CHAPTER 1: A New Home for Dylan - Nights in the Park - Talks with Tom on the Bench

I MAY AS WELL LEAP into this with both feet as they say, though people are forever telling me not to do this, always brim full of “think before you act, Dylan”, or “count to ten” or maybe more if they reckon as if I’m having a bad day. So I fear I’m getting off to a pretty poor start already, but there you go. It’s done now and I ain’t one for turnabouts.

I left the Home on a windy Thursday afternoon in April for pastures new, which turned out to be Battersea and not a long stone from where I’d first grown up. But this wasn’t the Wandworth of my childhood, but a richer poke with the odd nice house and trim gardens with maybe ponds and a bright gnome taking life easy. The carers they all said to treat it like a long weekend and see how things pan, but I could tell they were hoping my little outing would be a stretch longer than this, though for my good not theirs. Young Kirsty even shed a tear or two which made her make-up go crazy, but she wasn’t known for ever being able to keep anything in a bottle, so this was never here nor there I suppose. Tom himself quit the weekend before me, so I was fair pleased to be on my way all considered, seeing as things wouldn’t have been quite the same without him roaming the corridors and getting up to all sorts.

I went to stay with a couple who couldn’t have children of their own, and embraced me from the off as a lost son they’d never had the pleasure of. They had me call them John and Liz, so I’ll call them such here as they seemed fine with it then, though some may find this strange, and a good deal of water has passed since alright. John vowed to get me all shipshape from an education point of view, though his confidence was to dent as the days went by. He was forever ruffling my hair and launching such gems as:

“Dylan, Liz and I would love you to be happy here” or
“Never be afraid to ask us anything, however silly it may sound”

as if he’d been up all night learning a script that had dropped through the shiny gold letterbox just the morning previous. He worked like a dervish and I never again need want for anything, this was true. Liz was plump and pretty, but worried so much her face was all lines when she held me close to. I’d never fed better before or since. I fair swelled with health and fruit and vegetables. Once she saw how good she was doing, that I hadn’t dropped stone cold for want of vitamins and the like, she seemed to relax a touch and even break a smile now and then. Sometimes I’d see her out of the corner of my eye, just watching from a doorway, a soft peaceful look across her rosy face.

So this is how it was, and something told me I ought to give it a try. At least for a short while.

Well pretty soon I’d get to expecting Tom creeping about in the back garden come dusk, like he said he would, come to say hello, grit thrown at my window just as happens in story books. But the weeks went by, and the light pulled out, and nothing ever happened. I got to feel pretty stupid as there was no reason Tom would know the house or street anyhows, but I’d come to expect the unexpected with him, so maybe that was the glimmer I’d held to. I had a nice little room all to myself, with a wardrobe full of crisp new clothes with tags still dangling, and posters on the fresh painted walls, and even a small colour telly with a remote that acted as lost as me most of the while. But it was awful lonely and quiet though. I’d watch daft late-night quiz shows with answers so stupid even I could muster a fair few, just for the company of it. Eventually I might get a bit sleepy, but it was all something of a challenge I’d never remembered before. Before long I was sliding back into bad habits, sneaking from the window ledge after dark for a quiet smoke in the garden, or taking off altogether down the back alley and having a good wander to take my mind off of things. And this was how it was for many a week, well with a bit of school thrown in if my arm was twisted, though I never much cared for any of that.

Then it struck of all a sudden someday that Tom mightn’t have known where I was all being hugged up and mothered, but I sure knew where he was, and cursed myself not to have thought it before. Tom’d always be on at me for not doing enough stuff on my own accord, in a roundabout way, and here it was in full view yet again. He was forever bragging back at the Home how he was going back to his Pa - to all who would listen and plenty others who wouldn’t if they could’ve slunk away – now that he’d sorted everything out and was pure with life again. Tom had described the very tower block to a T, and I was sure I’d be able to find it quick enough, as I knew these streets like my own palm as people say, though it’s a silly saying and I’d barely recognise mine in a parade. So I set out one fine evening, leaving pillows under the spread to fool the folks if they may be tempted to take a lovin’ peek, as they did sometimes, especially the woman.

