Slated Page 2

  Amy slips an arm across my shoulders as Mum follows Dad inside. ‘She doesn’t mean it; she’s just cranky that your first dinner is going to be late. Anyhow, you haven’t been in a car before, have you? How should you know?’

  She pauses and I don’t know what to say, again, but this time it is because she is being nice. So I try a smile, a small one, but it is for real this time.

  Amy smiles back and hers is wider. ‘Have a look around before we go in?’ she says.

  Where the car is parked to the right of the house is all small stones that crunch and move underfoot as we walk. A square of green grass covers the front garden, a massive tree – oak? – to the left. Its leaves are a mix of yellow, orange and red, some spilling messily underneath. Leaves fall in autumn I remind myself, and what is it now? The 13th of September. There are a few red and pink straggly flowers either side of the front door, petals dropping on the ground. And, all around me, so much space. So quiet after the hospital, and London. I stand on the grass and breathe the cool air in deep. It tastes damp and full of life and the ending of life, like those fallen leaves.

  ‘Come in?’ Amy says, and I follow her through the front door into the hall. Leading off it is a room with sofas and lamps, tables. A huge flat black screen dominates one wall. A TV? It is much bigger than the one they had in recreation at the hospital, not that they let me near it after the first time. Watching made my nightmares worse.

  This room leads to another: there are long work surfaces, with cupboards above and below. And a massive oven that Mum is bending over just now, putting a pan inside.

  ‘Go to your room and unpack before dinner, Kyla,’ Mum says, and I jump.

  Amy takes my hand. ‘This way,’ she says, and pulls me back to the hall. I follow her up the stairs, to another hall with three doors and more stairs going up.

  ‘We’re on this floor, Mum and Dad upstairs. See, this is my door.’ She points to the right. ‘That one at the end is the bathroom, we’ll share. They have their own one upstairs. And this is your room.’ She points left.

  I look at Amy.

  ‘Go on.’

  The door is part open; I push it and go in.

  Much bigger than my hospital room. My bag is already on the floor where Dad must have put it. There is a dressing table with drawers and a mirror above it, a wardrobe next. No sink. A big wide window that looks out over the front of the house.

  Twin beds.

  Amy comes in and sits on one of them. ‘We thought we’d put two in here to start with; I can stay with you at night if you want me to. The nurse said it might be a good idea, until you get settled.’

  She doesn’t say the rest but I can tell. They must have told them. In case I have nightmares. I often do and if no one is there fast enough when I wake, I drop too low and my Levo knocks me out.

  I sit on the other bed. There is something round, black and furry on it; I reach out a hand, then stop.

  ‘Go on. That is Sebastian, our cat. He is very friendly.’

  I touch his fur lightly with a fingertip. Warm, and soft.

  He stirs, and the ball unwinds as he stretches out his paws, puts his head back and yawns.

  I have seen pictures of cats before, of course. But this is different. He is so much more than a flat image: living and breathing fishy breath, silky fur rippling as he stretches, big yellow-green eyes staring back into mine.

  ‘Meow,’ he says and I jump.

  Amy gets up, leans across.

  ‘Stroke him, like this,’ she says, and runs a hand along his fur from his head down to his tail. I copy her, and he makes a sound, a deep rumbling that vibrates from his throat through his body.

  ‘What is that?’

  Amy smiles.

  ‘He’s purring. It means he likes you.’

  Later it is dark out the window, and Amy is asleep across the room. Sebastian still purrs faintly beside me when I stroke him. The door is part open for the cat, and sounds drift up the stairs. Clattering kitchen noises. Voices.

  ‘She’s a quiet little thing, isn’t she.’ Dad.

  ‘You can say that again. Nothing like Amy was: she wouldn’t stop giggling and talking from the first day she came through the door, would she?’

  ‘Still won’t,’ he says, and laughs.

  ‘She is a different girl, all right. A bit odd if you ask me; those great green eyes just stare and stare.’

  ‘Oh, she is quite sweet. Give her a chance to get settled.’

