Running on the Cracks (12 page)

‘Jim’s not on yet. He’s doing nights this week. He’ll be here in a couple of hours. Can I give him a message?’

Why was nothing ever simple, Finlay wondered. ‘Could you ask him to phone Mary McNally?’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘I’m … a friend of Mary’s. I’m a bit worried about her.’

‘Is she there? Shall I speak to her? Tell her it’s Yvonne.’

‘Mary, it’s Yvonne. Will you speak to her?’

But Mary didn’t think much of this idea. ‘Yvonne didnae let me use the washing
machine,’ she said.

Yvonne overheard and said something about not mixing whites and coloureds, which Finlay didn’t feel was getting them very far. Then she offered, ‘I’ll get Jim to call when he comes on. But if you’re really worried about her you should ring NHS 24. That’s the proper procedure. If they think she sounds bad enough they’ll send the rota doctor out to assess her.’ She gave Finlay the number.

It sounded quick and simple, but it wasn’t. The evening slipped into night as they phoned, explained, waited, talked Mary back into it, answered the phone, explained again, waited again. Leo packed a bag for Mary and kept her as calm as possible. ‘But I can’t face seeing the doctor,’ she told Finlay. ‘I’m sorry. It’s because of
him
. You know.’

‘The bird man!’ said Mary. It was funny how she could still be so quick off the mark.

‘If he’s told the police I gave him the slip then I bet my picture will be in the paper
again – maybe even tomorrow. No one must see me here.’

Finlay didn’t really see why not. She probably wouldn’t be able to stay here any more once Mary had gone – or would she? ‘OK,’ he said, but when the doorbell rang and she went off to hide in the wardrobe he wished he’d tried to dissuade her. Even with his skill at fabrication, he wasn’t sure how he’d explain his presence in Mary’s life.

The doctor was small, tired-looking and grey. If he was surprised to find a thirteen-year-old boy in attendance he didn’t show it. He listened politely to what Mary had to say about messages, leadership and dancing, then asked her to count backwards from a hundred, subtracting seven each time. She obliged with ‘97, 85, ten to five, half past six’. When he asked her to name some common animals she came up with ‘cat, dog, all my family’. The doctor was convinced, and he phoned for an ambulance.

As soon as he went, Mary snapped out of her compliant mood. ‘They can’t get me!’ she said. ‘They’re at it. You’re at it too!’

‘I’m not. I just want you to be safe.’

‘I’m leaving!’

Leo had reappeared. ‘Mary, you can’t.’

‘I can. I do. I will. I can conquer.’ She marched towards the front door. Her hand was on the handle.

The phone rang.

‘It’s Jim Docherty, Mary.’

She hovered, hesitated, then took the receiver.

‘Jim, they want me to go in. I won’t go. I’m counting on you, Jim. I’m counting backwards. You’re the best, Jim.’

Finlay couldn’t hear what Jim said, but it did the trick. After the phone call there was no more talk of escape. Instead, she paced around the room, saying ‘Jims are good and Ronnies are good,’ over and over again until the bell rang and Leo hid again.

The two young ambulance drivers introduced themselves as Paula and Paige. Luckily, Mary took to them. ‘You’re not Jims or Ronnies, but you’re goodly,’ she said.

‘Have you got a coat, pet?’ asked Paula.

‘Have you got a bag, pet?’ asked Paige, and then, turning to Finlay, ‘Are you a relation?’

Finlay had considered being a grandson from the country, but Mary told them, ‘He’s Sherlock. He’s my pal.’

‘Do you want to come with her in the ambulance?’

Finlay hadn’t thought of this. He couldn’t really go with Mary and leave Leo. ‘No – no, I’ve got to get home.’

‘Shall I phone for a taxi?’

‘No, it’s OK, it’s just round the corner.’

Paula switched out all the lights.

‘Have you got your keys, love?’ Paige was leading a surprisingly meek Mary out on to the landing. Finlay and Paula followed.

The door of flat 2/2 opened and Dressing
Gown appeared. She eyed the company with a look which said ‘I saw this coming’.

‘I can take the cat in,’ she said. ‘I did last time.’

‘Or I could come and feed her,’ said Finlay.

Dressing Gown gave him a funny look. ‘You stick to your paper round,’ she said.

