‘No shit,’ she says, but there’s a tremble of relief in her voice.
‘Please help me. I think if you tell me what I look like, it might trigger something. I might remember.’
Nia rolls her eyes and turns her head. ‘Fine. You’re a white girl. You look, I don’t know, sixteen? Eighteen? Your eyes are grey. Your hair is blonde.’
She turns away from me and stares out the window.
‘That’s it?’
Nia doesn’t look back. ‘Do you want me to tell you you’re pretty? Fine. You’re pretty. Congratulations.’
It’s not what I’m after, and she knows it.
‘You have to do it properly,’ I tell her. ‘Like this.’ I reach out and hook my finger under her chin, gently pulling until she turns to face me.
Then I look at her, really look at her.
‘You have brown skin, but you already know that from seeing your hands and arms. I don’t know what your ancestral background is. You could be Polynesian, or Latin American, or even South East Asian. Maybe a mix? Your eyes are dark brown, and you’ve got incredible eyelashes. I would literally murder someone to have your cheekbones. You usually wear body jewellery – nose, lip and several in your ears. Your hair is dark brown, your head was shaved pretty recently. Your ears are small and just a tiny bit pointed at the tips, like a pixie. Your lips are full and your mouth is wide. If you ever smiled, I’m sure it would be incredible, but you don’t look like the kind of person who smiles much because you’re too busy being angry. You look beautiful and tough and terrifying.’
Maybe I’m imagining it, but there seems to be a little more colour to Nia’s cheeks than there was before.
‘Now do me.’
She hesitates, but I’ve worn her down with flattery. ‘Okay,’ she says, and bites her lip, looking at me steadily for a moment.
‘You dye your hair blonde – your natural colour is mouse brown. Judging from your roots, you last dyed it about three weeks ago. Your chin is pointy, your forehead is high. Your nose …’ She pauses for a moment, as if she’s embarrassed to say it. ‘Your nose turns up a little, at the end. It’s cute.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a flush of warmth.
She scowls at me again. ‘And you’re rich.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Your teeth are too straight and too white. You have really good skin for a teenager, which means you eat well and probably spend a fortune on skincare. You’re slim but not underweight. You look healthy. Your accent is posh. You look – and act – like you’ve stepped out of a prospectus for an elite private school. You’re entitled, demanding and pushy. You reek of privilege.’
I’m taken aback.
Nia gives me a false smile. ‘Memory magically come back? No? Then maybe you can leave me alone.’
I’m giving up on Nia. Maybe I should go and sit next to Sandra. Or the hot guy. But …
‘Do you think they’re like us?’ I ask, looking over my shoulder at the other passengers. ‘Do you think we’ve all lost our memories?’
‘Probably.’
Probably isn’t definitely. We need more information. If it’s only me and Nia, then the others will have power over us, and I am not giving away any of the precious little power I have. Power is the only thing standing between me and total panic.
‘We should find out,’ I say. ‘But sneakily, in case it is just us. Reconnaissance.’
‘I don’t want to play spies. I just want to get out of here.’
‘And how are you planning on doing that? We don’t even know where we are, or where we’re going.’
I look back out the window again. Through the rushing green, I spot a grey concrete building, half-eaten by jungle. It’s the first evidence I’ve seen that wherever we are is inhabited, or was, once. I lean forward over Nia to get closer to the window and catch a glimpse of an old road sign, faded and grimy, with half the letters flaked off.
CAM ELE S
A R FI LD 18
I realise with a jolt that wherever I may be from, it almost certainly isn’t here. There have been no other cars on the road. No signs of people. Whoever has stuck us on this bus, they wanted us to be alone.
Nia shoves me away from her. ‘Let me be very clear, princess,’ she says. ‘I don’t like you.’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘I know enough. I asked you for help, and you walked away. You’re a spoilt little rich girl, and I have no time for that shit.’
‘For someone who doesn’t know anything about themselves, you’re very quick to judge others,’ I say. ‘You could be a terrible person. You could be a murderer. Or a bad friend. You could floss in public.’
There’s the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. ‘I do not floss in public.’