  ‘It is her last chance, isn’t it.’

  ‘Hush.’

  And a door shuts downstairs and I hear no more. Just a faint murmur.

  I hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital. Not that I wanted to stay there forever, but within those walls, I knew where I was. How I fit, what was expected.

  Here all is unknown.

  But it isn’t as scary as I thought. Already I can see Amy is lovely. Dad seems all right. I’m guessing Sebastian will be better than chocolate to pull me back from the edge if I get low. And the food is much better. My first Sunday roast dinner. We do this every week, Amy said.

  Dinner and, not a shower, but a bath – a whole hot tub to soak in – had me at nearly 7 by bedtime.

  Mum thinks I am odd. I must remember not to stare at her so much.

  Sleep settles around me and her words drift through my brain.

  Last chance…

  Have I had other chances?

  Last chance…

  I run.

  Waves claw at the sand under my feet as I force one foot to pound after the other, again and again. Ragged breath sucked in and out until my lungs might burst, and still I run. Golden sand gives way under my feet and stretches on and on as far as my eyes can see, and still I scrabble up and slip down and run.

  Terror snaps at my heels.

  It’s getting closer.

  I could turn and face it, see what it is.

  I run.

  ‘Ssssh, I’ve got you.’

  I struggle then realise it is Amy whose arms are around me.

  The door opens and light streams in from the hall.

  ‘What is going on?’ Mum says.

  Amy answers. ‘Just a bad dream, but you’re all right, now. Aren’t you, Kyla?’

  My heart rate is slowing; vision, clearing. I push her away.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

  I say the words, but part of me is still running.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  I drift through trees, spin and sprawl down on grass and daisies on the ground, alone. I stare at clouds drifting across the sky, making half known shapes and faces. Names slip away if I grasp at them, so I let them wash past: just lie still and be me.

  It is time. Like mist I bleed away until I am gone. Trees and sky are replaced by the darkness of closed eyelids, tickling grass by solid bed.

  Quiet. Why is it so quiet? My body knows it is later than 5 am but no buzzer has sounded, no breakfast trolleys clang up and down the hall.

  I lie very still, hold my breath, and listen.

  Gentle, even breathing. Close by. Did I black out last night, is there a Watcher in my room? If so, it sounds like they sleep rather than watch.

  There are faint cheerful sounds in the other direction, a distant rise and fall, like music. Birds?

  Something warm by my feet.

  I’m not in my room at hospital. My eyes snap open as I remember.

  Not a Watcher at all across the room: Amy, sound asleep and breathing deeply, like Sebastian at my feet. She is a new sort of the same thing, maybe.

  I slip quiet to the window, pull the curtain.

  Dawn.

  Red streaks cross the sky, pockets of pink in wisps of cloud, like corrugated twists of metal, light shining through on grass and wet leaves, in wild splashes of colour. Orange, gold, red and all in between.

  Beautiful.

  My hospital window faced west. Sunsets I’ve seen, mostly blocked by buildings, true, but never a sunrise.

  The birds
have friends, and the faint song from earlier becomes more as they join in. I push the window open wide, lean out and breathe. The air is fresh, no metallic or disinfectant smells. Damp greenness, of garden below and fields beyond that shimmer in the early light.

  And somehow, I know. The city was never mine. I was – am – a country girl. Sure of it like breathing, certain this is a place that is more like home to me.

  Not like home, it is home: yesterday, today, how many more future days I do not know.

  But before I became who I am now, too. Dr Lysander says I fancy things in my subconscious, that there is no way to know if they are true or not. Applying sense to the unknown to order it, just the way I draw diagrams, maps. Faces.

  Below, the glistening grass, fallen leaves in swirling patterns of so many rich colours, and most especially the fading flowers along the house, all beckon. All yearn to be captured, ordered, to become lines on paper. I pull the window in quietly and slip across the room. Amy lies silent and still, chest movements slight and even.

  Two green eyes watch from the end of my bed. ‘Meow!’

