Saving Sophia

by Fleur Hitchcock

Sophia widens her eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. In—” But I stop myself. “I’m sure people do that kind of thing all the time.”

  “In what book are there aliens in PE kits?” she says.

  I kick the pavement. “Have you got a better suggestion?”

  By some giant wheelie bins, we find a carton of cardboard tubes and a length of green carpet. Also a load of used but only slightly cheesy tinfoil, ten rock-hard croissants and a packet of pink paper cups. We eat the croissants and tear holes in the cardboard tubes so that the paper cups stick through them. Covered with tinfoil they look like a two-year-old’s vision of a submachine gun.

  “They’ll do,” says Sophia, pretending to shoot the wall.

  I pick up my gun. I’ve never felt so self-conscious, but once we step out into the hordes of badly dressed aliens, no one even glances at us.

  A lorry grinds slowly through the middle of the crowd with a band on the top playing something loud but oddly muffled. They shed short lengths of silver cloth that I rescue and drape around my neck.

  From another lorry, a silver hat frisbees into the crowd. I scoop it up and jam it on to Sophia’s head. A little further on, we gain a papery skirt, a plastic sword, and a breastplate. We’re starting to look the part.

  “This way,” says Sophia, drifting to the right of the main street.

  Tall brick buildings rise from the pavement, their windows blacked out. As our fellow aliens wander through the streets, the huge windows of the office blocks gleam with their shattered reflections.

  Security guards loll in the doorways, pointing and laughing at the costumes.

  “Excuse me.” Sophia walks up to one of them. “Any chance we could use your loo?” She hops from foot to foot.

  The man scratches his head. “Um – don’t see why not,” he says and shouts back into the darkness of the building. “Here, Steve, can these kids use the toilets?”

  “Sure,” comes the reply.

  Sophia pulls my arm and, confused, I follow. And then I understand.

  On the wall is a list of the people who use the offices.

  Pinehead Associates appears to be on level three.

  “You’ll have to take the lift,” says Steve, who turns out to be a slack-jawed tapeworm staring at a screen dotted with footballers. “I could show you, but I’m watching—”

  “S’OK,” says Sophia breezily. “Where do we go?”

  “Any of the floors, they’ve all got toilets. If you like, you can both go to different ones.” His eyes never move from the TV. I glance back at the doorway. Security guard number one’s still glued to the aliens outside.

  “Perfect,” I say, as we head towards the lift. “Do you think they recognised you?”

  Sophia pauses and shakes her head. “No – no – I don’t think so – do you?” I look back at the security guards. Neither of them seem to be paying us any attention. “What’s the plan?” I whisper.

  “We’ll break in, see what we can find,” says Sophia. “But perhaps we should keep the lift going up and down, we could pretend we’ve gone to different toilets on different floors like he said. Let’s make them think we’re playing in the lift.”

  I follow her in, see her press 3 and do my best to keep reality at bay. “OK,” I say. “Fine – it’s a plan.”

  The third floor is exactly what I expected. Pot plants, air conditioning, weird padded silence from a white thickly carpeted floor. For a millisecond, I feel jealous; I’d like that carpet, those leatherette chairs, but it occurs to me that no one who works in the building has ever kept chickens or potted up cuttings or made their own hedgerow jelly, and I experience a slight sense of superiority as if I’ve glimpsed another dimension that they don’t even know exists.

  Sophia stops outside a glass booth. On the door it says T. R. Pinehead.

  She turns the handle.

  The door’s locked. Of course it’s locked, but above it is a keypad. “Any ideas?” I ask.

  Sophia sighs. “Date of birth? Mine, his, Mum’s?” She taps at the keys. “Random numbers?”

  “Favourite songs?” I ask. “All one number? Actually – let’s have a look at that.” I peer at the pad. The seven and the eight are both worn and grubby with use – all the others are pristine and shiny. I try 8787, then 7878, then 7887, then 7788 and the door clicks open.

  Sophia looks at me. “Clever,” she says, pushing open the door.