‘You probably don’t floss at all.’
She looks away to hide a smile. The banter is soothing the flapping panic inside me, and I decide to change the subject while she isn’t actively hostile.
‘What do you think these are?’ I hold up my wrist to show the white silicone band.
‘More than just a watch, I guarantee. My guess is they’re tracking our biometrics – heart rate, body temperature, that kind of thing. And maybe GPS location?’
I frown. ‘They?’
‘You know. Whoever put us here.’
She’s right, of course there’s a they. We didn’t end up here by sheer coincidence. The thing in my chest lurches awake, and I look down at the wristband again.
09:37
It’s giving them a whole bunch of information about me, but the only thing I get is the time. Whoever they are, right now they have all the information, and information is power. I don’t like that. I need to know more.
‘Why do you think they put you in a red T-shirt, and me in blue?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Red looks good on me.’
‘Seriously, though.’
‘Isn’t it obvious? All the blues are white people.’
I stand up to look around at the rest of the bus. Me, hot-guy, sensible Sandra and the old lady are all in blue. Tattoo-guy, Nia and the quiet kid in glasses are in red.
‘You’re making assumptions,’ I tell her. ‘And anyway, that guy up the back is white, and he’s wearing a red shirt.’
‘Class, then. Bluebloods versus expendables.’
I can’t believe how quick she is to put us in categories.
‘Maybe you’re looking at it all wrong. It could mean anything. Vaccinated/unvaccinated. Vegan/omnivore. Religious/not religious. Straight/queer. Maybe all the blues like doughnuts, and the reds prefer cupcakes. Maybe the blues have surnames that start with the first half of the alphabet.’
Before Nia can respond with whatever sarcastic quip she’s planning, someone starts shouting behind us. We turn around to see tattoo-guy standing up, his face a mask of aggression. He’s terrifying, his skin weathered and scarred. This guy has seen his share of hard living.
‘What the fuck is going on, man?’ he says, his voice high with panic. ‘Did one of you drug me? What is this?’
I lean over to Nia. ‘Maybe the reds are criminals, and the blues are innocent.’
She glares at me.
‘Please calm down, sir,’ says Sandra, holding out a shaking hand.
He charges down the aisle towards her, the whites of his eyes showing. ‘Who are you? Are you in charge?’ His hands clench into fists.
‘Riley,’ Sandra says, her voice unsteady. ‘That’s your name, isn’t it? Riley?’
He stares at her, his fists trembling. ‘I–I dunno,’ he says, his voice suddenly very small. ‘I don’t know who I am. How come you know my name?’
Sandra swallows, clearly terrified, but points at the sticker on his red shirt. Riley looks down at it and shakes his head. ‘Nah, man,’ he says. ‘I’m out of here.’
He charges down the aisle to the front of the bus. I hear him swear again when he sees there’s no driver, and he hunts around for a button or lever or
something that will open the door. He pounds on the glass, screaming obscenities. Sandra doesn’t try to placate him again.
Riley is what I will end up like if I don’t stay in control. I feel the panic in his eyes, and know he’s struggling with the same overwhelming fog that’s swallowed up everything I know about myself. What if this is just the beginning? What if I lose more of myself? My speech? My sight?
I sink down and watch through the crack between the seats in front of me as Riley tries to wrench an armrest free, I guess to use as a club. I see a flash of blue and denim as the hot guy passes me and approaches Riley, who spins around and raises his fists like a boxer. His knuckles are already bruised and bleeding from his unsuccessful assault on the bus door. I see the letters S-T-A-Y tattooed on his right knuckles, and D-O-W-N on his left.
‘Dude,’ says the hot guy – PAXTON, according to his nametag. ‘Chill. We’re all on the same side here. None of us remember anything.’
I’m certain that Paxton is going to get thumped. But there’s something about him – a calm alpha-male confidence. Like he knows that things are going to go his way, because they always do.
Riley lowers his fists, his anger deflating like a punctured balloon. ‘For real?’
Paxton looks around at the rest of us. ‘Well, I don’t, and I assume none of the rest of you do either?’
