‘They've found our trail!' I say.

We start to run. The rain settles into a thin drizzle. The road is slippy underfoot. My side aches. ‘Go back,' I tell Bridey.

‘I may be old but I can run a mile or two,' she pants.

We settle into a fast jog. The ruined houses on our right get larger, more spaced out. Soon we hit open road. Ahead is a patch of woodland.

‘It's going to storm,' gasps Bridey.

We cross over a narrow footpath, a toppled pole, a bank of undergrowth and into the woodland. We crouch under branches. Suddenly the rain slashes down, fast. It hammers on the twigs overhead. We shelter beneath the trees, panting.

‘The rain will wash our scent off the road. From the woodland we can cut out into fields,' she wheezes.

Trees sway under fierce gusts. God bless Bridey.

For the first time since I left the farm, I hear rustling in the trees. Not just leaves rattling in wind and rain, but scuttling. The sound of something racing for shelter.

Something living in the woods. Does it mean the wild things are back?

We stand there catching our breath and listening. As soon as the downpour is past, we cut into the woods. Head west. It's not long and we're into fields. Thick growth underfoot. The way is hidden by surrounding banks, and by what once must have been shrubbery.

We cross an old road and stick to the fields.

‘This once was an extension of the Wylam Waggonway, built to carry the coal to the riverside,' pants Bridey. ‘My family worked these seams for centuries. It was used by the first steam train, the Wylam Dilly.' She's sweating; her face is shiny in the darkness.

Such old, odd bits of information. Who needs them now? Who logs such things in the great book of history?

‘You
must
go back,' I say.

But we jog on. The clouds lift a little, a glimpse of moonshine on trees, a far bank, an old wind farm above the tree line. The rain stays.

‘When I get back I'll have to tell.' She's slowing down.

‘I know.'

‘If you'd stayed, we'd have protected you, whatever the General threatened.' She holds her sides. Her breath comes in great spasms.

‘I know.'

‘Alfred'll lift Scabs' Law. We can't tell our men they should suffer all the curfews, stay silent – not now you've left.'

She's right. The General won't stop till he gets me. He'll make everyone's life a misery.

‘But I'll go with you a little further.'

‘What about
you
?' I ask. ‘Will you be safe?'

‘Hannah's gone on home. She'll scrub the room you used, wash your things, especially the coat. She'll hide it. She'll let the geese into the yard. Light fires and smoke the place clean. No street dog will trace you there.'

God bless Hannah. They'll be safe.

‘We suffered for the mine, you see. And it's taken care of us. When it happened we all went down underground. We stayed there for nearly a year. We let the women go out to forage for food. The old women first, those that couldn't bear children. When they got sick and died, the younger women went. We did it to keep the men strong. For the future. We paid the price with our children.'

‘Please go back. I'll be OK,' I say between great gasps.

‘But the mine saved us. And the mine comes first.'

‘I'm sorry we brought all this on you. Tell them I'm sorry.'

‘But you brought Lenny too,' she says.

Yes. Lenny.
Where are you now? Pray God you're OK.

She catches hold of my hand. A cloud rolls aside and a ray of moonshine lights up her face. She looks at me. ‘One day, maybe  …  when you come back for your coat  … ' Her voice trails off.

We come to an abandoned roadside petrol station. The sound of the dogs is much louder. And the pans too. We race across the tarred entrance, past the old pumps. There's that other noise too. It sounds like a horn or a trumpet. The rain slashes down again, suddenly faster. We crouch in the porch of the shop building.

We leave the petrol station, get to a crossroads. We're very near.

Bridey stops, doubled over. ‘I can't,' she wheezes. ‘ …  Can't run any more  …  I'm holding you up  …  have to stop. Go back now.'

Through the night air the horn sounds again. Weirdly chilling. Much closer.

Bridey tries to straighten up. ‘That's like a view-halloo,' she puffs out.

‘View-halloo?'

‘In the old days – the call of the hunter  …  when his prey breaks cover.'

‘Hunter?' I gasp.

‘In the long ago,' she says. ‘The fox hunt.'

I search my memory. Did Nan ever tell me about fox hunting?

‘Someone is out there on a horse,' she says. ‘They're out hunting, following the dogs  …  enjoying the chase.'