The alarm clock read 2.00 a.m. It wouldn’t be light for another two hours. Peter lay on Ken’s living room sofa, eyes closed, trying not to think about things so he could get back to sleep.
Uncle Ken’s flat – Ken called it a ‘condo’ – was in a brand new building, with white walls, bare wooden floors and what Mum used to call that ‘new motel’ smell. Peter had never been in a new motel, but he knew what she meant – unused, sanitary, too clean for Mum’s taste – and smelling it made him think of her. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering if she was thinking of him too. He knew it was mad, but he couldn’t help it. He felt her eyes on him sometimes, and he imagined her, dressed as normal in jeans and T-shirt, peering down on him through a telescope from a very high cloud.
Peter thought about his dad, too. He’d still be in Italy, basking beside some pool. What time would it be there? He checked his watch. 10.00 in England, an hour later in Italy. Dad would be home in a few more days. At least nobody had called yet – no police, nobody in England, wondering where he’d gone. His aunt Emma was supposed to be checking in on him. She must’ve believed his text that said he was staying at his mate Luke’s for a few days. Luke and his family were on holiday and wouldn’t answer their phone, so that might hold her till Dad got back.
Outside, a car alarm went off and a dog started to bark. Peter pulled the pillow over his head to drown out the sound.
It was no use. He tossed and turned for a few minutes, then finally gave up. He pulled on his jeans and shirt and crept through the darkened flat to the balcony. Ken’s condo overlooked the Mississippi River. It was too dark to see, and too noisy with the hum of air conditioners to hear, but from the balcony Peter could at least smell the Mississippi, earthy and brown.
He wondered if the river would lead to Yellow Lake. He supposed it would, eventually. That’s how rivers worked, right? Maybe he should take off now – he’d already wasted enough time in Minneapolis – go down to the riverside, see if there was anyone with a boat for hire. It was worth a try. Or he could hitchhike. Yellow Lake wasn’t all that far from Minneapolis. He had money for a map, he could take some food, buy a little more – he’d be at the cabin in a matter of hours. He could leave a note for Ken, explain that he couldn’t sleep, that he’d decided to beat the rush hour, something daft like that.
He took in a deep breath of the sweet mouldy river. He looked up at the night sky, at the stars twinkling, a half moon hiding behind a bank of clouds. He closed his eyes and saw Mum again, looking down, only this time she was looking away from her telescope and rolling her eyes at his pathetic idea.
She was right. Leaving now would only lead to worry, to questions, to phone calls home. He’d have to be patient, as hard as that was. He’d have to stay cooped up in the condo until Ken dropped him off at the bus station on his way to work.
He went back into the living room and sat on the sofa. He picked up the holdall from the floor and rummaged through his pants and socks, digging until he found the satin bag that held the bit of Mum’s hair.
When he looked at the thin piece of cloth, he felt even more of an idiot. Mum was probably up on that cloud, laughing her head off with one of her angel mates.
‘Doesn’t he realise that it was a joke?’ she’d guffaw. ‘What does he think that’s going to achieve?’
Peter put the bag back in its hiding place. He zipped up the holdall, gave it a pat.
No, he thought. Mum hadn’t been joking. She wouldn’t laugh.
He lay down on the sofa and pulled the covers over his head. As long as the phone didn’t ring, he’d be OK. As long as the doorbell didn’t go, as long as there were no police cars pulling up outside the condo, they’d get to Yellow Lake.
Just the two of them, as he’d promised.