Far to Go - By Alison Pick Page 0,83

materialized in front of her and she could climb onto its back and ride away into the future. “There will be two other girls there,” she continued. “Sisters. They’ll be almost the same as my real sister, Hanna,” Inga said, but Pepik thought she sounded uncertain.

“We’re in Scotland,” he said, because he needed to say something.

“No we’re not. Don’t you know anything? This is Liverpool. We’re in England!” She looked down her snub nose at Pepik. “How old are you anyway? Six?”

Pepik nodded.

Inga looked surprised. “Well, that explains things.”

The car continued past open fields, through little towns with outdoor cafés and wrought-iron tables set up in the sun. The man looked over his shoulder and spoke to them and Pepik was surprised to hear Inga reply. Just a few halting words, but her ability to speak the funny language made her immediately desirable in his eyes. “I want Nanny,” Pepik whimpered.

Inga didn’t reply.

“Where are we going?” he tried again.

“To London,” Inga snapped, but the uncertainty had returned to her face. She turned away from Pepik and looked out the car window. “My father is a specialist in internal medicine. My real father. In Prague.”

From her shaking shoulders Pepik saw she had started to cry.

They drove for what seemed like days, past factories and warehouses, and finally the man pulled over and stopped in front of a long brick building. It was divided into many smaller houses attached side by side. They stood at attention like a row of lead soldiers. Pepik put his hand into his rucksack and felt around, first touching a sausage he had forgotten to eat and then landing on his own soldier, cool in his hand, readying both of them for battle. “Pow!” he muttered under his breath. They had arrived. The fight against the bad guys could begin.

Inside, the house was dark. The entire front room was filled with a big oak desk, but it didn’t have carved lion’s feet like his Uncle Max’s in Prague. It wasn’t as neatly organized either. There were stacks of notebooks and open folders piled on top of each other; in the centre of the desk was a big sheet of cardboard covered with photos of children’s faces, each one with writing underneath. Inga moved some books aside and sat down daintily on the edge of the sofa. She pursed her lips and took out a lipstick; she made several attempts before making contact with her mouth.

Where was Arthur?

There was a door at the back of the room, open just a crack; maybe Arthur was in there, sleeping.

The man sat down behind the massive desk with the briefcase open in front of him. He began writing things down, checking off a list. Lifting stacks of paper and peering underneath them. Inga had moved on from her lips and was taking down her hair—the length of it was surprising to Pepik. She tipped her head to one side and began braiding, her fingers working swiftly.

“Where’s Artoor?” Pepik asked.

Inga looked cross. “Who’s Artoor?”

“The sick little boy.”

“The only sick boy here is you.”

She crossed her legs and started braiding the other side of her head.

“The other boy, with . . .” Pepik started, but he faltered. He needed to fight back. He clutched the little soldier in his fist.

Inga wrinkled her nose in his direction. She concentrated harder on her hair, her fingers whizzing.

Several minutes later the doorbell rang.

“Come in!” the man called, but the door was locked. He fumbled with a bundle of keys. More English adults appeared; there was more babbling. Inga stood up as though she understood the conversation, which turned out to be true: she was leaving. “ Čekat!” Pepik said. “Wait for me!”

But it was too late. Inga was gone. She didn’t turn around to say goodbye.

When Pepik woke, there was light streaming in the window. He was in a big feather bed. The man with the briefcase was moving around the main room like Tata, in a clean suit and tie. Pepik crawled out from under the covers and padded over to him. “ Činit ne dovoleno,” he said.

He grabbed onto the man’s trouser leg and clung there. The man laughed and lifted Pepik up, making a groaning noise to show what a big boy he was. He pretended he was about to throw Pepik onto the couch, and Pepik squealed. The man repeated the motion, swinging Pepik into the air again and again and then finally letting him fall into a big pile of laundry.