by Teri Terry
I pause. ‘There is one thing. Find out what happened to Ben.’
He says nothing. I turn back.
His face is sad. ‘Kyla, I’m sorry. It is unlikely Ben survived. But if he did, the Lorders had him. It wouldn’t be for long.’
‘Find out,’ I repeat.
‘If I learn anything, I’ll pass it along to Mac.’ But he stresses if, like it is a closed book.
I leave him and shut the door.
Mac and Jazz are out back still but I don’t join them. Not yet. Sadness is threatening the anger; it won’t focus, wobbles, and my levels are on the way down. I wander into the kitchen, and there, on the table, is the box with the owl. This won’t help.
I pull the rest of the paper away and pull it out on to the table.
It is magnificent. The last time I saw it the wings weren’t finished; they are, now, and span several feet across. It is amazing how all the disparate bits of metal have been joined together to form something greater than the sum of its parts. I lightly touch the wings, the sharp talons, beak. A beautiful, lonely creature, but deadly if you happen to be a mouse. I run my fingers across the back of the owl’s body. What was that? A slight noise, a rustle, as if something is loose. I turn the owl around for a closer look.
It is hard to see. One very tiny corner of white. I just manage to trap it between two finger nails, and pull; out comes a small square of paper.
A note?
My hands start to shake as I unfold it.
Late that night, sleep eludes me again. My levels hover around 4, and my stupid Levo keeps vibrating every time I nearly drift away. I want blackness, dark, silence; no feeling or thought or anything. But it won’t come. I’m alone in the night; not even Sebastian is here to keep the demons away.
Finally I can’t stand being still any longer, and head for the stairs, and a drink. But there is a light on in the front room. I peek through the door; Mum is there, a book in her hands, Sebastian on her knee.
‘How do you live with things?’ I say.
Mum jumps a little, looks around and sees me in the door. She puts down her book. ‘Things?’
‘Bad things happening to people you care about. Like your parents. And your son.’
‘Come here,’ she says, holds out her hand, and I walk over, sit next to her on the sofa. She links her arm in mine.
‘I should be able to answer that, but I can’t. There isn’t an answer. You just go on, one day at a time. It does get easier after a while.’
Mum makes us hot chocolate, finds a blanket and we stay on the sofa. She reads, Sebastian purrs, and, eventually, I sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY
* * *
Today I must act like I have never done before. And it isn’t just the official story about Ben I need to stick to, the people and events surrounding what happened to him that I need to hide. Last time, Dr Lysander said she wants an answer: why am I different to other Slateds?
And I know. I have finally worked it out: how I am different that is, though not why. When I woke up in the morning, groggy and stiff from sleeping on the sofa, the answer was in my mind.
It all relates to anger.
My Levo does its job if I am sad, upset, or distressed for any number of reasons: my levels drop as expected. They can even drop so far I black out. But when I get scared or angry, they don’t. It seems to almost protect my levels. Yet the main purpose of a Levo is to stop the Slated from acting in anger, to prevent violence against self and others.
Mine doesn’t work.
There is no doubt in my mind that if anyone else figures this out, I’m history. Dr Lysander might be curious and want to fiddle about in my brain to determine how or why this happened, but even she can’t keep the Hospital Board away, the Lorders. No more Kyla.
My poker face is much improved, but it isn’t enough. No matter what happens, I can’t get angry. Not here at the hospital, not at school where eyes are watching. Not at all. Good luck with that.
Huh.
The only way I know to do this is to let in the pain, the misery, the loss. All the things I’ve been trying to block, ever since Ben…I swallow.
Bzzzz…
I look down at my Levo: 4.4.
Too much.
‘Come in!’ Dr Lysander calls, and I go through the door.
‘Have a seat, Kyla.’ She half smiles, and taps at her screen. I sit.
She finally looks up. ‘I won’t ask how you’ve been; I see, on your records: not very good.’
‘No.’
