Fragments

by Caroline Green

  Adem has been weird for the last couple of days, checking his phone too much and laughing too loud at my jokes. He practically crackles with nerves. He’s almost blue-lit, like he’s been volted. But he hasn’t shared anything with me, despite lots of dropped hints and teasing kisses on my part. By the afternoon I’ve decided I have to up the stakes. I’ve had enough of this job. I want a bath, some clean clothes. Some decent food.

  I go and sit in the bay window on the top staircase. It looks out over the street . . . well, it would, if you could see through the smeared, cracked glass that lets wind whistle through it like a ghostly cry.

  If he can’t find me straight away, he’ll come looking. He’s so lovesick, he can’t bear to be parted from me for a minute.

  I make myself cry for authenticity and rub my eyes hard. I can do this. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I was an actress in movies, rather than this. But there’s no point in thinking that way.

  Soon enough I hear the distinctive creak of the broken stair. I bury my face in my arms, drawing my knees in close so I’m a ball of misery.

  ‘Kiz?’ His voice is gentle and I feel a warm hand on my arm. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  I look up at him blearily, seeing the concern on his face. ‘It’s nothing,’ I say in a thick, snotty voice.

  He sits next to me on the big window ledge. ‘It’s not nothing, is it. Tell me?’

  I stare downwards, letting a single tear roll down my cheek. He gently brushes it away with a finger.

  ‘It’s just . . . today. It’s the anniversary.’

  ‘Of what, Kiz?’

  I give a huge, trembly sigh. ‘Of when they took my dad away.’

  ‘Who did?’ Adem’s voice is so quiet it’s just breath.

  I look deep into his eyes and whisper, ‘CATS.’ And then, ‘I hate them.’

  There’s a long pause. For a second I wonder if I’ve played this wrong. What if he ended up reporting me? I almost laugh at that thought and have to keep control over my face muscles, keeping my mouth turned down at the corners and my eyes gleaming with sadness.

  ‘What happened?’ he says at last, his voice low and deep.

  ‘They said he was a terrorist,’ I sniffle. ‘That he belonged to all sorts of banned organisations. That he was organising meetings in our neighbourhood. But he was a good person!’ I blurt, louder. ‘He ran the football team, he organised all the social things like barbecues and picnics. He didn’t have a bad bone in his body!’ I let a sob escape and then continue, as though the words have to pop out painfully, one at a time. ‘But they came early one morning and beat him in front of us all. Dragged him away. No one saw him again. And Mum,’ I take a big, shaky breath, ‘she never got over it. She took some pills . . .’

  Wow, I’m laying it on thick but I’m doing such a good job I can practically see the scene before my eyes.

  The pearly, dawn light, the shouts puncturing the quiet of the sleeping street as the innocent dad is dragged away.

  He sounds much nicer than my real dad, the loser Mum told me about. The one who left her, pregnant, and went off with the army, never to come back from the war. It’s my fantasy so I’m going for a handsome but cuddly sort of dad, with a bald head and an easy smile. Heck, I’m actually feeling sad for the poor, made-up sod myself now . . .

  Adem pulls me into a fierce hug. I rest my face against his chest and smell the cheap soap powder he uses to wash his clothes by hand. He rests his cheek against my head and speaks in a voice so low, I have to strain to make out what he’s saying.

  ‘Look, I shouldn’t tell you this and you have to forget I ever did, but I agree with you. Plenty of others agree with you. Plenty.’

  I pull away and meet his eyes.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I wish I could do something, you know? Fight back in some way?’ I swallow. ‘For my dad.’ God, I’m really trowelling this on. Adem looks at me for a long time then. Again, I wonder if I’ve blown it, and then he leans over and gently kisses me on the lips.

  ‘I’m not making any promises, but maybe you can,’ he says then, his eyes as serious as I have ever seen them.

  I pretend to look confused. ‘But how? Even talking about joining Torch is against the law.’

  I whisper the word ‘Torch’ and Adem shifts uneasily.

  ‘I know I can trust you, Kiz,’ he says.

