the maze of the estate proper: a left turn, a right, another left. One or two dog walkers were out; an old lady peered from behind a curtain; two kids snogged in a bus shelter; a man came out of the Spar with a carton of milk … If any of them paid him much attention, he didn’t notice. Just kept going, putting as much distance, as many twists and turns as he could between his father and him. He’d heard Dad hollering after him when he’d gotten halfway up Monks Road. But he’d had a head start, and Dad would’ve had to put his boots back on before he could give chase. Then came the thought that Dad might get in the car and cruise the estate, searching for him. Alex picked up the pace as far as the alley that cut through to a business park. He’d cycled up and down there often. In a moment he would be out on the wasteland beyond the industrial buildings and storage units.
All the while Alex had been running, the thrill of flight and fear of capture had coursed through him. But something else, too. Way, way stronger. A single thought—a pulse buzzing inside his head, so electrifying it was all he could do not to laugh and whoop and punch the air.
I’m alive! I’m alive! I’m alive!
It was 10:03, according to the illuminated dial on Flip’s watch. Alex had been hiding out in the scrub at the far end of the waste ground. He and David used to scavenge among the debris of whatever buildings had once stood here, or watch older boys BMX racing. In parts, it looked how Alex imagined the surface of the moon. One time, a group of skinheads had chased them off. Nigger , they’d called David. Alex was nigger-lover .
He couldn’t go to David’s. That had been his plan, such as it was: go home as Philip, see Mum and Dad, then call in at David’s. Hi, I’m the one who e-mailed you . If he could convince anyone he was Alex, it would be David. Face to face, as Alex piled up the evidence, the logic, the things he knew that no one but Alex could know.
He wasn’t going to get that chance, though.
Dad would’ve tipped David off by now about the crank who’d lied his way into Alex’s house, then done a runner. If he turned up at his friend’s place, David’s father would grab hold of him till the police came. The police . Would Dad have called them? Probably. David would connect the name Philip Garamond with those e-mails. David would tell Dad. Dad would tell the police.
That had been another mistake to add to the list: using Flip’s name instead of making one up.
He didn’t even want to think about the total mess he’d landed himself in.
But that one overwhelming thought continued to thrum in his head: he was alive . He, his body, “Alex,” or whoever he was, wasn’t dead after all. He had risen from the dead. That was how it felt just then.
Okay, so he was in hospital—in a coma, it seemed from what Dad had said—but that was a whole lot better than being dead. How did he come to be in a coma , though? What had happened to put him in hospital? But anyway, the point was you could wake up from a coma. Weeks, months, years later. People did. You saw it in the papers and on TV. He might wake up any day now. Any minute. Which meant … Well, he wasn’t sure what it meant, but it meant something . It had to.
Alex was hungry. Thirsty. Cold. He pulled the blazer from the schoolbag and put it on. The food and drink he’d bought on the train was gone; he would have to break out of hiding if he was going to get something to eat. The Spar would be closed by now; Somerfield’s, too. There was the Tesco Extra at the petrol station on Crokeham Hill Road, but that was half an hour’s walk. Too exposed. Too risky. Dad had almost certainly rung the police. Mr. and Mrs. Garamond would’ve called them as well by now, to report their son missing. No, his best bet was to stay right where he was. Which meant sleeping there, too. Another flaw in what passed for a plan: he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to where he
All the while Alex had been running, the thrill of flight and fear of capture had coursed through him. But something else, too. Way, way stronger. A single thought—a pulse buzzing inside his head, so electrifying it was all he could do not to laugh and whoop and punch the air.
I’m alive! I’m alive! I’m alive!
It was 10:03, according to the illuminated dial on Flip’s watch. Alex had been hiding out in the scrub at the far end of the waste ground. He and David used to scavenge among the debris of whatever buildings had once stood here, or watch older boys BMX racing. In parts, it looked how Alex imagined the surface of the moon. One time, a group of skinheads had chased them off. Nigger , they’d called David. Alex was nigger-lover .
He couldn’t go to David’s. That had been his plan, such as it was: go home as Philip, see Mum and Dad, then call in at David’s. Hi, I’m the one who e-mailed you . If he could convince anyone he was Alex, it would be David. Face to face, as Alex piled up the evidence, the logic, the things he knew that no one but Alex could know.
He wasn’t going to get that chance, though.
Dad would’ve tipped David off by now about the crank who’d lied his way into Alex’s house, then done a runner. If he turned up at his friend’s place, David’s father would grab hold of him till the police came. The police . Would Dad have called them? Probably. David would connect the name Philip Garamond with those e-mails. David would tell Dad. Dad would tell the police.
That had been another mistake to add to the list: using Flip’s name instead of making one up.
He didn’t even want to think about the total mess he’d landed himself in.
But that one overwhelming thought continued to thrum in his head: he was alive . He, his body, “Alex,” or whoever he was, wasn’t dead after all. He had risen from the dead. That was how it felt just then.
Okay, so he was in hospital—in a coma, it seemed from what Dad had said—but that was a whole lot better than being dead. How did he come to be in a coma , though? What had happened to put him in hospital? But anyway, the point was you could wake up from a coma. Weeks, months, years later. People did. You saw it in the papers and on TV. He might wake up any day now. Any minute. Which meant … Well, he wasn’t sure what it meant, but it meant something . It had to.
Alex was hungry. Thirsty. Cold. He pulled the blazer from the schoolbag and put it on. The food and drink he’d bought on the train was gone; he would have to break out of hiding if he was going to get something to eat. The Spar would be closed by now; Somerfield’s, too. There was the Tesco Extra at the petrol station on Crokeham Hill Road, but that was half an hour’s walk. Too exposed. Too risky. Dad had almost certainly rung the police. Mr. and Mrs. Garamond would’ve called them as well by now, to report their son missing. No, his best bet was to stay right where he was. Which meant sleeping there, too. Another flaw in what passed for a plan: he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to where he
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