Slated Read online

  Where are you? He wasn’t in biology this morning. Worry makes me chew my lip so hard it hurts. He hasn’t done something stupid? I asked Miss Fern but she didn’t know; she wasn’t hiding anything, though; there was no worry or remoteness in her. I’m starting to understand that there are different types of teachers. Fern, Gianelli, and the running coach, Ferguson: they are real. They might tell me off on occasion, they’re not always nice, exactly, but they talk to me like I exist, like I matter. Then there are ones like the Head, Rickson, Dr Winston, the ed psych, and Mrs Ali: who for all their smiles and ‘I’m just here to help you’ chat are really just watching for mistakes, for anything outside the rules.

  I jump when the bell goes. Time passed unnoticed. I lay down my pencil as Mrs Ali appears in the door. Gianelli starts to gather up drawings, and pin them up around the robin. When he gets to me, I say, ‘Wait. It’s not finished.’ He looks at it and sees that it is, but doesn’t comment, moves on to the next one as I pack it away.

  I look up at the sketches. It is a sea of faces; important to each of us. Some probably a mum or dad, brother or sister, friends. One of a dog.

  Mrs Ali appears at my shoulder. ‘Let me see,’ she demands, and opens my folder. Stares at my drawing of Ben, and raises an eyebrow. I flush.

  She studies it. ‘It is a good likeness of Ben,’ she says, finally.

  It is better than good. It isn’t just that it looks like him: it is his eyes. They are him, a him that I don’t want to share: the way he looked at me yesterday, just before I thought he might kiss me and I pulled away. Before I told him about missing persons, and Lucy. Before he ran.

  We walk across the class to the door just as Gianelli pins up his own drawing. He’s never done that before; showed us something he did, himself. Everyone still in the room looks up, and catches their breath: it is Phoebe. He has captured a side of her I didn’t know. The anger is gone: her face, the way she stands, everything about her is so very sad. She stands alone. Mrs Ali’s eyes grow cold as she stares at Gianelli.

  I go to the track at lunch, afraid to look; afraid of what it might mean if I can’t find him. Ben always comes here at lunch. Is he here?

  I scan the track. There are a few runners scattered along it today, now the rain has stopped. Most I recognise from training, but not the one I am looking for. I hug my arms around myself, watch them a few moments. Trying not to think. Where could he be?

  I turn to go, and crash straight into Ben.

  ‘Careful,’ he says, and puts out both hands, one on each of my shoulders, to steady me.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I demand.

  He shrugs. ‘Here. Where else?’

  ‘You weren’t in biology.’

  ‘No, I was late. Had a doctor’s appointment, then Mum got a flat tyre on the way back,’ he says, his eyebrows raised in a puzzle.

  ‘You could have told me!’ I say, and push my hands into his chest to shove him away, then start to walk off. I’d been so worried and he just had a stupid appointment.

  ‘Well, I hardly knew we were going to get a flat tyre,’ he says, in a reasonable tone that just makes me madder. He follows and catches my hand, hooks his little finger in with mine and holds it tight. ‘What’s wrong?’

  The anger fizzes out and my eyes are filling. I blink. ‘I thought something happened to you.’

  ‘You were worried about me?’ And he smiles, looking very pleased about it. But before I can decide whether I want to punch him or hug him, it happens.

  Bzzzz: on my wrist. I sigh in exasperation.

  He grabs my hand, and we look at it together: 3.9. ‘Come on.’ He pulls me back towards the track. ‘See if you can keep up today. You were a bit slow yesterday.’

  Slow?! I hit the track before Ben, pour everything into my legs, my feet. Again and again. Ben gradually catches but doesn’t pass me. Though maybe he holds back? I go faster, until there is nothing left. Bit by bit I pull ahead, and I feel a cold sense of satisfaction. This is the way it should be…

  As the running takes over, some small part of me is amused. Why did I get so angry with Ben? It wasn’t reasonable, was it. I was confused about yesterday – about why he took off when I told him about Lucy, and wouldn’t talk about it afterwards – but if he is anything like me, he needed time to take it in. And he expected to make it back in time for biology, so there was no reason to tell me he wouldn’t be there. I can almost laugh at myself.

