Steve & FranDan Take on the World E-Book

Ron Butlin

• Herausgeber: BC Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 195

Beschreibung

Steve has had enough - enough of cyber-bullies, enough of adults messing up the world. Sharp-witted Fran and her brother worry-wart Dan feel exactly the same. And so, along with his dog Nessie, Steve and the FranDan twins leave town in the dead of night to start on the biggest adventure of their lives ...But if things were bad before, they soon get worse. Much, much worse. Some seriously bad men show up. Why have Steve and Dan been overpowered and led away as prisoners? Why are they kept tied up in the barn of a disused farm?Having managed to escape, and with no way to call for help, Fran knows it's up to her to mount a one-woman rescue.

Leseprobe

With a reputation as an international prize-winning novelist, Ron Butlin is also a former Edinburgh Poet-Laureate. He has published nearly twenty books. Before becoming a writer he was a pop-song lyricist, a footman, barnacle-scraper on the River Thames and a male model. Widely translated, his work has twice been awarded a Best Foreign Novel prize. He lives in Edinburgh with his wife, the writer Regi Claire, and their dog.

First published in 2017 byBC Books, an imprint ofBirlinn LimitedWest Newington House10 Newington RoadEdinburghEH9 1QS

www.bcbooksforkids.co.uk

Copyright © Ron Butlin 2017

The moral right of Ron Butlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978 1 78027 439 3eISBN 978 0 85790 929 9British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataA catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Designed by James HutchesonTypeset by Initial Typesetting Services, EdinburghPrinted and bound by Grafica Veneta

Contents

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45

Acknowledgements

1

Steve’s in a hurry – a real hurry. But halfway down the street he is stopped by his next-door neighbour. Mr Connor is sounding off as usual. Talk-talk-talk – same old, same old, and spit-spraying like a monsoon. If Steve was in charge there’d be no Connors allowed on his street, on the planet even.

He stares up at the spittle-wet lips, the mile-long nose hairs waving in the breeze, the stuck-on eyes. What kind of a kid grows up into a Connor?

Steve tunes in for a moment –

‘. . . can’t fool me, nobody in this town can, so let me tell you . . .’

– and tunes out again.

How long’s this going to go on for? He needs to move-move-move. Fran’s been texting him every five minutes to get his ass in gear.

But wait up – the monsoon has eased, and Connor’s wandering off to find someone else to hassle.

Steve texts back to Fran – See u in 5 – then blasts off down the street.

Taking every backstreet and shortcut in town, clambering over walls, dodging between parked cars behind the supermarket and sprinting through the graveyard at full speed, Steve keeps his head down. For the last fortnight he and Dan have had to stay off the main streets. School’s been a nightmare, and out of school even worse. The sooner they get away from here the better.

The river looks calm, not a ripple in sight. No one about, thank goodness. Here’s hoping it stays that way. A few ducks are paddling around in circles and someone’s walking their dog on the opposite bank, and that’s it. Couldn’t be better.

He pulls off his trainers and Simpsons socks and stacks them under the bush next to where they’ve hidden their stores. For the last week they’ve been sneaking tins of meat, baked beans and spaghetti hoops from their homes, as well as biscuits, chocolate and large bottles of cola. A little at a time so no one will notice, said Fran. They’ll need all they can get because there’ll be no McDonald’s where they’re going, no Burger Kings – with any luck, no civilisation at all.

The reeds have grown so tall at this bend that a kind of secret harbour’s been formed. It’s completely hidden, which is exactly what they needed.

Steve shouts across, ‘How’s it going?’

‘Be a lot faster now you’re here,’ Fran’s voice comes back to him from behind the reeds.

‘Too right,’ adds Dan.

Steve steps down into the river, sinking into the muddy ooze at the bottom. It’s like brown smoke curling up between his toes and clouding over his feet. Splash! Splash! Splash! He pushes through the screen of reeds to where the FranDan twins are securing an oil drum into position. The two of them are standing knee-deep in the water; Fran’s rolled up her jeans, Dan hasn’t bothered or else forgot. The drum’s bright red, but it can’t be helped.

The raft’s looking good. It’ll get them out of here, which it has to ASAP – another week like the last two and they’re likely to crack up. Dan will for sure. Helping build the raft and stealing food for their hoard is all that’s kept him going. That, and knowing that they’ll soon be far away from Thor and his Vikings.

It’s taken them a week to construct the raft. Floor-boards from their soon-to-be-demolished old primary school, empty oil drums from the forecourt of the FranDan garage (for a school project, they told their dad), and a clothes line somebody donated without even needing asked. Mrs Connor, in fact. Mr Connor might be a seriously weird piece of broken-down clockwork, but his wife’s cool – she lives on Planet Happy and you can often hear her rhyming and singsong-ing herself up and down the street.

