A road less trodden

Tonight’s the night I’m going to run away. I’ve talked about it with my friend Lee in the playground for weeks. But, I’ve always been too frightened. A whole mile is a long way for an 11-year-old boy to walk, round here, on his own.

I’ve been perched on the front step for over an hour and they haven’t even noticed. Too busy screaming about who did this or didn’t do that. Tonight has been really nasty. My knees keep knocking together like conkers on a leafy Saturday.

But I like conkers. I don’t like shouting, swearing, and hitting. It makes me feel like I’m not really myself, like I’m empty. I must cause all of the fighting between them—it has to be my fault. Who else can I blame? Not dad, he’s dead.

Dad used to play conkers with me after a hot cup of soup on weekends in the autumn. Nobody plays conkers anymore, except on their VR headsets. That’s what mum and he will do after a plate of pasta hits the wall or someone’s head clashes with the kitchen floor.

They will ‘go virtual’, like all the grown-ups say, in separate rooms in separate worlds and talk to avatars of people they could invite over for tea. But, I’m glad those people don’t come around the house anymore—at least I can sleep now, sometimes. Sleep is where dreams happen and dreams are nicer than being awake, most of the time.

There goes the pasta, it probably looks like an Italian abattoir in there (we learned about abattoirs in class last week, now I only eat veggies. And chips, lots of chips. And red sauce too, And brown. Yum).

I’m going to go, just open the gate, turn right and start walking. One foot in front of the other like those soldiers do with the fuzzy hats at the Queen’s house. The big one in London.

I’m scared and my teeth are chattering, but I’m ready. My hood is up, my backpack is stocked, and the world is calling. Here I go, pushing through the half-dead 100-year-old gate as its hinges scream behind me—go right, then left, another left, and I’ll be out of the estate.

It’s cold but the breeze, all cool and icy, reminds me that I am alive. It tells me that I am a human-person-type thing, not a computer or a robot. I feel alert but I think my nose is about to fall off. Keep on going, Max, keep pressing on the right way, like dad used to say.

The houses on the street look like mine, with wire fences and rusted window frames, and flaky doors with half the paint missing. They stretch as far as the eye can see and right now, I wonder if they ever stop or if they’re as infinite as my science teacher, Mr Moxley, says the universe is? I hope not.

Time to turn left and walk past the rows of bare Silver Birches planted along Smythe’s Street by the men and women from the council—just a few more minutes and I’ll be at the mouth of the main road or the ‘car cruncher’ as I call it (people always ding their cars on it, that’s why mum’s insurance is so high).

Everything is moving so fast, all the sights and sounds are whirling around me and I can feel them in my bones—it’s very different to when we’re in the car. All I can hear then is the hiss of the electric engine and mum howling out of tune to Magic FM like a ventriloquist dummy with a stubbed toe. It’s torture and at this moment, I know for sure that travelling on foot is the way forward.

I am a little scared, though. This town is big and crazy and filled with angry, unhappy faces. There are lots of sirens whirring and motors whizzing and things I don’t understand—it will gobble you up like a monster if you’re not careful.

Dad used to say Welcome to the Jungle when we would pass the ‘Welcome to Stunston’ sign after a trip to the seaside to see granny. I think it’s from a song, or something.

The smell from the factory stings my nostrils and the greyness of the scenery is heavy on my eyes, but it’s good to be out here in the breeze, to use my senses for the reason they were given to me. Most people sit around on their chunky headsets now, getting round like the beach balls in shop windows down in Brighton. The lady on the news keeps saying that ‘the digital revolution is saving us from extinction’. Maybe it’s true, there are less people moving around now and fewer naughty fuels strangling the planet—but, nobody cares about nature anymore. We’re separate from it, just staring at it through a dusty window.

My eyes meet burger wrappers and graffiti, and broken drain covers, and vintage rust flowing into the sewer system. Yet as I look closer, I can see little root systems twirling up the sides of old park benches and dandelions saying a cheeky ‘hello’ as they peek from behind the street signs that no one notices. The leaves are twerking in the breeze, swaying on the ends of branches, friends with the clouds, siblings of the bonfire skies (I must write that line down for my English homework, Miss Martinez will be impressed).

