“What do you mean ‘they’ve gone’?”
“They took one of the ATVs from the shelter.”
“I don’t even know what an ‘ATV’ is.”
“All-terrain vehicle. Four-wheeled bike.”
“For God’s sake.”
“They’re going back to school.”
“I don’t believe this.”
Kofi waited with a patient face, as though I simply needed time to believe this.
“Why?” I asked.
He hesitated: a good kid, torn between a rude truth or a downright lie.
“Don’t worry, Kofi. I know Woody hates me and doesn’t trust me for toffee, which is quite understandable in the circumstances. What I mean is, what does he hope to achieve by going back to the school? Why is he going there?”
Kofi shrugged. “I suppose—it’s home?”
First Joni, now Woody. Why this fixation with home? Making homes was my living. Or, at the very least, playing house. But now the concept had as much relevance to my life as some arcane point of algebra.
“Fine. We’ll go after them. How many went?”
“Woody and Joss Hartnell and Mo Hassan.”
I set off back toward the research station. “So how come you didn’t go, too?”
“There wasn’t room.”
I glanced down at him. He was one of the smaller ones in Woody’s gang, a late bloomer. He stared straight ahead, as though he weren’t used to anyone looking at him. The mist was retreating from the morning sun into the cool edges of the valley. Heavy dew revealed a white skein of ossified spiders’ webs on the metal fence of the wolf enclosure, their intricate bone-work ragged beyond repair. As we walked past, I slammed my hand against the chain link, and it thrashed, showering us with chilly droplets as the sound roared through the valley. Children’s voices answered, carrying across the flatland from the den. They were up and about. I hurried on, but Kofi was digging deep in his pocket for something.
“It’s not true, what I said before,” he announced to his hip. He pulled out a huge and filthy handkerchief to dry his dewy face. “I couldn’t decide whether to go with Woody or not. I cried.”
“You cried! Did the heavens open and a divine voice call you a sissy?”
“No. But Woody said I’d have to make up my mind or they’d go, and then I went and sat in the shelter and they left.”
“It sounds like you did make a decision.”
“I was too scared to go.”
“Or maybe you were brave enough to make up your own mind.” I put my hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off straight away, but carried on walking beside me back to the den.
Breakfast was meager. A catering-size tin of cheese crackers without the thrill of cheese. The meal from the previous night had stretched our bellies again, reminding us how it felt to be full. Now we echoed with hunger, and it was all too much for Billy, who screamed for food until he was puce, and then collapsed into a snotty heap. While I calmed him down, Maggie raided another boy’s rations and stuffed his crackers down her maw before he could stop her. The den felt very small all of a sudden.
We should have been packing up and moving on, but once again we were stuck, debating which way to turn. By Kofi’s estimation, the boys had left over two hours ago. We could backtrack and try to catch them, but we didn’t know which route they had taken. If they even had a map. Or petrol. Or a clue. We could let them go, hoping they would reach the safety of the school and stay there, so we could send help once we found it. Or we could split up: Jack wanted to head to the school on the other four-wheeled bike, while the rest of us found a map and worked out the location of the coordinates. Then we could rendezvous at an agreed point later that night.
“I’ll go with Jack,” said Lola.
“No.”
“I can help persuade the boys to come back.”
“Two words, Lola: your mother. It would finish her off. Besides, I need help herding these cats.” I waved my arm around to take in my three, the Lost Boy, and the rest of St. Govan’s.
“I really don’t think Jack should go alone—” Lola started protesting.
Joni emerged from beneath the tarpaulin on the bed of the pickup and let a heavy canvas rucksack drop onto the dirt floor.
“No.” Her voice landed with the same dull thud. “Not happening.”
“But if you think it’s too dangerous for me, then why are you okay with Jack going? Is he expendable?”
“He’s not my child,” Joni said. She hauled the bag to the bench and started unpacking, her side of the conversation closed.
“I’ll go with him.” Kofi stepped forward. “I was thinking perhaps we should find a map and work out the coordinates first? Then we can tell Woody where we’re headed, convince him it’s safe, and it won’t seem so bad.”
While this was a good suggestion, Kofi was ignored. Behind him Joni had reached the bottom of the canvas bag and, with no fanfare, produced a map and a compass, the ones she had been carrying since we came to the woods. The compass she laid behind her on the bench. One by one, everyone followed my stare and turned to watch her. She lifted the cardboard cover of the Ordnance Survey map and unfolded each side until it was held wide in her arms, settling herself into a more comfortable position on the floor before inspecting it. She seemed oblivious to our rapt attention. After a few seconds, she folded the map up, ensuring the creases bent in the right direction.
“Joni?”
“Wrong map.”
Jack held out his hand. “Could I see it please, Mrs. Luff?”
“It’s the wrong map.”
“I’d just like to—”
“Check if you want to.” The map ruffled through the air toward Jack like a hen in flight. “But I’m telling you it’s the wrong fricking map. It’s grid square SO, not NZ. This map is for South Shropshire. NZ is somewhere else. Up north.”
I flapped my hand at Jack to prevent him from further startling the horses.
“At least we know now that OS maps show the right grid references,” I said. “Where can we find more hiking maps?”
“The library.” “Motorway service station.” “Camping shop.” The kids were full of good ideas.
Lola went to the pickup and came back with the tourist map she’d used to get us here. She folded out our section and tapped it with a fingernail. “What about an airfield? They’d have detailed maps, right?”
Charlie was at my side in a moment with one finger in the air.
“No,” I said to him.
He let the finger slump to his side.
“No light aircraft,” I said to him. “No hang gliders. Definitely no hot air balloons.”
“Paramotor?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s like a backpack with a giant fan attached—”