  But I can’t. Because the problem, here, is a serious one. One I don’t want to face.

  What is Ben to me?

  When we stop I see Ferguson. Standing by the gym, stopwatch in hand, shaking his head a little. We walk past him as we leave.

  ‘Flipping record. What a shame,’ he mutters to himself, shaking his head.

  ‘What does he mean?’ I say, stalling, before Ben can ask me, well, anything.

  ‘Not sure, but I’m guessing we broke the track record.’

  ‘But that’s good, right?’ No matter the motivation for running like that, no matter that it might be difficult to repeat the frame of mind that made me do it.

  Ben shrugs. ‘Sure. If you like breaking records.’

  ‘But he said it was a shame.’

  ‘Of course. Since we can’t compete.’

  I stop short. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Slateds can’t be on school teams; you know that.’

  And as he says the words, I realise: I do know. I’ve been told some variant of it, anyhow. But I hadn’t connected the dots together to apply it to cross-country running.

  ‘But why let us train, then? What is the point?’ Anger courses through me, but my levels are still safely up from running.

  Ben shrugs. ‘I asked last year if I could train with them. Once he saw how I can run he said yes; suppose same applied to letting you come along. I train with the team, helps spur them on to do better, I suppose.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make you angry? You are the best – or maybe, I am – and we can’t compete. That isn’t fair.’

  ‘Maybe I am, maybe you are; maybe I just let you beat me, today,’ Ben teases. He’s not really bothered by any of this, I see.

  But instead of getting more angry I crumple inside myself. I feel like Phoebe in Gianelli’s drawing: isolated, and alone. Even Ben, for all his wanting to find out what happened to Tori, doesn’t seem to notice how things are run, how unfair it all is.

  Ben asks if I want to train before Group again on Thursday: train for what? But I say yes just as the bell rings for next class. I’m a sight: my hair is soaked to my head, my clothes stuck to my back, and no time to use the gym showers. No one will want to sit next to me in English.

  No change there, then.

  Mrs Ali corners me at the end of day.

  She smiles her gentle smile, her eyes are warm. A cold shiver goes up my spine.

  ‘Kyla, dear, we need to have a talk.’ We stay in the classroom after the other students leave. My English teacher spots Mrs Ali and, muttering something about a cup of tea, makes an exit.

  ‘How are things, dear?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, shifting miserably in my damp clothes, cold now that the warmth of the run is long gone.

  ‘I see. Are you having problems coping with anything?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘Well, listen a moment. I see a potential problem. That is you, and your friend Ben.’

  I shift, uncomfortable in my seat. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now dear, you’ve only been out of hospital, for what: three weeks?’

  ‘Twenty-two days.’

  ‘Just over three weeks, then. Now, I know Ben is a good looking boy, and a decent one, too, by all accounts.’

  I flush, beginning to see where this is going.

  ‘But you know, dear, that you need to concentrate on school, on your family, on integrating into your community. Not on a boy.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Can I go now?’

  She sighs. ‘Kyla, I am also well aware that exce
ssive exercise is a way to overcome the monitoring effects of your Levo. In future, you are not to run the school track with Ben at lunch. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ I say.

  ‘You may go.’

  Stunned, I head for Jazz’s car. More confused than anything else. Ben. I feel a pang. I can see that I won’t be seeing much of him at school any more. As far as the running goes, if I can’t get on school teams anyhow, why bother? Though she didn’t mention Sunday training. Maybe she doesn’t know about it.

  Is it me being with Ben that is Mrs Ali’s problem? Or the ‘excessive exercising’. At hospital, the nurses told me to run on the treadmills as a coping strategy, to keep my levels up. Does she want me to crash?

  Jazz’s car isn’t parked in the usual place, but I spot it up ahead. He has pulled out of the student car park to queue to the exit, but the cars aren’t moving. What is going on? He and Amy get out when they see me approach.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asks.

