The Boy Who Hit Play Page 9

  I smell the buffet car before I see it. It smells of heat and spice and sausages. The waiter is wiping the ketchup bottle with a blue cloth. ‘We are closing in ten minutes,’ he says.

  ‘I need to see the guard,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  I cross my fingers up my sleeves. ‘I lost my dad. I need to see the compartment list so I can find the right room and get back in.’

  The waiter hands over the clipboard off the shelf behind him and goes back to the ketchup. I run my finger down the plastic-covered page.

  Pedersen, Knut

  Philiips, Jorn

  Partington, Floyd

  My heart skips.

  The guard walks through the door and stares at me. ‘What do you want?’ she says.

  ‘Got it,’ I say and snap it shut. ‘Thanks.’ I pass it to the waiter and walk fast out the door and don’t look back.

  It hisses shut behind me.

  I go down the corridor past the compartments, bouncing my hands off the walls. I see the mountains flicking by. I see a herd of deer run. Their white bums bounce. I wonder why natural selection has selected that? It makes them so easy to kill. It seems unfair. It’s like sticking a target on their butt. I feel like a target in my pyjamas.

  I put my ear to his door and listen.

  It’s silent.

  I wonder if he’s in.

  ‘JUST SHOOT THE BUGGERS,’ a voice says. ‘THEY’RE ONLY BADGERS FOR GOD’S SAKE.’ It’s definitely Floyd.

  I take out a drink mat. The writing space is small.

  But possible.

  I write:

  What do you want?

  And slide it under the door.

  The mat slips through like a hot knife in butter.

  I wait.

  It slides back out, like underdone toast.

  Who are you?

  I write:

  Elvis

  and slide it back.

  There’s a laugh behind the door. Not a nice one.

  For a minute I think he might open it. I run up the corridor in my silent socks and into a man with a towel on and a toothbrush. ‘Beklager,’ he says and walks by. The drink mat slips out of Floyd’s door. The man walks past and his wet foot stands on it. It sticks. I watch it going up and down, up and down like a leaf on a car tyre. I panic. I think the writing will get smudged off.

  I run after the man, squatting like a frog person, hoping it will drop off. It doesn’t.

  He gets his key out. I tap him on the shoulder.

  ‘You trod on something,’ I say and rip it off his foot and hobble off. I skid down the corridor and stop by the window and hold it in the light.

  It isn’t too smudged.

  I can still read it.

  It’s just one word:

  Justice

  Help?

  I go back to our compartment and knock.

  ‘Who is it?’ Dad says.

  ‘Me.’

  There’s a stretching noise as Dad leans over to open the door and I go in. ‘You were gone a long time. You all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. My blood is bouncing.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I flop into bed. Justice? It’s something. But nothing.

  It could mean anything.

  Dad sits up and folds his head over the bed. ‘Elvis.’

  ‘Hmmn,’

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Like what?’ I rub my ankle. ‘Why does Floyd care about me, Dad? Why is he bothered?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Dad looks really serious.

  ‘It feels like a race.’ I flick the sink light on and off.

  ‘Look.’ He puts his book down. ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About tomorrow. About your parents. You might find something you don’t like.’

  ‘People don’t leave babies for no reason.’ I pick my fingers. Everyone knows that much.

  ‘I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.’

  ‘Do you?’ I tilt my head up.

  He pulls back. ‘How would I?’

  I look at him.

  Everyone feels suspicious.

  Even Dad?

  He sighs. ‘Everyone deserves to know where they’ve come from,’ he says. ‘I wanted you to see the place. You deserve that much. Places stay. People come and go. People are unpredictable.’

  I look out the window and wonder if this is a journey I’ve made before another time. Inside somebody else. Her. When her sounds were all I had. Before I was born into silence and taken away.

  The train squeaks and groans.

  And I think about the world and me shuttling through it in a train capsule like blood to a heart.

  And I think about my bedroom, empty, without me in it.

  I think about the truth.

  Getting closer and closer.

  I think about justice.

  Justice means getting what’s right and what’s fair and not being left in the dark. Doesn’t it?

  What’s the difference between justice and revenge?

  I don’t want to want the same thing as Floyd.

  But I do. Don’t I?

  I think about Bjorn. If I were you I’d ring it.

  I think about Dad. You might find something you don’t like.

  Are they there or not?

  I get out of bed again.

  If I can face Floyd, I can do anything. Can’t I?

  I just need a little help.

  Shadow Hands

  I get my phone out and look at the list of numbers Siri came up with.

  They’re useless.

  The bed shakes.

  My bones rattle.

  My heart rattles.

  I think of the train like a wolf. Running. Running. Like a husky with a sled.

  Dragging us along.

  I listen to the clacks on the tracks.

  Go on

  Go on

  Go on.

  I look at the back of my hand. At the blue biro smear.

  Maybe I need people, not machines.

  I text Bjorn. And cross my fingers, hoping he’s about.

  You there?

  We didn’t lose Floyd.

  He doubled. He hired a detective.

  I need some help.

  I need to find the phone number.

