Shattered

  When I arrive I get rushed to an office. Two other potential apprentices are waiting along with the same smiling woman I spoke to last week about apprenticing in Education.

  ‘I’m really sorry I kept you waiting. I got lost,’ I lie. I knew the way, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate.

  ‘No problem dear, take a seat. I’m Mrs Medway, Head of School. I also train apprentice teachers and assistants. I’m going to run you through what you’ll be doing for the week.’

  I try to pay attention, for her sake, but it is a losing battle. Some details get through: we’ll be shadowing classes two days, spend a day in reception and admin, two more days in classes but this time helping with lessons. ‘Any preference for year groups or subjects?’ The others tell her theirs, and eventually she turns to me, smiles. ‘You’re quiet today. Any favourite year groups? Activities?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I start to say, then pause. ‘Unless they do art? I love art. And running – sport.’

  ‘Perfect: Reception are doing messy art next lesson. I’ll put you in there. And there is a sports day on Friday afternoon this week: they can always use extra help. We’ll work something out for the other days.’

  She has us follow her around the school for a tour, telling school history on the way. It was damaged and rebuilt after the riots. Keswick Primary used to be called St Herbert’s Church of England School, but the name changed after church schools were banned thirty years ago. We see children through windowed classroom doors, playing a noisy game of basketball in a gym, heads bent in a library. Then finally we reach an art studio, and I peer through the door. Reception, she said? They’re tiny. Four years old. All sat cross-legged on the floor listening to their teacher.

  Mrs Medway knocks at the door, has a word with the teacher. Comes back and squeezes my arm. ‘Go on in. You’ll be fine; don’t look so worried.’ I walk in and a sea of small faces look up and smile.

  Not much later they’re all wearing smocks over their school uniforms, and the teacher passes me one to go over my clothes. ‘It’s up to you: you’re down for shadowing, so you can sit in a corner and watch. Or jump in if you want to.’

  I decide to sit and watch for a while. They are finger painting on great sheets of white paper, and the air is full of the smell of paint and excited voices. Despite the resolution to stay put, before long swirls of colour on white paper pull me close. I itch to paint.

  A small hand tugs at mine. ‘Miss, look at my painting!’ a boy says, and I’m pulled to a table, and soon admiring blobs and blotches.

  One girl sits quiet amongst the chatter, not joining in. ‘Hi,’ I say. She doesn’t answer.

  The boy looks up. ‘That’s Becky. She’s sad.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m sad sometimes, too,’ I admit. ‘But I like painting when I’m sad.’ Never a truer sentence have I spoken: I kneel on the floor between them, and dip my eager fingers into black paint.

  ‘Why are you sad?’ Becky asks.

  ‘Mostly because I miss things. Like Sebastian.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ the boy asks.

  ‘Watch,’ I say. I can’t remember finger painting before; I’d rather a brush in my hand, but a reasonable estimate of a black cat soon appears on the paper.

  Becky stares at it very hard. ‘You miss your cat?’ She nods to herself. ‘Okay. I’ll paint something, too.’ She gathers different paints and soon is concentrating on getting as much mess on herself and the paper as possible. I glance up and the art teacher gives me a thumbs up. Other kids bring me their pictures to look at, and then ask me to show them how to paint a cat. And after a while I’m thinking, this is fun. Could I be an art teacher?

  Not if Stella has anything to do with it.

  I stay and help clean up at lunch. The teacher hangs pictures on the walls, puts my cat up with them next to Becky’s: hers could be anything from an alien to a lamppost, but I’m reasonably sure it is supposed to be a man: her dad?

  ‘It’s her father,’ she confirms. ‘He went missing last month.’

  I turn my shocked face to hers. ‘What happened?’

  A pause. ‘It was good work getting Becky to take part. Thank you,’ she says, not answering my question. If it can’t be said out loud, we all know what that means.

  Lorders.

  When the final bell goes, I’m surprised the day has sped past. Each year group has art a half day each week, and the afternoon was spent charcoal drawing with Year Five. I gaze at the white-topped peaks as I walk back to the centre of Keswick. If I can’t get into Parks, maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad choice. Then I shake it off. What a joke for me to even think of being a teacher: despite my faked records, I didn’t even finish high school. And what about Stella’s manipulations?

  I should get the bus back to the house now, but there is a kernel of anger inside that says no.

  Madison: she’ll understand. I head for her cafe. I’ll wait there until she’s finished; we can get the bus back together.

  When I reach the cafe and pull at the door, it doesn’t budge: it’s locked? Puzzled, I realise the lights are off inside. A ‘closed’ sign hangs on the door, yet I’m sure Madison said she was working until five.

  A sense of unease settles inside. I walk around to the cafe’s back door, and knock.

  No one answers, but was there a noise inside? I knock again: nothing. I’m about to turn around and leave, but then try the door. The handle turns. It’s not locked.

  I pull the door part open, and peer in. ‘Hello? It’s Riley. Is Madison here?’

