Shit, I thought, what was I thinking? Stupid girl. Stupidstupidstupid. Do something.
The moment he sat back up, I yanked open the door handle and, terrified he might somehow pull me back in, dived out, falling hard on the wet tarmac, hitting it with my hands and knees. I scrabbled to my feet and ran, rounding the truck of calves and out into the open space, my heart jabbering in my chest. I’d almost reached the other side of the car park before I understood he wasn’t following. My breath came in ragged gasps. I put my hands on my knees and retched. Slowly, I took account. I was okay; I was in one piece. It was fine. I was fine. But also I was a complete idiot. I needed to wise up, and fast. I turned toward the terminal, feeling strange and weightless, and only then did it hit me: I didn’t have my bag. In it was my old school uniform, the book and, inside that, my photographs of Frieda and Elisabeth and Ted. The woolly hat had gone too. But there was no way I was going back, no way I was going to risk being hauled back into that foul-smelling van. Freezing rain soaked my head and trickled down the back of my neck. My hands hurt, and when I held them up I saw they were badly grazed from my fall on to the tarmac. My shoulder throbbed under my coat. In panic, I patted the inside pocket. Thank God, the purse was still there. But that was it. I had the clothes I was wearing, a few pounds plus some old French francs. And nowhere to go.
I looked up. Ahead of me were three massive container trucks, each one dressed in a familiar gold-and-purple livery, and, in giant letters that filled the entire side of each, a single repeated word: martenwood.
***
That was my choice: go on or go home. On was the entire world, unknown and utterly terrifying; home was heaven and hell.
I thought about my father. The bolt of fear that shot through me as a child whenever I heard his car pulling up on the gravel drive. Hiding in my room, flattening myself into a thin blade, pressed between my chest of drawers and the wall, or under the bed, making myself as small and silent as I could. The slap of his hand, the crack of his belt. Being made to touch my toes for an hour as a punishment for rudeness, watching the minutes of the clock tick past, every muscle in my body screaming with pain.
I thought about my mother and my sister, how much I longed for them. My squeaky-clean, dependable, wonderful big sister lecturing me on how to be good. My beloved, funny mother singing us George Michael songs in the bath. For a long time I stood there, thinking about the two of them, letting blooms of love open soft velvet petals inside my chest.
I knew exactly what the cost of going back would be, what punishments I’d face. But I had to anyway; I didn’t have a choice. I found a telephone box and dialed the number of my parents’ house, a clutch of ten-pence pieces ready in my bloodied palm. It rang. I heard the sound filling the spaces of my home; tears filled my eyes as I imagined my mother dashing toward the phone in the kitchen or their bedroom, snatching it up—Lai? My eyes drifted over the cards stuck to the board behind the phone—ads for women with oily-looking breasts and bums: busty and fun, strict discipline, mature, hot schoolgirls, sexy massage; a blonde with her eyes blacked out and the words real photo scrawled across it in pen.
Please pick up, I thought, and then Let it be Mum.
Pips. I shoved my money in the slot.
“Martenwood.”
I took a breath. “Dad?” My voice caught in my throat.
Silence rang in my ears.
“Where are you?”
I took a breath. “Dover.” Then, “I’m at the ferry port.”
“What are you doing there?”
I knew only a straight answer would do. “I was going to France.”
“And then?”
My voice was small. “I didn’t have my passport.”
Pips. I shoved another coin into the slot and waited.
“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
***
It had a good view of the entrance, so I did stay exactly where I was, hidden inside that old phone box, but even then I almost missed him because he was driving a Martenwood works van and not his own car. I stepped out of the box and held up my hand. He stopped next to me. I got in. We circled the car park once, then he parked up. He turned off the engine.
“Wait here.”
My father got out of the van and slammed the door behind him. I twisted in my seat, watching him walk into the terminal building. I sat, waiting. Five minutes later he was back. He sat back behind the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine. Instead he stared straight ahead. I could see his tongue moving about under his cheek.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
His jaw moved forward and he turned to look at me.
