The Runaway Page 2
Now that I think about it, I wish I’d brought my other bag: the brown one I take to school. That one has my purse in it. I could have bought a bus ticket to a nearby town – one with its own train station. Then I could have gone just about anywhere, although still not the Caribbean beaches, because Hannah Bromley says tickets cost hundreds of pounds, and that’s a lot more than I have. I suppose this makes me sort of homeless, but not like people in big towns and cities, who sit in the doorways of disused shops. I would be scared to be homeless in a city, where anyone could get to you, but if I live out here in the woods, that will feel safer. If I have to sleep outside, I would much rather it be somewhere remote. In big towns you have to deal with muggers and weirdos, and all the homeless women I’ve ever seen have had dogs, which have probably been trained to protect them. Here, your worst enemies are the cold and the rain, and any Llandymna native can handle them.
I am almost an hour’s walk from home here. The clock on my phone tells me this, which is about all it’s useful for now, as the bars of signal have disappeared. You never quite know whether your phone is going to work in Llandymna. There are a couple of hills north of the village where reception is strong: people sometimes go up there for calls if they don’t have a landline, like when Elsie Jones speaks to her brother in Canada. Jenny Adams, who joined my history class after her parents moved from Bristol to Bryndu, which is about ten miles away from Llandymna and where my school is, said she couldn’t believe people still lived in these conditions. I told her she was narrow-minded and stuck up for thinking her life experience was the only normal and right one. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since.
It’s grown cooler while I’ve been sitting here. I need to work out what on earth I’m going to do for shelter, and what I’m going to eat tonight, or my new adventure is going to be cut short very abruptly.
I open up my rucksack, my stage prop that was meant to convince people they had nearly lost me, and empty out its contents, hoping there will be something useful in there. Most of the space is taken up with my sleeping bag. After that, out falls Uncle Ed’s folding knife, and a lighter that was for starting up the gas stove, except the stove isn’t here. It must still be in the attic. There’s a small and flimsy saucepan, the sort where the handle folds in to save space. Finally, some crushed remains of rations from my last school hike fall out: an empty water bottle I forgot to throw away and several crumpled packets of dried couscous, which our teachers recommended as good outdoor food. No tent, of course; no waterproof clothes except for the jacket I am wearing, no torch: I could kick myself for not having planned this better. But of course, I had no choice. It was other people who goaded me into leaving so abruptly. This is not my fault. I wrap up the food again. If I can’t see it, I will feel less hungry and then it will last longer. Instead I focus on the empty bottle, which I press and remould in my hands until it has just about returned to its original shape. If I could find a stream, I could collect water, and that would be a good step towards surviving my first day in Dyrys.
Standing up, I listen for any sound resembling running water. For a moment I think I hear it, but then a magpie drops from a tree nearby in a cackling bundle of black and white feathers. He hops away, squawking indignantly, and now all I can hear is the birds talking to one another, oblivious to my silence. Focusing again, I concentrate on searching through every level of sound about me, and eventually I pick it out again: something faint and light, like a shiver running over the stones of the earth. I gather my belongings and run towards the sound.
I run because it feels good to have a direction. There’s no one else around except the birds and chattering squirrels. As I move swiftly between trees, it’s as though everything here is enchanted, and I am part of the spell. The earth that is dislodged by my feet and kicked up as I run starts to shimmer like bronze dust in my wake. Then suddenly, thud! I’m on the ground, tripped by a tree root.
I clamber back to my feet and brush the dirt from my hands. As soon as I find this stream, I’ll wash them properly. I walk slowly now, taking care to keep my footing where the ground slopes down, where it’s riddled with tree roots or concealed by brambles. The sound of the stream is growing clearer with every step, and as I gingerly sidestep a tangle of holly that blocks my path, I finally see it before me.
It glints silver in the sunlight. Trees bend over it, as if trying to catch a vain glimpse of their reflection. The stream arcs in either direction away from me, gently drawing itself into a broad crescent and disappearing into the depths of the forest. Triumphant at having found it using only my keen sense of hearing, I bathe my arms up to the elbows in its cool waters, and then take a first well-earned drink, scooping up the water in my hands and lapping it up quickly before it can trickle away.
I look up from the stream and see at once that on the other bank, partially concealed by greenery, there is a little house, or rather the ruins of a house. A tangle of moss and ivy hangs off its stone walls, and the few weathered fragments of a wooden wheel lying nearby tell me that this was once the watermill. It must have been abandoned for over a hundred years, after the river shrank to a stream and no longer carried enough strength to turn the mill wheel.
I inspect it thoroughly, searching for breaks in the stones or gaps in the roof. There are plenty. I pluck an ivy leaf from its tendril clinging to the north side, and hold it in the palm of my hand. From a distance, it looks deep green and perfect, but bringing it closer I can now see the tiny veins that crack across its surface and the brown marks around the edge. Disappointed, I allow it to fall to the ground and do not watch to see where it lands. I suppose this place will do, for now.
