Fragments (17 page)

I pull my hair back and brush in the special oil I’ve just discovered, which makes it fall in silky waves around my face. I look at my reflection and see a girl with eyes that are too old for her face. I’ve already lived too many lives. Seen too much. Sometimes I get so tired . . . And then I’m
crying
. Great big, wet, heaving sobs that start like someone flicked a switch. What the hell?

This keeps happening and I have no idea why. It’s like the weird headaches that have suddenly started coming. It’s like things are . . . coming apart inside me.

I stop crying as abruptly as I started and feel cleansed now, as I always do. Washed on the inside. I put a little make-up on under my eyes and some lip gloss, and heave a sigh. The luxurious bath I was dreaming about for the past three weeks didn’t feel as good as it was meant to.

Padding barefoot down the corridor, I hear television noises coming from the sitting room. It’s about the size of a whole floor of the flats where I grew up in Sheffield, and looks out over the Thames. It’s like being sealed inside an airtight container up here. I suddenly miss the noises of London and even the dirt, a little, as I walk into the vast room. The floorboards are golden and shining, warm underfoot. My feet seem to whisper over them.

Huge, soft sofas in buttery yellow are arranged around the main screen. One of the walls is covered in big paintings that I think are ugly, but they double up as sound boards for the meetings that sometimes happen here.

As I come into the room, I catch sight of a different story on the news.

It’s a woman who has somehow got herself up onto the scaffolding around the new Big Ben building. I cringe when I see her face. Her eyeballs are exposed and the skin is rippled and sagging around her jaw, her cheeks drooping and puckered like molten wax.

Disgusting.

They call them Melters. These are the people who, in protest at all the CCTV surveillance, use a chemical synthesised from liquid plastic to disfigure their faces. And then they promptly get arrested, of course. So pointless. What do they think they will achieve?

But there is another reason I always look away from Melters.

It happened when I hadn’t been in London that long.

I was walking along the Strand one day, in a hurry, when I noticed someone all scrunched in a doorway like a bunch of rags. It was a boy, about my age, I think, but it was hard to tell because when he looked up, his face was horribly disfigured, shining like rumpled, pale plastic from inside his blue hood. The sight sickened me to my stomach and I looked away quickly. But something bothered me all afternoon that I couldn’t identify.

It was only later, as I was drifting off to sleep that I realised there was something familiar in the boy’s eyes. I think that boy might have been Christian . . .

What could have happened to make him
do
that? I couldn’t stand thinking about it.

I must have made a sound at this thought because a blond head pops up now from one of the sofas.

Phoenix is a few years older than me, from what I can tell, which makes him a veteran. I haven’t come across any CATS’ Eyes who are older than early twenties. I reckon it’s because they go off into other jobs after doing their stint. I asked about it once, but no one seemed all that sure. I don’t like to think about the alternative. I guess what we do can be dangerous. People must bear grudges. And the bad guys don’t always get caught, do they?

‘Hey,’ says Phoenix, uncurling his long body from the sofa. I nod a greeting and then go to get a drink and some fruit from the fridge.

Phoenix switches channels, settling on a documentary about flood defences.

I arrange pieces of watermelon, grapes and apple on a plate, enjoying the overlapping, bright colours. When I’ve been working, I feel as though I want to eat only healthy stuff. It’s partly because of the rubbish I have to eat on a job. But I think it also helps me to feel clean again, on the inside. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.

I sit facing the wide window, looking out at the river and the skyline. Sunlight glitters on the Thames and on Westminster, beyond. There’s the original Big Ben, which is kind of cute, and the grand, golden building where they used to make the laws. The river sparkles as boats chug along it. Clean water you could swim in.

It’s all pretend. Suddenly sick of the false image, I murmur, ‘Reveal.’ The smart glass reverts from the enhanced mode to a normal window.

Now there is only a building site where the Houses of Parliament stood. The new building is costing millions, I hear, but there have been all sorts of hold-ups. All you can see is a web-like mass of scaffolding.

I stare at the churning water of the Thames as I suck on a sweet, juicy sliver of watermelon. The sky is one sweeping bruise of black and grey, the rain never-ending. I heard that the county of Suffolk is practically all bogland these days. Wherever Suffolk is.