‘Tell me about Ben,’ she says, her voice soft, encouraging. A strange set to her familiar features: sympathy.
‘Ben was my friend at school. And he was in my Group also. My only friend, really.’
‘And what happened?’
‘He didn’t come to school, and I was worried about him. I got Amy’s boyfriend to take me to his house, but there were ambulances and Lorders there. He took me home, and I blacked out. And Ben hasn’t been back to school, or to Group, and nobody said anything about him! It’s like he never existed; no one even cares.’ My blood quickens, my hands involuntarily start to form fists, but I make them relax, force my breathing to stay even.
‘I care, Kyla.’
‘Then can you tell me what happened to him? Please.’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. It doesn’t concern me unless he becomes a patient at this hospital; otherwise, I have no idea.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘No, I cannot,’ she says, gently. ‘But Kyla, you know what you were taught about Levos. They cannot be removed without causing pain, seizures and death: levels would plummet too fast for the Levo to be destroyed in time to stop it from causing death to the wearer.’
‘Always?’ I whisper. ‘There’s no chance…?’
‘There is always a small chance of equipment failure. That things can go wrong with surgery, or with the implanted chip. Nothing is fail-safe. It is my job to minimise these chances, and if anything goes wrong, to determine why.’ She tilts her head. Is she thinking of the question she asked me last time?
Danger! Let in the pain.
But I can’t bear it…
You must.
I hold Ben’s face in my mind. How he looked when he laughed. Running like the wind. Holding my hand. Love Ben he said on his note. But overlaid on it all the last time I saw him, convulsing, in pain, and I left him. I left him and ran to save myself. Hot tears sting my eyes.
Bzzzz… 4.2.
Bzzzz… 3.7.
Dr Lysander pushes an intercom, speaks into it. A nurse appears. They talk over my head and the nurse jabs me in the arm. Welcome warmth slips through me, and my levels start a slow climb up.
The nurse leaves and Dr Lysander taps at her screen, glances at me a few times, then sits back in her chair.
‘That is enough for today,’ she says. ‘But, Kyla, believe me when I say: best to forget him. But if you can’t, it does get easier.’
The way she says the words…so like Mum.
‘Do you know?’ I whisper.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You do, don’t you. You’ve lost someone; something horrible happened.’
She twitches in her seat: a nerve has been touched. For an instant there is pain in her eyes, a flash of something real, then it is gone. Her face is blank. She has a poker face, too.
‘Go home now, Kyla,’ she says. Subject closed.
I get out of my seat and head for the door.
‘Oh, and Kyla? I haven’t forgotten what we were talking about last time. But we’ll leave it for today.’
A brief reprieve, then. Not an escape.
It’s not until late that night, lying in bed, hoping for sleep, that I realise my mistake. I’m not supposed to know that Ben tried to cut off his Levo. But when Dr Lysander started talking about it, I didn’t ask her why, or act surprised, or anything.
Oops. A mighty big oops.
Then I realise something else. If she truly knows nothing about Ben an
d what happened to him, she wouldn’t know about that, either.
She was lying.
Absolute darkness surrounds me. I open my eyes wide and wider, but it is inky, and black. I can see nothing. I hate it! I lash out at the brick walls, the tight circle that surrounds this space where I stand. There isn’t enough room to stretch my arms side to side, or to sit down. No finger holds to climb up.
There must be a way out.
Rapunzel’s tower had a window; she had long hair. All I have is darkness; fingernails, fists, and feet.
And anger. I hammer and kick at the walls, again and again: nothing. Until finally, exhausted, I slump against the wall. That is when I feel it with my hand.
A little mortar is loose! One spot, just below waist high. I scratch and claw, again and again, not worrying about fingernails or blood or skin. Hands heal, as I know too well.
Finally there is a tiny glint of light. I almost cry with relief. It tantalises, but is too far down for me to look through, to see what is out there. No matter how I try I can’t squish down low enough in this confined space.
Enough! I howl in rage.
Let me out!