Steve clambers on board in time to help with securing the oil drum. Fran gives her twin brother, Dan, one end of a length of rope to loop round and round the nail he’s hammered into the end of a plank. Dan then passes the rope back to Steve. Even though the deck still dips into the water now and again, depending on how they shift about on it, the three of them are agreed that every oil drum lashed into position makes the raft feel that bit more stable. It’s going to be top of the range. A real eco-craft – no engine, powered by paddles and river current only. Totally silent, like they’ll be. Invisible, a stealth raft travelling by night, under everyone’s radar. When all the drums are fixed in place, the wooden planks won’t be getting wet any more, but riding high above the waterline – and with the three of them on top!

‘Almost done,’ says Fran. She’s the leader of the twins – popped out first and never lets Dan forget it. She takes the rope end from Steve and pulls it tight before hitching it firmly to the underside of the plank. There’s enough room for their stores and to let them all lie down at the same time, though they’ll be taking turns to keep watch as they drift through the darkness. As well as a clothes pole (thanks again to Mrs Connor) for shoving themselves away from the bank, they’re bringing a tent for when it rains. This time tomorrow they’ll be sailing downstream on their very own state-of-the-art, all-weather raft.

Then Fran says the magic words. ‘We managed to get another couple of drums this afternoon. And so . . . we can leave tonight!’

Big grins, whoops all round, cries of ‘YES!’ and high fives.

Work on the extra drums takes them another hour. The raft’s looking awesome! The deck’s now a good three inches above the waterline and they’d have to be really stupid to capsize it. Which they’re not, so they won’t. They’ll cast off at midnight, and Steve’s to bring his dad’s wind-up torch. More grins and more high fives. YES! YES! YES!

Once Steve gets home, he’ll have his dinner – Tuesday means pizza – and hang around to watch some crap on TV with his mum and dad so everything looks normal. At the usual time he’ll say goodnight and go up to his room. Making no noise, he’ll get himself packed. Then, just before midnight, he’ll tiptoe down the stairs and slip out the back door. He can hardly wait.

‘See you soon!’ he calls back to FranDan and shoots off up the road. A few minutes later he’s about to take the shortcut through the cemetery when he hears someone shouting behind him.

‘There’s one of them!’

He starts to run. If he goes fast enough he’ll reach home in ten. Just as well Nessie’s not with him or she’d be hanging back hoping for biscuits or chocolate. They’re bullies, but if they ever try to touch Nessie he’ll stomp them.

‘Picking out your gravestone, are you?’ shouts one of them.

‘Maybe you and Dan can share a grave?’ yells another.

‘Cheaper all round!’ a third joins in.

He recognises their voices. Half-Pint, a squashed elf who stopped growing before ever getting started, with Big Robo and Pizza McBride.

Maybe he should let them catch up, then thump the three of them? Half-Pint’ll be the same as swatting a fly and Big Robo’s got so few brain cells he’ll be on the ground before he notices he’s been knocked down. And as for Pizza McBride, he’s all dough with nothing on top.

Steve’s about to turn round and deal with them when he hears more voices. A lot more. Half a dozen at least.

So no turning back to thump anyone. He picks up speed and races for home.

Steve is Mr Perfect all evening. They eat pizza and salad, plates on their laps, his mum and dad on the couch and him on the floor with his back against the armchair and his legs stretched full out. Nessie keeps herself beside him – with a dog like her you never eat alone. It’s a double-cheese meat feast, two for one because today’s Tuesday. On his planet every day would be a Tuesday. Tomorrow night they might be eating fish out the river, or maybe rabbits – and no salad. Definitely no salad.

He’s put his phone on silent, so if FranDan call his parents won’t start asking questions – parents need to be protected.

‘Don’t bolt your food, Steve, there’s plenty more,’ says his mother, not taking her eyes from the television. A dozen muscled policemen, the writing on their jerseys and helmets in a foreign language Steve doesn’t recognise, are shouting at hundreds and hundreds of people, some of them carrying kids and rucksacks, some of them plastic supermarket bags, and some carrying nothing at all, like they’re out for a walk. The people are shouting back. A woman lifts up her wee toddler into a cop’s face. They’re dressed the same as anyone from round here; and they look the same as anyone from round here. The cop’s eyes go like Connor’s and you can see he’d like to stomp her with all he’s got, but knows he’s on camera. The world’s looking at him; Steve and his parents are looking at him. The boy’s started to cry, he’s so far from his home and so lost that he—

Steve’s mobile vibrates. A text. He sneaks a quick peek. Fran: More food. Tin opener?

‘That’s just along from where we were on holiday a couple of years back – had a great beach and everything,’ says his dad before upending his can for a couple of last chugs. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

‘It’s your world,’ Steve says, before he can stop himself. His mobile vibrates again.

