I glance up and see there are four levels with a wide open plan area in the middle. Boys of different ages, mainly late teens, are sitting around at tables, texting or playing cards and they all look at me and Loz as we walk by. One boy smiles nastily at me and then shouts, ‘BOO!’ at the top of his voice. I flinch and hear the mass hysteria that follows. Luckily we soon leave that area and go through a huge kitchen, filled with adults but also people I reckon are more inmates. It’s hot and steamy and smells of old chip fat. Out the back there’s another room that reeks of smoke.
The guard goes over to a window and pulls up a metal blind. Light floods in, revealing a room covered in black streaks. Dust is swirling around and there are bits of floating stuff in the air like black confetti that make me cough. I look up. There’s some kind of metal air vent with cobwebs hanging from it.
The guard speaks. ‘As you probably know, we had a fire in here. Most likely started by one of the lads working in the kitchen.’ He pauses. ‘We’re not exactly short of arsonists here. So what we want is for it to be given a good clean before you paint it.’
There’s a window on one side that looks over a courtyard, which has a basketball net and goal broken on one side with ripped netting. Probably an exercise area. I can see various lads hanging around in clusters. They all wear grey hoodies and one boy is standing in the opposite corner just facing the wall. But unlike the others, he has a huge X marked on his back. I wonder whether he’s been picked out for something horrible. It gives me the creeps.
The guard clocks my expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, but not nicely. ‘There’s no access to this bit of the building from the yard. Water’s over there.’ He points to a filthy square sink to the left. There are cracks all over it that look like spider webs. ‘Mops, buckets and cleaning stuff in the corner. OK?’
‘Aye, right enough,’ mumbles Loz and the guard nods before going out the way we came. We hear the sound of many locks being turned.
Loz goes and sits down on a chair in the corner and gets out his mobile. He glances up at me. ‘Get on wi’ it, then,’ he says and starts furiously texting.
I look at the metal bucket propped up in the corner and, instead of filling it with water, I walk back over to the window that looks over the exercise yard. At first I think the yard is empty now but then I realise the boy who was facing the wall is still there. He’s turned towards me but the grey hoodie is pulled down low, hiding his face. He’s as still as a statue with his arms down and his palms facing out. The word ‘sacrifice’ comes into my head for no reason at all. Adrenaline sizzles up my spine because I somehow know he’s looking right at me. He’s like a a coiled spring and I imagine him suddenly leaping at the window. Then I give myself a little shake and tell myself to stop being such a muppet.
‘Ye no started, yet?’ Loz’s voice makes me jump. Trying to hide my burning face, I hurry over to the sink and start clanking around with the bucket.
The next two hours are completely horrible. Loz keeps disappearing off for a cig or to make a phonecall and I’m left to do everything. Where the smoke hasn’t reached, the corners are sticky with spilled food or crumby dust piles. I haul out one box and see tiny brown pellets that make my stomach heave. I want to ask Loz if he thinks there might be rats in here but know he’d only tell Des and they’d have a right laugh at my expense. I don’t even have any rubber gloves and I decide that I’m not going anywhere near Rat Poo Corner until I’ve got a full chemical hazard suit on, or at least a pair of Mum’s Marigolds.
After a lifetime, the guard comes back and looks around, frowning.
‘Well, I hope you’re going to work a bit faster than this,’ he says and Loz looks genuinely offended even though he hasn’t done a single stroke of work.
Soon we’re outside in the fresh air, hearing the clunk of locks turning from inside. Loz doesn’t say anything and we trudge back to the van.
Tizer is so excited at our return that he fills the car with toxic gas. Loz ruffles his ears like the dog has just done a trick and starts the engine. We’re coming towards the main gates when I see something that makes me twist sharply in my seat.
‘Whit’s the matter wi’ you?’ says Loz.
‘That boy,’ I say, ‘can you see him?’
He’s standing right up against the inner fence with his hands outstretched, palms up. ‘Course I can see him,’ says Loz. ‘Nasty wee neds, the lot of them.’
