I stare desperately at the front of the shop. The familiar sign saying Sweet Stop ripples and blurs. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them again.
‘Did they leave any kind of an address?’ I ask hopelessly. ‘Do you know how I can contact them?’
The old lady shakes her head. ‘No, pet. One day they were here, then they were gone. Look, you don’t want to go hanging around on the streets. Like I said, you never know who’s watching you. Best get off to where you come from.’ She pats my arm and then bustles away, clutching a huge black handbag to her side.
Where I come from . . .
I want to punch something. Or someone. Hard. This was my only hope of finding out where that was. I went through so much to get here and for what? Nothing?
I walk away, hands in my pockets and my head down. This isn’t fair. Not fair! Everything is wobbling and closing in around me and I can hear my breath coming in and out, harsh and scratchy. I’m not frightened now. I’m so angry I could do anything. To have come all this way and risked so much . . . An empty lager can lies at the side of the road and I kick it savagely. A bloke washing a shop front across the way stares at me with a quick frown. I scowl back at him and walk on, not knowing where I’m going, too upset and angry to care what anyone thinks.
My furious footsteps slap against the pavement. I keep walking, clenching and unclenching my fists and not even caring about the pain in my injured one. After a few minutes I come to the end of the road. It’s a cul-de-sac with a church and large graveyard set back from the road. I walk blindly through the ornate wooden gate. I need to be alone for a minute with no one watching. Or do they even monitor people praying these days? I wouldn’t put anything past these people. I kick at the gravel furiously, bristling with frustration and disappointment.
I find a bench and sit down on the end, resting my head in my hands. I have no idea what to do next. No plan. No ideas. The thought that Amil’s family might help me was my only hope.
Self pity and tiredness roll over me. Hopeless tears prickle my eyes. I have nowhere to go now. No one who might be able to help me find out who I am. I groan and look up, eyes stinging and take a couple of deep breaths to try to calm myself. It smells of dampness and rich green moss, but the brewery smell is always there in the background. So familiar, but it doesn’t bring me any answers.
Home, but not home.
A man in overalls with a wheelbarrow appears at the far end of the graveyard. I see him glance at me. I pretend to be looking at the gravestones, like I have a reason to be here. Don’t want to make him suspicious.
Names and dates swim in front of my eyes. Some of the graves have fresh flowers on them. Others have plastic ones. One has an old teddy, which sits forlornly against the pale grey stone, years of weather and dirt etched into its synthetic fur.
I glance up and see the man with the wheelbarrow looking over again. I move to another grave, like I’m really interested. I’ll wait until he turns away and then get out of here.
I stare down at the white stone, which has flecks of black all over it, but I’m not really seeing it. I’m thinking about the donor boy now and wondering if his gravestone is here too. My hand goes to my scar. And then it feels as though electricity screams through my body, from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.
I look properly at the words swimming in front of me.
I blink, just in case my eyes are playing tricks and look again.
No. This is real. I’m not imagining what I’m seeing . . .
The gravestone in front of me has a name and a date, with an inscription that reads, Beloved son, sleep in peace.
But it isn’t some stranger’s name on the grave.
It’s mine.
Callum Michael Conway is etched into the stone. The dates are 4th January 2010 – 17th June 2012.
I’m panting and sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I reach out and trace the letters with a finger. Something drips off my chin and I realise I’m crying without even realising it.
I’m looking at my own grave.
‘Cal Conway,’ I whisper.
Now I know why no one came to look for me at the Facility. They believed I was dead. But why? How did this happen? Questions batter me from all sides.
I look down. There are flowers growing in two small tubs in front of the gravestone. I don’t know anything about plants but these don’t look neglected to me. It looks like someone comes here and looks after this grave.
Beloved son.
My parents? Do my parents come here? I look around wildly. Something light is filling me up inside and I’m grinning so hard suddenly it’s like my face will split open with happiness even though I’m crying at the same time.
