The Runaway Page 8

  “Can I help you?”

  “My name’s Nia Evans. I’m here on behalf of the Griffin family. Sorry, I’m not really sure how this works…”

  The woman behind the desk looks down her list. “Oh yes, here you are. You’re early, so take a seat over there and I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”

  Nia sits down on a blue upright chair and takes out the piece of paper printed with the words she and Diana have agreed on. Don’t think about the cameras; don’t think about all the other people. This is just a message for Rhiannon. Just think about saying it to her. She wonders what will happen if she starts crying while they are filming her. But even if you mean it just for Rhiannon, everyone else will see it when they watch the news tonight. Everyone will see you. She wishes she could just walk out of the station right now, and not have to do this. But she had wanted to help, after all. And if, somehow, Rhiannon hears the message, then it could make a difference.

  She rereads the words on the page. Diana redrafted them several times until she was happy with the result. To Nia, it feels formal and speech-like.

  On behalf of the Griffin family, your friends, and the residents of Llandymna, I want to urge you to come home, Rhiannon.

  Nia sighs, and puts the speech back into her bag. She cannot imagine Rhiannon responding well to the tone of the message. What teenager would?

  “Mrs Evans? I’m Detective Inspector Michelle Collins.”

  The speaker shakes Nia’s hand. Detective Inspector Collins is in her early forties, and looks far more comfortable striding about the station in a grey trouser suit than Nia is in her attempt at smart clothes. She invites Nia to follow her, and the two walk down a windowless corridor.

  “Now, I’m sure this will be a difficult experience for you, but just try to relax as much as you can and speak naturally. These appeals can be very effective in reaching the missing person or prompting other witnesses to come forward with information.”

  “I just want to help however I can.”

  “Well, we have a number of the press here today. This kind of case always attracts a bit of interest. We’ll go in there together once we’re all ready. I’ll give a statement first regarding the investigation, then I’ll hand over to you. We’ve told them we aren’t taking questions, so if a journalist tries to ask you anything, you don’t need to respond. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. Ah, here’s someone I think you know.”

  They have come to the door at the end of the corridor. Tom stands outside it in his constable’s uniform.

  “Good to see you, Nia,” he says.

  “I’m a bit surprised to be here.” Nia gives an unsteady smile and takes a few deep breaths as she looks at the door before her.

  “I know Diana appreciates what you’re doing. And more to the point, you’re doing something good for Rhiannon’s sake, which is what matters.”

  You’re right, she thinks. This needs to be about Rhiannon more than anything. She thinks back to the carefully crafted speech sitting in her bag. Suddenly, she makes a decision. Diana is going to be furious with me.

  The doors close behind them, and cameras start flashing. Detective Inspector Collins gives her statement, which describes the investigation in detached and official language – facts that give no indication of what is happening in the community of Llandymna. Then, before her heart has stopped racing at the sight of all these staring eyes, it is Nia’s turn. She blinks at the bright lights, searching the rows of reporters for a face that looks friendly so she can make eye contact with someone. Then she takes a deep breath.

  “Rhiannon, I don’t know if you will see this, but just in case you do, I’d like to talk to you, as a friend, I hope. I can’t imagine what you might be feeling right now, and I won’t pretend to. I’m worried for you and I’d like to know that you’re safe. If you can, please get in touch somehow. Just let someone know you’re all right…”

  Rhiannon

  The rain stopped hours ago. I didn’t sleep at all last night: I wandered around the forest aimlessly. Now I see the mess I’ve become in just a few days. My clothes are torn and covered in dirt; my skin is marked with mud and clay and the juice of berries, all worked into the lines of my hands and under my nails. The pile of firewood is now strewn over the ground. A sparrow is sitting in a rain-filled footprint and chirping happily, but when I move, it flees to the safety of the dense foliage.

  I take up a long narrow branch, which I had picked out as a walking stick in case I ever had to scale a steep slope or pick my way through deep mud. Taking it in both hands, I swing it around with all my strength. The movement seems to use up some of my anger as I wield the staff at an invisible enemy. I spin it over my head.

  I thought I would like being alone out here. I thought that with no adults to disapprove and no classmates to jeer me, I would feel free to be myself. But instead, I find I have no idea where I fit or who I am, and those I left behind haunt all my thoughts. Everything I do is to prove something to one of the voices that told me off for being disruptive, or to impress someone who had written me off. Maybe I didn’t really want to be away from everyone. I just wanted to be around people who liked me, who would tell me I was doing OK, who I wouldn’t disappoint all the time. But I don’t think there’s much chance of finding a new group of friends out here in the woods.

  The noise in my head grows louder, sapping my remaining strength. I stagger and allow myself to fall backwards ungracefully to the ground, where I lie and stare up at the sky. When I close my eyes, I see friends around me here, sitting in a circle around a campfire. We could share stories and cook food together. I see kindness in the way we interact: a depth of compassion I think must only exist in books. As soon as I open my eyes, I am only lying in the mud among the first of the fallen leaves. But if I try hard, I can block out the cold air and the rainwater seeping from the earth into my clothes. I can shut out the bird noise and the pangs of hunger in my stomach, and go somewhere far away.