I don’t answer. The boy had something on his hand . . . some sort of birthmark. I open my own palm and stare down at the identically shaped mark there. I give myself a shake. Stupid. It’s just a coincidence. Right?
When I get back, a note on the kitchen table tells me Mum and Des have gone to the pub. Pigface seems to be having one of his mammoth sessions in the bog with his car mags.
I root about in the fridge and then make myself a doorstep sandwich. I eat the sarnie and then stare at my hand for ages. The birthmark is pinky brown and lozenge-shaped. Maybe loads of people have ones like this? It’s a bit weird though . . . Pigface’s mobile is on the table and it starts ringing. It doesn’t go to voicemail and just rings on and on. Eventually it stops, then starts again. I don’t know why I pick it up. I often don’t know why I do the stupid things I do.
‘Yeah?’ I say.
‘Who’s this?’ snaps a girl on the other end.
‘Who’s this?’ I throw right back.
‘It’s Yasmine. Put Ryan on.’
Yasmine is the new woman in Pigface’s life. Suddenly, my horrible new job and the fact that I’m going nuts and no one cares all come whizzing together and I find myself saying, ‘Actually Yasmine, didn’t you know? He’s gone out with Tanya White this evening.’
‘He . . . what?’
‘Yeah,’ I go on, warming to the theme, ‘I think he said he was taking her to the pub and then the new Saw movie.’
‘The little.’
There are quite a few very unladylike words then and she hangs up. I stare at the phone. Then the toilet flushes and all the blood from my body seems to be replaced by iced water as I think about what I’ve done.
I hurry off to my bedroom and push a full chest of drawers up against the door. Mum’s right, I’m an idiot and I don’t help myself.
I hear sounds outside and can picture what’s happening. Pigface sees he’s got a missed call and then dials Yasmine’s number. I know I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake and, sure enough, a few minutes later I hear raised voices and I think about jumping out the window when there’s an ear-splitting . . .
. . . and Pigface is throwing his full weight against the door. I crawl backwards onto the bed and watch in horror as the doorframe actually starts to split apart. The chest of drawers is shifting sideways and I know that Pigface has gone way beyond the point of caring about the furniture. I throw open the bedroom window but have only just got my head out when I hear him burst into the room and his arms are round my waist dragging me back to the floor. He flips me over onto my back and squats over me, his eyes wild and a dangly bit of spit hanging off the side of his mouth like a rabid dog.
‘Look, Ryan, it was only a joke! I didn’t mean to —’
‘Think you can make a monkey out of me, do you?’ he screams and starts to punch me. The last thing I remember is reaching for the football trophy next to my bed and then there’s nothing at all.
Voices come and go in surging waves and something’s tugging at me. Not my body, but inside my head.
I say, ‘Not yet, I’m not ready!’ for some reason, and my eyes snap open.
It’s morning. I’m in bed, fully clothed.
I can hear the radio on in the kitchen. I get up slowly, giving my ribs an experimental pat to see how bad they are. But they feel fine and when I pull up my T-shirt there are no bruises. I go into the kitchen and Mum’s in there smoking and drinking a cup of tea. She looks up at me, but doesn’t seem especially curious about anything.
‘Tea in the pot,’ she says, stubbing out her fag and pa
tting the back of her hair.
I lean on the table as my words coming rushing out. ‘Ryan beat me up! He could have killed me!’
She frowns, then smiles. ‘What are you talking about, Cal?’
For God’s sake! She’s not going to believe me, is she? Either that, or Des will have persuaded her I was in the wrong. I can see them all sitting around the table discussing it, while I was out cold.
‘You’ve got to believe me, Mum! He’s completely out of control! He came into my room and started battering me and —’
Mum gives a funny laugh. ‘Who did, Cal?’ Like every word I’ve said was incomprehensible.
‘Ryan!’ I shout this time, unable to control myself a second longer. ‘Bloody Ryan! He attacked me! He’s out of control!’
