6

Who cares?

Back to the holiday house. I borrow some clothes. I look like a tramp, but who the hell cares?

More beans. I’m farting like a trooper. But who cares about that either?

I wonder what’s going on out there in the real world. There’s no TV here, so I can’t tell if I’m on the news yet. I probably am. I mean, when kids go missing they’re always on the news, aren’t they? They have search parties. Everybody in the whole neighbourhood goes out looking for them.

The trouble is, I’m more than fifty miles from home. Nobody’s got a clue where I am. The chances of someone coming across me, just by chance, are next to nothing. Summer’s over. The holiday-homes people are gone, back to real life. And nobody else sets foot on this place, not even that lonesome fisherman, by the look of it.

I suppose the shop woman, in the village where I got off the train, might remember me. But she was a doddery old thing, half way to the grave. I don’t think she even looked up at me.

Someone on the train maybe? Or the guy at the station? But even if they do remember me, I don’t see how they’re going to track me down to here. It’s the last place in the world anyone’s likely to look.

It’s up to me then. Ben Hastings. Either I find some way to get off this stupid island, or a way to let people know I’m here.

Because, yeah, I’d no choice. I had to get away from Fug and his Thumps. But now that I’m here, in the one place they’re never going to find me, I’m not so sure how clever it was.

Maybe I should have done what they wanted? It wouldn’t have been so hard, would it? Just put pressure on a few of the younger ones. Twist a few arms, while nobody’s looking (none of the teachers, that is). Thump any that don’t come up with the goods, any that don’t do what you tell them. Put the fear of god into any of the braver ones – the sort that might tell.

Happens everywhere. It’s just a part of growing up, isn’t it? A way of learning where you fit in, how you fit in? Just a way of learning to respect your elders and betters.

Except it isn’t. It’s not growing up. It’s not learning. And I couldn’t do it. It’s not who I am. It’s not part of a world I want to live in.

The fear on their faces when they’d see Fug looking at them. I can remember it, clear as day. And then, when he’d point at them, they’d be wetting themselves. That or running. Into the welcoming arms of the Thumps.

Maybe I should have stood up to them, good and proper. Maybe running away like I did was only that – running away. Running scared. Yet again. Yellow-bellied Hastings.

I force open the door of the hut by the slipway. There are old broken lobster pots, rubbish, bits of old engine. Nothing useful.

I search all round the house I’m staying in. I find a radio, but the batteries are dead. In a shed, out the back, there’s a bucket and spade. Maybe I could dig my way home?

Up in the rafters, I spot a surfboard. No way, kid – don’t even think of it.

There’s a fishing rod, though. It might come in handy if I run out of beans. Not that I know how to fish. If I did manage to catch anything, I’d have to kill it, and I can’t even hit people, never mind killing things.

I go over to the other holiday house. There’s nothing much outside. Nothing useful anyway. I think I’m going to have to break in here too. Blimey, I’m turning into a right bad ’un. Fug’d be proud of me.

I lob a rock through one of the windows. I try not to rip my arm open as I clamber through, stepping over the broken glass.

I check the food stocks. Enough to keep me going for a few more days, if I need it.

Then I spot a tiny radio. No batteries, but there’s some sort of a handle. I pull it out, shake the thing, and hear a bit of music.

Aha! A wind-up radio! I spin it, giving it all I’ve got, and it takes me right through the next song and into the news…

‘Police are on the look-out for Ben Hastings, a twelve-year-old boy who disappeared from…’

The charge runs out. Wind it, kid! Wind it!

‘Search parties are combing the area where he lives. The public are asked to get in touch if they have any information…’

Search parties! I was hoping there’d be search parties. Wind it! Wind it!

And then I hear Mum! It’s my mum!

‘Please come back, Ben, love. Nobody’s cross with you. We just want you home, safe and well.’

Then Dad. ‘And please, if anyone knows where he is… If anyone’s got him,’ he says,voice cracking, ‘we beg you…’

He’s crying. It’s Dad and Mum, on the radio, crying.