Ficathon 2013 snippet: Run Boy Run, Blue Cortina, Gene, by talkingtothesky
Gene went to the cupboard and picked out the oldest, most expensive scotch in there. He swung it against the edge of the dinner table, felt the bottle shatter, let it fall and the contents soak into the mucky carpet. Gene turned and grinned triumphantly at his Dad for a moment, whose fingers tightened on his armrests but he didn't speak, which meant he was too astonished even to swear.
Then Gene legged it. As he tore down the hallway he was terrified that the front door would be locked, but luckily Mum had been washing the front step earlier. There was a roar of pain as he slammed it behind himself in Dad's face. Gene reached the end of the path, turned left, crossing the road and dodging the other boys playing football, ignoring Alice who stopped skipping rope in her front garden to peer at him, worried and confused. He'd never see her again. The summer heatwave sun caused sweat to prickle on his back. But the threat of his father's rage storming up behind him burnt hotter, and so he sprinted for his life.
He turned corners as often as he could, making use of every shortcut, sidestreet, hidden passage and badly-fenced garden that he had learnt about so far in his twelve years of life. He didn't dare look over his shoulder but he could hear Dad's shouting in the distance. He'd meant to plan this better, go missing from school with a satchel full of stolen lunch money, canteen snacks and drinks, a coat or two for when it inevitably got cold. He wondered whether Stu'd keep their pact, come away after him as soon as he heard.
"Stop that little bastard!"
Gene's heart lurched. He looked round before he could stop himself. Dad had somehow caught up, blood streaming from a broken nose which he spat at the floor every so often. Mr Hupp outside the greengrocers made a grab for him; Gene dodged into the road and nearly ended up under the wheels of a car. He was hardly breathing at all anymore, there wasn't time.
"He's my son!" Dad was yelling. "An ungrateful arrogant shit of a son!"
Everyone on the high street was turning out to look, dividing their attention between the raving lunatic with the bloodied face and the scrawny kid charging through the chaos.
Please don't let him catch me, Gene started to chant in his head, pounding the pavement with his feet to the rhythm of the prayer.
At last he came to a dead end. A high wall, which he climbed, scraping his knees raw. Beyond it, an unreachable bridge and a steep drop into murky water. No sooner was he balanced on top of the bricks than his father arrived, grunting and sweating below him, hand outstretched to snatch his ankle. Leaving Gene no choice but to jump in the canal and swim for freedom.