Friday reading

Deb's bid to escape the mission encounters unforeseen obstacles in this week's chapter from Family Lines.

Only that a woman coming down the steps jogged me with her elbow while putting up her brolly I might still be at the Mission. I half-stumbled, half-ran down to the street where I stopped, twitched my head this way and that, and set off towards the bus stop. From the stop across the street I could see the house, which looked warm and inviting with all its windows aglow. My heart lurched.

I stepped onto the road obeying a subconscious impulse to return to the place that had been my ‘home’ for over a year. A car horn blared and I jumped back onto the path, where I tried to breathe over the pounding of my heart. It wasn’t the car that frightened me so much as my almost will-less move towards the place I was trying to escape. I decided to walk on to the next bus-stop to avoid the hypnotic lure of that place.

  As I stood alone, wet and downcast, I began to scold myself, saying that I should have thought through my flight better. I should have hitched a lift into town from Colley although I knew that once he had delivered my second letter he had decided to pull back from helping me. He would have been in big trouble if he had been caught helping me get away.

How did those people manage to instil fear into so many of us? And not just us, because we had been told of sister houses around the country, and in America and Australia. By the time I got out however I was afraid of the world. They had managed to flip my head around so that their centre seemed to be a sanctuary and the outside world bristled with traps that would endanger our souls. All this and more I realised much later but for that night I waited without fully knowing where I was going.

  The rain had seeped through my denim jacket to my skin, my canvas shoes were sodden and I couldn’t be sure whether the water running down my face was rain or tears. I gripped the bus-stop as if some invisible hand was trying to drag me away from it and back to the ‘mission’. I don’t know how long I stood there but after some time a passing car, catching me in the beam of its headlights, slowed down just beyond the bus stop. Sheer terror possessed me and I bolted, turning down a side street to get away from the car which I was sure contained Jonah.

  Hullo, wait, a man’s voice called.

  Not Jonah. I paused and glanced back. Silhouetted in the streetlight was the figure of the man with the hat. He must have stayed on for the cup of tea and biscuits after the meeting. I stood saying nothing.

  Are you all right? Can I give you a lift somewhere?

  I approached him warily, unsure of his motives. He was one of them, after all, and they might have sent him out in search of me.

  Don’t be afraid. I don’t bite, he laughed shortly.

  I nodded and stepped into the dim bus shelter.

  This is no night for chaps like you to be out, he said. Shouldn’t you be back at the Mission?

  I shook my head.

  His eyes held mine for a moment. You’re not running away are you, by any chance?

  At those words I turned and fled down the side street. I didn’t stop running until I had run out of breath. I looked around. I had no idea where I was. Darkened office blocks rose on either side and in front of me. A row of dumpsters stood to one side of the space and a white van was parked across what looked like the rear entrance to a building. I leaned back against a wall trying to regain my breath. The door at the back of the white van opened and two men jumped out, one of them holding a torch, the other a metal cutter. Now I didn’t dare to breathe for fear of being discovered.

  After a few minutes of the man with the bolt cutter cursing and swearing, while his friend shone the torch on him, I heard the clatter of metal on the ground. Gotcha! The man exclaimed and slid the door open. One after another they entered but just when I thought it was safe for me to sneak away, the second man craned his neck out and cast the torch in a probing arc around the yard.

I squeezed my eyes shut under its glare.

  What’s this? He said and called to his mate. C’m’ere Al.

  Al joined his companion and the two of them stared at me then advanced slowly, the one keeping the torch on my face, like a spotlight.

  Whatcha doin’ere hey? Said the one with the torch as he grabbed my arm.

  I tried to shake free but he tightened his grip. Nothing, I bowed my head. Hiding.

  Who else is’ere? He moved the torch away from my face and slowly tracked its light across the buildings, pausing to concentrate on corners, doorways and the dumpsters.

  No one. Just me.

  He flipped the torch upright so that it lit both our faces from below, although his was half-hidden by a balaclava. Whaddya see?

  Leave her be, mate, said the one called Al. She’s only a scrap. We’ve go work to do.

  Nothing, I whispered. Nothing. I sagged, feeling a rising tide of darkness and the pain of his grip manacled to my arm.

Excuse me, excuse me, I’m afraid you’ll have to move.

 I opened my eyes to see pair of wine red knee-high boots. Raising my head I took in a sleek wet look raincoat and, above that, a woman’s face. I sat up slowly. My head was sore and my joints ached. I didn’t want to move ever again.

  You’ll have to move, the woman persisted. I’m opening the office.

  Yes, sure, I said. In a sudden reflex my hand gripped my belly to check that the belt I had fashioned for Rose’s letter and money was still intact. Yes. I patted it reassuringly.  

  Don’t throw up here. I’m tired of cleaning piss and puke out of the doorway. Go on. Or I’ll have to call the police.  

  I fumbled for my back pack then shimmied away on my arse.

  The grey light of early morning smeared the street which I realised now was lined with posh-looking offices, banks and estate agencies, like the one in whose doorway I had slept. I pulled myself upright and steadied myself against the window which displayed characterful houses with elegant interiors for sale at five and six figure prices. My eyes fixed on one with deep bay windows looking out to sea, its rooms painted in bold colours, relieved by white upholstery and jazzy cushions. It looked like the set for a film, not a place where real people lived.

  Now that I was standing I wondered how I had got here. I remembered the white van and the men in the yard, pain in my arm, and staggery weariness overtaking me. I touched my arm and winced. It must be bruised I thought. Did they do anything else to me I wondered in a sudden panic and looked down. My clothes were all as they had been and I had distinctly felt the crackle of Rose’s envelope in my waistband. If they had pulled my jeans off they would have found that and kept it. What if they had taken the money and left the letter? I froze at that thought and hastily pulled at my damp clothes to retrieve the envelope.

  Are you still there? The woman was back in the doorway now. She had shed the raincoat to reveal a bright crimson and black houndstooth wool suit. The boots had been replaced by black shoes with court heels.

  I stared at her. Everything about her intimidated me. And then, I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the effect of the red suit but I burst out, Yes, I’m still fucking here. The street doesn’t belong to you. I’m afraid I might have been raped last night by two men if you must know. Right now I’m looking to see if they stole my fucking money too. So do me a favour and go back into your cushy office and flog your fancy fucking houses and forget about me.      

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What do you make of Deb’s flight and her plight? Or any other aspect of the story so far . . .