Running on the Cracks (11 page)

‘This way!’

Finlay let go of Leo’s hand. He hurtled ahead of her down a flight of stone steps.

So many steps! ‘Don’t speed up or you’ll fall,’ came Leo’s breathless voice behind him. ‘Don’t slow down or he’ll find us,’ said the voice inside his head.

They reached the bottom and turned the corner, out of view.

He couldn’t hear the shouting any more. Did that mean that Zigger had left off?

Ahead, cars raced over a concrete flyover.

‘We’re near that Chinese supermarket. There’s a subway somewhere,’ he panted.
Leo had caught up with him now. She looked so white.

Their footsteps echoed in the tunnel under the motorway. He was pretty sure there were only two sets of footsteps.

They emerged at the edge of a godforsaken stretch of litter-strewn grass. If only it wasn’t so open! But at least the sky was dark now. A light rain was falling.

They ran past a deserted bench and a children’s slide plastered with graffiti, towards some bleak-looking flats. Finlay looked wildly round for cover.

‘Here.’ They darted into a passageway between two red-brick blocks. In the wall were cavities for enormous communal bins.

‘I hope this isn’t a dead end,’ he said, but they turned a corner and found themselves in a car park.

‘Where’s Zigger?’ said Leo, panting by his side.

The same question had been nagging Finlay.
‘I expect he’ll find us.’ He tried to sound more confident than he felt. They couldn’t afford to slow down or turn back.

They followed a maze of small roads and alleyways through a housing estate. Left, then right, then left, then right. Finlay tried to keep his sense of direction.

On and on they ran. His lungs felt like bursting. The red-brick houses and flats gave way to grander, older stone buildings with bay windows.

‘We’re in posh land now. There’s a river near here.’

‘What, the Clyde?’

‘No, the Kelvin.’

A tall gate in some iron railings bore a notice: Kelvin Walkway. They ran down a path which led them through woodland to a wider track beside the river.

‘Let’s stop here for a bit – I’m sure it’s all right now.’

They sat on a bench, the drizzle refreshing
on their hot faces. The river glinted in the darkness. Finlay felt his heart thudding furiously and then beginning to slow down.

Neither of them said anything at first. They were listening, listening for footsteps, tense and wary as birds on a twig ready to fly at the slightest sound. But it was quiet here. Just distant traffic, and the whirring of wings as two ducks rose from the water.

‘My mum used to take me here to feed the ducks,’ Finlay said at last. And then, ‘What happened? It was him, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. He was sitting in his car outside my grandfather’s house. He must have seen me come out from Jacqueline’s. Oh, Finlay, now I can never go back there!’

‘I bet
he
won’t want to go back there. Zigger really went for him, didn’t he?’

‘But what’s happened to Zigger?’

‘I don’t know.’ Again, Finlay tried to keep the worry out of his voice. ‘Maybe he’ll catch us up.’

They listened again. This time there was something – a jingling, and a soft panting. ‘He has!’

But it was a different dog, a brown-and-white spaniel proudly bearing a stick as big and branching as a deer’s antler. ‘Good evening,’ said the owner, nodding to them as they shrank back instinctively on their bench. Then dog and man passed and there was silence again.

‘Maybe Zigger’s found his way back to Mary’s by a different route,’ suggested Finlay.

‘Oh no! What if Uncle John follows him?’

‘Don’t you think he’d be more likely to be running
away
from Zigger?’

‘I don’t know – I don’t know anything any more. Oh, Finlay, he’s got my bag! He’s got all my sketches!’

‘Well, at least he hasn’t got you.’

‘I hate thinking about it. What if you hadn’t turned up, Finlay!’

‘But I did, didn’t I?’

Finlay would have liked an outpouring of
gratitude at this point, but he realised Leo was still in a state of shock. ‘I thought you were going to have an evening in,’ was all she said.

He knew he had to tell her why he’d come to find her, how ill Mary was, how they had to get some help for her, maybe even get her into hospital. But it wasn’t easy to start. Leo was supposed to be the capable, protective one, the one who would know what to do, but now she was in need of protection herself. Still, the Mary problem wasn’t going to go away just because Leo’s situation had got worse.

A squirrel ran out from a bush, froze, then approached them with small splay-legged steps and inquisitive eyes.

‘They’re really tame here,’ he said. ‘Everyone feeds them. Once one climbed on to Mum’s shoulder.’ That felt like yesterday, yet it felt like a hundred years ago. The river, the autumn leaves, the squirrels, they were all just the same, but everything in his life had changed. Suddenly he wished he hadn’t quarrelled with Mum.

Leo reached out a hand to the squirrel, who investigated it, found it was empty and retreated again.

