Wild Life Read online

  ‘Does that mean we’re not running?’ said Hopper eventually.

  ‘Boss says the defence of the camp is to take priority over all other activities,’ said Rusty, before winking at Hopper. ‘So I guess that means you’re off the hook.’

  There were sporadic chirrups of excitement as we gathered our weapons and fanned out into the woods. None of us were quite able to believe the stroke of good fortune that meant we were able to miss out the early morning exercise regime. Indeed, I myself was so pleased that it wasn’t until much later, while I stood guarding the entrance to Squit Creek, that I realised we’d also missed out on our shower and breakfast too.

  SEVENTEEN

  In the weeks that followed, a new pattern replaced our old way of life. Every day we would arm ourselves with wooden weapons – in my case a spear I’d fashioned from a length of ash – before taking up our perpetual patrol of the park. The security measures didn’t stop there, however. After the first few days brought no sign of Sneed, we were informed that, in order to ensure our safety, night patrols were to be instigated. A roster was drawn up and each evening three men were nominated to stay awake, watching over the rest of us while we slept. Those nights I was unfortunate enough to be selected as watchman were some of the longest of my life, my nerves chafed raw by the unfamiliar crackles of the undergrowth, along with the constant feeling I was being watched from just beyond the fringes of the camp. I was always glad when morning finally broke and the other men began to stir, their idle chatter chasing my nightmarish imaginings back into the shadows for another day.

  With Marshall still absent, Rusty seemed to have been promoted to acting leader – a role he undertook with great gusto. Indeed, there was hardly a day that went by during which he was not heard to bellow an elaborate new set of instructions at us, designed to capture Sneed once and for all. As Marshall’s sole confidant, these pronouncements came rubberstamped with the weight of his authority, something Rusty was keen to point out if ever challenged. ‘I’m just readin’ from the big man’s script,’ he’d say if anyone dared complain about the double night shift they’d just been given. ‘Don’t shoot the autocue operator!’

  Not that Marshall had disappeared from view entirely. I’d still catch sight of him now and then, usually at the very end of the day as he went out for the night, or first thing in the morning as he returned to his tree house. Or else he’d come stalking from the bushes with Tyrus at his side, his rifle trailing over his shoulder, his brow knitted with worry. It seemed that the stress of the attack had manifested itself physically, his black hair and beard suddenly speckled grey, his head stooped forward, resolutely avoiding our gaze or questions. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought he looked smaller, his cheeks hollow and drawn behind his sunglasses, his coat seeming to hang limply from his shoulders.

  Marshall wasn’t the only one to have lost weight. Since the new regime left little time for cooking, formal meals had been reduced, with the men gathering together only once in the evening to eat a simple broth, or more likely a selection of raw fruit and vegetables roughly chopped and tossed into a bowl. Rusty’s fritters, curries, stews – and eggs – were now nothing but a distant dream.

  Of course, there was nothing stopping us helping ourselves to whatever we could scavenge from the park on our daily patrols, though as the summer wore on, pickings became noticeably slimmer. The apples I’d relied on for breakfast soon lay mouldy and crawling with wasps, the berries shrivelled to hard black stones – even the wild salads, the sorrel, goosegrass and dandelion leaves that had up until recently sprouted in abundance, now retreated to inedible clumps of brown straw.

  Still, after a week or so I found the hunger pains began to recede into the background, as easy to ignore as the swarms of fruit flies and midges that fogged the sky at dusk and dawn. And whenever my stomach did occasionally cramp, I did my best to remember there was still much to be grateful for. For one thing, the security patrols provided a welcome break from the endless toiling on the farm. It felt nice to give my muscles a rest, my back no longer hunched over a barrow, my fingers no longer cramping in the dirt.

  My good mood was further bolstered by the weather, which for weeks remained fine and dry, providing excellent opportunities for illicit sunbathing. Indeed, whenever the boredom of standing guard over the empty playing fields became too much to bear, I would set my spear aside and snatch a few joyful hours lying in the long grass, my thoughts as meandering and insubstantial as the handful of wispy clouds that scuffed the otherwise perfect blue sky. Yes, I thought to myself during those long afternoons, there was much to be grateful for.

