Fractured (8 page)

The other nine are as always. No Tori any more; no Ben. And I don’t have to remind myself to be just Kyla, to act and look as she would. Here, in this place, I
am
her. Rain doesn’t belong.

We gather our chairs into a circle, and it begins.

Penny stands at the front. ‘Good evening everyone!’ Everyone looks at each other, hesitates. ‘Good evening,’ a few voices say back, and then the rest chime in.

‘Tonight I want you to welcome Angela. She is joining our group. And what do you do now?’

She looks around and I groan internally, remembering my first day here. It was Tori who rolled her eyes and told everyone to introduce themselves, all sarcastic. Then Ben came late.

The memory catches inside. Jumps like a stone skipping on water. I can see him, dashing through the door. Shorts and a long T-shirt, clinging to him from running. Always running. I sigh.

‘Kyla?’

Penny walks over, concern in her eyes. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she says.

‘Sorry, just faded out a moment.’ She checks my levels, raises an eyebrow when she sees they are fine at 5.8. She goes back to the front.

I give myself a shake inside. Neither smile too wide, nor sink into misery. Stay
level
is what I am really saying. What all Slateds must do, though it isn’t the same for me any more.

Penny is smiling at the new girl, whose grin is even wider. She looks so happy, she is in no danger of ever blacking out from low levels like I used to sometimes. The rest of them, too: they all look
too
happy. Happy the Lorders caught them, stopped them doing or saying whatever it was that wasn’t liked. I glance across the open, blissful faces. Were any of them
real
criminals like they were supposed to be? Murderers, or terrorists. Like me. They’re so happy, do they even care what they once were? If my Slating had worked like it was supposed to, I’d be smiling along with the rest of them.

I’d be happy, too.

I jump as a warm hand squeezes my shoulder. Penny. ‘Can you answer my question?’ she chides.

‘Ah…’

‘Why are we here?’

‘It’s our second chance?’

‘Exactly, Kyla.’

I do have a second chance – not the one she means. She doesn’t know I’ve come back, that the Lorders failed. My Slating failed. I hold the knowledge tight inside, a small knot of satisfaction deep in my guts.

Back to addressing the group, Penny tells us that today, we’re going to play some games. She opens a trunk, takes out draughts, cards and other board games. There is an odd number of us and she decides she and I will make a pair. Keeping an eye on me still?

‘Have you played any of these before?’ she asks, and I look in the trunk to see what else is there.

‘Most of them. I like chess. I used to play it, late at night at the hospital: a Watcher taught me.’

She takes the chess box out, hands it to me to set up while she checks on everyone else. The box is inlaid wood; it opens and the pieces are nested inside, one set in light wood, one in dark. I take them out, then line them up on the board. Rooks in corners, then knights, bishops, king and queen. The long row of pawns in front, lined up and expendable. Though with the right strategy, the right game, a pawn can make the difference.

Penny returns, and pulls a chair across so we can play.

My hand is drawn to one of my rooks: I pick it up.
A castle
, something says inside. You used to call it a castle.

No. I frown. The Watcher – bored, stuck babysitting me late at night when I was having nightmares – taught me to play. Taught me the correct names for each piece, their moves, and was surprised how quick I learned. By the time I left the hospital I even won sometimes.

‘Kyla?’ Penny looks at me curiously.

I give myself an internal shake, put the chess piece back into its square. We begin.

‘Good night?’ Mum asks.

‘All right.’ She looks at me still, wanting more. ‘We played chess, Penny and I.’

‘Who won?’

‘She did.’

I didn’t play at my best. I kept having this weird feeling as I touched the pieces. Something
right
in the way they felt in my hands. I kept wanting to pick them up, run my fingers over corners and rounded edges, to pick out the shapes of each by touch alone.

I fake a yawn. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to turn in.’

But up in my room my brain is jumping.

My second chance, but not as the Lorders mean. My second chance with Free UK. To strike at the Lorders.