‘Don’t start all that again.’ There’s the hiss of another can being opened. His dad does it one-handed, which is cool if you like that kind of thing. Dan and Steve tried some beer once – tasted like battery fluid, fizzed up. Steve takes a sip of coke and reaches for another slice. Still three left. He’s going to miss Tuesdays. Soon his dad’ll be snoring through Celebrity Big Brother like a whale on steroids. But by then he’ll be upstairs packing the last of his things.

One slice left now – his. Well, his and Nessie’s. Then he’s out of here.

Standing in the hall, Steve checks his texts to make sure no one’s bottled out at the last minute. ‘No one’ meaning Dan.

No Thor sounds good. A cold sweat runs down Steve’s back. Ice-sweat, but the rest of him’s burning. Burning angry.

Not so sure about leaving his mobile at home though. He can see why, of course, but . . .

He texts back: OK. See u at 00.00.

Nearly quarter to midnight. Spare socks and underwear, sweater and jeans, sleeping bag in his backpack and Steve’s good to go. He reads through the letter he’s leaving his parents. It’s taken him ages, like writing something for school but much harder. Having written it again and again to get it right means it’s really late now and he has to leave. Lucky there’s plenty of phrases he hears them say all the time, and he’s used them. It sounds good – the best he can do, anyway. He’s not said how bad everything is. Just couldn’t.

Dear Mum and Dad,

Everything’s fine. I am fine. Really. Me and FranDan are taking time out for a few days. We need to. Some R&R. Feeling stressed and need some space. Too much pressure. I will be back. I promise. DON’T WORRY. Everything’s fine. Really.

Love, Steve

Then he texts FranDan: On my way.

One part of him’s already out of the front door, through the town and down the river, paddling the raft at full speed and making it skim over the water like a hoverboard. The other part’s still standing there, like he’s taking in his room for the very first time, the outline of his bed that he’s slept in every night of his life, apart from holidays.

His room equals his life equals him.

Is that what he’ll be closing the door on? Himself? And for good? He wants to go, and he doesn’t want to go. Thor – that cyber-slimebag!

Phone’s vibrating: Fran texting Move it! But she’s added a .

OK.

How could he leave his mobile? Easy said, not so easy done. His mobile’s like his room, it’s him.

Next moment, it’s like he’s watching his hand all by itself, sliding his mobile into his pocket.

He pulls on his backpack, eases his bedroom door slowly-slowly shut and tiptoes past his mum and dad’s room. Their snoring’s started. His like a backwards fart and hers like a bird that’s not quite making it into song.

He creeps downstairs, keeping clear of every step that’s got even the slightest creak-squeak. Waiting at the bottom is Nessie. She raises her head and looks him right in the eye. Where are you going? Because I’m coming too.

No way, he shakes his head, then lifts up the flap of her ear and whispers the magic word – biscuits! She follows him into the kitchen. When she’s giving her full attention to a handful of crackers, he places his letter on the table for them to find in the morning then grabs some more tins out the cupboard. Tin opener? In the big drawer maybe? A rattle of ladles, big spoons, carving knife, bread knife, cheese grater, things and more things – everything but a tin opener and it’s getting later and later. The other drawer? No tin opener there either. Tins and no opener? Fran’ll have found one, bound to. She’s Fran, isn’t she? He slips out the back door.

Except that once he reaches the street, he sees Nessie has slipped out with him. She’s looking up at him, eyes bright and tail wagging: Now what?

If he goes back and tries shoving her indoors again, she’ll start barking. Nessie doesn’t argue – she barks. Which means she always wins. And if he runs fast, trying to leave her behind, she’ll run faster. So that’s that. Nessie’s coming along too.

2

After switching off her mobile and sticking it at the back of her T-shirt and jersey drawer, Fran leaves her room. She closes the door quietly then goes along to the kitchen where Dan’s waiting for her, backpack on.

‘We won’t be able to lock up properly after we—’

She puts her fingers to her lips. ‘Shh! Got to be quiet.’

Dan nods. ‘Sorry.’

‘Shh, I said!’

They pass through the small shop at the side of the house, feeling their way as best they can by the hazy light from a faraway streetlamp and making sure not to bump into the counter and the revolving magazine stand immediately inside the shop entrance. Finally they step outside. As they pull the door behind them they hear the Yale lock click shut. The after-hours garage is in darkness: the line of petrol pumps unlit, the street silent and deserted.

That’s it. They’ve left home now. No going back.

The forecourt’s suddenly a dazzle of harsh brightness – Dan’s set off the security light. ‘Keep going,’ hisses Fran. ‘Cats are always tripping the beam at night.’

After a few minutes’ walking, the two of them have turned off the empty main road and are heading down towards the river. They meet no one. To their left they can hear the faint rumble of heavy lorries on the bypass and the dual carriageway beyond. After two streets of parked cars and curtained windows, they come to their old primary school – now scheduled for demolition. Seen so near midnight, its broken windows, padlocked main door and wrought iron gate give it a haunted-house look.

