Berserk, p.4
Berserk, page 4
I slam on the brakes. A bloke in a red coat with a small dog has stepped out in front of me. I have to stop or I’ll squash him. He clocks me. A fifteen-year-old kid, driving a forty-ton articulated lorry.
“That’s it,” says Devil. “You should have kept going, he’s seen us.”
“I’d have killed him,” I say.
“We should kill him now anyway,’ says Devil. He’s only half-joking. I reckon maybe he could kill someone, if pressed.
But we let the man cross. The dog is a small, scruffy-looking terrier. I’d like a dog. Maybe we should kill him and I could have the dog. Only joking! I’m not Devlin Juby. I let off the clutch and manage not to stall as we set off again. OK, we’re getting on the slip road and the engine is roaring. I have to change gears. I’m aiming for third but I mess it up and end up in what I think is fourth, but this doesn’t seem to matter, we’re still going. I’m pretty nervous about pulling out on to the dual-carriageway, but luckily there isn’t much traffic about. I don’t even know where the indicators are on this thing. But while I’m messing around with the switches I activate the windscreen wipers so at least we can see.
We pull off the slip road and a car zooms past, flashing and sounding its horn. Devil puts up his middle finger. I thought I had enough time to get out but this thing is so long, it’s hard to judge.
I put my foot down.
“YEEHAR!” I scream.
We’re bombing along. I keep checking my mirrors to see if anyone is chasing us but it’s hard to see because we’re kicking up so much spray. I reckon our driver is tucking into his fried eggs and hash browns and hasn’t even noticed we’re gone. I’m getting a real buzz out of driving this thing. The driver has got all these cuddly rats on his dash. There’s also a battered picture of a little boy, which is hanging from the radio above my head. My seat must be air controlled, because I’m having a smooth ride as it moves up and down with the road. Devil, however, is bumping all over the place. I change up a gear, or at least I think I do, and increase our speed. We’re going at about 55mph and Devil is going, “Faster, faster,” but the lorry isn’t having it. I must be in the wrong gear. I’m glad I’m driving. It’s wet and the visibility is bad. If this thing doesn’t want to go any faster that’s fine by me.
I feel mean in this beast. I should do this more often. I like to think this is my style. Not just a scummy little car thief, joyrider, but a lorry jacker. Now that’s class.
“This is wicked,” says Devil. “Wish I was driving.”
A police car belts past in the opposite direction. The lights aren’t flashing or anything but the countdown has begun.
Luckily our turning isn’t far, just a few miles up the road. I put my foot down and end up right up the arse of a little Fiat.
I keep catching the eye of the little boy in the photograph.
“Your daddy is going to be in a very bad mood,” I tell him. I look across at Devil. He’s picking the rubber from the window rim with his knife.
I keep thinking I see blue flashing lights on the horizon. OK, here’s the turning. We bomb up the slip road so fast, even Devil grips the side of his seat. We slide round the round about and tank off to the left. This thing is pretty nippy.
Now we’re on this country road. It’s fairly straight, so I keep my foot down.
Then we hear sirens.
I go a little bit faster. The trees and hedges are flying past. It’s like the middle of the countryside here, even though we are just a few miles outside Bexton. I slow down. There’s a crossroads coming up and I don’t want to miss it. Devil and me planned out this route some time last week. I know the turning is here somewhere. Near a tree . . . there it is. I try and turn in but I get the angle wrong and I’m nearly in the ditch. Now I have to back up. Devil looks interested now.
“Want me to drive?” he asks.
“I can do it, Dev,” I say, and wonder how the hell I’m going to get the thing into reverse. I study the diagram; R for reverse is in the top-left corner. I knock the gear stick into neutral and push it up. I’ll either land in reverse or fifth. I let the clutch off slowly and the machine slowly chunters back, making a bleeping noise. I have to steer to the left, to get the back end to go right. It’s not easy and I’m sweating.
BEEEEEEEEEPPPPPP.
Some arsehole in a Maestro is right up our bum. Can’t he have a little more consideration for us heavy-vehicle drivers? When I think I’ve got enough clearance, I put her into what I’m pretty sure is second and pull us round into the turning.