I feel a part of something for the first time since dad’s heart stopped beating. Yes, feeling good now but nervous; I shouldn’t be doing this, really. Mum and the other one are probably going to kill me or worse, make me clean the toilets by hand, forever, without rubber gloves.

There’s a lady coming towards me with one of those shopping bags that looks like a potato sack. She’s staring right at me, her eyes like a hot toaster trying to melt my face. What does she want? I’ve got to cross the road, but the cars keep on speeding past me and there isn’t a crossing in sight. I’ll just keep my head down and check out my trainers.

“Are you okay there?. Hello, yes—you, young man.”

“Yes, f-fine, thanks.”

“What are you doing on your own? It’s dangerous around here, what with the muggers and vehicles, and...you can't be more than 10.”

“I’m nearly 12, actually.”

“I’ll have to take you home, where do you live?” As if I’m going to tell her, I’m not going back, not now.

Balls, I’m going to run for it. Off I go, my legs like the dangly bit on a grandfather clock, back and forwards, back and forwards. She’s shouting something but it’s faint and all I can really hear is a smudge of street noise as a belt of greyish green opens up from the corner of my eye—woohoo—my heart is really going for it—THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Need to stop, I’m going to be sick. Yes, I’ll just lean under this big old evergreen and hide from the nosy lady while my lungs stop burning. It’s cosy under here, like wearing a big old emerald ‘Wizard of Oz’ top hat.

I can hear the birdies talking to each other faintly through the Jenga stack of branches—I wonder what they are saying? Probably fighting over whose part of the worm belongs to who, but they are talking at least. It’s more than most humans chat with each other these days. There are no tablets or wireless boxes or VR headsets here inside this tree.

Can I come and live with you, birdies? You won’t frighten me or make me feel sad, I’m sure. I suppose I’m too tall to dwell with you all and I need a blanket at night, so I’ll just keep on plodding along, as dad used to say.

My hands feel like bags of frozen spinach, oh, but my cheeks are on fire. The sky is turning bronze now, the sun will finish its shift soon. Things are getting quite serious.

When the moon rises up over the blocks of flats that I’m walking towards, I will only be able to see shadowy outlines without the glow of street lamps. When you only see outlines of things and people, it’s hard to read them—they could be up to anything. I must stay alert, move fast.

My friend, Lee, might be waiting for me already, sitting by the trolley store at the supermarket. The meeting place we decided on at school.

Lee says it’s just him and his mum, and his dog at home. But, his mummy mostly daydreams and his dog just poos and growls at him. He sounds as lonely as me—Lee lives with people but he’d may as well be locked in an attic with the spiders and cobwebs for company. I know how he feels, that’s why we’re going to make a break for it (I heard that phrase once in one of those olden days prison programmes on the telly).

I’m sure he thinks a bit like me because sometimes he goes all quiet and it looks as if he's died for a moment. His face is just blank and calm, but then it comes back to life and he looks sad, or in pain.

The cold air is creeping up my back now and the sun is dropping behind the factory towers that cough at the sky. Need to move faster.

***

That dog nearly chewed my legs off—he must have smelled the packet of Monster Munch or the apple in my bag. I bet apples are like heaven for a dog because they can smell sweetness in a way humans can’t, the parts of the scent that really make your nose grin. Maybe that’s what happened, maybe he just wanted to scoff, and bark, and smile, and sing.

It was a terrifying ordeal, though (that’s what mum used to say to dad when he used to chase her with crab claws down at the coast). I’m panting like the angry dog and the stitch in my stomach feels like it’s going to tear me in two, but I’m okay, a little bit happy, actually.

I can hear the gravel beneath my feet in HD, crunching and scrunching as I walk down this tree-dense alley. The moon is peeping out from the treetops that stand like broccoli florets. There’s not another person around—who cares? I’m not alone, not now.

There’s nature all around me, moving and shuffling to the beat of its own drum. Living creatures, roots, leaves, and wild things rather than the fake neon scenes that flood my VR headset. And, once again I’m running.

This time, I’m sprinting like I did into dad’s arms when he would pick me up from school and it’s all happening. Oh, wow—and there’s...the river!