  Cora is sitting at the work surface, her back to me. Not turning or answering. Unsure what to do, after a moment I push the door open the rest of the way, walk in and let it shut behind me. The light is dim, and I blink.

  ‘Hello?’ I say again, and walk towards her. Her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying? Fear grabs me inside. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  She looks up at me, shakes her head. ‘What could she have done?’ she whispers.

  Madison? Panic swirls inside. No, not again. ‘What happened? Tell me!’ I demand.

  ‘She was helping make cakes for tomorrow, standing there with flour on her nose and telling me about that boy she likes. And they just marched in, grabbed her. Dragged her out past the regulars: all of them just sat there, staring at the lunches she’d brought them earlier. She’s gone.’ Her face drops to her hands.

  ‘Lorders?’ I whisper.

  She nods.

  No. NO. This can’t be happening, it can’t. Not here, too. And it feels like quicksand is clawing at my feet, pulling me down into another nightmare.

  ‘What could she have done?’ she says again.

  I shake my head. Nothing to deserve this. I blink, but there are no tears, just an empty place inside as I conjure up the person who must be responsible: Astrid Connor. My grandmother. It must be her. Or could it even be Stella? A cold rock twists in my stomach. I’ll make her do something. I’ll make her fix this.

  I stay long enough to make tea, to start tidying up the mess left behind. I get out of Cora that she’d thrown the customers out after the Lorders left. In the front of the cafe are half-eaten lunches still on plates. I scrape them into bins, put the dishes in the dishwasher, put food away in fridges.

  Finally I hesitate by the door. ‘I should go now. Are you going to be all right?’

  She shrugs. ‘I’ll get up in the morning. Thanks for your help.’

  Her words echo in my ears as I walk to the bus. She wouldn’t thank me if she knew who my grandmother was.

  A bus is waiting when I get to the stop, and I climb on. Finley: he’s there. A sinking feeling twists inside as I realise I have to tell him. I walk towards his seat as the bus pulls away.

  ‘Finley?’ He looks up. His face is white, eyes dead. He knows. Someone from the cafe regulars or on the st
reet must have told him.

  I don’t say anything. I sit next to him, as if somebody being there could do anything to help.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  I march into reception. It’s past teatime, but there is a cluster of girls there, whispering, faces pale. News travels fast.

  ‘Where’s Stella?’ I ask.

  One of them points at her office door, but before I can move towards it the door opens. Stella comes out, nods at everyone and starts to cross the room.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, and she turns.

  ‘Do you know what’s happened to Madison?’ I ask, and all voices cease.

  Stella stops in her tracks. Looks at me and her eyes are saying be quiet, but I’m not receiving.

  ‘You know, don’t you: that Lorders came and hauled her away today. Strangely enough, the day after Astrid – your mother – came for lunch.’

  ‘That’s enough, Riley.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Not nearly enough; nothing is ever said. What are you going to do about it?’ Some part of me is aware that others have come in now, that everyone is silent, with eyes big and mouths hanging open. Eyes that are looking between me and Stella.

  ‘There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘But she’s your mother. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  I shake my head. I can feel Ellie coming up next to me, taking my arm. Pulling me towards the door to the hall where my room is, and I let myself be led. My feet take the steps, but then I stop at the door and look back at Stella. She’s still standing there, frozen in place.

  ‘No. I guess it really doesn’t mean anything,’ I say, and then walk down the hall with Ellie.

  Take her to the Tower! Madison had said, laughing, the first time she showed me the way to my room.

  Ellie tries to get me to talk, but I send her away, close my door. Every friend I ever had: gone. Pounce scratches to be let in, and I even ignore her. I stay where I am past the start of dinner. No one comes to check on me; they know where I am, that I’m not coming, don’t they?

  No one ever says anything. Isn’t this the biggest problem of all? If we all stood up – everyone in the whole country – and said, stop; this is enough, every time something happened, wouldn’t it stop?

  I’m starting to sound like Aiden.

  There is a tap on my door late that night. It opens. Stella stands there, takes in me sitting up in bed, blankets pulled up, leaning against the wall.

  ‘Still awake, I see. I thought you might be hungry.’ She holds out a plate of food in one hand.

  I shake my head. Arms crossed.

  She walks in, puts the plate on the desk. Sits on the chair. ‘Why are you so angry with me?’

  My eyes widen. ‘Would you like a list?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. No matter what you might think, there is nothing I could have done about Madison. She went too far.’

  ‘You never liked her.’

  ‘That’s not true. She could be difficult at times, but—’

  ‘Then why don’t you do something? Why don’t you call Astrid; she’d have to listen to you.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘So, is that your philosophy? That mothers don’t have to listen to their daughters?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I shake my head. ‘That’s not important right now; Madison is important. Astrid needs to hear from you that what she did is wrong, to get Madison back to us! How could she have her taken away when all she did was answer her question truthfully, and say what she really thought?’

  ‘Too much truth can be a bad thing. And careful what you say about your grandmother!’

  ‘What – are you defending her?’

  ‘No, not exactly, but—’

  ‘What, then?’