Done it! The Maestro flies past, still beeping.
“A lot of road hogs about today, Mr Juby,” I say in my private-school voice.
“Damned out of order,” says Devil.
We take up the whole of the road. If we meet anything, we’re buggered. We’re climbing now and I have to change down a gear as the engine protests. I’m getting good at this.
I stop just before a gate, and nod at Devil to open it.
“Nope,” he says, and scratches the back of his neck.
When Devil scratches the back of his neck in this way, it means he is up to something. I’m pretty certain he isn’t going to open the gate for me so I put the lorry into neutral and pull on the brake before I jump out.
When I look up from the gate, Devil’s in the driving seat. I expected this and don’t mind too much. Devil floors the accelerator and twists the jug into the field. The back end smacks into the gate post but he’s through into the field, kicking up loads of mud. The tail of the lorry is just through the gate when Devil gets into a spin. Mud flies out everywhere and I can’t get out of the way quickly enough. My trainers are ruined. I’m going to have to throw them out. Maybe there’s a consignment of trainers in the back of the lorry. I tell myself not to be so stupid. This is a supermarket lorry. If there are any trainers, they’ll all be shite own-brand ones.
Devil revs the engine and the wheels spin but he’s not going anywhere, just embedding himself deeper and deeper into the mud. I reckon he was after a bit of joyriding round the field, but it ain’t gonna happen. It’s a wet field, full of nothing but grass. Leaving Devil to spin in the mud I walk to the corner of the field. I stick close to the edge even though it would be quicker for me to cut right across the wet grass. But I don’t trust Devil. He’d probably like to chase me a little bit if he managed to get out of the gateway. In the corner of the field, in a ditch, I find a green tarpaulin. I pull the tarp to one side. Underneath, there’s Connor Blacker’s moped and, get this, two helmets. Am I impressive or what? The moped looks a bit damp, but I reckon it will start. I’ve got the keys in my pocket. Me and Devil left it here earlier, just before we hitched to the café.
Devil revs the engine all he can and the apples on the sides of the lorry look like they are going mouldy because of all the mud that sprays on them.
I wheel the scooter over the grass and prop it in the hedge near the gate. We may have to make a quick getaway. Anyone driving down the lane is going to see the back of the lorry stuck in the gateway.
I hear muffled swearing coming from the cab, in the pauses between the engine revs.
“Give up, Dev,” I shout.
Dev’s head pokes out of the window.
“Planks,” he shouts. “We need planks.”
“Bugger that,” I say. “Let’s see what’s inside.” And Devil’s face changes from Devil-rage to Devil-interest. He switches off the engine and I start fiddling with the lock on the back doors. I’m a bit slow because my finger, wadded beneath rolls of bandage and sticking tape, is stinging. It’s a mean padlock and I’m not sure I can handle it. I walk round the lorry to the sides and see they are made of a heavy plastic, strapped down and fastened with lots of metal clips. I’m tugging at the first clip when Devil comes to help; he takes one look at what I’m doing, tuts loudly and takes out my Boy Scout knife contraption. He saws through the plastic and pretty soon has made a hole big enough for us to climb through. I give him a leg-up and he drags me up behind.
Once inside, Devil hacks away some more of the curtain so we can see. There are pallets stacked high and wrapped in stuff like clingfilm. Devil takes out the knife and hacks away at the nearest pallet and unwraps boxes and boxes of biscuits. I’d hoped there would be TVs and stuff, but a lorry load of food is a lovely sight. We go around, yanking and slashing off the plastic wrapping and find boxes of cakes and chocolate bars and crates of tinned vegetables and boxes of cereals and pasta and everything. I climb up, break into a box of crisps and munch my way through two packets in three minutes. I’m like an animal. Devil has found himself a Deluxe chocolate cake and is ramming it into his mouth.
“Give us some of that,” I say, but Devil spins away.
“You can have your own whole cake,” he says, kicking a box full of them towards me.
The next ten minutes are embarrassing because me and Devil go insane, ripping open boxes, eating, eating, eating, stuffing sweets, cakes, peanuts, honey-crunchy cereals, biscuits, cola, everything.