Fran’s already easing herself through a gap in the hoarding. ‘We can cut across the playground. Much quicker.’

‘Might be guard dogs.’

‘Guarding what?’ she calls back to him out of the darkness. ‘Come on.’

Dan hurries after her. The river’s at the back of the building, less than a minute away. As he crosses the deserted tarmac he speeds up, making it in record time.

Then they’re over the wall, down the grass slope and through the trees.

And there it is.

Fran’s proud of the raft – her raft. After all, she had the idea, she googled the instructions, she directed its construction – so it’s hers really. Not that she calls it that when she’s speaking to the boys, of course. Just before she steps onto it she glances round once more – by the faint light coming from the streetlamps on the riverbank she can see the outline of its six empty oil drums, one set in each corner plus one extra on each side, lashed to the wooden planks that form the deck. Underneath, the wood’s lined with a sheet of tarpaulin from an old lorry so that no water comes up between the boards. Well, almost none anyway.

‘Let’s get loaded up,’ she says. ‘The moment Steve shows up, we’re off!’

3

Steve and Nessie hurry through the deserted streets. Ever since the new bypass was opened a year ago the town’s been shutting down, shops closing then standing empty, ‘FOR SALE’ signs up and down the high street. No through-traffic any more, no new people, only folk they’ve seen a million times before: there’s the fat woman from the baker’s; the shouting man from the supermarket; the single traffic warden who has to wander round and round the same streets; local life forms like Connor; and the ancient hippie leftover from long before Steve and FranDan were born. You name them, they know them – and see them every single day. Tesco’s finished off the small shops, and the only nightlife is two grim and windowless pubs. There’s the one Steve’s dad goes to and the other that everyone calls the Wild West because of the fights. As Steve goes past the Wild West he’s watching out for drunks, especially aggro drunks – his dad gets sleepy-drunk, which is him at his best, totally out of it and no problem to anyone. After a few cans FranDan’s dad morphs into an aggro drunk. Aggro with FranDan, aggro with their mum, with their cats even – Suki and Fudge often get themselves drop-kicked across the room just for sitting in his chair. He’s got much worse recently, thanks to the bypass flushing his garage down the pan: hardly any breakdown work now and no passing trade for his pumps.

And that’s how Thor, his Vikings and the rest of it all started.

It was when Dan turned up at school a month ago wearing new trainers. Nike? Reebok? Adidas? They were checked out. Blue Flash.

Blue Flash?

Then word got round. Blue Flash were Lidl’s. One of that week’s special offers. Less than a tenner. Dan was walking around in Blue Flash. The next week it was a Lidl T-shirt.

Then Thor posted on Facebook that anyone wearing Blue Flash dissed everyone who had to look at him.

A Viking posted a comment: Anyone wearing Lidl has no life.

Another Viking: Anyone wearing Lidl is better off dead.

Thor: They should do everyone a favour and kill themselves.

But Dan only had one pair of trainers. Blue Flash.

There were new postings every few minutes. Dozens of them. Dan was dissing everyone. Dan had no life, Dan was better off dead. Why didn’t Dan go and kill himself?

Steve started posting dislikes. Sticking up for Dan. Sticking up for Blue Flash, sticking up for Lidl’s. Saying that brands were just one big con trick, saying that Nike made labels, not trainers. It only made things worse.

More Thor posts, more Viking posts. Steve was palsy-walsy with Dan? Steve and Dan must be gay. Then their selfies were Photoshopped to look naked and gross and posted online. Steve and Dan should kill each other. Steve and Dan should double suicide. Time it for when Lidl has a special offer on coffins.

But what could they do? Thor and his Vikings were using fake accounts – no idea who they were but they had to be people in their school, in their class most likely. Fran told them to ignore it, they were just creeps. ‘Forget about them, they’re not worth thinking about,’ she said. Not so easy when it’s all about you, though.

As Steve runs through the dark empty streets with Nessie bounding along beside him, excited to share in this late-night treat, he’s picturing the raft and the three of them sailing off into the darkness, leaving Thor and his Vikings and the whole town itself far behind. He’s also thinking about Fran. He likes Fran, likes her a lot.

But . . .

With her blonde hair and a smile he always thinks is just for him, he can’t believe that Fran is in charge, but she is. She’s an organiser, she organises everything, including him and Dan. He doesn’t know how it happened or when it happened, but it just did. Leaving town was her idea, building the raft was her idea, leaving their mobiles behind was her idea. And so—

‘Hey – Steve!’

He keeps going. It’s Mr Norbett, aka No-brain, the handyman-joiner who helped his dad put in some kitchen stuff at home. Mr Norbett always talked with him