Running on the Cracks Read online

  ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

  ‘Emma Clark. NO, YOU CAN’T HAVE MONDAY OFF. Aye, Emma Clark. She’s a nice enough wee girl, if she’d just wash that clown paint off her face. I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE GOING TO THE MOONFOR THE WEEKEND, I WANT YOU HERE ON MONDAY MORNING. Is she no in your son’s class?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her, but I can ask the school. He did say something about a Chinese girl.’

  ‘Aye, well I can’t hang around. I’m behind as it is. NOT SO FAST, YOUNG FOWLER – WHAT HAPPENED TO MRS SPURWAY’S TIMESYESTERDAY? I’ll let you know if he turns up here.’

  ‘Well, thank you anyway.’

  ‘And if he turns up at your end, give his neck an extra wring from me.’

  Lost Property

  ‘Hello? Is that Mrs … er … it says Yeung on the doorbell. Is that right?’

  ‘This is her daughter, Jacqueline.’

  ‘Ah. I believe I have some lost property belonging to you.’

  ‘Lost property?’

  ‘A bag.’

  ‘I’ll buzz you up.’

  *

  ‘This is the bag. Does it belong to someone who lives here?’

  ‘I … sorry, where did you find this bag?’

  ‘I saw a young lady come out of this house last night, and she dropped it. I tried to alert her attention, but she seemed very nervous. She ran off. I would have come round straight away, but it was getting late and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Oh, well yes, I think the bag belongs to … a friend of mine. She was in a bit of a hurry to catch the bus. If you leave it here I can give it back to her.’

  ‘So the young lady doesn’t live here?’

  ‘No, she … why do you want to know? You’re not …’

  ‘Yes, I think you know who I am, and I think we both know who the young lady is. She’s my niece, Leonora, isn’t she?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone called Leonora.’

  ‘That’s what she’s told you to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean? I said, I don’t know this Leonora person.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s even told you some things about her background which may have misled you. But you do need to understand that my niece is a very vulnerable young person. She was in an extremely emotional state when she was in our care—’

  ‘Look, none of this is anything to do with me.’

  ‘It’s a little late for playing games. Leonora is on the Missing People register. Anyone knowingly harbouring her without notifying the police is committing a criminal offence.’

  ‘We’re not harbouring anyone. Please go away.’

  ‘And setting dogs on people is another crime.’

  ‘Dogs? We don’t have a dog. Oh, hi, Mum. It’s OK, this man just … got the wrong house.’

  ‘I did not get the wrong house. You told me yourself that the bag belonged to a friend who had left your house to catch a bus.’

  ‘Look, Jacqueline, that’s Leo’s bag! It’s got all her pictures in it!’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Ah, just as I thought. So is Leonora staying here, or is she across the road with her grandfather?’

  ‘No, she’s—’

  ‘Don’t tell him anything, Mum!’

  ‘I think your daughter is a little over-excited. But I’m sure you’ll be more reasonable. I simply need to know where Leonora is living.’

  ‘Sorry, I made a mistake.’

  ‘You can tell me. I want to help her. Where can I find Leonora?’

  ‘My mum doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You’d better go now. I’ll take the bag.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea after all. I’ll keep it. It may contain some important clues.’

  Leo – the Intrusion

  The phone wakes me, or rather Zigger, who is barking at it the way he always does when it rings.

  ‘Shut up, Zigger,’ says a bleary voice. Finlay is sprawled on some cushions on the floor. What’s he doing here? Then I remember.

  The phone stops as I dislodge Midget from my chest and sit up. Bright low sunlight is flooding into Mary’s sitting room. My watch says it’s ten-thirty. How could I have slept so long?

  ‘Finlay! We’ve missed our paper rounds.’

  Finlay sits up. He’s alarmed. But not about the paper round. ‘Someone’s at the door!’ he hisses.

  Zigger’s in the hall now, barking ferociously at the front door. A woman’s voice floats through the letter box: ‘Hello! Hello! Is anyone there? Good dog.’ And then a man’s voice, like an echo: ‘Good dog. Good dog.’

