Solace of the Road (18 page)

‘Cheers.’

He opened a compartment in his bike and took another helmet out. ‘Better put this on,’ he said. ‘It’s the law.’

‘Sure thing.’ I put the helmet on over the wig. Then I hitched the lizard tight on my back and
climbed up behind him, sitting astride. My heart was hammering.

‘You can put your arms around my waist if you want,’ he said.

I knew the type. He was one of the Less-than-Rare-Spotted-Non-Scorers, as Grace calls them. I kept my arms by my side, but soon as he started, I shrieked and grabbed him by the jacket.

I can’t tell you much about the first part of the journey on account of my eyes were shut tight. I just smelled his leathers and felt the cold wind.

I might have died ten times on that bike. Every time he took a bend, you had to raise your knee in case it scraped the ground. I could tell he liked me clinging on. But if I didn’t cling on I was dead. Then I opened my eyes. I let my cheek rest against his back and looked at the hedges flashing past. I saw whites and purples, creases in the tree trunks, and the road rushing past with pieces in the tarmac shining silver.

I made my spine stand straight.
Wake up, girl. This is a blast
. The green leaves shimmered overhead and it felt like we were going a hundred miles an hour.

‘Go faster,’ I screamed to the boy.

I don’t know if he heard me but we sped straight as a bullet, ahead to the blood-orange sun that floated on the hill like an overblown balloon. The motorbike jumped in the air like a hiccup. Then a lorry screeched coming round a corner, and I thought we were dead. I clung on and shut my eyes and I could feel the boy laughing.

Then we hit the town. Houses, pavements, signs. He slowed. He braked so hard coming up to traffic lights, it was like being kicked. The lights turned. He sped forward like he was on a mission and my behind nearly slid off the back.

He stopped hard by a graveyard, and I thought that’s where he was headed again very soon – only under the ground, not over.

I got off. My legs had turned to spaghetti.

‘End of the ride,’ he said. ‘Llandeilo.’

‘Yeah, ta.’

‘You liked it?’ he asked.

‘Oh. Yeah. ’S great.’

‘We weren’t too tame for you?’ He gave Andúril a pat.

‘Nah.’ I got the visor of the helmet up and struggled to get the thing over my ears. I could feel the wig riding up with it.

‘D’you want a hand?’ he said.

‘Nah, I’m all right, ta. Say. What’s with that strange bird on that tomb?’

He turned round to look and I got the helmet off quick. The wig came off too, so I thrust it back on and patted it down.

‘What bird?’ He was puzzled.

‘The black one. An eagle or something.’

‘Eagles aren’t black.’

‘A raven, then.’

‘Can’t see it.’

‘ ’S gone,’ I said, fiddling with the wig’s fringe. ‘Never mind.’

He turned back to me, put his visor up and stared. ‘Your hair’s all wild,’ he said.

‘I’ll straighten it later.’

‘I like it the way it is,’ he said.

I could tell he didn’t want to go. I gave him my best smile. ‘Ta for the ride.’

He cleared his throat. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Solace,’ I told him. ‘I’m the one and only Solace in the whole wide world.’

‘Neat name.’ He was looking into my eyes. I shrugged. He was bright red. ‘Well, Solace, good luck catching the boat.’

‘Oh, yeah. The boat. Ta.’

‘Fare thee well, Solace,’ he said. He bowed, real formal, like I was queen of the elves. Then he put his visor down, raised his spaceship glove in the air.

I watched the mirrors and handlebars flash blood-orange in the setting sun as he zoomed away on his reforged sword that would be broken again in two shakes. I clucked my tongue and shook my head. ‘Flat-out crazy,’ I murmured. I realized I knew the bike’s name, but not his. Shame. Apart from the spots, he’d been all right. Grace would have wrinkled her nose on account of the state of his skin, but he’d had nice dark eyes and his leathers smelled good. Now if
he’d
asked for a kiss, I might have obliged. You never know. I chuckled at the thought of him liking my hair and saying ‘Fare thee well’. Not to mention that I wasn’t lying on the highway like scrambled eggs.

Thirty-five
The Ghost Town

I looked about at the graveyard where he’d left me. There were tall trees and a strange crooked light coming through the clouds, the kind you get before a storm. And the wind was up.
Not more thunder
, I thought.
Please
. It was June and the day lasted long after the sun was gone. But the graves were black domes and crosses and I could hear the crows ha-ha-ing over the dead bodies. I sat down on a bench.

