‘You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?’ she asked.
He smiled gently. ‘My God, you’re about a thousand years old, aren’t you? Yes, I’m going to leave you. We don’t have any choice.’
‘You don’t have to explain.’
But he did. ‘Newspaper photos can be meaningless to most
people. It’s the unusual that stands out, like you and me together. On your own, you’d stand a very good chance of going anywhere you want. You’ve got the money I gave you?’
‘Yes.’
Then go in the cafe. Sit in the warm and wait. The express buses stop in here. I should know. I came up on one the other day going the opposite way. You should get one to Birmingham and on to London from there with no trouble.’
‘And you?’
‘Never mind about me. If they do lay their hands on you, tell them I forced you to help me. Enough people will believe that to make it true.’ He picked up his bag and put a hand to her face. ‘You’re a special person. Don’t ever let anyone put you down again. Promise me?’
‘I will.’ She found herself choking, reached up to kiss his cheek, then turned and ran away.
She had learned, in a hard school, not to cry, but there was a hot prickly feeling at the back of her eyes as she went into the cafe. She brushed past a table. A hand caught her sleeve and she turned to look down at a couple of youths in motor cyclists’ black leathers, hard, vicious looking young men with cropped hair. The one who had her sleeve was blond with a Nazi Iron Cross on his breast.
He said, ‘What’s your problem, darling? Nothing a ride on the back of my bike wouldn’t fix.’
She pulled away, not even angry, went and got a cup of tea and sat at a table, hands wrapped around its healing warmth. He had come into her life, he had gone from it and nothing would ever be the same again. She started to cry, slow bitter tears, the first in years.
Cussane had two choices: to take his chance on thumbing a lift or to steal a car. The second gave him more freedom, more personal control, but it would only work if the vehicle wouldn’t be missed for some time. There was a motel on the other side of the motorway. Anything parked there would belong to people staying overnight. Three to four hours at
least before any of those would be missed, and by then he would be long gone.
He went up the steps to the flyover, thinking about Morag Finlay, wondering what would happen to her. But that wasn’t his problem. What he had said to her made perfect sense. Together, they stuck out like a sore thumb. He paused on the bridge, lit another cigarette, trucks swishing past beneath him on the motorway. All perfectly sensible and logical, so why did he feel so rotten about it?
‘Dear God, Harry,’ he said softly, ‘you’re being corrupted by honesty and decency and innocence. It’s not possible to soil that girl. She’ll always remain untouched by the rottenness of life.’
And yet…
Someone moved up beside her and a soft voice said, ‘You okay, kid? Anything I can do?’
He was West Indian, she knew that, with dark, curling hair, a little grey at the edges. He was perhaps forty-five and wore a heavy driving coat with fur collar, all much stained with grease, and carried a plastic sandwich box and a thermos flask. He smiled, the kind of smile that told her instantly that she was okay, and sat down.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Life,’ she said.’
‘Heh, that’s really profound for a chick as young as you.’ But the smile was sympathetic. ‘Can I do anything?’
‘I’m waiting for the bus.’
‘To where?’
‘London.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s always London you kids make for when you run away from home.’
‘My grandmother lives in London,’ she said wearily. ‘Wap-ping.’
He nodded and frowned as if considering the matter, then stood up. ‘Okay, I’m your man.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I drive a freightliner and London is my home base. The long way round, mind you, ’cause when I hit Manchester, I’ve got to take the Pennine motorway to Leeds to drop something off, but we should be in London by the early afternoon.’