Fragments (18 page)

So of course I don’t do that sensible thing. I’m curious about who he is and what he wants. When I see that his head is turned the other way, I turn sharply right into a road called Temple Place, that has some private, locked gardens. The gate into the gardens is set a little way back from the road so I press myself into it until I’m, hopefully, out of sight. Before too long I see him. He’s about six feet tall, slim build. Maybe young. I can’t tell. He glances up the road and I push myself back, heart pounding, and then he stops. A couple of people pass him but he stands dead still. I try not to breathe, even though the city noises are at their usual pitch; traffic and horns beeping, sirens from the boats on the Thames and the odd blast of music from one of the few cars that keeps its windows open. Not to mention the frequent, low-level hum of passing buzz drones. My heart feels as though it’s going to burst out of my chest now but the figure moves off and I feel my knees go a little weak.

I know for a fact now that he was following me. But who was he and what did he want?

And then a thought creeps in before I can help it.

Cal?

Could it be him?

My legs go even wobblier. Do I even
want
it to be him?

I try to untangle the different thoughts that crowd my brain now.

OK, so he’s probably dead. There was a, what, one in six chance he survived that bombing? But those aren’t great odds. And if he did survive, wouldn’t his parents being killed send him even further into the clutches of Torch? This makes me feel sick to my stomach.

No. It wasn’t Cal. This was someone much older and taller. I’m letting my imagination get away with me. Much better that Cal is dead and innocent than alive and involved in terrorism.

When I get back to the flat I can’t settle to anything. Phoenix has left and a girl called Maisie is there, along with Jake, a slightly older guy. We don’t chat much. Everyone exchanges a handful of words then goes off and does their own thing. I take a mug of hot chocolate into the communications room to get the boring business of writing up my report over with.

There are several high-end computers in here that can be programmed into buzz-drone-like activity if you want to look at anything, along with others that are routed through hundreds of different servers to keep anonymity.

I’m about to open a document when I get an idea and head over to the CCTV terminals. I tap into the system. I only have very limited rights on it but this is one of the few things people at my level are allowed to do. Quickly locating the Embankment in
maps
, I tap in a rough time-window for when I was there.

I can’t be bothered to watch the virtual 3D screen, so I just look at the terminal, watching people come and go. I speed it up because it’s pretty boring, and then I see myself, coming out of Victoria Gardens. I slow it right down, watching myself being watched. It feels strange but I can’t help being impressed at how casual I look. I felt jumpy but you wouldn’t think I knew I was being followed, apart from the fact that I’m hurrying a little.

Then I see him, the tall figure, walking along on the other side of the road. He walks purposefully but could easily have caught up if he wanted to. Every now and then he glances my way, checking I’m still there. He seems to be working something out . . . maybe making a decision about whether to approach me. Then I have a chilling thought. What if it’s the brother, son, nephew – whatever – of Stevie, the nursery worker who got carted away because of me? Or maybe it’s someone from the job I just left?

Maybe Adem? But surely, even with the hood and mask, I would have recognised Adem straight away? Despite my doubts, though, I can’t help feeling a little glow of hope inside at the thought that it might have been him. But, if it was him, how could he have found me? And if he’s alive, he might want revenge . . .

‘Operative name, please.’

The sudden voice in the room makes me yelp in shock. I turn to the monitor next to me to see the face of my immediate boss, Ray. He was called a ‘line manager’ by someone, which was too ridiculous to be true. Sounds like he works in a bank. But anyway, Ray’s job is to dole out the jobs. He seems to have no sense of humour at all and talks in a dull, monotone voice that must drive his wife nuts. Although he probably doesn’t have a wife
to
drive nuts.

‘It’s Kyla, um, K66651,’ I say, hurriedly remembering my operative number.

‘Thank you,’ says Ray, looking down and tapping something into another keyboard. He makes me wait for a few minutes, annoyingly, which I think is a bit of a power thing. Just showing me who’s the boss and all that.

‘Have you filed your report on job number CTR716 yet?’ he says, without looking up.