  You really can’t, I think.

  ‘Someone is coming here today,’ he continues. ‘Someone important. They’re going to lay low for a while in the basement. No one in the house is meant to know about it. But I’m telling you because maybe this person might be able to find a way for you to do what you want . . . fight back.’

  I grab him in mock excitement and plant a kiss on his mouth.

  ‘Who?’ I say. ‘Who is it?’

  He seems to hesitate again and then leans over and whispers a name into my ear. It’s the name of a senior member of Torch, someone the CATS have been after for years.

  I swallow back the gasp but let the excitement shine through my eyes.

  ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ I murmur, and lean in for another traitor’s kiss.

  Like I said, it’s what I do now. I might feel a little bad later. Or I might not. Mostly, I just want a bath.

  CHAPTER 17

  reveal, enhance

  Later, I lie back, inhaling the smell of expensive bath oil. Steam rises around me and I stare upwards at pure white tiles, so different from the cracked, rotten moulding that covered the ceiling at Hoxton Mansions. I wave a hand vaguely at the wall and, as News 24/7 appears on the hidden screen, I wave again to set it to 2D. It’s a bit weird having 3D people in the room when you’re in the bath.

  The ticker is running along the bottom of the screen saying Senior terror suspect killed in bomb blast and I sit up so fast that water sloshes over the sides of the tub onto the heated, marble floor. I grip the edge of the bath and stare at the screen as the newsreader talks.

  ‘It’s believed that the man, Jack Richardson, was one of the most senior operatives in the illegal organisation Torch. We have a live statement from East London now.’

  The screen fills with the image of four men sitting at a table for a press conference. They all wear CATS uniforms.

  The camera flashes to a face I know. A face I last saw in the back of a car in Yorkshire after Mick attacked me and I fought back. The man who ultimately put me in this room, right now. The ticker reads: Alexander Cameron, Chief Commanding Officer of the Counterinsurgency and Anti-Terrorist Squad.

  ‘This afternoon we took part in an operation to capture a senior member of the terror organisation, Torch. After attempting to arrest Mr Richardson by peaceful means, our officers had no alternative but to take decisive action when residents of the house he was hiding in opened fire. In order to protect innocent civilians in the neighbourhood, we launched an attack on the building. The bodies of Richardson and four other people, also believed to be Torch members, were later found.’

  I hit the panel on the side of the bath and tap the fan unit in the ceiling into action so that seconds later, the air is clear.

  I wonder if Adem was one of those four bodies and sigh deeply before getting out of the bath, sloshing more water over the sides. Grabbing one of the thick, fluffy towels, I wrap it round me. I love these towels. They’re filled with crystals that mean they stay dry on the surface and are always just the right temperature.

  I slowly dress, pulling on the silk tracksuit bottoms that are so soft they whisper when I walk and feel almost weightless, and a light cotton T-shirt. I’m glad I can wear good clothes again, glad I can lie in that luxurious bathroom for as long as I want, knowing I will come out to a fridge stuffed with food and anything I want to drink.

  I pull my hair back and brush in the special oil I’ve just discovered, which makes it fall in silky waves around my face. I look at my reflection and see a girl with eyes that are too old for her face. I’ve already lived too many lives. Seen too much. Sometimes
I get so tired . . . And then I’m crying. Great big, wet, heaving sobs that start like someone flicked a switch. What the hell?

  This keeps happening and I have no idea why. It’s like the weird headaches that have suddenly started coming. It’s like things are . . . coming apart inside me.

  I stop crying as abruptly as I started and feel cleansed now, as I always do. Washed on the inside. I put a little make-up on under my eyes and some lip gloss, and heave a sigh. The luxurious bath I was dreaming about for the past three weeks didn’t feel as good as it was meant to.

  Padding barefoot down the corridor, I hear television noises coming from the sitting room. It’s about the size of a whole floor of the flats where I grew up in Sheffield, and looks out over the Thames. It’s like being sealed inside an airtight container up here. I suddenly miss the noises of London and even the dirt, a little, as I walk into the vast room. The floorboards are golden and shining, warm underfoot. My feet seem to whisper over them.