It didn’t take long to track him down, jerking around by a bust up service lift, trying to wedge stuff into the metal cracks. He looked a sight shifty at first, but was soon all “Dylan” this and “Dylan” that, and was just like we’d never been apart. I was sure pleased to have found him again, and just since I’m doing a grand old skim over these parts, don’t go assuming there was no measure to my feelings. We were firm friends and allies again, and saying that’s about as good as I can bring from myself here and now.

The weather was warming by late May, and Tom often headed out of an evening, most often to a park near the power station where no-one would bother you over much. His Pa never seemed to mind, was dead in front of the telly most times and barely even clocked me when I was round. This whole arrangement looked pretty sweet to me (who had to sneak out of windows and was s’posed to be all dreams by eight-thirty) but Tom didn’t seem to quite fully figure it as such. He’d say I was lucky and onto a good thing, and shouldn’t ruin it all for the sake of messing. Besides, they were good folk, and only trying to do the best by me and would only worry, or worse get into trouble themselves. We’d often end up in the rat-run outside his front door, kicking around cans, running ourselves into silly sweats or testing our yells in the concrete stairwells. Sometimes we’d just take in the view, with everywhere kind of beautiful from a distance, especially near sunset. It made you feel Lord and Master did life on the fourteenth floor, and I could feel a shade of envy drawing near (though glad my window sill was a mere ten foot from the turf). Again, Tom made his views on all this lark precise and clear, but never choked me off joining him in the park, for which I was mighty thankful. I needed the air of a night.

About this time, though I shouldn’t say for sure, Tom began hanging with this girl called Becca, who I’d seen now and then in the background, by the offie with her friends, but never close to so to speak. Tom had started to drink a bit by then, and was forever teasing a brown plastic bottle under my nose and telling me to try a bit, won’t hurt you and the like. Well, I didn’t know about this, and don’t reckon Tom believed it too much either. He got to look a little funny sometimes, and act a bit scatty by the end of a night. He’d be on the swing in the park, blowing smoke rings up to the stars, mixing his words, eyes all blown and watery like they’d suddenly landed up on the wrong face and got scared. Often I’d get bored and slink off home, as I shouldn’t have been around that time of night anyhow, and would only get into trouble if found out. I didn’t know what he saw in her really, if I’m being truthful. She was never one for talking much, and always covered in so much powder and slap. But Tom’s hand was always up her top during those early summer evenings, that or busy unbuttoning something if she’d headed off into the bushes with him. I never wanted to see any of that in particular, and never sneaked, so I’m probably imagining this which I promised I wouldn’t do, and that’s quite enough of that. I felt a bit of a spare half the time, and got miserable and moody.

Tom would take me aside sometimes if he saw me unhappy and wasn’t too gone, as he was nice like this, and there’s no worth in denying it. It was easy to see what Becca saw in him, if not the other way around. The looks she’d shoot me when the two of us wandered off, you’d think I was trying to make moves myself. There we’d sit, on that old bench at the park edge, under that sickly walnut tree that was probably older than time itself, our backs to the York Road that still kept the racket up till later than we’d ever be about. Sometimes you’d pick up the warm smell from nearby takeaways over the traffic, and it always make your stomach rumble a touch if this happened. So anyway, there I’d be, running my fingers over the carved hearts that clustered on the wooden bench slats (so many names, and there are surely more by now), getting a little sad thinking about people who used to care for each other but grew apart, watching a crisp packet blow about in the breeze, Becca texting away in the distance, face whitey-blue from the glow of her mobile. And Tom would see me tracing those hearts, outlines bold in the orange streetlight, and know who I was thinking about, and dig me out a ciggie from some hidden pocket, which usually made everything better for a minute or two. We’d watch the blinking red tail lights of mile high planes, criss-crossing overhead, and he’d gaze over at Becca and be all –