  ‘I got cornered by Mrs Ali.’

  She shudders. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Peachy,’ I say, about to add more, but then get distracted by Jazz.

  He isn’t listening, I can tell. His eyes are fixed on something behind us, the smile has fallen from his face, and as I start to turn to look, he puts an arm on both of our shoulders to push us towards the car.

  ‘Get in. Now,’ he says, and yanks the door open.

  I climb in and twist to see out the window. Gianelli is walking past us on the footpath along the car park, flanked either side by Lorders. Another walks behind. They are heading towards a black van double parked by the school buses, blocking the exit. Gianelli stumbles; one yanks on his arm and pulls him to his feet, and they continue on.

  None of the buses have left, even though I was late getting out. Students are waiting, but the bus doors are shut.

  There are Lorders scattered about the bus bays. In black vests. Armed. A dozen or so of them; maybe a thousand students.

  We all watch, as Gianelli – one old man, an artist, who stood up and protested in his own way – is shoved towards the van side door. His head bangs on the roof, he falls and the Lorder plants a boot in to get him through the door. It is slammed shut.

  No one does anything; no one says anything. I don’t, either.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  * * *

  ‘I wonder what he did? It must have been bad.’ Amy seems fascinated and not remotely upset. ‘Wasn’t he your art teacher?’

  ‘He is my art teacher,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I don’t think he is any more. They’ve never marched someone off in front of everyone like that before, have they?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ I say, but Amy persists.

  ‘Come on, you must have heard something. Tell us.’

  ‘That’s enough, Amy,’ Jazz says.

  Amy looks startled. ‘What’s it to you?’ she says.

  I take off. I’d been roped in to going for a walk with them when we got home, never mind that I want to be alone in my room. But Mum said they couldn’t go on their own, and here I am.

  But no one said we couldn’t walk some distance apart, did they? I race ahead, needing the speed, needing to run. It is the same footpath I went on that first walk with Amy and Jazz, three weeks ago today. Is that really all? It seems much longer ago than that. That day it was all a wonder: the woods, the trees, the fresh green smells. Then, I didn’t know about Lorders, didn’t know Ben. Didn’t know about missing persons. The list of things of which I was ignorant was so long. Is it, still?

  I can’t stop seeing Gianelli’s head hit the roof of the van, him slumping to the ground. That Lorder kicking him like a sack of potatoes into the van. All because he drew a picture of Phoebe. Now he is missing, like she is; like Tori, too. Where is he, now? Where are all of them?

  I run up to the lookout, run back half-way, then start walking back to the top. Despite the dark thoughts my Levo is safely masked by excessive exercise up and down a hill.

  I can’t understand why they took Gianelli. All he did was draw Phoebe. It’s not like it is a secret that the Lorders took her; they yanked her out of a class, didn’t they?

  And there couldn’t have been any more public way to take Gianelli; there’s no hiding what happened to him.

  Inside, a whisper: maybe, that is the point.

  Gianelli’s minute of silence for Phoebe, his draw something you care about, then drawing her, himself. These things all said that her being taken was wrong. He had to be punished for disagreeing with the government’s actions. Doing what they did in front of all the students shouted loud and clear, without using words: we are in control. We can do as we will. If they did it as a secret, what would be the point?

  ‘Hello, Slater.’

  I jump, so absorbed in my thoughts that I paid no attention to my surroundings. My feet had me at the lookout point again, but this time, I wasn’t alone.

  A man leans on a tree overlooking the path. Standing in shadows but visible enough if I’d been using my eyes outwards instead of in. I flush, realising he could have been watching my ascent for ages, that I’d just walked past him with no notice. That he was now between me, and Jazz and Amy.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ He smiles and it isn’t a nice smile. Greasy hair, an unhealthy complexion, both too pale and blotchy red on his cheeks and nose. He doesn’t look the sort to be walking footpaths. His face is somehow familiar, but who is he…? Ah, yes: the bricklayer. I stared at him building a garden wall in the village, then had nightmares of brick towers.

