The Rain (23 page)

The first thing I had to do was open my window or I’d be sick from Whitby’s death breath. Then I checked out the pedals; fiddled nervously with the gears. Only my dad had ever let me
have a go at driving his car; my mum and Simon went mental when I told them – even though it was on this totally deserted lane in Lancashire (‘
He let you drive on a public
highway!?!
’) – and completely, totally and utterly refused to let me have a go in our car.

We kangarooed out of the parking space, bashing next-door-but-one’s car. Whitby fell off his seat on to Fluffysnuggles. Darling didn’t fall, but decided the floor was a better bet.
The engine screamed and the car lurched along the road where my foot pressed down on the accelerator as I fished about and scooped her up.

‘
animals!’ I shouted. It was the nervous tension.

Oh no. I turned off the engine.

‘Two seconds,’ I muttered to the
animals, then got out and went back to the house.

See, now maybe you’ve been thinking what a nice person I am and how I must really love animals and everything. (Well, apart from the terrier.) You know what I had
forgotten? The stupid guinea pigs.

I didn’t even know whether they’d still be alive. I unlocked the front door and charged through the house and out of the back door into the garden. I think guinea
pigs come from Peru, and I guess life must get pretty tough there, because, although there wasn’t a scrap of food or water left, Gimli and Prince Charming (don’t ask; that’s a
whole other story) were very much alive and squealed their little heads off for food. I opened the cage and –

I stopped. It wasn’t because I realised it would take too long to find a box or something, it was because the dogs were going crazy. The girls’ muffled yapping; Whitby booming; the
terrier, out on the street, going nuts. Either the ghost of Clarence had arisen and was scaring them to death or another dog had rocked up and a fight had broken out or – I ran back into the
house, I yanked open the front door –

Or something had upset them.

Not something. Someone. Not anyone, either.

He was standing a couple of steps away from me. Posh man, grey-haired. The terrier barged past him into the house, and it was that – that two seconds of the dog barging through –
that gave the posh man enough time to lurch forward and stick his foot in the door before I could slam it shut. I shoved against that door with all my might. The terrier kicked off again, barking
like a lunatic right behind me.
Behind me
, like he was backing me up, like I could actually do something.

‘I only want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I only want to talk to you.’

That voice: primped and prim and proper, like his house.

His fingers wrapped round the door. What I could feel . . . it was like . . . you know when you’re a kid and you arm-wrestle a grown-up? How they let you think you stand a chance, but
really they could beat you instantly? That’s what it felt like. I was pushing as hard as I could, but I knew any second he wanted he could shove back and it’d be game over. So I did a
Whitby. I sank my teeth into fingers. I bit him as hard as I could. He yelled and pulled his hand free – but his foot stayed in the door.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said.

I spat his filthy taste from my mouth.

DO SOMETHING!
yelled my Halloween Bad-Dolly Saskia self.

The crowbar was in the car.

THINK!
yelled my Simon-ish me.

I had no instructions to follow. I looked for something, anything . . . the front-room door was ajar. I saw my wee bucket.

I let go of the door, dived into the front room and grabbed it.

He did not come in after me. He pushed the door wide open with his fingertip and stood back, nursing his hand. I stood there, in the hall, with my wee bucket.

The terrier quietened – but maybe not because the door fight was over, maybe because the humans were out-crazying it.

‘Get-away-from-me,’ I said.

My voice so choked with rage and fear and hate it sounded like another person’s – a dangerous psycho person’s. I held up the bucket, like I was ready to soak him. I held it
really tight to stop my hands from shaking. I gave it a little swish about. Menacing.

He backed up immediately. He slipped out through the gate. He held on to it.

‘I won’t hurt you!’ he said. ‘Please—’

‘You killed him,’ I said.

‘It was an accident—’

‘It was a trap!’

‘I was frightened—’

‘We were thirsty. WE-WERE-JUST-THIRSTY.’

‘I know that. I understand that—’

‘You murdered him.’

I came at him, then – more with rage than bravery. I strode down the path and he turned and ran.

‘Stay away from me!’ I screamed after him. ‘Stay away from my house!
MURDERER!
’

I couldn’t stop shaking. I kept thinking he would come back. I kept the wee bucket with me as I locked up the house. I kept the wee bucket with me as I went back to the
car. The crazy terrier followed me. I couldn’t leave him now, not when he’d stood behind
me
, barking at
him
. I opened the back passenger door. The terrier hopped in,
saw Whitby and growled. Whitby growled back.

‘BE QUIET!’ I yelled at them.

I opened the driver’s door, scooped Darling up with one hand, got in. I put the wee bucket down, jammed it in next to Fluffysnuggles, put Darling on my lap and shut the door. I put my seat
belt on.

The keys were gone.

Not knocked on to the floor gone. Not ‘Ooh silly me I forgot I put them in my pocket’ gone. Gone gone.

I looked around. He was standing in the road, a distance back, holding up the keys.

‘I JUST WANT TO TALK TO YOU,’ he shouted. ‘I PROMISE I WON’T HURT YOU.’

I undid my seat belt. I scooped Darling up, kissed her and swapped her for the wee bucket. I got out of the car. I didn’t shut that driver’s door; I stood right by it.

‘I didn’t know it was you and your dad,’ he shouted. He came towards me, slowly, very slowly. ‘I was scared,’ he shouted.

I said nothing. Not even, ‘He’s not my dad.’

