That Time I Got Kidnapped

Proactive Man

Two hours later, I was freezing my everything off standing in a queue outside a bus station in downtown Chicago. The cold wasn’t the worst thing: I had this acidic feeling that I’d made a galactic mistake in leaving the airport. The kind of mistake that couldn’t be measured in being grounded.

There’d been a queue at BA customer services, the departure screens overflowing with red warnings of cancelled journeys. A voice said there would be no flights for twenty-four hours and all affected BA passengers would be put up in a hotel. The queue grumbled.

‘Are you kidding me?’ said a man with a massive beard.

I’d grab a burger. That’s what I’d do. As soon as my accommodation was sorted. America. They do things differently here. I mean that was already obvious. The toilet stall doors didn’t reach the floor for one thing.

It’ll be fiiine. Dad doesn’t even have to know, I told myself.

Eventually I got to the front of the airport queue and arrangements were arranged.

Maybe if, walking away from the desk, I hadn’t looked up, I wouldn’t have seen the huge sign saying TRANSPORTATION SOLUTIONS. But I did. I couldn’t check into my hotel for ages, so I joined another queue of moaning people, those waiting for solutions to their transportation problems, and I wondered whether I should call home.

Thoughts:

If I go to the Holiday Inn, I’ll sit in a tiny room until Snowmageddon ends. When I finally get to Hollywood I’ll have missed my scene and all I’ll have left to do is to jump back on a return flight home.

Or …

I could be PROACTIVE like …

PROACTIVE MAN. CAPTAIN PROACTIVE. THE PROACTIVATOR.

‘How much is a train to LA?’ I asked in my most self-assured voice, which didn’t sound too self-assured if I’m honest.

The transportation solutions woman wore a smile as fake as her fingernails.

‘Two hundred and eighty-five dollars.’

Right. I had a hundred.

‘Is there a bus?’

I heard a long sigh from the American woman queuing behind me.

‘There’s the Greyhound. That’d get you there. Express route. You wouldn’t even have to change. The roads are fine. It’s eighty-five dollars. And you’ll need another five to take the CTA to the bus station. Greyhound don’t leave from here.’

I handed over the hundred-dollar bill. It didn’t feel great. Especially as Mum was likely at some point to ask what I’d spent her money on.

‘How old are you, honey? You’ve got to be fifteen to travel unaccompanied.’

I cleared my throat. I’d never lied to a proper official before. Only once when I told a gardener that it wasn’t me who’d run across his lawn. And this official was American. What if she asked to see my passport? What if I got thrown in jail? American jail. With gangs and tattoos and orange jumpsuits.

‘Sixteen,’ I said. ‘And British.’

(Only half was untrue. A 50 per cent lie. Not even a full fib.)

And that was that. She didn’t even look up. She took my money. As I watched her quick fingernails I tried not to chunder. Because, as I told my stomach, I was sixteen in lots of ways. I mean, there were so going to be sixteen-year-olds less grown-up than me. For example, my legs were decently hairy.

‘How long does it take to get to California?’ I asked all innocently, which maybe I should have done before handing over the cash.

‘Two days,’ she said, slipping my money into an out-of-sight till and passing me ten dollars back. ‘You arrive at nine ten in the morning on Thursday. Sometimes they even arrive ahead of schedule. You’ll need to show photo ID and proof of age to your driver. Have a great journey.’

Two days! A double tap of bad news to the head. And on a bus too! There’d better be a socket for my phone.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

Think: the schedule said that the scene was being shot midday on Thursday. Today was meant to be arrival and ‘settling in’. For tomorrow, Wednesday, the plan was shopping in Beverly Hills. And, I mean, I didn’t even like shopping. Or hills.

Thursday: they’d be able to pick me up from the Greyhound station in LA in the morning and get me to the studio in time. Easily. And I’d still have the studio tour to look forward to later on in the afternoon. It was fine. Really.