  *

  One afternoon, perhaps five or six weeks after the security patrols first began, I was standing in the thin copse of trees that divided the old playground and the football field. It was a scorching day, too hot even to stretch out and enjoy the sun. My tongue felt heavy and swollen in my mouth. Along with the reduction in food, the lack of rain meant our water reserves were running dangerously low, to the point where we had recently been forced to dredge up buckets from the lake. The murky water left a residue of brown scum around the pan when it was boiled, along with a bitter aftertaste of chalk and silt that even Rusty’s herbs couldn’t mask.

  I stood motionless, propped against the trunk of a wide pear tree. Already the leaves above me were beginning to change colour, from a lush green to a jaundiced yellow, the dead fruit at my feet now only fit for the wasps that bobbed drunkenly around my ankles. Although it was still light, I was debating calling it a day, the combination of hunger and heat sapping my energy and leaving me craving my tent – though I knew the airless fug of the canvas would provide little relief.

  Just then a sharp cry rang out around the trees. I turned quickly, peering through the splayed fingers of branches for the source of the sound. It was likely a bird, I told myself. Either that, or one of the domestic tabby cats that occasionally strayed into our territory. Even still, I found myself gripping my spear more tightly, a vision of Sneed throttling a swan swimming before my eyes.

  A few minutes passed in silence, and I was ready to dismiss the sound as a figment of my sun-addled imagination, when it came again, far louder and closer than before. There was no mistaking it this time. It was a scream. It was a person.

  Instinctively I dropped to my knees, the hours I’d spent training with Marshall kicking in as I found myself crawling commando-style towards the cries, which grew louder by the second. Picking my way through the dense undergrowth, I at last came to the edge of the trees, affording me a wide vantage over the old playground. Being careful to remain concealed, I scanned the landscape for signs of life. My head was hurting, my temples thrumming with adrenaline, making it difficult to concentrate. Any second I expected Sneed to descend on me, his mad eyes rolling in his head as he thrust a blade under my chin.

  Suddenly I spotted something. A flicker of movement in my peripheral vision. Turning slightly, I spotted not Sneed, but two small figures, ambling away from me in the distance. It had been so long since I’d seen anyone other than a member of the tribe that it took me a moment to recognise the figures as a pair of schoolgirls. I watched as they crossed towards the park entrance, shoving each other tipping back their young heads as they shared some unknowable joke.

  I let out a deep breath. It was just a couple of school kids messing about. Nothing more dangerous than that.

  Then the cry came again.

  I whipped my head back towards the play park. It was a girl’s voice, that much I could tell. She seemed to be screaming.

  ‘Help!’

  I followed the sound, and this time I saw her, a shrunken figure slumped against the rusting frame of the swing. Being careful to remain within the cover of the trees, I crept closer, trying to get a better look at her. Like the other girls, she was wearing a school uniform, though it was stained and dusty, as if she’d recently been rolling in the dirt. Though her long hair was loose and covered most of her face, there was something oddly
familiar about her. I could see now she was struggling with something. Moving closer still, I spotted the loop around her wrists. The other girls must have tied her up.

  ‘Help!’ she cried again, the words little more than a mangled sob now. It was a sound I knew well – the sound of someone out of hope.

  I froze, uncertain of what to do next, when the girl abruptly flopped forward, as if fainting. I made up my mind. Abandoning stealth, I charged from the trees towards her. At the sound of my footsteps the girl looked up, the hair falling from her face. And at that moment the world seemed to wobble and then topple completely from its axis.

  For tied to the swings, not fifteen feet in front of me, was my little girl, my only daughter.

  It was Olivia.

  AUTUMN

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Get off me, get off me!’

  Olivia was hysterical, her tiny body writhing in panic, her bound hands straining uselessly behind her back as she lashed out with her legs, aiming spindly kicks at my shins. ‘Get the hell away from me, or I swear… I swear…’

  As appalled as I was to see her in this state, part of me was proud to see how much fight she still had left in her. She might have been tied to a rusting swing while being assailed by a spear-carrying stranger, but my daughter was nobody’s victim. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

  ‘Shush, Ollie! If you just calm down for a second then I’ll… Ow!’

