‘No stars,’ she says again, and she points to the ceiling. And then I get it, how strange it must be for Mia to sleep indoors.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘We can’t see the stars here, Mia, but they’re still out there. They haven’t gone away. They’re waiting for us. They can hear us when we sing.’
I start again, and this time Mia joins in. We sing together until her voice trails off and her breathing becomes regular and heavy.
She’s asleep. I hope she’s somewhere different, somewhere better than this place. I wish I could sleep, too, but I can’t. I can hear someone shouting, a long way away. A man’s voice, screaming in the night. Then footsteps, quiet at first, but getting louder until they’re outside my door. They stop. My heart skips a beat. There are voices, low, male.
I’m trying to think what I could use as a weapon if they come in. There’s nothing.
I can make out the odd word, but I can’t make sense of their conversation. It ends with a joke, though. Two deep voices laughing in chorus. Are they laughing at me, at us?
Then footsteps start up again, getting fainter until they’re finally gone. But this time it’s only one set of steps, and there were two voices. Is someone still there?
Mia’s arm is slung across my body. I lift it up carefully and lay it on top of her, then I ease out from under the covers and tiptoe across the room.
I look through the crack in the shutter. My stomach turns over.
There’s an eye looking in, only a few centimetres away from mine.
‘Who are you?’ I whisper. I’m scared of getting an answer, scared of not getting one. I’m back in the house where I grew up. There’s a door and a man outside and I’m trapped.
My dad’s dead but the panic’s still there, waiting to get me. Waiting for moments like this. I hold my breath.
The eye blinks, once, twice, and moves away.
Chapter 16: Adam
‘You’re doing very well, Adam. Your cognitive functions are excellent, considering what you went through yesterday.’
It’s the guy with the squished face again. Newsome. He’s asking the questions now, doing more checks. And next to him, sitting silently, is Grey-hair, the guy with the scar and the shimmering number. Every time I look at him, the violence of his number hits me. It’s sickening and mesmerising at the same time. There’s something about that number … but I can’t get it. Not right now.
‘Excellent,’ Newsome says. ‘So now it’s time for some more sophisticated tests.’
Before I know what’s happening, an assistant has put a leather strap through the arm of my chair and buckled it round my right wrist.
‘What the—?’
‘Just a precaution.’
‘No, no, I don’t want this.’
‘We can’t have movement or the tests won’t work.’
I try to fight back, but I’m weak and there are two of them now. My left wrist is held down and strapped too.
Another assistant wheels forward a trolley with monitors and a bunch of wires like spaghetti on it. As he looms nearer I realise he’s gonna attach most of these wires to my head.
‘No—’
‘It’s all part of the assessment of your condition,’ Newsome says smoothly. ‘Essential medical treatment. Nothing more. Just sit back. Try to relax.’
I can’t do anything but sit there, but my jaw’s clenched and my arms and legs are tense and stiff as they tape me up. They don’t need to shave my head: most of my hair was burnt off when I fell in the fire the night Junior died and the rest is so short they’ve got no trouble attaching the electrodes.
They wire up my chest, too, so they can monitor my heart through the tests. And my fingertips. What’s that all about? Looks like something out of a spy film. Isn’t that what they do to see if you’re lying?
‘No way. Stop it. Stop!’
This feels wrong. Really wrong.
Newsome’s set up two other chairs facing me, about a metre away. Now he sits in one and Grey-hair sits in the other. He still hasn’t said a word. But his eyes … those dark eyes … and that number… . I can’t tear my own eyes away.
‘I’m going to ask you some questions,’ Newsome says, ‘and I want you to fire the answers back at me. First thing that comes into your head.’
‘Okay.’ I feel my temper flare. ‘Undo the straps.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what’s in my head right now.’
‘I haven’t started yet. I haven’t asked you a question.’
He’s getting tetchy. But he started this with the wrist-straps. I’m not going to make it easy for him.
He turns to the bank of monitors next to him and fiddles with a couple of controls. He keeps reaching up, tucking his hair behind his ear – the thick, brown hair that looks twenty years younger than him. It’s a wig. It’s got to be a wig.
‘What are you thinking?’ he says. I hesitate, and he leaps in. ‘What’s in there right now? Right now.’ He snaps a finger in front of my face.
‘I was wondering … who cut your hair.’
One of the assistants stifles a laugh. I think I see the corner of Grey-hair’s mouth twitch, but I’m not sure. Newsome’s eyes narrow, just a little bit, and some colour creeps into his face. He turns away and makes out he’s checking the monitors, then turns back to me.
‘What’s your name?’
Start with the easy ones.
‘Adam.’
‘Adam who?’
‘Adam … Marsh.’ My mum was a Marsh. Am I, too? I can’t remember.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘What’s your date of birth?’
‘Twenty-second of August 2010.’ Some things are there in my head, some things aren’t.
He’s not looking at the monitors any more. He’s focusing in on me.
‘Where were you born?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What do you see when you look in people’s eyes?’
Don’t tell. Don’t ever tell.
‘Nothing.’
The assistant nearest the monitor says, ‘Lie,’ without looking up.
