“You ready, Art?” the second said.
“Have to be, don’t I.”
A few people had managed to break through the cordon and were running towards the house, pursued by more police officers. It was Asa and Janice Scanlan and the Roaches. And there was Uncle Het.
Lawrence’s mam fought free of the policeman. She was in the doorway with a face on her.
Go on, Mam.
She prepared to halt Arthur, even though she ought never to attempt a thing like that, because you could pluck every leaf from an oak tree, but at the end of the day they would always grow back in exactly the same demented shape. The police readied the blanket to put over Arthur’s head. Shell was blocking the path. “This is a picket!” she cried. “It’s my wages gone to the union these months, so by my count that’s me a paid-up member. This…” She indicated the limits of the doorway. “Is an official picket, Arthur, right here, and I am asking you as your wife, friend and comrade, not to cross it!”
It almost worked. Arthur found his courage and tried to turn back but the policemen threw the blanket over his head before he could utter a word. Lawrence watched the police wrestle Mam out of the way and speed Dad out of the front door.
A second later Arthur was in the back of the police car. The siren kicked into life and the car blasted him away down Water Street via a space cleared by force through the horde. If the land-speed record could have been set between fifty and sixty miles an hour down a hundred yards of terraced house, that car would have broken it. People tried to stop it. Then it was gone.
Lawrence ran upstairs and threw on some clothes. The moment he came back downstairs Uncle Het arrived, bursting through the front door. “Family,” he was saying, “This is my family.”
Shell ran to him and collapsed into his arms.
Lawrence left them to it. A couple more police officers had entered the house by then; he managed to slip past them. Water Street was a blur. Lines of police had surrounded the place. Eggs and mud bombs soared. They hit the houses and bounced off the slate roofs. Lawrence heard the smash as next door’s front window was hit by a rock.
“Scab!” went the challenge. “Newman, Scabs!”
Down the road he ran, dodging the outstretched arms of a policeman, evading everyone. Someone tried to punch him as he pushed through. He was far too quick to for that.
Lawrence was on his way through Litten.
Edge of town.
Out of town.
And there it was, the late road. The watery run-down usually made this stretch of ground a bog, but after last night it had been frozen into crunchy ripples. Lawrence’s weight didn’t alter those shapes. Foot after foot, he struggled up the black frost until it became snow, dunes of powdery white. Now he was at the bottom of the hill. He could see the abandoned Land Rover ahead, which today was as good as a box of ice. He went to it, touched it. The ice crystals on his fingertips entered his mouth.
It had been a year of moments and culminations and now Lawrence was at the infertile part. This area was of nothingness, ice. He made his way as best he could, getting away from himself, at long last, slipping away. Higher ground. Peak ground. Snow-logged. At long last Lawrence could see what continually brought his father to this place. This was not the woodland; it was something far more final than that. He hurried into the untameable space. He knew now that the small world he had been born into had disappeared. His feet shed any hindrance, so too did his legs. He was navigating a crushed and buried land, making his way towards the sheer fell, and he would not stop, he would not look back until he had reached the summit. He could feel the elemental force running through him. And he would keep going until he was fused with it, and with the light. And again and again with the light.
Acknowledgements
TOTAL THANKS TO my family and to dearest Lizzy for all their understanding and support whilst I worked on the book. Thanks to Chris and Jen Hamilton-Emery at Salt for having faith and publishing me, and thanks, too, to Linda Bennett for her thoughtful editorial suggestions. Also, a quick nod to everyone at The Manchester Writing School at MMU, where this book was written, particularly Carys Bray, who provided invaluable steerage for the book in its earliest incarnations, and Joe Stretch, who supervised me as I wrote the bulk of the draft. You really helped me pin the voice down. Finally, sincere thanks to Nick Royle, who has been readily available for advice and support over the years. It was Nick’s prose workshops that I attended way back in 2007, the feedback I received making me realise that maybe I could do this one day if I actually pulled my finger out and applied myself.
About the Author
James Clarke grew up in the Rossendale Valley, Lancashire. The Litten Path is his first novel.