  I need to run. When I was escaping the police and their dogs, it was all I could think about. My head was clearer. Maybe if I start running through the woods now, it will help again. I don’t know where I will go, but there is plenty of space out here.

  I pull myself up onto my feet and the unsteadiness of my legs reminds me again that I haven’t eaten all day. Nevertheless, I pick a direction at random and start to run. I weave between the trees and leap over obstacles, inventing my route as I go. Some of the places I run through are familiar, others I don’t recognize, but that doesn’t matter. My head starts to feel a little lighter as I think more about not falling over and less about the mess I’ve made for myself.

  I burst into a clearing and startle a fox into dropping its prey and fleeing in a bolt of red. The surprise of it stops me in my tracks. I go over to the small bundle it has left behind. It is a young rabbit, definitely already dead. I step back instinctively: I have never been a vegetarian, so a dead animal should not bother me, but this is different to packaged meat in the shops. I regret scaring the fox. I know animals have to hunt and eat, but now this will go to waste.

  Then I have an idea. I take a breath and then pick up the rabbit, holding it at arm’s length as I walk back to the stream. I drop it on the ground and sit down a short distance away. I wait.

  It doesn’t take long. The hawk must have been nearby already. It manages an uneven flight from a tree down to the floor, landing with a bit of a wobble. It hops up to the rabbit carcass and inspects it. I turn away for the next part. Yet I am too fascinated by it to miss the chance to see how the hawk eats, so I find myself turning back to watch it. It is gruesome, but skilful nonetheless.

  While the bird focuses on its meal, I risk edging closer. It allows me to approach. Perhaps the effort of flying down from the tree with a damaged wing has taken its toll; perhaps, as provider of dinner, I am not a threat to it.

  “No wonder you got hurt if you’re h
appy for a predator like me to come and sit next to you,” I murmur, softly so as not to startle it. “Well, maybe we can be friends now.”

  The hawk ignores me, but I don’t mind. I am happy to watch it, and know that I am not alone here.

  Part Two:

  Rose

  Chapter one

  Let me tell you a story, my children, of the Boy Who Ran. Long ago, in a faraway place, a young man was accused of the worst thing anyone could think of in those days, and he was driven from his home. That was how his adventures began. He started by running away from his accusers and his village, to a place of safety. And as he ran, he found that he was fleet of foot, and as agile as a young fox. So he crossed great swathes of terrain in this way, the soles of his feet leaving only the lightest imprint on the grass or earth, like the tracks of a hare on the morning hillside. He travelled far throughout the country, never tiring once, and he saw such wonderful sights as high grey mountains and shimmering blue lakes. With him came his best friend and closest ally, the Sparrow Girl. She was called that because she could understand the language of the birds, though in truth she would have been better named after something much fiercer, for she was a brave fighter. She had a sharp temper to match her sharp weapons, but the Boy Who Ran knew that they were friends, and he was glad to have her there with him.

  He was always afraid that one day he would have run too far and too fast, and that he would turn around to see the Sparrow Girl no longer there. He also knew, deep down, that one day he would want nothing more than to be able to stop running, to sit still in the shade of an old tree and look at the same spot of earth for more than a moment without leaving it. When that day came, the Boy Who Ran would need a new name.

  Rhiannon

  Twigs snap, and crisp leaves crunch under footfalls in the forest. Two pairs of sturdy boots disturb the silence of this bright September morning. I freeze, halfway through breaking off a sprig of elderberries, to locate the source of the sound. My foraging trip has brought me too far east, too close to the edge of the wood.

  Lleu eyes me with a quizzical stare. It has been a couple of weeks, I think, since I fed him that rabbit. After that meal, he let me get near enough to make a support for his wing. I’d seen it done before, one winter when a wild goose crash-landed into the field behind the church. I didn’t have a bandage like the one Uncle Ed used then, but I tore a strip off the end of my sleeve and bound it carefully around the wing, copying the figure-eight wrap he showed me. Now the support is off and Lleu can fly and hunt again. He still comes back to me, probably hoping I might catch something for him to eat. But I like to think he comes for the company too. He’s taken to perching on my shoulder or arm at times, and it makes me feel like a falconer to a medieval king’s court!

  Voices drift this way, indistinct, on a gust of autumn wind. One of them is laughing. It doesn’t sound like a police search party. I should be able to get back to my house undetected, if I’m quick.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Lleu!” I say to the hawk. “I don’t know who it is, but the safest thing is to stay out of sight.”

  Lleu responds with a plaintive cry.

  “Of course I’m curious to know who’s out there! But what if we get caught? I can’t fly away like you.”

  I stuff my coat pockets with the elderberries I’ve collected and turn back towards home. A snatch of the strange voices reaches me again. I don’t recognize them. And if I’m not mistaken, the accents, though Welsh, aren’t local. How odd. Could it hurt to try to get a glimpse of them? People come out here so rarely, and it would be wise for me to know everything that happens in Dyrys.

  “OK, fine. But we’re staying out of sight. And at the first sign of trouble, we run. Well, I’ll run. You can fly to safety.”