  “We’ll have to be quick, though,” I say, following her inside. “That football match was in the second half. He’ll notice if we’re not back by full time.”

  Standing here, in the office, I feel utterly terrified. This is not the kind of thing I’m meant to do. I do not do breaking and entering. I do top-quality English Comprehension and play the flute. I do not sneak around reading other people’s secrets, especially not scary people.

  I try to forget that what I’m doing is illegal and dangerous. Instead, I look around.

  It’s all very white and squishy, lots of leatherette and deep pile carpet, and more silence. A single white computer sits on an enormous desk that is otherwise utterly blank.

  “Where do we start? What are we looking for?” I ask.

  “Here,” says Sophia, moving towards an old green filing cabinet, standing by itself and looking out of place in this smooth new office space. “I’ve seen him lock it after he’s put things in it. We might find his address book or diary.”

  “Are you sure?” I open a long rolling cupboard door to reveal ranks of white filing cabinets, all unlocked.

  “Yup,” she says, opening a desk drawer. “It’s just that we need the key.”

  “Or a screwdriver – that’s what they always use…” I say. Sophia glances up at me. “Well, they do. Even Dad uses one when he can’t open things.”

  I find a pair of large scissors in a box underneath the desk and try slipping the blade into the lock. It doesn’t work – it’s obviously the wrong thing to use.

  “Bingo,” says Sophia, holding up a tiny key.

  But we’ve bent the lock, so even with the key it takes ages to get the drawer to open.

  And when it does, I don’t understand what we’ve found.

  “What are these?” I ask, flicking through ledgers filled with hundreds of tightly written numbers.

  Sophia shrugs. “Or these?” she says, pointing at a collection of flash-drives and camera storage discs. “We should take them,” she decides.

  “We need to copy them,” I say.

  She stares at me.

  “Otherwise it’s inadmissable evidence.”

  She still stares at me.

  “If you take them, you can’t prove they came from here, but if you copy them, then they won’t even know you’ve seen them. If it ever comes to a police investigation, then the police have to find them here otherwise they can’t use them as evidence.”

  “Let me guess. You know that because it’s in something like The History of the Swollen Shrew? Or Dark Days in Kansas?”

  “No. This time I heard it on the radio.” I smile.

  “OK, I get it,” says Sophia. She reaches into another drawer and pulls out a brand new, unopened flash drive. “They always have stacks of these.”

  She switches on the white computer, and copies the disc files from the individual chips to the new flash drive, while I begin to scan the ledger into the photocopier.

  “What about his diary – should I be looking for it?” I ask.

  “I’ll check his engagements on this.” She starts to click through Pinhead’s emails on the computer.

  I’m so intent on the photocopying, I don’t see what Sophia’s doing, and don’t look up until I hear her make a little choking sound.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Nothing – we have to go.” The screen on the computer fades into black.

  I scoop the copied pages from the printer, and turn the ledger over to get the last few entries.

  “I’m done,” she says. “Do you want to
do the lift thing? Or shall I?”

  “Nearly finished,” I say. “We could do it together.”

  We pick up every scrap of tinfoil, I stuff the photocopied diaries into Ned’s bag, and we try to put the filing cabinet lock in the right position.

  “Right,” says Sophia, putting the key on the window sill. “Time to get out of here.”

  But we don’t have time, because the lift pings. We stare at each other. Sophia pushes the office door shut and runs for the big white cupboard of filing cabinets. I stuff the cardboard guns into the broom cupboard and dive for cover under the kneehole of the huge desk that is too small and too public.

  I hear the peeping of the keypad outside. The door handle clunks and someone comes in. I draw my knees into my chest and barely breathe.

  “So do you think it was them?” It’s Wesson’s voice.

  “Bound to be.” Someone tries the drawer of the green filing cabinet. I hold my breath but it stays closed. “Haven’t got in here, though, have they, so what’s she playing at?” A man’s voice. Pinhead.

  Something sounds like it’s being dragged across the carpet. I really hope we haven’t left anything out there.