‘You heard him, Adam. Let’s try telling the truth. What do you see in people’s eyes.’
‘The black bit, the coloured bit, the white bit.’
‘You see something else.’
‘Is that a question?’
He’s getting really narky now.
‘I know you see something else,’ he says, emphasising every word. ‘What is it, Adam?’
We’re face to face, and he’s leaning in even closer now, questions and answers firing back and forth.
‘Nothing. Sweet FA.’
‘Do you see a number, Adam?’
‘No.’
‘Lie, sir.’
‘Do you see a number?’
Don’t tell.
‘No.’
‘What do you see, you little bastard? What is it? What?’ He’s losing it now.
Grey-hair steps in. He gets up from his chair and puts a hand on Newsome’s arm.
‘All right, Newsome. Take five.’
‘What?’ Newsome says.
‘Go and cool down.’
‘I’m fine.’ He shrugs the hand off.
‘It’s an order,’ Grey-hair barks. They’re squaring up to each other and there’s a moment’s silence, then Newsome backs down. He presses his lips together in disapproval and stalks out of the room gesturing to his assistants to follow, closing the door behind them. So now I’m alone with Grey-hair.
He shuffles his chair forward a little and puts his face close to mine.
‘It’s okay,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘It’s okay to tell.’
I don’t know what to say. If I start a discussion then I’m giving away that there’s something to discuss.
‘I know what it’s like,’ he says. ‘What it’s like to be different. To keep secrets. But some secrets are like cancer, they eat away at you. There’s
no shame in telling that sort of secret.’
Have I told anyone? Are the numbers secret? I can’t remember. There are big gaps between my childhood – my mum and my nan – and waking up in this place. My mum and my nan are both dead, but what about the girl? The girl I had my arm round, by the fire? I don’t know who she was. Or is.
‘I can help you, Adam. You want to see Sarah again, don’t you? She’s here. I can get you back with her, if you cooperate.’
Sarah.
Blonde hair and blue eyes. 2572075. Is that Sarah?
‘Does she have really blue eyes?’ The question blurts out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to stop it.
Grey-hair frowns for a moment, then he sits back in his chair, folds his arms and smiles.
‘Blue eyes? Yes. Yes, she does my friend. And if you want to see those blue eyes again you’d better start cooperating. It’s up to you, Adam. Now, shall I call Newsome back in?’
Chapter 17: Sarah
I’m still awake when the cell door opens and breakfast is wheeled in on a trolley. It’s the same squaddie who escorted me from the lift to the cell. He doesn’t look at me. There’s tea, milk and toast on the trolley. I’m not hungry, but I know we ought to eat.
‘I heard … things, voices in the corridor last night,’ I say.
He glances over his shoulder at the open door, then closes it.
‘There’s a guard out there, for your own security. Maybe they were changing shifts.’
Mia’s waking up. She opens her eyes and looks around her. She sees the squaddie and ducks down under the covers. I go over to the bed, peel back the sheet and help her up.
‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ I say brightly. ‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘Where Daddy?’
I look at the squaddie, and then back to Mia.
‘He’s busy at the moment. How about some milk?’
‘Where Daddy?’
‘We’ll see him later.’ Then to the squaddie, ‘Will we?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ he says. He won’t look me in the eye. ‘I don’t know. I just … look after people, like you.’
Prisoners, he means. How many are there here? Who are they? What was that screaming I heard last night?
‘But you know what’s going on here, don’t you? What sort of place is this?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Where are we?’ I press him.
He’s really uncomfortable now, almost squirming.
‘I just bring the meals and work the lift.’
And close your eyes to everything else?Is that true? He must know more.
‘Is there anything else you need? Mr … Saul said I had to ask.’
‘Maybe some smaller clothes for Mia … and some bigger ones for me.’
He almost smiles, back on more comfortable territory.
‘We don’t often have children here, but … I’ll see what I can do.’
We’re on our second piece of toast when there’s another knock on the door.
The squaddie leaves, and Mia instantly turns her face away from the woman that comes in – she’s the one who was trying to comfort her yesterday when I arrived.
‘Hello again,’ she says, holding her hand out towards me. ‘I’m Marion. We got off to a bad start yesterday, but we’re going to have a chat this morning.’ She sounds very sure of herself. She’s wearing a sensible skirt, a cardi, and metal-rimmed glasses. I’ve met her type before, professional busy-body, social worker type. Someone like her took Mia away from me once. Someone just like her.
‘Not until I’ve seen Adam,’ I say, ignoring her hand.
She smiles and smoothes her skirt.
‘I don’t think that’s possible. Let’s have our chat and then we’ll see, shall we?’
It’s not possible. Why? Because he never got here? Because he’s dead? Or still unconscious? What isn’t she telling me?
‘I’m not going anywhere until I know how he is.’ I fold my arms across my chest, try and draw myself up a bit taller.
‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘You’ll be able to see him later.’
‘Fine? What does that mean? Have you seen him?
‘No, but—’
‘So how do you know he’s okay?’
‘Sarah,’ she says firmly, ‘I’ve been told. I’ve been told that he’s awake and alert, and they’re running some tests. Now, do you want to talk here or shall we go to the interview room?’