‘He’s a detective,’ said Mary.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Paige, and started to lead Mary down the stairs.

‘Someone from social work will probably come round tomorrow to make sure it’s secure and to sort out about the cat,’ said Paula to Dressing Gown.

Outside, the ambulance gleamed white in the dark street. Finlay felt a wrench as Mary climbed in.

‘Have a nice time,’ he said. That sounded stupid. ‘I’ll come and visit.’

He waved and set off as if for home.

Round the corner he waited till he heard the ambulance drive off. He waited some more –
long enough, he hoped, for Dressing Gown to stop nosing about and get back to bed. Then he crept back and up the stairs.

‘Leo,’ he whispered through the letter box.

She let him in. The flat was still dark. Officially it was empty. Dressing Gown mustn’t see any light under the door.

She mimed for him to take off his shoes, and they padded through to the sitting room where just the table lamp was switched on. ‘I’m so glad you came back,’ she said.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

Her face crumpled. Tears came. Her body shook with sobs. She flung herself on to the sofa and lay there, heaving.

Finlay had seen Leo cry before, that evening at the Yeungs’, but not in this uncontrollable way. He didn’t know if she was crying for herself or for Mary, and he didn’t ask. He didn’t feel embarrassed the way he normally would. He knelt on the floor beside her, took her dangling hand and felt a return squeeze.

The sobs subsided. She sat up. ‘There’s so much to think about, isn’t there?’ she whispered.

‘Yes. But I feel sort of dazed.’

‘You’re tired. You’d better go home.’

‘I’m not going home,’ Finlay said. ‘Not tonight. I’m not leaving you on your own.’

‘But what about your mum and dad?’

‘I’ll ring them. I’ll make something up. But not this second.’

They sat in silence. Midget padded in, jumped on to Finlay’s lap and began kneading and purring. Finlay thought about Dressing Gown and the social worker who was supposed to call tomorrow. But he felt too tired to talk about that now. ‘We’d better get up early,’ was all he said.

‘We’ve got our paper rounds, anyway.’

‘Hey, Midget, what’s up?’ The cat had tensed, stopped purring. Her ears were pointing backwards as if she was listening to something.

Then they heard it too. The click of claws on the stone staircase, and the trailing of a lead.

With an exchanged glance but no words, they went to the front door. Finlay opened it a crack, and Zigger came bounding in.

‘Hello, is that Rab?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Finlay Grant’s mother.’

‘Well, tell him to get out of bed and get down here.’

‘So he’s not with you?’

‘No, and neither is that pal of his. And Scott Paterson’s already doing a double round – I’m gonnae have to do the Z run myself.
WHIT DO YOU MEAN, YOU’VE LOST YOUR BAG?
These kids don’t bloody care. Mind you, that wee lassie’s maistly dead reliable. Must be your son’s influence. I expect they’re painting each other’s fingernails. Whit time did he set off?’

‘That’s just it – he didn’t. We haven’t seen him since yesterday after school. I’ll have to phone the police again.’

‘That’s a bit drastic if you ask me.
IF YOU LOSE THIS ONE, I’M TAKING IT OFF YOUR WAGES.
Your son’s most likely carousing with his pals. Have you tried that Chinese lassie?’

‘I don’t know who you mean.’

‘Emma Clark.
NO, YOU CAN’T HAVE MONDAY OFF.
Aye, Emma Clark. She’s a nice enough wee girl, if she’d just wash that clown paint off her face.
I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE GOING TO THE
MOON
FOR THE WEEKEND, I WANT YOU HERE ON MONDAY MORNING.
Is she no in your son’s class?’

‘I’ve never heard of her, but I can ask the school. He did say something about a Chinese girl.’

‘Aye, well I can’t hang around. I’m behind as it is.
NOT SO FAST, YOUNG
FOWLER – WHAT HAPPENED TO MRS SPURWAY’S
TIMES
YESTERDAY?
I’ll let you know if he turns up here.’

‘Well, thank you anyway.’

‘And if he turns up at your end, give his neck an extra wring from me.’

‘Hello? Is that Mrs … er … it says Yeung on the doorbell. Is that right?’

‘This is her daughter, Jacqueline.’

‘Ah. I believe I have some lost property belonging to you.’

‘Lost property?’

‘A bag.’