“Just give it a few more years, young Dyl”, as he could be awful high and mighty at times, and never missed a chance to show me I was younger, “and you’ll understand”. Which I wasn’t really too sure about, but didn’t argue the point. Time would probably tell by itself in the end, without him nudging it along making grand proclamations, but there you go. That was Tom, and he was generally right about things.
“Well”, I says, “I’ll be sure and let you know when it happens”, which came out slightly cutting, though wasn’t meant that way, even if I could be plenty of that if I put my mind to it.
“Yeah, whatever”, and I could tell he quite fancied clipping me round the ear, but thought better of it.
“Yeah, whatever”.

This could’ve gone on for quite a little while in a similar vein, and often did in the olden days, the last weeks at the Home - I cannot recall much before then with any measure - but things had moved along since then, and it seemed kind of surplus now.

He passed across a can of something or other, and I had a little bit of whatever, so as not to appear rude. I cannot say it was particularly pleasant, but it warmed me in the head for a good few seconds. Becca was back with her mates by now, all of them hooting away over nothing no doubt, like a load of angry car alarms. I never knew many of their names, can even less remember them fairsquare now, and I’ve got no truck with invention for the sake of invention. I’m sorry if this is a let down, but I’ve got to keep this truthful as I’ve said, well for the most part anyway. There were others of my age too, but they came and went. It’s only Becca I can really remember. And Tom, of course, but that should be a given by now.

“Just go if you wanna see her so bad, shoot right off, nobody’s gonna stop you”.

And any passer by could tell, had they cared to look into my eyes, not even too deep, that I wasn’t thinking of some girl - for I was too young for this as has been seen – but of my mother. My real mother. And the water in those eyes wasn’t from smoke, though this was a fair cover, and told that she wasn’t to be found just down the road in Clapham or some such, but many hundreds of miles away or more. And even of this I couldn’t be one hundred sure, not one hundred.

I finished my ciggie and flicked the butt at the crisp packet.

“For you are Dylan Quinn”, says Tom, fond of proclamations that evening, “the uncatchable Dylan Quinn”.

And then I knew he’d blitzed far too much moonshine, without so much as glancing at him, far beyond any shadow of doubt or anything else. I was, as Tom well understood, one of the very worst runaways to have ever graced the surface of this fine earth.

IT'S BEEN STRANGE LOOKING back just there, made me a bit dizzy, though not in a can’t-stand-fall-to-the-floor kind of way, just a bit unsettled in the head. I’m sure I should grasp the lead-in and go talking about some of my runaway adventures now, for I set it for just that, but I’m not in altogether the right frame just yet.

I know I’ve gone about this all wrong, but it’s just the way it all came tumbling down. I took the little notepad and pencil into the gardens here just three weeks back, and there it all happened, in a burst, under an evening sky that kept trying for rain but couldn’t, like it wanted me to finish. I’m dead soppy for such signs, drag my heels through each day almost on the watch. It’s very beautiful here at the complex, especially this time of year, though summer has just about baked itself out now. There are tall trees full of crows, and a perfect green lawn, and the sound of running water from somewhere, though maybe just all in my head. They told me to take the notepad and fill it with whatever took my fancy. Somebody who’d once done more school than me seemed to think it was a fine idea or at least worth a try. I don’t know why I keep saying ‘somebody’ like I haven’t the foggiest who I’m on about. It was Miss Warner, who gazed kindly at me from behind oval rimmed spectacles, a loose thread dancing on the shoulder of her pink cardigan, for there was quite a warm breeze coming across her office that afternoon.

“What, like pictures and stuff, Miss?”
“Or words. Whatever fills your head. It’s totally up to you. I’m not here to make up silly rules.”
“Shall I come back and show you, Miss?”
“Yes Dylan, that would be nice of you. How about Monday?”
“Ok, Miss”, I says, leaning down from my plastic chair to pick up a sheet of paper blown from her desk. There were lots of other names on there, other kids I reckoned, some underlined, some with question marks and doodles by them. But she was up from behind her desk before I could see much more, and gently removed the sheet from my hand.
“Thank you Dylan. And please, call me Rachel.”

