Fragments (22 page)

The bin men are doing their rounds now, dragging bins out from each house to the roadside. Life goes on, it seems. One of the men smirks as we pass and I give him a stroppy look. I can’t be doing with anyone getting in my face today.

I still haven’t worked out how I’m going to explain my overnight absence. A feeling of cold dread worms in my stomach. We walk in silence back the way we came yesterday. The sun is bright but already clouds are clumping and threatening rain. Brown leaves lie in cloggy, wet lumps in the gutters. A woman cycles by with a small child in a seat on the back of her bike. It’s easy to forget that some people have nothing to do with CATS or Torch. They have familes, friends. Lives.

We get to the Tube station and Cal stops at the entrance. I wondered whether he would come with me, to see where I was staying and report back, but it seems not.

‘Look,’ I blurt out, ‘I know what you think of me. And I don’t blame you one bit. But I promise I won’t say anything.’

He stares at me, silently. It’s impossible to read his expression.

I feel weirdly embarrassed and shuffle my feet, trying to ignore the heat spreading up my cheeks. ‘Well, I just wanted to say that.’

‘I know,’ he says quietly. ‘I know you won’t say anything.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t expecting him to say that.

‘But you understand why they don’t trust you any more?’

I hesitate. ‘They? What about . . . you?’

He looks at his feet. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, his voice low and quiet. Then he blushes and looks in my eyes. ‘But I’ve been thinking about what you said. It’s not so different . . . what they did to you and me, is it?’

‘No,’ I say quietly. I’m so tired and suddenly don’t want to drag this out any longer.

I gulp back some rising tears. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry about all of it.’ And I turn away and practically run into the Tube station. I hear him call my name as I hurry towards the barriers.

C
HAPTER
22

no one’s hero

W
hen I get back to the riverside flat, a couple of other CATS’ Eyes are there. Jannie and Mariella. Jannie has a cut, swollen eye and Mariella is dabbing it with a sterile wipe. He complains and she keeps good-naturedly telling him off. I don’t want to know how he got the black eye, even though he looks at me with that air of a story to tell. I can almost smell the adrenaline coming off him.

I make as little conversation and eye contact as I can get away with before saying I’m not feeling good and heading off to my bedroom. I go to get a glass of water and collide with Mariella, who laughs and apologises. I try to smile back and then slip away.

Curled up on the bed, I stare at the wall and think about what has happened since I was here yesterday morning.

There’s a bad taste in my mouth that won’t go away, even though I brush my teeth twice. Maybe it’s the bitterness inside me, rising up.

It’s not fair . . 
.

Those words keep going round and round in my head.

When I first met Cal, back at Zander’s place, I knew he liked me. It was written all over his face. I thought it was funny. Sweet. But then something changed as I got to know him and I started to like him too. A lot. Am I never allowed to have
anyone
? Is this my life, always being alone? I keep thinking I don’t care about anyone any more. But again and again, it turns out I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just not built that way and it’s all been pretence.

It strikes me now that Cal has been taken from me three times.

Once when he had to leave Zander’s, when Zander found out who he was. Then when I thought he had been killed.

And now . . .

It’s not fair . . 
.

I punch the pillow and then push my face into it so I can let out a howl of pain and frustration.

I have to make some decisions. I have a little time. They have no reason to suspect anything is wrong so I think I’m safe here, for now.

I don’t think I can do this job any more. Not now I know the truth about the people I work for. But even though I can stay at this fancy flat and take long baths with the finest oils money can buy, it doesn’t mean I have the option of walking away any more than I did when I was in the back of that van speeding towards Scotland.

What I need is to disappear . . .

I chew on a fingernail, thinking hard. Is there any way I could do it? My tracker watch has gone. I’ll have a job explaining that. Maybe I could slip into the crowds tomorrow at the demonstration and just not come back. But where would I go? I can’t use any electronic money because I could be located straight away. I picture the Melters and shudder, knowing I could never try to mask my identity that way. Anyway, they have a genetic file on me, same as all CATS’ Eyes. And I have an ID chip, same as everyone else.

