Fifteen Days Without a Head Read online

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right, well—thanks, Laurence Laurence Roach, it’s been quite a night, I’ll say that for you!’ She laughs and puts an arm around Amy, guiding her towards the exit.

  I watch them go. I should call after her before it’s too late. But what can I say?

  ‘Laurence!’ Jay tugs at my arm. ‘He’s being sick again.’

  Han is doubled over by the tent, coughing and spitting. When I look back towards the gate, Mina and Amy are gone—vanished into the night.

  I sigh and walk over to Han.

  What is it about me and vomiting drunks? I seem to inspire it in people.

  So much for floating in ecstasy. My life’s not like that. Never will be.

  I should know that by now.

  I could kick myself.

  Last night’s events keep replaying in my head like a looped video clip. I can hear the canned laughter pasted over the top, as I make an idiot of myself over and over again. The picture always freezes on Mina’s face, zooming in on that look she gave me. I don’t blame her though. What was I doing running off like that, with no explanation, to chase two complete strangers around the park.

  I was tired? My brain was doing weird things because I hadn’t had enough to eat? Or maybe I wanted it to be Mum so much, I believed it was. Taking the Power of Positive Thought a little bit too far.

  At least the money is real. I can feel the building society book in my pocket. It helps dull the pain of last night—a little.

  This morning we sit on the wall at the end of the Parade and have Monster Munch for breakfast for the last time. I almost feel nostalgic, rinsing the tangy remnants around my mouth with warm lemonade.

  After breakfast I walk Jay to school as usual. Just before he goes to line up, I remind him not to say anything to anyone about Mum being away.

  ‘I know. You already told me!’

  ‘Good! Just don’t forget.’

  Jay sighs and rolls his eyes like I’m an idiot.

  The bus into town is crowded with people going to work: miserable glazed faces hiding behind newspapers and earphones. I find a seat towards the back and hope nobody I know gets on board. Missing school today will mean Mr Buchan puts me on report, but it’s worth it to get the money. I’ll be able to take a taxi to school from now on—that should get me there in time. Who needs superpowers when you’ve got one thousand, four hundred and thirty-five pounds!

  The building society is in the old part of Hardacre. It looks like a mini castle, with tall leaded windows and a dramatic stone arch over the entrance. I heave open the wooden door and stumble inside, my stomach churning like a cauldron.

  The place is deserted—cool and silent as a library.

  The woman behind the counter looks up and smiles. ‘Good morning, sir, how can I help?’ A silver badge pinned to her lapel says Sandra.

  ‘Hello, um … I’d like some money please.’ Smoothly done, Laurence.

  ‘How much would you like?’

  ‘Er … a hundred, please.’ That should be enough to pay Angie and leave some over for food. But then I’ll have to come into town again to get more for next week—and there’s the taxis to school … ‘No, make it two hundred—no, three—please.’

  Sandra smiles and nods towards the red book I’m clutching. ‘If I could have your pass book, please, sir.’

  I slide it through the gap under the glass.

  I’ll get a taxi back to the Heights and go shopping. Fill up a basket at SavaShoppa, all the things Jay likes. Tonight we’ll have the biggest slap-up meal in history! I can’t wait to see the look on his face.

  ‘Three hundred pounds, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She opens my book and starts to type something into her computer, then stops. ‘Ah, how old are you, Mr Roach?’

  I pause for too long to lie. ‘Fifteen.’ I know immediately it’s the wrong answer.

  Sandra closes my book. ‘Ah,’ she says, ‘in that case I’m afraid I can’t let you withdraw any money at this time. You need the named person present.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is a Junior Account, it was opened in your name by an adult. Your mum perhaps?’

  ‘My nan.’

  Sandra smiles. ‘Would she be able to come in with you? We need the named person to sign for any withdrawals, until you turn sixteen. Then we can transfer your funds into one of our standard saver accounts. You get a cash card with our high interest current account, so you can use any cash machine with a LINK facility.’

  ‘My nan’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Sandra looks down at my book. ‘Was she Mrs M. Roach?’