So there I was, three weeks ago, the notepad warm in my hands, heading down the complex rear steps and onto the lawn. I’d wanted to ask permission, though people had forever been telling me this wasn’t necessary, and I could come and go as I pleased. It still seems odd now, and even odder then when I’d only just been there a mere handful. It was a weekend anyhow, and ever so still, only distant fragments from a television programme in the day room, probably flickering away to itself. I went and sat on the lawn, watched a ladybird, scribbled a bit to get my hand in the mood. Then I thought I’d draw the complex, so a new page was called for, and I gave it a good go, but it was far too difficult, seemed like a hundred windows and fancy brick patterns and tricky lines. I tried some shadows to see if this would rescue the situation, but only made it a million times worse. Well, I got mighty frustrated all of a sudden, and the notepad lost it’s first page, turned to confetti that cart wheeled away like it was late for a wedding. I knew this was wrong of me, littering in a place so green and gorgeous, but the wind soon worked its magic. It blew me towards the trees, with trunks so wide I couldn’t have hugged them full and proper with twenty foot arms. For a moment, I was sure I could feel a tiny heartbeat through the bark, though probably just mine that has kept up with me through thick and thin, without so much as a thank you note, or a cake with candles, just blundering ever onwards, destined for who knows where. I didn’t know what sort of tree this was (though there were plenty here who would have gladly told me with smiles and open arms), but he had for sure seen enough Christmas Days to be bored sick of tinsel. I gazed back towards the complex, across the wide lawn, the high chimneys darkening against the slow sunset. I’d slept the sleep of the dead on my journey here, curled up in the back of a minibus, face warped against the glass, beaded with fat raindrops that slid carefree past the condensation of my breath. I hadn’t got much of a clue where they’d taken me to when I was awoken, and am still short on a few details even now, not that I mind over much about that. The driver pulled up in the gravelled complex forecourt, and I stumbled out, all achy-eyed and moody. There was even a small greeting party, sheltering under assorted umbrellas, for it was awful gloomy and sodden that day. An elderly man with a bloom of storm-tossed white hair shook a cold hand with me, and a young nurse smiled shyly, long-lashed blue eyes briefly meeting mine before ducking away for cover. Raindrops were sliding down the plastic of her name tag, faithfully tracing the gentle curve of her chest before eventually falling to earth. I’m beginning to notice these things now, you see. Tom was right with his predictions, though I’m not gonna let him take all the credit. I’m certain I’d have got there on my own, a couple of years will surely do this to a boy without too much of a hurry-on.

On the following Monday, I was back in her office. The chair was in just the same place as before, barely moved a centimetre, though a hundred fidgety beam-ends had doubtless been on there since. Miss Warner had her window firmly closed this time, obviously being the sort mardy at having her desk rearranged by any hand than hers. This was a bit of a shame, as I had a pretty smooth pebble sat in my pocket, the very best I could find from a long wander along the complex driveway. I reckoned as though she could use it as a paperweight if anything else went walkabout, but maybe I’d leave it with her anyway, just as a reminder, right at the end, in case she thought she was getting the upper on me. She was over by that window a good long time before parking herself at the desk, a nice old wood one that would’ve taken some sweat to get up all those complex stairs. I don’t exactly know what she was so fixed by, probably just worried that her new Lexus was about to get keyed. I thought about suggesting she should get the minibus in with all the cleaners, but before I knew it the notebook was gone from my hands and she looked kind of gone.