But I’ve heard there are lorries going through the Channel Tunnel that sneak people out, if you have connections and money. I don’t know what France is like, but everyone knows that since the Second Revolution, things are better over there than they are here. All I know about France is that they like cheese. And in the South, isn’t it as hot as a desert? Better than here.

I sigh shakily and a feeling of despair washes over me. Who am I kidding? I can’t get to France. I have neither connections nor money.

They’ll throw me in prison if they catch me. But I can’t be part of this evilness any more, either.

I throw the pillow across the room and swear savagely. It’s hopeless.

I have no options at all any more.

Unless . . .

I turn onto my stomach and clutch the remaining pillow under my chest.

Unless I tell the world what I know. Which is presumably what Torch are building up to once they get their supercomputer built. Hacking into the news or something. But everyone knows they are terrorists, right? They don’t have credibility. Not like someone who can tell the world exactly what happens in the government’s so-called training camp.

Not like a CATS’ Eye. A CATS’ Eye could probably get into one of the news vans.

My pulse races as I’m filled with a terrible excitement. I probably won’t survive this. They’ll shoot me. My stomach gives a lurch of fear and I shiver, hard, drawing my arms around myself.

Dying is one way to make up for what I’ve done in their name. And anyway, I’m not sure I can live in my own skin any more.

But as quickly as the idea comes, it starts to fade. I’m no one’s hero. I’m not brave and good like Cal.

I file a report later, claiming I spent the night at a friend of Laura Woods after a party I’d got myself invited to. I say that it is my opinion she is no security risk.

I report that my tracker watch got lost because they will know anyway. Better that I try to look as though I’m following orders until I can work out what the hell I’m going to do.

I’m coming to the end of my report when the screen, which had been set to receive only – showing an image of a blue sky – suddenly switches to the miserable face of Ray, my supervisor.

A little prickle of unease crawls up my spine. I fix my face into a neutral, blank look. He types something then looks up at me.

‘I note that you have had problems with your watch.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say confidently. ‘Sorry.’

‘A replacement has been couriered over and is waiting for you. Please put it on and wear it at all times. It is an updated model,’ he says and meets my eyes. His expression is so blank, he might as well be looking at a brick wall instead of a pin sharp 3D image of my face.

‘Yeah, got it,’ I say. The image snaps off. I am dismissed.

Transcript of conversation on secure line, Westminster

– Report has been filed now. Baptiste claims she was at a party last night and that the suspect is innocent. She came out with some cock and bull story about losing her tracker. Have just watched CCTV footage that shows her entering Hampstead Heath Station with an unknown male. We thought it may be Callum Conway, who is still on our wanted list. She was seen emerging with the male at Arnos Grove but unfortunately local cameras in that area have been damaged and we have no information about where she spent the night. This morning she arrived back at the station with the male now confirmed by facial recognition as Conway.
– And so?
[Subject clears throat.]
– Er, we were rather too late to get him by the time this information was received. A search of the area has yielded nothing. But we have managed to hack into internet chatter and plant intel about the Freedom Day demonstration tomorrow that should lure a number of London-based Torch suspects to the area.
[Subject pauses, and continues.]
– Two birds with one stone, etc.
– Quite. And are you sure the girl’s usefulness is coming to an end?
– Quite sure. There have been reports of her crying behind closed doors. I think her Commitment Training is reaching the end of its period of efficacy.
– Very good. Well, proceed as intended.

C
HAPTER
23

expectations of a peaceful day

I
go back into the main living area and, sure enough, a small box with my name on it is sitting on the shiny chrome cabinet near the kitchen. I take the package into the kitchen and slice open the tape. Inside is a Tracker Watch that looks different from my old one. It’s a bit bulkier, as though made for a bigger wrist. And even though it’s meant to be a new design, it looks weirdly old too. I try to think of a way to avoid putting it on but I can’t think of a reason. So, muttering angrily under my breath, I snap it around my wrist. No danger of me slipping away now.