To try to ignore the weird turning of my insides, I remembered that time in Year Nine when Sean Williams was on TV. Bristol City were playing in the FA Cup and the camera showed the crowd. There he was. Looking moist in a bobble hat. But then the head teacher mentioned it in assembly. Sean’s picture was in the newsletter. Sixth-form girls spoke to him. For real. Imagine that. The dream.

What would happen when they saw me in a movie? It’d be on the school website and everything. Forget top grades or goals scored – I’d be a hero. I’d have an entourage, and I could pick out my table in the school canteen and they’d let me skip the queue and never again would I worry about detentions because of late homework. Even Amy would be obliged to acknowledge my awesomeness. I’d get a cool nickname like ‘Famous Jacob’. ‘FJ’. ‘Facob’. I mean, at the very least people would know my name.

The proof of age thing was a problem. But if the driver didn’t let me on the bus, I could just go back to the hotel, safe in the knowledge that at least I’d tried. And the weather would have to clear at some point. That’s what weather does. Unless you’re in northern England.

When I thanked the woman for the tickets her mouth said ‘you’re welcome’ and ‘have a nice day’, but her eyes said ‘not long until the end of my shift’.

Questions?

After taking a ‘Blue Line’ CTA train to a place called Clinton, I walked for ten minutes through real American streets with real American snow piled high. At some point an American must have gone crazy with a shovel around here. American cars splattered sleet on passing pedestrians, more coat than people, who swore, and nobody paid me any attention, which was great.

(That’s a lie – some dude on a bike shouted, ‘Nice suitcase.’)

I finally arrived at the bus station. A man with an afro stood behind a desk.

‘I’m John? How can I help you?’

Everything he said sounded like a question, which made our conversation really confusing.

‘Is this the right place for a bus to Los Angeles, please?’

‘Buses all over the country from here, sir?’

Was that a yes or no? Before I could work out how best to ask again, he continued. ‘You want a ticket to LA? How old are you? I can’t be selling any tickets without proof of age or an unaccompanied minors form?’

‘I’ve got the ticket already,’ I said, struggling to pull it from my coat pocket. ‘I’m sixteen and British. Thanking you.’

John stared.

‘I don’t want to see the ticket? I thought you looked young, that’s all? No problem? The LA service leaves at 11.05? That’s just over one hour’s time? Boarding begins twenty minutes before the departure? Tie this round your suitcase handle and hold on to the receipt? Hand your luggage to the driver on boarding? I’ve always wanted to see London? Is it super sweet?’

I nodded. I thought this was the safest tactic.

The waiting room was empty. A TV played in the corner, warning of ‘severe weather’ and ‘unprecedented disruption’. My phone’s battery was already down to 27 per cent because why wouldn’t it be? I messaged Mum.

Problem with plane but now on bus, so everything’s okay! LOL.

(I couldn’t contact Marvel because I didn’t have their number. The only arrangement made was a promise of someone at LAX holding a sign with my name on it.)

Three seconds later, my phone started vibrating. Mum. And she didn’t even say ‘hi’.

‘What do you mean there was a problem with the plane? Where are you?’ I could hear rumbling in the background. It wasn’t thunder; it was worse – it was Dad. ‘Your father wants to know if you missed the connection.’

‘I’m on a bus. Like when we went to Bath for that wedding but the train was cancelled. It’s fine,’ I said.

There was a rustling sound like Mum had dropped the phone in a bucket of leaves. (I don’t think she had.)

Dad’s voice barked from the other end. ‘Did you miss the connection, Jacob? Tell me the truth. Don’t lie to your father.’

‘There aren’t any planes flying,’ I replied, which was a clever response because it was true. ‘It’s very snowy here but everything’s fine. I’m on a bus and I’ll be in Hollywood soon. I’d better go because I haven’t got much battery left.’

‘Stay safe,’ commanded Dad. ‘And don’t go leaving the bus. Not even for the toilet.’

Before saying goodbye, Mum made me promise to keep hydrated, which was contradicting Dad if you think about it.

