‘The yellow roads?’ says David, looking at the map Julie’s given him.
‘Yeah. The B-roads,’ Julie confirms. ‘We’re going on B-roads.’
‘Is there any reason for that? It’ll take fucking weeks.’
‘It’ll be fun,’ Chantel says. ‘Lighten up, David.’
It’s Saturday night. Everyone’s preparing to go. David gives the map back to Julie, shaking his head, then he and Chantel get out of the van to do something with oil. Julie, Leanne and Luke are in the van, sheltering from the rain, waiting for Charlotte. Luke’s sitting on the bed at the back, Julie’s sitting on the chair behind the passenger seat, and Leanne’s sitting primly on the little sofa. It’s smaller in here than Luke thought it would be, and his feet are getting caught up in everyone’s bags.
‘Where’s Charlotte?’ asks Julie, looking at her watch. ‘We’ve got to go in a minute.’
‘She’s probably taken too many drugs and forgotten,’ Leanne says.
When Luke and Julie were about fifteen, they used to play a game called Trust. Julie would fall backwards and Luke would catch her, and vice versa, or one would blindfold the other, and then give the blindfolded person instructions on how to walk around some obstacles placed in Luke’s room.
Leaving the house felt like the Trust game multiplied a thousand times. As Julie helped Luke towards the same back door through which he tried to escape all those years ago, he’d suddenly had a sensation of not being able to breathe; and he imagined collapsing again like he’d done when he was seven, like in a film, shot from every angle. As he walked towards the door, with Julie touching his arm, all he could think of was that day: the gravel, the cold air, and then waking up in bed.
Once he could breathe again – they’d had to rest in the kitchen for several minutes while Luke mentally prepared himself – he found he wasn’t sure if he was more scared that he was just going to wake up in bed again like last time, or that he wasn’t. He never thought this would actually happen. Going out was unthinkable. Luke had spent years fantasising about what lay behind the kitchen door, and now he was finally going to see what was really there. He’d had that one glimpse of blue sky years ago and it had been like being able to feel a Christmas present but never open it.
Luke’s mother always used to put his presents under the tree on Christmas Eve. Luke was never allowed to touch, shake or feel them. He was only allowed to look. But one time he couldn’t help himself. He crept up to the tree and squeezed a small, intriguingly shaped package. It was so soft. A toy! It had to be a toy. A soft, furry toy he could love and stroke and hold. He’d never had a soft toy for Christmas before. Usually his presents were electrical items or clothes. All night, Luke fantasised about unwrapping his toy. On Christmas morning he was allowed to open one present from his pile before breakfast. He chose the small soft package, of course. It was a pair of socks.
So far, being outside is like socks. Socks, when Luke expected a soft toy.
He walked out of the door with Julie sort of pushing him and there was no magic; no vast Technicolor world in which he could dance naked. There was just the sound of rain, the smell of someone’s dinner cooking and a greyness he could barely see. Then Julie hurried him into the van, which had been parked on the gravel driveway, almost right by the door. She had an umbrella. He didn’t even feel rain on his face. Not that he would have anyway, because of the helmet he’s wearing. It’s a shame. He always wanted to feel rain on his face.
Now he’s sitting in the van while the others come in and out, preparing things, arguing about the route and complaining about Charlotte being late. Luke’s looking through the steamy, smeared window at his house. It feels like an out-of-body experience; like he’s a snail looking at his shell. It’s the strangest sensation he’s ever experienced. He never ever thought he’d be here in this van, and that he’d be leaving his home and going somewhere else. He couldn’t picture it at all. Now he’s actually here his life seems pictureless, because there’s no storyboard in his head for what might come next. Luke’s scared. He shuts his eyes. The van smells mouldy inside; wet and sort of dying, like a cup of coffee you’d left under your bed for a week.
In the back of the van, Leanne’s whispering to Julie. ‘You said you’d do something,’ she hisses.
‘I have done something,’ Julie hisses back.
‘What, exactly?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I do know, but . . . Look, I had to tell Charlotte.’
‘You what?’
‘Only the bare facts, don’t worry.’
‘I can’t believe you’d betray me by telling Charlotte.’
‘Calm down, Leanne.’ Julie sighs. ‘It’s not a big deal.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. I’ll never live it down.’
‘She wasn’t like that. She knows it’s a secret. Don’t worry about it.’
‘She’ll laugh at me.’
‘She does anyway. Look, I think she thought it was pretty cool, to be honest.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Luke hasn’t got any idea what they are talking about. He keeps his eyes shut. Everything sounds different. Maybe it’s the effect of the wind, the rain or the temperature, or maybe just the infinite space of outside. That could be it. It used to be that Luke’s whole world was carpeted and had walls and curtains. Now he doesn’t know what it is but he knows it goes on forever. Luke lies down on the little bed and covers himself with one of the huge fleece blankets that Chantel and Julie brought along. It’s probably better that he stays hidden. And maybe it’s best for him not to look out of the window at his house any more.
David’s been doing something to the engine of the van, and the metal sounds that he’s generating – the squeaking and scraping of the bonnet opening, and a circular, twisting sound of things being unscrewed and screwed back again – are clean and crisp, even through Luke’s foil-covered crash helmet and the blanket. As well as David’s metal sounds, Julie’s whispering voice and Chantel’s occasional giggle, Luke can hear the echoey spatter of rain on the van roof and, faintly, the last part of the Coronation Street music, which, after the sound of a key being turned and a door being opened, suddenly becomes louder.
There’s the crunchy sound of gravel.
Then Julie’s dad’s voice: ‘What the hell are you doing now?’ It sounds like he’s laughing.
Julie’s voice: ‘Nothing. Moving something from Luke’s.’
‘Who the hell owns this heap of junk?’
Chantel’s voice: ‘It’s mine, Mr King.’
More sounds of gravel. It sounds like Leanne’s getting out of the van.
Julie’s dad’s voice: ‘You lot are doing something dodgy, aren’t you?’
Chantel: ‘No, Mr King, we’re just moving some things Luke wants to sell and . . .’
There’s the sound of Julie’s dad laughing. And his voice again: ‘Do I look like I care? It’s about time my daughter did something interesting, anyway. Of course, knowing her, you’re all doing exactly what you say you’re doing. Boring, boring, boring.’
There’s some more crunching, a slammed door, and then the TV is quieter again.
Luke can’t open his eyes; he can’t move the blanket. He prefers to put images to sounds inside his head; they seem to make more sense that way. Also, he can add whole scenes. He can create an image of David chasing after Julie’s dad and pinning him up against the wall of his house and telling him not to ever speak to Julie like that again. He can see Julie’s dad slump to the ground like a man in a film, with his shirt all scrunched up and his tie coming undone. It’s a satisfying image. One of the reasons Luke can’t open his eyes is because he won’t see fiction if he does. He stays under the blanket.
‘Where the hell is Charlotte?’ Julie’s saying now.
‘Taking her time, isn’t she,’ says David.
‘We’ve got to get a move on. Luke’s sitting in there on his own.’
‘I’ll sit with him,’ says Chantel. ‘This rain’s getting worse.’
‘Me too,’ says Leanne. ‘My hair’s going frizzy.’
Inside the van it suddenly sounds as though someone’s throwing small hard objects on to the roof.
‘Fuck it, it’s hail,’ says David, and everyone gets in the back of the van with Luke.