Chapter Nine
My chest tightens, forcing the air from my lungs and making my legs feel weak. I clutch my hands tight to my chest, trying to smother the searing pain that is building in intensity, but it doesn’t work. Staring at the black tarpaulin I try to process the individual features of the scene, but I’m not able to piece them together into a whole image that carries any meaning. Surrounding the sheet is a dark pool of liquid that looks black against the asphalt and strands of blonde hair are stained red by the blood.
Officials wearing grey military-style jackets with polished black shoes approach, but I already know what they’re going to say. My mother is dead. My kind and loving mother is lying dead on the cold damp street, and I didn’t even kiss her goodbye this morning. My vision dims until all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and my laboured breaths coming short and fast.
Then in a moment of clarity, my mind snaps back from my grief. There are too many officials here for one dead woman. People die in the compound every day and nobody gives a damn. This suddenly feels like a very dangerous place to be. I take an uncertain step backwards, before launching into a full-speed run.
I hear them calling my name and their footsteps landing close behind me, but I carry on running. I have one advantage over those chasing me; they’re running for their jobs but I’m running for my life. I urge my body on through the maze of streets and back alleys in Narrowmarsh, which is the most densely populated and dangerous part of the compound, but after twenty minutes of running the burning in my lungs forces me to stop. I look around anxiously because the compound isn’t that big so it’s only a matter of time before someone finds me. I need cover, but I can’t go home and I don’t have many friends apart from Jo.
Leaning against a brick wall in a dingy alleyway trying to catch my breath, the weight of what has just happened hits me and I’m crushed beneath it. I slump to the floor as a wave of grief crashes over me. What happened to my mother? It looks like she fell from the balcony, but I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.
My temples throb as the question forms in my mind. Was this my fault? I wrap my arms around my body to comfort myself as my cries come in sharp gasps. Now I’ve started crying I don’t know how I’m ever going to stop. Two days ago the world lay at my feet, but now I stand on the edge of a precipice with no one to catch me if I fall.
***
When I next look up dusk has fallen, casting eerie shadows along the street. At least the officials won’t be able to find me so easily in the dark.
“What are you doing here?” a shrill voice calls.
I shiver involuntarily but remain silent and motionless.
I’m relieved when I hear another high-pitched voice call back. “What are you talking about, this is my spot!”
Peering down the alley I see two prostitutes wearing high-heeled shoes with clothes that expose an indecent amount of naked skin. I recognise one of them as the girl in the gang that kicked me. They’re arguing about whose spot this is, which I assume means that there’s an alehouse nearby. I am thankful that they’re oblivious to my presence, but realise that I’m going to have to walk past them if I want to exit the back alley.
I stand up, but it takes me a while to straighten my legs fully because the cold has seeped in and stiffened them. My white infirmary tunic dress is stained with mud under my wet heavy woollen coat, but I can’t do much about that now. I walk straight between them with my head down.
“Hey,” one of the girls shouts as I pass. “Aren’t you the one that everyone’s looking for?”
I carry on walking like I haven’t heard her, into the street.
“Lake’s looking for you,” the girl that kicked me calls after.
Standing in their tank tops and miniskirts, they aren’t the sort of people that I’d normally put my faith in, but this isn’t a normal situation. I retreat back into the shadow of the ally cautiously.
“He put the word out on the street to tell him if we see you,” she continues.
“He’s alright you know; he won’t rat you out to the officials or nothing,” the other one says. “What happened anyway?”
I shrug my shoulders without answering because I don’t know what to tell her.
“You don’t need to answer. Asking no questions is what we do best,” she says with a crooked smile punctuated with missing teeth. “I’ll send word,” she calls over her shoulder, walking out into the street.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the remaining girl staring intently at me. I’ve seen Grant pull the same expression when he’s scrutinising slides down his microscope, like she’s trying to work out what I am.
“So how d’you know Lake?” she asks in a monotone voice which I think she hopes conveys disinterest. It doesn’t.
“I don’t really,” I confess. “I only met him a couple of days ago.”
“Hmm,” she replies, looking me up and down.
I don’t look away, acutely reminded that my safety has only been secured in the short term and could dissipate at any moment.
***
We stand in silence, but despite great mental effort the image of my mother’s body silhouetted under the tarpaulin sheet flashes behind my eyes. I wonder where she is now; perhaps her body is cooling in the refrigerated morgue, or maybe she’s left the compound already. It’s tragically ironic that we all do in death what we can’t do in life – leave the compound.
I hear a chorus of hushed voices in the distance, getting louder as they approach. Should I really have trusted these girls, one of which clearly doesn’t like me? I stand motionless as four figures duck into the alleyway and form a blockade in front of me.
“What trouble have you gone and caused?” Lake growls in a low resonating voice.
“How do you know I’m in any trouble?”
He pulls one corner of his mouth back into a wry smile. “Because I watched you run,” he replies, studying my face. His smile slips and he takes a step forward. “I know it’s bullshit, but they’re saying that you had something to do with your mother’s death.”
Maybe I did. It’s the first time that I’ve heard the words said aloud, ‘your mother’s death’, and they sting bitterly.
“Who are they?” I snap suspiciously.
