Thankfully nobody knows my mood, well, not so far.
I’m heading for the plantation on the outskirts of my town, where I used to play when I was a boy. I know it like my own back garden, I will feel safer there. I’ve made a huge mistake and I don’t know how on earth I will be ever able to face up to my responsibilities, I just couldn’t help the urge, it just came over me like before.
I’m dressed in black, which is a blessing as it adds to my anonymity, black shoes, black trousers, admittedly a white shirt, but my black blazer is buttoned over it and my snorkel jacket is zipped right up to my nose. A Christmas present from my parents last year, and although initially affronted to wear it, these jackets have fortunately came back into fashion. I am thankful of it now, as the cold is beginning to nip.
I make it into the sparse copse and concentrate on the brown worn path, fringed with white frost, like a beard. It’s a path I have trodden many times before, and with the frosty whiskers, looks like it is aging worse than me. I know where I will go. Our old hut we used to use as kids, we built it over the summer holidays one year, we even had a carpet we nicked and we got a set of cards with naked women on them, we used to play poker for pennies, but they went missing.
My mind is racing, remembering the survival programmes on TV, should I make a fire? Maybe it might draw attention to my location. I catch myself on, and laugh at my stupidity, the place is surrounded by thick mist, just like smoke, so no fire will be detected around here.
Besides, who would be out here in this weather?
I check inside, it doesn’t look too good, old tatty carpet and a very flimsy roof. Well, it’ll do me for the time being, I just want somewhere to kip for a night until the heat is off.
I take off my black leather gloves, and set about making a fire. Scrape the ground, make a circle from stones, and then gather some dry grass and sticks. All set to go, but then my heart sinks. My cigarettes and lighter are still at home, I was in too much of a hurry to get away from the scene.
I better try and rub sticks together, I watch the survival programmes, and I know how to do it, and it is essential I make a fire according to them.
*****
I have been at this for the last hour, and my fingers and hands are red raw, both with the cold, and with rubbing these stupid, useless sticks. All I have in my pockets are my front door key, my mobile phone, which is of course switched off, and £2.38 in change.
I’m just going to have to sit this one out.
2
*****
I awake early next morning, 06.07 to be exact, and it is numbingly cold. I slept in snatches on and off all through the night, reliving yesterday and my huge mistake. I even took some bushes in to lie on, and then ended up with them piled on top to try and keep me warm.
Two pounds thirty eight pence. What can I buy with that, and what would be the best way to use it? Baked beans, maybe two cans and some bread, nothing fancy though, maybe the out of date stuff from the supermarket.
How stupid am I? The first thing I should be buying is a box of matches, or a cheap lighter. I check my pocket again, to feel the comfort of the coins. My heart lurches, down into my empty gut. Something badly wrong. Some are missing, must have dropped out in my sleep. Shit. I frantically search the area, damp cold seeping through the knees of my trousers, I feel like shit, and therefore must look like I feel.
I search all over the hut floor, I find one pound coin, and a couple of twenty pence coins and those tiny five pence piece coins. My fund has now diminished to one pound and fifty five pence. Great. Some survival guy I would make.
At least I have my humour, as if that’s really going to help me through this.
I sit and steel my mind. Step back and analyse the situation. The next town is about three miles away. Cross country, around two, I can make that in about half an hour or so. Newspaper shops are normally open early, they sell all kinds of shit these days, I can maybe nick a lighter and buy something edible.
I make good time, and come upon a small river, and I splash some water on my face and rinse my mouth out, straighten my hair a bit and try to look normal. Emerging from the steep bank I join the walkway and onto the town centre.
I can see the newsagents from here, “Normans” across the front of the shop and the headline board is being put out by Norman himself. As I get closer I can see the writing on it, “Serial killer strikes again.”
Holy shit. This is dangerous, I shouldn’t be out and about, and I definitely shouldn’t be holed up alone in the woods, there’ll be police and all sorts out looking and searching for clues and I’ll be bound to be spotted, knowing my rotten luck.
Think, for fuck sake, THINK.
I would love a cigarette right now. I wonder if I could nick a pack from in there. Not many around, and he’ll be busy with the papers.
Yeah, fuck it.
I saunter in, take in the layout rapidly, cigarettes at the counter, beside the rows of confectionery.
‘Good morning,’ he greets me cheerfully.
‘Morning,’ I reply.
‘That was a cold one last night wasn’t it?’ He looks busy, healthy though, early to bed, early to rise and all that.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, I reach for a paper and a chocolate bar and continue, ‘I see that serial killer has got another one, shocking isn’t it?’ I pretend to study the front page of the paper, but I can’t focus, I don’t want to focus in case I see my face or my name for my huge mistake.
