Kidnapped!
Somewhere near Springfield, Missouri

‘You’ve kidnapped me,’ I hissed in the ditch. ‘So not cool.’

(Captain America was kidnapped once but that didn’t make me feel any better.)

Why wasn’t I shouting? There was nobody else around. The Cowboy and Greyhound had both gone. The distant growl of faraway engines was all the company we had.

Jennifer was already scrambling out of the ditch and heading for the road. And it wasn’t so much that the penny dropped but a whole safe was thrown off a cliff: the bus had left and we were alone. You’ve never experienced true loneliness until you’re crouched in a cold Missouri ditch.

‘Help!’ I shouted (finally) into the dark. Well, half shouted. A polite shout. ‘I’ve been kidnapped. Seriously. Anyone?’

There was no reply but the sound of the wind through unseen trees. I’d not panic. And I’d not cry either. Positive mental visualisation. A comfortable seat in a coach to LA. But the warming image made me feel even more anxious. Sometimes I hated myself.

‘Come on,’ said Jennifer. ‘Follow me somewhere with heating at least.’

I touched the tip of my nose. It felt like an ice cube.

The road we walked was too large for the amount of passing traffic. Every so often we’d hear the approaching roar of an engine behind us or see the growing intensity of headlights up ahead, appearing like twin meteorites rushing in parallel to the ground. And we’d hide, sliding down an icy, damp verge to disappear. And, every time, Jennifer was more interested in the safety of her package than me.

Shivering in my T-shirt, checked shirt and jeans, I became more and more definite in my decision.

The first chance I got, I’d tell a responsible adult what had happened. I was half tempted to flag down a car, but I was as likely to get hit as noticed. It was one of those long roads in the middle of nowhere that (I thought) only existed in movies. If there was a speed limit, the motorists weren’t interested in keeping to it.

It hadn’t snowed around here or, if it had, the snow had melted. The air remained piercing, though, and the idea of not only my coat but all my possessions speeding to California without me was in no way warming.

As I walked, I thought back to the airport, of how close I’d been to catching the connecting flight. How warm, how happy, would I now be if Nicolas Cage hadn’t intervened? There’s a sharp lesson to cut yourself on.

What started as a pinprick on the horizon grew in time to a pool of light. This shone brighter the closer we got. Eventually the light split and focused into three neon signs: GAS! MOTEL! TEXAS BBQ!

‘Are you still cold?’ asked Jennifer.

I was shivering too much to answer properly, so just grunted.

All three places were wild with illumination, a supernova in the night sky, like they were competing to use up the most electricity. The Texas BBQ bled light and music into the night and Jennifer launched directly for it.

My stomach rumbled in excited anticipation. Little did it know. In the parking lot, which is American for ‘car park’, Jennifer paused next to a pick-up truck.

‘Wait here. Move and you’re dead,’ she said. (She had a way of making threats seem genuine. It was her eyes. So intense.) ‘And don’t lose the box. I’m trusting you.’

And she was off. As she pulled open the restaurant door, the night rocked with music and laughter for the few seconds before the metal and glass swept shut behind her. I thought about resting the box at my feet but didn’t want to risk an argument. Maybe it would blow up if not warmed by human contact? Who knew?

My hands stung with growing numbness. How cold would it have to be to get frostbite? Was my nose still there? I’d seen horrific pictures of failed mountain climbers. I tried moving my nostrils but could feel nothing. Losing my wallet was one thing but I’d hate to live out the rest of my life without a nose. People would point and give me nicknames. Noseless J. Face. Skellboy. Voldemort.

Maybe this was my chance. I looked to the gas station. I could see an attendant through the glass. A phone lit her face. At some point Mum would try ringing me. What would she do when she couldn’t get through? Would she worry? Would she contact the British Embassy? Dad would tell her to get a grip. Dad would understand that I’d messed up.

The BBQ door smashed open and out exploded Jennifer, running. She threw a thick, black coat at me. It covered my head and smelt of man.

