Peter May - Runaway

He crunched the column shift into gear, and we lurched off down the road. I barely had time to glance back at the pebble-harled suburban semi where I had spent my entire life up until that moment. And my stomach lurched as I thought about my folks finding my letter.

Luke was waiting for us at Clarkston Toll, a tall, languid, good-looking boy in jeans and a donkey jacket, a holdall at his feet. He threw it into the back of the van first, then climbed in after it.

‘Where’s the organ?’ Jeff called back at him.

‘It belongs to the school.’

‘You’d only have been borrowing it.’

‘I think they might have called it theft,’ Luke retorted before slamming the door shut.

Jeff glanced at Maurie and me. ‘Jobbies!’ he mouthed.

It was the word he always used for ‘shit’, straight from the primary-school playground. A euphemism he had never grown out of.

The problem came when we arrived outside Dave’s house in Crosslees Drive. The light was fading fast, and we were anxious to be away in case any of the notes we had left were found before we were gone. We sat for several minutes at the gate, engine idling impatiently, Jeff tapping nervously on the wheel.

‘Jobbies!’ he kept muttering. ‘Where the hell is he?’

The house was dilapidated from years of neglect in those days, like a bad tooth in an otherwise pleasant smile. The front garden was overgrown, and there was an old boat rotting on the path.

Honking the horn was out of the question, and no one was going to go to the door.

Luke glanced at his watch, and his voice came to us from the back of the van. ‘Don’t panic yet, he’s only a few minutes late.’

‘Is that earth minutes?’ Maurie said dryly.

Then suddenly Dave’s front door flew open and Dave appeared, wearing jeans and hiking boots, and a green waterproof army jacket. He had a rucksack on his back, full of God knew what, with tin mugs dangling from canvas ties. He pulled the door shut behind him and sprinted through the long grass of the front lawn, to vault over the wall, catching his trailing foot and going sprawling on the pavement.

‘Jesus!’ Maurie cursed under his breath, and he and Luke jumped out to pick Dave up and bundle him into the back of the van.

Jeff turned his head over his shoulder. ‘That’s what I call a quiet exit.’

‘Go! Just go!’ Dave shouted at him.

Jeff gunned the motor and we lurched off down the street.

There was one last stop before we finally got on the road. The boys just wanted to be gone, but I insisted. ‘If we don’t do it, you might as well stop the van and let me out right now,’ I said.

So we made the detour. Via Stamperland.

It was dark by the time we pulled up outside Jenny’s house and Jeff cut the engine. I had phoned her before I left the house and had heard her distress when I told her what we were planning. I’d promised to come and say goodbye. My heart was in my mouth as I hurried up the path.

She must have been watching for me, because the door opened before I got to the top of the steps, and she slipped out into the darkness of the porch, pulling the door to behind her.

‘Jack, this is madness!’ she whispered.

I just took her and held her, feeling the beat of her heart and the warmth of her body, and all the uncertainty of my life welling up inside me. But it was too late for second thoughts now.

‘I’ll send for you,’ I said, knowing that I wouldn’t. ‘Just as soon as we’re settled and we get things sorted.’

She untangled herself from my arms and stood back, looking at me. ‘Do you think I’m daft, Jack? If you go, you’re gone. I’ll never see you again.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Why? Because you don’t want to hear the truth? Because you’re living out some fantasy and you don’t want to know that there’ll be consequences?’

I didn’t know what to say. I had never heard her so forthright before.

‘We’ll be fine,’ I said lamely.

‘No, you won’t. It’ll be a bloody disaster. You’re just kids. You haven’t thought this through.’

‘Sometimes you’ve just got to do stuff. You can overthink things.’

‘Says the voice of experience.’

I could hear the sarcasm in her voice.

From somewhere inside the house we heard her father calling, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Just a friend,’ she called back. Then she turned to me, her voice a whisper in the dark. ‘Call me, Jack, please. First stop on the road. Let me know you’re alright.’

I pulled her back into my arms and kissed her with a sort of passionate desperation. This was all so much harder than I had ever stopped to imagine. ‘I will,’ I said.

‘Promise!’

‘I promise.’

And I was gone.

His automatic weapon tracked from side to side as the soldier stepped carefully through the rubble of the bombed-out building. Wisps of smoke drifted across a devastated landscape, and Jack could hear the rattle of distant gunfire and men crying out. An enemy combatant swung suddenly into view from behind a broken-down wall. The soldier reacted before his adversary could release shots in his direction. The sound of gunfire was almost deafening as the string of bullets from the soldier’s gun blew his enemy apart. There were body pieces and blood everywhere.

Another soldier appeared, dropping down from the shattered ceiling. Jack was beginning to recognize the enemy by the colour of the uniform and shape of the helmet. The soldier whose point of view he was sharing fired two, three, four times, and the other man flew backwards to slump, bleeding and dead, against a bullet-scarred wall.

‘Jesus, Rick! This is horrible.’

‘Shhhh.’ Ricky’s concentration was absolute.

He was barefoot in his pyjamas, crouched on the edge of a settee in the darkened living room and hunched over his controller. The fifty-inch TV screen filled Jack and Ricky’s vision, and became the world they were sharing. Jack could almost smell the cordite and the smoke, and the ugly odour of death. There was some kind of count going on. A score accumulating. But Jack couldn’t take it any more. He crossed the room and switched off the TV.

‘Jesus Christ, Grampa! What are you doing?’

Jack pulled the curtains open and sunlight streamed in to almost blind his grandson. ‘I’m surprised the sunlight doesn’t burn you, Rick,’ he said. ‘You should be in your coffin by now.’

Ricky dropped his controller on to the settee beside him. ‘Very funny.’

‘To be honest, I didn’t really expect to find you up at this time.’

It was almost midday.

‘I’m not. I haven’t been to bed.’

‘Have you been playing that bloody game all night?’

Ricky shrugged. ‘So?’

‘You’ve spent the whole night killing people?’

‘No, I stopped to have breakfast with Mum and Dad before they left.’

‘For God’s sake, son, do you not see what you’re doing?’

‘What am I doing, Grampa?’

‘You’re killing for fun.’

‘It’s just a game.’

‘A game where you kill people and count up the score. That’s fun?’

‘It takes skill! I’ve got one of the highest registered scores on the internet. And anyway, it’s not real.’

‘It might as well be. It’s totally desensitizing. Makes you think it’s alright to kill other human beings. So how are you going to tell the difference if you’re ever faced with the real thing?’

‘I’m not daft, Grampa. I’m clever enough to know the difference between a game and reality. And, anyway, what would you know about killing people?’ The contempt in his voice for his grandfather was clear.