‘As I said, we’ve never managed to trace any family, I’m afraid,’ says Cavendish. ‘But do try not to worry about the future at the moment. You’ll need a period of recovery. We’ll have to monitor you to make sure there are no aftereffects of the coma.’ He gets up. ‘You should rest now. Try to get some more sleep.’
He moves so quickly I don’t see what he’s doing until I feel a prick in my hand. ‘Just to help you relax,’ he says and I see he’s holding a syringe.
I can feel myself falling, but before I do, a question bubbles out of me.
‘How did you know that Des was my stepdad?’ I start to say. ‘I didn’t tell you that . . .’ but the words just echo inside my own head.
Time passes but I don’t know how many days or nights because they all bleed into one. I can’t seem to stop sleeping. I don’t dream, but every time I wake up, my new reality washes over me like cold water.
‘You’re nothing . . . nobody.’
That’s what Des – or whoever he really was – said. Maybe he was right.
Because it doesn’t seem like anyone here cared about me that much either, if they left me here to rot all that time. It feels like Des and Tina and even Pigface would be better than being some sort of walking blank page. My insides hurt but I know it’s nothing to do with after-effects of being in the coma. It’s an ache for what I thought was my life.
I keep going over what I can remember but there’s nothing before the cracking ceiling in the boys’ toilets. I have a theory, though: I reckon this was when I was starting to wake up. I’ve asked Cavendish for details about the crash again and how I got here but he keeps saying he has nothing more to tell me. I wonder about what happened all the time. Who was driving the car? I must have had parents somewhere down the line. Did they love me, like proper parents? But if they did, how could they have let me stay here so long? Did they die in the car crash? And then I start thinking about the dead donor boy and wondering who he was. I feel like he’s here, somewhere inside me, all the time. Which is pretty creepy and horrible when you think about it. Who wants to have a dead person inside them, even if it is just a bit of bodily tissue?
They bring me tablets but they make me feel sick and drowsy so I pretend to take them, hiding them between the mattress and the fitted sheet.
One morning I wake up and I realise I’ve had enough of the pity party in my head. I need to do something. I stink, as much as anything. There’s a bathroom next door but I’ve only used the toilet until now. I’ve been avoiding the round mirror above the sink, like it’s a portal that will take me somewhere bad. If I look like a different boy to the one I think I am, I really will go nuts.
I throw back the sheets before I can change my mind and march straight in there. Putting my hands on the sink with my head bent, I count to three . . . and force myself to look up.
I make a little noise in my throat. My knees go and I slump forwards. I have to take deep breaths. Relief is melting all my bones to warm jelly. Once I’ve got a grip on myself, I look again.
Dirty blond sticky-out hair? Longer than normal, but check. Dark brown eyes? Check. Mole on right cheek? Check.
So far, so me.
I glance down quickly at my hand. I still have the birthmark: a small oval stain on my palm. I take off my musty pyjama top and check myself out properly. It’s weird, but I look like I really have been training. I flex my fist and look at the sinewy ropes on my arm. I can’t make any sense of it, but I’m grateful. I probably need all the strength I’ve got right now.
I get into the shower. All the stuff they told me about comas and brain tissue makes me feel sort of itchy and dirty so I let the hot water run over me for ages, like I can wash away twelve years of lies. A sudden thought makes me gasp, accidentally inhaling some water. How did I get clean before? Did they wash me? I want to punch a hole through the glass but I’m too busy spluttering. It’s not just the water. The shower gel is so piney-strong it makes my nose ache and tickle. My old world is fading fast but I know it was never this brightly lit or as smelly as the real world. It’s like my senses have woken up for the first time and are all doing overtime. Now I’m awake, that other world in my head feels like a faded old photo.
After my shower, I find some clothes neatly folded on the bed. They look old but smell clean. I pull on a plain white T-shirt and some jeans that seem to be the right size. No shoes though and that’s a pain. How do they expect me to go anywhere without shoes?