Then I remembered the money I’d taken from Phil, stashed in the lizard, and the promise I’d made myself to give it to a church on account of him having God inside him. I walked around the building until I found a door and tried the handle but it was locked.

I wriggled it back and forward but it didn’t budge.

Somehow that locked door made my eyes fill up.

I pictured the benches and the smell of old stone and the quiet and how if another storm was coming I’d be safe inside, and what was I to do next?

It started spitting again.

I’d always liked rain, but now it was different.
Solace was a strictly sunshine girl, she couldn’t get wet.

I wandered out of the graveyard and down a main street. It was long, with fancy pubs and hotels. I prowled down it, but it was empty. Then a black and white dog with neat, clicking paws came towards me. It had lonesome eyes and raindrops on its wavy fur. I held my hand out. It sniffed and licked and tried to jump me. It was shaggy and smelled of bonfire and I thought of Mam telling me about Irish dogs and how they’re different from London dogs. London dogs trot around on leads with their heads in the air, like they’re oh-so-elegant. Irish dogs take naps in the open doorways and wouldn’t be seen dead on a lead, but when you drive up in a car they chase your wheels and bark as if you’ve got four hares spinning round instead of tyres.

‘Hey, dog,’ I called. ‘Down, down.’ I patted its head and scratched its chin and then the dog rolled over and showed its belly, which means it trusts you. And it had nipples, which meant it was a girl. I rubbed her belly and the rain got harder. ‘What’s your name, girl?’ I asked her. ‘Rosabel, maybe?’ The dog suddenly sprang up like she’d heard an invisible whistle. She cocked her head and scampered off. I watched her go and sighed.

Story of my life.

The wig was getting sodden and I had no choice but to take it off. There was nobody about, so I put it safe away in the lizard and hobbled off down the street in my heels.

I passed a pub with its door wide open. It didn’t
have much custom, just one tired old man. He was hunched over the bar, not talking, staring into his pint. His face was lined like crumpled paper. There was no sign of a barman. I nearly went in, then remembered that without the wig I was under age.
Maybe it’s a flat tomb for a bed after all
, I thought. My feet hurt. A bus shelter loomed up so I stepped inside and changed back into my trainers. They were still damp, but they were better than the heels. I looked around. It was the kind of bus shelter where if you think there’s a timetable, think again. As for a bench, forget it. There was a gob of chewing gum on the glass, that was all.

Maybe it was a bus shelter where no buses ever stopped.

Maybe the rain would never stop either.

Maybe I’d reached the end of the road.

Maybe I’d reached the end of the world.

I leaned against the glass and stared at the rain splattering the other side and time passed.

No buses, no cars, no people. Just crows cawing, and rain drizzling, and wind whistling ghost-like through the trees.

Thirty-six
The Getaway Car

I kicked the side of the bus shelter. Over the road, a curtain twitched. I felt like putting a brick through the window on account of curtain twitchers are the saddest mogits of all.
I’ll never grow up to be a curtain twitcher
, I thought.
I’ll kill myself first
.

But at least the curtain twitching meant there was life
somewhere
in this place. The ghost-town spell was broken. Then a woman, youngish, half mogit, came dashing towards me down the street with the rain clouds chasing her. Was I pleased to see her. She was definitely alive. The mogit bit of her wore a cardigan over an ugly blue dress, but the non-mogit bit was trotting in heels in the middle of the road, as if no cars ever drove on it, with a set of keys swinging from her fingers. She had a bag slung over a shoulder.

‘Hey,’ I called. ‘Are there any buses in this place?’

I thought she was going to ignore me, but she paused and looked across to where I was.

‘The last bus left an hour ago,’ she panted in the same sing-song voice the boy had had. That was Wales
for you. It wasn’t like Ireland, but getting closer. ‘You’re out of luck,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Great.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked. ‘It’s getting late.’

‘I didn’t know about the buses stopping so soon,’ I told her. ‘Mam will be furious.’

‘Where are you going?’

I pointed down the road, the direction she’d been running in, and frowned like a baby does when it’s trying to cry but has forgotten how. I wasn’t
really
crying, you understand. I was just seeing if I could raise a lift.

‘I’m driving to Carmarthen, if that’s any use,’ she said.

