Deviant

by Helen FitzGerald

  THE GRANOCH PROJECT

  1996

  The words leapt off the page. The letters on Becky’s graffiti were not an acronym, and they did not spell chanorg or crahgoh or chonarf or norgach or crohbag.

  GRANOCH.

  She read on. The pilot project was implemented in 1996, in the small town of Granoch, Argyll, Scotland.

  Of course! How could she have forgotten Granoch, the housing estate just north of Holy Loch? Several of her classmates in Dunoon came from this town. Nothing more than four 1960s council house buildings, each twenty-two floors high. The township loomed over an otherwise picturesque area, an ugly reminder of the fractured state of the country. Single-parent families, drug users, alcoholics, the mentally ill, the infirm—all had been moved there from Glasgow in the 1960s. Better conditions improved their lives at first, but then it all fell apart. Isolated, deprived, and disenfranchised, no one in their right mind ever stepped foot inside Granoch.

  Once, Abigail had asked Nieve if she could play with a classmate who lived there, excited at the idea of going all the way up to her flat on the nineteenth floor. Nieve had suggested the friend come to the commune instead. “It’s a terrible shame, but it’s not safe there, darling,” Nieve had said.

  The friend’s mother had said she wasn’t allowed to go for a playdate at the commune either. Part of being “looked after” by the local authority was being shunted off to Granoch Residential School at the age of fourteen for a month or so, a jail-like building with jail-like rules. Funny, perhaps she hadn’t recognized Granoch in the graffiti tease letters because she’d repressed the shit-hole, burying it as deeply in her mind as she possibly could.

  No. It wasn’t funny at all.

  ABIGAIL HAD NEVER HEARD the sound in real life before, but she recognized it immediately. A trigger, clicking ready.

  The cold steel of the barrel sent waves of adrenaline through the back of her neck. She wanted to run, but knew she shouldn’t. She froze.

  “Move and I’ll shoot,” the voice behind her warned.

  “Okay.” Abigail gripped the letter and report, her hands trembling.

  “I … I’m …” The gunman seemed nervous, unsure what to do next. His voice was also strangely high-pitched. “Get down on the ground, face down.”

  Abigail stretched her legs out behind her, and her hands out in front, papers in hand. The torch was still lit, pointing directly at the gunman’s feet. He wore bright orange Adidas trainers with blue stripes.

  “Stay on the ground and count to two hundred …” The voice seemed to run out of steam. “Abigail?”

  She’d seen these shoes before. “Stick? Is that you?”

  Feet on glass. Someone else was in the house. Before Abigail knew it, Stick was hauling her to her feet and dragging her out the front door.

  “This way,” he said. He turned left at the front gate.

  Three men in suits, all with guns, raced out the front door after them.

  “Here!” He grabbed her hand and ran across the road into a dark lane.

  A yellow mini was parked at the end of the long dark alleyway. Tossing the gun in the back of the car, Stick jumped over the door into the driver’s seat. Abigail hurled herself in after him. She tried to grab her seatbelt, but couldn’t find it. Stick screeched left onto the street.

  Abigail found herself wondering why on earth Stick was driving a bright yellow car and wearing luminous orange trainers. If he was involved in all sorts of illegal shenanigans, surely he should wear something more discreet. Stick drove through a red light, groping for her belt with one hand. A black car was following them.

  “Shit, Abigail,” he muttered. “What were you doing there? You’re dead now. We’re all dead now. Where can we go? There’s nowhere safe.”

  “You have a gun!” she yelled.

  “Not real. Water-gun look-alike. Banned now. I mean, you can actually cock it, like you’re about to shoot. You know, even though the hammer doesn’t do anything.”

  The black car was gaining on them. Stick pressed hard on the accelerator, winding his way through wide streets, then narrower ones—eventually reaching an area with tiny lane-ways that backed onto a canal. Car chase scenes in movies (the few she’d seen) bored Abigail. Screeches and near misses, buses turning over, drawbridges opening up at the right or wrong time, fruit stalls smoothied, cop cars bursting into flames … a load of boy nonsense.

  This was not boring.

  Only afterward did it seem like slow motion. Or perhaps it really did happen in slow motion. Certainly time slowed down. Stick’s yelling “Hold on” came out like: “Hooolllllddddd Oooonnn,” facing her as he turned the wheel to the left. There was nothing to hold. She dropped her papers, fumbled around to find something she could grab. She didn’t have her seatbelt on and the swerve almost catapulted her out the window. Left hand on the wheel, Stick grabbed her shoulder with his right and stopped her flying out the side of the car.

  “Belt …” he said, and she reached for it and clicked it in.

  They were heading for a very narrow alleyway. They were going to crash. They were going to die. They lost the side mirrors—the scrape was deafening outside her window. She breathed in and out quickly, and then turned to look behind her. The black car was too wide to follow them. It had ground to a halt. The men inside the car couldn’t open their doors to get out.

  Thank God. As Stick kept driving, Abigail took note of the number plate and said it out loud: “4DMSP38.”

  Stick still had his arm around her, perhaps because she was shaking. Or he was in shock, frozen. Sound and movement returned to normal speed. They drove away from the black car and headed along a waterway.

  “Is this the Venice Canals?” Abigail asked.

  “Yeah,” Stick said. Her question caused him to remove his arm. She wished she’d remained silent.

  “I know where we can go.”

  WHEN BREN FINALLY CAME to the door, he was dressed in shorts and a shirt, which he hadn’t done up. If Abigail hadn’t been preoccupied with the fact that three men with guns were after her and the most beautiful man on earth had just put his arm around her, she might have taken more notice of his really-quite-incredible six-pack.

  “Abigail! Oh, you’ve brought a friend.”

  “This is Stick. I’m sorry … Can we come in?”

  “Um. Sure …”

  “And is there any chance we could park in your garage?”

  THE YELLOW MINI SAFELY tucked away, Abigail and Stick sat at Bren’s kitchen table as he heated up the saucepan of hot toddies he’d made earlier.

  “So,” Bren poured some into cups, a look of amused disbelief on his face, “what you’re saying is that a secret agency …”

  “The Granoch Group,” Stick explained. “It’s made up of guys who were screw-ups as teenagers, like my dad and Becky’s—Abigail’s.” In the bright kitchen light, Stick looked gaunt, like he hadn’t eaten for a while. He was definitely annoyed that Bren seemed so reluctant to believe him. He continued, trying to sound as calm and as sane as possible. “They think they can actually get rid of those screw-up urges with meds. Some kind of guilt, regret, and repentance maybe, I don’t know. I think in Abigail’s dad’s case he felt guilty about a friend who died.”

  Abigail nodded. “Bakes, he told me. Got into drugs and burglary.”

  “Probably one of his reasons for getting involved,” Stick confirmed.

  Bren took a sip of his hot whisky and honey drink. He flashed a weak smile. “Abigail, are you actually buying all this crap?”

  “I am,” she said. “Becky died last week. They say she killed herself but now I’m not sure. Her death wasn’t right. Things aren’t right.”

  “Oh my God—your sister died?” Bren set his mug down and put his arm around her. “You should’ve called me. Of course things don’t seem right when you lose someone you care about. But look at me, look. He’s talking like a nutcase. Who is this guy exactly?”

  “I’m not a nutcase,” Stick said.


  Abigail clung to Bren for a moment. Her life in Glasgow had taught her to be wary, especially of men. Even Billy had seemed charming at first, and all he wanted was to draw her into his junkie brothel. She stared at Stick now. He could be anyone. She already knew he lived two lives. Maybe he lived several. Maybe at least one of them was dangerous and sinister. Shit, she had let her guard down. She was turning into a gullible idiot. And then it dawned on her. Stick could have killed Becky: unrequited love turned to jealous rage. She couldn’t see evil in the eyes that were now pleading with hers to believe him, but this meant nothing. To be a good liar, you must be good at hiding. Maybe Stick didn’t go to the funeral because he was a murderer on the run, which was why men with guns were after him.

  “But you’re suggesting Becky was killed by her own father?” Bren asked Stick.

  It sounds crazy, Abigail thought. The desperate accusations of a guilty psychopath. She noticed that his leg was shaking.