“Is that right. So the girl who’s done everything possible to ruin me, is sorry.” Silence fell between us. I sat very still, my heart beating fast. “Let me tell you something about me, Laika. I was thirteen when I started working for my old dad. Up at the arse crack of dawn, cracked round the head when I fucked up. Full time at fifteen. Age of twenty, I said to him, you’re not going to make proper money messing about with a piddling fleet of Lutons—put me in charge—I’ll show you how it’s done. And he did, didn’t he? Old bastard wanted to see me fall flat on my arse. Didn’t, though, did I. Martenwood Removals became Martenwood Haulage and, as they say, the rest is history. I did that, Laika. I took that business from a couple of old removal vans to five hundred trucks. Me. Five hundred trucks and hundreds of staff, everyone doing exactly what I say, when I say it, not one of them putting a foot out of place, every one of them just that little bit scared. That business, Laika, earned me my right to live on the best road in the county, earned me my place on the golf course, my right to hobnob with judges, lawyers, CEOs, anyone I want, people born with money. I earned my place at that table, and don’t they know it. Earned myself the cars, the watches, the beautiful wife. Earned my right to have everyone jumping up and down. And you know who’s brought that business to its knees? You.” A small tremor moved through his cheek. “You take off and next thing I know I’ve got the pigs on my tail. The police took away every single fucking truck, interviewed every single fucking driver. Went through every lockup. Went through all the books. Went through the entire lot again. In the last three months I’ve lost hundreds of contracts. The moment you took off, Martenwood Haulage started hemorrhaging money out of its arse. You turned something of a spotlight on me there, Laika. And I’ll bet you think you were being that little bit clever, right, shining the light straight back at Daddy’s eyes?” He paused, his face hardening. “Yet here she is, here’s Laika, tried living in the real world and found it a little bit tough. Thinks she’d like to come home for a bit. See what other havoc she can wreak. Show me your hands.”
I turned my palms over, showed him the cuts, the lines of drying blood.
“Want to go to France, do you? Want to make it on your own? Never did me any harm.”
He took something out of his top pocket and handed it to me. My passport and, tucked inside its pages, a ticket. I said, “But Mum—”
His voice dropped dangerously low. “Your mother, Laika, knows exactly which side her bread is buttered on. She has a very nice life, your mother. See her anywhere, do you? See her rushing down here to bring you home? No? Why not? Need it spelled out? Your mother picked a side, my girl. She always has and she always will. Mine.”
22 Paris Claudette
I never meant to run away from home. I hadn’t planned or prepared for it. And I didn’t want to go to France either. That flash of resolution I’d felt standing in the bronzed shadows of my parents’ house at midnight had quickly faded away in the cold murk of the day. But, sitting by myself in that gray terminal, I didn’t know what else to do.
What I wanted was to get caught. I’d seen the photo of me they’d used on Crimewatch, taken when I’d still had long hair and a fringe. Okay, so I didn’t look exactly like that anymore: my hair was short now, and I’d filled out a bit. But surely I was still recognizable: only three months had passed. And I still had to be on a list somewhere, I thought. All I needed was for someone to notice my name. For someone to do something. Someone to stop me. To call the police.
At the border the guard was shouting something to another official a little way off. I walked straight up and stood there in front of him, holding out my passport and waiting for a pause in their conversation while all the other foot passengers just waved their documents and walked straight past. When he didn’t take it, I almost thrust it at him. I wanted to say Please. Perhaps that was my mistake. Perhaps I was too eager, too keen. He glanced at me once and just waved me straight through.
***
—
From the back of the ferry I watched gulls wheeling and diving in the hazy air: drawing a double helix, a heart, a Möbius strip. Everything was white: my pale clouds of breath, the screaming birds, the filmy sea. The cliffs grew fainter, then disappeared into nothing, like sleep.
I knew I was going to die.
