Young Writers Society

They catch up with us just outside Chatham. The Indian in the corner shop where I bought dinner (three bags of Doritos, two tubes of Smarties and three packets of cold ham) must have called them, as we haven’t been out of his shop ten minutes before the police car slides to a stop a little ahead of us and two cops get out.

I ignore them and keep on walking. Mick growls, and the rest of the Pack begin to bristle. Quiet guys, I tell them, but the first policeman has his hand out.

‘Excuse me,’ he says.

‘Yep,’ I say, and try to steer around him, but he won’t let me pass.

‘Dara,’ he says. ‘You’ve had a lot of people very worried.’

Oh, pants. No. My heart plummets into my stomach. No. No.

‘Dara,’ he says again, but I’m not listening, my brain frantically flying over the possibilities. There’s the knife in my rucksack, if only I could get to it. I’m weighed down with the shopping bag full of dinner, and I’m carrying Jones, as his legs are too short to keep us with the rest of us. But there are only two policemen, neither of who looks in great shape, and if I just dodge that outreaching hand, I can cut back across the road and into the train station. I can’t be taken back. Elise will be as mad as a cat in a mangle, and I can’t go back now, not when I’ve been away so long.

We’re running, Ginger says, and it’s not a question.

I tighten my arms around Jones and take a step back. Guys, I say, and the Pack moves with me.

‘Now then,’ the policeman begins warningly. ‘Put the dogs on their leads and——’

We turn tail and run.

Behind us, the policeman yells, ‘Oi!’ and gives chase; his partner calls something into the radio, but we’re off and away, paws clattering on the pavement, the shopping bag banging against my legs, Jones tucked protesting under my arm. Over the road, up the station steps and onto the platform, scattering pigeons and passengers, and there’s the bridge and we’re up and under the covered shelter and down the steps on the other side. Someone yells something; someone else grabs my rucksack. I break free and charge onwards, the blood pounding in my ears, trainers slapping the ground.

We almost make it. There’s a train with the doors closing on Platform 1; we can dash on-board and hide from the ticket collector until the next stop, then emerge glorious and triumphant and eat a late dinner sitting on the curb.

We almost make it, if not for the magic doing its usual thing and flaring up at the worst possible moment. I feel it lurch up inside like too many Dr Peppers on an empty stomach, a kick like the beginnings of nausea, and then it bunches in on itself, only to flail hopelessly in all directions. Sparks shoot from under my fingernails, my feet almost miss the ground, thoughts from the passengers on the train slam into my ears, I see through the eyes of a gull overhead.

Stop it! I’ve stumbled, almost fallen, but Ginger is there, nosing me up again. Come on, she says frantically. They’re coming!

My ears pop, my eyes are my own again, I can’t do anything about the fire, so I run on, scattering sparks, but I’ve lost my lead. Jones is whimpering in my arms, his claws scrabbling at my neck to get away from the fire bursting from my fingertips. Don’t like it! he wails, Stop, get down!

A hand grabs my rucksack and swings me round. The policeman grabs Jones in one hand and both my wrists in the other. I kick his knee and try to bite his arm, but he twists my wrists back until I yelp in pain.

‘Keep still!’ he pants, but I duck my head and sink my teeth into his hand. He swears and lets go, and I stumble backwards, snatching up my rucksack and preparing to run again—but the cop still has Jones by the scruff of his neck.

‘Give him back,’ I snarl.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ he snaps.

Jones whimpers. I can’t wait to find the knife—I spring forward, catch the cop’s arm and drag it down, but even as I tear Jones away, the other cop comes huffing up behind me and grabs a handful of my hoodie. Mick is cowering on the edge of the platform, Merry barking furiously at the policemen’s ankles, but Ginger launches herself at the second cop like a golden spearhead, her face distorted with rage.

‘Ginger, no!’ I scream. I throw up my arms and her jaws snap shut on my sleeve. She releases it immediately, and the cop aims a kick at her side; he misses, I manage to wrench myself free, and I drop on my hands and knees, reaching out for her blindly. She thrusts her head under my arm, and I hold her tight. You mustn’t, I almost sob, you mustn’t, they kill dogs that bite.

She’s still growling, her thoughts cloudy with anger. Jones presses against me, shaking and confused, and Mick dashes across the platform to us, his sides heaving with worry. Merry is still barking.

‘Shut that dog up,’ the first cop says.

I’m breathless, my head spinning. ‘Shan’t.’

‘If you don’t make it shut up, I will.’

‘Oh well, in that case. Hush, Merry, or the scary policeman will take you back to his cave and make you into pies.’

