Friday Reading

In which Deb tries to recall the events of last night and keeps on running from the Mission . . .

The estate agent stared at me for a moment before saying, In that case I really do need to call the police. You can sit in here while you wait for them.

 Her last words were almost drowned out by the wail of a police siren. We both froze. Had she pressed a hidden bell or something? But she looked as startled as me. I twisted around to see what was going on. People from neighbouring offices had come to their doors and were looking up and down the street.

 One of them pointed to a corner a few hundred yards away just as the cop car, with its siren blaring and blue lights circling, disappeared.

  Another raid on the Boots behind us, he said.

  It took me a moment to register what he was talking about because I hadn’t been here long enough for Boots to be a household name. As the penny dropped panic flooded me. That’s what they had been doing, the two men with their van and their bolt cutter, and I was a witness. 

  They ought to barricade that place at night, said another man, and with that they all retreated into their offices, like figures on a cuckoo clock.

  All except the estate agent. She must have seen the look of irrational guilt on my face because she tilted her head at me. Two men, you say, she said.

  I grabbed my bag and scarpered. I didn’t stop running until I came to a wide street with a pedestrian crossing that was red against me. I wormed myself between the jostle of people standing there and crossed with them when the light changed. On the other side, I glanced around. No cops. No one was following me. Find the railway station, I told myself, then you can go into the loo and sort yourself out.

  As I waited at the next crossing I turned to the woman beside me and asked her the way to the station.  

  It’s right there, she smiled. Look, just ahead of you.

  Sure enough, when I followed the direction of her glance I saw the wide glass front of Lime Street Station and picked up my pace.

  Once inside its high echoing hall I relaxed a little. I was just another anonymous traveller – as long as I could travel. No one was taking a blind bit of notice of me. Invisible at last. I was one step closer to my final escape from the Mission, and to seeing a friendly face. First, I had to find the Ladies and make sure I had my money. That took a while. The place was so big, and busy and noisy and crowded, I was bamboozled. You’d have laughed at me. I was like a bog trotter up for the day!

In the cubicle I pulled off my jeans and knickers. No damage done. And my money was still there, every last pound of it. I sat on the closed toilet seat and leaned back against the cistern, shutting my eyes, craving rest, and inhaling the stuffy smelly air. You’d think my first feeling would be relief but instead my whole body went into a kind of aftershock, shivering and shuddering as if I had a fever. It was as if my body was catching up with the realisation of the danger I had been in and what those men could have done to me. My breath came in short ragged bursts. The adrenalin that had fuelled me over the past two days was fizzling out and I was exhausted.

I must have dozed off after a while because I woke with a fright, hearing the flush of the toilet in the adjoining cubicle. In the blur of half sleep I felt again the man’s grip on my arm, smelt his foul cigarette breath. And then I felt something else, a scratch on my arm. Shaking myself fully awake I straightened up. What was that about? Instinctively my right hand rubbed at a place on my left arm. I rolled up the sleeve of my sweater and sure enough, there was a tiny mark next to a vein. Could it be that they had given me something to sedate me and then brought me round to the estate agent’s doorway? I stared at the small red scrape on my arm and rubbed it, trying to recall the detail of those minutes but nothing more returned, only a brief sensation of dizziness.

Rolling down my sleeve I began to feel relief and even, weirdly, gratitude to those men. I had a pee and changed my knickers, remembering how Aunt Marge always told us to make sure to be wearing clean ‘smalls’ because you never know when you might be knocked down and taken in an ambulance to the hospital. Mind you, if we were knocked down surely the last thing we’d be worrying about was the state of our underwear. (How is Marge? I hope I’ll see her soon, with you. She was always so kind. Always looking after everyone else.) 

Photo by Luke Porter on Unsplash

Sitting on the train to London was like being in a dream. I had managed to get a window seat and as we picked up speed I watched the shabby industrial outskirts of the city give way to countryside dotted with farmhouses and occasional villages. It all looked exactly the same as the old English landscape paintings I’d seen in the art gallery and in books. Big grubby clouds were bundled in the sky, shrinking the horizon, sheep grazed in muddy fields and cows gathered under dripping trees. Now and again a church tower appeared among trees, skirted by a cluster of houses, their slate roofs slick with rain. This was freedom. No fanfare needed. As the distance between me and Liverpool grew my heart lightened.

 Rose would be waiting for me in Euston station. I had phoned her, as instructed, before boarding the train. A man with a very superior accent answered the phone making me wonder for a moment did I have the wrong number. Then I realised he was her uncle Mark. I heard him call out, Rose, tellyphone, followed by her steps running down stairs. Stupidly, I cried at the sound of her voice. It felt like home.

  Better still was to see her there in the station. Same old Rose with a funny multi-coloured hat and a big grin on her face. We hugged and hugged and hugged and laughed, and cried a bit too.

  Then she stood back and shook her head at me. Look at the state of you, she said.

  I spread my arms and asked, What state is that?

  Grey and thin and ill. What did they feed you in that place? Come on, she linked my arm. You need fattening up.

  You sound like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, I laughed.

  That’s me, she said. A wicca witch.

  I followed her in and out of the Underground, down streets, through squares and across a park until we stopped at an elegant white house on the corner of a terrace. A white cat sat in the front window like an ornament.

 That’s Phantom, Rose waved her hand towards the cat who remained unblinking on the window seat. We’re home, she called as we stepped into the hall.

  It smelt of furniture wax, old leather and cigars, and, disturbingly an underlying whiff of the stewed vegetable odour that dominated the Mission. I felt a lead weight plummet through my stomach. I stared at the back of Rose’s head and at the short plump man who appeared in the stairwell at the back of the hall. Were they part of the Mission too? Was this an elaborate con job to drag me back into its sick organisation?

  This is Uncle Mark, said Rose, turning to me. What’s wrong? She asked on seeing my look of terror.

  Nothing, I shook my head, calculating whether I should bolt again, out the front door, down the steps and lose myself in the crowds of London. Rose had laid her hand on my arm. I shook it away and stepped back.

  Deb, what’s the matter? She craned forward to peer at my face. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?

  Give your friend space, Mark said. She’s worn out. She’s had a long journey.

  Only a few hours, Rose brushed his words away. There’s something wrong. I know Deb. What did they do to you?

  Her voice seemed to reach me from far away. I shook my head. Who? I asked. Who are you talking about?

  Those weirdos who kept you locked up.

  Mark beetled forward and I saw he was wearing a white apron over his striped shirt, tweed waistcoat and trousers. His round bald head perched like a ball on a stiff collar and the knot of a paisley tie. His eyes magnified by thick glasses took me in before he spoke. It’s all right, Deborah. You’re among friends now. You’re free to come and go as you please. Take your time. When you’re both ready you can come down to the kitchen. I’ve made soup.

  Rose, chastened by Mark’s gentle tone, took my limp cold hand and said, Come on, I’ll show you to your room.  

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I hope I’ve dispelled some of the anxiety readers were feeling after last week’s episode! Let me know how you’re feeling this week: