GLAZE (2 page)

This will all change when I get on Glaze. I’m sure of it. When I’m hooked up I can be a part of their lives again. I can stay up till midnight and wait for Nathaniel’s latest track to be released—rather than having to wait for three weeks to hear it like the rest of the non-hooked population—and then discuss its languorous melodies, or whatever, for hours with Pippa. Or dissect the subtext of crap Hollywood movies with Kiara. Or make new friends on the other side of the world, who I can talk to about books and art and philosophy. For now, I’m in limbo. I’m in a holding pattern waiting to land. And that’s OK. Like they say, good things come to those who wait.
 

‘He’s playing a song! For us!’ Pippa clasps her hands to her breast and lifts her face to the sky, slipping away from the reality around her and losing herself in the other one. The better one. She’s not alone. Most of the kids around me have tuned in and are rocking back and forth to the same beat, mouthing lyrics I can’t hear. Hands reach out to hold each other. Even Kiara, who I know hates the faux folk that Nathaniel pumps out, looks moved by it all. They’re all sharing this moment and not only with each other, but with the hundreds of people who’ve gathered here, and the millions of people all across the world who are hooked up, supporting what is being done from afar.

I’ve read everything about how the network operates. How the chip that gives you access is connected to the visual and aural cortices so you can see and hear the stream when you focus. Apparently it takes a while to adjust, but after a few weeks it becomes like a sixth sense. Like accessing an old memory, or picking out the sound of a bird singing from the background of noise. And it’s there waiting for you. All the information you need to navigate modern life, as their latest ad campaign puts it. There’s other reported stuff too. Like the internal GPS means that people know which way is north or south even with their eyes closed. Neuroplasticity it’s called.
 

I probably know more than anyone here with an actual chip. But then my mother works for the company that invented it: WhiteInc.
 

They’re still swaying and singing, and I’m starting to get really bored, when the crowd surges forward, knocking a few of our group off their feet. I’m pushed from behind and only manage to avoid falling flat on my face by grabbing on to Karl’s arm. Whatever spell Nathaniel had them all under is broken.
 

Vidboards, which a moment ago were showing grinning pictures of the men running for election along with a reminder about ‘Decision Time!’, now show two red letters on a black background. NF.
 

‘Someone’s adjacked the boards,’ I say, pointing over at them. But no one pays any attention to me.
 

Boys wearing black hoodies and weird silver scarves wrapped around their faces weave through the crowd, spreading out. Anger radiates from them like heat. They’re not here to hold signs and shout chants. They’re certainly not here to sing along to Nathaniel’s new song. They’re here for trouble.
 

Girls scream as they’re shoved aside. The boys try to push back, standing between the girls and the swarm of black, I catch Kiara as she’s elbowed out of the way and help her to her feet again.
 

‘Calm down, guys,’ Ryan shouts. ‘There’s no need for aggro.’
 

The masked boys laugh.
 

‘Change is conflict, brother,’ one says, pulling the metallic scarf down to reveal his face. His pupils are too large and too dark, his jaw is sliding from side to side like a cow chewing cud. He looks possessed by something. Or on something.
 

He pulls a bottle out from under his jacket, tosses it in his hand once, twice, then throws it over Ryan’s head. We all watch as it soars over the crowd and comes crashing down on the concrete between us and the wall of police surrounding the school.
 

My hands start to shake in anger at the stupidity of it all.
 

‘Yeah!’ I shout. ‘Let’s all throw stuff. That’s how you bring about change. That’s how you stick it to the man! Look!’ I glance down and see a small crumpled plastic cup on the ground. It’s been trodden on. I know just how it feels. I scoop it up and throw it into the air. It barely makes it about five feet before floating back down. ‘See how much impact that had?’ I yell. ‘Forget about peaceful protest and lobbying government. Why not throw stuff like a child having a tantrum!’

My rant has no affect on the boy who threw the bottle. He grins, a shark grin, and steps towards me.