I’ll find them here. If it takes a year, I’ll wait until someone comes. I’ll watch and wait and then I’ll find the people who care about me.
The old man with the wheelbarrow is coming my way. OK, so I need to make a move. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself now, right when I might be getting close to finding the truth.
I walk confidently towards him, as though I have nothing to hide. I nod, and he nods back. I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk out of the graveyard and back into the street outside. I feel three times lighter than I did when I went in. Changed inside. Everything is different now. I’ve got a reason to hope again.
Right, so I’ll stay away for a little while, just so I can avoid that bloke working there. Then I’ll come back and find a good hiding place. And then I’ll wait.
I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll just wait until someone comes to that grave.
I go back into the high street. There are more people around now, shopping, pushing buggies and talking to squabbling children. I want to smile at them and talk. Tell them I have a family too. But I force myself to remember the nature of the world I’m in.
I glance up to see if I can make out the CCTV cameras on the buildings and see them straight away. There are far less here than in the city; only one or two. It’s easy to circumvent their probing gaze without looking shifty.
I’ve still got a little money so I buy a pastie and a can of drink from a bakery then walk along, eating it. My hand throbs with a steady rhythm and I wish I had the painkillers Helen Bonaparte gave me, but they’re back at Zander’s place. That brings uncomfortable thoughts and worries about Jax and Kyla, so instead I try to think about what to do next.
I walk past a school and a ticklish feeling of familiarity makes me gasp. I know this school. It’s the donor boy’s school. It’s breaktime. Kids play football, or hunch in groups laughing over phones. Just being normal teenagers. They don’t know how lucky they are.
Pictures from my old life – or what I thought was my life – flit across my mind. I know my name but I still don’t know the donor boy’s. What a life. Being bullied by Des and Pigface and then dying young. A feeling of sadness and injustice burns in my chest.
Before I go back and hide in the graveyard, there’s something I need to do. I ball up the pastie bag and can and throw them into a bin. I need to find out what happened to him. I owe him that.
My feet seem to know where to go. I go past some more shops and through a few alleys. I avoid catching anyone’s eye, keeping my hood up and taking notice of the occasional CCTV camera. Before long, I come out at the bottom of a huge hill with countryside lying all around. I look up.
Sitting there on the top of the hill, just like Des’s zit, is the house.
It’s quiet but I’m breathing heavily, like I’ve been running. I’m sweating all over, but shivery too. My hand hurts really badly now. I pull down the bandage and see the skin all round the wound is puffy and there’s a strange dark line coming from the wound into my wrist. Still, there’s nothing I can do about it.
I look around, feeling exposed now there are no buildings, but there are no cameras here either. Jax trained me well and I know how to spot even the hidden ones.
No one knows me in that house. But I
need to do this for him, the boy who gave me his memories.
I walk up the hill.
When I get close, I slow down involuntarily, nerves tugging at my guts. I stare at the house as fear and excitement and something else mingle together.
The place looks even worse than the image in my head. A couple of the windows are broken and most of the paint has peeled off the window frames and front door. A filthy grey net curtain has escaped from a hole in one of the upstairs windows and is fluttering in the wind like a ripped old flag. I move closer until I’m standing right in front of the house.
Words can’t describe how this feels.
It’s home.
It’s not home.
I know every inch of it.
I’ve never been here.
Suddenly I get a big lump in my throat and have to sit down on a greasy old deckchair out front. I want to just blub everywhere as sadness overwhelms me for the boy who lived in this miserable house. I put my head in my hands and try to breathe slowly. I feel sorry for myself and I feel sorry for him. Living here with a mum who didn’t really care. With a fat bully like Des and that evil little —
‘Who the hell are you?’
My head jerks up.
It can’t be.
‘Des?’
He’s so bloated it looks like someone blew him up with a bicycle pump. His nose is covered in broken red veins and his eyes have almost disappeared into the doughy folds of his cheeks. He’s unshaven and wearing a stained yellow jumper with nothing underneath so it clings to his man boobs. Grey hair pokes out of the V under his double chin. He sways slightly. He’s drunk. His hand creeps into his trouser pocket.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he repeats, stumbling slightly.