  ‘Isn’t this a lucky coincidence?’ he says. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Come and sit down.’ The way he says coincidence makes me think it is nothing of the sort. Has he been watching, following?

  He walks across to sit on the log where Amy and Jazz rested the last time I came up here. I don’t move, and look back down the path. Shouldn’t they be here by now?

  ‘I won’t bite,’ he says, and smiles again. ‘I just want to talk to you about my niece. I think you knew her: Phoebe Best.’

  ‘Phoebe? Do you know where she is?’ I say, and step towards him.

  ‘Come on. Sit down, and I’ll tell you.’ He pats the log with his hand.

  I hesitate, then perch on one end of the log, leaving as much space between us as possible.

  ‘Now, you know you have to get closer to talk about these things. I can’t shout, can I? The trees may have ears, eh.’ He laughs and spits on the ground.

  I shift a little closer.

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Is Phoebe all right?’

  ‘In a minute. I want to talk to you about something else, first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was your cat, wasn’t it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Day ‘fore she disappeared, I dropped Phoebe at the vets with some cat she picked up. She was always getting strays, or forest creatures to look after. Daft girl.’

  I don’t say anything, and look back down the path again. Where are they?

  ‘Now Phoebe told me the cat belonged to some Slater Slut, one she had words with even though I told her that was dangerous. And for some crazy reason, she wanted to give her back the cat. Then, the very next day, Phoebe doesn’t come home from school. Now, what do you know about that?’

  I jump to my feet.

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t you want to talk about Phoebe?’

  Every instinct screams run. But some calm part inside waits, stands there. Needs to hear what he has to say.

  ‘Nice to me, Phoebe was. She’s gone now. It is your fault. You said something to the Lorders, and they—’

  ‘No! I didn’t!’ I shout. Run. I turn and bolt down the path; hearing and feeling the movement behind that says he chases.

  But I just reach the first bend in the path when voices float up: Amy and Jazz are close by. At last.

  They emerge around the corner,
arms entwined. Obviously over whatever argument they had. I almost crash straight into them. Jazz steadies me with a hand on my arm. My eyes are wide.

  Jazz frowns. ‘Is everything all right, Kyla?’ he says, and looks up the way I came.

  I spin around, but no one is there.

  Amy links her arm in mine. ‘I’m sorry I went on about Gianelli. Jazz explained to me that you were upset about him.’ She says the words but I see she doesn’t really get it.

  Jazz looks at me curiously. I can tell he knows something is up, but he doesn’t ask, just lets Amy prattle on. We walk down the path back to the village.

  A van is parked at the side where the footpath joins the road: Best Builders painted down the side. And it’s him, in the front seat: Phoebe’s uncle. The window is down; he winks, then whistles as we walk past. Jazz scowls, and we carry on up the road; laughter follows behind us.

  ‘Who is he?’ I ask.

  ‘That waste of space is Wayne Best,’ Jazz says. ‘Keep clear, he’s a freak.’ Advice I plan to follow.

  Home, at last. Amy runs inside the house to ask if Jazz can stay for dinner; when I try to follow, Jazz tugs at my shoulder.

  ‘What?’ I say, expecting questions about what spooked me at the lookout, and not sure what to say.

  He waits for the door to shut. ‘Mac wants to see you,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Next Monday. We’ll go up after school, and I’ll take Amy off for a walk again. All right?’

  But before I have a chance to even think what to say, let alone to say it, Amy opens the door. She shakes her head. ‘Mum says not tonight; another time?’

  Jazz looks relieved to get off staying for dinner; Amy is oblivious. How does she not see things for what they are, right in front of her eyes? I go in so they can say goodbye.

  ‘So, how was school today?’ Mum asks the room at large while she ladles food on to plates. Since Dad doesn’t go to school, I’m assuming she expects Amy or me to answer.

  I look at Amy, hoping she’ll fill the space. But she just shrugs; annoyed, most likely, that Jazz wasn’t invited to stay for dinner.