Slated Page 9

  They stop a few students at the exit, and take them to one side. The students go pale and everyone avoids their eyes. Maybe, they weren’t fulfilling their potential.

  Maybe Tori wasn’t, either.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  He spreads white stuff – cement? – with a metal thing like a pie spatula across the top row, then, one at a time, plonks bricks on top. Wipes cement that oozes out between the bricks, smoothes it around between them. Then starts on another row.

  I stare. He glances up a few times, keeps working, placing the bricks one after another.

  I know I’m staring, and that you shouldn’t stare at people: they generally don’t like it. But I can’t help myself.

  Brick after brick. It is five rows off the ground now.

  If I stand here much longer, there will be trouble. Mum is probably timing how long it should take me to mail the letter still clutched in my hand at the post box on the corner of the next street. The first time I’ve been allowed to go anywhere on my own. It will also be the last time if I don’t get on with it, most likely.

  He looks up again, sits back on his haunches. About thirty years old, in blue overalls covered in streaks of paint, cement, grime. Greasy hair. He spits on the ground.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  I jump.

  ‘You want something, darling?’ He grins as his eyes focus on my wrist, my Levo, then slide back up to my face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, and dash across the street and around the corner, hearing him laugh behind me.

  I post the letter and cross back again. There is a white van parked where he works, with Best Builders painted across it. He is still placing bricks one after another, building a garden wall.

  He whistles when he sees me and I keep walking, cheeks burning, home.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Mum says, perched on the front step. Watching, she’d waved as soon as I turned the corner to our street.

  ‘Nothing; just walking.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ I head for the stairs.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  I turn. ‘To do some homework,’ I lie.

  ‘Well, all right. Diligent little student, aren’t you? Dinner will be in an hour.’

  In my room I shut the door and grab my sketch pad, hands shaking. My Levo starts to drop: 4.4…. 4.2…

  And I start drawing a wall. Brick after brick from the ground up. My pencil moves fast and then faster; my Levo stops falling, then creeps back up to 5. I must finish the wall, and I must draw it with my right hand for it to be correct. After everything today: Tori returned, Lorders in Assembly, Lorders in my dream. Somehow I know that as long as I build the wall, everything will be fine.

  Green trees blue sky white clouds green trees blue sky white clouds…

  ‘Not the most interesting subject.’

  I jump. Amy: somehow she must have opened the door, crossed the room and looked over my shoulder, all without me hearing a sound.

  I snap my sketch pad shut, and shrug. Calmer, now that the drawing is finished: the bricks cover every space on the page. Somehow, this is very important.

  Why?

  I almost forget about the wall during dinner. The surprise announcement from Mum that she and Dad have decided, Slated or not, Amy is old enough to see Jazz if she wants. Washing up, which I am starting to hate now the novelty has worn off. Homework – real homework, this time.

  But before I go to sleep I pull out the drawing, checking there are no gaps in the wall, no imperfections that can be got through. By what, I do not know. I shade in around the edges and finally put it down, close my eyes. Seeking blankness, nothingness, sleep.

  But all I see are bricks being slapped in place, one after another.

  Bricks…cement…

  Wall.

  Pain fills my legs, my chest. There is no going on, not for me. I collapse on the sand.

  It doesn’t matter how he shouts or threatens or pleads, nothing he can do to me will matter soon.

  It’s getting closer.

  He kneels and holds me and looks in my eyes. ‘Never forget who you are. It’s time. Quick, now! Put up the wall.’

  Closer.

  So I build it, brick by brick; row by row. A high tower all around.

  ‘Never forget who you are,’ he shouts, and shakes me, hard, as I put the last brick – clink – into place. It cuts out all light.

  All there is now, is blackness, and sound.

  Horrible screams split my skull. Terror and pain, like an animal backed in a corner. Facing death.

  Or something worse.

  It is a while before I realise.

  It is me.

  Then, it is as if I step through a kaleidoscope; everything shifts and changes. Grasses tickle my bare feet. Children’s voices sound through trees, but I lay down, hidden in the long grass, and watch clouds drift across the sky. I don’t want to play today.

  Gradually the clouds and the grass drift away. I open my eyes, dreaming over for tonight. I won’t shut them again.

  It worked, once again – going to my Happy Place in the middle of a nightmare.

  But this time, I hadn’t wanted to leave it, no matter how horrible. I was sure I was about to find out something, something important. As if seeing bricks cemented into place today, one after another to form a wall, somehow triggered something deep inside. Some recognition, a trail that if followed may help me finally understand who or what I am, what is wrong with me.

  What was chasing? Who was the man? Never forget who you are, he said.

  But I have.

  Most of all: why – and how – was I building a wall?

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  * * *

  It feels strange to be heading back to the hospital, the first time since I left. That day I was so scared to leave its walls and venture into the wider world: it feels eons ago, a whole other lifetime, yet is more like days.

  But we might not make it in time for my 11 am appointment with Dr Lysander. In fact, we might not make it at all. Amy has the map out looking for alternatives, and Mum is cursing under her breath and flicking between radio stations for traffic reports.

  ‘Twenty minutes it has taken us to go the last mile. We might as well turn around,’ Mum says.

  ‘What if we get off at the next exit?’ Amy suggests. She’d been so keen to come today, she’d somehow convinced Mum that if she did she might be able to meet Dr Lysander. She didn’t want to lose her chance now.

  Mum turns off the radio. ‘No reports.’ She frowns. ‘I don’t like this. Something is going on. Amy, find my phone, and call Dad.’

  Amy finds it in Mum’s bag, and pushes buttons on it as I watch, surprised. Mobile telephones are forbidden to anyone under the age of twenty-one. Maybe it is all right because Mum is next to her and told her to do it?

  ‘There’s no answer. Should I leave a message?’

  ‘Yes. Tell him where we’re stuck, and ask him to call.’

  We crawl along, up a gradual incline. A few helicopters fly overhead. We get close to the top of the hill, then stop. Sirens sound, and black vans dash past on the hard shoulder.

  The phone rings; Mum answers.

  ‘I see… All right…. Fine. Bye.’

  She hangs up. ‘There are some road checks up ahead. Nothing to worry us I should think.’

  The traffic starts moving again, slowly. We reach the top of the hill. On the other side of the M25 the traffic is stationary. We inch along, and stop again. There is a swarm of men dressed in black like hospital guards, stopping and searching cars on both sides. We get waved on.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Lorders,’ Amy says.

  I snap around to look again: they are not in grey suits, but black trousers and long black shirts, with some sort of vest on top. They are dressed just like the hospital guards: does this mean they are Lorders, too?

  I feel ill, and finally ask the question I have bee
n avoiding.

  ‘What are Lorders?’

  Mum turns, eyebrows raised. ‘You know, Law and Order Agents: they track gangs and terrorists. They’re looking for someone.’

  They must really want to find them to be stopping and searching every car on a motorway.

  ‘But are they the same as the ones in grey suits at the show, and at school?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, they were at the show; I can’t imagine why. They usually wear grey suits, but dress in black when they are in operations: counter-terrorism mostly, these days. Used to be gangs. But are there Lorders at school?’ Mum says, frowning a little. ‘Amy, is that so?’

  Amy nods. ‘Sometimes they come to Assemblies. They’re not always there; just now and then. More so lately.’

  There are fields sloping up to our left, trees above. I catch a movement: a slight flash, as if the sun caught something glass or metal.

  ‘There’s someone up there,’ I say.

  ‘Where?’ Mum asks.

  ‘In those woods,’ I say, and point. ‘I saw a flash.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She takes out her phone again, but then a helicopter appears where I’d pointed, and men run from below up to the trees. She puts it down.

  Rat-a-tat-tat sounds loud in the air.

  ‘What are they doing?’ My eyes open wide. ‘Are they shooting at someone?’

  ‘Flashing Fodders,’ Amy says, and sniffs. ‘Freedom or die they want? Die it is.’

  The traffic soon starts moving again, and Mum calls the hospital to tell them we’ll be late.

  We approach New London Hospital the same way we left it, almost two weeks ago; it unwinds in reverse before my eyes. Outlying areas are again bustling with people and traffic; offices and flats teem with activity. Closer to our destination there are more guards on corners, dressed in black: Lorders. The crowds seem to open around them, as if they are surrounded by an invisible bubble that must not be crossed.

  Just as the guard towers of the hospital come into view, there is a roadblock: more Lorders. We sit in the queue to get through, between a truck and a bus, and I can’t stop thinking of my dream: a whistle, a flash, an explosion. My eyes hunt side to side but find nothing suspicious. They are searching vehicles; we inch forward. But then just like on the motorway, they wave us through without stopping. This time I notice the Lorders focus on Mum, then touch their left shoulder with their right hand, then hold their palms forward.

  ‘Why don’t they stop us like everybody else?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes being my father’s daughter comes in handy,’ Mum says, and I remember Wam the Man, who crushed the gangs that terrorised the country nearly thirty years ago. ‘Sometimes, it doesn’t,’ she adds, so quietly I almost don’t hear.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Must you ask so many questions?’ she snaps. Then sighs. ‘Sorry, Kyla. We can talk about this another time, all right?’

  ‘Why do you play hide and seek in your dreams?’ Dr Lysander leans back, hands crossed in front. Observes and waits.

  I’d worked out early on with Dr Lysander that I had to give her something real. I have never told her about the beach, the fear, the running: in various forms, it is a recurring dream I’ve had ever since I first became aware at the hospital. But if I don’t tell her something true, she knows.

  It’s not just that she is good at reading facial expressions, involuntary gestures, eye movement, blinking. All the usual things you can learn to observe. But with this Levo on my wrist monitoring emotions, it is plain and logged. All she has to do is scan it, and she can see if I am telling the truth or lying. Though Dr Lysander is confident she can see everything without resorting to such devices. Her confidence is justified.

  Even so, deception isn’t impossible, just difficult. Like being a magician and attracting attention away from the very thing she would like to examine, if it is noticed. Trying not to give the trick away.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ I say.