‘Don’t you know me, Des?’ A strange feeling of energy is pulsing through me. I feel strong and I find myself flexing my one good fist.
He screws up his face, bottom lip hanging open and glistening with spit.
I walk over to him. Maybe he glimpses what I’m feeling because he takes a step back, his eyes revealing something I’ve never seen in them before.
Fear.
To him I’m just some young hoodie. I could be anyone. He’s made enough enemies in his life. I’m young and strong and he’s old and fat and powerless.
I’m filled with emotions that feel like helium. It’s all I can do not to laugh hysterically.
I move closer and he takes another step and then trips over an old car tyre. He cries out and lands with a heavy grunt on his fat backside. He tries to get up but he’s stuck, flailing around helplessly, like a turtle the wrong way up. He waves his feet, which are puffy and swollen in old Nike sandals, his toenails yellow like old ivory.
‘Where is everyone?’ I say. ‘Your family?’
‘All gone away,’ he says breathlessly. ‘Left me.’ He swears.
‘What happened to your stepson, Des?’
He flaps around and manages to struggle to his feet. He waves his fist but is so drunk he can hardly stand and I feel no threat at all.
Not any more.
‘Don’t you mention that boy to me!’ he says in a strangled voice. ‘Ryan nearly died after what he did! Deserved everything he got!’
‘What? What do you mean? What did he do?’
‘Hit my boy so hard he almost killed him, that’s what!’ spits Des. ‘Got what he deserved, the ungrateful little toerag! Served him right that he got banged up!’
I gasp as a memory comes into my head with perfect detail. Ryan attacking me. Knowing he was going to kill me. Reaching for the football trophy at the side of the bed . . . I know what happened next. Except it wasn’t me. It was a different boy, who never really had a chance, living here.
‘What was his name?’ I hiss.
I see Des’s stubbly chin glisten with nervous sweat. ‘Why do you want to know?’
I shove him hard on the chest and he cries out. ‘Tell me his name,’ I say slowly, my voice low.
‘A-Alex,’ he says shakily. ‘His name was Alex.’
‘And how did he die?’
Des’s hand reaches into his tracksuit pocket and I stiffen, but all he does his bring out a manky old tissue, which he uses to wipe his chin with a trembling hand.
‘Don’t know. Some accident in Riley Hall. Good riddance, it was! I did nothing but take that boy in and treat him like my own, and that’s how he repaid me!’
‘I’ll tell you what you did,’ I hiss into his face, wincing at the smell on his breath. ‘You bullied him and humiliated him and frightened him. And so did Ryan! He hit him in self defence!’
His expression hardens. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway? What do you know about it? He was worthless, that little sod! Worthless!’
I’ve heard people say they see red when they lose it. I lose it now but I don’t see red.
This is for you, Alex, I think.
All I can see is Des’s fat, frightened face moving from side to side.
I hit him, once, twice, three times. Blood blossoms on his lip and nose and I feel so powerful I could keep going for ever. I could kill him, this fat, pathetic man. I’m the one with muscles and speed and youth on my side. I’m the stronger one now.
And then I think, Who’s the bully now?
I step back, trying to get my breath, hands on my knees. He’s sobbing quietly. I hold out my hand. ‘Get up,’ I say tightly. I’m disgusted with him, but more than that, I’m disgusted with myself.
He takes my hand with his meaty, sweaty one and a nasty smile spreads across his face as he hauls himself to his feet. Before he lets go, he does an odd thing, and puts his hand on my back as though patting me.
We stand close eyeballing each other. I’m not frightened of him now. I pity him. I turn away and walk back down the hill. When I get to the bottom, I look back up and he’s gone.
I’m trembling all over and my head’s throbbing along with my hand, but I don’t regret going there. I still don’t know how Alex became the brain tissue donor but I know it had something to do with Riley Hall.
