Infinity

  Within a minute or so, Mia’s making deliberate marks, shapes on the paper. She’s turned the crayon in her fingers so that instead of gripping it in her fist, she’s holding it between her thumb and index finger.

  ‘That’s remarkable,’ Marion says, ‘for a two-year-old. She must have got it from you.’

  ‘She’s never seen me draw,’ I say, and then I realise it’s true. For a moment I feel sad, for a part of me that’s been lost, and for the childhood that Mia hasn’t had.

  ‘It must be innate,’ Marion says. ‘From within. She’s got it, hasn’t she?’ She’s making notes in her file, then looking up and studying Mia again, desperate not to miss anything.

  I can’t tell what she’s drawing, but it’s definitely something – a shape like a potato with a couple of lines coming out of it. Then she does something else quite deliberate. She looks at the crayons in the plastic envelope, puts the blue one back and picks out a pink one. Then she traces round the outside of the blue. That crayon goes back and out comes a red one. She draws a similar shape next to the first one.

  I lower myself onto the floor next to her. I can’t help being fascinated.

  ‘That’s lovely, Mia,’ I say. ‘What are you drawing?’

  She’s hunched over the paper, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Drawin’,’ she says. ‘Me drawin’.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful. What is it?’

  She sits back up on her heels and points to her picture.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy,’ she says.

  I’m the blue and pink potato; Adam’s the red one.

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  She sees us as colours.

  Just like Adam’s nan.

  The first time I met her Val described my aura, the haze of colour I carried with me. I can hear her voice now, harsh and gravelly: Lavender, of course, but also dark blue. And all bathed in pink.

  I look at my daughter, and she turns and smiles at me, proud of what she’s done. I smile back at her.

  ‘What about Marty and Luke?’ As I say their names, a lump rises in my throat. In my head I’ve got images of Luke clutching his face, Marty with tears running down his face. Are they okay?

  Mia reaches for the crayons again and draws two more potatoes; one green and yellow, one orange.

  If Adam was here, he’d see her number, but I don’t need to see it. I know.

  2022054.

  And she’s not just got Val’s number.

  She’s got Val’s gift.

  Chapter 18: Adam

  ‘For the last time, what do you see when you look in my eyes?’

  I look at Newsome, his squashed face, the death in his eyes. Saul’s next to him.Don’t ask me what I see in Saul’s eyes – I don’t know if I could find the words.

  ‘I see a number.’ It’s the truth. It’s the answer to his question, but I feel uneasy saying it.

  Don’t tell, Adam. Never tell.

  ‘What does the number mean?’

  ‘It’s the date you’re going to die.’

  It’s true, but why does this feel so wrong?

  ‘What’s my number?’

  I stop.

  ‘What’s my number?’ he repeats.

  Don’t tell, Adam. Never tell.

  ‘I don’t tell people,’ I say, echoing the voice in my head. ‘It’s wrong.’

  ‘But I’m asking you to. What’s my number?’

  ‘I just said, didn’t I? I don’t tell.’

  Saul joins in now. ‘Adam, you’re doing this for Sarah, remember? It’s all right to tell. It’s the right thing to do.’

  Newsome starts again. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who can see them?’

  ‘No. I dunno. There might be other people but I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re right. Other people do see them. Other people tell, and it’s okay.’ I don’t know if this is just a line. Something to make it easier for me to tell him what he wants to know. ‘What’s my number?’

  I’m squirming now. They just won’t let it go, will they? My body’s tense against the restraints, my mind’s twisting and turning. I told Saul I’d cooperate for Sarah’s sake, I know I don’t have any choice … but this feels wrong.

  ‘I don’t want to say it.’

  ‘Just say it.’

  He’s too close to me, right in my face.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  I want him to back off, but he won’t. A fleck of his spit hits my cheek.

  ‘Say it. What’s my number? Say it. Say it. Say it.’

  ‘8112034.’

  The fight goes out of me. I sink into the chair, exhausted. My head flops down onto my chest.

  ‘There. Wasn’t difficult, was it?’

  I don’t answer. I got nothing to say.

  He’s looking back at the screens, running a paper printout through his hands.

  ‘You told the truth. There’s no harm in telling the truth. That’s what we deal in here – facts, measurements, evidence.’

  He sounds smug, like he’s got the answer to everything. I’ve just told him when he’s going to die and there’s no reaction, no human, emotional reaction. He puts down the printout and tucks his hair behind his ears.

  ‘Let’s have a few more questions, shall we?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m done.’

  ‘We’ve only just started.’

  ‘Na-ah. I’m done.’

  ‘Adam, this is important work. We’re trying to save the British nation here. People like you hold the key. We need a generation of strong leaders, people who can establish order, put the country back on its feet, get us back where we should be.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘We need people like you,’ he says. ‘You can help us understand the future. We need intelligent early warning systems. Resources are scarce, Adam. We need to know where we can help, where it’s not worth our while.’

  ‘You don’t need me for that. Just walk outside this place and start looking. There are people starving everywhere. Just start somewhere. Do something.’

  ‘But what if they’re going to die anyway? We can’t waste our resources, Adam. It’s about targeting them effectively.’

