Peter May - Runaway

When he had finished, he dropped his bag by the front door and wandered back into the living room. The school across the way was closed up for the day, its pupils long since gone home. When he had first moved into the flats the sound of children playing during breaks in their classes had seemed like music. But the siren call of youth had served, in the end, only to reinforce how far behind him his own childhood lay, and how close he was to the rocks of old age on which he would inevitably founder and die.

He picked up the photograph of Jenny and remembered how they had said goodbye that night. And here he was, all these years later, embarking on the same fruitless journey. One that could only, he suspected, end badly. And he recalled the words of his old history teacher. The only thing we learn from history is that we never learn from history .

He stood the photo frame back on the bookcase and gazed out through the trees across the lawns beyond. He remembered, the day he had moved in, thinking, ‘This is the view I’ll take with me to my grave.’ That this was what it had all narrowed down to. Four walls and a landscape. And he had found himself infused, then and now, with an almost overwhelming sense of regret — for many of the things he had done, but most of all for those he had not.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Ricky’s Micra in the car park below. The boy swung it through a three-point turn, then glanced up towards Jack’s window as he sat idling on the tarmac. Jack gave him a small wave and wondered what on earth he was leading his grandson into. But as he took his walking stick from the stand in the hall and lifted his holdall, he thought that anything would be better for him than sitting in a darkened room playing computer games.

And as for himself? What the hell? After sixty-seven years it was time to start living.

He hurried down the stairs and out into the car park. Ricky looked pale and nervous behind the window of the driver’s door. Jack glanced back towards the top floor of the flats, and saw Fiona watching him from her window.

But by the time he had thrown his bag into the boot and turned to wave, she was gone. And the empty space she’d left behind her seemed big enough to swallow him.

Just as fifty years before, they sat outside Dave’s house with the engine running, Ricky drumming his fingers nervously on the wheel, exactly as Jeff had done. But five minutes after the appointed time, there was still no sign of Dave.

Finally Jack said, ‘Turn her off, son. I think we’d better go in and look for him.’

The house had undergone several facelifts in the half-century that had passed. The front garden wasn’t much, but the grass was neatly cut, and there were rose bushes in the flower beds. Gone was the rotten old boat on the drive, to be replaced by a Vauxhall Corsa. A new garage built on to the side of the house had a bedroom extension above it.

As they approached the front door, they heard voices raised in anger coming from inside. The door itself was an elaborate construction of wrought iron and glass, a pretentious adornment to the mean little semi that it opened into.

‘Maybe we’d be better waiting in the car,’ Ricky whispered nervously.

Jack cast him a look. ‘Not so brave without a semi-automatic in your hands, eh?’

He knocked on the door, but the sound of his knuckles on the glass was overwhelmed by the shouting on the other side of it. He tried the handle and pushed the door open. As it swung into the hall it interrupted the squalid scene of domestic disharmony that was unravelling there.

Dave’s daughter-in-law stood at the foot of the stairs, shouting at the two men in her life to ‘ Stop! ’

Dave had been a big man in his day, but Donnie was bigger. He had the lapels of his father’s coat grasped in huge fists. Dave was almost lifted off his feet and banged up against the wall. Donnie’s face was inches from his father’s as he shouted at him, spittle gathering on wet lips. Jack could see a large bruise on Dave’s cheekbone, below the eye. A small canvas rucksack leaned against the wall by the front door.

It was as if someone had pressed a pause button and frozen the action, and then all heads turned towards the door. The silence that accompanied the moment seemed endless.

Until broken by Donnie. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

Jack’s voice sounded oddly calm and, as a result, carried a strangely threatening note. ‘I want you to let your father go, and treat him with a little respect.’

Almost in spite of himself, Donnie released his father’s lapels and turned his anger on Jack. ‘Respect? He’s a drunk and a thief, and gets all the respect he deserves. And anyway, it’s none of your fucking business.’

‘Yes, it is.’

Steel in Jack’s voice now as Ricky moved almost imperceptibly to put his grandfather between Donnie and himself and watch the unfolding scene from over his shoulder.

‘What is it with you people? I stood in this very house more than fifty years ago and watched your grandfather punch and kick his own son. And I stood by and did nothing about it, because I was too young and too scared. All these years on, and nothing’s changed. Except it’s the son beating up the father. That violent gene must have skipped a generation, because Dave’s the gentlest man I ever knew. And he doesn’t deserve this.’

Donnie’s face turned ugly as he pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, all scrunched up in his big fist, and waved it at Jack. ‘Aye, well, your gentle fucking pal was stealing from his own family.’

‘Only so I could get oot yer hair once and for all!’ Dave said.

Donnie turned on him again, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘It’s my money!’

‘And this is his house,’ Jack said. ‘And I’ll bet you don’t pay him a penny in rent. So maybe he’s owed it.’

‘Come on,’ Dave said. ‘Let’s just go.’

And he tried to squeeze past Donnie to get his rucksack. But his son grabbed his coat and pushed him up against the wall again.

‘You’re going nowhere, you old drunk!’

The sound of smashing glass stunned them all into silence, broken only by Donnie’s wife’s startled little squeal. Pieces of glass showered across the hall carpet. Jack stood with his walking stick still raised. The brass owl’s head had shattered the glazed door with a single, sharp strike.

‘Let him go!’ His voice rang out in the stillness that followed. Commanding. Imperative.

And Donnie let go of his father, as if the old man were suddenly burning hot in his hands.

‘I did nothing to stop his father. And maybe you think I’m too old to stop you. But you’d be making a mistake if you did.’ He swung his walking stick to smash the brass head of it into the wall, gouging a deep hole in the plaster and sending white dust into the still air of the hall. ‘That’d make a hell of a mess of your skull.’

Donnie’s wife said in a shaky voice, her hands raised as if to calm them, ‘Now there’s no need for this, boys.’

Jack ignored her. ‘Give him the money.’

For several long moments Jack could see that Donnie was weighing up his options. In the end he thrust the money at his father.

And Jack half turned to Ricky. ‘Get his bag.’

Ricky looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, wide-eyed and startled. But he leaned over quickly to retrieve Dave’s rucksack. Dave joined them in the doorway and the three of them retreated down the path towards the waiting Micra.

They heard Donnie’s voice roaring behind them, ‘Don’t even think about coming back here, you old bastard. You’ll not get over the door.’

Jack swivelled and saw Donnie almost recoil, as if from a blow. ‘ Dave’s door,’ he said. ‘Not yours. And maybe you’d better think about getting a place of your own. Because I’m sure Dave won’t want to see you here when he gets back.’