  Huge, soft sofas in buttery yellow are arranged around the main screen. One of the walls is covered in big paintings that I think are ugly, but they double up as sound boards for the meetings that sometimes happen here.

  As I come into the room, I catch sight of a different story on the news.

  It’s a woman who has somehow got herself up onto the scaffolding around the new Big Ben building. I cringe when I see her face. Her eyeballs are exposed and the skin is rippled and sagging around her jaw, her cheeks drooping and puckered like molten wax.

  Disgusting.

  They call them Melters. These are the people who, in protest at all the CCTV surveillance, use a chemical synthesised from liquid plastic to disfigure their faces. And then they promptly get arrested, of course. So pointless. What do they think they will achieve?

  But there is another reason I always look away from Melters.

  It happened when I hadn’t been in London that long.

  I was walking along the Strand one day, in a hurry, when I noticed someone all scrunched in a doorway like a bunch of rags. It was a boy, about my age, I think, but it was hard to tell because when he looked up, his face was horribly disfigured, shining like rumpled, pale plastic from inside his blue hood. The sight sickened me to my stomach and I looked away quickly. But something bothered me all afternoon that I couldn’t identify.

  It was only later, as I was drifting off to sleep that I realised there was something familiar in the boy’s eyes. I think that boy might have been Christian . . .

  What could have happened to make him do that? I couldn’t stand thinking about it.

  I must have made a sound at this thought because a blond head pops up now from one of the sofas.

  Phoenix is a few years older than me, from what I can tell, which makes him a veteran. I haven’t come across any CATS’ Eyes who are older than early twenties. I reckon it’s because they go off into other jobs after doing their stint. I asked about it once, but no one seemed all that sure. I don’t like to think about the alternative. I guess what we do can be dangerous. People must bear grudges. And the bad guys don’t always get caught, do they?

  ‘Hey,’ says Phoenix, uncurling his long body from the sofa. I nod a greeting and then go to get a drink and some fruit from the fridge.

  Phoenix switches channels, settling on a documentary about flood defences.

  I arrange pieces of watermelon, grapes and apple on a plate, enjoying the overlapping, bright colours. When I’ve been working, I feel as though I want to eat only healthy stuff. It’s partly because of the rubbish I have to eat on a job. But I think it also helps me to feel clean again, on the inside. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.

  I sit facing the wide window, looking out at the river and the skyline. Sunlight glitters on the Thames and on Westminster, beyond. There’s the original Big Ben, which is kind of cute, and the grand, golden building where they used to make the laws. The river sparkles as boats chug along it. Clean water you could swim in.

  It’s all pretend. Suddenly sick of the false image, I murmur, ‘Reveal.’ The smart glass reverts from the enhanced mode to a normal window.

  Now there is only a building site where the Houses of Parliament stood. The new building is costing millions, I hear, but there have been all sorts of hold-ups. All you can see is a web-like mass of scaffolding.

  I stare at the churning water of the Thames as I suck on a sweet, juicy sliver of watermelon. The sky is one sweeping bruise of black and grey, the rain never-ending. I heard that the county of Suffolk is practically all bogland these days. Wherever Suffolk is.

  Someone told me the other day that the Thames was filthy in the past, then it got majorly cleaned up. People used to catch fish in it in the early 2000s. Hard to imagine now as the slimy, almost green water bobs with refuse . . . and worse. Sometimes you see a dead dog floating along with the shopping trolleys and the plastic crap.

  Suddenly sickened by the sight of the water, I murmur, ‘Enhance,’ and the windows shift back to the pretty view. As soon as I step outside, I’ll see the real thing again but it’s good to be able to pretend sometimes.

  ‘I need to shift my ass,’ says Phoenix, interrupting my thoughts. He gets up and stretches luxuriously. ‘Places to be.’

  I don’t ask where. Just as he wouldn’t ask me what I’ve been doing. We come and go to this flat when we need it, to log our reports and rest between jobs. Realising I still need to log mine, I sigh deeply, staring down at my half-eaten plate of fruit.

