Fragments (15 page)

All these thoughts are running through my head as I carefully lie the leaf holding the small, deadly device in the sink. Will the impact of the water detonate it before the moisture can penetrate the plastic? Taking the leaf out again I lay it on the side and fumble for the plug, stuffing it into the hole with fingers that are almost useless because they are trembling so much.

I twist the tap as hard as I can.

And nothing happens.

There’s no gush of water.

The sink remains completely dry. Whimpering with terror now, my whole body shaking violently and my breath coming in short, squeezed gasps, I look round the room.

00:10.

Oh God, it’s going to go off – what am I going to do?

00:08.

Then I spy the coffee pot containing the cold coffee. I pick up the leaf again, trying not to squeeze it or shake it and force myself to move carefully across the room to where the pot sits.

00:05.

I pull at the lid, but it’s wedged down firmly.

‘I hate you, you bastards!’ I scream. ‘I hate you!’

00:02.

I bang the pot down on the table and it’s enough to dislodge the lid. I’m plunging the leaf into cold coffee as the clock switches to 00:00.

Sliding onto the floor, panting, I try to catch my breath. And then I start to cry, wishing I could stop, as relief chugs through me.

‘Well done, Kyla,’ says the cool voice. ‘If you could please leave the room now. You will find that the door is open.’

I’m too washed out and hollow to move.

‘Kyla, please vacate the room now.’

I slowly get to my feet and only just manage to resist lifting a finger to the cameras to show these people what I think of them.

Emerging from the room, I see Skye and Zoe and Christian, all looking dazed like me. Christian has a huge gash on his forehead and his eyes are wide and frightened-looking.

I quickly look around to see who is missing . . . who failed the test.

‘It’s a simulation,’ says Skye. She’s a little pale but looks in better shape than the rest of us. ‘The rooms are rigged to move and shake as though someone has set off the bomb. We were all safe the whole time.’

‘How do you know?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like they care about us, is it?’ I regret it immediately. Words can be dangerous when Skye is around. I think about the boy who was shot.

‘It’s obvious,’ she says, in a patronising way. ‘They’re not going to let their valuable
building
get destroyed every time they do a training exercise are they?’

She’s right. Of course she’s right. Anger boils up at them for letting us believe we were about to die.

‘You’ve got to admit it was effective,’ she says. ‘There had to be something at stake or it wouldn’t have meant anything, would it?’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I hiss, and her eyes widen.

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Do you think this is all some sort of game?’

Skye takes a step back. ‘Kyla, I’m sure you can’t mean that,’ she says loudly. ‘You’d really rather have gone to prison than be
here
?’

‘What?’ I say. ‘That’s not what I . . .’

It’s only then that I notice Harris has come out of one of the doors and is watching us with interest. Skye turns and flicks her hair away from her neck.

I think it’s only me who sees the small smile on her lips.

What the hell is she up to? Why did she say that?

INTERNAL EMAIL: STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: Kyla Baptiste

Dear Alexander,
Following our earlier discussions, I have some further information. In the light of the subject’s previous Torch connections, Skye Rafferty was assigned to keep an eye on her behaviour and commitment. I had thought the subject was making good progress and am therefore disappointed to learn that she has been quietly stirring up trouble and saying she is not fully accepting our work here. Ms Rafferty suggested that Baptiste may actually still harbour Torch sympathies, but confirms she is unaware of Conway’s location.

I am unwilling to throw away the clear potential this girl has so suggest that she undergoes a second commitment-training period. I appreciate this isn’t often attempted and that there are risks attached. But I think in the circumstances it is warranted. If she subsequently remains mentally intact, she could be a useful recruit in the field. And there has to be a chance that she might ultimately lead us to the boy.

I await your quick response in this matter.

Regards,
Jennifer Sheehy

INTERNAL EMAIL: STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: Re: Kyla Baptiste

Dear Jennifer,
I agree with your stated course of action. But rather than merely repeating the procedure, I think that in this instance we should move up to level three and employ all techniques available (full sensory deprivation, use of pharmaceutical enhancers and increased image bombardment, etc). We know the effects typically only last six months at most, and usually wear off quite suddenly, but she does appear to be a particularly stubborn candidate. I will respect your opinion as to potential further use.

Having lost two candidates already in this cycle, though, please try to ensure the girl survives the treatment, as questions may be asked about use of resources.

Warm wishes,
Alexander

C
HAPTER
15

nothing to worry about, Kyla

I
can’t sleep.

Every time I’m close to dropping off I see the numbers of that clock projection going down, down, down . . . The bedclothes are damp with sweat. All I can do is toss and turn and wait for morning to come.

It feels like days pass before pale grey light begins to bleed through the tiny window above Skye’s bed.

Her hair is spilled in pale strands across her pillow. I still can’t believe what she said to me last night.

I’d gone out for a run after the horrible Explosives practical, hoping I could get my head together. The damp, clean air felt good after being in that claustrophobic room and I came back feeling more clear-headed, but ready to find out what Skye thought she was doing outside the room, when she made it sound as though I had been slagging off the course.

But she managed to avoid me for the whole afternoon and most of the evening, too. I’d showered, eaten, watched telly and caught up on a bit of written work Mrs Sheehy wanted without seeing her at all. I didn’t know where she’d been when she finally came into the room, but her cheeks were flushed and she wouldn’t meet my eye.

As she went to get her towel for a shower, I jumped to my feet and blocked the entrance to the bathroom. Her eyes widened and then went cold and flat again.

‘What was that about earlier?’ I said.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said and tried to push past me. I shouldn’t have done this, but I was raw and upset about the events of the day. My head felt like it would pop with the pressure. My arm shot out and slammed her backwards against the bathroom door. I pinned her there with both hands. I’m taller than her, so I forced her to look up into my face.

