Roots of Evil(17)

At eight years of age there are times when the mind can move with nearly adult precision and clarity, and the instinct for self-preservation is inborn rather than instilled – as strong in a child as it is in an adult. Later, there would be grief for Mother, who ought not to have died, but for now there was only the recognition that to stay here – to summon help from neighbours or from the phone-box at the corner of the street – would mean doctors and policemen and hours upon hours of questions. The truth might be believed, or it might not – he might very well manage to shift the blame. But whichever way it went there would either be an order for a care home or a remand home or young offenders’ hostel. Children in Pedlar’s Yard knew about being taken into care, and they knew about remand homes and hostels as well. And if any of those things happen, I shall never see the marsh house, I shall never see the lady of the stories…

Decision made – in fact, there was no decision to make. He’s blundering around in the kitchen, and if ever there was a moment to make the attempt, this is it. Now. Into the hall, along to the stairs, and straight up them. Remember the two stairs that creak and avoid them…Good. Now into their bedroom, snatch up the keys. Good again. What about money? To travel anywhere you need money. Would it be stealing to open the tin money-box kept in the chest of drawers, and take whatever was in there? If it is stealing I can’t help it. And he’s still crashing around downstairs, so there’s time.

The money-box held thirty pounds. Was that enough for the journey? It would have to be. And now school satchel from my own bedroom to carry things, and a thick coat and woollen gloves. Toothbrush and comb from the bathroom, but get them quietly – Is that him coming upstairs? No, I’m still safe. Anything else? The money-box was still open on the top of the chest of drawers, and inside it was a brown envelope. Mother had kept important things there. Documents. Birth certificate? You had to show your birth certificate sometimes. Better take it.

The birth certificate was inside the envelope; it was simple enough to fold it carefully, and tuck it into the side of the satchel. Anything else in there? What about the letter with the address of the Priest’s House on it? I ought to take that if it’s here. Then she – the lady – will know I’m really who I say I am.

The letter was in the envelope, folded up, a bit creased, but readable. Also in the envelope was a photograph – a small snapshot of Mother and Father together, both of them smiling straight into the camera. There was a moment of doubt about taking it – I don’t ever want to see him again! – but almost instantly came the knowledge that to take the photograph would be like taking a tiny fragment of Mother. And she looks happy – I’d be able to look at her and think of her being happy. The photograph went into the satchel with the birth certificate. And now I’m ready.

The front door had to be unlocked very stealthily indeed, but the key turned quietly enough, and it did so with a soft whisper of sound that said, ‘You’ve escaped!’

At this time of night there was no one about, and it was easy to run to the phone-box. It smelt disgusting, but at least it had not been vandalized like a lot of phone-boxes these days. Dial 999, and ask for an ambulance. And don’t worry about sounding panicky – they’d expect a child to sound panicky.

The call was answered at once. ‘Emergency – which service do you require?’

‘Ambulance, please.’

The space of four heartbeats, and then a different voice. ‘Ambulance service.’

‘Please – someone’s dreadfully hurt. My – father. He’s been stabbed – I don’t know what to do—’

‘What’s your name? And your address?’

Pretend not to have heard the first question. Cry a bit. You’re allowed to be frightened and confused, remember? ‘This is my address.’ It came out clearly. ‘Please come quickly.’ And replace the receiver. Enough? Yes, they would not dare ignore it; ambulance people did not even ignore obvious hoax calls, everyone said so. And the person at the other end had seemed to accept the information as genuine.

So now I’m ready and now I’ve done everything, and now I’m leaving Pedlar’s Yard – horrid, hateful place – for ever. I’m leaving all the bad memories. Later on I’ll be sad about Mother, but I can’t think about that yet.

Thirty pounds. Enough for a train journey? Would the railway station sell a ticket to a child? Why not? And if a train did not go all the way to Mowbray Fen, there would be buses for the last miles; buses were usually very cheap.

And from now on I am nothing to do with Pedlar’s Yard, and I am nothing to do with North London. I am somebody who has a normal life and a normal family, and I’m going to visit my grandmother.

The prospect was exciting and terrifying. It was an adventure like children had in books. It was the four Pevensie children going through the wardrobe into Narnia. Hadn’t they eaten apples to survive on one of their adventures? I’ll buy apples and eat them like they did. Or I’ll buy hamburgers and chips. Nobody looks twice at a child buying chips. And orange juice to drink.

Surely the journey could be managed, and at the other end of it, beyond all those villages with their ancient English names, would be the house surrounded by the will o’ the wisp lights that could give you your heart’s desire.

And the lady from all the stories would be there.