  ‘Ssssh. Don’t wake Amy,’ I whisper, and run a hand across Sebastian’s fur. He stretches and yawns.

  Where are my sketching things? Amy unpacked my bag yesterday afternoon. I was too fuzzy headed to get involved, all the new things and people taking too much attention.

  I open one drawer, then another; carefully and quietly, until I find them: my folder of drawings, sketch pad and pencils.

  I take them out and underneath spy chocolates, given to me as a parting gift by the tenth floor nurses that last morning. Just yesterday, I realise, surprised. It seems longer ago than that; already part of my past.

  My levels are 6.1. Not low at all. I don’t need a chocolate. But who needs an excuse? I open the lid.

  ‘Interesting choice for breakfast,’ Amy says, then sits up and yawns. ‘Are you an early bird?’

  I look at her blankly.

  ‘Do you always wake up early?’

  I consider. ‘I think so,’ I say, finally. ‘Though that could be because at the hospital you have no choice.’

  ‘Oh, I remember that. Horrible morning buzzer. Breakfast by six.’ She shudders.

  ‘Want one?’ I hold out the box.

  ‘Oooh, tempting. Maybe later, when I’m more awake. What is that?’ She points at the folder in my other hand.

  ‘My drawings.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  I hesitate. I rarely show them to anyone, though Dr Lysander insisted on checking through them now and then.

  ‘You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.’

  I sit next to her and open the folder, pull out the sheets of paper. Amy exclaims at the one on top. A self-portrait. Me, but different: half as I am in the mirror, the other half skin missing, eyeball hanging from an empty socket.

  ‘May I?’ she holds out a hand, and I pass the drawing to her.

  But that wasn’t on top before. I start flipping through the sheets.

  ‘You’re so good, this is amazing.’

  Not enough of them, not as thick a sheaf as it should be. Where are they?

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Some of my drawings are missing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod. And look through them more slowly.

  Those of me, my room, imagined people and places, are present and accounted for. Many others are not.

  ‘I’m sure. Almost half of them are gone.’

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘All sorts of things. Nurses. My floor of the hospital, maps of different areas, rooms. Dr Lysander. And—’

  ‘Did you say, Dr Lysander?’ Amy’s eyes open wide.

  I nod, still looking through the sheets, convinced if I look hard enough, they will all be there.

  ‘The Dr Lysander? Do you actually know her?’

  I stop looking. They’re not here. Gone.

  Bzzzz. A warning from my wrist: 4.3 and falling.

  Amy slips an arm across my shoulders. I’m shaking, but not from cold. Who would do this: take the only things I have that are mine.

  ‘You can make more drawings. Can’t you?’

  3.9 and falling.

  ‘Kyla! Look at me.’

  Amy gives me a shake. ‘Look,’ she repeats.

  I tear my eyes from my self-portrait, from the dead eye in the socket. To Amy. Worry and fear for me in her eyes, whoever I am.

  3.4…

  ‘Kyla, you can draw me. Do it, now.’

  She pulls the sketch pad from the back, puts a pencil in my hand.

  I draw.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  ‘Can I see?’ Amy asks. She cranes her head forward, but I angle the sketch away.

  ‘Not yet. Hold still, or I won’t be able to finish it.’

  ‘Bossy thing.’

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ I say, glancing back at Amy and then down to my drawing, for a few final strokes of my pencil.

  Amy smiles. ‘Are you level?’

  I turn my wrist to check. ‘Yes. 5.2 and steady.’

  The door opens but I don’t look up.

  ‘Are you girls ready for breakfast?’ Mum says.

  ‘Nearly,’ I say, looking at Amy one more time, then at the sketch in my hands. A final stroke, there. ‘Done,’ I say, and put the pencil down.

  ‘Let me see!’ Amy springs up, and Mum walks over.

  ‘That is so good,’ Amy says.

  Mum’s mouth is in a round ‘o’ of surprise. ‘That is Amy, you have captured her, just so. I want to frame this and hang it on the wall. May I?’

  I smile. ‘Yes.’

