We Used to Be Kings Page 9
‘Who?’
He looked out the window, then back at the sitting-room door.
‘The Russians,’ he said.
‘The Russians?’
‘Shush.’ He put his finger up to his lips. ‘Top-secret.’
I shuffled closer to him until my head bumped against his shoulder.
‘Dad, why’s it top-secret?’
He looked out the window and at the door again, then pulled me and Jack close to him. His eyes were open wide, his pupils were small and the whites were red at the edges.
‘I’m going to the moon,’ he whispered.
I heard a ringing noise like someone had knocked me on the head. I looked at Jack; his jaw was hanging and his eyes were as wide as Dad’s. Dad pulled us closer. I felt the warmth of his breath on my face.
‘Tell no one,’ he said. ‘Top-secret.’
I felt my heart beat faster. I had hundreds of questions before and I had even more now, but they all wanted to come out at the same time.
Jack closed his mouth then opened it again.
‘Can we go too?’
Dad looked straight ahead.
Jack tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Dad, can we go too?’
But Dad didn’t seem to be listening, he just looked between us into space and started blinking so many times that I lost count. It was like all the new information the Russians were giving him was battling to get into his brain and then having a fight inside. I put my hand on his.
‘Dad?’
He leant forward. Me and Jack looked at each other then moved out of the way. Dad stared straight ahead at the TV screen.
There were soldiers standing by a shop on a corner, they swivelled their guns and aimed them right at us. Green army trucks passed by, people were running around wearing black uniforms and balaclavas. Four helicopters hovered in the sky. We watched as the Union Jack burnt and green flags fluttered. Jack nudged me, asked me if it was a war and which ones were the Germans. I didn’t answer. I only knew the Union Jack was us, I didn’t know about the green flag.
A man dressed in black stood on a pavement with a bottle in his hand. Behind him IRISH REPUBLICAN ARMY SAYS BRITISH TROOPS GO HOME was painted in big letters on a wall. The man stuffed a rag in the bottle and lit the top. I looked at Dad.
‘Is that where you were fighting?’ I asked.
Dad didn’t answer, he just stared at the man running with the bottle. A flame was burning on the top. The man threw it. It flew through the air, smashed against a truck and the truck caught fire. I heard the bang of a bomb and the rattle of bullets. Dad jumped beside me, he clenched his fork and blinked like the bombs were going off inside his head. He started to shake.
‘Dad, what’s wrong?’
His eyes opened wide, his fork dropped onto his plate and his plate fell onto the floor. I stood up and ran towards the door. I shouted for Mum. I heard the cutlery crash in the kitchen and she ran in with soapy water dripping from her fingers. She looked at me. I looked at Dad. He was still staring at the TV.
‘Steve,’ she said. She stood between Dad and the TV. ‘Steve!’
Dad shook his head like he’d just woken up.
‘What?’
Mum turned the TV off then knelt down in front of him. Me and Jack stood side by side. We didn’t know what we should do as they stared at each other without talking. Dad started to shiver.
‘It’s OK,’ Mum said. ‘Everything is OK.’ She put her arm around him and helped him stand up. They walked across the room and went out into the hall. I could hear Dad talking as they went up the stairs.
‘Sporry,’ he said. ‘Sporry wurry sputnik.’
Me and Jack looked at each other as the floorboards creaked above us. I switched the TV back on, turned the sound down. People were marching down the street, some carried green flags, some carried orange. They marched past the smouldering truck and the writing on the wall. A Union Jack was burning, all the soldiers had gone, and where a building once stood there was a pile of smoking rubble.
Me and Jack looked at each other. Our house was dark and quiet. Neither of us had ever been the last one up before. I looked at the table, at the dirty plates, at Dad’s knife and fork stuck in the mound of mash potato. Jack got up from the floor and sat down next to me. We listened for more creaks in the ceiling but all we heard was the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece and the sound of a car engine humming up the hill. I reached under the settee and pulled out the book that Mum had given me. Jack sat close to me in the silence and I wondered if he was thinking the same as me. Our dad was going to the moon and we couldn’t tell anyone about it, but at least we had a book where we could write it down.
The next morning me and Jack were playing football in the hall while Mum and Dad were talking in the kitchen. I went in goal and tried to listen as Jack took the penalties, but it was hard to hear their whispers above the noise of the dishes and our ball banging against the door. I could just make out Dad’s words, I couldn’t hear Mum’s replies.
‘I’ll be leaving soon.’
Bang!
‘A month.’
Bang!
‘That’s lunar, not calendar.’
Bang!
‘Lunar, not calendar.’
Bang!
‘It’s T minus—’
Bang!
‘Let me tell the boys.’
Bang!
‘But—’
‘I said, no.’ Mum sounded like she was mad. ‘I’ll tell them. You just need to concentrate on yourself.’
I pressed my ear closer to the door. Jack stood next to me and did the same.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ he said.