“How’s that?” says Devil through a mouthful of some kind of pink food, pointing to my hand. He means my finger.
“’S getting better,” I say. I look at him. “Are you sure you haven’t seen the missing bit?”
“Nope,” says Devil way too quickly.
I shrug. I know this is a bit soft, but a part of me is missing and I want it back. I know Devil has something to do with it. But now is not the time to confront him.
We keep eating.
I’m deciding what to take home when I realize I forgot to bring any bags with me.
“DAMN.” I’m really mad. I’ve got a lorry load of stuff. How can I get it home? For a moment I deliberate whether I could drive the lorry back to the estate, maybe in the middle of the night. I quickly forget that. It’s too risky and the lorry is bedded in the mud anyway. I eat some more. Eventually I pause for breath. Devil has found a crate of vodka and is tucking in. I grab a bottle and have a swig myself. This is a bad idea. I think I’m going to be. . .
I puke all over my trainers.
My poor trainers.
Devil tuts and offers me back the vodka. “Want to rinse your mouth out?”
I shake my head and wipe my mouth.
The floor of the lorry is a slick of puke and alcohol, broken biscuits and cake crumbs, food wrappings and empty cans.
“We’ll come back tonight,” says Devil.
I nod but know we won’t be back. It’s too risky. This is gutting. There are crates of expensive-looking orange juice, boxes of chocolates and pasta sauce and rice and nuts and dried fruit and cans of soup and everything. And we have to leave most of it behind. I fit chocolate bars and miniature whisky bottles into my pockets, but there’s not much room.
“I’m taking this,” says Devil, heaving the crate of vodka on his back.
“It won’t fit on the moped,” I say.
“Yes it will,” says Devil.
I’m about to jump off the lorry when I notice a box full of packets of Jammy Dodgers. I feel as sick as a dog but can’t bring myself to leave them behind.
So we end up leaving the lorry in the field. We’ve made a mess, but most of the crates are untouched. I’m really annoyed that we forgot to bring any bags. We pull the moped out of the ditch and push it to the road. Devil lets me drive. He sits behind me, swigging vodka, the crate with the remaining bottles balanced on his lap. The plastic jabs into my spine. My Jammy Dodgers are tied to the back of the bike. I hope they don’t fall off. I hate leaving that lovely lorry. The stuff inside could feed my family for years.
We motor home over the wet roads. We’re in a good mood, shouting and laughing. What a job! I can’t believe everything went so well. (Apart from getting stuck in the mud and forgetting to bring any bags with us.)
When I get home I leave three packets of Jammy Dodgers in the kitchen for Gran.
I leave a chocolate bar on Mum’s bed.
See what a nice fellow I am?
The evening passed and no one came knocking on my door.
I thought we’d got away with it.
F i v e
I’m ill that night. I only puke a few times but my stomach hurts and I feel sick. I don’t want to move. Why did I eat all that crap? Can you die of sugar poisoning? But when I wake in the morning, I feel fine. I think I might go to school. I’m not going to bump into any police there. Besides, I don’t want to get behind, do I?
I open my door at seven thirty a.m. and pick up the pile of freshly ironed clothes I know will be waiting on the carpet: blazer, shirt, trousers, black socks, shiny black school shoes and tartan boxers. Gran does this every morning in the hope that I’m going to school. The boxers I can do without. I put on my black CK ones instead. The shoes I have never worn, ever. Gran came home with them two years ago and I haven’t even bothered to try them on. They are three sizes too small now. Gran knows this. I reckon she likes to think that she’s doing all she can to keep me on track, but there’s no point in wasting money on shoes I’ll never wear. I put the shoes out for the bin man a year or so ago, but the very next day they appeared back next to my pile of school clothes. I always wear my trainers to school. The teachers don’t say anything about them. Mine are pretty skanky after yesterday so I have to make do with an older pair.
My finger looks messy this morning. There’s white and yellow pockets of stuff on it and it’s oozing pus. I give it a quick sniff but it doesn’t smell bad. I wash it carefully in warm water and TCP and put a new bandage on. It’s hurting less and I’m getting used to not using it. I’m managing on only a couple of paracetamol a day now. I’m not worried about Gran sussing out they’re missing, she’ll just think Mum’s been at them.