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
* * *
I sleep late, and when I finally open my eyes I’m surprised Mum has let me alone, Sunday or not. After my dream woke me last night I’d had to leave the light on, darkness too thick and heavy to tolerate, and lay there, thinking, then finally got out my sketch pad and drew for hours. Only letting myself drift back to sleep once the sun was up.
What does my dream mean?
If my anger is in a prison, it needs to stay there. It won’t take away the pain, just delay it. I can’t stop feeling what I feel about Ben or anything else. Any more than I can stop being who I am. Or deny who I once was.
All these dream fragments: wispy truths and half-truths, real or imagined events. How can I tell them apart? I can’t.
I also couldn’t tell Dr Lysander was lying. How can I even be sure that what Ben wanted to do was really wrong?
Aiden is right. If Ben died, the blame lies square and certain on the Lorders and their hospitals. The government, and doctors like mine. They are the enemy. Not Aiden.
Yes! Focus your anger on them, instead.
No. That is where Ben was wrong. He wanted to join the terrorists. He was careful what he said; he didn’t want me to know anything that could get me in trouble. There was nothing there to link me with anything he had done or was planning to do, but I am certain: that is where he was heading.
Not me.
Aiden’s answers are dangerous. But the way he wants to do things is right.
I take out my sketches from the dark hours, and there they are, the Missing. Ben, Phoebe, even Lucy. I can’t turn my back on them. The world needs to know. And most of all, I need to know: what happened to Ben?
Downstairs, Amy is in the kitchen doing homework; Dad is still away; Mum is making soup.
She smiles when I come in. ‘Awake, at last. I can see the extra sleep has done you some good.’
I smile back at her. It wasn’t many hours of sleep. It is more that instead of fighting within myself, I think I know what I want to do now. What I need to do. That makes me look rested in a way I haven’t since I first met Aiden.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I announce.
Mum peers out the window. The sun is shining, but heavy, black clouds are creeping in from the west, covering half the sky. ‘Better make it a quick one, then.’
‘Shall I come along?’ Amy asks.
‘No. I want to go alone.’
‘Stick to main roads, Kyla,’ Mum calls out.
I walk through the village, past the footpath Amy and Jazz always take. Where Ben and I walked – no, ran – ahead of them, and so many things followed.
I continue, to the end of the village: past a farm, up to some woods. I’m just thinking of going back when movement catches my eye.
I turn. Unable to see anything at first, I scan along the fields, the trees…and there he is. An owl, perched on a fence post. Snowy white and looking back at me, surveying the world like he owns it. But it is daytime, not night, and even I know owls are night creatures.
But no one has told him about it.
Fascinated, I stare.
He stares back, and I step closer, off the road and along a faint path between the fence and the woods. I get near enough to see his eyes, the definition of his feathers. Then he flies off. Flapping great white wings, so like the metal sculpture. He swoops, lands again. On a gate at the end of the field this time. Maybe twenty metres on. He looks back, eyes fixed on mine.
Waiting?
And so I step towards him. We repeat this dance, again and again. Each time I halve the distance between us, he flies on, then waits until I follow.
This goes on for a while, until we are well into the woods, and I begin to realise that I am hopelessly lost. My usual map sense is gone. I haven’t been paying attention to where my feet travel as I follow the owl’s flight above. The sky rolls in, black and furious now, covering the sun. Rain will soon follow. He rests on a tree branch, this time; high enough up that he doesn’t fly away when I draw close.
‘Thanks,’ I say to him. ‘You got me, what do you want to do now?’
He stares intently, turns his head to one side. Looks behind me and then launches into flight, high above the trees. He vanishes from sight.
‘What do I want to do with you now? Well, well.’
I spin around.
It’s him: Wayne. The bricklayer.
I blink, unbelieving.
‘Did you follow me?’ I say, and start backing away.
‘Well, yes; I did. Seems you’ve stared at me often enough; thought I’d stare at you a while.’ He smiles, but it is all lips baring teeth, not in his eyes. He steps towards me.