  Breakfast is pancakes. Eaten with butter melting in streaks, and syrup, or strawberry jam. I try both, together: very nice.

  ‘Don’t think you’ll be eating like this every day,’ Mum says. My sketch of Amy is on the fridge with a magnet instead of a frame on the wall, and Mum has reverted to her pointy self.

  ‘Amy, you’ve got twenty minutes before the bus and you don’t look even a bit ready to me.’

  ‘Can’t I stay home with Kyla today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Work, of course. Where I should be, but had to take leave to mind you.’

  I do the math. Amy is going to school, Dad’s at work: that leaves Mum and me for the whole day.

  ‘When can I start school? Can I go today?’

  ‘No.’

  Amy explains. ‘You’ve got to be assessed by the area nurse first; she has to think you are ready. Then the school tests you to work out where to put you, what year. Though they’ve sent some books for you to read.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The nurse is dropping in this afternoon to meet you,’ Mum says.

  I vow to act as well adjusted as possible.

  Amy dashes upstairs in a flurry of finding school books, uniform. She is in her last year of A-levels. At nineteen she should be done, at university, studying nursing like she wants to, already. But she needed an extra year to catch up. And she was fourteen when she was Slated. I’m sixteen now. How many extra years of school will I have?

  ‘You can wash up,’ Mum says.

  ‘Wash what?’

  She rolls her eyes.

  ‘The dishes.’

  I stand and look at them on the table.

  She sighs. ‘Pick up the dirty dishes from the table and put them there.’ She points at the worktop next to the sink.

  I carry one plate across and go back for another.

  ‘No! That will take forever. Stack them up. Like this.’

  She stacks plates, pulling out knives and forks and clattering them on the top one, then plonks the lot on the worktop.

  ‘Fill the sink. Add soap, just a little.’ She squeezes a bottle into the sink.

  Bubbles!

  ‘Wash them with this brush.’ She scrubs a brush across the plate. ‘Rinse it under the tap, put it in the rack, like so
. Repeat. Got it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I plunge my hands in the hot water.

  So this is washing up.

  I carefully clean a plate of the sticky remains of pancakes and syrup, rinse it and put it in the rack.

  ‘Pick up the pace or you’ll be there all day.’

  I stop, and look around.

  ‘Pick up what?’

  ‘The pace. It means go faster.’

  Plates, then cups. This isn’t so bad. I speed up and Mum starts wiping them with a towel. Amy rushes down the stairs as I start on the cutlery.

  I gasp, and look down: a thin line of red drips from a knife clasped in my right hand.

  Amy bounds in. ‘Oh no! Kyla.’

  Mum turns and clucks under her breath. She grabs a sheet of kitchen paper.

  ‘Press it against, don’t bleed everywhere.’

  I do, and Amy rubs my shoulder and looks at my Levo: 5.1.

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ Amy asks.

  I shrug. ‘A little,’ I say, and it does, but I ignore the jagged heat that throbs through my hand, and stare, fascinated. Bright red soaks into the kitchen paper, slows, then stops.

  ‘Just a nick,’ Mum says, peeling the paper back to look. ‘The nurse can check it later. She’s all right, Amy. Run or you’ll miss the bus.’

  Mum wraps a bandage around my hand as Amy bounces out the door.

  Mum smiles.

  ‘I forgot to mention, Kyla. Knives are sharp. Don’t hold them by the pointy end.’

  So many things to remember.

  Nurse Penny unwraps my hand later for a look.

  ‘It should be all right without stitches,’ she says. ‘I’ll just put some antiseptic on it. Might sting a bit, mind.’ She splashes some yellow stuff on my hand that smarts and makes my eyes water, then wraps it up again.

  ‘It was weird,’ Mum says, ‘when she cut it. She just stood there looking at the blood running down her hand. No tears, no reaction.’

  ‘Well, she’s probably never cut herself before. Never seen blood like that.’

  Huh. Love it when people talk about me as if I’m not even there.

  ‘It didn’t send her low or anything. And—’