  I suddenly have an urge to be moving, despite the rain outside. There’s an amazing gym downstairs but I’m not one for gyms. I think I’ll go for a walk. Try to clear my head a bit.

  I use my breather stick and then grab my miasma mask to be on the safe side. When I could first afford one, I used to get annoyed about the fact that they only match white skin. But I don’t care about that so much now. There doesn’t seem to be much point in getting angry about stuff I can’t change.

  Sometimes I think I’m a bit dead inside. But if I am, what’s with the weird crying?

  I’m thinking about all this as I take the glass lift down to the ground floor and make my way past the security guard. He’s called Bob and he always gives me a smile but I’ve seen what hangs from his belt, weapon-wise. He’s not there for decoration.

  I pull my miasma mask on. This is the most expensive sort you can get and you don’t really feel it once it’s on. You do still look like a freak with a snout. But at least you’re anonymous.

  The rain has stopped for once and the slick pavements gleam and reflect splashes of street lights. I pull my hood up and hunker my hands down into my pockets. I look a bit like a boy when I’m dressed like this. And I can handle myself these days. I have a thin-bladed knife that snaps into the treads of my trainers, hidden. I’ve never had to use it. Yet. I walk past the homeless shelters under the overhanging lip of the Southbank Centre. Someone told me that kids used to skateboard there. I glance over, trying to imagine what it would have looked like then. There are layers of graffiti, some so old it has faded into the brick as though it is part of it, with newer, more vivid designs over the top. Hard to imagine people using this place for fun.

  Now it’s somewhere homeless families live. No single people allowed. CAT teams regularly sweep in and make sure there are no drugs, alcohol or any other ‘banned substances’. I think at first they tried to clear away all the homeless people from the streets. There was something called the September Purge a couple of years ago when loads of people living rough got taken away to God knows where in an effort to ‘keep the city clean’.

  But so many now have nowhere to live that they’ve crept back again, especially since all the floods. The authorities seem to think that herding them into different areas is better than having no control at all.

  Some of the tents here look quite decent. A woman with long black hair and papery, crinkled skin is standing outside the nearest one, tending to a camping stove. A smell of curry wafts towards me, reminding me a little of Mum
’s Jamaican cooking. I stop for a second, smiling at the memory. Man, she packed so many Scotch bonnets into her food that grown men had been known to cry at the first mouthful.

  The smile slips from my face. This is the first time I’ve thought about Mum in ages. And that doesn’t seem right. It’s like I’m forgetting her.

  Sometimes it seems like there have been two Kylas, the one before Scotland and the one after. The woman glares at me and I decide to move on. Maybe she thinks I feel superior to her when, at this exact minute, she couldn’t be more wrong. I’m picturing her pulling her kids, in their sleeping bags, in close each night for warmth, maybe whispering stories in their ears. I feel a weird tug of envy. They are together; connected. Part of a whole.

  Me? No one cares if I live or die.

  Wow, I’m in a weird place tonight.

  I quicken my pace, heading towards Waterloo Bridge, dodging the war veterans you see busking everywhere now. There’s a broken bit of railing about halfway along, and I make sure I give it a wide berth. You hear of people chucking themselves through that gap. It doesn’t seem as though anyone is in a hurry to mend it, so maybe the authorities like keeping it that way. Fewer homeless people on the streets and all that.

  There are blokes in wheelchairs juggling light balls, and a guy with a facial mask is singing some Scottish song in a high, wavering voice. There are more penny-whistle players than I can be bothered to count. Some of the ex-soldiers have no obvious injuries but there is a look I’m starting to recognise. It’s partly the short haircut, but also the deadness in the eyes. I shudder and hurry on across the bridge, glancing over at the Gherkin, whose broken windows reflect the lights from police helicopters that swoop above the city. You get used to the sound after a while.

  Same with the buzz drones that float and wind above the heads of people walking along, minding their own business. I still hate those things, with their fly-like eyes, which whirr and snap a zillion images a minute of the people below.