I stumble away. My path is blocked by a body behind me. There’s no escape. Shark boy is inches away. I can smell his breath. Stale cigarettes. He raises his hand. A black-clad arm appears out of the crowd and pulls shark boy back. The arm belongs to another kid with a black hoodie and scarf over his face. But unlike his friend, his eyes are dazzlingly bright. Golden brown like the broken glass on the concrete. He looks at me and it feels like he’s looking into my soul.
 

‘You should get out of here,’ he says. ‘Things are going to get nasty.’

Seconds later a salvo of bottles falls out of the air, smashing all around us. These boys in black might be organised, but they’re terrible aims.
 

The first boy whoops and punches the air, then charges off into the crowd.
 

‘Go. Now!’ The boy with the amber eyes says, before following his friend into the crowd.

2

EVERYONE STARTS SCREAMING
and pushing, trying to get away from each other. But no one can move.
 

Pippa is sobbing and screams something about Nathaniel but I can’t make it out. Kiara throws her sign to the ground and tries to clamber over the bodies in front of her. I grab Pippa’s hand and pull her in a diagonal against the surging crowd. It’s what I’ve read you should do when stuck in a rip in the sea but it’s having no effect now. Her fingers are dragged out of mine. I’m off my feet, being carried by the wave of the crowd, utterly helpless. My face is crushed against Ryan’s leather jacket. Typical, I think. The only time you get close to him and it’s going to get me killed.
 

‘Ryan! Ryan!’ Amy is pulled in the opposite direction from us. Her hand reaches out toward Ryan, clawing at the air.
 

‘Just relax, Amy,’ he yells. ‘It will be OK. Head back to the station.’

I can barely move my head, pinned between a spitting, swearing boy behind me and Ryan’s strong back in front. My ribs are being crushed and I’m suffocating. There’s only one way I can go. Down.
 

I wriggle on to my hands and knees and start to weave my way through the forest of legs. The rough ground and broken glass cut into my knees and my fingers are knocked and bashed so many times I can hardly feel them anymore, but at least down here I can breathe.
 

‘Wait for me.’ Ryan is behind me, also scrabbling through the crowd on his hands and knees.
 

There are screeches and screams and a sound like a plane taking off and water pours down on my head. I look up to see the person above me knocked clear off their feet by a jet of water.
 

The water cannons are out.
 

The sound stops and dripping wet people struggle to their feet. I’m soaked through, my hair stuck to my face so I can hardly see, but still I press forward, dodging stumbling people and stamping feet.
 

A row of heavy black boots and a wall of riot shields block the path ahead. I risk glancing up at the line the police have formed. They look as panicked as everyone else as they frantically push back against the crowd. There’s nothing they can do: the line breaks and policemen stumble and fall beneath the human wave.
 

‘This is WhiteShield!’ A loud-hailer booms through the screaming and shouting.
 

WhiteShield? That’s WhiteInc’s private security division. What are they doing here?

‘Everybody stand exactly where you are!’ The loud-hailer squawks again.
 

Yeah, right, I think. Like that’s going to work.
 

But I’m wrong. It does work.
 

Everyone stops moving as if their feet have been frozen to the ground. The screams stop and the feeling of panic is sucked out of the air like a vacuum has been switched on. The crowd exhale; an enormous, collective sigh of relief.
 

I glance back to Ryan, he looks as confused as I am, but he’s still moving. He nods frantically for me to go forward.
 

It’s much easier going now that everyone’s stopped stampeding. I slow my pace to weave in and out of the legs. There’s a gap about 50 feet to the left. An alleyway, leading to I don’t know where. I don’t care as long as it’s out of here. I switch direction and head for it.

‘The police will be passing through you all and taking your names. Then they will let you all go, one by one,’ the man with the loud-hailer says. He sounds bored by it all.
 

I stop as a pair of large black boots thud in front of me, missing my fingers by inches. Ryan crawls alongside me. I see my own fear reflected in his face.
 

The booted policeman spins on his toes and walks away from us through the lines of people. This is my chance. I half-crawl, half-run towards the alleyway. It’s partially blocked by a large green wheelie bin turned over on its side. I scramble over it and duck down on the other side. My heart pounds and I fight to catch my breath, taking in ragged lungfuls of the stink of rubbish I’m sitting in.