I turned the phone off. Parents: my Kryptonite. I sat and tried to think about the movie to make myself feel better. Visualisation. Maybe this (sitting in a downtown bus station) was what it was like to be an extra? I tried imagining being on set, of being introduced to genuine Hollywood actors, but my thoughts always returned to the conversation with home. My lies hung over me like a snow cloud.

The front doors snapped open and a girl, who looked old enough to drive, ran through to John’s desk. A ponytail of dark braids flashed from a blue baseball cap and across her shoulders. She moved like she was training for a marathon and couldn’t stop because it would ruin the workout. But this wasn’t the weirdest thing – she held a box wrapped in brown paper. I say ‘held’ but she was more hugging it. It was the perfect shape to contain a football, although that probably wasn’t what she had in there because Americans, like Dad, don’t ‘get’ soccer.

I pretended to scratch my neck and turned to watch. She was all energy, her muscles jerking. She asked for a single on the first bus to Los Angeles. There was something about her face that suggested you’d not want to upset her. Or, at least, that she wanted you to think that you’d not want to upset her.

‘How old are you, miss?’ asked John. ‘Minors need a letter—’

She interrupted him. ‘Seventeen. Here’s my ID.’

She paid. Her ticket cost less than mine but there was no way I was ever going to complain. She asked where the restroom was and disappeared in its direction. She was either really nervous or really confident. I stopped thinking about her (after ten minutes) to return to worrying about being sat alone in a Chicago bus station.

Soon, but not massively, a big blue coach pulled up outside, its engine shaking the ground. It was like one you might take for school trips, the type where we’d all pile on to the back seats before the teachers could stop us.

‘There’s your coach, sir?’ said John.

‘Is it?’ I asked.

‘It is?’

I saw LOS ANGELES above the driver’s window, so decided that John wasn’t asking me a question but stating a fact. I stood up. I turned the Princess on to her wheels and stepped towards the exit. I checked my pockets for my wallet and my phone. Neither was there. Both objects lay on the chair where I’d been sitting.

I stepped silently to grab them. The Princess toppled over, like she was jetlagged and had fallen asleep. There was a bang from the direction of the restroom and out came the girl, running and saying, ‘This my ride?’

And I would have warned her about the resting Princess, ankle-high and pink, but she moved too quickly. The parcel she held must have obscured her view or something. Her feet struck the bag and she tripped, flying through the air and crunching her face and arms against the front doors, which stood unopened and impassive. Her parcel, a perfect cube in brown paper, bounced away like a die.

‘Ugh,’ I said, my brain glitching. This wasn’t good.

She yelped. And the noise crackled through the space.

‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ asked John, standing and definitely asking a question.

Frozen at the chair, holding my wallet and phone, I hated the snow and especially hated Marvel, but only briefly, for not putting me on a direct flight.

‘Whose pink bag is this?’ she asked, standing up and cradling her wrist and, somehow, grabbing her box like a squirrel finding the last acorn of autumn.

At least she hadn’t died, I thought as I raised a hand.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

(The whole question thing was contagious.)

‘You’ve broken my arm. Open the door for me. I mean …’

She glared/winced as I did what I was told. Cold air rushed in like it needed the toilet. John asked if she required first aid, but she ignored him.

‘Great job, Princess,’ she said, stepping out, leaving John and me gawping from the waiting room.

‘You think she’s okay?’ he asked. ‘She really slammed into those doors?’

‘I hope so?’ I replied. ‘I don’t know?’

Because I didn’t. Not about her and not about anything.

‘Hey, I like your bag, though,’ said John. ‘Is that a Brit thing?’

Girl Trouble

There was a sudden queue: all moaning desperation to get on the coach, all stomping sneakers in the slush, all saying, ‘We’re freezing here.’ Most looked alone and in their twenties or thirties – old. There was also a dog running about, snapping at snowflakes. I watched him for a while and briefly forgot everything but, in particular, my need for photo ID … and the broken girl.

And, as my grandad used to say, it was colder than the hinges of hell.

‘If you’ve got a luggage receipt, your luggage is going in. If you don’t, you need one and not from me. Understand, yo?’ said the driver. In return came shouting and barking. ‘And somebody needs to shut that mutt up.’