Chapter two
Llandymna
Diana rearranges the pans on the draining board a third time, and the kitchen rings with metallic slams. Next, she will tidy the cupboards. She has been meaning to do this for a month now. Everything must be taken out, sorted and wedged back into the available space. It is the only piece of housework left that is likely to hold her attention today. Quickly and expertly, she twists her dark hair into a knot that she pins to the back of her head with a silver clip. She has mastered the art of sweeping it all up in one motion so that not a single strand can get in her way while she works.
The other side of the back door, Owen, her youngest, sits on the patio and plays with the snails that crawl within reach. Occasionally he grinds his unfamiliar new teeth, somehow sensing that all is not right in his little world today.
Diana props open the kitchen door so that she can watch her son while listening for the doorbell. Normally, she insists on having all the doors in the house closed, so it takes her a while to find anything heavy enough to hold it open. From here she thinks she can hear a knock or approaching footsteps, but the sound doesn’t turn into anything material. She goes back to her work, deliberately drowning out any noise that she might mistake for Tom Davies’ return. She sets the jam jars in sensible rows on the counter, takes inventory of her supply of flours, and discovers that she will need more soon, as there is no question of her not baking something for Joan Perry’s cake sale. Governments might fail, fire might rain down from the sky, but Diana’s coffee and walnut sponge is something you can count on.
The doorbell rings, and Diana throws a bag of caster sugar down onto the table, scoops up little Owen into his highchair, and answers it. Tom Davies stands on the step, next to his friend Callum Rees. Their faces tell her everything. Her heart seems to plummet into her stomach.
“Nothing?” she asks, losing her usual commanding tone in this simple question.
“Diana, I’m sorry,” says Tom. “Nobody has seen anything. I take it you haven’t heard from her?”
“No, I’ve been calling her but she isn’t – I haven’t managed to get through.” Diana stops herself short of admitting that her niece is probably choosing not to answer her calls.
“If you’re concerned for her safety, we could… I could inve
stigate in a more formal capacity, if you want to report her as missing.”
“Report her?” Diana repeats, with an incredulous laugh. “You make it sound as though my niece is a criminal, or an interesting piece of journalism! She could be on her way home from the library right now. She likes to go there. Perhaps she simply forgot the time while she was immersed in one of her books.” She starts to speak faster as she weaves together this picture: a scenario that does not involve Rhiannon having stormed off after yet another shouting match.
“That’s probably right,” says Callum, even though they have already checked the library and found no sign of Rhiannon. He fears he will get dragged into an all-night search party for a teenager having a tantrum if he does not act quickly. “Once she realizes she’s missing teatime, she’ll come back.”
He had been on his way to the pub to watch the match this afternoon when he met Tom on Church Road and somehow agreed to help him in his inquiries. He is still in his red shirt, despite having missed the entire game.
“But if she isn’t answering her phone, it will be difficult to know that,” Tom presses, knowing full well why Callum wants to stop the search as soon as possible, but feeling less sure that he understands Diana’s reaction. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Diana, but if you are concerned, I can call the station right now.”
“No need, Tom. I know it’s your day off. As you say, everything is most likely fine. It’s just that you can’t be too careful where young people are involved. And I just want to know that Rhiannon is safe.”
Her words sound measured, careful, almost rehearsed, but in her eyes is a flicker of a growing panic that she hopes the evening shadows will hide. Tom relents with a compromise.
“All right, but I think we should check by the gorge before we call it a day. It’s the only steep enough drop around here for anyone to fall and hurt themselves. And we can search it before it gets dark. If she doesn’t come home tonight, I strongly advise you to call the police. But you may have managed to speak to her before then.”
No one looks fully appeased by this suggestion. Diana looks conflicted; Callum realizes he has been volunteered to go with Tom to the gorge, which means more walking. Neither can think of a more reasonable suggestion, though, so they all agree to this.
Rhiannon
It’s getting late. I’ve moved all my belongings into the old mill house and unrolled my sleeping bag where the ground is flattest and least stony. Next I need to build a fire. It will keep me warm and scare away any animals that come creeping around at night. Not that I think there will be anything that dangerous in these woods. There used to be rumours of an enormous wildcat living in Dyrys, but no one really believes that unless a visitor is asking, in which case we say it’s all true! Callum Rees told me he saw it once, and that it was the size of a panther, but I never believe anything he says. He just does whatever he thinks will make people like him. I think he would grow out of it much faster if his strategy was less successful, but he seems to have a lot of friends.
As the shadows grow longer, I start to think more about my safety. I know it’s unlikely that I’ll see anyone else out here, but what if I do? I’m a long way from the nearest house. Suppose someone wanted to rob me of the few possessions I have here? There would be no witnesses to stop them. I suddenly wonder how much of the feeling of safety most people have, day to day, comes from being near others, neighbours and friends, and knowing that if we stay within close range of just enough of them, chances are at least one will want to uphold the law rather than break it.