Someone told me the other day that the Thames was filthy in the past, then it got majorly cleaned up. People used to catch fish in it in the early 2000s. Hard to imagine now as the slimy, almost green water bobs with refuse . . . and worse. Sometimes you see a dead dog floating along with the shopping trolleys and the plastic crap.

Suddenly sickened by the sight of the water, I murmur, ‘Enhance,’ and the windows shift back to the pretty view. As soon as I step outside, I’ll see the real thing again but it’s good to be able to pretend sometimes.

‘I need to shift my ass,’ says Phoenix, interrupting my thoughts. He gets up and stretches luxuriously. ‘Places to be.’

I don’t ask where. Just as he wouldn’t ask me what I’ve been doing. We come and go to this flat when we need it, to log our reports and rest between jobs. Realising I still need to log mine, I sigh deeply, staring down at my half-eaten plate of fruit.

I suddenly have an urge to be moving, despite the rain outside. There’s an amazing gym downstairs but I’m not one for gyms. I think I’ll go for a walk. Try to clear my head a bit.

I use my breather stick and then grab my miasma mask to be on the safe side. When I could first afford one, I used to get annoyed about the fact that they only match white skin. But I don’t care about that so much now. There doesn’t seem to be much point in getting angry about stuff I can’t change.

Sometimes I think I’m a bit dead inside. But if I am, what’s with the weird crying?

I’m thinking about all this as I take the glass lift down to the ground floor and make my way past the security guard. He’s called Bob and he always gives me a smile but I’ve seen what hangs from his belt, weapon-wise. He’s not there for decoration.

I pull my miasma mask on. This is the most expensive sort you can get and you don’t really feel it once it’s on. You do still look like a freak with a snout. But at least you’re anonymous.

The rain has stopped for once and the slick pavements gleam and reflect splashes of street lights. I pull my hood up and hunker my hands down into my pockets. I look a bit like a boy when I’m dressed like this. And I can handle myself these days. I have a thin-bladed knife that snaps into the treads of my trainers, hidden. I’ve never had to use it. Yet. I walk past the homeless shelters under the overhanging lip of the Southbank Centre. Someone told me that kids used to skateboard there. I glance over, trying to imagine what it would have looked like then. There are layers of graffiti, some so old it has faded into the brick as though it is part of it, with newer, more vivid designs over the top. Hard to imagine people using this place for fun.

Now it’s somewhere homeless families live. No single people allowed. CAT teams regularly sweep in and make sure there are no drugs, alcohol or any other ‘banned substances’. I think at first they tried to clear away all the homeless people from the streets. There was something called the September Purge a couple of years ago when loads of people living rough got taken away to God knows where in an effort to ‘keep the city clean’.

But so many now have nowhere to live that they’ve crept back again, especially since all the floods. The authorities seem to think that herding them into different areas is better than having no control at all.

Some of the tents here look quite decent. A woman with long black hair and papery, crinkled skin is standing outside the nearest one, tending to a camping stove. A smell of curry wafts towards me, reminding me a little of Mum’s Jamaican cooking. I stop for a second, smiling at the memory. Man, she packed so many Scotch bonnets into her food that grown men had been known to cry at the first mouthful.

The smile slips from my face. This is the first time I’ve thought about Mum in ages. And that doesn’t seem right. It’s like I’m forgetting her.

Sometimes it seems like there have been two Kylas, the one before Scotland and the one after. The woman glares at me and I decide to move on. Maybe she thinks I feel superior to her when, at this exact minute, she couldn’t be more wrong. I’m picturing her pulling her kids, in their sleeping bags, in close each night for warmth, maybe whispering stories in their ears. I feel a weird tug of envy. They are together; connected. Part of a whole.

Me? No one cares if I live or die.

Wow, I’m in a weird place tonight
.

I quicken my pace, heading towards Waterloo Bridge, dodging the war veterans you see busking everywhere now. There’s a broken bit of railing about halfway along, and I make sure I give it a wide berth. You hear of people chucking themselves through that gap. It doesn’t seem as though anyone is in a hurry to mend it, so maybe the authorities like keeping it that way. Fewer homeless people on the streets and all that.