I’m taken aback by his honesty. There’s a pause.
‘I have no autobiographical memory,’ says the kid up the back. His nametag says EDWIN.
‘Nor me.’ Sandra looks at Nia and me.
‘Nothing,’ says Nia.
I hesitate, and Nia elbows me in the ribs.
Okay, then.
‘Me neither,’ I admit, and it feels like a weight has fallen from my shoulders.
We’re all just as screwed as each other.
There’s a moment of relieved silence, then everyone starts talking at once.
‘… woke up, and there was nothing …’
‘… bus like this …’
‘… myself, I mean, I remember who Mickey Mouse and Dolly Parton are …’
‘… looks familiar …’
Riley collapses into the nearest seat, and I feel a shaky moment of relief. Sandra strides to the front of the bus, and assumes a natural tone of authority. Everyone else falls silent, grateful someone is taking charge. Paxton leans casually against the door of the bus.
‘Okay,’ Sandra says. ‘Now we know we’re all in the same boat, we can start trying to figure out how to get out of here. Does anyone remember anything at all – about how we got here, where we were before, where we’re going?’
Silence. Riley scratches his arm, his leg bouncing up and down.
‘And does anything about where we are look familiar to anyone?’
‘You do.’ It’s Paxton.
Sandra blinks. ‘Me?’
Huh, maybe they are related.
Edwin nods. ‘You look familiar to me too,’ he says. ‘But I don’t know from where.’
‘Yeah, same,’ says Riley.
Everyone turns to me and Nia. I shake my head. I’ve never seen Sandra before, I’m sure of it.
Sandra smiles uneasily. ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘I’m confident that our memories will return after a while, and that we’ll sort this all out. Clearly it’s some kind of prank or misunderstanding.’
‘Her, too.’ Riley is pointing at me with a ragged-nailed finger. ‘I’ve seen her before.’
I swallow down a sickening wave of unease. How could someone like Riley know someone like me?
Edwin nods, and so does Paxton.
This is not okay. I don’t want people to recognise me, when I don’t even recognise myself. The clawing, flapping fear starts up in my chest again, and I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from crying.
‘Really?’ Nia frowns at me. ‘Nope. Nothing. I don’t recognise any of you.’
‘Me neither,’ says Sandra.
‘Hello?’ The old lady has woken up, and looks around at us, then out her window at the jewel-toned ocean. ‘Are we going on a holiday?’ Her voice is cracked and wavering.
Sandra crouches down next to her. ‘Hi there,’ she says. ‘Your name is … Catherine. Don’t worry, Catherine, you’re going to be fine. We’ll look after you.’
Catherine blinks owlishly at her. ‘Could you make me a cup of tea, love?’ she asks, patting Sandra’s hand. ‘No sugar, and a dash of milk.’
Riley shakes his head like a dog with water in its ear. ‘I gotta take a dump,’ he says, and disappears up the aisle and into the toilet.
Sandra unscrews a water bottle for Catherine, who takes it from her with a shaky hand. She looks vague, but not alarmed. I wonder if she has dementia, and is used to being confused and having memory loss. Lucky her.
‘Why us?’ asks Sandra with a frown. ‘What do we have in common?’
I look around. Other than the fact we all speak English, it doesn’t seem like we have much in common at all.
‘Maybe we don’t,’ Nia muses. ‘Maybe we were just genuinely on a bus going our own ways, total strangers, and we got hit by some kind of … pulse … that wiped our memories.’
‘Maybe we got abducted by aliens?’ Edwin suggests. ‘This could be a kind of quarantine.’
Sandra makes a disbelieving sound. ‘It’s nothing that silly,’ she says.
‘We could be dead,’ Paxton says. ‘And this is purgatory.’
‘That’d be right,’ snorts Nia. ‘Hell is being stuck on a bus with a bunch of losers, looking at paradise out the window.’
I consider the possibility for a moment. No. We’re not dead. When you’re dead you just stop. Burn up into ashes or rot away in the ground. No more brain, no more consciousness.
‘Huh,’ I say out loud. ‘I guess I’m not religious.’
