it’s not . . .”
He turns toward the door and, without another single sensible thought, I place my palm on his back and we start walking. I look behind me. No one is watching us.
No one
is watching us!
“Where are we going?” he says, stumbling through the door.
“Uh . . . don’t speak,” I say. And all the time we’re walking out of there into the cold night air, I try not to concentrate on the Mac side of my brain which is saying,
What the hell are you doing? He thinks it’s a knife, he thinks your Curly Wurly is a
knife
! Tell him it’s just a silver wrapper, tell him it’s just a misunderstanding. Let him go, just let him go!
But I can’t let him go, I just can’t.
Keep going, keep going, keep going. Don’t look back. No one notice, please no one notice!
And anyway we’re out the door now. “Put your hands down,” I tell him, and he does.
The door shuts quietly behind us, and we’re walking, across the silent bus parking lot, heading toward some tall metal gates. I look behind again. No one calls out. No one stops us. Two security guards are watching football on a small television screen inside a booth by the gates. We approach them and I slow my pace.
Please don’t see us.
We walk past them. My hearing is so messed up I can’t even hear what they’re talking about.
Please don’t see us.
It’s like they’re speaking through a cardboard tube. But they don’t notice us and as we make it through the gates to the pavement on the main road, I rip my fleece from my waist and put it over Jackson’s head. He’s shaking. His walk is slow and his feet scuff on the ground like a kid coming down from a tantrum. I steer him around trash bins and speed bumps and burger boxes until we arrive around the front of the arena and cross the road. He mumbles something.
“What?”
“Where are you taking me?” he mumbles again, somewhere under my fleece.
I don’t know what else to say to him. I rack my brain, trying to think of movies where people are being taken hostage. What do the bad guys say? I don’t want to tell him to shut the eff up. He is, after all, still my hero. I just want him with me, that’s all I know. That’s all I want at that moment. “Just keep moving,” I say and he does, slowly.
There are fans milling around outside the arena, and scalpers still trying to sell tickets for a gig that’s pretty much over. Some guys stand on the street selling tour posters and cheap-looking T-shirts with band logos on them, and for a second I want to stop and buy one, but then I think I couldn’t possibly buy anything now that will compare with what I already have.
Reality check: OMFG!
But I choose to ignore it. Don’t think just do, don’t think just do. We walk past them all, through a sea of cans, bottles, flyers, and cigarette butts, across the road toward Mac’s car. Right where he said he’d be — hazards on, under the lamppost.
A police car whizzes past, followed shortly by an ambulance. A stab of fear slices through me. It’s OK, they’re not for me. I just pray no one works out what’s going on. But I don’t know what’s happening, so I doubt anyone else will.
“Just walk, I’ll guide you,” I say as we cross the road. Mac is dozing in the driver’s seat, wrapped up in his coat. I knock on the window and he jumps and fumbles with the door before pulling the seat forward.
“That was quick. Thought you’d be ages. Didn’t you get a T-shirt or something?”
“No.”
“Didn’t they do an encore even? Stingy gits. Oh, are we giving someone a lift?”
I push Jackson inside first so he is sitting behind Mac’s seat and then get in next to him and shut the door.
“Why aren’t you sitting in the front —”
“Go, Mac, before we get caught in the traffic.”
“Hang on, where does your mate live?”
“I’ll tell you on the way, please just drive.”
And he does. He puts his foot down and we are out of there like a speed skater. We bolt through the town,
He turns toward the door and, without another single sensible thought, I place my palm on his back and we start walking. I look behind me. No one is watching us.
No one
is watching us!
“Where are we going?” he says, stumbling through the door.
“Uh . . . don’t speak,” I say. And all the time we’re walking out of there into the cold night air, I try not to concentrate on the Mac side of my brain which is saying,
What the hell are you doing? He thinks it’s a knife, he thinks your Curly Wurly is a
knife
! Tell him it’s just a silver wrapper, tell him it’s just a misunderstanding. Let him go, just let him go!
But I can’t let him go, I just can’t.
Keep going, keep going, keep going. Don’t look back. No one notice, please no one notice!
And anyway we’re out the door now. “Put your hands down,” I tell him, and he does.
The door shuts quietly behind us, and we’re walking, across the silent bus parking lot, heading toward some tall metal gates. I look behind again. No one calls out. No one stops us. Two security guards are watching football on a small television screen inside a booth by the gates. We approach them and I slow my pace.
Please don’t see us.
We walk past them. My hearing is so messed up I can’t even hear what they’re talking about.
Please don’t see us.
It’s like they’re speaking through a cardboard tube. But they don’t notice us and as we make it through the gates to the pavement on the main road, I rip my fleece from my waist and put it over Jackson’s head. He’s shaking. His walk is slow and his feet scuff on the ground like a kid coming down from a tantrum. I steer him around trash bins and speed bumps and burger boxes until we arrive around the front of the arena and cross the road. He mumbles something.
“What?”
“Where are you taking me?” he mumbles again, somewhere under my fleece.
I don’t know what else to say to him. I rack my brain, trying to think of movies where people are being taken hostage. What do the bad guys say? I don’t want to tell him to shut the eff up. He is, after all, still my hero. I just want him with me, that’s all I know. That’s all I want at that moment. “Just keep moving,” I say and he does, slowly.
There are fans milling around outside the arena, and scalpers still trying to sell tickets for a gig that’s pretty much over. Some guys stand on the street selling tour posters and cheap-looking T-shirts with band logos on them, and for a second I want to stop and buy one, but then I think I couldn’t possibly buy anything now that will compare with what I already have.
Reality check: OMFG!
But I choose to ignore it. Don’t think just do, don’t think just do. We walk past them all, through a sea of cans, bottles, flyers, and cigarette butts, across the road toward Mac’s car. Right where he said he’d be — hazards on, under the lamppost.
A police car whizzes past, followed shortly by an ambulance. A stab of fear slices through me. It’s OK, they’re not for me. I just pray no one works out what’s going on. But I don’t know what’s happening, so I doubt anyone else will.
“Just walk, I’ll guide you,” I say as we cross the road. Mac is dozing in the driver’s seat, wrapped up in his coat. I knock on the window and he jumps and fumbles with the door before pulling the seat forward.
“That was quick. Thought you’d be ages. Didn’t you get a T-shirt or something?”
“No.”
“Didn’t they do an encore even? Stingy gits. Oh, are we giving someone a lift?”
I push Jackson inside first so he is sitting behind Mac’s seat and then get in next to him and shut the door.
“Why aren’t you sitting in the front —”
“Go, Mac, before we get caught in the traffic.”
“Hang on, where does your mate live?”
“I’ll tell you on the way, please just drive.”
And he does. He puts his foot down and we are out of there like a speed skater. We bolt through the town,
Similar Books