There are blokes in wheelchairs juggling light balls, and a guy with a facial mask is singing some Scottish song in a high, wavering voice. There are more penny-whistle players than I can be bothered to count. Some of the ex-soldiers have no obvious injuries but there is a look I’m starting to recognise. It’s partly the short haircut, but also the deadness in the eyes. I shudder and hurry on across the bridge, glancing over at the Gherkin, whose broken windows reflect the lights from police helicopters that swoop above the city. You get used to the sound after a while.

Same with the buzz drones that float and wind above the heads of people walking along, minding their own business. I still hate those things, with their fly-like eyes, which whirr and snap a zillion images a minute of the people below.

It’s different here. Not like Sheffield. People were suspicious there, don’t get me wrong. But you’d still get chatty folk in shops or on the bus. Yorkshire people like a natter, even when it can be a dangerous pastime.

In London, it’s like danger is always just under the surface. You can almost taste fear in the air, along with the stink of cars and that toxic swamp that passes for a river. Maybe it’s because London is the place that gets bombed the most.

I clamber up the steps, watching commuters in their miasma masks streaming the other way towards Waterloo Station. Heads down over phones, or just down. It sometimes feels like the whole city is staggering about under a massive weight of worry and sadness.

I walk down the steps at the far end, past the front of Embankment Station and head into Victoria Gardens. There’s another Tent City here, this one a designated area for young professionals. It’s for people in their late teens and early twenties who have jobs but nowhere to live. Music drifts from a couple of tents and I hear a burst of raucous laughter. There’s a bit of a party atmosphere and the smell of weed starts to tickle my nose. I can feel a sneeze building up and I try to breathe it away but something has got through the mask and suddenly it feels like it’s choking me . . .

I snatch the mask off my face, panicky for no reason I can put my finger on, breathing deeply. That’s when I get a creeping sensation. It’s one of the things I can do since being at CAT Camp; sense when someone is looking at me. And I don’t just mean that hairs-up-on-the-back-of-the-neck thing that everyone has.

This is a certainty, deep in my bones, that someone is watching.

I haven’t been wrong yet. I look around quickly but can’t see anyone who looks suspicious. Just people going in and out of tents, clutching bottles.

I walk quickly away, not paying attention to where I’m going. I’m in too much of a hurry to put the mask back on at first. But as my throat starts to itch and tighten, I quickly pull it on, flipping my hood up and over my head. Traffic thunders by on Victoria Embankment as I walk quickly along the pavement. I don’t want to look panicky by turning back the way I came, so am aiming for ‘purposeful’ instead. Not sure I’m succeeding, though. I reckon I’ll make my way along to Blackfriars Bridge, cross the river and then head back to the flat.

Could be any number of reasons why someone was watching me, I tell myself. Maybe I imagined it? I’ve had a long day. I might be off my game. And I’m trying not to think about Adem. But I know I’m kidding myself. There’s no mistaking the prickle and swoop in my guts that alerts me to danger. Maybe it was some sleazebag, liking what he saw? But I don’t really think it was that either.

I’m hurrying along, trying to work it out, when I suddenly feel it again. I spin round, ready to take on whoever it is. But all I see is a smattering of homeless men, moving like satellites towards the odd miasma-masked commuter, asking for change and being ignored. No one seems to give me a second glance. I look across the road towards the river at people going the opposite way. Same. But wait . . .there’s a tall bloke there, hooded and masked like me. He’s walking this way and staring straight ahead but there’s something . . .

I can’t put my finger on what it is but I feel uneasy. I start walking sharply the other way and I see him stop and then try to dodge traffic to head in the same direction.

So you are following me
, I think, a bit triumphant that I’m right, even though this isn’t a good situation. He’s having trouble getting across the road and I see his head turned towards me, definitely watching now. I cheekily give him the finger. He’s having to wait for the lights to change so I’ve got plenty of time to get away now. I can walk away and never see him again; never find out who it was and what he wanted.