‘I’ll buzz you up.’

*

‘This is the bag. Does it belong to someone who lives here?’

‘I … sorry, where did you find this bag?’

‘I saw a young lady come out of this house last night, and she dropped it. I tried to alert her
attention, but she seemed very nervous. She ran off. I would have come round straight away, but it was getting late and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘Oh, well yes, I think the bag belongs to … a friend of mine. She was in a bit of a hurry to catch the bus. If you leave it here I can give it back to her.’

‘So the young lady doesn’t live here?’

‘No, she … why do you want to know? You’re not …’

‘Yes, I think you know who I am, and I think we both know who the young lady is. She’s my niece, Leonora, isn’t she?’

‘Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone called Leonora.’

‘That’s what she’s told you to say, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean? I said, I don’t know this Leonora person.’

‘Perhaps she’s even told you some things about her background which may have misled you. But you do need to understand that my niece is a very vulnerable young person. She was in an extremely
emotional state when she was in our care—’

‘Look, none of this is anything to do with me.’

‘It’s a little late for playing games. Leonora is on the Missing People register. Anyone knowingly harbouring her without notifying the police is committing a criminal offence.’

‘We’re not harbouring anyone. Please go away.’

‘And setting dogs on people is another crime.’

‘Dogs? We don’t have a dog. Oh, hi, Mum. It’s OK, this man just … got the wrong house.’

‘I did not get the wrong house. You told me yourself that the bag belonged to a friend who had left your house to catch a bus.’

‘Look, Jacqueline, that’s Leo’s bag! It’s got all her pictures in it!’

‘Mum!’

‘Ah, just as I thought. So is Leonora staying here, or is she across the road with her grandfather?’

‘No, she’s—’

‘Don’t tell him anything, Mum!’

‘I think your daughter is a little over-excited.
But I’m sure you’ll be more reasonable. I simply need to know where Leonora is living.’

‘Sorry, I made a mistake.’

‘You can tell me. I want to help her. Where can I find Leonora?’

‘My mum doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You’d better go now. I’ll take the bag.’

‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea after all. I’ll keep it. It may contain some important clues.’

The phone wakes me, or rather Zigger, who is barking at it the way he always does when it rings.

‘Shut up, Zigger,’ says a bleary voice. Finlay is sprawled on some cushions on the floor. What’s he doing here? Then I remember.

The phone stops as I dislodge Midget from my chest and sit up. Bright low sunlight is flooding into Mary’s sitting room. My watch says it’s ten-thirty. How could I have slept so long?

‘Finlay! We’ve missed our paper rounds.’

Finlay sits up. He’s alarmed. But not about the paper round. ‘Someone’s at the door!’ he hisses.

Zigger’s in the hall now, barking ferociously
at the front door. A woman’s voice floats through the letter box: ‘Hello! Hello! Is anyone there? Good dog.’ And then a man’s voice, like an echo: ‘Good dog. Good dog.’

‘It’s the social workers,’ whispers Finlay.

How does he know? And what shall we do? Hide? Answer the door? We do neither, just sit frozen helplessly as we listen to the voices saying ‘Hello’ and ‘Good dog’ again.

Zigger has stopped barking now, maybe soothed by all the praise.

A key turns in the lock. ‘There’s a good dog!’ The woman’s voice sounds a little nervous this time, as we hear the door open.

More barking, but instead of the low threatening kind it’s the friendly paws-on-chest kind. And now Zigger is racing through to tell us about his new friends.

They follow him into the room, see us and blink. The woman looks more like a student than a social worker, with her long messy hair, jeans and shoulder bag. ‘I didn’t think anyone
was here. I’m the duty social worker from the hospital.’ She sounds more apologetic than accusing. ‘And Terry here is a trainee.’ A gangly young man says ‘Hiya’ and then starts stroking Midget, who is basking in a shaft of sunshine.

‘We’re Mary’s friends,’ says Finlay. ‘We were here when the ambulance came – well, I was. We just thought we’d stay and kind of … make sure the cat was all right.’

‘Is this your dog?’ asks the woman.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ says Finlay.

She looks confused. She rummages in the shoulder bag and produces a notepad. ‘So Miss McNally just has the one cat, is that right? It says here that she’s given permission for a neighbour to feed it.’

