If I Could Fly (17 page)

The men are inside the building. Heavy footsteps
are moving swiftly through the ground floor. They are feet with a mission, laden with intent. They are entering the café and I am clinging to the wall outside, paralysed, like a spider entangled in its own web.

‘Get a load of this, George,’ says a voice, about two metres from my trembling body.

More footsteps from along the corridor. The flashing of a powerful torch.

‘That’s what you’d call a des res,’ comments a second voice, with irony. ‘Look. Window’s broke. Probably the way they got in, whoever they are. Not worth sealing it.’

‘Nah. No signs of life. Hasn’t been used for a bit. Here, George, what do you think of my new scarf?’

‘Very nice if you want to look like a satsuma,’ comes the reply. ‘Take it off. It might have fleas and I don’t want them in the van.’

‘You check upstairs; I’ll do the grounds. Then we’re out of here. Place gives me the creeps.’

Move, Caly. Move, now!

I’m across the driveway and into the shrub border like a mouse that has escaped from a trap, dragging its bad leg behind it. I crouch behind a clump of thick, spiky bushes and count to ten, trying to regulate my breathing. One gasp could give me away. One snap of a twig could lead me to the back of that van, an interrogation room and then a cell. And one day there would be a surgeon who’d put a microchip in my brain, turning it to soft scrambled egg, and I could kiss my rule-breaking habits goodbye.

I’m going to stay free. It’s not all going to end here, with two bungling security guards.

Shhh, brain; quiet, thoughts. Here comes the wolf to blow your house down. Hear his footsteps, crunch, crunch on the gravel. See his eyes, stark white in the light of the beam that sweeps through the undergrowth. Silence breath, freeze body. Be still, but be ready, in case a rough hand swipes through the thorns to find your neck. Have your claws out and your toes nimble.

He’s passing by, the stranger with the dark uniform
and the big boots and radio flashing on his belt. He’s turning the corner, checking the perimeter of the building. Following orders, but not looking too closely, in case he doesn’t like what he sees.

He’s out of sight. The horn of the van is sounding; his partner is getting impatient. Another minute, and there is the slam of a car door and the whine of an engine. The vehicle reverses and turns, then drives slowly away towards the griffins on their pillars. If I had magic powers, I would let them roar and leap and send the intruders away screaming with a fear that would haunt their dreams forever.

I make my way carefully to the rain containers, a mixture of plant pots and buckets, positioned under a broken gutter, and choose the largest, fullest one. I realise I’m shivering. Every joint is aching. Relief or virus? Either way, I need to rest, to put this day behind me, to plan what happens next.

I feel weak and listless. Carrying the water is like hauling a cart up a mountain. I should have chosen the
smallest and lightest, but at least this will save having to make the journey twice.

I reach my home, my des res, and light some candles. I look at the water but can’t drink – the thought of it makes me shiver even more. I wrap myself in extra jumpers, coats and blankets and wonder if this is what Dair felt, that night of the fire? Was he so cold he panicked? It would be an explanation. I could kill for the warmth of big flames right now. Maybe I’m beginning to understand.

Ker-thud
. There is a strange sound coming from outside my front door.
Ker-thud
. There it is again.

‘Alfie, is that you?’ I whisper. There is no reply and I’m reaching for the knife on the table.

Now there is a scratching noise, followed by a nibbling. My heart sinks – it’s probably a rat. I’ll need to chase it away and I’m not in a fit state to chase anything. Cautiously, I go to push open my cardboard door, blade poised in case the rodent leaps at my throat and plunges disease-ridden teeth into my skin.

Slowly, slowly the door opens and I squeal as my eyes encounter something larger than a rat, but furry all the same, with long ears and sharp teeth and pink eyes fixed on me with a nervous stare.

‘Furball!’ I scream, scooping the soft bundle of fluff into my arms and kissing her head about twenty times. ‘You’re . . .’ but my throat won’t allow any more words.

‘Where’ve you been, then, bunnykins?’ I say to my long-lost friend when my voice returns. I scratch her under the chin, just the way she likes. ‘On an adventure, I expect. I was very worried about you, you know.’

I examine her all over and double-check her injured paw. ‘This looks good. All healed now. Clever girl.’

Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I’m beginning to feel better. The shivers have stopped and my leg is behaving again. I’m so happy to see Furball. As I stroke her ears, she closes her eyes and drifts away into rabbit dreamland, her whiskers twitching sweetly.

We’re two of a kind, she and I. We’re both refugees, far from home. We are on the run from the authorities. Our families don’t know where we are. There is one difference, though; Furball is living under a death
sentence. This thought makes me cradle her even more tightly.

‘I promise I will look after you,’ I whisper into her floppy ear. ‘We’ll carry on together.’

I curl up on my bed, pulling the covers over both of us. The tea-light candles are filling the space with a warm glow. It’s a bit of an illusion, as I can see my breath each time I exhale.

What’s your plan, Paper Clip?

I have to face the fact that, whatever has happened to Alfie, he will never want to speak to me again. Our friendship is over – it’s something I will regret for the rest of my life. But he wasn’t honest with me and I’m not sure I could trust him again. I feel betrayed and bruised. I would have told him everything, anything, to make his life better.

So I made a mistake. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

There are things I must do for myself now. I must make a decision about my future and it won’t include Alfie.