Mum stops smiling. ‘Cal, you’ve obviously had some kind of nightmare . . .’ She pauses. ‘You’re not making any sense. Who’s Ryan?’
Someone stops the clock.
I can hear every noise in the house, from the water in the pipes, to the gentle hum of the fridge.
I can hear Mum breathing and my own blood whooshing round my veins.
Maybe if neither of us speaks again, we can forget how mental this moment is and carry on as normal.
But instead I take a deep breath, swallow, and say, ‘OK, not sure what’s going on here but you know who Ryan is. He’s Des’s son, isn’t he? You know, Desmondo? Lover boy? Your darling husband?’
Mum turns away and reaches for her handbag, shoving her ciggies in the top. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you this morning,’ she says, ‘but you’ll be late for the programme if you don’t hurry up.’
‘Late for what programme?’
‘Late for school, Cal! I said SCHOOL! Remember school? OK, there’s my lift. Better get going!’
Chills zigzag up my neck. Mum walks briskly out the door. I run out behind her but she’s already in a car that’s puttering down the hill.
I’m shaking all over. My brain’s hard drive is full. I can’t take any more weirdness. I haven’t got room. I look around the kitchen. Shock spikes in my belly again because I know something is different but I can’t put my finger on it.
And then I realise.
Des’s chair isn’t here. It’s an old battered armchair where he likes to sit in the morning and drink his tea. There are none of his sweatshirt tops lying around either and no copy of yesterday’s Sun where he normally leaves it next to the kettle.
There’s nothing of his in the kitchen whatsoever.
And I’ll tell you what else is missing. I can’t see any of Pigface’s stuff lying around. I scan the room again. The picture on the wall above the telephone – the one of Des and Mum on their wedding day – has gone. Instead, there’s a painting of a vase of flowers. It’s a different size to the wedding picture and I move it to one side and can see the right-sized mark on the wall, telling me this one has always been in that spot.
I run into Mum’s bedroom. It looks normal but when I throw open the wardrobes, they’re empty. Are they all leaving home? Is that it? Weren’t they even going to tell me? My eyes sting. Well, stuff the lot of them. I’d rather live here on my own.
But then I hear something. A woman’s crying somewhere in the house. There’s something else . . . a police car siren outside. And it’s getting closer. The sounds stop, abruptly, and all I can hear is my own heartbeat. Where have they gone? I try to picture family friends or someone I can ask. But it’s like trying to watch a broken television. Panic’s rising inside me and I’m drowning. I try to clutch at any memory. Last year, last week? But I can’t remember anything that happened before the last couple of days. Not Christmas or birthdays or anything.
Nothing before I saw that crack in the ceiling of the boys’ bogs.
I look down at my hands, needing reassurance that I’m at least real. The strange pin-pricks of light are there again. I shove my hands hard into my pockets, shaking all over.
‘Not real, not real, not real,’ I whisper. I have to get out of this house right now. School. I’ll go to school, just like normal. Schools don’t disappear even when you want them to.
I run out of the house and head down the hill.
‘It’s all right, see?’ I murmur to myself. ‘I’m fine. Just fine.’
But the cracks aren’t done with me yet.
I’m halfway down the hill when there’s a rumbling under my feet and the road starts to judder and shake. The ground creaks and groans and then the hillside splits open like it’s being pulled apart by giant hands. Brown earth churns up and I fall back onto my bum, whimpering a bit as a huge crack races like fire down the hill. It spreads across the outside of the brewery and the tall chimneys fold over slowly and crumple before the whole building collapses into a giant hole in the ground. The roaring and tearing fill my head like the scream of something being murdered but then there’s silence. No birds, no cars. Silence, apart from my heavy breathing and that pounding heartbeat again that feels like it’s outside me and all around.
The school goes next, folding with an enormous roar. The old red bricks release a massive cloud of dust. I don’t mind admitting that I’m crying now, thinking about all the people who must be inside by now like Amil and Miss Lovett and even Peters and Jennings who might be pains in the arse but never deserved to die, not crushed beneath a pile of bricks. I start running faster towards the school. I might be skinny but I’m strong and fast from training. Maybe I can dig some people out with my hands before the emergency services get here . . .