  I’d pressed my palm to her mouth in an attempt to pacify her, receiving a painful bite in response.

  ‘OLLIE, IF YOU DON’T STOP THIS INSTANT, YOU’LL BE IN A WHOLE WORLD OF TROUBLE, YOUNG LADY!’

  Olivia’s head jerked up in sudden recognition, the damp storm of her fringe parting to reveal not a wild animal, but a confused and frightened little girl.

  ‘Dad?’

  I nodded slowly as she searched my face for something familiar, for something to hold onto as the world crumbled beneath her. Her gaze darted from the gnarled tangle of my beard to the grey knot of my hair, before settling on my eyes. Something passed between us then – telepathy, electricity – and I watched as the understanding finally dawned behind those bottomless green eyes. We each stayed perfectly still for a second, an eternity; a father and daughter trapped in amber, permafrozen in time.

  And then she exploded.

  ‘You fucking, fucking, FUCKING… bastard!’

  This time I took her kicks, absorbing each blow until finally she was spent. She slumped forward, sobbing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all I could say. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

  *

  She didn’t immediately run when I untied her. I took this to be a good sign. The girls had used a school tie to bind her hands, and when I eventually got it loose she stood there, rubbing at her raw wrists and staring at her feet, no longer able to meet my eyes.

  ‘Listen, Ollie—’ I began, before she cut me off.

  ‘Flynn stopped talking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After you left. He wouldn’t speak to anyone. Not a word. Mum took him to the doctor, a psychologist. He was like it for months.’

  ‘Ollie. It’s complicated.’

  ‘He thought you were dead,’ she said as she finally looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘We all did.’

  It was my turn to fall silent then. I shrugged helplessly. Olivia kept staring, examining me in the way a detective might study a particularly brutal murder scene, her expression a mixture of revulsion and professional fascination. Gradually, something began to soften in her, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.

  ‘You smell like you’re dead, anyway,’ she said at last, scrunching up her nose. ‘When’s the last time you had a bath? Seriously, you’re rank.’

  Instinctively I turned my head to sniff myself, and was greeted by a vaguely musty aroma. ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’

  ‘Ugh! Have you lost your sense of smell as well as your mind? You’re making my eyes sting. And what’s with the beard? You look like a serial killer or something.’

  She was teasing me now. This was good. This was progress.

  ‘Shut it,’ I said.

  ‘You shut it.’

  ‘No, you shut it. Don’t think you’re too old for a smacked bottom, missy. I’m still your father.’

  A misstep. She recoiled at the word, the thin slither of her smile shrinking away, replaced by a quivering bottom lip.

  ‘Oh, Dad…’

  I stepped forward to embrace her, but she swatted me away, trying to mask the smear of snot and tears.

  ‘Honestly, honey, I’m fine. Really. I’m doing okay.’

  ‘Jesus! I know you’re okay. What about us? How could you just leave like that? Weren’t we enough for you?’

  ‘Olivia, please. Of course you were enough. I told you. Things were complicated. Adult things…’

  ‘What, so I’m old enough for you to abandon but too young to get an explanation? Jesus, Mum was right about you.’

  My stomach shrivelled at the mention of Lydia. ‘Why? What did she say?’

  ‘What do you think she said? You disappeared in the middle of the night. She tried calling your work and spoke to that guy. The creepy one you brought over a couple of Christmases ago…’

  ‘Dan?’ I breathed, my mouth almost too dry to speak.

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. Dan. He told Mum you hadn’t worked there for months. And then those men from the bank turned up at the house and everything just went crazy.’

  I felt the blood drain from my face, my legs threatening to buckle. ‘The house? Jesus. And now? Where are you living now?’

  Olivia shrugged. ‘At home. After you left, Mum called a solicitor and they worked something out. They took your car but the rest was fine. She’s started selling her art online now. Do you remember the big red one? With the fabric attached?’