  ‘So you want me to tell you where not to bother? Screw that.’

  Newsome pauses and moves back from me. He looks to Saul, who’s sitting quietly, listening intently.

  ‘You can’t be emotional about this, Adam,’ Saul says. ‘Governments have to make tough decisions.’

  ‘I’m not part of the government.’

  ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us.’

  The room falls silent.

  ‘We need you to cooperate fully, Adam,’ Newsome says. ‘It’s important. We need to understand how your gift works. We need you on side. You could be a huge asset to us. You could be a leader.’

  ‘I want to understand, too, believe me, but why tie me up? Why humiliate me?’

  ‘You killed a boy two years ago. You killed one of our best operatives two days ago. What did you expect?’

  That old charge again and a new accusation on top. How many times do I have to tell people? When will they believe me?

  ‘I never killed anyone.’ I try to sit up, pulling against the straps, thrust my chin out. What’s he saying isn’t right. He shouldn’t be saying this stuff.

  ‘You lose your temper. You’re not in control when you’re angry. You’re unpredictable.’

  I twist my head away from him. But he’s right. I do lose my temper, and I do lose control. I’m feeling like I could lose it now, if he pushes me any further.

  ‘You’ve got a choice, Adam. You can help us, support us, be part of something great, something noble. Or you can resist, be stubborn, be childish and be crushed. Or disappear. You and Sarah. Gone.’

  There’s a long silence.

  ‘What do you mean?’

/>   I know what he means but I want him to say it. I want his bullying and his threats out in the open.

  ‘Who knows where you are now? Who’d miss you?’

  The girl. My girl. Sarah. Does she know I’m here? Would she miss me? I can’t answer Newsome. I stare at the floor.

  I don’t like this guy. I don’t want him to win.

  ‘Who’ll miss you?’ I say. ‘8112034 doesn’t seem to mean anything to you. You know when now but what if you knew how?’

  That’s got him. He stares at me, trying to face me down, but he flicks his tongue across his lips and I know his mouth is dry. I know there’s a stab of fear digging him in the guts.

  ‘I see numbers, you’re right about that.’ I look him right in the eyes. ‘But I feel them as well. And you … you’re going to suffocate. You’re breathing in and out as hard and as fast as you can, but there’s no oxygen reaching your lungs. The air’s poisoned and every breath makes you weaker, sicker, more confused. You’ve vomited up everything you’ve got inside, now you’re bringing up bile, but it sticks in your throat and you’re choking and fighting for breath, but it’s too late. You’re on the ground, thrashing about in your own sick. It’s over.’

  There’s not a sound in the room.

  Saul licks his lips. His eyes are bright, switched on. They’re burning into mine. He likes this. Me taunting Newsome. Me describing his death. He’s excited.

  For a few seconds, Newsome doesn’t move. He just looks at me and I look at him. Then he blinks and his hand goes up to tuck his hair behind his ear. He moves away from me, shaking his head.

  ‘Very nice,’ he says. ‘A nice party piece. Well done. Did you get that? That piece of story-telling?’ he asks the white coats at the monitors. ‘What are the readings saying?’

  I turn my head. One of the white-coats is holding a printout in his hand.

  ‘Yes, we got it,’ he says. ‘Nice even line right the way through.’

  He looks nervously towards his boss.

  ‘He’s telling the truth.’

  Chapter 19: Sarah

  ‘Where’s Mia?’ Marion says. ‘Where are you in the picture?’

  I look up at her. She’s still frantically scribbling notes in the file, observing Mia like she was an animal in a zoo.

  I’m trying not to show anything but inside I’m totally freaking out. Mia sees the things that Val saw – how mad is that? If Adam was here, he’d see it straight away. This is something huge, something amazing.

  Mia pauses. I know she’s wary of Marion, but she’s loving drawing.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ I say. ‘There’s someone missing, isn’t there? We’re not a family without you. Draw you. Draw Mia.’

  She looks at the crayons and her hand hovers over the packet for ages. Then she looks back at me for help.

  ‘Don’t you know what colour to pick?’ I say.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Just pick any one. Pick a really pretty colour.’ I reach forward and pull out a yellow crayon. ‘How about this? Yellow, like the sunshine. Like your hair.’ I hand her the crayon and ruffle her golden curls.

  Marion clicks her tongue with disapproval.

  ‘Try not to lead her,’ she says.

  I shoot her a few daggers.

  ‘I’m not leading, I’m helping,’ I say.

  Mia draws a yellow potato next to the first two.

  ‘What else, Mia?’ Marion’s pushing her now.

  Mia puts her crayon down, picks up the paper and gives it to me. I give her a squeeze and kiss her cheek. ‘That’s beautiful. We can stick it up on the wall, in our room, can’t we?’

  ‘I’ll take a copy, if you don’t mind.’

  Before I know it, Marion’s snatched the paper out of my hand and has left the room with it. Mia starts wailing and I don’t blame her – I can’t believe the cheek of the bossy cow. Who takes a child’s drawing away like that?

  The key turning in the lock reminds me this is not an ‘interview room’. It’s another cell. The butterflies in my stomach make me feel sick. I can’t do another night in this place. It’ll kill me. I’ve got to get me and Mia out.