He grabs Jones and my rucksack, and hauls me to my feet. I bare my teeth at him, but he holds Jones tightly and says, ‘If you don’t behave, I’ll have to cuff you. Do you want that?’

‘Oh my, yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve discovered my deepest desire. Take me, officer, take me now.’

He’s not amused. We’re bundled back over the bridge to the waiting police car and crowded into the backseat, Jones and dinner on my lap, Ginger on the seat next to me, Mick and Merry on the floor. The policemen wait outside, radioing in their capture.

We are Bambi, shot by poachers.

It’s okay. Ginger licks my cheek.

We’re going back? Mick says. He paws at my trainers, pleading for reassurance. Going back? Back to the care-home?

I bend down and stroke his long black ears. Yes, Mick, it’s okay. We’re going back. It’s okay.

He sighs and pushes against Merry, who shoves him back. Jones pushes his nose under my hand. Ginger licks the top of his head, leaving him adorably ruffled. I put my arm around her. She smells of dust and heat and dog, and I bury my face in her shoulder, breathing her in, and because it’s Ginger, Ginger who’s always there as much my hands and feet are, I hug her tight and draw strength from her comforting sturdiness. I really thought we’d make it this time. I thought…

It’s okay, she says. So we go back to Harbour House, it doesn’t matter. We can try again. It’s okay.

The policemen open the car doors and I straighten, smoothing my face into a blank mask. The escape failed. I failed. That’s it, no use crying over spilt milk and all that stuff. Onwards and upwards.

‘There’ll be a car coming for you,’ one of the cops says. ‘It’ll take you back home.’

‘So kind,’ I say. ‘Who do I make the bill out to?’

They look at each other and roll their eyes. They take us to the police station, then there’s a short wait before the other car arrives. I share out the ham and Doritos and keep the Smarties for myself.

The policeman in the car tsks disapprovingly. ‘You’ll get spots,’ he says.

‘Corner shop didn’t have sandwiches,’ I say. ‘Want a Smartie?’

He refuses, but I like that he’s confused by my offer. The other cop is outside, searching my rucksack. He goes through the front pocket, pulling out nappy-sacks and old chocolate wrappers, then upends it on the ground, sending books, clothes, iPod, wallet, string and knife clattering to the ground.

‘Hey!’ I exclaim, and start to open the car door, but he slams it shut again.

‘You, sit still,’ he says.

‘My iPod!’

He bends down and picks up the knife in its sheath. ‘What the hell is this? Is this one of your socks?’

‘No, it’s your mum’s.’ Jeez.

He pulls the cardboard out of the sock and tosses it aside, then puts the knife carefully into a plastic bag he takes out of his pocket. He glances at me contemptuously, and my lip pulls back over my teeth. He looks at The Saddle Club omnibus and The Catcher in the Rye, my spare T-shirts, the ball of string, the school exercise book, and touches everything with disdainful hands. If I had the knife, I’d stab him right in his stupid neck.

The car finally arrives and we are shown into the back seat. The driver is part-fey; he has red hair and long thick black eyebrows, which is really quite ugly, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and he grins at us in the rearview mirror. ‘Where to, then?’

‘Sligo,’ I say. ‘And make it snappy. I have an appointment at ten.’

He pulls out of the police station onto the main road. ‘Sligo? Is that where you’re from, then?’

‘My father’s estate is in that land,’ I say grandly. ‘I myself have property all over Ireland.’

‘Your father, huh?’

‘Roy Trenneman,’ I say. ‘You may have heard of him.’

I don’t know if he gets the reference, but he laughs anyway. ‘You’re a long way from home. What brings you to England, your worship?’

‘Your excellency,’ I correct. ‘I am at present unavoidably detained by matters of state.’

‘That so?’ He laughs again.

There’s a newspaper in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me, and I pull it out. It’s yesterday’s, and a few pages in, there’s my picture and a few paragraphs:

Police have appealed for information concerning missing Thanet teenager. Dara (surname unknown), aged 13, was last seen on the morning of June 11 at Harbour House, the Broadstairs care home where she is on long-term placement.

Dara’s social worker Elise Martin said: ‘This is not the first time Dara has run away, but we are very concerned at the length of her absence. She is a vulnerable, highly-strung child, and we are very anxious about her welfare.’

Dara is half-fey, around 5ft tall, of slim build. She has long dark hair, yellow-brown eyes, and was last seen wearing an oversized black hoodie, short-sleeved red t-shirt, denim shorts and red trainers. She is travelling with three dogs, with which she shares a fey-bond: one big sandy curly-haired mongrel and two small black spaniels.

