The Runaway

Gabe rests his chin on his daughter Scarlett’s silken crown and inhales the fresh air and innocence tangled in her curls. He turns the page. Her little brother Joe leans in, studying the image of a rabbit intently through snotty rattles. Both children look confused. The book, a remnant from their father’s childhood, is a far cry from the sugar-coated tales they’re used to, and so far has raised more questions than smiles.

‘But why did the rabbit get out of it’s hutch?’ Scarlett demands to know as she looks into Gabe’s eyes for answers. ‘What about the boy? Won’t he feel sad?’

‘I think the rabbit was just a bit lonely and wanted to meet other rabbits,’ offers Gabe weakly. Scarlet isn’t convinced.

‘But that’s stupid. Now the fox might eat him. And who will feed him? And won’t the boy cry when the hutch is empty?’

All very good points. If only Gabe could have had the same foresight 18 months ago. Maybe then he wouldn’t be feeling so nostalgic now – so nostalgic that he’d spent a whole afternoon poking around in tatty old boxes until he found this disturbing little book and felt the need to read it to his children. Of course what he really wanted was for his dad to read it to him. To do the voices just so. And to cuddle him tight when the fox appeared.

It occurs to him that life is just one long quest to return to childhood; to that state of absolute security that seems your birthright until the age of 16. Or whenever your dad walks out on your mum, or your nan dies, or your cat gets run over. Whichever comes first. Then you suddenly see life for what it really is. And once you realise that the story doesn’t have a happy ending, all you want is for someone to spin you one that does. To hold you close and tell you everything’s going to be OK.

He tucks a wriggling Joe beneath his free arm and looks at the clock. He could cry right now. Big juddering sobs. Instead he turns the page. But Scarlett is insistent. ‘Well the other rabbits don’t seem very interesting anyway and now he has lost the boy who loved him.'

‘That’s very true,’ concedes Gabe. He can hardly bring himself to read the bit about the boy finding another rabbit, but knows it will quell his daughter’s fears.

‘Oh,’ she says, semi-satisfied at the end. So the boy was fine? He just got another rabbit. And maybe he liked the new one better anyway?’ She looks thoughtful. ‘Mummy’s friend Dominic says he’ll buy us a dog if we like.’

Gabe pretends not to hear. Takes a deep breath.

Joe speaks for the first time since they picked up the blasted book. ‘Will the rabbit be OK?’

Gabe is touched by his son's concern. ‘Who knows’ he replies. ‘Then sees a shadow of uncertainty pass across Joe’s face. ‘Of course he will, buddy. Of course. He has new friends, a cosy little warren and… freedom.’ It sounds so feeble. Eighteen months ago freedom seemed such a huge word: space, away from home, the expectation, the routine, the crushing predictability of it all; a chance to reassess life. But all it had really amounted to was empty sex, hangovers, ODing on microwave meals, self pity and porn.

Catching Scarlett’s porcelain profile, it’s impossible not to see her mother’s reflection – the one he fell in love with when they shared a rickety coach that zig-zagged across Australia all those years ago. He’d studied every expression as she’d studied the grandeur of the barren landscape through the fly-specked window. The look of awe on her face had moved him in a way the almighty Uluru had failed to. Then after five weeks of familiarity in a foreign land it dawned on him – being with Sara felt like coming home. And suddenly all he wanted to do was set up home with her. Create a family. Make them feel as safe as he longed to feel. But even as he’d painted the nursery and held the newborn Scarlett in his arms, he knew he couldn’t protect any of them from himself, his dark moods, his dissatisfaction with life… and before long the security he had longed for had begun to feel like a trap.

Gabe is snapped from the past by the sight of a red car pulling up outside. ‘Mummy's here. We better get your coats and shoes on.’ He kisses Joe’s sweaty head; squeezes Scarlett as she burrows into his chest and squeals with laughter. He wants to howl with homesickness. But he remembers all too well just how terrifying it was to witness his own father's tears. He’ll crack open a few cans when they've gone and stare at his laptop instead.

He closes the book. ‘Get back in your blasted hutch!’ he wants to scream at the rabbit. ‘You don’t know how good you’ve got it.’ Sara’s had her hair cut; looks lighter in every sense. Happy. He might have run away – but she’s the one who escaped.