I rub some life back into my hands. They’re covered in cuts and bruises. I wiggle my fingers experimentally. Nothing seems broken. I look down at the spreading red patches around my knees. These are my favourite jeans and they’re ruined. I pull a lump of glass out of my knee, wincing.
 

I hear a loud bang and look up as Ryan throws himself over the bin, crashing down next to me. He sits up, his back pressed up against the green plastic, panting heavily. He grins: manic and victorious. But the grin fades when he looks straight ahead.
 

‘We’re trapped.’

I follow his gaze to the high brick wall blocking our exit. ‘Looks like it.’

I risk glancing over the top of the bin. Policemen in riot gear walk through the crowd while helmeted figures in pale blue WhiteShield uniforms stand by, arms folded across their chests. No one in the crowd moves. It must be fear freezing them in place. But they don’t look afraid. In fact, they all look amazingly calm.
 

I pick out faces I recognise. Pippa has stopped crying and is staring, entranced at a man beside her. He’s wearing a flowing shirt covered in pink flowers, and is cradling a broken guitar in his arms. So Pippa found Nathaniel after all. Karl and Kiara are standing next to each other. Karl has his arm draped around Kiara’s shoulder. I’m glad, I know how much they like each other.
 

‘Go Kiara,’ I say, softly.
 

There are only one or two hooded kids in the crowd. The rest must have got away.
 

‘What’s happening?’ Ryan says, crouching next to me.
 

‘Nothing. I mean that’s what’s weird. They’re doing absolutely nothing.’

A policeman stomps past the bin and we both duck back down, pulling our legs up under our chins. We’re pressed so closely together that the zip on Ryan’s jacket digs into my arm.
 

 
‘You’re Petra, right?’ Ryan whispers.
 

I can’t believe he knows my name. OK, so I’ve been in the same year as him for four years, and my name is actually Petri. But still, it’s close enough. I never thought he knew I existed. I’ve had all these stupid fantasies about Ryan McManus. About him turning to me and taking my hand and saying ‘you’re not like other girls’, and then we run off together. But why did he have to wait till we’re both hiding behind a stinking wheelie bin to talk to me?

‘It’s Petri. Petri Quinn.’

His eyebrow raises and my heart sinks at the realisation that I have to explain my name to yet another person.

‘I was named after my dad,’ I start. It’s an old joke of Zizi’s that she thinks is simply hilarious. Along with the ‘half price on ginger sperm’ line she uses every single time she introduces me to someone.
 

Ryan looks confused and so I take pity on him. ‘I was a test-tube baby. Petri dish. Get it? Zizi, my mother, thought it was funny.’

‘Oh,’ is all he says.
 

And I’m aware of both how unfunny and desperately sad it is.
 
To have never known my father. To have a mother who has to turn everything in her life into a political statement. Even the naming of her child.

‘Zizi as in Zizi Quinn, Creative Director at WhiteInc?
She’s
your mother?’

I groan inwardly. I thought everyone at school knew my mother was a board member of the company that made Glaze. When it first got out people kept asking me to hook them up with upgrades and exclusive content and what have you. The reality is, I can’t get so much as a branded pen for myself, let alone them.
 

‘Yup, that’s her.’

He looks at me for what feels like the longest time; the muscles around his eyes twitching. ‘Cool,’ he says, finally, and turns away.
 

Reading people’s expressions doesn’t come naturally to me. So, like everything else that I wasn’t immediately good at, which is pretty much everything, I studied. Hard. I read books on microexpressions, watched documentaries on body language. Despite all of that, whatever Ryan’s thinking is totally lost on me.
 

Ryan leans up to look back over the bin and I copy him. The policemen are passing each person in turn, staring at their faces, then nodding.
 

‘They’re matching faces to the Glaze database,’ Ryan says.

‘They can do that?’

‘Of course. Anyone chipped can.’ He smiles at me, his brow furrowed like he doesn’t know if I’m joking or if I’m an idiot.