  ‘It’s the social workers,’ whispers Finlay.

  How does he know? And what shall we do? Hide? Answer the door? We do neither, just sit frozen helplessly as we listen to the voices saying ‘Hello’ and ‘Good dog’ again.

  Zigger has stopped barking now, maybe soothed by all the praise.

  A key turns in the lock. ‘There’s a good dog!’ The woman’s voice sounds a little nervous this time, as we hear the door open.

  More barking, but instead of the low threatening kind it’s the friendly paws-on-chest kind. And now Zigger is racing through to tell us about his new friends.

  They follow him into the room, see us and blink. The woman looks more like a student than a social worker, with her long messy hair, jeans and shoulder bag. ‘I didn’t think anyone was here. I’m the duty social worker from the hospital.’ She sounds more apologetic than accusing. ‘And Terry here is a trainee.’ A gangly young man says ‘Hiya’ and then starts stroking Midget, who is basking in a shaft of sunshine.

  ‘We’re Mary’s friends,’ says Finlay. ‘We were here when the ambulance came – well, I was. We just thought we’d stay and kind of … make sure the cat was all right.’

  ‘Is this your dog?’ asks the woman.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says Finlay.

  She looks confused. She rummages in the shoulder bag and produces a notepad. ‘So Miss McNally just has the one cat, is that right? It says here that she’s given permission for a neighbour to feed it.’

  ‘Or we could if you like?’ suggests Finlay. ‘We’re Mary’s friends. We could keep an eye on things till she’s back from hospital.’

  Nice try, Finlay.

  The social worker smiles. ‘It’s kind of you to offer,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your names. I’m Rachel, by the way.’

  Finlay glances at me, then mutters ‘Finlay’.

  ‘Emma,’ I say, without meeting her eye.

  Is it my imagination, or is she giving me a haven’t-I-seen-you-before look? But she says, ‘I’m sorry, Finlay and Emma, but we can’t give you access to the flat. In fact, we’re going to have to turf you out. We’ve got to make sure it’s secure before I hand the keys to the council.’ A thought seems to occur to her. ‘Is there just the one set of keys?’

  I hope I’m not looking guilty as Finlay says, ‘How should we know?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that usually the ambulance drivers wouldn’t let anyone who wasn’t a resident stay in the flat.’ She gives her apologetic smile again, aware that she’s hinting that we let ourselves in. How will Finlay get out of this one?

  ‘Oh, well, they didn’t realise that Emma was here, and then I came back to make sure she was all right,’ says Finlay. The truth for once, or near enough.

  ‘I see.’ I don’t think she does, but she probably wants to get this job over with. ‘Well, Terry and I will just check the other rooms – make sure there’s no one hiding in the wardrobe!’ She’s joking. I smile wanly, thinking of all the times I was cooped up in the darkness, my nose pressed up against Mary’s flimsy charity-shop dresses.

  ‘The bedroom’s a bit of a mess,’ says Finlay. The same could be said of him. His hair is sticking in all directions and his clothes are crumpled from sleeping in them. He follows the two social workers on the tour of inspection, with Zigger bounding after them.

&n
bsp; I dress hastily. I suppose I’d better pack too. All my possessions are in the bottom of Mary’s corner cupboard, except for the nylon hold-all I brought with me. I suppose Uncle John must still have that. I try not to think about him.

  My unused school bag is still here, with all the books and gym kit. I never disposed of it, as it seemed too risky, and now I hesitate. Shall I leave it? No, better take it – I don’t want any social-work or council people finding it here. As I thrust my few other things inside it I remember the first day of term, and setting off with Flo and Caitlin for the school I never reached.

  I’d planned that getaway, but I haven’t planned this one. Where am I going to go?

  Finlay and the social workers come back in. Rachel glances at my bag and looks worried. ‘Shouldn’t you two be at school?’ she says.

  ‘We’re just going,’ says Finlay.

  ‘But what about the dog?’

  ‘We’ll drop him off at my house on the way.’

  Her expression is more and more doubtful. ‘Do your parents know about all this? Maybe we should phone them.’