‘Just about to,’ I say, trying not to sound irritated.

‘Good,’ he says, looking up and meeting my eye for the first time. ‘Get it done quickly please because I have a new job for you.’

‘Oh?’ My insides seem to droop. I was hoping for a proper rest between jobs. To catch up on my sleep, go running. Eat . . .

‘Are you listening?’

‘Yes,’ I say, stifling a sigh. ‘Fire away.’

Then I think about what happened in the last job I did and I regret my choice of words.

C
HAPTER
18

laura

M
y next job sounds easy enough.

Torch spend a lot of time hacking into government computers. Every now and then the massive 3D banners that roll across buildings showing the news will cut to messages designed to disrupt everything. They make up a load of lies and even show images that are obviously fake just to stir up unrest.

But to do this requires a huge amount of processing power, way beyond anything you can buy as a regular punter. So it’s thought they have been building some kind of supercomputer system that uses the chips from old tablets, phones, computers, whatever. No one knows where it is but CAT are desperate to destroy it. By law everyone has to take their old phones and electronics to a government-approved site before they can buy anything new. If someone is found carrying old devices, they are immediately under suspicion.

My job is to follow a girl who has been seen with a bag containing what looks like several old tablets. It was called in by someone in the café where she works. There’s a reward for this sort of information and some people make a living out of being snoops. Not that I judge them. I just get paid more for doing the same thing.

I’m told to watch her movements after she finishes her shift. Chat to her if I need to. There won’t be a job there, so there’s no point trying to get taken on as staff. Café and restaurant jobs are highly sought after these days. I decide to go into the café and order a coffee when I’m told she’ll be working.

The café is on a road next to Hampstead Heath, which used to be a big park, I’m told. Now it’s a smaller one, with half of it covered in warehouses. There are shops and cafés along the main road there. I’m looking for one called Antonio’s.

I don’t like taking the Tube, not since there was a plaster bomb at Oxford Circus, but it would take hours from here on the bus so I have no choice.

There are lots of power cuts on the Tube too so you’ll be hurtling through a tunnel and then all the lights will go out. The emergency generators sometimes come on and that’s almost as bad. All the faces take on a yellowish, sickly colour that’s only a bit less spooky than the old holding-a-torch- under-the-chin trick Jax used to love doing.

Maybe I’ll never be a true Londoner.

But it goes OK and the train only stops for about fifteen minutes (lights on, thank God) between Chalk Farm and Belsize Park.

The escalator at Hampstead Station is broken so I trudge up the metal steps and out into the muggy, damp air. The rain has stopped for a little while and the sun is nudging out from behind a cloud, throwing glints of gold onto roads slick with dirt and rain. I check my phone for directions and then make my way up a road in the direction of the café.

It doesn’t take long. The café looks quite cosy, with a red and white striped awning that’s only a bit grubby and tatty. There are a few plastic tables and chairs outside that are flecked with dirt and fat raindrops that look like bubble wrap.

Inside the café I immediately spot the girl, Laura Woods. She’s standing at the counter, chatting to an older woman who expertly works an old-fashioned espresso machine that hisses and spits like a metal monster. I study a plastic menu, eyeing her at the same time. She’s a little older than me, I think. Maybe seventeen. Her shiny blond hair is twisted into one of those sideways up-dos and she has a pencil neatly shoved through it. She wears glasses and has bright brown eyes and a big smile. She wears a little apron over a mini dress and boots. Pretty. And normal looking, I think. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t a filthy traitor.

She gets a text and turns away to read it. Her cheeks flush and she gives a little smile. It’s a dead giveaway that someone special has sent it. She quickly tucks the phone into her pocket, pushes a strand of loose hair behind her ear and comes over to my table.

‘Get you something?’ she says. Although she is smiling, her mind is somewhere else, probably with whoever sent that text. She still doesn’t look like someone who might be a terrorist but I’ll keep an eye on her, anyway. After the last one, this is a nice easy job. I reckon I deserve it.

I order a hot chocolate and a muffin. I’m still tired from all those nights in Hoxton Mansions. I need a sugar boost.