The town’s olden day buildings reflect in its meandering face; it's a lost lagoon city and I could just plunge in and start a new life. But I won’t, I would drown. I’ll just follow the moonlit trail towards the outskirts of town, head towards the rec, and I’ll reach the supermarket.

Lee, I’m coming—I’ve almost made it.

***

I've been curled up under the trolley shed like one of those tough pretzels you find in vending machines (the ones no one wants and are left to dry out). He's not coming.

The supermarket will be closed soon. I'm trying to swallow down my tears; I don't want to cry. That arse who lives in my house shuts me in my room if I sob. He says, "crying is for weak lads, and he won't have it." You’ve got to pull your bottom lip back up, just pretend there’s a little bit of fishing wire holding it tight, like you usually do, Max.

Why did Lee not come? It’s much closer for him than it is for me, but maybe his mum caught him or there was something good on the telly. I can’t remember where his house is, I’m freezing. What a stupid boy I’ve been (mum’s right about me).

I used to think that everything moved in a line, that you go from a to b to c—it’s just not true. Everything flaps around like a balloon losing air or a headless worm. Life is, as my dad would say just before he left us, ‘nonsensical’. All you can do is cling on until the wheels fall off and hope that you’ve left a mark that helps you live forever. Well, you did, dad, you did.

It’s pouring down so hard that all I can see is sheet water (from the sky and my eyes) and the orange blur of street lamps.

I’m going to cover my face, keep my head down, and hope that it’s all going to be okay. Just curl up and think about poem I wrote for English class:

I want to be a kite and wiggle all around;

I want to be a kite meandering from the ground.

I want to be a kite, and make a whooshing sound;

I want to be a kite, a thing that knows no bounds.

You want me to stay still, but there are things I want to see;

you want me to be like you, but there are things I want to be.

You need me to stay grounded, stuck so I won't flee,

you need to stop it now, don't push your gravity on me.

“H-hello, son. You all right there?”

No, no, no, I’m going to have to talk to strangers. I know I’m not supposed to do that.

“Er, I’ll scream. I’ll scream the whole car park down.”

“We mean you no harm, lad. It’s just that we saw you shivering and crying.”

“Yeah, it’s not a good place to spend the night in weather like this, trust us. We know.”

“Well, he can’t just trust us, can he, Reg? We’re a pair of ragged old strangers. He’s not daft.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Lomas, you plonker. Why are you always trying to ruffle me ol’ feathers, hey?”

These two are dirty and wiry with furry faces—sort of like my overgrown watercress that died on the windowsill—and their clothes have seen better days. They’re raising their voices at each other, gesturing like drunk lollipop men. I think they are a little bit drunk as their eyes are as glassy as marbles. And, their breath smells like chemicals.

They’re saying stuff about the Tory government and the Oxford Dictionary, or something. The way they’re flapping at each other is making me grin. I can’t contain my laughter.

“Haha, you guys are silly.”

“Well, young man, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to us all year. I’m Lomas and this bristly lump is Reg. What’s your name?”

Reg looks a little bit angry.

“My name is Max.”

“Solid name, solid name, indeed. And, why are you holed up in a supermarket trolley store when you should be snuggled up at home, son?”

He seems genuine in what he’s asking. He really doesn’t talk down to me like most grownups. I mean, he asks the same old questions, but his tone is gentler, more polite. “I ran away and was going to meet my mate, Lee. But, he didn’t come. Now, I’m all alone. Well, not alone—I’m talking to you two.”

“Mmm, yes you are, yes you are. Let me tell you something, unless you’re in danger at home, running away is a dud move. Are you in...danger?”

“Kind of, Lomas. But, I can’t say for sure. Mainly just of becoming a person I don’t like or feeling left out of things.” I think that sounded convincing.

“The rain is letting up,” Reg says, looking up at the crying sky as it starts to dry, “nice, nice, nice.”

“Hey, Max. Do you use those VR headset thingies at home?”

“Yeah, Lomas, everyone does. It’s normal now. I was going to ask you if you have them. Do you live out on the streets?”

“Yes lad, Reg here and I have been what you call ‘sans home’ for about 20 years now. It’s not an easy existence but at least you know you’re alive, out here in the elements. And, no VR headsets, either.”

Reg has straightened his spine and filled his chest with air. I can see he’s trying not to cough. He’s getting ready to say something.