  ‘No, that’s my mum.’

  Sandra brightens. ‘Oh, well that makes it easier. If your mum is the named person, you just need to bring her down with you and we can get you some money.’ She smiles and slides my book back across the shiny counter.

  I wish I could explain to Sandra how far from easy bringing Mum down here actually is. But I don’t, I just take my book, remember to say thank you, and leave.

  I thought I would feel angry, but I don’t. I’m just tired. I should go to school—tell them I had a dentist appointment or something, but I can’t face it right now. So I walk. I don’t even know where I’m going, I’m just putting one foot in front of the other.

  It’s the music that drags me back—the annoying Radio Ham jingle that doesn’t quite rhyme: Number one, for Hardacre and Marston! I look up and realize I’m standing on the pavement outside the radio station. I must have walked past this place loads of times, but I never really noticed it before. There’s not much to see, just a glass front with a huge red and blue logo plastered across it. The sound is coming from tiny speakers above the door, feeding live Radio Ham into the street.

  Through the window it looks like a doctor’s waiting room, just with better chairs. There’s a line of glossy portraits of Radio Ham personalities on the wall. I wonder which one is Baz. I’m too far away to read the labels underneath, even when I press my face right up against the glass and use my hands to block out the sun. The nearest picture is an ancient bloke with grey hair slicked back into an old-fashioned bus driver quiff, but I don’t think that’s Baz. Next is a woman and a young black guy, then two that could be him. The first looks like a kids’ TV presenter, so probably not Baz. Which leaves the fat-faced bloke at the end, with the bad hair and glasses. I’m looking at the face and trying to match it to Baz’s voice, when I feel the receptionist scowling at me from behind her desk.

  I step back from the glass and carry on walking.

  I don’t come to the park on purpose. I just end up here.

  The hedge doesn’t seem as tall or dense as it did last night, and there are gaps where you can see through to the field beyond. I walk along it until I guess I’m roughly at the spot where the silver-haired man and … whoever was with him … vanished. There are deep ridges in the grass where the burger vans were parked, and a faint aroma of fried onions still hanging in the air. But the thing that clinches it for me is the great big hole in the hedge, like a doorway. I don’t know how I missed it—except the fact that it was so dark last night I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. Also, judging by the position of the tyre marks, the gap would have been hidden behind one of the vans. At least now I know I wasn’t chasing ghosts.

  Branches snatch at my shirt and I have to duck to get through the hedge, but you can tell it’s been used before. The grass is trampled down and there are footprints in the mud on the other side. Now I’m through, I can see that it isn’t just another field. A few metres in front of me, a line of ducks glide across the oily green surface of the canal. But between where I’m standing and the grassy bank up to the towpath is a ditch full of waist-high grass and stinging nettles. There’s a patch without too many stingers, where some of the reeds are bent back as though somebody has recently been through this way.

  I take a step towards the canal and my foot sinks ankle deep into ice cold water. Th
e momentum and the shock propels me forward, and my other foot splashes down before I can stop myself. Now I’m standing in it, I can see that the grass is actually growing out of a shallow stream running along the bottom of the ditch. Both my feet have disappeared beneath the surface. I could go back, but I’m already soaked, and I can’t see another way across. I might as well keep going.

  I lurch forward one foot at a time. With each step the mud and weeds suck at my feet and more water seeps into my socks. I peer through the reeds to the dry bank ahead. Not that far now. I lift my foot and my right shoe comes off with a loud shlurp. I waver, balancing on one leg, my shoeless sock hovering above the murky surface. I roll up a sleeve and reach down into the water. It’s cold and slimy; I try not to think about what could be in here. Finally my fingers touch something solid and I exhume the shoe—full of grey silty mud and dripping with weeds.

  Putting it back on seems the obvious thing to do, until I try it. I feel myself pitch forward and grab at the reeds for support. They sag, then snap and I go down. At least I remember to close my mouth.