  Do It!

  I send Bjorn the address and lie in bed, clutching the phone.

  When I wake up the train has stopped. I open the door and see people banging down the corridor in their pyjamas.

  I look at the screen to see if Bjorn’s had a breakthrough yet.

  Nothing.

  ‘The train will depart in fifteen minutes,’ the announcement says.

  I knock on Lloyd’s door. He is fully dressed. ‘Me and Owen had an interesting conversation about cheese,’ he says and points to the man in his compartment. The man sticks his head out and waves.

  Dad just stretches and rubs his eyes like a vampire.

  We put clothes on and Dad swears at the case, which won’t shut, and we squeeze along the corridor with everyone else and get off into a station made of glass.

  It feels like being in a fishbowl full of light. Other people get off the train and trail away. This place feels slow and easy. Suitcases grumble over the concrete.

  I pull us into the 7-Eleven behind the magazine racks and look for Floyd.

  He knows we’re here now.

  I found out nothing and gave everything away.

  Lloyd picks up Big Eye magazine. ‘Look at the eyes!’ he says and holds it in front of our faces.

  I buy us hot chocolate and cinnamon buns and Melkesjokolade with my cash. Under the wrapper all the chocolate bars are like little medieval cities. ‘Takes years for the elves to carve these out,’ Dad says and eats his in two bites and gets an espresso. We turn round the postcard stand and look at postcards of the north.

  Mountains like teeth.

  Snow.

  Racks of fish on
washing lines.

  ‘The north is so special!’ A woman walks past and smiles.

  I look outside.

  There is no sign of Floyd. Or the shadow.

  Yet.

  We run over the concourse and into a car-hire shop and Dad hires a Peugeot 306 with his cash wedge.

  BING.

  My phone flashes with two big thumbs up.

  And the number.

  Bjorn’s a genius.

  I text him.

  You sure?

  Dad sorts the forms. Without the passports it takes ages.

  I sneak out the front door and round the back.

  I look around and press my back against the wall and click the number.

  It rings.

  A long weird beep.

  BEEEEEP

  I look at Dad through the window, signing the yellow papers.

  BEEEEEP

  It stops. A woman answers.

  ‘Hei hei,’ she says.

  My chest is so tight I can’t breathe.

  I have to speak.

  I have to say something.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Hello?’ she says.

  I feel our brains connecting through wires across space like hands rushing through the air.

  Tapping her on the shoulder.

  Her.

  It’s her.

  Is it?

  I’m coming, I think.

  Don’t let Floyd in, I want to say.

  But the silence coils around us.

  And chokes me.

  I shrink back.

  ‘Who is this? You must stop! Stop doing this!’ she says and hangs up.

  Brothers

  I run back into the shop and pour a cup of water with the little handle on the water cooler like in a bar. The drips run away into the overspill. I drink it and breathe.

  I think of her voice.

  Who is this? You must stop! Stop doing this!

  Did someone ring before?

  Who?

  Floyd?

  He got the address off me.

  Lloyd?

  He took a photograph of it on the bus.

  How would they even get the number? I couldn’t do it without Bjorn.

  Dad?

  He had the address all along.

  Why would he call and not say anything?

  ‘Coming?’ Dad looks over his shoulder like I’d never gone.

  I gulp the water and nod.

  We go round the back and into the car. It’s blue and smells of headaches.

  We load our stuff into the boot and drive off. We go really slowly and stop at traffic lights.

  And I say, ‘Floyd was on the train last night,’ to see if they knew.

  Lloyd bristles. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw his name on the passenger list.’

  Dad brakes hard at the lights. ‘When’s it gonna end, Lloyd?’

  I look at Dad and Lloyd for signs of lying.

  I don’t think either of them are.

  They didn’t know.

  The light goes green.

  Lloyd says, ‘You can do forty here.’

  And Dad says, ‘I am doing forty.’

  And Lloyd says, ‘It’s this way isn’t it?’

  And Dad says, ‘NO.’

  And Lloyd says, ‘There’s no need to say it like that.’

  And Dad says, ‘I didn’t say it like anything.’

  I wind my window down and look out the back for anything suspicious. We leave the town and head out through green-field blur.

  The water hits my bladder and we stop to wee in a bush next to a waterfall which gushes out of the rock like blood from a giant’s arm that’s been cut off. It crushes out the sounds of everything else, grinding them up on the rocks with its water fists. I record:

  power

  (a hissing – rushing – sound).

  We get back in the car. It is a bubble of breathing and silence. Dad plays ‘What is Normal?’ by the Lovely Eggs and we drive on, over a hill and round a bend. I look out and see a road that goes into the sea for miles. It rises up on concrete pillars, over bridge arcs, past red barns and fishing huts and rocks like a Scalextric on water. The waves froth white and blue. The sky opens out. Gulls shriek and squeal. I get out my phone and wind down the window to make a video.

  I pan front.

  I pan behind.

  There’s a red Alpha Romeo Spider tailing us. With a flat cap behind the wheel. A weaselly face under the flat cap.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Floyd alert,’ I say and point out the back.

