just lit up cigarettes and sauntered out the exit with their hands in their pockets.
Callum wiped his sweaty hands on his shorts again.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
The sound of a car faded into the distance.
It would be OK. It would.
Dad would get angry about how long he was taking and come get him.
Then he’d shout at Callum, and maybe spank the back of his legs, but he’d scare the Slug away and everything would be OK again.
It would.
Callum swallowed.
Shifted from foot to foot in his gritty flip-flops.
Come on, Daddy. Come on …
It’d been ages now.
What if they’d got fed up, driven off and left him?
What if they’d forgotten he was here, in the toilets?
What if they never came back?
What if the Slug did?
Oh no …
Callum hurried outside.
Dad’s car and the caravan were still there.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
He’d never be naughty, ever again. He’d do everything Mum asked him. He’d tidy his room. He’d even be nice to Alastair the bumhead.
A rumble of thunder, off in the distance, mingled with the traffic noises from the road.
He ran fast as a rabbit to Dad’s car and grabbed the door handle. But it just clunked up and down. The door didn’t open.
Alastair must’ve locked it. Well, he was going to get a dead arm soon as Mum and Dad weren’t looking. It wasn’t funny: locking people out of the car when there was a horrible Slug slithering about trying to steal little boys like something horrid from a fairy tale.
Callum knocked on the window.
Tried the handle again.
Still locked.
Stood on his tiptoes, and peered in through the glass.
The bumhead wasn’t on the back seat. Or in the footwell.
‘Mum?’
She wasn’t in the passenger seat. And Dad wasn’t behind the wheel. The car was empty.
‘Hello?’
Another boom of thunder, loud enough to make him jump. They’d left him. They’d run away and left him.
How could they leave him?
Callum’s bottom lip trembled.
He backed against Dad’s car. ‘Dad?’
They couldn’t have left him. They couldn’t.
It wasn’t his fault he needed a wee …
‘Mum?’
And what if the Slug came back? A drop of rain burst against the lumpy tarmac.
What if the Slug was waiting for him?
‘Please …’
Another drop. Then another. And another. Thumping down on the car roof like the feet of a tiny monster. Soaking through his hair and his T-shirt.
Maybe …
Maybe they’d all gone for a wee too? But then he’d have seen Dad and Alistair, wouldn’t he? In the Gents?
Or maybe they were in the caravan?
The breath rushed out of Callum, replaced by a smile. Yeah, that was it: they were in the caravan making cups of tea.
What an idiot. Of course they were.
Boiling the kettle on the little gas cooker.
He ran to the caravan’s door. Twisted the handle and climbed inside. Clunked the door shut behind him.
Only there was no one there.
The smile died.
Callum checked under the table, checked the loo, he even checked the cupboards.
No one.
‘Mum?’
A flash of white turned the caravan’s insides black-and-white, then the thunder roared, rain clattering against the roof. Callum blinked. Rubbed a hand across his eyes. Stared out through the window at the front of the caravan – where the folding table and the benches that turned into Mum and Dad’s bed were.
Someone was out there. A figure in the rain: big and hunched, moving with slow lumbering steps.
The Slug.
Callum ran for the caravan door and hauled the handle up, locking it. Backed away.
Another flash, followed by a deafening crash, like someone had jammed a metal dustbin over his head and battered it with a hammer.
He dropped to his knees and scrambled under the table. Curled up against the wall.
Don’t move. Don’t make any noise. Quiet and still as a mouse.
Outside, something scratched along the caravan’s walls. It started over by the chemical loo, grinding and squealing across the metal, working its way slowly around, behind him, and past to the caravan’s door.
Stopped.
Callum stared.
The handle twisted. Not far. Just a teeny weeny bit, till the lock stopped it. Twisted again. Then silence.
Maybe the Slug had given up? Maybe he’d gone away? Maybe he’d—
The whole door shook – banging and clattering in its frame.
‘No!’ Callum wrapped his arms around his head and bit his bottom lip till he could taste pennies. ‘Go away, go away, go away …’
Then the noise faded, leaving nothing behind but the battering drone of rain on the caravan roof.
The Slug had given up.
He had to.
The caravan was locked, he couldn’t get in.
A trembly sob rattled its way out of Callum. Safe.
And