“We get cold and hungry, and sometimes we smell bad. Yet, we don’t miss things and we don’t ignore things. Lomas and me, well, we’re married—not officially but in our world. Our families couldn’t hack it, so we ventured along our own path.

For years, we worked temp jobs and explored as many pockets of the earth as we could get our hands on. After a while we fell on hard times and lost it all, son. We have no pillar of support, so we’re hard-drinking vagrants. Still, we’re happy in ourselves and we experience the world in all its ramshackle glory.

People holed up on screens, that’s a disease. Everyone’s looking for a kind of unattainable beauty, but all they have to do is head outside in the rain, stroll by the river or touch a piece of tree bark. We’re not here to stand together, alone.

Humans have senses and inquisitive minds for a reason. It’s a short glimpse, for a limited time only. We come, we go, nature roars on. That's all we have and we should cherish it. You follow me, Max?”

“Er, yes, I think I do. I really think I do.” I don’t understand every word Reg used (sometimes I became sidetracked by his stale, syrupy breath), but I get what he means and I felt it today. Maybe I should live on the streets like these guys.

“Blimey, Reg! That’s the most profound thing you’ve said in the past decade. Been storing up that speech or have you been on the Super Kestrel again?”

“A bit of both, you tool. Listen, remember...we move around this sphere in no particular direction, and then we’re gone.

We leave only shreds of ourselves behind, yet the migrating arrowheads of birds, the dancing windstruck trees, the belting sun, the roots, the waterways, and the shrubs, they’re here for the long haul.

If we lose someone, physically, they live on in their words or actions, some of which become our words and actions. We pay this forward and when our time is up, we continue to shine on in the natural world, forever. Unconscious fragments of us that mean far more than these polished virtual worlds that divide and segregate. They’re just hollow, they won’t last.”

“Okay, okay, Reg. Very profound, mate, but I think it’s the Kestrel talking now. Max, what Reg says is spot on, as strange as that may be.”

“Oi.”

“Let me continue, Reg, you’ve had your say. You should always embrace the Great Outdoors. You should embrace the uncertainty of life and try not to hide from your fears. That said, lad, having people to share it with is better than facing it alone.

I’m guessing things aren’t perfect at home. Mind you, nothing is in this life and if you can cling onto souls that can help, you will never get stuck in the mud. Not quite, anyway.

As much of a pain in the arse as he is, I would falter, even crumble without Reg. We are free from the churn of society but street life is far from a picnic. Things aren’t fair or equal…but that’s another story.”

“I think I want to go home, guys.”

I’m drained and my legs feel like sacks full of pebbles. I’m scared to go home, what will they do, what will they say? Maybe they will have been worried, and they will be better to me, like dad was.

“We’ll help you find your way, Max.”

***

We’re on the bus. Reg and Lomas are sitting a couple of rows behind me so people don’t think they’re kidnappers, or something like that. They have been so kind and they’re clever. I’m never going to overlook the homeless again, they know what is real, after all.

The light from the bus is flickering and dull. There are only a few others on it, most of them have their heads buried in their phones.

My stop now, ding. I’m going to miss Lomas and Reg, “thanks for everything guys.”

“No worries, Max, take care. And remember to look outside once in a while.”

“Yeah, I second that.”

I’m waking back past the endless rows of houses, they pretty much look the same as before but I feel different. Somehow, I know things will be better. Not perfect, but better, and that’s okay.

My hands are trembling and my key is rattling around in the keyhole. Tap, tap, tap, and it’s finally in the door. Oh, maybe they won’t scream or swear. Maybe they will hug me tight and tell me how much they’ve missed me.

I open the door. Silence. I poke my head into the lounge and there they are, sprawled out on an armchair each, ragu sauce curdling on the walls, lost in virtual isolation. They didn’t even know I was gone.

Ah, I want to cry but I left my tears in the trolley park. Outside the kitchen window I can see evergreen treetops swaying to the beat of the wind’s Samba rhythms and the moon making the sky turn a kind of hazy blue.

I can see you dad and I know you can see me, somehow. I’ll rise up and soar away from here one day and disappear into the eye of a storm. You’ll be with me and I’ll never look back.