Tomorrow, I will try to solve the puzzle of Little Bird. First of all, I will hunt through the shopping trolleys and parking machines at the supermarket for a loose pound coin and I will use it to call her. I need to know. Are the FISTS waiting for me? Is the net closing in? Her answer will determine whether I can go home or whether I must keep hiding.

I want to hear her voice so much it hurts. I want to know that she is safe, to feel her arms round me and her fingers stroking my hair. I miss hearing her rhythmic chanting in the early morning and the smell of jasmine which lingers in the air after she’s bathed.

There are many ways to live the same life. Little Bird and I have been living with one face for the world and another for behind our front door. We have been pretending we are happy. But it has been like walking on broken glass and not crying out with the pain.

This is what I want to say to her, that we can choose to live another way. And maybe, when the ban on foreign travel is lifted, we can go to her country,
where jacana birds glide over turquoise seas and the beaches are fringed with coconut palms. And where there is a family that will love us both.

If I could fly, Little Bird, I would take us there.

‘You can come with us, Furball. I won’t leave you behind,’ I tell her. My eyelids are as droopy as a bough laden with fat mangoes. As sleep claims me, I imagine myself lulled gently on a warm wave in the Andaman Sea. Pelicans fly overhead and macaque monkeys chatter in the trees.

BANG, BANG, BOOM!
My eyes are open. My body is rigid. My heart is racing. I am holding my breath, fearing the world has been blown apart. My brain is trying to tell me I am in my house of books. I can feel Furball still nestled into the curve of my belly. But something is very wrong. There are voices. Vehicles. I can hear the rumble of heavy machinery very close.

And now there is another
BOOM
, louder than the first, a roar that shakes everything from my shelves and my table with a clatter. Glasses and mugs smash on the ground. In an instant, there is chaos, and the air around me is filled with dust and the sound of an enormous engine, revving, reversing, repositioning.

I’m not thinking clearly. My thoughts are paralysed. I’m sitting still amongst debris, while the earth beneath
me trembles. I think this must be shock. I don’t know what to do.

BOOM, BOOM, CRASH!
Another strike and, with it, the terrible groan of splitting timbers and falling masonry. A rush of dust so thick I am choking and my eyes are full of grit. It’s enough to flick my action switch. Instinctively, I reach for a tea towel and tie it around my face, protecting my nose. Then I wrap Furball in a blanket. She doesn’t struggle – brave bunny.

We’ve got to get out of here, but leaving with nothing could be a death sentence – so I try to make a mental list of essentials for survival. I am scrabbling through my drawer, grabbing the knife, my torch and the packet of batteries which have been thrown to the ground. I shove it all in my grubby cotton bag. I fold the plastic sheet which has lain under my bedding into a tight roll and secure it with string.

I’m looking at my clothes and thinking about the weeks of painstaking effort it has taken to assemble a
collection, from skips, from bins, from the porches of charity shops. But I can only take what I can carry.

BOOM, BANG, CRASH!
Oh no. Please no. Time is running out. My walls are caving in. Books are falling in slow motion like shrapnel after an aerial attack. There is no sound. I’ve gone deaf. My mouth feels solid with dirt. I’m shielding Furball from the collapsing structure, my back taking the brunt of the blows from the heavy cookery and wildlife books I used to stabilise the roof struts.

‘
Om mani padme hum, om mani padme hum,
’ I chant, although my voice is so constricted it is just a whisper. I can see my mother’s face with its sweet smile, and there is jasmine and the ting-ting of prayer bells and she is sitting in the courtyard of a golden temple, surrounded by gentle, shaven-headed monks in orange robes.

I am closing my eyes, letting panic overwhelm me with a floating sensation and comforting images in beautiful colours. I feel so sleepy. I could just lie down completely, and bask in the warm, iridescent glow
from the temple roof. The monks are chanting in my head, the rhythm of their words becoming stronger and more insistent.

There is shouting. I’m not sure if it’s coming from close by or this surreal place in my imagination. It is a man’s voice – one that is familiar. The smile has gone from Little Bird’s face and the monks have ceased their prayers. Everyone is staring at the figure emerging from the shadows of the temple, walking towards my mother. The man is of medium height and has a lean, wiry build. He wears jeans, a black T-shirt and trainers. He has short brown hair, balding on top, and on his upper arms there are tattoos of lions. His body is stiff and his movements watchful, braced for a fight. In his left hand, he carries a knife. Its blade is glinting in the fierce sunlight.

I force myself to look at him and I’m instantly filled with a mixture of nausea and fear. The man is moving closer to Little Bird, who has bowed her head and her upper body, in submission. I am straining for clarity
through the sun-haze. The monks become the orange walls of our kitchen; the temple is a photo, in a gold frame. My mind is taking me back home.

‘I told you to
come here
,’ my father is saying to my mother quietly, menacingly. ‘Did you hear me, woman?’

She doesn’t reply or move a muscle. She is too terrified.

‘Get away from her, Ven, you promised,’ I am warning him. I can’t bring myself to call him Dad. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘What’s this?’ he sneers. ‘Another little creature with no respect and nothing better to do than tweet. Another one that needs its wings clipped.’

‘We are sick of you bullying us. I’m calling the police and it’s going to stop,’ I tell him, and I’m reaching for the handset. He grabs my arm.

‘Oh, Calypso, why don’t we dance real slow?’ he whispers close in my ear, before spinning me roughly away from the worktop. I let out a gasp as my body
slams into a cupboard. He is right in my face when I turn.