Outwalkers Read online

  For Romy, Alex, Elodie, Bess and Emily

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Fiona Shaw

  Copyright

  One

  The Academy clock struck two. Outside it was the dead of night. Inside it was quiet at last. Quiet as it could be in a dormitory full of sleepers: every one of them made some kind of noise, course they did. Forty boys in forty beds in this dormitory. Forty boys, and their forty griefs. But just now even the ones who saw monsters in their dreams were quiet. Even the ones who’d cried into their pillows were asleep. Only Jake lay awake in his bed, eyes wide open, and listened.

  The Mother had been round a few minutes before, shone her torch at each bed. The Father would be round in two hours’ time. If he was going, then it must be now. Right now. The last boy left it too late and they caught him. He needed stitches in his leg from the dog bites.

  You can do it. You can. Jake could hear his dad’s voice inside his head, encouraging him.

  –Go, he whispered, and he slipped out of bed, pulled on his plimsolls, grabbed his rucksack, wound a scarf round his neck, tugged his beanie down hard. Spare clothes bundled up beneath the covers made the shape of a sleeping boy, good enough to fool the Father’s torch, he hoped.

  Down on his belly, pushing his rucksack before him, he swam beneath the beds, pressing hard against the polished floor with his elbows and knees. He’d practised this.

  Keep low, he told himself. Face to the ground.

  Twelve beds to reach the door, in each a boy sleeping. The dust was in his nose, in his throat, and he wanted to cough so bad it made his eyes water. Eight beds left, and something caught around his face. He swallowed the cry in his throat. Another boy’s dangling bedclothes, tangled round him like weed.

  Sweat slicked beneath his clothes. He could see the door.

  A sound. He stopped. There it was again. The sound of the door handle turning. He shuffled back under the last bed. The door opened; he could see a pair of slippers, pink ones: the Mother’s. Why was she back? She was walking towards him, shining her torch at each bed. If she bent down just a little, she’d see him. Jake’s heart was thumping so loud, he was sure she’d hear it. The torch beam swung across the floor. She’d stopped on the far side. Jake peered out. She was standing over a new boy’s bed – Jake didn’t even know his name. Now she was whispering, pulling the boy out. He was very small, maybe five years old. Now she was feeling the sheets, shaking her head, then grabbing the boy’s arm and pushing him roughly, shoving him before her. Finally they were gone.

  Not for long, though. They’d be back in minutes. Fast as he could, Jake swam beneath the last beds, and out the other side.

  Maybe the Mother had left the sensor turned off? Jake looked up. But there it was, in the corner of the ceiling, its red light pulsing gently.

  This next bit would be harder. If the rope held and he could get through the door quickly enough, he could fool it. It had been done. But if he didn’t manage it … He felt the hair on his neck bristle. He’d seen another boy punished for trying.

  And he’d have to leave the rope hanging there after him. The Mother didn’t usually help boys in the night. Usually she just pushed them back through the door and left them to sort things out for themselves. The new boy might not even remember which his bed was, or know how to change a sheet in the dark. Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t get any help with it. Unless Jake was out of luck, and tonight was the one night the Mother decided to be kind. But he’d have to risk it. He was too far on to return. He wouldn’t make it back to his bed unnoticed. This was his chance, and he just had to go.

  He took the rope from his rucksack. He’d found it, along with a length of washing line, both coiled in the cobwebs in the groundsman’s shed, and he’d hidden them in his trunk these past few days. There was a good twenty feet of rope, he reckoned. It should be enough. He’d practised for this as best he could. Tied a monkey’s fist in one end – his dad had taught him the knot – and tied his Arsenal keyring to one end of the rope, to weight it.

  A high shelf ran along the edge of the room, with boxes of old books stacked up on it. Jake wasn’t interested in the books, but he was interested in the brackets that held the shelf up. In the dormitory’s half-dark, he squinted up at the triangular space made by the bracket nearest the door.

  He flung the rope in the silence of the sleeping room. It missed, and fell to the ground with a thud loud enough to wake the dead.

  Jake froze. He could hear the Mother’s voice from the linen cupboard, raised, angry. Had she heard him? If she caught him, he’d have six months on his tariff, no question.

  –Go, Jake! he told himself. And he gathered the rope and threw it again. Tugged. It felt firm.

  Somebody muttered something; a bed creaked; again he waited. But the room slept on.

  His heart was in his mouth and his hands were damp.

  Don’t think on it, he told himself, and in a single movement, he reached up for the rope, grasped it firmly and swung, out across the sensor beam. The bracket creaked, just as he dropped down by the door. A few seconds longer and he’d have pulled it from the wall, crashed to the ground, woken everybody.

  Better be right, JoJo, he thought, because it was JoJo who said the hubbing wouldn’t work so well if you covered up your chip. JoJo, who’d never escape – not with his limp; not a chance.