Well, it must’ve been the spelling, or the grammar, or the handwriting. Perhaps a wicked combination of all three, for she was throwing some mighty troubled face shapes for the next five minutes. Her spectacles certainly seemed to want out on the whole deal, and nearly fell from her nose altogether on one occasion. It was all too much, so I slipped off the chair and sulked around the room. There was a shelf with a couple of framed certificates and some photographs on it. One of them may have been of Miss Warner herself, but from a good few moons ago, with long curly hair (not the short bob cut it was now) and a gown and stuff. I picked it up and held it against the current version for a quick comparison. Inconclusive, and I carefully replaced it in the exact same spot, which was easy due to the tell-tale marks in the dust. This was odd for the complex, where every surface shimmered and shined. There was another picture of a geeky looking guy in a rugby top, gurning at the camera or maybe just unfortunate in expression.
“One of yours, Miss?” I asked for the cheek of it (for I’ve only gone and got worse in this respect since I was younger), but she just waved me away, eyes never leaving the notepad.

Then there was an ancient bookcase in a dirty brown wood with a sliding glass front. It was half open anyhow, so I ran my finger across some of the spines, mostly old and battered leather ones (that would collapse if you sneezed near them) amongst the odd glossy paperback. None of the titles exactly grabbed me – Contextual Perspectives On Adolescent Clinical Psychology, Enhancing Early Attachments, What To Do With Your Past When It Just Won’t Go Away – but maybe the gems were stashed away, shy of the daylight.

“You like books do you Dylan?”
“Yeah Miss, they’re ok”
“Take one out if you’d like, they won’t bite you know”
“That’s all right Miss”
“Rachel, please”

And then she was up from behind her desk, notepad in hand, back over to the window, gazing out dreamily, maybe at all those crows grating away in the treetops. You could just about hear them over the ticking of an ugly electric wall clock. And I thought, hear it comes, sure as day follows night, her long musical fingers tapping on the pad, but she was a tricky one to read this Miss Warner, and she must have been taking a big curve-ball around the whole thing.
“I’ve always loved books, Dylan, ever since I was a little girl. You’re never alone with a good book are you, at least that’s what they always used to say to me. Do you have a favourite? Come on, everybody has a favourite.”
“Dunno Miss. The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe...” Out it came before I could grab a handle and pull back, and I felt a fool. It was a kids book and I was way too old for that. She’d have loved to know why I thought of it, but I wasn’t going to say, not now or for a long time either, a good thousand in-and-outs of the squeaky office door with the blind always down. I was thinking of my mother when she used to read it to me, sometimes struggling with the words and by pale flickering candlelight if the pre-pay had run empty. Every bulb in the flat would die, frazzle to the ghost of an cooling orange filament, but she’d soon be back rustling the matches, for she’d like to finish a chapter when she got going, and nothing much would stop her.
“Excellent choice, Dylan, excellent choice... And which character do you like the best?”
“Edmund.”
“Ha! Edmund, the rebel!” She sat back down behind her desk, scribbled something on a post-it note and slapped it on the front on my notepad. “Would you mind if I kept this with me for a few hours and had the office run me off a copy? I’ll have it back to you by the end of the day.”
“It’s your notepad, ain’t it Miss?”
“Nonsense. It was yours from the moment your pencil touched the page. Though perhaps you could try pressing a little less hard in places.”
“Guess the moment must’ve caught me, Miss.”
She laughed a bit more, and that was pretty much that. I reckoned that was probably the last I was going to see of it - that they’d cart it off for scientific study and hack it apart for handwriting experts – but there the pad was, back at the foot of my bed by late afternoon, and she was good as her word. Resting on the cover was a posh looking pen, nice and heavy feeling, built to last. I sat clicking away for a fair few minutes, it was kind of relaxing.

Well, I was in and out of her office quite a bit over the coming weeks, down the freshly waxed corridors, past the special classrooms and the canteen. She couldn’t half rattle on could Miss Warner, like she was making it up on the fly, though I was certain this was her gold-standard intent.
“Have you done me any more writing, Dylan?” she’d sometimes say, if the temptation got to be too strong. She’d sip on her coffee, or rummage through some paperwork to file down the edge, make it seem all casual, a harmless little after-thought. I knew the moves by now.
“What’s in it for me, Miss?”
“Ha!” she’d hoot, all theatrical like I’m sure she really was underneath all the plaster, “so young and yet so mercenary! You know that I couldn’t possibly bring anything for you into the complex, even if I dearly wanted to...”
Which was a shocker of an untruth (thinking of the pen) even by my standards. But I let it slide, which was altogether reasonable of me, if not totally proper. I could sense her watching me sometimes, as I wandered away back down the corridor, but I never once turned back. I’m not one for spell-breaking.