  Lloyd looks like he’s gonna be sick.

  Dad grips the wheel. ‘Right,’ he says and steps on the accelerator and we lurch off.

  Go, Peugeot 306, go.

  We are the Floyd, Lloyd and Us challenge.

  Bring it on.

  I’ve never seen Dad rally drive. He’s actually really good.

  Floyd weaves to the right. He sneers.

  Peugeot against Alpha. Alpha against Peugeot. A lion against a spider. A weasel against wild beasts. We roar. The brakes squeal.

  We screech over the first bridge. And scream round the corner. My phone skids across the back seat and I catch it before it falls off.

  Floyd follows. The spider grips the road. Close. The lion revs and smells of burning.

  We turn left around a white barn, right on to an island. We island skim like a stone over the sea. I grip the headrest to protect my elbows.

  I stick my head out. The air blasts past and shoves into my mouth. It’s great.

  Floyd sticks an arm out of his window with an air rifle. This is not great.

  Dad yells, ‘Get yer head in.’

  Floyd shoots. DING. It pings off a rock. Again. DING. It just misses the hubcap. We nearly lost a tyre.

  ‘How is he shooting?’ I see Dad’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘He’s using one hand.’

  Lloyd ducks down on to the floor and says in a quiet voice, ‘I am as strong as you, Floyd. I am a strong confident man.’

  We hit a straight bit of road. Floyd has two hands now. His feet are on the pedals. Nothing on the wheel. He has us in his sights.

  He aims lower. PING. It stotts off the road railing. Dad swerves right.

  A Nissan Leaf honks round the bend.

  ‘He’s going for the tyres,’ I yell. ‘It’s the only way to stop us.’

  The road climbs up to a bridge, the bridge stilts rise up over the water, heading for the land. He can’t miss this. He grins. His ferret face is red. His eyes twinkle.

  Dad slams on the brakes. I bounce off the seat in front.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m not running from him.’ Dad reverses. Full force.

  We screech on the tarmac.

  ‘We’re going to die!’ Lloyd yells.

  The world slows into slo-mo.

  Dad doesn’t back down.

  Floyd doesn’t back off.

  I have to do something.

  I must do something. My rucksack skids across the floor.

  I put my arm out the window. ‘You want justice. Take some justice,’ I yell, and pull my birth newspaper out and chuck it.

  It flies through the air like a paper bird.

  Into the sky and down.

  Down down down.

  On to the Spider’s windscreen.

  It opens its wings and lands, covering everything.

  Floyd swerves.

  BOOM.

  Dad slams on the brakes. I look behind.

  Floyd’s crashed into the side railing. His airbag is out and his head is in it. Like a raspberry in a marshmallow. Steam’s coming out of the engine. There’s a dent in the bonnet.

  ‘Nice shot.’ Dad high-fives me backwards and switches the gears into accelerate.

  Lloyd crawls out from the footwell and looks behind in the wing mirror.

  ‘I hope he’s OK,’ he says and looks sad.

  ‘He wanted to
shoot us.’ I wind my window up. ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘He’s still my big brother,’ he says.

  And I wonder about brothers.

  And I wonder if I have one that I don’t know about.

  And if he’s nice.

  He would be nice, wouldn’t he? What if he’s with them and I’m not. What if there’s lots of them. Brothers, sisters, altogether. What if they’re a big happy family without me?

  What if he’s like Floyd?

  What if?

  What if?

  What if?

  And I think about how in films, families are always really nice and get on and go out for pizza and how life isn’t really like that at all.

  Flat

  ‘Next stop the ferry,’ Dad says and zooms off.

  Lloyd’s eyes sparkle. ‘We’ll get there, Elvis!’ He punches the air with both hands. ‘We’ll get there.’

  ‘Well done on the paper,’ Dad says. ‘Where’d you find that?’

  ‘It was my birth paper.’

  Dad stops the car. ‘Seriously?’

  A white pickup goes by and honks.

  He puts the hazard lights on.

  The car is silent.

  ‘That was a piece of you,’ Lloyd says.

  ‘Well at least we’re not dead,’ I say. ‘Or they’d be lots of pieces of me.’ I look out the window. ‘And I don’t need it do I? This afternoon we’ll meet them and I’ll know.’

  Dad gives Lloyd a look.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ I say, ‘it isn’t who I am any more. I don’t need it. OK.’

  ‘OK,’ Dad says and blows out.

  I tuck my feet up on the seat. ‘Can we just get going please?’

  ‘Sure.’ Dad bulges his eyes and drives off and we stop after a bit at Statoil (petrol station) to get sandwiches. Me and Lloyd open the bakery drawers. The lids lift when you pull them open and the smell comes out. Lloyd opens and closes the drawers till the attendant stops him. I get a hot pizza slice and Potetgull crisps.

  I think that the shadow is nowhere. Where’d he go?

  Sometimes the things you can’t see are the scariest.

  Lloyd gets out a coconut bun.

  ‘Where’s the shadow man gone?’ I look at him.