I pull a few stray branches and twigs together into a pile near the doorway of the mill house. Whatever door once stood there has long since rotted away. When the pile of wood looks about the right size, I take out the lighter and press my thumb down on the button. A yellow flame jumps out of the casing and I press it to the middle of the wood. Nothing happens at first, and then a thin twig catches fire. The flame runs the length of the twig, blackening its bark, and then fizzles out. I try again, holding the lighter to another twig this time, which just smokes feebly for a few seconds. On the third attempt, even less happens. The wood must be too rain-soaked to burn.
I can’t believe I am struggling at the first hurdle. I should be able to build a fire! I went on one of those survival skills weekends they send youth groups on, and I was far better than anyone else on my team. Of course, it turned out everyone else thought that the point of the weekend was to “bond” and “build relationships”, so from their perspective I was bottom of the class, but only because their criteria were stupid.
It must be the wrong sort of wood. The branches are probably too young and green or too old and rotten, or from a tree that does not burn so well. I will have to test different types of wood to find what burns best. Then I’ll be able to heat water over the fire and use that to cook the food I’ve brought. Not tonight though. I am exhausted, and can go without eating if it means getting to rest sooner. I wrap myself up in the sleeping bag and for a split second am struck by the sickening enormity of the decision I have made in leaving home, before tiredness overwhelms me and I curl up inside my sleeping bag.
The sun has set now. Between the dimly silhouetted trees are gaping spaces of darkness so black that it might almost be solid and heavy – something one could claw at in a moment of madness and force away to bring back the light. But this is stupid, I tell myself; just my imagination getting carried away. It’s been a strange day, and I am tired. Yes, that’s it. This uneasiness, this fear, is simply because I am half asleep already, almost in a dreamland, where everything is felt so much more intensely. I wriggle deeper into the sleeping bag and close my eyes.
Llandymna
Tom and Callum walk into the White Lion just as the barman calls for last orders. Callum groans: for him, this is another cruel reminder of how much of his day has been taken up with a wild goose chase. He marches up to the bar with the look of a man who knows he has earned this drink. Tom does not follow; he has spotted Ifan and Nia Evans sitting at a nearby table, saving two seats for the search party.
“Evening,” he says as he joins their table. “Thanks for waiting so late for us.”
“Not at all,” Nia says, though Tom has to strain to hear her voice over the background noise. “We’ve been worried about Rhiannon, haven’t we?”
Ifan realizes a moment too late that this last part was addressed to him, and grunts an unconvincing agreement.
“I don’t suppose you had any luck looking for her?” Nia continues.
“None,” Tom replies. “We asked around the whole village, and then we went up to the gorge, just in case she’d gone for a walk and fallen somewhere. But there’s no sign of her.”
“Poor girl.” Nia shakes her head sadly. “And poor Diana.”
The Evanses have lived in Llandymna their whole lives, and own the nearest farm to the village. As is the way in Llandymna, Ifan and Nia have become friends with Tom and Callum, not out of any real shared interests, but because they are close enough in age and they are simply here. That tends to be enough to build a bond of loyalty in this small village. Nia was in the same school year as Tom, and they used to take the bus to Bryndu High School together. She was generous and well liked back then, but Tom thinks she has become quieter since marrying Ifan. She has placed herself in the corner seat this evening, and sits with the perfect poise of someone tightly holding in their limbs, barely breathing for fear of trespassing onto someone else’s territory. You can tell, if you watch her for long enough, that Nia has resolved to squeeze her life into the smallest possible space, ever minimizing any trouble she might cause to others.
Ifan, by contrast, has planted himself squarely on an armed chair, and keeps one hand resting on the pint glass in front of him, his legs stretched out under the table. In another part of the world, Ifan Evans might be laughed at for his name, Tom reflects, though he is hardly a man to let others mock him. Yet
Llandymna has already weathered the naming of Billy Williams after his father William Williams, who used to run the corner shop next to the church before Callum’s family took it over, so its inhabitants have accepted Ifan’s name without question.
“Poor Diana?” Callum joins them, setting a pint glass down emphatically. “She’s not the one who’s been traipsing round the fields all evening. I’ve been out there with a torch for more than an hour.”
He takes out his penknife, a recent birthday present, which he has taken to flicking open and shut distractedly in moments like this. It seems to fit with the image he is trying to achieve.
“If you ask me,” Ifan says, “Diana should’ve expected this to happen one day. That Rhiannon’s her mother’s daughter after all.”
Ifan eyes each of the others to check that they agree with him. No contradiction is forthcoming, and this is encouragement enough for him to continue. In the corner of the pub, against the background murmur of last orders and other people’s conversations, Ifan reminds them of the stories of Elin Morgan, whose name has become a byword for losing touch with reality and your roots, living wildly and understanding nothing of consequences.
“Disappeared for years, she did, and then shows up back here, pregnant and unmarried. And then one night she leaves her child at home all alone, and goes out no one knows exactly where, except that she goes at such a speed that she overturns her car on the way and leaves her family to pick up the pieces.”