It’s early Saturday morning here now, though the days can blend if you’re not too careful about it. I’m lying in bed, breathing into a hot pillow that smells of stale morning breath and unwashed hair and dreams both fresh and long gone. I share this room with a boy called Parker who mutters stuff in his sleep and has covered the walls in his corner with dozens of girls trimmed from papers and magazines. He sits most days in the TV room, flicking through the channels, never saying much, scissors glinting away at anything of interest. Usually girls with dumb pouts draped in odd poses over sofas, golden thighs curling from under torn denim minis, breasts jammed into tops a full size or two on the short side, I’m sure you know the stuff... I could have some pictures of my own if I wanted, but I rather like the plain paintwork, the faded rectangles and blu-tac specks left by whoever had been here before me. Besides, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, though the desire to run has left me of late.

I turn on the pillow and cast a glance across at Parker, half visible in the morning light, sleep-sound to all but the expert observer. I wish he’d go and jerk off somewhere else, take his hard-on down to the woods and spray against the nearest tree, nobody would care if he kept in the shadows. Shadows always get used for that kind of thing. The crows could just fly off if they didn’t like it.

There’s a bit of a disco here for the residents on Saturday evenings, and I think I may give it a go this time. They dim the lights in the main hall, and pump out sappy music. Still beats lying alone. I crawl out of bed, grab a shower and put on my work clothes. Then it’s off to the kitchens, ready for the breakfast shift. Angelo the chef looks miserable as ever, droopy and hungover, but he chucks over an apron and does me up a sausage sarnie double quick. I wonder if Alice will be going to the disco. She works here washing-up sometimes at the weekend, gets the minibus in with the cleaners and disappears of her own sweet accord. I often find myself staring at her without realising it, whilst the grease from a pan of fried eggs spits up about my eyes. Angelo says she’s got a boyfriend, that they’re all over each other right outside the gates when he comes to pick her up after a shift, why don’t I look for myself if I don’t buy it. But I don’t think I really want to know. Angelo spouts loads of rot anyhow, especially after the sort of Friday night his eyes look like they’ve had.

Later, when I get back to my room, the curtains have been drawn and sunlight comes piling down in a big yellow wedge. Parker is gone and his bed made all neat, though one of his girlie cut-outs is beginning to droop, the fallen corner covering most her face and shadowing quite a lot else besides. I reckon I ought to right her, but then maybe she was starting to get all bashful and deserves a bit of shuteye like the rest of us.

And then I see the book, placed so blatant on my orange coverlet that I wonder how I’d missed it. It looks old and delicate, but I still capsize the poor thing, shake the life out of it to see if anything will fall. Alas, no fivers or tenners come fluttering to the vinyl flooring. Once over my disappointment, I open to the inside page (for there were no clues on the front, being historic and so forth):

The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis

Well, this would be Miss Warner’s hand for certain, though she never works the complex on a Saturday, and would deny with all her heart. It’s a fair view from up here on the third floor, and I carry the book with me over to the window. There is no Lexus in the forecourt, merely a gardener puffing by with a wheelbarrow and a rake. But just maybe there is a slight whisper of dust – far, far away down the front driveway, right where you lose it from sight behind the trees, turning in the breeze – that speaks of car tyres and impatient getaways.

But maybe this is just my over imagination. Pure and simple. It’s still bone dry here, the blue sky has hardly shed a drop since the storm when I arrived, not that I should go around searching for signs. Or dragging my heels through each day.

So very warm and dust-dry, though summer has nearly full-square baked itself out. As I’m sure I’ve said somewhere before back there.

CHAPTER 2: Runaway Tales - Adventures in the West End - The Reappearance of Pa