Laura is coming to the end of her shift soon so I have just enough time to drink the hot chocolate and eat the muffin before I see her disappear out the back. I pay and leave, before finding a spot to watch the café. I pretend to window-shop at the bookshop across the road, where I can see the reflection of the café door opposite. After a few minutes she comes out, wearing a leather jacket over the dress. She’s fluffed out her hair a bit and put on some lipstick.

She looks along the street in both directions before moving away. Unless she’s waiting for someone, it seems a bit strange. Maybe she does have something to hide, after all. She doesn’t put on a miasma mask but it’s not too bad today, after the rain.

Laura walks away in the direction of the park, up a road lined with grand houses that have tropical plants in bright jewel colours spilling over balconies.

She looks around now and then, but I’m sure she hasn’t spotted me. I keep a careful distance.

After a few minutes Laura turns into the entrance to the park. The sky darkens and seems to clear its throat as thunder rumbles above. A few drops of rain splash onto the path around my feet. She’s obviously meeting someone. And that’s when she does a sort of patting thing to her handbag, like she’s double checking she has it. Interesting. Maybe she has something to hide in there. Like an old phone or two?

As Laura heads up the hill inside the Heath I snap open an umbrella and reach for my phone. Pretending to chat to someone (I even let out the odd giggle for authenticity), I never take my eyes off her. A few dog-walkers and cyclists pass and I avoid eye contact.

Just as she reaches the top of the hill, Laura does a three-sixty look around. I turn the other way and talk into my phone in an animated way. Her eyes brush over me and then move on. I follow, slowly now.

There’s someone sitting on a bench at the very top of the hill. A young bloke, with a rain jacket on. The hood is up. They hug and he pulls away first. She sits down very close to him on the bench but he doesn’t put his arm around her or anything. Maybe this date isn’t going to go the way she’s hoping.

I stand under the umbrella at a distance, wondering how I might get a better look without being seen. I could walk by. Maybe I’ll ask directions back to the station, although they’ll wonder why I don’t just use my phone.

They’re having quite an animated conversation now. The girl raises her voice and although I can’t catch what she’s saying, the mood has changed, I can tell. I want to get closer so, lowering my gaze, I start yabbering a load of rubbish into the phone, like, ‘Shut up! You are such a liar! Come on, tell me what really happened,’ and ‘I don’t
believe
you sometimes!’ The kind of stuff I imagine normal girls my age might say to each other. Like I’d know.

Laurais on her feet now.

‘I don’t think I want to help any more,’ she says in a tight voice. ‘I’ve had enough.’

I aim for a casual walk past the bench. She glances at me and I keep my eyes down, laughing like I’ve just heard a great joke, only letting my eyes graze the scene when I’m directly level with them.

And then the boy is on his feet, crying something out.

And I realise what I’ve heard is my own name.

And then I think,
How can he know my name?

And then I understand who I’m looking at.

Cal.

Alive.

C
HAPTER
19

terrorist

I
stare and stare, my brain refusing to believe what I’m seeing.

I let the wind snatch the umbrella from my hand. Images come crashing into my head: bombs going off. People getting hurt. Torch. Torch are to blame. Is Cal with Torch? Is he a terrorist? Is this why he’s meeting up with a suspect?

I can’t speak. We stare at each other. His lips are parted; his eyes full of confusion and something else. Happiness? As if it’s that simple . . .

‘Oh, I get it,’ says Laura.

Is she still here?

‘I’m such an idiot,’ she continues. ‘Why didn’t you just say there was someone else instead of stringing me along?’

Cal ignores her. So do I. But as shakes begin to travel up from my feet and into my limbs, I feel a sense of dread and terror that makes me want to be sick. It’s all wrong.

My face throbs. I’m hot inside, like I’m going to explode.

I don’t know what to do. What to think.

So I turn and run.

I see my umbrella blowing and bouncing down the hill, turning and twisting like a prehistoric black bird.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight. All I want to do is run and not stop. The whole universe has cracked right open and doesn’t make sense any more.