‘That reminds me,’ she said, in a flat voice. ‘Squirrel came round to Mary’s today, just before I went out.’

‘I know. I’ve been round there,’ he said.

He had started now. He had to tell her sooner or later, and so out it all came.

To his relief, none of it was a huge surprise to Leo. ‘She’s been getting more and more like that. I suppose I must have been growing used to it. Let’s get back there now – is it very far, Finlay?’

This was more like the old Leo, the Leo who knew what to do. Finlay’s heart lightened briefly, then fell again as he sensed what she must be thinking. If Mary went into hospital, where could Leo go?

I won’t think about him. I mustn’t, I can’t bear to. I’ll just think about Mary.

Here we go. We’ve reached her landing. My key – the one Mary copied for me – is in the lock. The flat is quiet for once.

‘Ziggie boy!’ Finlay whispers.

No dog comes bounding up. Finlay doesn’t say anything, but I can see he’s close to tears.

I squeeze his hand. ‘At least it looks like Mary’s asleep,’ I say.

But no. Mary flings the bathroom door wide to greet us. ‘All my brothers and sisters have come!’

Her hair is frothy. She must have been
washing it. But the bottles in her hand aren’t shampoo bottles; they’re small and brown. Her flimsy nightie is dripping wet.

‘Mary, you’ll catch cold. Do you want me to rinse your hair? Where’s the towel?’

‘It’s with the others. They had to be together.’

What’s she on about?

‘Maybe there’s one in the bedroom,’ says Finlay. He goes to look.

‘Are those pill bottles, Mary?’

In reply, she shakes them solemnly. They make no sound. They’re empty.

‘Mary, have you been swallowing them? How many did you take?’

She bursts out laughing. ‘The toilet’s gonnae swallow them! In one gulp!’

I look into the loo. It’s full of pills.

‘But aren’t they the ones your CPN said you had to take?’

‘The CPN. The sea peahen. Did you see the sea peahen?’ She cackles at her pun.

If only I could talk some sense into her! ‘No,
you know I didn’t see him. I had to hide in the wardrobe that time he came round, don’t you remember? But you told me what he said. You mustn’t stop taking the pills.’

‘He gave me the wrong message. That Lorraine must have been fiddling with the computer.’

Finlay has found two towels. He wraps one round her.

Mary lets me rinse her hair in the basin. ‘You’re good. You’re looking after me,’ she says. The soap dish is full of cigarette ash, but I decide not to say anything.

I make the other towel into a turban for her. She’s delighted with her reflection. ‘Now I’m the Queen of Arabia!’

‘Shall I be your maid, and get some nice warm clothes on you?’

But she’s reluctant to tear herself away from the mirror. ‘Wait!’ She’s tearing a strip of loo paper from the roll. Now she’s poking it up the tap.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Those who watch shall see.’ She dips the now wet toilet paper into the ash-filled soap dish. Now she’s smearing it on the mirror, trying to write something. It looks like a backwards L. ‘Mirror writing,’ she says. ‘That’s how to get the right message to the other side.’

‘Mary, I think it’s more important to get you warm.’

She lets me lead her through to the bedroom. ‘It’s in a bit of a mess,’ Finlay warns.

That’s an understatement. Or maybe ‘mess’ is the wrong word. Mary’s bed is in the middle of the room, piled high with a pyramid of bedclothes and towels. The wardrobe door is wide open and all her clothes are strewn on the floor around the bed. No, not strewn exactly – there’s some kind of pattern to it. The sleeves of the dresses and cardigans have been spread out and are touching each other, like two concentric rings of people holding hands.

‘It looks like the hokey-cokey,’ says Finlay. I start to giggle – I can’t help it. To my relief, Mary
is joining in. But now her laughter is turning into tears.

‘Don’t cry, Mary. What is it?’

‘The rings!’ she says between great wild sobs.

I spot a cosy, long-sleeved nightdress among the hokey-cokey players. And there’s her tartan dressing gown. I hope Mary won’t make a fuss if I remove them from the outer ring.

‘Finlay, why don’t you make some tea while I get Mary dressed.’

I pick up the nightdress. She doesn’t object. But what’s this? There’s a hole in it. It’s a cigarette burn. Never mind, it’ll still do.

‘Arms up.’ Mary raises them like an obedient child and I slip the old damp nightie off her head, then rub her with the towel. She’s skinnier than ever.

‘You’re good,’ she says again, the tears gone now. I help her into the new nightie, and she sticks a finger through the burn hole. ‘Do you see the ring?’

‘Yes, and look, there’s one in this dressing
gown. Have you been smoking in bed, Mary? You know that’s dangerous.’