  ‘It’s OK, they’re expecting me,’ lies Finlay. Rachel glances at me, and he goes on, ‘And Emma’s parents know too. They’re pals of my mum and dad, actually.’

  ‘Well, we’d better just take a note of your full names and contact details anyway. Do you want to take them down, Terry?’ She hands him her notepad and, ever-apologetic, says, ‘Sorry to sound like the police – it’s just something we have to do.’

  Finlay says, ‘Finlay Grant, 58 Tiverton Road.’ He’s so good at bluffing that I don’t know if it’s his real address or not. I say, ‘Emma Clark, 43 Beechgrove Crescent.’ Beechgrove Crescent is a real road – it’s on my paper round – but the numbers only go up to 39.

  As Terry finishes writing, the phone rings again. Rachel answers it.

  ‘Who?’ she says. ‘Leo? No, there’s no Leo here.’ She gives us a questioning glance and we both shake our heads hard. ‘I think you must have got the wrong number.’

  Who was that? Jacqueline, I suppose.

  ‘Come on then, Zigger.’ Finlay’s in a hurry now. He doesn’t fancy any more questions, and nor do I.

  A newspaper is protruding from the letter box. Rab must have found someone to do Finlay’s round this morning. Finlay takes it. I sneak a quick glance at the headline – something about the Bin Killer. At least I’m not on the front page.

  ‘I’ll bring this in to Mary when we visit her,’ says Finlay.

  Rachel looks quite relieved to see us go. ‘Goodbye then. We’ll just stay and tidy up a bit and then we’ll sort out about the cat with the neighbour.’

  So this is it. We’re out in the street. I’m a runaway again.

  Taxi Driver

  ‘Excuse me …’

  ‘Shall I put that bag in the boot, sir?’

  ‘No thank you. Actually, I don’t need a taxi. I was just wondering if I could ask for some help.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘How well do you know Glasgow?’

  ‘I’ve only driven all about the place every day fur the last twenty-five years.’

  ‘I’ve got some sketches here … would you mind taking a look?’

  ‘Go on, then – I’m no buying any dirty pictures off you, mind.’

  ‘No, they’re perfectly innocent. Could you look at this one?’

  ‘That wee moggie could do with going on a diet.’

  ‘I meant the other picture.’

  ‘Is that no the canal? Aye, it looks like the Forth and Clyde Canal.’

  ‘You don’t recognise the bridge?’

  ‘That wee swing bridge? Wait a minute. I’d say it’s the one by Glennie Avenue. I dropped a couple of lassies off near there the other night. Both pished – I thought they were going to throw up in the cab.’

  ‘Glennie Avenue, did you say?’

  ‘Aye. Do you want a lift there?’

  ‘No thank you, I’ve got the car. But here – take this, you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Nae bother.’

  Finlay – Going Home

  ‘This is where I first saw you,’ said Finlay to Leo. He threw a stick along the towpath and Zigger scooted after it.

  ‘When I was the arch enemy,’ said Leo.

  They had headed from Mary’s to the little swing bridge without exchanging a word, as if by some joint instinct.

  Zigger returned the stick and started barking at some ducks.

  ‘Finlay, why did you tell that social worker he was yours? He’s Ronnie’s.’

  ‘Yes, but Ronnie’s in hospital. They’d have put him in some horrible kennels or something. Anyway, I don’t think Ronnie really wants him.’

  ‘But what will your parents say?’

  Finlay shrugged and said nothing, though the same question was weighing heavily on him. He threw the stick again for Zigger. The ducks had swum away.

  ‘You didn’t phone them last night, did you?’

  Why did Leo have to rub everything in?

  ‘I was going to, you know I was. It’s just that Zigger turning up like that put it out of my mind.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Your mum and dad – you’d better phone them now. They’ll be worried stiff. There’s a phone box on the corner.’

  ‘Oh, stop nagging me – you sound just like Mum. Anyway, it’s you we’re meant to be talking about, not me. Where are you going to go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You could go back. You’ve got your key still, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t got the extra deadlock key. Anyway, I don’t want to stay there on my own. Not with Dressing Gown and social workers and council people prowling round.’