  Jake was out the door, past the linen cupboard and the Parents’ room, into the corridor. He was running, fast as he could, quiet as he could, up on his toes, past the other dormitories, past the double doors that led back to the main Academy building, till he reached the far end and the small fire door he’d pinned his hopes on. It opened into a dim stairwell, concrete stairs in half-flight turns. No sensors, or not that he could see, and he took the stairs fast, one hand on the metal rail for balance. At the bottom was another door marked FIRE EXIT, with a broad iron bar for opening. Beyond the door, he’d be outside, into the grounds, and once he was past the watchmen, he was sure he could make it.

  He pushed down hard on the bar.

  The door wouldn’t open.

  He pulled the bar up and pushed it down again, pressing against the door with his shoulder. Still nothing.

  –Come on, he said, because his escape couldn’t end here. He had to get out. He waited for a moment to catch his breath, then using the stairs for pace, he ran the last short flight and barged the door, throwing his weight at it, and this time it gave and he hurtled through, tumbling over his feet on to the
dark ground.

  Lights glared on instantly, and he lay still, waiting for shouts and dogs. But it was quiet. He’d timed it well and the watchman was still on the far side of the Academy.

  On to his feet, crouching low, he ran for the blackness.

  Two

  He used to be scared of the dark and his parents would leave a light on for him at night. A light to keep ghosts away. But the day before his tenth birthday they told him: tonight’s the last time. And the next day, when he came home from school, they sat him down in the kitchen and they shut the curtains, turned off the lights, so it was completely dark. Then he heard them open the door and close it again and the room was silent.

  –What are you doing? he said. –Where’ve you gone?

  There was no reply, and he began to be scared. Then the door opened again and something small tumbled through, a black shadow of a something that scuffled on the floor and bumped against his ankles. But it felt soft, and real, no kind of a ghost, and summoning his courage, he put his hand down.

  –Hey! he said, because the shadow of a something had nipped him with its sharp teeth, and the light went on again and there it was.

  A puppy. Black as the night, with golden eyes and soft fur, and the sharpest puppy teeth.

  –He’s yours, his mother said. –And once he’s trained, he can sleep in your room at night.

  –What’ll you call him? his father said, and Jake knew that already.

  –He’s called Jet, he said.

  The moon was next to full, but the sky was overcast and the night took him in. The dark, protecting night. Keeping his distance from the house, Jake made his way round to the front. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark by now, and he could see clearly enough.

  He heard a dog bark close by. Too close.

  The watchmen are there to keep you safe, the Headteacher had told them. But Jake knew, they all did, that the watchmen were there to keep them in. Bushes lined the driveway to the house. Ducking down, Jake scrambled inside one. There was space enough between the branches. The moon shone down into his hiding place. The ground was rustly with dead leaves and he tried not to move at all. He put a hand in his pocket, took out a small package.

  The dog barked again, nearer now.

  The package was soggy, the toilet-paper wrapping sticking in shreds to the bits of meat. Last night’s dinner, and the night before. JoJo said they kept the guard dogs hungry, to keep them more vicious. Jake hoped the dog liked nuggets, and gristle. And he hoped the dog found him before the watchman did.

  Now the dog was in the bushes, its padding paws, its panting breath. Jake glimpsed it black across the moonlight, then the snap of a branch and the dog burst through, a huge, muscled beast with sharp teeth and a square, violent jaw.

  Jake’s hands were shaking. He held some meat out before him, hand flat. The dog paused; its small eyes stared. It sniffed, nosed the meat, and in one gulp, it was gone.

  –Here, Jake whispered, and he tumbled the rest of the package on to the ground.

  The dog snouted in the leaves, and in two gulps the rest was gone.

  –Hey! Come, boy! The watchman’s voice, just beyond the bushes.

  –Don’t give me away, Jake whispered. –Please.

  The dog blinked, and cocked its head.

  –Come, boy! The watchman’s voice sounded just a few yards away.

  And the dog turned and went.

  –Found ’owt? The watchman was so close Jake could hear the sputter of his walkie-talkie.

  The dog barked twice, and then it trotted away. Away from the bushes, away from Jake. And after the dog went the watchman, heavy-footed, clumping over the dry ground.

  Jake wanted to shout with relief. He listened to the watchman’s footsteps grow fainter and, soon as he dared, he climbed out of the bush on to the drive, and ran on.

  Jake didn’t think about his mum or his dad. He didn’t think about home. He didn’t think about the Academy either. He just thought about Jet. Jet would know he was on his way. Somehow he would know, and Jake must not let him down.

  Veering off before he got too close to the front gate with its sensors, he made for the perimeter wall: concrete slabs and very high, ten feet at least, with glass on the top that shone in the moonlight. He’d already done a recce to find the right tree, but the night had changed things and he was sure he’d walked too far. He was beginning to panic when he found it again. It wasn’t an easy one to climb, but it had one branch that jutted quite close to the wall and that’s why he’d chosen it: the branch was close enough to jump from, if you were desperate.

