Cracks (21 page)

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.

C
allum Michael Conway
is etched into the stone. The dates are 4
^th
January 2010 – 17
^th
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.

M
y 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.