Anyone who can help is urged to contact the Kent Police.

I stare at the grainy picture next to the words. It’s my last school portrait, and looks fittingly hideous. My hair’s a mess and my eyes bug out and my teeth are crooked and pointed. Emma says I’ll need braces soon. I don’t want braces, but Megan says an overbite makes people look stupid. Do I care enough to put up with months of metal in my mouth?

Druth says dentists and doctors are for hypochondriacs and old women. I hate doctors.

‘Led everyone a merry chase, it seems,’ the driver says. ‘Eight days they’ve been looking for you.’

‘We would have reached London,’ I said. ‘Only Ginger was tired and then we found Jones and he couldn’t keep up.’

‘Who’s Jones?’

I lift Jones out of my lap and hold him up so the driver can see. Jones wriggles a little and tries to lick my nose.

‘You found him? Where?’

‘By the side of the A2. He was crying and hungry, so I gave him some crisps and then he fell asleep and I picked him up and carried on with us.’

I see the driver raise his eyebrows in the mirror. ‘What about the others? They’re mentioned in the newspaper.’

‘They came with me. Ginger’s always been with me, and Mick and Merry were a present on my next-to-last birthday.’

‘Thought you weren’t supposed to give dogs as presents?’

I cock my head. ‘That’s to bratty children and idiots at Christmas.’

The eyebrows dance. He laughs. ‘Okay, then.’

Silence falls. I stare out the window at the falling dusk. We pass a car with a horse trailer behind it, and I crane my neck to see inside, but all I get is a glimpse of a dark tail in a dark interior. The sky is navy in the east, red with sunset-fire in the west, ripples of gold and peach swirling over the horizon. I unzip my rucksack and find my iPod. I’d planned to avoid any other big towns until we got to London, so I fully charged it in Chatham Library. Not that I need to worry about that now.

Ginger touches my hand with her nose. Don’t be sad.

I kiss the top of her head. I’m not.

She doesn’t believe me.

Jones gives a little sigh, and when I look down I see that he’s fallen asleep, his nose tucked under his stubby tail and his toes twitching in dreams. I set the music on random shuffle and plug in my earphones, then rest my head against the window and close my eyes. John Lennon’s voice is soft and beautiful. Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you, Julia, Julia…

Ginger lies down and stretches out on the seat. Merry is nibbling at her paws, Mick watching her, watching me, watching Ginger.

It’ll be awful when we get back. Last time I ran away, Elise and Emma stopped my dance classes for a month, and that time I’d only been gone a few days. What’ll they do this time? Stop them for a year? It’s Elise who’ll be doing all the shouting, though. Elise is mean. She thinks because she’s half-fey as well that means she and I have a special bond, and together we can fight for equality and raise the minimum wage and make the traffic lights turn green whenever we want to.

Julia, Julia, morning moon touch me, so I sing the song of love, Julia.

I think a lot of the equality Elise wants is all in her head. She was probably deprived as a child, so now thinks that everyone else is deprived. Still, playing on that ended up with me getting Mick and Merry, so I guess having Elise around isn’t all bad. Just not very good.

‘Why Jones?’ The driver’s question yanks me back into wakefulness. ‘Why Jones?’ he repeats. ‘Seems an odd name for a dog.’

‘David Robert Jones,’ I say, closing my eyes again. ‘David Bowie’s real name.’

‘You like David Bowie?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I dislike him a lot actually. It was a really stupid idea to give a Pack member the name of a musician whose songs I really can’t stand. What was I thinking.’

‘All right, smartarse, I was just asking. What about the others? Do they have musical names as well?’

‘Ginger, after Ginger Rogers,’ I say. ‘Mick, after Mick Jagger, and Merry after Merry Clayton. She sang guest vocals on Gimme Shelter.’

‘Bit before your time, aren’t they?’

‘Music’s music,’ I say. ‘Don’t care when it’s from.’

‘Oh really?’ His voice is teasing. I open my eyes and see him grinning at me in the mirror. ‘Do you still want the air conditioning on?’ he says. ‘You’re not getting cold?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’

Jones snuffles and curls up tighter on my lap. I rest my hand lightly on his back, and close my eyes. I can hear his heartbeat, and Ginger’s, and Mick’s and Merry’s. They all come together in my head like a pulse, and the sound and the feel of it combine into something I can’t define, a warmth and safety that is the feeling of Pack, and it wraps around me, and even though the escape failed and Elise will rip my head off and deal out awful punishments when we get back, somehow it doesn’t seem quite so bad, and I can sleep with my head against the window, and the Pack close around me.