  “No,” Stick said. “He knew what she was up to, but no, he wouldn’t have wanted her to die. He loved her. I think he had other ideas about how to stop her. But he’s not the boss.”

  “Who is the boss?” Bren asked. He almost sounded amused as he sipped his drink again, one arm still around Abigail.

  “I don’t know,” Stick began. “I …”

  It came pouring out of Stick’s mouth in a mad jumble: he wasn’t a nutcase; he and Becky had found out about the Granoch Project six months ago. Stick had been writing an essay when the computer crashed and he’d lost all his work. A random search included an email his dad sent to Grahame about the PhD he did at UC Berkeley on neurological-pharmaceutical intervention to antisocial behavior in monkeys.

  “They’re trying to control us,” he finished.

  Abigail blinked several times. The guy was talking about naughty monkeys. His leg shook faster.

  “Excuse me, but what on earth does your father’s PhD and monkeys have to do with anything?” Bren asked, echoing Abigail’s thoughts.

  “My dad is smart,” Stick spat back. “Smarter than any of us.”

  “A dastardly secret organization!” Bren exclaimed. “Are there code words and hidden headquarters? Abigail, this guy is nuts … you see that, right?”

  Abigail turned to Stick. His forehead was beaded with sweat. But so was hers.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but listen to me,” Stick pleaded. “The Granoch Group thinks they can cure bad behavior. They came up with a tiny implant that you inject into the inner arm. The drug itself is like an anti-depressant—a serotonin reuptake inhibitor—a happy pill, only much stronger, and semi-permanent.” His eyes bored into Abigail’s. “You found something important in the chest, didn’t you? All those years, Becky thought it was empty. I saw you reading something about the Granoch Project. Can I have a look?”

  Abigail swallowed. She handed him the report she’d clung onto since fleeing the ramshackle house. Stick flicked through it and began reading from the second last page.

  “When first tested on 1991 Monkey Group A (Given the implant) varied from Group B (No implant) in the following ways:

  increase in socialization

  increase in cooperation

  decrease in libido

  less aggressive behavior

  “These effects are already apparent in 1996 Human Group A.

  “Further work is required to decrease the size of the implant; to increase the lifespan of the implant from its current level of six years; and to induce the initial effects more rapidly, which currently take an average of two days. It is also necessary to monitor the negative side effects experienced by Monkey Group A and Human Group A, namely weight loss (45%) and in the case of Human Group A, a potentially life-threatening psychosis (2.5%). It is suggested that the other significant side effect—loss of libido (95%)—should be considered a positive outcome and perhaps developed so that sexual urges are reduced even further.”

  The report made Abigail feel queasy. No one, no one, except Abigail herself, should have the right or even capability of reducing her sexual urges. “But, what does any of it have to do with us?” she said, taking the report from him.

  “They had a plan to roll this out,” Stick muttered. “Becky and I were going to expose it.”

  Bren banged the saucepan down on the table. “What are you on right now?”

  “Sorry?” Stick asked.

  “I don’t even know your real name, Stick!” Bren shouted. “Are you acting like Harrison Ford to impress Abigail? Nice job. I can see that it’s working.”

  “This isn’t about Abigail. It’s about Becky. And Abigail knows it.” Stick’s eyes moistened. “Why would Becky have killed herself? Think about it. I’ve never known anyone with such purpose. She didn’t want to die.”

  Abigail blinked between the two of them. Bren had a point. But none of that really mattered. She had all the information she needed now. Either Stick was a madman, or three madmen were after them. Either way, she needed to call the police. As calmly as she could manage, she walked over to the kitchen bench, grabbed the phone, and began to dial 9-1-1.

  The kitchen window collapsed in a burst. Its shards of glass clattered into the sink, a violent tinkling house of cards. At the same moment, Abigail heard a crack on the wall behind her. There was a ringing in her ear. She turned toward Bren, who was staring in wide-eyed horror at a tiny, smoky black hole in his wall. Another whizz and crack: this one closer to her head. Another hole appeared in the wall.

  “Down!” Stick yelled, tackling her.