The queue shrank as the bus filled, but there was a growing stack of bags piled on the sidewalk like a local luggage shop had exploded.

The driver’s mouth blew tiny clouds as he spoke, reminding me of the cold.

‘Ticket and ID, please.’ I handed over my ticket and passport. ‘Is this your bag?’ he said, nodding towards the Princess but not looking up from my documents.

‘I’ve a baggage receipt,’ I said and he nodded, focusing on the passport page with my photo, my name and my date of birth.

‘Thank you.’

Would he have noticed my age if the dog, which had spent the last fifteen minutes barking, hadn’t cocked its leg against the luggage? I don’t know.

‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Whose dog is that? John! John! Give me a hand, John! There’s a dog dirtying the baggage again, man.’

The driver shoved my ticket and passport into my chest and went for the dog.

Standing at the very front of the coach, I couldn’t see any spare seats. Everybody had their heads bowed, immersed in phones. I walked the line. The forest of heads thinned out. I could see a free window seat. And I could also see who I’d be sitting next to.

I mean … there were literally no other free seats. It didn’t matter. So I ignored the fluttering in my chest. Because it wasn’t like I was choosing to sit next to her.

Her arms rested on top of that same parcel that had gone tumbling in the waiting room. She cradled her right wrist, the fingers of her left gently kneading its skin. (Guilt klaxon.) Her neck was sharply angled and she stared out of the window. She bit into her bottom lip. This was the same girl who’d stormed into the waiting area but with all the worry turned up.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, voice as steady as jelly, like I’d never talked to a girl before, which I had. ‘Sorry, but is this seat free?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she said.

After I’d managed to cram my coat into an overhead locker, she’d swung her legs to the side, expending the minimum effort required to let me pass. I’d excused myself and sat down so very quietly.

‘I think you’ve broken my wrist, by the way,’ she said, sending waves of resentment from her eyes to my face. ‘Like for real. I’m crippled for life.’

‘Do you want me to ask the driver if there’s any wrist medicine?’

This was a fair request, even if it made me sound like a primary-school kid.

‘Do you want me to ask the driver if there’s any wrist medicine?’ she repeated, putting on the lamest British accent you could imagine. ‘What’s wrist medicine?’

She also relaxed all the muscles in her face and rolled her eyes into their sockets, making like she thought I was an idiot, which I’m not.

I turned to look at the snow. It was, like, at least five times warmer than my neighbour.

Was it snowing back in England? Was it snowing outside my bedroom window? On to next door’s black Citroën? Had Mum and Dad got back from work? Was Amy getting told off for having her earphones in? It was like knowing a film you loved was playing without you in a distant cinema. Life went on back home, in those familiar patterns, because that’s what life does. I guess, in that way, being on holiday was like being dead. Everyone makes a fuss about it but ultimately it’s boring.

‘Are you for real?’ she asked. ‘I’m not joking. Are you? For real?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not meeting her eyes but also not wanting to be hassled for the whole journey. ‘I am for real. One hundred per cent real, that’s me.’

‘That accent! I mean.’

I nodded, even though it wasn’t me with an accent – it was her.

She’d tripped over my bag – okay – but if she refused to get her wrist looked at, that wasn’t my fault. And, anyway, it wasn’t as if there was bone breaking skin or blood pumping out.

(If only she could regenerate – that’s got to be the best superpower; you’d be invincible. Any wound: instantly healed. People talk about choosing between flying and invisibility but, for me, being able to heal wounds is up there. Check out Wolverine and Deadpool.)

As soon as the bus chugged out of Chicago’s suburbs there wasn’t much to look at. There were USB ports for phones between the two seats in front of us and that was something, at least. Although … my cable was buried in the Princess and I didn’t get the feeling that the driver would be too keen to go rooting through the luggage compartment.

There was one weird moment, which made sense later, and it happened at a traffic light. The bus had pulled up to a red. Alongside us a black pick-up truck rolled to a stop. There was no snow on the vehicle at all, like its metal was sending out heatwaves that melted flakes before they could settle.