  ‘She likes the picture too,’ I say to Mia, trying to smooth over her rudeness. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it? Do you want to do another one while we’re waiting?’

  But Mia’s tired now. She holds a black crayon out towards me.

  ‘Mummy do it,’ she says.

  She picks up the doll and curls up on the sofa. I stroke her hair, and she closes her eyes and puts her thumb in her mouth. There’ll be someone else for her to draw soon, a brother or sister.

  ‘Mia, Mia, what does the future hold?’ I say it under my breath and it’s almost like a song. It’s so close that it turns into ‘Mary, Mary’ without even trying.

  ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

  With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row …’

  Her breathing becomes deeper and noisier. She’s not asleep but she’s very close.

  Mummy do it.

  I’m still holding the crayon Mia gave me. Slowly, almost painfully, I take a fresh piece of paper from the pile on the coffee table. I look at the paper for a long time. I’m scared to be faced with such whiteness. There’s been no time for creativity in the last two years. Survival’s taken over. Now I don’t know where to start.

  Without really thinking, I start sketching her shape: the curve of her back, the soft halo of her hair, the profile of her face. Instantly, I’m caught up in it – looking and drawing. Everything else falls away. Part of me’s been dead for two years and now, with one sketch, it’s alive again. A few lines is all it needs and she’s there, on paper. My daughter. My first picture of her. God, I’ve missed this.

  I put the portrait to one side and start making random marks on a fresh sheet of paper. Trying not to engage my mind, I let my hand do what it wants, experimenting with line and form, shading, light and dark. Creating an abstract.

  Mia sits up and looks at my picture.

  ‘Whassat?’ she says.

  I look at what I’ve drawn and my chest tightens.

  The shapes and lines aren’t random at all. My ‘abstract’ is a landscape – the light and dark of trees and the spaces between trees. And in the foreground, dark slabs of stone.

  ‘Whassat, Mummy?’ Mia asks again.

  ‘Nothing, just patterns,’ I say, but it’s more than that. Much more. It’s the place in my head.

  The place in my nightmare.

  The place where I lose Mia.

  Chapter 20: Adam

  ‘That’s it, I’m done. You said I could see Sarah. So I wanna see her.’

  Newsome looks at Saul. I can tell he wants him to say ‘no’, but Saul’s getting to his feet.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I think that might help.’

  ‘Are you sure, Saul?’ the doctor says. ‘There’s a lot he hasn’t told us. I think we should have another couple of sessions straight away.’

  ‘Newsome, we had a deal. Adam’s kept his side. Get those straps off him. I’ll take you to her,’ he says.

  ‘What, now?’

  All of a sudden I ain’t sure. What if I don’t recognise her? What if I make a prat of myself? What if she don’t want to see me?

  He smiles. ‘Yes, Adam, now. Can you walk?’

  I brace my hands against the arms of the chair and push forward. I’m on my feet but my legs don’t feel as if they belong to me. I topple sideways.

  ‘Whoah.’

  Saul catches me and puts a supporting arm round my shoulders. I’m glad he’s caught me, but there’s something unnerving about being this close to him. There’s a moment when he steadies me and I glance at his face, and our eyes meet and the pain of his death is even stronger, so fierce that it makes me gasp and buckle over.

  ‘We’ll get a chair,’ he says, and nods to one of the white-coats, who scurries out of the room and comes back with a wheelchair.

  I look at it with
horror. I ain’t no cripple.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Adam,’ Saul says, ‘you came off your bike at forty miles an hour yesterday. You’re lucky to be alive. Get in.’

  He puts pressure on my shoulder, almost forcing me to sit down. My legs give way and I lurch into the chair.

  ‘I’ll fetch an orderly,’ Newsome says.

  ‘No, I’ll push him,’ Saul cuts in.

  Newsome looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Saul says, sharply.

  The doctor puts his hands up. ‘No problem.’ He turns away, pretending to be busy with his charts and read-outs.

  Saul wheels me out of the room and into a corridor. I’d assumed I was in hospital, but this ain’t like any hospital I’ve seen before. There are two squaddies outside our door. They make to follow us, but Saul waves them away. They look uneasy, but they do as they’re told.

  The corridor walls are grey, the floor’s concrete. The only people about are soldiers, all in uniform, all armed.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ I ask Saul.

  ‘The safest place in England,’ he says, but he doesn’t explain.

  I can hear Newsome’s voice in my head now: You can help us … or disappear.

  ‘Safe for who?’

  ‘Safe for me, for us. You want to be one of us, don’t you?’

  I leave his question hanging. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be one of them, but I don’t want to rile him, especially not now. I’m vulnerable in this chair. Saul’s a powerful man, the man they take orders from in here. And it feels like he’s on my side right now. He’s helping me. For a moment, I wonder why … but there are too many other questions floating around in my head. That shimmering number, the extreme pain that comes with it, something about it that’s wrong …

  ‘Newsome asked me for his number,’ I say. ‘But you didn’t. Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘Death doesn’t frighten me,’ he says. ‘That’s for other people.’