‘Look, I’m really not going to hurt you,’ he said, moving closer, his stupid hands, his stupid evil murderer’s hands, outstretched as if to prove it – my keys in
one of them. MY KEYS.

‘And I know you’re not going to hurt me . . . I know you’re kind . . . you fed the cat . . .’

He’d reached the boot now; he put one of his hands on it, as if to steady himself.

‘I can see you really like animals,’ he said.

One step closer . . .

He took that step; his hand swept along the side of the car, the terrier jumped up barking like a nutter, the man jumped back and I chucked the wee into his prim and proper face.

I guess poo and wee and bleach sting when they get in your eyes. I bet they sting even more when you think they might be going to kill you. He yelled worse than when I’d bitten him. He
dropped the keys; his hands went to his face. I snatched up the keys. The dogs – all of them – were going crazy. I scooped up Darling where she’d crept back into the
driver’s seat and I chucked her into the back of the car. I slammed the door, stuck the keys into the ignition and kangarooed out of there.

Step Three really did last a long time. It was the slowest, most rubbish escape in history. When they make the blockbuster film, I want that changed. I want me to be in some
kind of flashy sports car – red; no, white; no, black. And my hair should be the blonde I wanted it to be, not a ghostly haystack, and definitely not Halloween horror. It should be an
open-top sports car; my tiara glinting triumphantly in the sun, my skin zit-free, snog-rash free and gorgeously sun-kissed (not ORANGE) (and definitely not plastic-coated). Darling would have to be
with me, wearing a spiky punk leather-and-studs collar. My dog: small, but super-mean.

Whitby could be there too, I suppose; but only if he’s been washed and blowdried and has had a serious doggy oral beauty treatment. No bits of dead people are to be stuck in his teeth.
Mimi, the terrier, the guy I left howling in the road, they should just disappear. They’re gone, not in this scene at all. For reasons I don’t care to discuss right now, it’d be a
lot better if Fluffysnuggles wasn’t there either.

I still have nightmares about Step Three. In them, I am Halloween Bad Dolly. I drive a tank. I kill people. I am alone.

The car stalled about a hundred times just getting to the end of our road. If that man had come after us, he could have walked, slowly, and still caught up.

The dogs – all of them – crouched down and shut up as we lurched our way to freedom. Even Fluffysnuggles was probably crouching in terror inside his carton.

I stopped at the junction like you’re supposed to and we stalled again and rolled backwards down the hill. I braked and restarted and kangarooed straight out on to the main road – on
to the wrong side of the road. That was deliberate; there was more space on the wrong side of the road, so end-of; it had to be. I managed the next half-mile without stalling or kangarooing. I even
managed to get into third gear and only clipped a couple of cars, just a bit . . . but I tell you: I did not like it ONE BIT.

No wonder people get ratty driving! Even if they’ve been doing it for years and years so they’ve stopped bumping into things and stuff and don’t have to actually THINK REALLY
HARD about how you do it, it’s basically the most stressful thing EVER. Seriously, when I got to Ashton Road I pretty much thought I’d be better off on a bike and, at this rate,
it’d probably be quicker.

I braked at the junction and I stalled. That was OK, in fact, because otherwise I’d have turned right, which would have led me straight into the giant car graveyard of town. Instead I had
a moment to think, so I went left. OK, I kangarooed left. Proper side of the road this time; the side coming into town was lined with abandoned cars. I was just building up to second gear when the
crazy terrier decided he’d been quiet for long enough and launched himself at Whitby.

There was a massive boy dogfight right in my car, with me, Darling and Mimi screaming and shouting like most girls do when there’s a fight. (Unless they’re in it.)

I told myself that’s why I had to pull into the school. I flung open the door and the terrier leapt out – sneaky Mimi scrambled out too and they both went skittering off while I
hammered on the horn.

Call it a charitable act. Know that I was scared.

So, yeah, I hammered on the horn.

Ever heard of a back-seat driver? No? It’s someone who sits in the back of the car and tells the driver what they should be doing. Basically: a know-it-all who should get
out and walk. I felt like I was in shock from the whole three-step escape thing and really I just wanted to be quiet for a bit, but after ten minutes in the car with the Spratt I was starting to
lose it.

How they even came to be in the car was like this:

‘Oh, all right. Hey,’ I said casually as the black plastic creatures emerged from the staffroom. (Can you imagine that? He hadn’t just gone to the
school
; he’d
gone to the
staffroom
.)

I bet that kid hadn’t been out of her plastic wrapper all night, and Darius had rebound himself. Did I mention that none of my steps had included putting on any kind of waterproof
clothing? Um . . . no. I was just wearing what you would wear, jeans and stuff.

‘Are you
crazy?!
It’s going to rain any second! What are you
doing?!
’ blathered the Spratt. ‘GET BACK IN THE CAR!’

Did I mention that I hadn’t even looked at the sky? Um . . . no. I had vaguely registered that it looked OK and stuff, but somehow, in the meantime, it had got to be not OK. An army of
little blobby clouds was advancing across the sky, rank after rank of them, lined up, marching. Altocumulus stratiformus, legions of them. The ones directly above our heads didn’t look that
scary to me (though, actually, altocumulus stratiformus is perfectly capable of sprinkling a little rain on you, just for kicks), but they must have been marching too slow for the rest of the army
because, behind them, the ranks were blundering into each other, massing for a full-scale invasion. I whipped Darling off my seat and got back in the car, plunking her in my lap. Darius and the kid
got in too, squishing plasticly into the back next to Henry’s seat.