Cracks (25 page)

It didn’t take long for Torch to find Kyla and bring her to me. She’d been living rough in an abandoned barn in the countryside outside Sheffield, trying to decide
what to do. I gave Tom her number and he rang her, using a special phone to hide his ID and location. She was suspicious of him at first and wouldn’t believe who he was until he put me on. My
face and lips had gone weirdly numb and I tried to force the words out, to say we would come for her, if she could tell us where she was. But she kept firing questions at me about whether I was OK
and where Jax was and I couldn’t handle it. I gave the phone back to Tom like it was burning me. He must have arranged for someone to collect her because after we’d got back to a safe
house, she came bursting in about half an hour later.

She ran into the room and hugged me, or rather the blanket I had around my shoulders, and I just hung my head. I could smell her lovely cinnamon smell and she tried to lift my chin and look me
in the eyes but I couldn’t and just turned away, burying myself further into the blanket.

I could hear the low murmur of Tom’s voice and Kyla shouted, ‘No!’ then made high-pitched keening sound. She fell on the ground in a ball with her arms wrapped around herself
and sobbed. But I couldn’t go to her. Not when I made it happen. It was only because of me that Jax was in Riley Hall in the first place.

I haven’t really spoken to her these last few days. We keep catching each other’s eyes and looking away, both too wounded and sore to be in each other’s space. I’d prefer
it if we were fighting.

But that’s not all I feel guilty about.

I feel guilty because my friend’s dead and happy surges keep lapping inside me. I can’t concentrate on anything. Later today, Tom’s bringing my mum and dad here. They made us
wait, so the authorities didn’t realise we’d made contact. I can’t believe I’m really going to meet them. I’m shaky and nervous. What if it’s all strange? What
if they don’t like me? It’s been such a long time. There’s so much to make up for.

At least I understand what happened now. Twelve years ago, I was in a car accident. That bit was true. My dad was driving. It wasn’t his fault.

I was taken to the hospital. A doctor working on a special research project into brain injury persuaded my parents to let them take me to his new unit, which was carrying out cutting edge
procedures. His name was Daniel Cavendish.

Then they were told I’d died on the operating table. They weren’t allowed to see the body because there had been too much bruising to the head and it would be upsetting. Wild with
grief at losing their only child, they accepted the story and buried an empty casket that was given to them by Cavendish. A man who needed a little human lab rat to perfect his secret work.

I still get shaky when I think about being in that pod, all wired up. I get that scary walls-closing-in feeling again. Tom says it’ll take a while to get over what they did to me. I wonder
if I ever will.

The regime’s explanation of the bombing of Riley Hall was that terrorists had smuggled bombs into the building through deliveries to a corrupt guard in the kitchens. They claimed they had
a warning in the nick of time and were able to evacuate everyone.

We know different, and other people are catching on too. There have been riots in several cities and Torch say the tide is turning in their favour. No one knows where Cavendish has gone.

I shiver, even though it’s not cold.

Then something brings the flicker of a smile to my face. When I was telling Tom about Alex’s world, he was very interested in hearing about Des’s shed with all his contraband. It may
have been a load of old junk he had in there, but some of it, stuff like fertiliser and alarm clocks, can be used in bomb making. And in a regime like this one, that’s enough to send CATS
round pretty fast. All it took was one anonymous phonecall . . . I bet he made a right fuss when they carted him away. I hope they lock him up for a long time. He shouldn’t get away with how
he treated Alex.

I lift my face to the warmth of the sunshine. It’s peaceful here. The house is owned by Helen Bonaparte’s daughter, Sasha, another doctor and her husband Mark, a
Torch operative who monitors the news and tells us what’s really happening. They’re looking after us until we’re, as Helen calls it, ‘back on our feet’. I was
suspicious at first. I felt like I couldn’t really trust anyone, not even them. But Helen says they would never have hurt me before. They just wanted to know what they were up against and
never would have done anything without my consent. I’m choosing to trust them.

Let’s face it, I have to start somewhere. I open my eyes and look across fields that stretch into the distance. It feels as though nothing has really changed for centuries. There are
fluffy blobs of sheep here and there and the stone walls make patchwork of the fields.

Something black and white shoots past me and I smile. Sasha named the cat Humphrey. He’s in heaven here on the farm, chasing mice and sleeping in the sunshine.

A shape moves into my eye-line by one of the walls. Squinting into the sunlight, I realise it’s Kyla. She lifts her hair up from around her neck and effortlessly twists it into some sort
of knot. She dips her head again, wiping hard at her eyes. I’m just about to get up and go back inside again and then I hesitate. I can’t avoid her for ever.

I miss her. I miss Jax too. Every time I think about his goofy grin it’s like someone knifes me in the chest. I look at the girl sitting on the wall now, her knees drawn into her chest and
her arms around them as though she’s holding herself in one piece.

Jax has gone but Kyla is still here.

I take a few deep breaths and then walk slowly down the hill towards her. She turns when she hears me and her eyes fill with tears.

Neither of us speaks. I stand there, feeling useless as I always do around her, while she slowly gets to her feet. She wipes her face and our eyes meet.

‘Hey you,’ I say quietly.

‘Hey you, too,’ she says and manages a small smile.

‘Kyla, I . . .’ I feel like someone stole all the words. I’m tongue-tied and feel helpless. But there are really only two words that matter.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say and gulp as tears blur my vision.

Her eyes go misty and her face crumples. She holds out her arms and we come together like magnets are pulling us close. We just hold each other for ages and ages. It’s a long time before
she speaks.

‘It’s not your fault, Matt. Oh, I don’t think I can get used to calling you Cal!’

We bend so our foreheads are touching. I’ve never been this close to her before. Apart from when we slept on that sofa.

‘Kyla . . . You’re not going to be alone. I’m not going to let you go this time.’

I don’t allow myself to think about it. I just tilt my head and kiss her gently on the lips. We stop and then smile at each other. Her eyes sparkle with tears and she looks over my
shoulder and then takes a step back from me, giving me a gentle push.

‘Later,’ she says. ‘I think there are some people who want to see you right now.’

I spin round the other way. I can see two middle-aged people: a woman with red hair and a familiar green coat, and a slightly overweight man in jeans and a checked blue shirt. They’re both
walking quickly up the hill and looking a bit out of breath.

I hear the woman shout. ‘Cal?’ She clutches the man’s arm and runs forward. ‘Cal!’

‘Go on,’ whispers Kyla. ‘Hurry!’

I don’t need to be told twice.

I start running down the hill.

The year 2011 was a big one for me because
Dark Ride
was published, I had to finish
Cracks
and I moved house all within the space of a few months. I owe a massive
debt to my editor Anne Clark at Piccadilly Press who was such a calming voice of reason during my many headless chicken impersonations and for her work in helping to shape this story. Huge thanks
also to Melissa Hyder for all her excellent suggestions on the text.

I’d like to give profuse and heartfelt thanks to Luisa Plaja, Emily Gale and Alexandra Fouracres for providing immense quantities of support, laughs and virtual tea. My agent Catherine
Pellegrino has also provided invaluable support, for which many thanks.

Finally, Pete, Joe and Harry Lownds are owed so much in so many ways that I haven’t the space to list them all. I am so lucky to have you guys.

Also by Caroline Green:

A shiver crawled up my spine. It felt like the loneliest place in the world. For a second I thought I caught a snatch of music in the air, but it was just the wind whistling
through cracks in the fairground hoardings.

My instincts screamed, ‘Run away, Bel! Run away and never return!’

But instead my fingers closed around the ticket in my pocket.
ADMIT ONE.

Chicklish

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