  Bren dropped his mug and fell to the floor, too. Abigail wriggled free from Stick. On her hands and knees she inched toward Bren, whose face had turned a ghastly white.

  “The police wouldn’t just shoot at us like that,” Stick whispered, his voice shaking. “You have to believe me.”

  Bren gaped at Abigail and nodded. He was thinking what she was. Somebody was trying to kill them, and it wasn’t the cops.

  “I know a way out,” he gasped. “Keep quiet. Follow me.”

  Abigail grabbed her backpack and crawled after Bren, with Stick right behind her, out of the kitchen and to a back door in the living room. “On the count of three follow me.” Bren stood up and gestured for them to do the same. “One … two … three!” He flung the door open, sprinted across the small courtyard garden and jumped the fence that bordered the canal. A small speedboat was moored to a rotted wooden post. Abigail followed, crouching down as she ran. Bren had the engine running even before Abigail and Stick managed to jump in.

  “Move it!” Bren commanded.

  The front of the boat edged skyward with a sudden jolt. Abigail’s butt hit the seat hard, but she didn’t feel any pain. Stick teetered beside Bren at the far end of the boat, near the engine. In a haze of adrenaline, she turned back toward the house. The three men in black suits were now running across the garden and jumping the fence.

  One of them aimed and fired a shot.

  Stick winced. His eyes widened, as if in disbelief. Abigail could only watch, not quite fully processing. He clutched at the side of his belly and fell backward into the water.

  Without thinking, she jumped in after him.

  The dark, lukewarm water closed over her head, heavy with the stink of gasoline from the boat’s engine. She thought she heard Stick gasp, but was suddenly fighting for her life in a panic. I can’t swim. I can’t swim. Becky, where are you now? Her legs and arms were moving in all the wrong ways. She sank, managed to surface once or twice, and then sank again. A strong pair of hands reached under her arms and lifted her back into the boat. She sputtered, choking on the polluted canal water she’d half-breathed, kicking in protest.

  “No! No, put me down. We can’t leave him!”

  Bren gunned the engine.

  Her wet feet slipped out from under her. The last thing she remembered—before her head cracked against the side of the boat—were police sirens, wailing in the distance.

  Big, bad, dangerous Glasgow. Bad,
ugly social workers. Ugly Billy. Camelia. Get her away from there. Save her from No Life. Kelvingrove Park. Glasgow University. Holy Loch. The caravan. Strange man at strange funeral. Throwing stones into Loch Lomond. They’re all dead. Granoch. I’m an Unloved Nobody. Billy! Billy is here, now, somehow … “What you sayin’? What you talkin’ about, hey? Hey, honey?”

  Abigail opened her eyes. Bren was gently brushing her fringe. “You hit your head in the boat. But you’re gonna be okay. Stop talking about big bad things. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

  “Where am I?” Abigail sat up and pressed her hand against her throbbing skull. She was sitting on the lower shelf of a bunk bed, right next to Bren, in a very small space. A moving space. The hard mattress rumbled and bounced beneath her. The top of her head grazed the top bunk. A bus or train? There was a window behind her, a highway receding.

  “You’re safe. Mom and Dad picked us up.”

  Right. Bren’s parents own a Winnebago and are enjoying retirement. The words clanged in her head, an advertising brochure based on some distant memory: scenes of the happy, drunken chat she and Bren had shared on the plane. Then all the rest of the memories came flooding back in terror. “Oh my God, Stick! He’s in the canal! We can’t—”

  “He’s gone.” Bren interrupted. “It wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing we could do.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t resurface.”

  She nodded. Her throat was dry. There were other memories now. The photographs Stick had shown her while she’d held the ladder at the freeway sign; the party where she tried hard not to feel what she was feeling; his hand on hers as his yellow mini screeched through a narrow alleyway. Most of all: doubting him in Bren’s house when all he was trying to do was save her life. “Is he dead?” she whispered. The pain in her head seemed distant.

  “Shh.” Bren said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “You shouldn’t have left him.”

  “I had to. They’d have killed you.” He had tears in his eyes. He touched her face. “You nearly died back there.” He kissed her forehead and moved his lips down so they were just millimeters from hers. “Oh Abigail … thank God—”