  Dr Lysander sits back. She will often answer questions, if you dare to ask them. But it is best to check first as she isn’t always in the mood.

  She tilts her head forward. Permission granted.

  ‘Why the fascination with hide and seek? It’s a happy dream; I’m just playing. Nothing wrong is happening.’

  ‘What could it represent?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You hide from others: it is a game you are playing, you see? Why do you hide? What do you hide?’

  Oh. I think about it for a moment. Am I hiding something? Not that I know.

  Leaving the hospital is much like the last time, the day I met my family. We spiral up out of the underground car park to a gate; Amy’s and my Levos are scanned, guards have a quick look in the car and finally raise the barrier. Relief washes over me as we leave the fences and guards behind. The whole hospital complex felt heavy and dense around me today, as if it was crushing the air out of my lungs. How did I live there for so long?

  And the guards: they are Lorders, too. When I lived behind those walls I just accepted the towers with their guns, the barred windows, the guards that patrolled outside with dogs. The high fences.

  Is it all to keep people in, or out?

  I stare out the window all the way back from the hospital, Mum driving and busy with her own thoughts, while Amy sulks, upset that her hero Dr Lysander wouldn’t take time to speak to her and just brushed her off.

  We are going home. Is it mine? It is becoming familiar; comfortable, most of the time. I no longer wake in the morning unsure where I am, and can find my way around in the dark. Going in through hospital security and behind the bars and guard towers felt not comforting today, but claustrophobic: it made me want to jump out of the car and run all the way back to the country. Away from these streets with guards, the rushing crowds of people. Motorways and roadblocks with black vans and guns.

  At least Dr Lysander agreed with Nurse Penny, and told Mum to let me do more stuff on my own, now; she said I can explore, go walking alone if I want. But Mum was less than pleased when Dr Lysander said she wants to see me not once a fortnight, but every single week: every Saturday we’ll have to make this trek.

  We are nearly home before I remember. Why did Mum call to ask Dad about what was happening on the road? It wasn’t on the radio news, then or now.

  Why would he know?

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  * * *

  Sunday morning the sky is a brilliant blue, but so cold my breath is a white shroud about my face. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself as I wait for the bus that will take us for cross-country training. More students arrive, and a teacher with a clipboard.

  The bus pulls into the school, followed by a car behind: Ben. I wait for him while the others climb on the bus.

  Ben’s smile is surprised. ‘I didn’t know you run,’ he says.

  It was that horrible closed in feeling at the hospital yesterday that made me decide to come. I know why Ben runs; I used to, too, on the treadmills in the hospital gym. Endorphins, they are called: chemicals released in your brain when you run and run, past the point of exhaustion, past the point of aching muscles. Into a zone where you don’t feel what you are doing to your body any more, just exhilaration coursing through and you never want to stop; everything inside becomes calm and clear, in icy focus. And maybe, just a little, I want to run because of my dream, when I can’t run any more and collapse. I want to be able to run away from that.

  Mum took a little convincing that I was serious and wanted to go, and had to be reminded that Dr Lysander said to let me do things on my own. Amy just smirked and teased me about Ben when Mum wasn’t listening.

  The cross-country coach, Mr Ferguson, gives me a funny look as we get on the bus. ‘Not another groupie,’ he says, and rolls his eyes at Ben. Some of the other boys smirk and I start to get what he means.

  ‘I can run,’ I say, and scowl at the pink rising in my cheeks.
/>   ‘Well, we’ll see, little lass,’ he says, and laughs.

  There are a dozen or so boys and almost as many girls. They all seem to know each other, and ‘little’ I am, smaller than any of the others.

  I slip into a bus seat by the window; Ben sits next to me. As the bus pulls away from school, he leans down and whispers in my ear: ‘Is it true?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you just here because I am?’

  ‘No!’ I say, indignant, and punch him in the arm.

  ‘Ow!’ He rubs it. ‘I was kind of hoping you were.’

  I look away, confused. Does he mean it? What about Tori? I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

  The ten kilometre course is multi-terrain through Chiltern countryside: footpaths over fields and woodland, with a few hills, ditches and creeks to scramble across. Not exactly a treadmill, and I start to wonder how I’ll be. They’ve all done this course before. Ferguson shows me a map, and says there are course markers – small orange flags – all the way. I scan the map, several times: it only takes moments to commit the route to memory.

  The boys start, first: I watch them take off across the field. We must wait ten minutes. I do stretches and warm up. Ferguson walks over.

  ‘You haven’t been to any of the other training sessions,’ he says.

  ‘No. I just joined the school a week ago; I couldn’t.’

  ‘Fair enough. Just watch your step, and pace yourself, all right? Ten kilometres is a long way to go. I get in shit every time I have to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Your concern is touching,’ I say.

  Surprise crosses his face, and he laughs. ‘Ha! You’re all right. Let’s see what you can do, eh?’

  A few of the girls look less than pleased.

  He starts us off.

  We run across fields at the beginning; unused to the uneven ground, I take it easy, getting into a rhythm. We’re spread out with me somewhere towards the back of the middle, the boys well out of sight.