  She sighs. ‘She thinks what she does is right. That she protects everyone else, by—’

  ‘Taking out the rotten apple? What a crock. She’s a power-mad manipulative nutcase.’

  ‘Careful what you say and who you say it to!’

  I shake my head. ‘You are sticking up for her.’

  ‘She is my mother.’

  ‘That’s not a good enough reason. People have to earn respect – even mothers.’

  ‘Lucy! You owe a lot to her. Don’t speak of her like this.’ And Stella looks uneasy, as if the walls have ears, but even if they do, for once I don’t care.

  ‘What? What do I owe her?’

  Stella doesn’t answer.

  ‘You’re as bad as she is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Doing what you think is best for me, without any idea what really is.’

  She looks at me, alarm starting in the back of her eyes.

  ‘Oh yes, I worked it out: you pulled strings, didn’t you? You had me put down for here for an apprenticeship trial. Will anything I do or say make any difference to where I end up?’

  There it is, in her eyes. Confirmation.

  ‘Lucy, listen to me. I just want to keep you safe. You’ll get found out if—’

  ‘I’ll get found out if you keep calling me Lucy, and if you single me out for attention like that. This would never have happened if Dad were here. None of it.’

  She recoils. ‘Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t even remember him!’

  I don’t answer, but she must read it in my eyes, and her face changes to fury. ‘You do. You remember him, but you don’t remember me.’ Her arms are crossed rigidly, red spots rising in white cheeks.

  ‘Maybe I remember some little things. But if I’ve got stuff wrong, how can I know if you don’t tell me anything? Tell me already!’

  ‘It was him, it was him all along!’

  ‘What was him?’

  ‘Danny was in the AGT. It was his fault! He had you taken. They wanted artistic children no more than age ten to do some experiments on, and there you were: perfectly fitting the bill. He gave you to them.’

  I stare at her, stunned. That’s what Dr Craig and Nico always said: that I was given to them. Handed to them by my parents, that they knew what was going to be done to me. Could Dad really have done that, knowing what I’d face? I’d always been sure that was one of their lies. But was it because I am artistic, is that why I was targeted? With shock I remember Nico implied as much: that artists’ brains have different wiring. Easier to muck with.

  But how could Stella know about this stuff? I never told her. Did she get her information from Dad: is that what proves she is telling the truth?

  No. It can’t be. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say. ‘How could you even know what the AGT wanted, what they were doing?’

  ‘My mother told me; she’s been doing all she can to find you! Investigating the AGT, everything.’

  Relief fills me, and I sag back with it. It wasn’t Dad who told her; if it comes from Astrid, then maybe none of what Stella says is true. But then the inconsistency screams out at me, and I stare back at her. ‘This doesn’t make sense. If Astrid is trying to find me for you, why haven’t you told her I’m here?’

  Her mouth opens and closes again.

  ‘I see. You don’t trust her. So why do you believe her when she says Dad gave me to the AGT? He never would have done that to me!’

  ‘He’d never have done that to his daughter.’

  No. And I’m shaking my head, and I’m back in the hallway listening to her and Astrid, and Astrid saying isn’t it about time you told him the truth? That his precious daughter isn’t his.

  ‘He wasn’t my father,’ I say, words quiet. I’m still denying it inside, but it doesn’t come out as a question.

  ‘No. He found out. And just after that, he gave you to the AGT for their experiment
s. Revenge: he did the one thing that would hurt me more than anything else.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ she says, anger bleeding away from her face. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ And I’m curling into a ball on the bed. Stella comes and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Lucy, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just leave me alone!’ I say, and she pulls her hand away. ‘I mean it. Go away.’

  She murmurs that she loves me, that nothing can change that. After a while she finally goes. The door clicks shut, and I’m alone.

  It can’t be true, it can’t. He wouldn’t do that. My dad wouldn’t do that.

  But if he found out I wasn’t his, he would have been furious: what man wouldn’t be? Stella must have been messing around on him, and not just once or twice. What was it Astrid said? That she doesn’t know whose daughter I am. I could be anyone’s. The thought fills me with horror even as I deny it inside. Could Dad have done what she said – found out I wasn’t his and just given me away, to get back at Stella for what she did?

  No. I can’t believe it. I won’t.

  Stella’s wrong. She must have made it up. She’s just trying to manipulate me all over again, like her mother manipulates her.

  The door clicks shut behind us and we are plunged into darkness. Daddy flicks the torch on and holds it under his chin.

  ‘Mwahahaha!’ he stage whispers.

  ‘Be quiet! You’re not a ghost. We’re spies.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sorry,’ he whispers back.

  We creep along the hall and around the corner, and a faint murmur of voices gets louder.

  ‘I still think we should play ghosts and yell BOO through the grates,’ Daddy whispers.

  I shake my head and bend down to hear, Daddy next to me.

  But the words I hear are wrong. They can’t be anything else; they don’t make sense. There is a clang as the torch in Daddy’s hand slips to the floor. I look up. ‘Daddy?’