  I shook my head feebly.

  ‘Seriously? It took up like half her study. Anyway, some American guy bought it for a butt-load and then ended up commissioning three more. She’s got her own website and everything. She’s doing really well.’ Olivia paused to dig around in her blazer pocket to produce a mobile phone. ‘Or at least she was. I swear, she’s going to flip out when she finds out you’re back.’

  I was instantly back in control, my hand swooping through the air to grab her wrist before she could dial.

  ‘Ow, get off! You’re hurting me.’

  I loosened my grip but didn’t release her. ‘Put the phone down, Ollie.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Just put it down and I’ll explain.’

  ‘God, you’re such a… Anyway, how am I supposed to put it down if you won’t let go of me?’

  I sighed. With my free hand I removed her mobile phone, before letting her wrist drop.

  ‘Hey!’ she yelled, trying to snatch the phone back ‘Give it to me!’

  ‘I will in a second,’ I said, holding her phone out of reach. ‘First, I need you to promise me something. You can’t tell Mum you saw me here, okay? You can’t tell anyone.’

  Olivia stopped jumping and stared at me. ‘What do you mean? Aren’t you coming home?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘You can’t just… I mean, what are you even doing here?’ She waved a hand towards my spear, which lay abandoned a few feet away. ‘You’re running around playing cavemen now? Is that it? That isn’t normal, Dad. That’s messed up. Look at you. You stink. You’re dressed like a tramp. What do you even eat? You look like you’ve lost about six stone. Please don’t tell me you’re eating out of bins or I swear to God, I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘I’m doing fine. I promise,’ I said, ignoring the swish and grumble of my hollow belly. ‘Anyway, from the looks of those wrists it should be me who’s worried about you. Who were those girls, Ollie?’

  Her scowl deepened. ‘You always do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Change the subject. Well, guess what – you don’t get to ask me question
s now. Not while you’re running around a park pretending to be Bear Grylls.’

  ‘Ollie…’

  ‘Don’t “Ollie” me. I mean it. Don’t say my name. It’s not yours to say anymore. If you’re not coming home, then just forget the whole thing.’

  She reached down for her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  ‘Wait…’ I held out her phone for her to take. ‘Here.’

  She took it from me, slipping it into her pocket without glancing at the screen.

  ‘You aren’t going to call Mum?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I will come home,’ I said as she turned her back. ‘I’ve just got a few things to sort out here. But I will be back. Soon. I promise.’

  Her little shoulders twitched dismissively. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Oh hey, Ollie,’ I called as she skulked towards the gate. ‘I meant to say. If those girls start giving you grief again. Just… Just…’ I stumbled, searching for the right words, the perfect piece of parental advice.

  This time Olivia did stop, looking back and fixing me with an expression that was so like her mother’s it was frightening. ‘What?’ she said, her eyebrow arching cruelly. ‘Run away?’

  And with that she was gone.

  *

  It was dark when I made it back to camp. Butcher, Fingers and Al Pacino sat muttering around the faint glow of a campfire, the feeble flames kicking out little in the way of light or heat. Like most other jobs, gathering firewood had been neglected in the wake of our beefed-up security patrols, meaning there was little to burn besides the dry leaves and twigs that lay around the edge of the camp. Still, the evenings were mild. These days we lit the fire more out of a sense of ritual than of any need to keep warm, the reassuring smell of smoke an attempt to convince us that everything would go back to normal soon enough.

  Though I wasn’t hungry, I made my way to the deserted dining table. I’d felt dazed ever since my encounter with Olivia, my head heavy with the weight of a million stunted possibilities. Should I have followed her home? Or sent her back to Lydia with a message? Hi. It’s me. I’m alive. Instead I’d simply reverted to type. Hid. Lied. Ran. I guess no matter how much Marshall liked to speak in terms of our ‘salvation’ or ‘personal betterment’, the project was a failure. I was still at heart the same chickenshit con-artist I’d been when I’d sat down at the park bench to cut my wrists all those months ago. I didn’t deserve Olivia. Perhaps I never would.