  Knees appear right by my head. Pinstripe-suited ones. Then very close by, I hear the high-pitched beeps of someone putting numbers into a phone. Pinhead starts talking.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Yes, we’re on the trail. The security boys downstairs rang me.” Silence while he listens for a bit. “Yeah, Sophia, and the other girl – they’re somewhere in the building.” He listens. “Look,” his voice softens, like he’s just flipped the charm switch. “Don’t worry – they won’t be able to stop us, we’re nearly there.” More silence. “Yeah, yeah – I’ve got it covered – there won’t be any loose ends. You know me, I never leave loose ends.”

  If I had to run, I couldn’t. My foot’s fallen asleep.

  There’s a sound of sticky tape coming off a dispenser.

  “Look – it’s fine – it’s all safe, no one knows anything – no one even knows about this phone. There’s nothing leading from me to you, nothing leading from the warehouse to me. No one knows anything. It all looks kosher.”

  A pause. And I think about how different he sounds. Not at all like the man that was charming Miss Sackbutt in our kitchen.

  “Yeah – yeah. Anyway, it’s just a blip, they’re just children, tiny schmucky children. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of them – no problem.”

  The phone clunks on to the desk above my head. I look up instinctively, and to my amazement see a huge bundle of cash taped to the underneath of the desk. I draw myself away from it.

  “What did Jim say?” asks Wesson.

  “Wants to keep his nose clean – worried about his public reputation.”

  A different phone beeps. A call in or out? “Yeah? No, I don’t actually know.” Pinhead’s voice is different, more irritated than in the last call. “Yes – yes – don’t worry, I’ll find her.” Fingers drum on the desk above my head. “No – I said I would, OK? Yes, I lost her but I’ll find her. Don’t panic and don’t hassle me – I’m doing my best OK?”

  The phone clunks back on to the desk.

  “And?” says Wesson.

  Pinhead’s talking: “She’s antsy, she’s worried about her little darling – but it’ll be all right. OK, let’s find those kids, and this time, if I catch that toe-rag Sophia – I swear I’ll kill her.” His hand reaches under the top of the desk, towards the money.

  I pull back. Instead of taking the cash, the hand holds a mobile phone under the counter top. With his other hand, he presses sticky tape to either side until the phone is stuck fast to the underside of the desk.

  “Right – time for me to get out of here. You all right staying here, darling? Keep a look out and give me a ring if anything happens. I’ll go and search the rest of the place.”

  “Of course, Trevor, love. Take care.”

  Then there’s the long sticky sound of kissing.

  Pins and needles are worse the longer you leave them.

  When Wesson helps herself from the water cooler, I risk moving my dead leg. It’s excruciating. Absolutely agonising. It feels as if someone’s pulling it off my body and it’s all I can do to stop myself from screaming.

  I think of Irene flying those aeroplanes, stuck in the same position for hours in a freezing cockpit. If she could do it, so can I.

  Mind you, she didn’t have Pinhead after her. Racehorse trainer, bouncer, boxer, sausage maker, international criminal. Gangster. Spy. Murderer.

  All the stories of concrete overcoats and missing relatives become horribly possible. I keep playing the conversation over in my mind. No loose ends. No loose ends. Am I a loose end?

  And who was the second caller – was it my mum? Or Miss Sackbutt? Maybe Sophia’s mum – though it sounds like she’s already propping up a motorway in Japan.

  Away to my left in the cupboard of filing cabinets, Sophia has managed to stay completely silent, but I’m wondering how long I can stand this for.

  Are we going to have to wait for Wesson to give up and go home?

  I watch the sun cross from one side of the room to the other, the lights come on in the office, and finally, I listen to the sound of Miss Wesson bedding down on the floor, her head scarily close to my ankle on the other side of the backboard of the desk.

  For some time Wesson’s breathing’s fast, too fast to be asleep, and then it turns from fast to slow, and I wonder whether I could sneak out past her nose, but I’m not at all sure I could walk well enough.

  De dee dee, da dee dee, da da dee dee dee.