  ‘How about Jacqueline’s?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What, just because it’s a bit cramped? I bet they’d put you up till you’d sorted something else out.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s because of Uncle John. He saw me coming out from that house, and he knows my grandfather’s address too. He’ll be lurking round that street again. I can’t go back there.’

  ‘But you could tell them about him. How he tried to force you into his car – that’s bang out of order, even if he is your uncle. They could report him to the police – or you could.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that. But supposing the police believed him and not me? And anyway, maybe he’s reported me to them already. Maybe he’s reported you too, for setting a dog on him. We’re probably both in the paper.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Finlay opened Mary’s paper with its ‘Bin Killer Caught!’ headline, and flicked through it. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything,’ he said.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well …’ Finlay wasn’t going to give up. ‘I suppose I could ask Mum and Dad if you could stay with us …’

  ‘Aren’t they a bit too law-abiding for that?’

  ‘Or there’s Ross McGovern …’ His voice petered out. For once he felt defeated.

  ‘Finlay, I do think you should go home.’ Leo’s voice was gentler now; she must be trying not to nag. ‘Never mind about me. I’ll sort something out.’

  ‘I know!’ Finlay jumped up. ‘We’ll phone Marina.’

  ‘Tell her to hop on the 73 and get off at Sperry Street. I’ll be waiting at the bus stop.’

  Good old Marina. That was her all over – a snappy decision instead of a whole lot of questions.

  The bus stop was next to the phone box. An elderly couple stood there, and behind them a mother with a child in a pushchair. ‘I’ll wait with you,’ said Finlay.

  ‘No, don’t. I’ll be fine. You must go home now.’

  ‘Well …’ Finlay was reluctant, but then Zigger started snarling at the little boy, or rather at his stripy hat. ‘All right. I’ll phone you as soon as I get the chance.’

  It was only a short walk from the bus stop to his house, but Finlay felt as if he was leaving one world and entering
another. He’d been trying to keep Mum out of his thoughts but he couldn’t do it any longer. Would she be in? Would she be angry? How angry?

  ‘Finlay! Where have you been?’ She didn’t look angry. She looked overjoyed. He felt a pang of guilt.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ He returned her hug awkwardly, and Zigger tried to join in.

  ‘Whose dog is this?’ Now she was half-laughing, half-crying. ‘Get him off me!’

  ‘It’s OK, he only does that to people he likes. Down, Zigger!’

  ‘Oh, Finlay, I’m so glad you’re all right. Why didn’t you phone us? We’ve been so worried.’

  ‘Sorry, I meant to. Can Zigger come in? It’s OK, he likes cats – well, usually, anyway.’ Finlay tried to sound more optimistic than he felt, as he saw their cat Mungo streak upstairs and felt Zigger straining on the lead.

  Mum wiped away a tear and tried to regain her composure. ‘Well, I don’t know … just for now, then.’

  In the kitchen, Zigger immediately discovered Mungo’s unfinished cat food and wolfed it down.

  ‘How about you?’ asked Mum. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes.’ Finlay realised he’d been living off cups of tea since four o’clock yesterday afternoon, and it must be lunchtime now.

  ‘I saved some lasagne for you.’ Why was she being so nice? Was it the calm before the storm? Finlay sat down at the table and Zigger came and sat at his feet expectantly.

  Mum put the dish in the microwave. ‘I’d better tell the police you’ve turned up,’ she said.

  ‘The police – you haven’t told them, have you?’

  ‘Of course we have. Finlay, what did you think we’d do? Or didn’t you think at all?’ This was more like the old Mum. ‘If you’d stayed away another night they were going to make a poster about you. You’d have been a Reported Missing Person.’

  ‘I would?’ That struck Finlay as ironic.

  ‘What are you looking like that for? It’s not funny.’

  ‘No, I know. Sorry, Mum. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Dad’s been out looking for you all morning. I’ve only just persuaded him to go into work.’

  Zigger, sensing the rising tension, stood up and growled at Mum.