‘Carmarthen?’ That was where I’d have been hours ago if I’d stuck with Phil.

‘It’s where I work. Any good to you?’

‘Sure is. That’s where we live, Mam and I. Carmarthen.’

‘Which bit?’

I blinked away the crocodile tears. ‘Near the centre?’ I squeaked.

‘I work at the hospital.’ She tapped her dress and I guessed she was a nurse. ‘I’ll drop you off by the bus station. Don’t see how you’ll get home otherwise. But hurry. I’m late.’

‘Yeah, ta.’ I pattered after her down the street to where her car was parked, a little thing that looked like if two people got in, it would fall apart. She tossed some papers and a sweater to the back to clear the passenger seat and we climbed inside. It felt low to
the ground after the lorries and boxed in after the motorbike, but it smelled of fresh flowers. It was the smell of her perfume – and the perfume was the same as Mam’s. It was almost like Mam was in the car too, only invisible.

The nurse woman started the car and pulled out, doing her seatbelt up at the same time.

‘So what were you doing in Llandeilo?’ she said.

‘Visiting,’ I said. Then I added, ‘My friend Holly. It’s her birthday.’

‘Couldn’t her parents have dropped you back, this time of evening?’

‘Their car’s broken down. Else they would’ve.’

‘Maybe you should’ve stayed over. A sleepover? Isn’t that what you girls do these days?’

‘Sometimes. But not school nights.’ I spoke like I was an old hand but nobody’d ever invited me on a sleepover and it’s not like I could have asked anyone over to Templeton House. I guess I could have tried asking Karuna over to the Aldridges’ place, but Karuna’s a) a rude-girl, b) a nutter, and c) Fiona would have fainted at the sight of her blood-orange nail polish.

‘Do you like school, then?’

‘ ’S OK.’

‘You’re not from Wales, are you?’

‘Nah. My mam’s Irish. But we used to live in London.’

‘London? What bit? I trained in London.’

‘We used to live up by Harrods. In a flat. Mam used to take me in there to look at the things.’

‘Lucky you. Can’t even afford to
look
on a nurse’s salary.’

‘They’ve got good bargains,’ I said. ‘In the sales.’ I patted the lizard. ‘My mam bought me this in there,’ I said. ‘Cost a skin-diver.’

‘A skin-diver?’

‘Fiver. Cockney-rhyming-effin’-blindin’. You know.’

The woman laughed and threw the bag a glance. ‘It’s nice, that. A deal. My name’s Sian, by the way. S-I-A-N.’

‘Sian?’ It sounded like ‘sharn’ and made me think of smooth green hills. ‘ ’S pretty.’

‘People always think it’s Irish, but it’s Welsh. What’s your name?’

‘Solace.’

‘Solace?’ said Sian. ‘That really is pretty. Where did it come from?’

‘Mam called me that. She had this little boy, see. Denny-boy. But he died tragic. He was knocked down by a lorry, aged five. Then I came along right after and Mam said I was what was left when all else failed.’

Sian sighed. ‘That’s a sad story. Very.’

We passed these swampy-green fields, and the clouds bunched on one side and on the other the sky was dark-blue velvet. Sian put her foot down and the car bucked like a racehorse, the kind that barely makes it from the stalls. Then we passed one of those signs that have old-fashioned cameras drawn on them and Sian braked hard and the car burped and changed its tune.

‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed. ‘Always forget those speed
cameras. I’m the world’s most impatient nurse. My patients are lucky they don’t end up with cardiac arrests, seeing me spin round with the drugs trolley.’

I laughed, thinking of the smooth white floors in the hospital and Sian whizzing round it, running over people’s slippers.

Then we hit another sign:

CARMARTHEN
WALES’S OLDEST TOWN

‘We’ve skirted the worst of that shower,’ Sian said.

The place was white houses and grey roofs crawling up a hill. There was a grim tower in the middle that reminded me of the ones you could see from the sky house, only its windows were dingy and dark instead of silver.

‘How long have you lived here?’ Sian said.

‘A year, nearly.’

‘D’you like Carmarthen?’ she said.

In that dim light you’d have to have been daft to like it. I could see car parks and estates and the dark tower hovered over it all like an evil spirit from a fantasy world of orcs and elves. But when someone’s giving you a ride, you act polite.

‘It’s all right in the right light,’ I said.