‘It’s the ring of fire!’ she protests. ‘They all need it.’ She picks up one of the dresses and I see that there’s a burn in that too.

She’s done it to all her clothes. She must have been doing it while Finlay was out, while we were escaping from … I don’t want to think about Uncle John. I won’t think about him. I must concentrate on Mary.

‘Tea’s ready!’ calls Finlay from the kitchen.

‘Rejuvenation!’ says Mary, sounding more like her old self.

‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I call back to Finlay. I really need to talk to him about her. Can we sneak a few minutes on our own?

I take Mary into the sitting room and pick up some of the cushions which are all over the place.

‘You sit down, Mary. I’ll help Finlay bring it in.’ I turn on the telly though I know she won’t be able to concentrate on it.

In the kitchen, Midget is brushing against Finlay’s legs hopefully, as he stirs sugar into Mary’s big mug of tea.

‘Where does she keep the pet food?’ he asks. ‘I suppose it’s under the floorboards or in the bath or somewhere mad like that.’

‘I see what you mean about her. She’s definitely getting worse.’ I tell him about the burnt clothes. ‘What if she’d set fire to the flat?’

‘She needs someone to look after her,’ he says.

‘She likes it when I look after her. She keeps saying so; she keeps telling me I’m good.’

‘Yeah, but you can’t do it – not all the time, not twenty-four hours a day. And her pals are hopeless. She should be in hospital.’

But what about me? What would I do if she went? Could I stay here on my own? Where else could I go?

I won’t think about me – I’ll just think about Mary.

‘How do you think she’d feel about going
into hospital?’ I say. ‘I mean, she’s always hanging about that place but she hardly ever talks about when she was in there herself.’

‘I don’t think she’d be keen, somehow.’

I feel the same. The way they all talk about ‘doing a runner’ they make it sound like a prison.

‘So what are we going to do?’ I ask. ‘Phone someone or what?’

‘Squirrel said something about a CPN.’

‘Yes, but I don’t know his number. And shouldn’t we ask her first?’

‘She’d never agree. She’d probably just go berserk – even berserker than she is already.’

‘But I don’t like going behind her back. It feels like we’re plotting against her. Wouldn’t it be better if we could talk her into it?’

‘OK then.’ Finlay still sounds doubtful.

I find an open tin of cat food in the fridge and hand it to him. ‘You do Midget and I’ll start on Mary.’

Mary is wandering about the sitting room.

‘Rejubilation!’ she says when she sees the tea.
She takes the cup and a biscuit, but I can’t get her to sit down.

How shall I start? ‘Mary, I don’t think you’re very well.’

‘I’m not going in,’ she says.

I’m taken aback. I didn’t think she’d get it so quickly. Then I realise, other people must have had this conversation with her in the past. It’s not going to be easy.

‘But you need someone to look after you.’

‘They don’t look after you. They look at you. They’re at it.’ She’s pacing faster now. Some tea slurps out of the cup on to the floor.

‘I’ll come and visit you, Mary. I’ll make sure they look after you.’

‘I need to be here. I need to tell the people. I need to pass on the message.’

Pointless to ask what message. ‘Can’t you pass it on to the people in there?’ I suggest.

‘They’re all crazy in there!’

She dunks a biscuit in her tea, then waves it about. ‘D is for the Dancing,’ she says.

‘I’m sure it wouldn’t have to be for long. Just till they get you back on the right medicine.’

It was the wrong thing to say. ‘I’m no taking it!’ she says. ‘I’m no taking the bitter pill. The devil can take the bitter pill.’

I rack my brains. I remember the first time I met Mary, on that bench, waiting to see Ronnie and give him the Chocolate HobNobs. ‘Ronnie’s in there – you like him,’ I try.

She’s not listening any more. She’s waving the biscuit about again. ‘I could bring you in some biscuits,’ I say.

Then I remember something else. There was a nurse with Ronnie, wasn’t there? In a flash, his name comes to me.

‘You like Jim Docherty, don’t you?’

At last she’s standing still. ‘Aye, Jim Docherty is good. Jim Docherty is the best. Aye, I like Jim Docherty.’

‘Jim would look after you.’

‘Aye, Jim would look after me. I like Jim Docherty. He’s the best. He’s the best of a bad
bunch. He’s not in the bunch. He’s good.’

Am I finally getting somewhere?

Finlay comes in. ‘Midget’s being very polite. I think she’s leaving half of it for Zigger,’ he says. ‘I wish he’d come back.’

‘Finlay, Mary was saying how much she likes Jim Docherty. Why don’t we ring the hospital?’