I sit on the kitchen stool and give Gran my most charming smile as I want her to cook me breakfast.
“You need a shower,” she says. “You stink.”
“You look beautiful today, Gran,” I say.
Gran tries not to smile. “Have a shower,” she says.
“I will if you cook me breakfast,” I say. “I’ll have a bath this evening.”
“Baths are a waste of the planet’s resources,” says my eco-gran.
She turns her back on me and for a moment I think I’ve lucked out. Then she bends and opens the cupboard.
“One egg or two?” she says.
I’ve brushed the baked beans out of my teeth and am about to leave when Gran stuffs something into my pocket.
“It arrived last week,” she says. “I was going to give it to you when you started to behave yourself.”
It’s a letter.
“You can’t do that, Gran. It’s my property.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Have I mentioned that there is absolutely no point in arguing with my grandmama?
“I expect you’ve steamed it open already, knowing you,” I say.
“It’s from America,” she says. She’s obviously dying to know what’s inside.
“Gran,” I say, stepping down on to the garden path. “I don’t want to be late for school.”
My convict has written again. I hope he’s not sending me death threats because I haven’t replied yet.
“Don’t go falling for a Yank,” yells Gran, from the doorstep. “A good English girl is what you need.”
“Later, Gran.”
The thought of the letter in my pocket makes me feel slightly sick. I wish I hadn’t started this. I thought it would be a laugh, but already I feel like I owe this bloke something and I don’t like it.
There’s loads of people about this morning; kids on their way to school, mums with buggies. I walk in the road so they don’t get in my way.
I spy Lexi Juby stepping out of her house. She looks great, all done up in her school uniform. She smiles when she sees me.
“LEXI.”
And there, in broad daylight, is Juby-the-Killer standing on the doorstep. “Don’t forget my fags,” he says. He sees me and gives me such a look that I keep right on walking. I don’t want to be looked at by Juby. It’s best to remain unseen and undetected. Particularly if you are interested in his daughter.
Lexi is a year younger than me and I may have mentioned she’s very fit. I was embarrassed the other day. I was round at Devil’s (when his dad was out) and I was only wearing my shorts because Devil had poured ketchup down my trousers for a laugh, and Lexi came in. She saw my skinny legs. I nearly jumped out of the window. I hate my legs. They look like they belong to a little kid.
“Hullo, Chas.”
I turn round, pretending I’ve only just noticed her. I glance back at her house but Juby’s gone back inside.
“Where’s Devil?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say. Lexi shrugs, a movement which lifts her fantastic boobs.
“In bed,” she says. I bet she thinks I can’t do anything without my big sidekick. She eyes up my uniform. “Are you going to school or is this just to fool your gran?”
“Nothing fools my gran,” I say, falling into step with her.
She removes her blazer and catches me gawping.
“Hot, isn’t it?” I mumble, my face burning.
“Can I see your hand?” asks Lexi.
This might put her off altogether but if she wants to see it, how can I refuse? I hold out my hand, pleased I put the nice fresh dressing on it this morning. Ever so gently, Lexi takes my hand and holds it close to her face.
“How come it hasn’t gone bad?” she asks.
I shrug. She’s touching me! She’s holding my hand! Even so, I’m nervous. What if Juby-the-Killer sees?
I whip my hand away.
“I think Devlin’s got your finger,” she says. “He was messing around with some vinegar the other night. I saw something small and gross in a jam jar. I asked him what it was, but he hid it.” She looks at me suspiciously. “He was drunk last night.”
I nod. I knew Devil had it. It’s the sort of sick thing he’d do. I’m not surprised. But I don’t like Lexi Juby telling me my finger is gross. It is, after all, a severed finger. Anybody’s severed finger would be gross, even Lexi Juby’s. I’m not happy with Devil. If he’d handed it back to me at the time, I could have gone to hospital and they’d have sewed it back on for me. Now I’m going to miss a fingertip for the rest of my life.