  He threw his washing line towards the branch. It dropped over on the first throw and he caught the free end and secured it with a slip knot. Grasping the line above his head, he twisted it once around his hand for a firm hold, braced himself, and put a foot up against the trunk. The line cut into his hand, but the rough bark held his plimsoll well. He managed to get a higher grip on the line with his other hand, and then to find a proper toehold in the corrugated bark with his other foot.

  His hands hurt and the muscles in his arms and legs burned with the strain.

  Just go, he told himself. Go.

  Afterwards he couldn’t say how he did it. Couldn’t imagine doing it again. He’d read about men doing things they would never normally have been able to, when they were really really afraid. And women too. His dad liked those sorts of stories: he had a pile of them at home. Jake was good at climbing, very good. And he knew he’d gone into that zone – that’s what his dad used to call it – where all you can see or hear or feel is the thing you’ve got to do.

  He felt very calm, and he was very scared. But maybe you could be very scared and very calm at the same time.

  He was climbing, hand over hand, when he heard a rustling. He stopped and listened. There it was again, the sound of someone pushing through the undergrowth, sounds of crackling and breaking.

  He stopped climbing and looked down. The line was swinging, clear of the tree, and nothing he could do to hide it. He waited, the muscles in his arms tightening, his toes pushed in hard against the tree trunk. If he was silent, they might not come this way, but if they did, they couldn’t help but see him. The rustling grew louder and his heart banged in his chest.

  He still had a chance if there was only one of them. He was close enough to make it to the wall. He’d jump and take his chances. He could see the bracken moving now and then there they were. Two of them.

  Deer. He could see their eyes shining. He could see the white markings on their pelts. Then they must have smelled him, because they turned suddenly and disappeared again.

  Jake took a deep breath and went on up to the branch. Ten feet up, straddling the branch, he untied the washing line and threw it over the wall.

  –Stand up and jump, he said out loud. –You don’t make it, you’ll have to climb up some other way and do it again.

  Before he could stop and think, he’d jumped and he was on top of the wall, grappling for balance, the glass slicing into his hands with a sharp pain that he barely noticed. He jumped down the other side and landed in the deep ditch that ran along the wall’s outer side. Another time of year, he might have hurt himself. But the ditch was deep in early summer bracken and it cushioned his fall.

  You’re out! he told himself. You’ve done it. And only when he stood up did he see that his hand was sticky, and then that it was sliced along the palm. He bound his scarf round his hand and set off. It wasn’t far to home: fifteen miles to Bridgwater, the first sign he saw said. If he walked all night, he’d be there in the morning.

  And he did walk all night, ducking out of sight when he heard a car or a lorry. He grew hungry, and thirsty, but he kept his mind on Jet, and he kept on walking.

  Three

  Daylight came. Jake had reached the outskirts of the town. His hand was throbbing, and his feet hurt in the plimsolls, but there wasn’t far to go. Harder to hide now, but with people on the streets and other children going to school, he
was less noticeable.

  He began to recognize places. There was the old swimming baths, closed down before he’d learned to swim. There was Lidl, where Mum used to shop, he thought, and then he checked himself. –Don’t go there.

  A little further on and he passed the church, and the Coalition building with its blue-and-red flags. They’d learned about the flag in Reception. How there used to be two flags and two colours and how the Coalition decided to join them together.

  He passed a food bank and the scan hub next to it. We’re looking out for you, it said below the smiling face. And though he didn’t think it made much difference, just in case JoJo was right, Jake pulled up the hood on his jacket and kept his head down as he walked past.

  Another few streets and he’d be there and Jet would be waiting for him. The Hadleys had promised to feed and look after him and Jake imagined Jet lying by their fire, his smooth black fur shining.

  –Hey, Jet, he whispered. –I’m nearly home. And he pictured Jet wagging his tail like he did when he was excited, nearly wagging it off, and giving those little yips.

  The morning was cold, drizzle in the air, and everybody hurried along with their heads down. Nobody noticed him. He counted another two scan hubs, the news screens still blank this early in the morning. His neck prickled. It wouldn’t be long before the hubbers found him now, but if he could just get to his street before they picked him up, then he could put his plan into action. He was heading for the Hadleys’ house.

  The Hadleys lived just around the corner, and he’d run errands for them and cleaned their car a few times. They were older than his mum and dad, but he knew they’d take him in, be his parents. They didn’t have children of their own, and they’d told him often what a nice boy he was. How well behaved. How they wished they’d had a son like him. Jake used to take it for a joke, but Mr Hadley would say no, he was quite serious. Well, so now they could have him as a son and then he wouldn’t have to go back to the Academy where every child had to go when they had no parents. Then he would be safe.