I walk back into the town. I only have one thought now. I’m going back to the graveyard and I’m going to wait there until someone visits that grave.
Until my family comes.
It takes less than ten minutes to get back there. This time I come in carefully, scanning for the gravedigger bloke or whoever he was. There are loads of tall hedges and bushes and I stay close to them, using all my training to stay in the shadows.
I find somewhere to hunker down, behind a big old grave from seventeen-something that’s covered in bright green ivy. I settle down and wait.
And wait.
It gets colder by the minute and a light rain starts to fall. I swear, feeling pitifully sorry for myself. No one’s coming here. I’m stupid to think I’ll find anyone this way . . .
And then my heart flips over. There’s someone there. A woman in a bright green coat is going over to the grave. My grave. She’s bending down. Her hair is a faded red and her curls bob as she works away at pulling out weeds around the headstone.
Oh my God. It can’t be. Can it?
Is that my mother?
Am I really looking at my own mum?
I don’t want to freak her out by running to her and anyway, my legs are shaking so violently that I can hardly stand up. I can hear someone crying and realise it’s me. Tears slide down my face. I’m smiling and crying at the same time.
I must have made a noise because she starts and then turns to look at me. She gets up hastily and I realise I have my hood pulled up high. Maybe she thinks I’m a mugger. She starts to gather her things to leave and I cry out.
‘No! Don’t go!’ I pull the hood back from my face and watch her look of fear turn to confusion.
‘It’s me!’ I say, my voice cracking and wobbling all over the place.
She scrunches her brow, studying me for what seems ages. She gives her head a little shake and smiles, then frowns again. Her lips part and make the shape for ‘What?’ but
it’s soundless. Then her eyes go wide and her hands fly to her face. She gives a little cry.
We both start to move at once but a droning, violent sound suddenly fills the air around me and suddenly I’m surrounded by black metal things, buzz drones, crowding like angry bees. All I can see is my own terrified face reflected back in their bug-like eyes. I wave my arms and something small and black falls to the ground. I think, A tracker. Des put a tracker on my back. They’ve got me.
She starts to come towards me and I manage to shout ‘Run! They’ll take you too! RUUUN!’ It’s the last thing I know before electric agony blasts everywhere around and there’s only white pain, blotting out the world.
I come to on the floor of a van. My cheek is pressed against the cold metal and I’m bound by metal ropes around my wrists and feet so I can’t move. A sob wrenches my throat.
I was so close.
So very close to being with my family.
The tears come properly then, pouring down my cheeks, despite the blinking light of a camera on the door, an evil eye that watches my every move. I bawl until I’m empty inside and I can taste dried salt. I lie there, getting bumped and battered by every movement of the van. My vision is funny and I’m hot then cold then hot again. I see Des’s face leering at me with a cigarette between his teeth and cry out because it feels like he really is there. Then I see Pigface, but his face changes into Jax’s then Kyla’s and both are crying. Or is that me? It’s all getting jumbled up. I hear someone hiss ‘Alex!’ in a harsh voice and I say, ‘No, I’m not Alex. I’m Cal. I’m Cal . . . I’m not Alex. I’m not a lab rat. I’m Cal Conway.’
I’m me.
Eventually the van comes to a stop. The doors open and daylight scorches my eyes.
I’m dragged out and thrown roughly onto a metal trolley.
An ugly grey building comes into sight. This isn’t the Facility . . . it’s . . . Riley Hall?
What? It can’t be . . . can it? I twist my head to try to look properly but this makes everything spin sickeningly fast. I groan and lift a hand to my forehead. I’m burning up inside, but my skin feels icy cold and clammy against my fingers. I’m shivery all over and my teeth chatter. Faces loom in and out at me and I hear someone say, ‘Tell Cavendish he’ll have to delay things. He’s in no fit state,’ and then there’s only darkness.
Cracks Page 15