I step back again, turn to run but stumble as my foot catches against a tree root.
He moves faster than I expect. Hands grab and twist my arm. Push me into a tree.
‘No one is here to help you this time,’ he says in my ear, and gropes at my clothes. I struggle.
‘Silly girl. Just go along. You know you want to. Besides, if you let yourself get all upset and angry, you’ll black out. You might even…die.’
He yanks my hair and pulls my head towards his.
Muscle remembers. Instinct takes over. I relax, stop struggling.
‘That’s the way,’ he says, and leans down and kisses me, bruising and scratching, forcing his tongue in my mouth until I want to gag. I twist slightly and jam my knee, hard, between his.
And something…snaps. Inside me.
Almost audible, a crack, a split. A glint of light shines through where none could reach before.
The wall.
He curses and falls, still holding tight to my hair, my arm, pulling me down with him.
‘Slater Slut. You’ll pay for that,’ he snarls.
I don’t think so.
He is a foot taller. Maybe twice my weight. But my arms and legs and muscles all know what to do.
I lash out.
It is over soon.
I stand back. This man who dared touch me now lies still, bleeding on the ground. Jaw smashed; blood pours from a cut on the back of his head. Is he…is he dead?
I step closer, afraid to know; afraid not to know. I lean over him, not wanting to touch him but trying to force my hand to his neck, to feel for a pulse.
His eyes snap open. I jump back but his hand grabs my ankle. A scream works its way up my throat and I pull away, hard. Kicking my foot again and again but his hand is a vice, clamped tight. I reach down and peel his fingers off one at a time, and run.
Headlong through the woods. Branches snap in my face and my feet trip on roots, but I push as fast as I can through trees and tangled bushes until they suddenly give way to a path. The path; yes. I came this way. I remember now. The logical, planned part of me takes charge of my feet, slows them down.
My Levo says 6.
How can this be?
My head begins to pound wildly, my hands shake, my feet stumble.
‘What have I done?’ I whisper to the trees. ‘How?’
Hush.
‘Who said that?’
I spin around, but I am alone.
Somewhere inside, I am calm. A new wall is being built, blocking that which connects my Levo to my thoughts and feelings, and it is strong.
‘What have I done?’
But my questions are quashed as soon as they form.
Let it be.
I spin around, once again; no one is here. The voice is in my head. The voice that has always been in my head.
‘Who are you? Are you Lucy?’
No! That snivelling weakling is gone, forever. I am…you. The you that was.
‘What do you want?’
I want us to be together.
‘No.’
You have no choice.
‘No!’
I fall to the ground.
And this intruder inside me pulls a brick. The crack widens, cement crumbles and bricks shatter and fall. The whole tower collapses.
A kaleidoscope floods my mind, images first slow and then flashing fast through my brain, whirling and spinning. I’m dizzy, my head will explode, but I can’t stop it. My guts twist and I vomit, again and again, until there is nothing left in my stomach but still I heave on the ground.
How can this be? My memories should be gone. What has happened; what is happening, now?
I stare at the darkening sky, heart thudding wildly behind my ribs. Gradually my head stops spinning; the memories stop screaming for attention, and settle down. Scurry away and slot themselves in where they fit, where they don’t.
How can this be? What does it mean?
Pale, ice blue eyes; they know. They always know. His face appears in my mind: angelic when he smiles, when I do as I should. I shy away from thinking about when I do not.
I gasp out loud as I remember his name. Nico. That is how I knew him then, back when he was the centre of my life. He controlled it: pain, pleasure, how one can become the other. Much like love and hate. He taught me how to be two people at once: pathetic Lucy, and her alter ego. The wimp and the warrior. Lucy is gone; only the other remains. Nico is the one who smashed Lucy’s fingers with a brick when she resisted the separation. But he did it for me, to protect me: to make me safe if Lorders got their hands on my brain. And they did. I was Slated. So everything he did to Lucy saved me in the end.