‘Come on!’ she said, pulling at my elbow. ‘And don’t drop that parcel.’

She was wearing a red trench coat. It opened out like a cape behind her. I followed its sweep to the motel. We ran past the neon arrow pointing at reception and continued into a courtyard, in the middle of which was a swimming pool.

Steam rose lazily from still water. In the corner of the space was a bracket with a hose wrapped in its centre. Jennifer pulled us behind this and we slammed to the floor, our backs to the brick of the motel wall, hiding and out of breath.

The chemicals from the pool spiked the air. An engine sounded from the gas station on the other side of the motel. I hugged the stolen coat like a toddler with a security blanket. We were hidden. Unless anyone in the motel rooms opposite decided to look out of their windows.

Our breathing blew hot clouds like speech bubbles. When we’d caught our breath and there was no obvious shouting or footsteps from angry, coatless restaurant customers, I stood up and cleared my throat.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘But I’m cold and I’m tired. And stealing isn’t cool. I should be on the Greyhound. I won a competition.’

‘Cool,’ she said. ‘What are you? Thirty-nine? Who says cool?’

(She was laughing.)

‘Lit, then. Lit AF. Whatever you’re meant to say and, anyway, I’m going to the motel reception now. It was nice meeting you.’

‘You don’t have any money, do you?’

‘Not to book a room. To hand myself in. To just, you know, let them know what’s happened. I’ll say you ran off into the night. Don’t worry. I’m not a snake.’

‘What has happened?’ she asked.

‘Honestly? I don’t know. It’s like I’ve fallen into an alternate reality.’

She smiled, the bare opposite of the words that followed.

‘You broke my wrist, Jay. That happened. Not comic books.’

‘It’s Jacob. And I don’t want to argue but you weren’t looking where you were going. That’s not my fault. I’m sorry. And, anyway, I think we’re probably even by now. I dropped my voice. ‘There’s no way it’s broken.’ I stood, batting away her (good) hand from its grasping. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble. You talk about your grandmother but you’ve not met my parents. They’d both die if they knew what was happening.’ She continued to smile. ‘Why doesn’t anyone take me seriously over here?’

‘Who’s your favourite superhero?’

Of all the things she could have said, I never expected this.

‘What? Why?’

‘Just answer, Mr Salty. Thirty seconds delay in ratting me out won’t make a difference.’

I sat back down.

‘Spider-Man. And I’m not ratting you out.’

‘Peter Parker’s his real name, right?’

‘Right.’

‘I always preferred Peter Parker to Spider-Man. Less pleased with himself.’ And she sucked her bottom lip before saying, ‘Anyway, do you think either Spider-Man or Peter Parker or whoever would give up on a stranger who’d asked for help? A stranger who promised they weren’t doing anything wrong. A stranger whose wrist they’d broken?’

My mind shut down, broken by the obvious emotional blackmail. When I was able to talk again, it was in a somewhat/slightly pleading tone.

‘You’re wanted by the police, Jennifer. And being chased by some psychopath cowboy man. And –’ I looked down to the box, imagining it brimful of golden necklaces and platinum rings – ‘who knows what you’re hiding in there.’

‘I’m not telling you, Jay.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s personal.’

‘Will you at least say why you’re going to LA?’

‘Sure. To see my dad. He’s at Twin Towers Correctional Facility, four hundred and fifty Bauchet Street, Los Angeles. So are you going to come with me or what?’

I’m not going to lie; what she said had some effect. And, maybe if I’d been in the middle of the Somerset countryside, and not somewhere between Missouri and California, I might have helped her out.

Standing, I put the coat on. It hung from me like a cloak.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I need to be in that movie. And, as soon as I’ve spoken to someone who can help me out of all this, I’m going to return the coat to the restaurant. Somehow. It’s just really cold, so—’

And I took two steps from the flashlights of her eyes before a man, wearing a baseball cap and no coat, palmed his hand against my chest.

‘Hella sick coat, bro. Where’d you get it?’