Yet…what have I done before with Free UK? Whenever I
try
to remember that life, with Nico, it is shy and hides away. Things seem to come when I don’t hunt and search. I try to relax, to let my mind drift. The training camp I can see – yes. But not much else. Did I go out on attacks? The Lorders caught me somehow, so I must have. But of that I remember nothing.

Nico’s face floats into view and won’t go away. With him this afternoon, it was hard to think, to know what to say or do. I just was what he wanted.

I shake my head, confused. No. That isn’t right. It is what
I
want, too.

Though tonight, playing chess, I felt more like
me
, whoever that is. In my own skin. Like holding a rook in my hand somehow made things start to settle down inside, start working themselves out.

I concentrate on the board, the carved pieces standing on their own squares. I chew my lip. Every move I can see will end in one of mine captured. I haven’t many left. I reach my hand out, then pull it back again.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ I admit, finally.

‘Want a hint?’

I touch my fingers to one piece, then another. Watching his eyes.

He winks when I touch the castle on the king’s side. But there is nowhere useful it can go, there are just a few open spaces between it and the king. The king is in an unguarded position, and will soon be under threat. Unless…

‘What’s that special thing the castle can do?’ I ask.

‘It’s called a rook, Lucy.’

‘It looks like a castle!’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ He smiles. ‘It can slide up to the king. And then they swap places.’

‘I remember!’ I do as he said, they swap places, and my king is safe.

The game continues: I finally win.

I know he let me. I hold the castle in my small hand, take it to my room when I go to sleep. It stands on my bedside table when Daddy kisses me goodnight.

I wake slowly; warm, happy, safe. Open my eyes. The rook is gone. I sit up in shock, the room folding and contracting, changing, to become Kyla’s once again. Not Lucy’s.

How do I still have this memory? It should have been Slated away with the rest of her, like Nico said. Confusion twists and pulls inside. I’ve had dreams of Lucy before, but never anything this real.

Never anything of her at home, safe and happy.

I grasp at the dream but already it is becoming unreal, slipping away. I stumble across the room, switch on the lights. Find my sketch pad and pencils, and try, again and again, to draw his face. To hold onto him.

But he is gone. I can’t. All that is left is vague and unsure, a sense of size and proportion. No details, no features anyone could recognise as individual.

I give up on the hopeless task of drawing Lucy’s father. My father. And I start on Ben, instead. Now that Ben’s parents are gone, there is no one else left to remember him. I’ll look at his drawing every day. That way I can never forget him: I will always be reminded when I see his face.

And there is something else I can do. Lucy reminded me.

There is one last chance.

One final way I can try to find out what really happened to Ben: MIA.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Don’t you want to go in with Cameron?’ Amy smiles, more of a smirk, really. ‘He’s quite cute, don’t you think?’

‘No! I mean, no, I don’t want to go with Cameron.’

‘So you agree he is cute, then.’

I roll my eyes and get into Jazz’s back seat.

I’d told them yesterday not to wait, to go and I’d come home with Cam. Mum didn’t know and probably wouldn’t approve. Not necessarily of him, but of Amy and Jazz being alone: I’m their chaperone. Huh! I’d already explained this to Cam so he won’t think he is on regular chauffeur duties. Especially today, when I’ve got plans I don’t want him in on.

We pull up the road before I ask. ‘Jazz, do you think we could visit Mac after school today?’

‘Sure,’ he says, and that is that. Mac is Jazz’s cousin; the illegal computer in his back room is where I first found Lucy on MIA. Can they find Ben?

Amy starts babbling about all the gossip from the doctor’s surgery yesterday. I tune out, but then something grabs my attention.

‘Amy, what was that?’ I ask, not sure I heard right; not sure I want to.

‘You know that man I told you about, the one they found beaten up who was in a coma? He woke up in hospital.’

My heart skips a beat, an actual fluttering feeling deep in my chest.

Try to sound casual
.

‘Has he said anything? About what happened to him?’

‘He was pretty out of it, according to the surgery nurse whose friend works at the hospital. Might have amnesia from his head injuries. Lorders came to talk to him, but gave up because he made no sense.’

