No Goodbye by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page A

jeers.
    They all crack up laughing.
    I grab the tin, fling off the lid, take back my chocolate and two extra toffees and ram them into my pocket. Somehow, the crisp bags burst and I scatter the crumbs like golden confetti all over the others and make a run out the door.
    ‘Get back in here and tidy this!’ roars Alan.
    ‘Go stuff!’ I yell and take off.
    My sleeve is soggy and shiny and my eyes must be red and bulgy by the time I get to our house.
    Lucy is busy doing her homework, with that big frown that gives her train-tracks across her forehead.
    ‘Luce?’
    ‘Uh!’
    She’s chewing her pencil and trying to work out aload of ‘a+b+x+y’s written on her page.
    ‘You okay, Conor?’ she asks without looking up.
    ‘Sure!’
    ‘Hey, Dad left a note for you on the fridge.’
    A red plastic number 5 pins my father’s words to me against the white door: ‘CONOR. YOU PACKED THE DISHWASHER THE WRONG WAY THIS MORNING. PLEASE RE-DO IT. –DAD.
    Sure is interesting. I get the message loud and clear. Nobody believes that I can do anything right. Now that Mum is gone, nobody really cares about me anymore. This whole family stinks!
    Suddenly I find myself bombing up the stairs, pulling my rucksack out of the wardrobe, and starting to fill it.
    I’ve had enough of them all.
    * * *
    Walking, you go where you want, when you want … that’s my motto.
    I’m a good walker. I often see other kids whingeing on walks, having to be bribed with sweets and ice cream every step of the way. But once you get into a stride, it’s a bit like running.
    My heart is punching faster, urging me to start jogging, but I know if do I’ll get tired far faster and won’t be able to go a long distance. So it’s walk, walk, walk.
    My post-office savings book and my money are in my jacket pocket. I try and jiggle the shoulder of my bag so that it isn’t so heavy, butt he tug and pressure is making my neck and back ache already.
    At first I thought I might head for the city. Catch a bus right into the centre of town. But the streets are dark and lonely at night, and once the big shops are shut only a few restaurants and pubs and clubs are open, places kids aren’t let into. From the park near our house, I can see the sea, all the ships and boats coming in and out of Dublin Bay. I like ships and the foamy pattern of white they weave through the spread of sea-blue. I want to see them up close, maybe even go on one. I sort of know the direction I’m heading, but it’s a pity I didn’t bring that compass I got to go with the water-bottle and belt and torch set about two Christmasses ago. It might still work.
    It’s too dangerous to thumb a lift, so I keep my head down and act as if I live around here and I’m on my way home from PE or something. Don’t want tomeet anyone who would know Mum or Dad in case they stop me.
    The sprawling shopping centre is closing, a file of cars is pushing out of the car-park and joining the traffic lanes. One by one the shop lights go out, like giant eyes closing down, leaving a glassy grey shape, still and dark. The security man nods to me as he pulls over the low metal barrier when the last car leaves. From here I know the road to take, and most of it is downhill, to Blackrock, Seapoint, Monkstown, that’s the way. Just keep on walking, pass by the puppet theatre – ’night, ’night, puppets, all asleep now – and on to Dun Laoghaire harbour.
    A sudden low hum scares me for a second and then I realise it’s the DART train coming, its tickertack of light flashing by me. In the darkness the sea is lapping in, clawing the sandcastles, filling in the pawmarks, footprints and scattered bits of rubbish left on the damp, cold sand.
    Part of me is real proud. I never thought that I could walk this far. It must be miles. Bet they miss me at home. Bet they are starting to worry. Let them!

Missing
    GREG –
Monday
    ‘Conor! Get down here at once! The tea is ready!’ I shout up at him again. If that creep wants