‘Get your filthy black hands off me,’ she said in a voice that was one low hiss of hatred.

Shock hurtled through me and my arms fell to my sides. Skye quickly pushed her way into the bathroom and slammed the door. I sat down on the edge of my bed, shaking all over. She’s never said anything before to make me think she was racist. I couldn’t have felt more surprised and upset if she had spat in my face. What was that
about
?

When my heartbeat eventually slowed down I thought about the things she’d done to people. Maybe I was lucky that a nasty insult was the worst she’d thrown at me.

But I knew I couldn’t share a room any more. I decided there and then that I would ask if I could be moved in the morning. I’d say a breakdown in our friendship was making it hard to study or something. I didn’t want to have to share air space with someone like her. Skye was bad, through and through, and I had to stay out of her way.

I must have dozed because the next thing I know, the morning alarm cuts viciously into a confused dream about running through bombed-out houses in Sheffield. My mouth feels dry and foul and the lack of sleep makes the light outside burn my aching eyes, which don’t seem to fit the sockets properly any more.

Skye gets up and practically runs out of the room, without speaking at all. She doesn’t even bother to wash or brush her teeth, just pulls on clothes and hurries past me, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she deliberately avoids meeting my gaze.

I’m slow this morning. Tired and feeling emotionally wrung out. I’m just trying to braid my hair in an attempt to stop it from looking like a bird’s nest, when there is a gentle knock at the door.

‘Just a minute!’ I call and walk over to open it.

‘Oh . . .’

Outside there are two guards and a woman who at first I can’t place. Then I remember that I saw her the day we arrived. She has dark brown eyes behind her glasses and a pretty smile.

‘What’s going on?’ I say, nervously eyeing the guards, who stand with impassive expressions.

Dread floods my stomach like cold water. I get a flash of something I can’t hold on to in my mind. Something bad. I step back, suddenly overcome with the need to get away from these people.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says, still smiling. I jolt because it’s like she has read my thoughts. ‘You need to come with us for a little intensive therapy. It’s for your own good. And the good of the camp.’

‘What do you mean, intensive therapy?’ I can’t keep the wobble out of my voice. ‘Is this what you did to me before? Is it why I can’t remember a whole week?’

I’m taking backwards steps the whole time, as if I could just melt through the walls and disappear. Get out of here. I have such a bad feeling now. I don’t want to be here any more. I don’t want to do this. Maybe they’ll let me go?

The woman gives a tight smile. ‘We don’t always know what is best for us, Kyla. There’s really no need to panic. No one is going to hurt you.’

She does a weird slapping motion and I feel a sharp pain. There’s a tinkling sound as something falls to the floor. The plastic shell of a mini syringe lies at my feet. I look down at my hand. The outline of the tiny, dissolvable needle is already starting to fade as its contents seep into my bloodstream.

‘I’m not . . . Why are you . . . ? I don’t . . .’ I mumble, my tongue thick and hard to manoeuvre, before the world does a sickening three-sixty spin and I feel myself sliding towards the stone floor.

Lights
.

Pain
.

Too many voices, shouting
.

Pictures
.

Bad pictures. Make them stop. Need some water. Why won’t anyone help?

More pictures. People being hurt. Whose fault? WHOSE?

Someone’s fault
.

I hate them
.

Hatred is pure and good. It will heal me. Just make the pain stop. Help me . . . ? Someone? Anyone?

A dark room. Then lights that are too bright. Voices jabbing at me like needles
.

Over and over
.

So tired and hungry. Please let me die now?

Please
.

I fall into a dark place. There’s no time now. This is the end
.

But then I’m soaring through the sky to the mountain. Shadows wash the green with swathes of darkness. Everything speeded up, like a film running too fast.

Sunlight breaks through and sparkles on the lake in the distance, diamond bright. Clouds race above me, scuttling across the surface of the sky like living things. They make me dizzy so I look away and concentrate on the purple heather and the clean, fresh air in my nose, filling my lungs with purity.

I know they’re not real, but it doesn’t matter. I can stay here for ever, I hope. A noise startles me and I look down to see the stag below me, close by. It looks up directly into my eyes, which fill with tears. I suddenly love the stag. So much that it hurts. Glancing down at my feet, I see a gun with a thin, black barrel.

Do it, Kyla . . 
. says a voice. It’s inside me and outside too.

‘No,’ I say, ‘I can’t. I don’t want to.’ But even as I’m saying this I’m reaching down for the gun. I can’t stop myself. I grit my teeth, trying with everything I have to resist the force inside me that’s making me pick up the weapon.

The stag doesn’t move. Doesn’t sense the danger.

It’s too pure to be kept alive. It has to die.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper, and I raise the gun. There’s an earsplitting crack. The stag totters and falls sideways to the ground. Its eyes are milky now, a messy wound spreading red between them.

And I feel . . . nothing at all.

P
ART
III

L
ONDON,
FIVE MONTHS LATER

C
HAPTER
16

kizzy jones

I
stare up at the dirty, smeared window above me. Raindrops slide and chase each other down the brownish glass. I look around the room at the other sleepers, lumpy shapes that snore, twitch and give the odd groan. Smells creep up my nose. Unwashed bodies, tobacco and weed, farts, feet and breath. Disgusting here.

But I’m hoping it won’t be for too much longer. The endgame is in sight.

I sit up and a headache sears across my forehead. I get them a lot these days. I wince and rub my temples and the pain passes.

‘Hi,’ the husky voice comes from next to me and I glance down at Adem, his dark eyes sleepy and soft. I feel a flash of something tender and quickly dismiss it. But I smile and snuggle down next to him anyway, feeling his warm arm coming round to hold me close. Soon his breathing settles back into sleep and I wait a bit before carefully slipping free and gliding soundlessly to my feet.