The driver’s window descended and a man with an enormous white moustache looked up – not at the bus, but at me. He locked my eyes in a stare that was only broken when the lights changed and the bus started forward. For some reason I shuddered.

Americans sure are weird, I thought.

At some point I must have dozed off. Because, later, I definitely woke up and when I did there were three massive shocks:

1 The bus wasn’t moving.

2 Two police officers stood at the front. One had a microphone and the other held an iPad, its screen facing forward.

3 The girl’s head rested against my shoulder. Still wearing that baseball cap, bright blue with an orange C above the brim.

I didn’t move. Not a muscle of a muscle. A bit because of the police but mainly: the girl. What would she say if I woke her? Had I ever had one fall asleep on me before? A girl?

I didn’t know. But what I did know were all the feelings sparked off by the experience. Mad and confusing. Like a talking horse. My mind was a muddled soup of fear and longing. It could only be straightened out through getting back to sleep. Which was kind of a problem in the current situation.

Her head was warm. I could feel it through my top. And even though she was sleeping, she still gripped that box. It must contain something pretty valuable like … silver coins, for instance, or a really expensive puppy (cryogenically frozen).

‘Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. We won’t hold you for long. We’re stopping all buses going through the Champaign region on account of reports of a dangerous runaway minor. My colleague is holding an iPad with a recent image of the suspect. We would ask that you study this as we walk the aisle. Please raise your hand if you recognise the individual or if you have any questions. Thank you for your attention.’

The microphone squawked as he handed it back to the driver. A burst of rock music shook through the coach before the driver managed to turn it off. Both officers made to walk forward at the same time. Their shoulders banged and there was a split second of awkwardness, which didn’t help create an appearance of professionalism.

To begin with I was confused by the word ‘minor’. I’d thought, you see, that he’d meant ‘miner’ and imagined some tiny guy with a hard hat and pickaxe running about. As soon as I saw the iPad’s picture, though, I understood my mistake.

Because it was so her. The girl was the girl, if you know what I mean. The girl with her head on my shoulder. Wanted by the police and everything. She probably had stolen gold in the box. Or, like, rare butterflies. I don’t know.

What should I do? There was that time in Chemistry when Al Philips held Emma Ashton’s pencil case over the Bunsen burner and even though I saw, I never told Dr Adiga. The whole class were put in a lunchtime detention and Emma’s parents came into school to see the deputy head the next day.

I’d had anxiety dreams about that situation for, like, months afterwards. And we’re talking about Dr Adiga, who everyone joked wore glasses because he couldn’t control his pupils. Not two American police officers with belts that contained all kinds of devices meant to hurt and control you, not forgetting their actual guns.

What had she done? When I’d seen her back at the station the first thing I’d thought was how tense she looked. Like the way she gritted her teeth. On edge. Focused like a criminal.

I’d definitely never had a criminal fall asleep on me before. I’d have thought it would be less comfortable.

Bad Memes

Champaign, Illinois

I could literally feel my intestines tighten as the police approached. I’d seen enough American movies and TV shows to know what happened to snitches.

Stitches.

But, really, I should put my hand up. And right now. Why cover for a stranger? The police called her ‘dangerous’. That doesn’t sound good. That sounds painful.

(But could a monster feel this warm?)

Should I wake her? Let her deal with it? I don’t even know her name. Look, what’s in the parcel? No writing. No address. No stamps. Just brown wrapping paper. Drugs? Money? Someone’s head? Oh my days, an actual head. Maybe a cat’s head? There’s someone killing cats near Bristol. Mum had said. Maybe she’s a cat killer. Maybe she has a dead cat in her box? Or a live cat? Or a stolen cat? Or loads of kittens?

No, this is getting silly. She’d not be in trouble for carrying a cat around. It’s definitely drugs. They’re mad for them in America. Maybe if I excuse myself to go to the toilet and lock the cubicle until everything’s done, that would be okay? I’d show my passport.