  A mobile phone rings and I use the noise to shuffle my legs while Wesson gropes to switch it on.

  “Yeah?” she says.

  Silence.

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  “Well, you’ve got the car but I could get a cab, meet you there.”

  Silence.

  “See you in half an hour and, Trevor, love you.”

  The carpet crunches as Wesson stands up and fabric rustles. She pulls on some sort of clothing, and then there’s an empty silence as the door clicks shut.

  I sit motionless, waiting.

  Ping.

  The lift doors clunk.

  The whole office floor feels wrapped in cottonwool silence. I risk pushing my leg out of the side of the desk. No one leaps on me, no one shouts, although everything aches.

  I stand, my legs shaking and pull back the door on the filing cabinets.

  “Lottie?”

  At first I can’t see her, then I realise she’s crammed herself into the gap along the top but so far back that only her eyes give her away.

  “She’s gone,” I say, reaching my hand out to pull Sophia from the space.

  It takes a few minutes to get her out, and like me, she’s seized up.

  “Did you get that?” I say. “The conversations?”

  Sophia nods. She gazes at me, wide eyed. “See – I said he was scary.”

  I wipe a homesick tear away from my eye. I’d really like to go home now. I want it all to stop. But instead I say, “There’s a bundle of money under here. And a mobile phone.”

  Sophia drops to her knees and peers under the desk.

  “There’s loads. Hundreds. What did he mean, Sophia – about the loose ends?” I say, swallowing the tears, trying to sound sensible.

  She pulls out the bundle. It’s a thick wad of twenties wrapped with a paper band and a bank stamp. “I don’t know, Lottie.” She shivers. “Do you think it would be wrong to take this?”

  I stare at the bundle, and think of the conversation we just heard.

  “No, I don’t. Take the phone, too, and let’s get out of here.”

  It’s easier to think about leaving the office than to leave it.

  “They’ll find us in seconds if we use the lift, we’ll have to go by the stairs,” I say.

  “Do you think they’re still looking for us?” Sophia says, pulling open the heav
y fire door.

  “I do. They never saw us leave. They must still think we might be here,” I say. “Up or down?”

  “Why up?” she says.

  “They’ll expect us to come out of the bottom, so perhaps we should try the top.”

  We start climbing the stairs. I lose count after six floors, in fact I can’t even work out which way I’m facing. I realise that I’m much more at home in the countryside, where I can see the sky. Here, without the sun, there’s nothing to tell you where anything is.

  I’m boiling within seconds, and out of breath within minutes.

  “Do you think Ned told them we were coming here?” she asks.

  I walk up another flight of steps. Would he or wouldn’t he?

  An improbable thought comes to me. “I suppose he might have been worried about us?” As I say it I feel something curious, that’s not just to do with being out of breath. A kind of warm, sweet sadness, that comes with the thought of my brother actually caring about me.

  I push it to one side and make myself walk up another flight of steps. Sophia skips up the last few steps and I rush to follow.

  A minute later and I’m regretting it. These buildings are seriously tall. So tall that you can hear them blowing in the wind, and the tops are not nearly as smart as the entrances would make you think.

  I would rather stamp up the staircase forever than be stuck here on top for one minute.

  We step out into a howling gale. Rain beats on the roof all around us and it’s freezing. I stop in the doorway, letting my eyes sort the shapes in the dark. Tall chimneys thrust up into the rain cloud, aerials, pipes, all standing dark against the yellow nightglow of the city. Things I can’t see scrunch under my trainers. Gravel? Seagull bones? Eggs? Poo?

  Sophia picks her way through the shafts and pipes to the side of the roof. I can see her clearly now; it’s not at all dark really. A steel parapet runs around the side, with one small gap.

  “The fire escape?” she shouts.

  I lean against the wind. I can barely walk on the flat so how on earth am I supposed to go down a fire escape? This was mad – I should never have suggested it.

  Sophia leans on the parapet, looking down. “It’s not too bad,” she says. “A ladder for a couple of storeys then a proper staircase.”