  I creep towards the sound, steering clear of the path and relying on the forest undergrowth to conceal me. A spread of tall bracken seems like a good spot to hide. From here I can watch the path, while Lleu perches in a hazel tree behind me.

  A man and woman walk down the main track through Dyrys from the east. They are not from Llandymna – of this much I am sure. They look to be in their thirties, dark skinned and dark haired, and ambling through the woods as if there is no destination before them.

  “This is it,” the man says, looking up at the trees as if they contain something more wonderful than yellowing leaves. “We’re actually here!”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said since we set out that wasn’t just to cheer me up,” says the woman, putting her hands in her pockets to keep warm. She adds, “I’m glad. You should stop looking after me, you know.”

  He gives a rueful smile. “Wouldn’t dare try!”

  “I mean it, Kofi! I’m glad you’re here, but you can’t keep up this concerned big brother thing any more. It’s going to be strange for both of us, being here. Let’s agree to that now, and stop pretending this is just another research trip.”

  The mischievous grin vanishes. They are almost level with my hiding place now, so I duck lower among the bracken and can no longer see their faces. But I wish I could still watch their expressions, if only to work out what’s worrying the man who sounds so cheerful.

  “All right, I can do that. Besides, these days you only call me Kofi when you’re being serious. I just wanted to make sure you were OK, coming here so soon after the funeral.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she says.

  “Now you sound like me. But it’s more convincing coming from you, I think,” he teases her. “It’s the glasses, probably. They add weight to whatever you say.”

  “And don’t you forget it!”

  “I won’t. Whenever we meet any of the locals while we’re here, I’ll tell them to direct all questions to my wise sister, and let you do all the talking.”

  “That’ll be a first. Wait… What’s that noise?”

  Lleu has just let out a screech. Now he sweeps across the path and alights in the branches of an oak tree. Though I dare not lean forward to see their reaction, I hear the two strangers fall silent. I may have enough time to slip away while they are distracted, so I crawl further away from the path. I stand up silently, but then, to my dismay, they both look back over their shoulders to see where the bird came from. And of course they see me at once. I jump back as soon as they turn around, poised to run away.

  “Sorry. We didn’t mean to scare you,” says the man.

  A thousand questions run through my mind. Have they heard of the runaway from Llandymna? Will they tell the police they have seen me? “Who are you?” I ask, and it comes out fierce and demanding. I steady myself with a few calming breaths as I try to find out as much as possible about this threat.

  “My name’s Adam, and this is my sister Grace,” he replies. I stare from one to the other, scrutinizing their unfamiliar faces. They don’t seem particularly menacing. And by now I’m sure their accents are from somewhere south.

  “You’re not from round here.”

  “You’re right,” says Grace. “We’ve come here for my work. Do you live nearby?”

  “Suppose so,” I say, relaxing a little as I realize they have no idea who I am. Perhaps the police search hasn’t extended far beyond the villages near here. I call up to the oak tree: “Lleu!”

  In response, the bird flies down and lands on my left arm. I put my right hand on his back to keep him from flapping his wings. They stare in surprise.

  “He seems well trained,” Adam remarks.

  Well, if he’d healed Lleu’s wing and fed him dead rabbit, maybe the hawk would have learned to answer his call too. It occurs to me that maybe these two are walking so aimlessly because they are lost. “If you’re looking for the main road, it’s that way,” I say, ignoring Adam’s comment.

  “Thank you,” says Grace.

  I can’t think of anything else to say, so I stay silent, watching them.

  “Maybe we shoul
d go and find this place where we’re staying,” says Adam. Grace nods silently. “We’ll be in the village a while,” he adds towards me. “Maybe we’ll see you again there some time.”

  “Maybe,” I say with a shrug, not wanting to give anything away about my home.

  “Our car is parked just out on the lane at the edge of the woods. Can we give you a lift anywhere – back home, or wherever you’re going?”

  “No need,” I say. “Come on, Lleu. Time for us to go.”

  I take my hand off the back of the bird’s head and he jumps up into the air and flies off. A second later, I run after him, leaving the strangers behind.

  Getting back to my house takes longer than usual, because I keep stopping to look back over my shoulder and make sure no one is following. But I hear and see nothing unusual on the way. Once I am the other side of my fence, I know I am safe again.

  It’s becoming more homely here. The space in the old mill house is filling up, with a good supply of dry wood and a few aluminium cans that I have repurposed into containers for my belongings. I’ve piled up some dried leaves under my sleeping bag to try to give a softer surface to sleep on, so that my back does not ache quite so much in the mornings. I’ve also used leaves and moss to stop up some of the gaps in the stonework, now that it’s starting to feel colder.

  As I build up a fire and set a pot of water over it, I give Lleu my most unimpressed glare.

  “I could have stayed hidden if you hadn’t given me away like that!” I accuse him.

  I used to imagine what I would do if travellers ever came this way, how I would mysteriously appear from nowhere and offer them assistance before vanishing just as suddenly. But now I’m afraid they might report seeing me to someone in the village, and then a search party will come out here again. I’m also cross that I just stood there, staring at them like an idiot. What must they have thought of me?