The Rain (35 page)

Even though it was just a quick dash to the garage and the car, I got kitted up; I did a Darius Spratt special and taped a thousand bin bags over my body, I shoved my feet into Mr MG’s
walking boots and taped them over too, where the gaps were. If he had an umbrella, I couldn’t find it, so I got a baseball cap and taped together an Indiana Jones and the Temple of Bin Bags
rain hat. Finally, I turned my hands into black plastic paws.

Brilliant. Good to go, Ruby, good to go. And I was going; see, the newer version of the new me still didn’t want to stay in that house. I snuffed out Santa – mid-belly, his buckle
starting to sizzle – chucked him and the matches in a plastic bag and -

BOMF!
I slammed the door shut behind me – like you do – and –

SCREECH!

Seems wrong if this comes across like something out of a cartoon. There wasn’t anything even remotely cartoony about it.

A millimetre from my face, rain streamed down.

poisoned rain.

poisoned
rain, teeming with a million billion microscopic killers.

(So, definitely cumulus congestus then.)

I flattened my back against that front door, the measly little porch above. One frightened hand crept round behind me and went to open that front door. That front door wouldn’t open. The
porch I was under was so narrow I was too scared to even turn round and yank on that door – but that wouldn’t have made any difference, because the door was well and truly closed.
Closed, shut, slammed shut – not going to open ever.

I tried to get Santa relit. My black plastic paws fiddled about, panicking; I dropped matches, I nearly set myself alight, and when I got one struck and managed to keep hold of it I saw it: this
little single glistening bead of rain hanging from the brim of my Indiana Bin-Bag baseball hat. I dropped Santa and the match. I reached behind my head, grabbed the back of that hat and flung it
into the darkness.

Then I had this really bad few minutes thinking I could feel my hand wet, burning, bloody under the plastic . . . because that’s the thing, isn’t it? That, really, a bunch of bin
bags and some sticky tape . . . would you trust them? Even before I’d dumped the hat there was NO WAY I was going to go wandering out in that rain. Bin bags, waterproofs; the only use they
might – might – have is that they’d maybe buy you a few seconds. Who would risk longer? You may as well parade about naked if you think that stuff is going to save you.

For an age, felt like, I stood pressed against the door in that porch. If the wind changed, if the wind got up, if the stupid measly porch LEAKED . . . I would have been done for.

Not good, Ruby Morris, not good. NOT GOOD. Rain streamed down right in front of my face.

‘
It’s you and me now
,’ I whispered at it. ‘
You and me.
’

Sooner or later, rain always stops. It stops, but it’s laughing at you.

I can come back any time I please. Perhaps the second you step out from under this porch.

When it did stop, I waited. I got Santa and I relit him. I watched drips fall from the roof of the porch. I didn’t wait for as long as I should have done. I just waited for a bit. I waited
like I could trick the rain . . . or trick myself into believing it could be safe.

Without giving myself or the rain any kind of warning, I launched myself out into the dark, roaring something terrible.

It had been good, then, that I had looked at the garage first. I knew what was there. I stuck Santa on the roof of the car. I heaved and shoved the dark lump of MG man out of the way with a
garden fork. I snuffed Santa out. I got into the car; I started it up and I got the
out of there.

It was the journey from hell.

Going to Zak’s and back on the bike, that was easy in comparison; on the way there I’d been too freaked out and frantic to think about anything, and on the way back I’d been
too shocked to really understand what a dumb thing I was doing. Plus I was somewhere I knew. Now, I had no clue. There was a road map in the car and still I had no clue . . . but if there
hadn’t been a map, I’d have been sunk from the start. I’d probably still be driving around . . . wherever it was I was.

There was no light in that car and I had to keep stopping and lighting and relighting the Santa candle to work out where I was. Apart from Oxford, it was all places I’d never even heard
of: Kingston Bagpuize; Monks Risborough; Great Missenden.
Were they making these names up?!
Who had ever even
heard
of them?! And – no
probably
about it – I
should have found a different car. When I’d seen that car, a tiny part of me had thought . . . I dunno: how cool that’d be, to drive it. How cool it’d be to turn up at my
dad’s in a sports car.

Yes, an MG is a sports car, but it’s a really, really ancient one; not zoomy or souped up at all. In the
Ruby Morris Guide to Disaster Survival
, a book I hope I’ll live long
enough to write, I will have to include a special chapter on picking cars.

There was no light and there was no CD player. All I had was the rattling boom of the engine and – below that – the rattling boom of my own heart. Bodies, dumped cars, burnt-out
stuff, smashed-up stuff . . . I zigzagged my way through all that; and as far as I could tell I was zigzagging, full stop. Left turn, right turn. Stop the car, light up Santa, check the map. Right
turn, left turn. Stop the car, light up Santa, check the map.

What I suppose I should have stopped was me. Plenty of places to do that. Endless plenty of places to stop and hole up for the night. Plenty of places to have at least stopped and found a better
car. And something to eat. And something – please – to drink. But no; all I could think was,
I’m going to see my dad
.

Last match gone; Santa, stuck to the dashboard, burned down to his boots and went out.

It took a thousand hours before I got to somewhere I recognised. I knew I’d got to London – houses and flats closed in – but it wasn’t until the road
rose up into a flyover that I knew for sure(ish) where I was. I saw that building with a gigantic bottle on the side of it that poured sparkling neon liquid into a neon glass. Only it wasn’t
pouring any more.

Like me, the MG was groaning with thirst. Probably I couldn’t have got much further anyway . . . it’s just that I wouldn’t have chosen to stop right there, on top of that
flyover. The road, which had got more and more difficult to get along, was finally completely blocked. I grabbed the map and I got out.

It wasn’t raining any more, but you’d think, wouldn’t you, that I’d at least have tried to look at the sky first. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that I’d
have got that by then. Not me, no. I stepped out of the car, then I thought that thought, then I looked at the sky. I saw stars, tons of stars.

Stars, beautiful stars . . . how you never, ever saw them in London, where the sky was always a dirty orange . . . and a moon, full – like an ‘O’.

Like an
O! . . . O! Look! No clouds!

NO CLOUDS. BRILLIANT.

No way down off a flyover; no way other than forward. (Because no way was I going back.) So that’s what I did. I walked on; if I couldn’t get around the cars and bodies that were in
my way, I clambered over them:
I’m going to see my dad; I’m going to see my dad; I’m going to see my dad.