Anyway, once dressed, I’m starving. I’ve only picked at the odd sandwich or bowl of cereal left in my room until now. I wasn’t hungry and my throat hurt. But suddenly I feel like I could eat a scabby donkey if it came with fries. Some toast and jam has been left out for me. The toast is so toasty and the jam so jammy that the flavours make me dizzy. I can’t help folding a whole piece into my mouth at once.
‘Steady there,’ says Beardy. I hadn’t noticed him come in. They all do that. None of them knock. ‘You might want to take that a bit slower.’
I take a huge slurp of juice, which tastes like sunshine in a glass. It’s such orange heaven I just stare at it for a moment in awe. Something occurs to me.
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘could I eat properly? When I was in the coma?’
Beardy is starting to clear the breakfast stuff away. He’s barely given me any eye contact so far and doesn’t look at me now. None of them are friendly. It feels like they don’t know what to do with me now I’ve woken up. Like they preferred me when I was a boy in a pod who didn’t ask questions.
‘Yes,’ he says hesitantly, ‘technically you could. But it was thought best that we stuck with tube feeding most of the time.’
I swallow and put the glass down. I’m not so thirsty now. I understand why my throat hurt and my voice was croaky. My hand instinctively goes to my neck.
Beardy’s walking towards the door.
‘Wait!’
He stops.
‘Am I really named Cal?’ Maybe it was the other boy’s name . . . the dead one. A wave of panic washes over me in case I don’t even know what I’m really called.
‘I believe so, yes,’ he says and starts to leave the room.
‘Hey?’
This time his expression is definitely irritated.
‘So do you know my surname as well?’
He doesn’t answer straight away. ‘I’m not sure about that. I’ve only been here for a few months,’ he says, looking away. ‘Maybe you should ask Dr Cavendish.’
He bustles out of the room and I lean back against my pillows, weak with relief that at least my name is my own. Despite living that weird, borrowed life inside my head, some little part of me must have hung onto my real identity. But I’d still like to know why they’re so sure. If they know my name, maybe they know a bit more about where I came from? I decide I’m going to pump Cavendish to tell me every tiny detail of what he knows later.
First I want to get a proper look at where I’ve been living for the last twelve years. It’s crazy, but I haven’t even looked outside the window yet. I yank up the beige venetian blinds covering the window. That’s weird. There are thick metal bars across it and rolls of vicious spikes curling along the window sill. Rain is running down the window but I can’t hear it at all. These windows are seriously thick. Outside there’s a car park flanked by a high perimeter wall, also covered in rolls of barbed wire and metal spikes. A lone guard in a long waterproof coat with a hood is walking up and down with a huge Alsatian dog, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Why the OTT security? I feel dizzy as a pin sharp memory of being inside Riley Hall flashes across my mind. It’s not like I’m a prisoner here. It’s completely different. Right? So what would happen if I just made my way to the front door and walked out? I’m a free citizen. I can do what I want. For some reason though, my heart thrums hard against my ribcage as I poke my head outside the door. I start walking.
At the end of the corridor I see Cavendish talking to another man, a real bruiser with pock-marked ski
n and shoulders as wide as an American footballer. He pushes the jacket of his blue suit back to adjust his belt and I spy a gun there, nestled against his waist. I draw back behind a large metal trolley filled with cleaning equipment. Cavendish is speaking in an animated way and if he’s intimidated by a bloke that size who’s tooled up, he isn’t showing it. If anything, the other bloke has his palms up as though he’s apologising about something. I creep down the corridor in the other direction and pass a room where some men dressed in dark blue uniforms – something between a policeman and a soldier’s uniform – are leaning over a table. I pause for just long enough to see that the table is loaded with machine guns and the men casually pick them up as though they’re nothing.
I quicken my pace, heart banging almost painfully now.
I’m looking back over my shoulder to check I’m not being followed as I hurry round the next corner. And slam straight into Beardy.
‘Where are you going?’ He puts his hand on my arm. His eyes and voice are cold as ice.
‘Just a walk,’ I say, trying to strike the exact right balance between casual and not-to-be-messed-with.