  I’m sitting up to my waist in freezing cold ditch-water. I can smell it. I can taste the grittiness of it between my teeth and feel it working its way inside my trousers. It’s the perfect end to a perfect day, and it’s still only lunchtime. I feel the hard edge of the building society book in my pocket and reach down to rescue it, then remember it’s useless to me anyway. I think I’ll just sit here. I don’t care if the water is seeping into my pants. I don’t care how cold and slimy it is. This suits me fine.

  ‘Laurence?’

  There’s a squeal of brakes and I look up, squinting into the sun at the silhouette on the towpath. I can’t see who it is, but the voice is unmistakable.

  ‘What you doing?’ says Mina, dropping her bike and coming down the bank towards me.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Mina puts her hands on her hips and looks at me.

  ‘Are you just going to sit there?’

  I shrug. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘It’s lunchtime, I was just going home.’

  That means it’s gone one o’clock. I must have been walking round for hours.

  ‘Did you come through the hedge?’ says Mina, after a moment. ‘Were you trying to get to the canal?’

  I nod, not looking at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you use the bridge?’

  ‘What bridge?’

  ‘That one there.’ Mina points towards a low grey slab of concrete about ten metres to my right. It’s partly hidden by the undergrowth, but visible enough now I know it’s there.

  She comes to the edge of the bank and sits down. ‘You’re a weird lot down here. I thought people would be the same wherever, but they’re not.’

  I can feel her watching me, but I can’t look at her. I wish she’d just go and leave me to rot.

  ‘Anyhow, I wouldn’t stay there too long,’ she says.

  ‘Why not?’ I’m still not looking at her.

  ‘Well … ditch worms, for a start.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ditch worms. You get them everywhere.’

  ‘What are ditch worms?’ I ask, feeling the mud oozing between my legs.

  ‘About so long.’ Mina holds her thumb and forefinger about eight centimetres apart. ‘They live in the mud, at the bottom of ditches—hence the name. Most of the time they stay there, minding their own business like, feeding on dead fish carcasses and stuff—they’re carnivores, see. The only time they come out is if someone disturbs the burrow. That’s why fishermen wear waders—you know, those big gum boots that go right up your thigh. My uncle said a mate of his got a ditch worm down his boot one time. All he felt was a little nip, like he’d trod on a stone or something, but the worm lays its eggs, see. The bloke’s foot swelled up like a golf ball! My uncle said you could see all these little worms squirming about under the surface of the skin. His mate had to go into hospital to get them cut out. The doctor said he was dead lucky the worm hadn’t gone up his bum …’

  I stand up in one almighty wave of mud and water, and make the bank in two strides. Mina shrieks and dives out of the way. I can feel ditch worms inside my trousers, crawling across my thighs, a whole nest of them squirming between my toes.

  I’m hopping around the bank, pulling off my socks, scrubbing my feet on the grass. I’d take off my trousers if Mina wasn’t there, watching me and laughing.

  Then I stop … as it hits me. ‘You made that up, didn’t you?’

  She can barely speak for laughing. ‘Got you out though, didn’t I.’

  I sit down on the grass and throw a muddy sock at her. Then I start to laugh, I can’t help it. I realize I must have looked pretty funny.

  Mina shakes her head. ‘You’re a strange one, Laurence Laurence Roach. Mad as a box of frogs.’

  And suddenly I don’t feel like laughing any more.

  I stare at the ground between my filthy feet and tear out a handful of grass. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What for? I didn’t say it was bad, did I? I like mad people, it’s the sane ones I don’t trust.’

  When I look up, Mina is smiling; it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

  I need to take my clothes to the launderette, but of course we haven’t got any money. So I fill the bath with hot water and shampoo, and dump them in there. All the time I’m thinking about Mum and the silver-haired man, wondering if the woman I saw in the park was really her. Because when I went through the hedge by the canal, I got that feeling—like walking into the chip-shop—that Mum had been there before me. It sounds crazy, I know—but what else have I got? I have to believe that Mum is out there. If it was her with the silver-haired man, then she’s close. I could find her.

  I’m desperate to go back to the canal and start looking, but there isn’t time now. I need to get Jay from the House of Fun, and then work out what the hell we’re going to eat tonight.