He’s okay. Thank God. My legs are trembling a bit. I don’t want that bitch to see, so I turn away from her and crouch down, making a show of attending to Mia, while taking some deep breaths to try and get my feelings under control.
We’ve got a chance to get out of this cell now, have a look at the place, so I gather up Mia.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
Marion ushers us into the corridor, and along to the interview room.
It’s not what I was expecting. There are leather sofas, a coffee table, a tray with tea and biscuits, and some toys for Mia. They’re ordinary enough, the sort of tat that everyone used to have, but they look like they’ve come from another age. Plastic cars, a toy phone, a cash register – commonplace things before the Chaos. Things that mean nothing to Mia now. She looks at them and puts them to one side. She picks up a doll, a baby that opens its eyes when you sit it up and closes them when you lie it down. She’s hooked.
There’s a file on the coffee table. Marion sits on one of the sofas, puts the file on her knee, and opens it. What’s in the file? Is it about me? Or Adam? I sit on the opposite sofa and cross my arms again.
‘So, you and Adam have been together for quite some time.’
It’s not a question.
‘S’pose.’
‘And you’ve got one child and one on the way?’ She tries to look sympathetic, but I don’t want sympathy from her. ‘That’s going to be difficult for you.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘Mia’s very good.’
‘Who do you think she takes after? You or her dad?’
This is dangerous territory, somewhere I don’t want to go.
Officially, Adam’s Mia’s dad. That’s what I told the nosy social worker who found me living in the squat in London. It was just a spur of the moment thing, but it was easier than telling the truth. Although, it’s an obvious lie if you stop to think about it – Mia’s skin’s darker after two years in the open and her hair is curly, almost afro, but it’s blonde and she’s got blue eyes, all the Halligan features, which is what she is. Halligan through and through.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t look for that. She’s just her. She’s her own person.’
‘Don’t you and Adam play that game? Whose nose? Whose ears?’
‘No,’ I block. ‘We don’t play games.’
She must have sussed us, surely, but she doesn’t follow it up.
‘What about her talents? She’s precocious in her speech for two. And it says in my notes that you’re an artist – is that something Mia’s good at too?’
An artist. I’d pretty much forgotten that side of me. I haven’t picked up a pencil, or brush, or even a lump of charcoal for two years.
‘You painted a mural, a vision of the Chaos, didn’t you? That’s pretty powerful stuff.’
Something else I’m uncomfortable talking about. My dreams, my nightmares – they’re best forgotten. I don’t want anyone looking inside my head.
‘Where did that image come from, Sarah? How did you know what was going to happen?’
‘That was two years ago. What’s the point of talking about it?’
She puts the file down on the desk in front of her. I try to look at it, and she moves it out of my view.
‘But it’s fascinating, Sarah. You saw the future. You were able to express it. Where did that vision come from?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Oh, come on. It must have come from somewhere, you didn’t just dream it up.’
&
nbsp; She’s got under my skin now. She’s pushing me and I want to push back.
‘That just shows what you know,’ I say. ‘I did dream it up. That’s where I got the picture.’ I’m looking her in the eyes now, defiant. She’s sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning forward.
‘You had a dream?’
‘Yes. The same one, over and over. Every night.’
‘And you saw Adam and Mia, and the city in ruins and houses in flames?’
‘Yes. Yes. All of that, but I don’t see it any more. It’s gone. It’s past.’
‘What do you dream now, Sarah?’
‘Nothing. My dreams have stopped.’
I’ve lost Mia in this cold and lonely place. I scream her name …
‘You don’t dream anything at all?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And Mia, how does she fit into this?’
‘She doesn’t. She’s my daughter, that’s all.’
I want this to stop now.
‘What does she see, do you think? Does she see numbers, death dates like her dad, or visions like you?’
I scoop Mia up from the floor onto my lap. She brings the doll with her.
‘Nothing. She’s just a baby.’
Marion smiles, but it’s only her mouth that’s moving. Her eyes are cold and searching.
‘More than a baby, Sarah. She’s a toddler. She can talk. Let’s see, shall we? Perhaps she’ll draw for us.’
She gets up and walks round the coffee table.
‘Leave her alone,’ I say. This is getting out of order. I can cope with questions about me, but Mia’s nothing to do with anyone else.
‘I’m not touching her.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Let’s try her with these.’
Marion reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a wedge of paper and some coloured wax crayons.
‘Mia,’ she says. ‘Can you choose a pretty colour and draw me a picture?’
Mia looks at her, pulls a face and buries her head in my shoulder. She still hasn’t forgiven Marion for yesterday.
Undaunted, Marion puts the crayons and paper on the floor. Mia peeks sideways at them for a moment, fascinated. Then she slithers down from my lap and kneels by the crayons. Without anyone showing her, she grabs a blue crayon, leans forward so her face is only a few centimetres from the paper, and starts scribbling. I say scribbling, but it’s only the first few movements that are uncontrolled. I didn’t want this, but I can’t help but watch. Marion looks over Mia’s shoulder intently.