Beardy’s eyes dart about and he licks his lips. ‘It’s not a good idea to go wandering,’ he says. ‘You’re still quite weak. Come on, back to your room.’ He takes me by the arm again and I try to shrug him off but his grip is strong.
‘But I’m not weak!’ I say. ‘I feel fine!’
‘That’s as maybe,’ he says, ‘but you don’t know what’s best for you right now. You need to rest.’
Within about four seconds I’m back in my room. I hear a key turning in the lock.
I pace about furiously. This is all wrong. Why won’t they let me go where I want? And what’s with all the guns? I try a few experimental bangs on the door but no one comes.
Ages later, two female nurses come in, locking the door after them. Without saying anything or looking at me they start putting together a tray with syringes and stuff on it. I’ve had enough. I snatch a syringe from the trolley and hold it to my throat.
‘Go get Cavendish,’ I say, ‘or I’m going to stick this in my neck and you’ll have to explain it to him. Do it!’
I must look crazy enough because the two nurses look nervously at each other and one scurries out of the room. Seconds later, Cavendish comes bustling through the door.
‘Just put that down, Cal, and we can talk. You could hurt yourself.’
‘I want to know why I’m locked in,’ I say and he approaches slowly, nodding. ‘And I want to know everything you know about me. About who I am.’
‘OK! OK . . . Please, Cal, you could hurt yourself. If you’ll just put that down we can talk. Please?’
I feel a bit stupid, to be honest, so I drop the syringe onto the trolley.
Cavendish visibly relaxes. ‘Right, thank you. Sit down, Cal.’
‘I’ll stand, thanks.’ I lean against the wall and cross my arms.
He sighs and then sits down on the end of the bed. ‘First of all, what we do here is not just any old research,’ he says. ‘We’re at the very cutting edge of neuro-technology.’ He clocks my baffled expression. ‘That is, technology as it relates to brain science and the study of consciousness.’ He brushes a bit of dust from his immaculately pressed trousers and leans closer. ‘We don’t publicise what we do, because much of our work involves confidentiality of patients, but, inevitably information sometimes gets out. The fact is we’ve had a security breach. There’s an organisation that wants to disrupt our work and we discovered that someone working here, one of our nurses, was involved. They are criminals who are against the work we do. They want to turn the clock back. They spread lies and propaganda about our organisation.’
‘What kind of lies?’
He blinks. ‘They’re just fanatics. Extremists. They really shouldn’t concern you because you are perfectly safe here. We just have to protect our patients and our valuable technology and, sadly, that can necessitate high security.’
‘But why lock me in?’
There’s the briefest pause. ‘We’re carrying out a security check. Please don’t be concerned. It shouldn’t take long.’
I take a deep breath. ‘OK. So how come you know my name is Cal? What’s my surname? What else do you know about me?’
Cavendish runs his tongue across his lips. His expression is weird and he keeps blinking. ‘Your full name is . . .’ He hesitates, as though making a decision. ‘Callum Conway. There will have been paperwork. I’ll have to look at our records.’ He looks at me. ‘You shouldn’t really be out of bed yet. Have you been taking the medication we’ve been giving you, Cal?’
I go cold inside. ‘Yeah,’ I lie. ‘Why?’
‘Just checking. I’ll be back later, OK?’ He practically runs out of the room and I hear it lock again.
I prowl the room, feeling like a caged animal. Something feels wrong here. I think Cavendish knows more than he’s letting on. I start pulling open the drawers in the bedside cabinet, although I don’t really know what I’m looking for. It’s just something to do while I try to think. He was very keen for me to be taking those pills, but what was in them? I think they were stopping me from being alert. I need my wits about me.
I pull out another drawer. The first two were empty but the bottom one contains a pad of lined paper and an old pencil. I stare at them for a minute then sit down on the bed. I rest the pad against my drawn up knees and my hand starts sketching before my brain even registers what I’m doing. It’s just something to stop me from climbing the walls until I can get some answers. I liked drawing in that old world. I quickly realise I’m pretty good in this one too. The movement of my hand as the pencil crosses the page, quick and fluid, makes me feel calmer inside. I draw the house on the hill as I remember it, filling in all the details like the old tyres and Des’s precious shed. Then I draw the school but with a cartoon curvy version of Miss Lovett standing outside it, hand on her hip and blowing a kiss. This makes me smile for what must be the first time since I came round.