  Baz is talking, but I’m not really listening. My eyes are fixed on the windows of our flat. Jay is up there on his own watching television. He wouldn’t come down to the phone box with me tonight. I won’t be gone long, but it doesn’t feel right, especially after what happened last night, and I can’t concentrate.

  Baz asks me if I feel lucky.

  I manage not to laugh.

  ‘OK, then, Daniel—FIRST question. The spectacular natural phenomenon known as the Northern Lights, also goes by another name. Is it A: Aurora Borealis? B: The Golden Compass? Or C: El Niño? I’ll read those again for you …’

  I know it’s not B—at least, I don’t think it is. But the other two … I think I’ve heard of El Niño, but I’m not sure. I’ll go with that. Trust your gut, Laurence.

  ‘What do you reckon, champ?’ Baz is waiting for an answer.

  ‘A! The first one!’ Trust my gut today? Not likely. Given the decisions I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours, going the exact opposite to my gut seems the safest option.

  ‘Daniel,’ says Baz, after a pause. ‘So, you’re telling me that A: Aurora Borealis, is ANOTHER name for the Northern Lights? Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It feels like the drummer from Sheer Heart Attack is trapped inside my chest.

  ‘You’re quite right, my friend, Aurora Borealis IS another name for the Northern Lights. Did you KNOW there is in fact a southern equivalent? It’s called the Aurora AUSTRALIS …’ Baz lurches into an appalling Australian accent. ‘Will you look at the lights, Sheila, strewth!’ Then back in his normal voice. ‘Both phenomena result from ATOMS colliding in the upper atmosphere, becoming ENERGIZED and giving off ENERGY as light.

  ‘SEE! This isn’t just a GREAT show, PACKED with some FANTASTIC music, witty banter and AMAZING competitions, it’s EDUCATIONAL as well!’ Baz triggers his Crowd Go Wild sound effect.

  ‘Question number TWO!’ he says. ‘Continuing on a CULTURAL theme … you’re obviously an educated fellow, Daniel … have you got any letters after your name? Are you a UNIVERSITY man?’


  University? I haven’t done my GCSEs yet. ‘Er … no—’

  ‘Ah, a graduate from the SCHOOL OF LIFE, just like yours truly!’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’m picturing Baz in the studio: the round face and glasses, the long straggly hair.

  ‘Good man!’ he says. ‘Only you might wish you HAD done a degree in English, when you hear the next question.’ Cue Collective Gasp from the Crowd. ‘Daniel, who WROTE the following famous words …’ Baz clears his throat. ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.’ He pauses. ‘Hey! That was pretty GOOD! Cheryl—come on, admit it. You were touched by that.’

  ‘Not bad,’ says Cheryl.

  ‘NOT BAD! My, you’re a hard woman to please!’ Baz laughs. ‘So, Daniel, my question to YOU is—which GENIUS OF THE QUILL scribed those words so that I could speak them TONIGHT, here on the wireless for YOUR listening pleasure? Was it, A: T. S. Eliot? B: John Donne? Or C: William Shakespeare?’

  I haven’t a clue. Mr Buchan would know. It’s a pity I don’t have his brain to go with the voice.

  It could be Shakespeare … it sounds like Shakespeare, but maybe that’s too obvious—like the oxygen question. I’m not falling for that again. A, then. But the last one was A—they never have two the same, one after another. Which leaves B: John Donne.

  Baz is waiting for an answer.

  ‘B!’ I blurt out, before I can change my mind.

  ‘CORRECT!’ says Baz. ‘Seventeeth century metaphysical poet Mr John Donne, is INDEED responsible for those wonderful words of wisdom.’

  I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the phone box, and force myself to take a breath. I need to calm down. I’m nearly there. Somehow, by some incredible dose of good fortune, I’ve guessed right—twice.

  ‘OK!’ says Baz. ‘Enough culture for one night I think. My BRAIN is beginning to hurt. Let’s have a nice sport question.’

  Of course.

  What else would it be?

  ‘Great!’ I hear myself saying into the telephone.