‘Here we are, then. Home sweet home.’
He looked straight ahead to where a rusty caravan sat on a patch of weedy, barren grass next to a run-down house. There was nothing else around for miles. It didn’t look like home to him.
‘What d’you think?’ Jiminy Cricket said, laughing, as if anticipating applause.
He frowned. ‘I … I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t where I’m supposed to come to.’
‘Yeah.’ Jiminy Cricket looked irritated. It wasn’t the response he had expected. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of.’
‘I have to report. Probation, they said. Signing. Can’t disappear. Can’t just go off like this. On my own.’ He spoke the words like a learned speech.
‘I told you. Don’t worry about it. Now … ’ He turned, made a fanfare gesture towards the caravan. Tried again. ‘What d’you think of your new home?’
He had no idea where he was. The drive had been long. Or it had felt long, because he hadn’t known where he was going. He had looked out of the window but had recognised nothing. There had been a big road, lots of fast-moving, snarling cars. He hadn’t enjoyed that. It had scared him. Then the big road became a smaller one, round a town. He thought he recognised it but wasn’t sure. It had been a long time ago, and he had been a different person then. Something about Romans. An Avenue of Remembrance. He didn’t know what he was supposed to remember. Or forget. It all grew confused in his head.
They drove out of the town and the roads became smaller still. Tight, Jiminy Cricket described them. Closed in. He didn’t think so. They weren’t closed in compared to where he had just come from.
The buildings got further and further apart until they were mostly replaced by trees and fields. There were fewer cars, which should have made it more tranquil. But it didn’t. The open spaces with the huge sky above made him panic. He wanted noise again, more of it.
Eventually they pulled off the road and down a track that was all loose, sharp rocks and holes. The car threw him from side to side as it went down the hill. At the bottom was the stone house. A cottage, he supposed, since he was in the country. It had once been white but now it looked like it wasn’t sure what colour it was. The windows were dirty, paint peeling round them. The front door battered. There were no flowers. Nothing welcoming. An old silver car, long and boxy, was parked at the side.
‘Here we are, then. Out you get.’
He got out. Looked round. The air smelled different here. Salt. Like the sea. He closed his eyes, listened. Heard water. They were near the sea. Or at least a large river. He could hear dogs. The kind that were left outside to bark at anything and everything. And he could hear something else, over the top, a jagged, grating sound carrying on the wind.
‘What’s that? Is that a child crying?’
Jiminy Cricket acted as if he hadn’t heard him.
He tried again. ‘Where are we?’
This time, by way of an answer, his companion smiled.
They had walked round the side of the house and stopped before the caravan. And that was when he was told it was his new home.
He stared at the caravan. The rusting sides, the flat tyres. Filthy windows with horrible, holey curtains that looked they had been chewed. It didn’t look like freedom. It looked like another cell. Like he was still trapped, even under the huge, blue sky.
‘I don’t want to stay here,’ he said, suppressed panic starting to bubble inside him. ‘I need to go.’
He turned, started to walk away. A restraining hand was placed on his arm. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ A laugh, an American accent, trying to lighten the weight of the words. ‘I need ya, Decks. I need the old blade runner. I need your magic.’
He didn’t know what he was talking about, tried to walk away. ‘Please. I don’t want … to stay here. I want to go.’
The American accent dropped but the hand remained. ‘To where? Some hostel or B and B? Spied on? Made to sign a form every two weeks? That’s what you want, is it?’
He didn’t answer.
‘A hostel. With the paedos, and the murderers. Real murderers, mind, not like you. And the nutters and the psychos.’
‘But … prison was like that.’
‘Yes, it was. But there was a big metal door keeping them out. You think you’ll have that at the hostel?’
He said nothing.
His companion took that for assent. ‘Thought not. No, you’re better off here. And besides, we had a deal.’
‘What?’
‘Remember? All those years ago?’ His companion’s smile widened. Teeth sharp and shark-like. ‘I said that if you played things my way, then you would end up on top. I said that, didn’t I?’
He couldn’t remember. He might have done.
‘I had a plan, didn’t I? Well, it’s just taken a while to put into practice, that’s all. We’ve been playing the long game.’
‘And what … what is this plan? What do I get?’
‘A new life. And revenge. On the people who put you inside. The ones who took your life away. Got your attention now, haven’t I?’
‘But … but how?’
‘You’ll see.’ He gestured to the caravan. ‘Until then, just make yourself at home. Put your feet up.’
He blinked several times in quick succession. Something niggled.
‘But … Probation. I have to sign on. They give me money to live on.’
‘You’ll have money soon. You’ll have everything you need. And more. Millions.’
‘But I … my name. I’ll be … they’ll be looking for me.’
‘You’ve got a new one.’
He stopped blinking.
‘Yes, a new name. You’re going to be a new person. Completely different. A fresh start. How d’you like that?’
He thought. And in that thought, a smile started. He liked that. He liked that very much.
His companion laughed. ‘Thought you would.’
‘Who am I?’
‘Tyrell. Malcolm Tyrell.’
‘Tyrell … ’ Rolling the word round his mouth, seeing if it fitted. ‘Malcolm Tyrell … ’
Jiminy Cricket laughed again and gestured to the caravan. ‘So, Mr Tyrell. Would you like to make yourself at home?’
The dogs kept barking. He could no longer hear the crying child.
He would like that very much.