Then I draw the newsagent’s that Amil’s mum and dad owned, crammed with magazines and newspapers and rows and rows of sweets. There’s a distinctive sign with swirly writing that says The Sweet Stop. It’s so clear in my mind, I can picture it exactly. It’s so weird to think I’ve never been there. How can this be someone else’s memory and not mine? It’s insane. Then something else comes to me. The shop is called that because it’s right next to a train station! I close my eyes for a minute and a whole series of images flit across my mind. I can see a war memorial in the shape of a cross. And then a sign appears as vividly as though someone has shown me a photograph.
It says, Welcome to Brinkley Cross.
My heart starts to pound and I swallow hard. This is it, this is where the boy came from and where all my fake memories were made. Maybe I can go back there and find out who he was. And that might be a step towards finding out who I am too. I think about Cavendish saying it would be dangerous. Would it be too risky to try?
The light bleeds out of the room but I sit there for ages, just thinking.
After a while, I lie down on the bed, letting my thoughts drift. I still feel really tired, even though I’m not taking the dodgy pills. But I feel as though there’s some vague plan inside me now. I curl up and start imagining all sorts of daft things, like Amil’s mum and dad adopting me. I can almost taste those yummy pink sweets. I drift into sleep, dreaming about a new life and starting again with real friends and a real family who love me. It’s warm and safe and I sigh deeply. Sunshine is sprinkling my face. I hear that little kid laughing again and a woman with red hair is smiling up at me, her eyes full of love.
But then the dream shifts. Something’s wrong.
Pigface is here.
He’s a silhouette that slips across the walls and ceilings, sliding long and tall and then short and wide. The shape morphs and becomes huge on the wall, covering it in darkness. Something glints and I see a knife.
Then a hand cl
oses over my mouth. I wake up and open my eyes wide in shock. He’s really here. And he’s come to get me.
‘Come on, Cal,’ he says and slaps my cheek lightly. But it’s not Pigface. It’s Beardy.
I immediately struggle and try to throw him off, but he touches a small piece of paper under my nose and my limbs go feathery light. I can’t speak or move anything but I’m yelling inside. He drags me into an upright position.
Another nurse I vaguely recognise comes in with a laundry trolley. Between them, they crumple me awkwardly inside it and cover me with sheets. It smells of sweat and something rotten in here. I feel vibrations through the bottom of the trolley. I’m moving. There’s a metallic clanging sound and everything rumbles. Sounds like an engine. I must be in the back of a van or lorry. ‘Let me out! Let me out!’ The shouts are inside my own mind. My lips are numb, and so is every other part of me. No one can hear me. Whatever was on that paper has immobilised me, just as if I were tied up.
After a few minutes though, painful pins and needles jab like knives into my arms and legs. The feeling’s slowly coming back into limbs. Soon I’m able to haul myself out of the trolley. I land with a painful crash onto a metal floor. It’s dark but I can make out that I’m in some kind of van. I crawl towards what should be the driver’s end and bang on the wall, yelling until I’m hoarse and my knuckles ache, but no one responds.
I curl up on the floor, arms around my legs, watching the doors. As soon as the van stops I’m going to be ready for them. A couple of times I roll back and lift both my legs in a position ready to strike but we’re obviously just at traffic lights because we soon move on again.
After a lifetime, I feel the van go over bumpy ground and come to a stop, then hear the doors opening at the front. There are urgent voices.
I get right behind the doors and wait . . .
There’s a clunk of someone turning the handle and, as a sliver of light dazzles me, I kick the door with both legs as hard as I can. I hear a crunch and a high cry of pain and I’m straight out of the doors. Before I know it, two strong pairs of arms take hold of me. I’m outnumbered.
Cracks Page 5