Tell Nico!

But then what will happen? After he has finished being completely furious it is the first he has heard of it. After he gets over me not telling him about Wayne’s attack when he asked what triggered the return of my memories. Wayne is a risk: if he talks about what I did, Lorders will come for me. Nico will have him dealt with, one way or another. Dealt with means dead. And then he’ll deal with me.

I’m not doing it.

My instincts protest against taking such a risk. But wait, and see: maybe Wayne won’t remember anything.

Maybe, he will
.

That afternoon we file into the hall for Year 11 Assembly. Everyone takes their seats without fuss, and it is pin-drop quiet. Up front stands the reason: Lorders.

A cold shock of recognition travels down my spine when I glance their way.

Don’t stare
.

I fight to pull my eyes away. These Lorders, I know: Agent Coulson, and his underling. Coulson’s cold eyes sweep the room and I struggle to avert mine, but they are locked. What is he doing here?

Coulson is no run of the mill Lorder; he is something more. It was obvious when they came to question me after Ben disappeared. For a start, they’d be careful who they sent when Mum was involved. They’d want to be sure how they dealt with the daughter of the Lorder hero, Wam the Man, Prime Minister before Free UK blew up him and his wife. Mum might not be involved in politics now or exploit her connections in any way I’ve seen, but still: they couldn’t do or say anything that couldn’t be explained if it needed to be. She’d been the only reason, I’m sure, that I hadn’t got hauled off for a less gentle inquisition.

But, more than that, Coulson exudes careful power. He isn’t just a nasty bully, though I’m sure he would be if an occasion called for it. Everything about him is cold calculation.

His eyes rest on mine. Pinpricks of sweat break out on my forehead.

Look away!

I break the gaze, lower my eyes. Resist the impulse to check, to see if he still stares.

He’s just a man. A nasty one
.

He would bleed red just like anybody else. He should!

Assembly begins. The Head drones on about student accomplishment, then sprinkles his usual warnings. His injunction to live up to your potential…or else.

But I am somewhere else.

In my mind, it is Coulson who drags Ben’s pain-wracked body away from his mother.

It is Coulson who holds a lit match. Tosses it to Ben’s house.

Coulson who plucks Lucy from her family.

Rage fills me inside: roiling, hot rage. Outside, my face is calm, attentive; inside is something else.

If I had a gun in my hand, right now, I could raise it. Shoot him. He deserves it. They all do.

The hard seat under me, the drone of the Head’s voice and the hall full of listening students all fade away. My hands grip cold metal, my eyes take sight, careful aim. Index finger pulls the trigger. A blast of noise, a recoil as the gun slams back in my hands. The bullet flies across the room too fast for normal eyes to follow, but mine watch its progress to target.

It strikes his chest. His heart explodes: a red wave ripples out in all directions like a stone dropped in still water. He falls.

I smile, then realise Assembly is over; everyone is filing out of the room. I’d stood and followed along without realising. Cam has dropped back slightly from his tutor group, and walks beside me. He must think I’m totally mad to smile, here, now.

I am.

The spell, if there was one, is gone. We approach the doors of the hall. The other Lorder stands there, watching students leave, one by one. Coulson stays at the front, door duty beneath him. I’m relieved. And then lunch twists in my stomach as images of Coulson’s bloody body replay in my mind.

‘Are you all right?’ Cam whispers as we step out of the hall. ‘You’ve gone all pale.’

I just shake my head, run to the toilet in the next building and throw up, again and again. When I’m finally sure there is nothing left to come up, I splash water on my face, stare in the mirror.

What the hell happened in there?

My hands are shaking. I’m not that person, I couldn’t do that. Could I? I wouldn’t cry if he died, but not by my hands.

But then what was all that training for?

And visions flow through my mind like a movie on fast forward. Shooting practice. Targets. Knives and their uses. Faster it spins. I was a good shot, the best of my cell. A cell that was, itself, the best.

No!

Yes. What is being a terrorist about? Political discussions over cups of tea? The Lorders are evil. He deserves to die. They all do
.