Robert Swindells - Daz 4 Zoe

I find what I’m looking for at ten past ten. The truck is parked up between two factory units and the four man crew is leaning on a wall, taking a break. I walk past. The guys are smoking, chewing the fat. None of them looks in my direction. Beyond their line of vision I turn left and walk toward the door of the building, hoping nobody’s watching me through the windows of tinted glass. Instead of going to the door I turn left again and walk along the front of the factory to the corner. Here I flatten myself against the wall and take a peek. If DS are watching now, they’ll have me for sure. Maybe I’m half hoping they will.

The truck’s about four metres away, between me and the crew. By looking under the vehicle I can see their feet. I glance around. A pickup is cruising up the street. I lean on the wall and pretend I’m fixing a hangnail till it goes by. Then I take a deep breath and walk to the truck, praying no crewman sees my feet, and duck under. In the shadow I crouch motionless, my hair touching the caked, oily dirt under the truck. If DS have been watching, surely now’s the moment they’ll strike? Seconds pass and there’s no shout, no pounding feet. Am I relieved or disappointed? I dunno. I breathe out slowly, looking for the brackets it showed in that diagram, hoping the crew’s break won’t end just yet. I spot them – eight flat strips of steel which fasten the truck’s side-guards to the chassis. They cross at forty-five degrees the right angle between the side-guard and the underneath of the truck. There are four of them on each side. They’re about three feet apart, and I find I can easily wrap my arms round one and swing my legs up through the next so that the strip is hooked behind my knees. The trouble is that this leaves me very close to the side, so that anybody glancing between the slats of the side-guard will be sure to see me hanging like a sloth. Still, it’s a good secure position and the best I can manage.

I dangle. If you think I’m not scared, you’re crazy. I’m terrified. It’s not the danger of being spotted, so much as the thought of what it’ll be like when the truck starts moving. I mean okay, it’s been done before, but that guy knew he was going to die anyway and I’m no Dred fanatic.

Presently, the crew decides to move, and I’m in luck. We’ve no more calls to make. The vehicle bounces a bit but we’re headed straight for the nearest gate. My butt’s clearing the cement by about four inches and there’s a terrific sense of speed. To take my mind off this I turn my head to the right and peer through the slats. We’ve cleared the commercial section and are passing through a leafy residential part. Pedestrians walk dogs and push strollers within six feet of me but nobody looks at the truck. I pray to God to send us no red lights, and we get none.

For some reason, now that it’s actually happening I don’t feel nearly so bad as I did earlier. Adrenalin, I guess.

At the gate there’s no hassle at all. I’m amazed. We stop, but the bouncer doesn’t even leave his kiosk. He just yells something to the crewboss who yells something back, the pole goes up and we’re through. We cruise along the freeway. I’d pictured myself, if I ever got this far, clinging on for dear life as the jolting flung me this way and that, threatening to break the tenuous hold of my aching arms on some greasy gismo. Forget it. The jolting’s minimal till we turn off the freeway, and it’s only minutes to the dump from there.

At the dump three of the men get out and walk off, leaving the crewboss to dump the trash. While he’s doing that, leaning out the cab and looking back, I roll out on his blind side and get down behind a mound. It stinks, but I’m out.

And that’s how easy it is. Of course, they’re not looking for people breaking out. I mean, what Subby in her right mind would choose to be a Chippy?

i dint get no sleap that nite even thogh i wos nackert. 2 worid, see. that Pete 1 ov Cal guys and i kiltim. also it com reel cowld and the wind blue the polifeen sheat down of the broken windo. i after get up and fixit and wen i go back 2 bed i cant get warm even wiv 2 coats over.

Wensday morning our Mam fynd all the tucker stamps gon. ear our Daz she sez wears all the bleedin stamps, i canot tel a lye our Mam i sez (not much i cant) it wos me.

she giv me el. i after take it. i feal roten alreddy and she maykit wors. owm i spos 2 fead the 2 ov us wivowt stamps she sez. dunno Mam i sez. no she sez neever do i.

no brake fast, plus she send me owt in the cowld 2 deel stamps or tucker. How do i know wear is deelas Wensday morning? i take Del gun witch it all i got to deel and hang abowt, aster cupple guys, finely pickup this hardloaf bred and lengf ov sossidge witch the sos-sidge probly dog. After handover Del gun and the guy wont frow in no coffee neever the tite git. Me and Mam eat the bred and sossidge and i dont find no collar init witch is 1 big serprize.

bigger serprize coming thogh.

When the truck moved off I stayed down. With the actual escape behind me my mind was free for the first time to contemplate the enormity of the step I had taken, and I found myself overwhelmed by a combination of emotions, the strongest of which were regret, sheer disbelief and rising panic. It was as much as I could do to stop myself jumping up and running after the truck, begging to be taken back. I stuffed my handkerchief in my mouth, closed my eyes and fought for the control which alone could help me now.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. I know that gradually I became aware that I was terribly cold, and that the cry of gulls was everywhere. I pulled the wadded handkerchief from my mouth, wiped my face with it and thrust it into a pocket with the aspirin and the cigarettes.

I was shaking. Stop it, I said to myself. Stop this right now, Zoe, or you’re finished. You’re here. This is real. Regret’s worse than useless and panic’ll get you killed.

I raised myself a little and looked over the mound. Three, four hundred yards away some guys were working, sorting stuff into piles. A little way beyond them was a track, and beyond that was open ground, covered with weeds and scrub. There seemed to be no fence round the dump – nothing to stop me getting up and just walking away. I didn’t do it, though, because I had no idea what the guys’ reaction would be if a Subby kid suddenly materialised among them. What would they do – kill me? They might. Nobody’d ever know. They could belt me over the head and make a hole and plant me and I’d be gullfeed – part of the dump.

I looked around. Off to my left was where the trucks checked in – a little hut beside a muddy track. As I watched, a truck drew up and a man came out of the hut and stood, talking to the driver. Not that way, then. Directly behind me were great drifts of garbage. It was impossible to know what lay beyond them, so I looked to my right. A track marked the boundary of the dump in that direction too, but it must be at least a quarter of a mile away. There were no vehicles, though, and no people I could see. I was in jeans and anorak. If I got up and walked that way without hurrying, maybe nobody would notice me. One thing was certain – if I stayed where I was I’d either be discovered or I’d freeze to death. I stood up and started walking.

Nobody shouted. The guys who were sorting went right on doing it, and the man by the hut continued to talk to the driver. I plodded on with my head down in imitation of the Chippy’s dejected gait. I was walking away from the city but that was all right – once off the dump I could circle round, and it was only eleven thirty.

I made it to the track with muddy shoes, but no trouble. I began to circle the dump clockwise, watching out for people. When I saw the little hut in front of me I made a detour through the scrub, not returning to the track till I’d left it way behind. When I’d walked a half-circle there was a road, half choked with weeds, which seemed to go toward the city. I turned on to it and after that I didn’t see anybody for quite a while. I plodded on, looking for the tallest block in town.