. . . and then I stop. Surely there should be fire engines on their way to the two disasters? People screaming from the wreckage? Even if every last person was killed inside, there are shops and houses round the school. Why aren’t there people rushing out to help or even just to rubberneck? The headache comes back suddenly. There’s a dull knocking inside my skull that makes me groan and put my fingers to my forehead. Did something hit me in the earthquake? I can’t feel any bumps. The birthmark on my hand though . . . it’s even clearer than usual. Darker and brighter all at once.
Maybe this is all some kind of massive joke and in a minute someone with a camera is going to jump out and then put me on YouTube. A hysterical barking laugh comes out of me and I force my mouth closed, because I sound nuts.
I walk down the road a bit further and jump at the sight of a black and white cat on a wall, licking its paws and staring right at me. It’s the one I saw before. I rub under its chin and it vibrates all over like it’s motorised.
‘What now, puss?’ I’m shaking hard and my teeth are chattering. I want to hold the cat close and curl into a ball until someone makes things normal again. I won’t complain any more, I promise. Des and Pigface can boot me all over the place and I won’t moan. I just want this weirdness to stop. I walk around in a circle for a moment, thinking. Where to go? Where to go?
I catch sight of an ugly grey building in the distance. It’s the only thing on the horizon now the school and factory have gone. My feet start taking me towards it.
I don’t know why I’m heading to Riley Hall. It’s the place that scares me most. But I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s like I’m going to find an answer there; an answer to a question I don’t even know yet.
I walk past silent houses and shops and cafés where lights are on and music plays but no one is home. The cat follows, jumping from one gate post to the next and then padding along behind me with its little white-socked paws. I stop and rub its warm head, grateful for its heartbeat and warm, furry life.
The main gate to Riley Hall is wide open. I thought I’d lost the capacity to be shocked today but once I step through, the gate slams closed behind me and I nearly wet my pants. The cat mewls at me from outside the gate.
‘Sorry, puss.’
Leaving it behind feels like the worst thing I’ve ever done. I have to bite on my hand to stop the violent shivers shuddering through me like electric shocks. I walk up to the main building. The door’s open, of course. Insid
e, I think I can hear echoes – ghostly voices and clanging of metal doors, shouts, snatches of radio but then . . . silence.
It looks different from last time. There’s no open plan area now. Instead it’s made up of long corridors with closed doors, just like in my dreams. I walk slowly down the first corridor and somewhere I can hear beep, beep, beep in the distance. I look up and jump because the boy I saw before is standing at the end of the corridor, his hood pulled low over his face. He turns and walks quickly away from me.
‘Hey!’
But he ignores me and just hurries on, head bent. A noise behind makes me spin round. The wall is painted a dirty light green and pockmarked all over with graffiti and small holes but now a crack’s formed that spreads and branches out all over. I stumble away from it as the wall groans and a huge hole appears in the middle. I can hear the wind whistling through the gap but I feel like I’m stuck to the ground. A hand appears around the side of the hole and a face appears, grinning.
It’s Pigface. His eyes are devil red and his grinning mouth is bigger and wider than any human mouth should be. ‘I’ve come to get you,’ he says and his voice is so deep it rumbles through my whole body.
I cry out and start running down the corridor. I can hear the bricks falling as he climbs through the hole and I’m running harder than I’ve ever run before. I get round the corner and see the hoodie boy again.
‘Hey,’ I shout, ‘help me!’ But he carries on walking, head down and hands in pockets.
I run faster from Pigface’s pounding footsteps behind me.
‘I’m coming to get you, Cal!’ His voice has slowed down to a terrible drawl.
The boy opens a door near the end of the corridor and disappears through it. I run after him, praying it will open, and it does. I fumble with the lock on the inside of the door and can hear Pigface’s fists thump against it in frustration.
Cracks Page 3