I listened harder but all I could hear was the sound of a tap dripping, Mum and Dad mumbling and Jack’s breath wheezing in my ear.
‘I think they’re doing sex,’ he said.
‘In the kitchen?’
He started to giggle. He put his hand over his mouth and his eyes started to water. The giggles got louder, rapid bursts, like a machine gun with a muffler.
Dddddddddddaaaaaaaaaaa! Dddddddddddddaaaaaaa!
Yes, it was just like that.
The door opened and we fell forward and landed on the kitchen floor.
Jack was still giggling. I was laughing. But when I looked up at Mum and Dad the silence stopped me. Dad was standing staring at the fridge, moving his finger along the calendar like he was counting the days left in June. Mum was staring out the window, nodding her head like she was counting the flowers in the garden.
The tap dripped.
Me and Jack got up. He stood by the sink next to Mum. I stood by the fridge next to Dad. We hadn’t heard an argument but it was like we were choosing our sides just in case.
Dad was still looking at the calendar. I asked him what he was doing. He turned around and looked at me. His eyes were black like he had been punched in them twice.
‘Counting the days,’ he said.
‘Until you leave?’
Dad looked at Mum. She picked a piece of potato peel up off the floor and put it in the sink.
‘So when do you go?’ I asked.
He twitched his head like a fly was buzzing in his ear. ‘In T minus twenty-eight days, and . . .’ he looked at his watch, ‘T minus twenty-eight days, six hours, twenty-three minutes, twelve seconds and counting.’
‘What does “T minus” mean?’ Jack asked.
Dad stared at the floor like the answer was written on the tiles.
‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘I need to go to work. Tom will tell you.’ He walked past Mum, sat on the back step and put his trainers on.
‘But I don’t know either,’ I said.
Dad looked up at me. ‘Why not look it up in your encyclopaedia?’
I ran upstairs and found it on my shelf next to my bed and then ran back to the kitchen. I flicked through the pages, past Oceans, past Volcanoes and stopped on Space . . . The Universe . . . Planet Constellations . . . I held my finger against Space Travel.<
br />
‘What section will it be under?’ I asked.
The wind blew through the door and turned the page.
I looked up for Dad to give me the answer but he had already gone.
Chapter Seven
THE SUN IS so high in the sky that we don’t follow it or leave it behind. We keep walking but with every stride it feels like our legs are melting into the ground. We kick stones along the road.
We pull branches from trees.
We get fat pieces of grass and blow them between our thumbs.
We pick blackberries from a bush.
I don’t like—
We eat twenty and move on.
—
—
The grand old Duke of York. He had—
Do we have to sing that again?
It makes the time go quicker.
It doesn’t.
We’re hungry and we’re thirsty. Our last meal was a piece of chewing gum, our last drink came from the trough. We’re going our fastest but still moving too slowly and the roads twist and turn and never end, and—
The grand old Duke of York.
!
. . . He had 10,000 men.
And we have sung this song so many times that when we get to the top of this hill there will be a million soldiers waiting for us.
A road sign wriggles in the heat haze. We try to read it but the sun is too bright and sweat stings our eyes. We get closer – two arrows point in opposite directions:
← Pentyre 23
Sefton 25 →
We scratch our head. If we were birds we could look down and see the road that took the easiest route, the road that would scoot us around the hills instead of making us crawl over.
But we’re not birds.
No.
So we have to walk?
Yes.
All the way?
—
And we can’t turn back?
Never.
Because we killed the chicken?
!
We take our book out of our bag and try to find one of Dad’s maps.
Found one!
That was quick.
I know. This is one of Dad’s maps.
Sorry . . . not that one. Ha!
!
We open another piece of paper.
This is the first map Dad sent us. We used it the first time we tried to escape but all it did was send us in circles. He must have sent it for a reason but we don’t know why because a map of the universe isn’t much use when we’re stuck on Earth. There are many things Dad told us that we still can’t work out. We thought it was because they were secrets, that maybe it was some kind of code that he sneaked in when he told us stories at night.
Stories about genies.
Secrets about Stalin.
Stories about elves.
Secrets about the atomic bomb.
Stories about Father Christmas.
Secrets about Hitler.
He told all these things at the same time. We didn’t know what was made up or what was the truth.
I did.
You didn’t.
I did.
Jack, just for once can you let me think on my own?
Sorry . . . It’s not my fault.
I know.
We fold the map and put it back in our book and put our book in our bag.
—
—
. . . But Hitler was true.
. . . Yes, Hitler was true.
And Stalin.
Yes.
And Father Christmas.
—
And Father Christmas.
Ummm . . . no.
No? But I thought—
Didn’t you notice that Father Christmas stopped coming after Dad went to the moon?
—
—
We stand in front of the sign. We have been here ten minutes and we still don’t know which way to go.
That way.