Riley emerges from the toilet, looking pale. ‘We’re not dead,’ he says. ‘There’s no way a dead person could do a shit that gross.’
He plonks himself down in his original seat up the back, but not before I get a good look at his tattoos. The lines are thick and fuzzy, the ink bleeding into his skin, like they weren’t made in a professional tattoo parlour. I see lightning and scorpions and a winding snake with diamond eyes. A playing card – the ace of clubs. Lots of wonky initials. The pale skin of his neck is crowded with a grinning skull wearing a nine-pointed crown, surrounded by a wreath of feathers. I don’t know if I’m an expert on about gangs and prison and tattoos or I’ve just watched too much gritty TV, but this guy’s appearance screams criminal.
He catches me looking, and grins. ‘Pretty full on, eh?’ he says, looking down at his arms. ‘Like a Where’s Wally.’
I smile politely and look away, over at the kid, Edwin. He’s short and skinny, with dark hair which falls into his eyes, and glasses in black plastic frames. If I had to guess, I’d say he was of Chinese descent. His fingers are still twisted together and held tight in his lap. He doesn’t look like a criminal, but you never know. I lean over the aisle.
‘Hey,’ I say to him. ‘Are you okay?’
He twitches and blinks a few times, but doesn’t make eye contact. ‘Okay might be an exaggeration,’ he says, his voice deeper than I’d expected.
I look more carefully and realise he’s not as young as I’d first thought – he’s just small and submissive-looking. He’s probably about my age – whatever that is. I feel weirdly protective of him.
‘Do you want to come and sit with me?’
He looks up at me like he’s suspicious of my motivations. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’d prefer to be by myself for a little while. This is all a bit overwhelming. And in any case, it’s probably too early to be making alliances. What if you’re the killer?’
‘The killer?’
Edwin spreads his hands. ‘Clearly I don’t yet grasp the scenario we’re operating in. But it feels like there could be a killer, don’t you think?’
‘Um, I guess so?’
He nods and blinks
some more. ‘I’d like to cogitate for a while before committing myself.’
‘Fair enough. Um … you said you … recognise me?’
He looks up, squinting at me. ‘Your face is familiar,’ he says. ‘But I’m not sure from where. I’m quite certain I don’t know you. Perhaps I saw your photo somewhere? You could be a celebrity.’
A weird part of me is quite pleased that he thinks I could be a celebrity. But it’s quickly replaced by dread – what if I am? What if this is some weird reality TV stunt and millions of people are watching this?
‘You look flustered,’ Edwin says. ‘I apologise if I said something that unnerved you.’
‘It’s okay.’
I reach over and pat him on the knee. He flinches a little at the contact. Not a people person, then.
Maybe he is the killer. He’s certainly thinking about killing a lot more than seems necessary.
Criminals and victims. It feels like such a cliché, as if I’m buying into all the prejudices that I’m supposed to resist. But … maybe clichés are there for a reason?
Edwin may want some alone time, but I need to start making allies. Annoying Nia has been fun, but she’s a red-shirt, and I’m blue. There are clear power dynamics emerging on the bus already, and I need to make sure I’m on the right team.
I head to the front of the bus, where the hot guy – Paxton – is still standing, looking out the windscreen. He looks at me with an assessing gaze, his eyes straying to my boobs and waist. I feel my body repositioning itself automatically – chest out, shoulders back, head tilted.
He likes what he sees, because he shoots me a lopsided grin. ‘How’s it going?’
I shrug and keep my tone light to match his. ‘Same old, same old.’
‘Done anything fun lately?’
‘Nothing comes to mind.’
His grin broadens as the bus sails around a bend. He uses the motion as an excuse to lean in closer to me, and I lean in as well. Flirting feels familiar. I know how to flirt. Whoever I was in my old life, I could flirt.
‘You did a good job, intervening with Riley,’ I tell him. ‘It looked like you’ve done that kind of thing before.’
‘Maybe,’ Paxton says. ‘He wasn’t really dangerous though – he was scared. I could relate – this whole thing is wild.’
The Erasure Initiative Page 2