‘Found her in the duck pond, desperate business altogether,’ he says shaking his head and bending down to cut the binding off a pile of papers, tuts out loud.
Instantly and instinctively, I swipe two packets of cigarettes with my right hand from behind the paper, they might have cameras and even they won’t see this move, I act with fluency and speed, in the pocket they go, heart racing.
Yes.
I feel elated.
He stands up, ‘you know, there are some bad ‘uns out there, worlds gone crazy, I tell you, if it was up to me I’d bring back the birch, that’d fix ‘em good and proper.’ He stands, hands on hips with a satisfied look.
‘Yes.’ he says out loud, nodding and agreeing to himself.
I have started to sweat profusely, imagine being whipped for breaking the law, and then having to go to jail as well.
Norman is totting up the total in his head, ‘that’ll be 97 pence please.’
I set a pound coin on the counter, and I manage to stutter, ‘thanks a lot, all the best,’ before rapidly getting out of there.
I retrace my steps back along the walkway, and over the river and sit down to have a cigarette. I need this to think. I open the packet; the smell is comforting, like a familiar hug that nothing else can give, just me and it, private, intimate and ours.
Fuck, bollocks, and blasted shite.
No bastard lighter.
I screw my hands into fists with frustration and cover my hands with my face. I forgot to nick a lighter. Stupid, stupid cunt.
I can’t go back in there, he’s bound to ask me something else, or miss the cigarettes, maybe he just stocked the shelf and will notice them missing. Shit. Maybe he has seen me on camera and is calling the police right now.
I am at my wits end, I can’t think clearly. I can’t go home, the place will be crawling with Police and my parents will be giving them descriptions and probably on TV now, like a photo fit. I tear open the paper, nothing there, just serial killer this, and serial killer that. No names, no photos, nothing, just wild accusations.
I am a failure, I have nowhere to go. This is hopeless. I can’t even survive for one night on the run. I will have to face the music sometime, take it like a man, shoulders back, chest out, yes; - I have to take what I deserve. I can explain it wasn’t my fault, I just wanted to see how it felt like, the urge just comes over me and I got away with it the first time, but this time I have made a huge mistake. A real fuck up, and my life is never going to be the same. With a heavy heart, I stand up, tucking the paper into my coat and put my black leather gloves back on and head for home.
I get to the top of my street and there they are. Police car sitting outside, ah fuck, they must know. I’m really fucked now. I hope they don’t bring back the birch like Norman said, going to prison will be bad enough without getting whipped like an animal.
I insert my front door key, and step in. This is worse than Daniel going to the lions. In fact this is exactly like getting thrown to the lions. I enter the living room. My mum screams and runs over, sobbing, my dad stands looking down at his feet and the two policemen are standing with notebooks and angry stares.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry I let you down,’ I start.
My dad comes over and he also hugs me.
‘We were so worried son, we thought you had been killed by that serial killer, you shouldn’t have ran.’
‘Inspector’, he turns to the senior of the two policemen, ‘ it’s my fault, I told him if he touched my car again I would give him the belt, so I left it in first gear to tell if he had been at it again, he’s crazy about wanting to drive.’
‘The car can be fixed son, and so can what’s left of the garage wall, don’t worry.’
Relief floods through me and I want to cry like the fifteen year old mere boy that I am.
The inspector closes his notebook and stands up, exhaling loudly, ‘well, that’s a weight off our minds too, but maybe consider getting your young buck a few driving lessons.’ He nods over at me with a wink, ‘oh,’ he adds, turning on the way out the door, ‘when he gets to seventeen of course.’
My parents laugh, a bit longer than normal, betraying their collective relief through their laughter, and see them out. The door closes, my mum comes in, hand on hips, then wipes her reddened eyes with both hands, and looking me up and down with a frown, goes back to normal mode ‘look at the state of your bloody trousers, your school blazer and your da’s gloves too?’
‘Mucked to the gills you are’, and with that, for good measure and appropriate emphasis, I receive the customary clip around the ear, - ‘get up and get showered, you’ll be late for school.’
I walk through the living room door on my way to my bedroom, and my dad reaches out and rubs the head of his only son. He must be glad to see me back home safely, I was born when he was fifty seven, quite late in life I suppose, probably just when he thought he would never have kids and would be left to rely on the lonely pursuit of collecting classic motor cars, yes, he must be as relieved as I am.
As I walk by, he takes my paper off me, and with a lingering glance at the front page, he looks at me a bit awkward ‘we all make mistakes, son; some are huge, some are small.’
(c) S Cooper