That way.
We open our arms.
One . . . two . . . three.
What are you doing?
We lift up our hands.
One . . . two . . . three. Scissors.
Scissors.
Again.
I’m not playing.
I can cut you.
. . . I can cut you.
One . . . two . . . three.
Paper.
Paper.
You’re copying me . . . Let me count this time.
Will it make a difference?
No, it’s just my turn.
!
One . . . two . . . three!
Stone.
Stone.
One . . . two . . . thr— Police!
Police!
The sound of a siren pierces through the hills. We pick up our bag, run across the road and push our way into a hedge. The thorns scratch our arms and our back.
Ouch!
Shush!
The siren gets louder. Sweat runs down the side of our face as the noise runs around inside our head. An engine revs and a whoosh of air takes our breath. We peer out of the hedge as an ambulance flashes by.
—
—
That’ll be for Frost.
What?
The ambulance.
Why?
—
Why, Jack?
It – it was an accident.
What have we done? All you had to do was tie him up while I jammed the window.
. . . But he woke up.
How?
When you smashed the glass. He started shouting . . . Then he started to wriggle.
So?
So I pulled the sheet tighter.
So he couldn’t move?
Sort of . . .
Sort of?
He said he couldn’t breathe.
What?
He said he couldn’t breathe.
I said tie his feet, not his neck.
It wasn’t my fault he was sleeping upside down.
Oh shit!
You shouldn’t say—
Oh fuck!
Or that—
We put our hands on our head, turn round in circles. Our world goes dizzy, turns black at the edges.
Oh, Jack, what have we done? What have we done?
—
Oh shit. Oh shit!
But – it was you who killed the chicken.
We stop spinning, look at the sign. Whichever way we go, we have to go quickly.
We pick up our bag and walk in silence, with just the sound of our feet scuffing and our blood bumping in our head, trying to think, trying to think what we should do next.
—
We jump over a gate when we hear a car. We think of running when we hear a bus and when the ambulance flashes by with just its lights flashing we wonder if Frost is dead or alive.
. . . I’m sorry.
We’re thinking.
It was an accident.
That’s what we’ll tell them if they catch us.
But they won’t catch us.
—
Will they?
No . . . but we have to have a story. We’ll tell them you didn’t mean to do it.
Me! I thought we did everything together?
Not this.
?
We’ll tell them it was an accident, that it can’t be undone. We can’t go back over the wall and untie all the knots . . . The knots!
?
You can’t tie knots. You can’t tie our shoelaces.
So?
You didn’t do it. You couldn’t have killed Frost.
But—
But what?
You taught me.
Shit!
—
That makes me an accomplice.
What does that mean?
It means we have to keep going.
Because we don’t want to go to Houndsgate?
Because we don’t want to go to prison.
!
!
We sling our bag
over our shoulder and run along the road to Pentyre.
Chapter Eight
IS IT MUCH farther?
—
Is it much farther?
Further.
Is it much further?
I don’t know.
Aaarh!
Ha!
!
We reach the crest of a hill. A house seems to grow out of the ground. A sign hangs from a pole:
THE BLACK SWAN PUBLIC HOUSE
We scuff our trainers through the dust and stones in the car park and look in through a window. Four men sit on stools in front of a bar, drinking pints and eating sandwiches. Our mouth starts to water. We lean closer until our nose hits the glass. One of the men turns round.
We duck down below the ledge.
Did he see us?
I don’t think so.
We creep around the side of the pub. The door opens, the thud of music and the cackle of people laughing rush out. We crouch down behind a car and peer through the windows. A man in a suit comes out and walks towards us. We scurry across the shadow of the building and hide behind a stack of crates and boxes leant against a wall. A car door opens and closes, an engine starts and the car drives off.
We turn around and see the crates piled as high as we are tall, with wasps buzzing around bottle tops. We pick up a bottle, hold it up to the sun. Dregs swill in the bottom.
We can’t—
We have to.
We tip our head back and drink. The cider is warm and tastes like water. We drink another, and another, until our thirst has gone and we remember our hunger. We open the boxes and search like tramps through bins but all we find are bottle tops and split packets of crisps.
They’re soft.
They’re cheese-and-onion.
They make me feel sick.
We stuff the crisps in our mouth and munch them up until our belly swells.
Our feet start to throb. We look around for somewhere to sit but the ground is littered with shards of glass that glitter in the sun. We creep out and walk across the car park. At the end is a garden full of dandelions with a wheelbarrow in the middle and a rope swing that hangs from a tree.
Can we go on it?
No.
We walk through a gate and lie back in the long grass. When we close our eyes the world turns orange. The sun beats down on our body and warms us like we are lizards.
Everything is quiet.
Except for the puff of our breath.
And the thud of our heart.
And a fly buzzing in our ear.
We flick it away, put our hands behind our head and think about all the places we have been and all the places we want to go.