Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,34
park up out of sight until it gets dark. We’re much less likely to get spotted in the dark.”
We drove on, past bleak, rolling hills, farms here and there. Every now and again, little clusters of houses and the odd shop sprang up — they had names, but you couldn’t really say they were places. There was nothing to them. Some of the houses had straw on the roofs, like it was the bloody Dark Ages or something. It reminded me of “The Three Little Pigs,” one of the stories my mum read me. Stupid little pig building its house out of straw, and the big bad wolf blowing it down. The wolf ends up boiled in a pot, doesn’t he, with the three little pigs safe in their brick house? I don’t know why they tell children all these lies. It doesn’t take long to figure out that in real life the wolf always comes out on top; little pigs like me and Spider don’t stand a chance.
“What you thinking about?”
I came to with a start. I hadn’t been asleep, just thinking sodeep I wasn’t there for a while.
“Pigs.”
“You seen some?” He craned behind quickly, throwing the car into a steep swerve.
“No. Keep your eyes on the road! You’ll kill us both. Anyway, not that sort of pig — real ones, well, storybook ones, oh, never mind….”
There was a signpost with a picnic table on it. We turned off the road and found a big rest stop, well hidden. There was a tractor trailer parked there, and we pulled up behind it and both had a swig of Coke and some chocolate biscuits. A bloke appeared from the side and walked ’round the back of the truck. He stopped to light a cigarette, then checked that the fastenings on his rig were done up. All the while, I could see he was looking at us. He was pretending he wasn’t, but you know, don’t you, when someone’s staring at one thing but looking out of the corner of their eye at something else? Instinctively, I slouched down in my seat as I watched him walk ’round to the cab door and haul himself up.
“Can you see him?”
Spider picked a bit of biscuit out of his teeth. “What, that driver?”
“Yeah, can you see him in his cab?”
“Just in his sideview mirror. Why?”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s smoking a cigarette and he’s talking into a little radio thing.”
My skin was pricking all over. “He’s spotted us, Spider. He’s calling the police.”
“Nah, don’t be daft. These truck drivers talk to each other all the time.”
“But what if he is? What do we do?”
“We need to dump this car, get another one. Let’s get out of here, anyway.” He started the engine and shifted easily through the gears as he accelerated away and back onto the main road — he was getting the hang of driving.
I looked behind. Way back, the tractor trailer was lumbering along, following us.
When you looked, there were trucks everywhere — one a couple of vehicles ahead of us, and, every minute or so, one coming the other way. If the first driver had spotted us and had told all his mates, we were completely stuffed. They’d be able to trace our every movement. A truck was heading toward us, and as I looked into the cab, the driver met my eyes — just for a moment — then looked away. He had a headset on, and was talking as he passed us.
“Spider, we’ve gotta get out. They’re on to us. That truck just now, he looked at me. Did you see?”
“Nah, man, I’m keeping my eyes on the road, like you said.”
“Watch the next one.”
Another couple of minutes and another truck approached. The driver definitely clocked us. Spider saw it, too.
He cursed and swung into the next side road, steaming along a narrow lane. I was holding on to the door with one hand and the dashboard with the other, praying we wouldn’t meet something coming the other way. He slowed down and eventually pulled up at a place where a little lane, not wide enough for a car, met our road.
There was a signpost, a green one, saying FOOTPATH. My heart sank.
“Gather up the stuff, we’re going to have to leg it.”
“No way. Where to? How…?”
“We’ll just take our stuff, go up this track, walk a few miles, find somewhere to kip down, and I’ll get some more wheels as soon as I can. Nick something from a farm.