I go back to my room and lie in bed. Memories of Scotland start to come back to me the minute I close my eyes.

It’s still unclear and hazy in my mind, but I remember the abseiling accident now. Trying to kill Dan was such a violent action, it seems to have torn something apart in my mind and laid bare what happened before.

Snatches from my time in that Box place come back, like flashes of too-bright photographs where the colours are all wrong. The pain when they shocked me. The horrible images they forced me to watch. And that’s not all. Everything’s coming back to me in pieces: Reo dying. Christian trying to warn me about Skye. Skye betraying me.

I cry softly into my pillow and finally fall asleep.

In the morning I watch telly in the bath until the water goes cold, feeling a bit numb inside. I don’t know what to do next. I stare at the images of people arriving from Leicester Square Tube station, spilling out into the street. They look weirdly happy. The view switches to a reporter on the scene, huddled under a bright yellow umbrella.

‘And what is the mood like down there, Christabel?’ says a voice from the studio.

‘It’s very positive, John,’ says the reporter. ‘The authorities say they are expecting a peaceful day. There are expected to be increased numbers up on last year when a security alert caused events to end earlier than anticipated. But the very attractive incentives package for all attendees has certainly caused numbers to rise this year, as far as I can see. We only hope the weather cooperates a little!’

The anchorman gives a cheesy false laugh and the scene cuts back to the studio.

‘And speaking of the weather, let’s head on over to Gabby for an update on that rain.’

I switch off the telly and slowly dry myself. My body feels sore and tired, like I’ve lived too many lives already in my fifteen years.

I think about what the reporter said. I’d heard somewhere that people have been offered credits for food banks and transport hubs if they turn up today. Guess bribery is one way to boost numbers.

I force myself to eat some toast, even though my stomach has shrunk to the size of a clenched fist, then go to the communications room and log in. If I can get something easy to do today, it might give me time to think about what I can do next.

My instructions, it seems, are to help out at the Freedom Day celebrations. I’m to be in the centre of the crowd at eleven a.m. exactly. There’s been some intelligence that a protest may begin there. My job is to spot signs of it before it has the chance to develop and call for backup.

Who cares?
I think, as I hear my voice say clearly that I understand the job.

The air is filled with a fine, damp mist but there’s an excited energy fizzing around too. It makes me feel sadder and more alone than ever.

I walk across Waterloo Bridge and up onto the Strand, then make my way round to Trafalgar Square. When I first came to London I loved to look up at all the old buildings that were squashed up against shiny new ones, all jumbled, like a kid designed it. Now I feel nothing much for it either way.

There are stands selling doughnuts and coffee, or soya dogs and chips. A few stands advertise
Real Hamburgers
but as meat is hard to come by these days, it’s anyone’s guess what’s in there. There was a story a while back about a major supermarket chain selling meat pies that contained cat. And the so-called ‘test-tube burgers’ everyone went on about a few years ago were so horrible they couldn’t shift them.

A busker makes the most of it being the one day he can sing without being arrested for begging. I recognise a song from when I was little. It’s being systematically slaughtered now.

The giant 3D screen covering the National Gallery is showing the build-up to a performance of a huge band called Fusion Illusion. I hear that once you could actually see music being played outside like this. It’s a crazy thought. I can’t really imagine what that would be like. Surely it wouldn’t sound as good as an enhanced recording?

Who knows why I’m even thinking about this stuff.

And then the air is knocked out of me as I turn and find myself looking at a familiar face in the crowd.

London is big, but it’s not that big. Of course I could run into him again.

Cal.

We stare at each other for a few moments, oblivious to the sea of people passing around us. I feel as though I’ve been given another chance. I don’t believe in fate, but maybe this was meant to be. Maybe we were meant to see each other again. Maybe this time, I’ll be able to make him understand that I never wanted any of this to happen.