‘Or we could if you like?’ suggests Finlay. ‘We’re Mary’s friends. We could keep an eye on things till she’s back from hospital.’

Nice try, Finlay.

The social worker smiles. ‘It’s kind of you to
offer,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your names. I’m Rachel, by the way.’

Finlay glances at me, then mutters ‘Finlay’.

‘Emma,’ I say, without meeting her eye.

Is it my imagination, or is she giving me a haven’t-I-seen-you-before look? But she says, ‘I’m sorry, Finlay and Emma, but we can’t give you access to the flat. In fact, we’re going to have to turf you out. We’ve got to make sure it’s secure before I hand the keys to the council.’ A thought seems to occur to her. ‘Is there just the one set of keys?’

I hope I’m not looking guilty as Finlay says, ‘How should we know?’

‘Well, it’s just that usually the ambulance drivers wouldn’t let anyone who wasn’t a resident stay in the flat.’ She gives her apologetic smile again, aware that she’s hinting that we let ourselves in. How will Finlay get out of this one?

‘Oh, well, they didn’t realise that Emma was here, and then I came back to make sure she
was all right,’ says Finlay. The truth for once, or near enough.

‘I see.’ I don’t think she does, but she probably wants to get this job over with. ‘Well, Terry and I will just check the other rooms – make sure there’s no one hiding in the wardrobe!’ She’s joking. I smile wanly, thinking of all the times I was cooped up in the darkness, my nose pressed up against Mary’s flimsy charity-shop dresses.

‘The bedroom’s a bit of a mess,’ says Finlay. The same could be said of him. His hair is sticking in all directions and his clothes are crumpled from sleeping in them. He follows the two social workers on the tour of inspection, with Zigger bounding after them.

I dress hastily. I suppose I’d better pack too. All my possessions are in the bottom of Mary’s corner cupboard, except for the nylon hold-all I brought with me. I suppose Uncle John must still have that. I try not to think about him.

My unused school bag is still here, with all the books and gym kit. I never disposed of it, as
it seemed too risky, and now I hesitate. Shall I leave it? No, better take it – I don’t want any social-work or council people finding it here. As I thrust my few other things inside it I remember the first day of term, and setting off with Flo and Caitlin for the school I never reached.

I’d planned that getaway, but I haven’t planned this one. Where am I going to go?

Finlay and the social workers come back in. Rachel glances at my bag and looks worried. ‘Shouldn’t you two be at school?’ she says.

‘We’re just going,’ says Finlay.

‘But what about the dog?’

‘We’ll drop him off at my house on the way.’

Her expression is more and more doubtful. ‘Do your parents know about all this? Maybe we should phone them.’

‘It’s OK, they’re expecting me,’ lies Finlay. Rachel glances at me, and he goes on, ‘And Emma’s parents know too. They’re pals of my mum and dad, actually.’

‘Well, we’d better just take a note of your full
names and contact details anyway. Do you want to take them down, Terry?’ She hands him her notepad and, ever-apologetic, says, ‘Sorry to sound like the police – it’s just something we have to do.’

Finlay says, ‘Finlay Grant, 58 Tiverton Road.’ He’s so good at bluffing that I don’t know if it’s his real address or not. I say, ‘Emma Clark, 43 Beechgrove Crescent.’ Beechgrove Crescent is a real road – it’s on my paper round – but the numbers only go up to 39.

As Terry finishes writing, the phone rings again. Rachel answers it.

‘Who?’ she says. ‘Leo? No, there’s no Leo here.’ She gives us a questioning glance and we both shake our heads hard. ‘I think you must have got the wrong number.’

Who was that? Jacqueline, I suppose.

‘Come on then, Zigger.’ Finlay’s in a hurry now. He doesn’t fancy any more questions, and nor do I.

A newspaper is protruding from the letter
box. Rab must have found someone to do Finlay’s round this morning. Finlay takes it. I sneak a quick glance at the headline – something about the Bin Killer. At least I’m not on the front page.

‘I’ll bring this in to Mary when we visit her,’ says Finlay.

Rachel looks quite relieved to see us go. ‘Goodbye then. We’ll just stay and tidy up a bit and then we’ll sort out about the cat with the neighbour.’

So this is it. We’re out in the street. I’m a runaway again.