“Just people,” he replies without elaborating. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”
He slides a hand behind my back to guide me forward but I dig my heels in, surprised by the suddenness, before relenting and letting myself be guided by his steady hand. I have nowhere else to go anyway. I walk almost blindly, trying to blink back the tears without even asking where we’re going. We only walk a short distance before Lake turns into the back entrance of one of the apartment blocks.
A tall flame-haired boy with an angry red scar running the length of his face follows us into the stairwell, but the others remain outside. Lake urges me forward and I begin to ascend the stairs. It’s like the block that I share with my mother − shared with my mother − but far more neglected. As I climb I negotiate my path through bags of rubbish and empty glass liquor bottles, and the walls are marked with graffiti tags which act as warnings to other gangs.
When we reach the top of the first flight of stairs the flame-haired boy darts past me to unlock the nearest door with the silver key that hangs around his neck. The door swings open into the living room, although that’s probably a misnomer because I doubt that anyone could live in this room. It reeks of stale smoke, rotting food and something bitter that I can’t identify. A twang of guilt jolts me as I think of Jo. What will happen to her without my mother or me to check on her and keep her company?
The room is bare except for a well-worn sofa and a computer standing on top of a couple of pallet crates in the corner of the room. Computers are rare within the compound. In fact I’ve only ever seen them in public spaces before; I’m not even sure that we’re allowed to own private computers. Somehow this small piece of information makes me feel safer. If they’re breaking the
law themselves then they’re less likely to turn me over to the officials because I could easily return the favour.
In addition to the sparse furnishings there are a large number of piles of material around the periphery of the room. Looking more closely I realise that they’re a mixture of sleeping bags, duvets, blankets and pillows. I narrow my eyes, trying to visualize how a whole gang sleep in a two-bed apartment. That said, I’ve absolutely no idea how many members there are, or what they do to pass the days.
Lake disappears through a door that I think leads to the kitchen and reappears carrying two chipped mugs of brownish fluid. He flops down deeply into the sofa and beckons for me to join him. I try to perch on the edge of the sofa cushion but the springs have gone and it’s impossible not to be enveloped by it. He passes me one of the mugs, which I accept cautiously, and then dismisses the flame-haired boy with a flick of his hand, like a king on his throne. I hear the boy huff and the front door slam closed behind him.
I watch in distaste as Lake raises the mug to his lips and empties half of its contents into his eager mouth. Peering into the murky liquid I hold my breath and take a small sip. My body instantly recoils from the bitter, putrid taste that explodes in my mouth and I try hard to suppress a gag.
Gesturing in the direction of the boy that just left, Lake says, “That’s my younger brother Redd. He makes the homebrew.”
“Oh, that’s what it is. I thought you were trying to poison me.”
“Drink it. It’ll calm your nerves.”
We sit in the easy silence between us, but I suspect that it’s the calm before the storm. Lake produces a pouch of tobacco from his back pocket and begins deftly rolling perfectly straight cigarettes. I wonder where he got it from or how tobacco is made since it’s not included in the supplies that are delivered.
“So girl, what the hell is going on?” he asks suddenly.
I shuffle awkwardly, wrestling internally with my desire to confide in someone and my insecurities about my safety. Added to this, I’m still not entirely convinced that I’m not going mad and think that he might simply dismiss my wild story as grief over my mother’s death.
“Would it be just between you and me?” I ask tentatively.
“There’s only me and you here.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, no one else needs to know.”
“I think I got my mother killed,” I blurt out, before bursting into floods of hot tears. I pull my knees up to my chin and squeeze my eyes tightly shut, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts.
I feel him slide a gentle hand along the back of my shoulders. “Zia, I need to know what happened,” he says in a gentle voice.
I nod, which turns into a full body rock as I try to comfort myself. Opening my mouth I try to tell him what happened but my throat feels so tight that I can’t say another word. I take a large swig of the vile homebrew and draw in a few deep shaky breaths. “At the infirmary I worked on a project with a man called Grant. Later he told me that he thought the compound was an experiment on overcrowding in humans because years ago he found a newspaper article about overcrowding in mice.” I pause to take another gulp from my mug. “The next day he was gone, and when I came home my mother had been murdered.” My face contorts in pain and I dissolve into tears once more, my whole body shaking with the effort.
I feel Lake’s arms grapple around me, pulling me in towards his chest. “Zia, you can’t really believe that? You didn’t get your mother killed.”
“Then who killed her?” I cry out, my voice filled with anguish.
“I don’t know, but I will find out,” he soothes. “I’ll find out what happened to your mother.”
I relax into his embrace, feeling safe for the first time since I last saw him this morning.
“Why do you think we’re in an experiment?” he continues. “What else did the article say? Can I see it?”
I pull away suspiciously, hugging my coat. “I didn’t say that I had it. I said that Grant had seen it.”
His face mirrors my suspicion, but he nods politely.
“Grant said that he destroyed it after he’d read it,” I lie defensively.
I hear the front door open and a rush of footsteps making their way towards us.
Chapter Ten
The living room door opens sharply, and a small crowd of people bustle into the room. Lake looks annoyed, but I’m thankful for the interruption because our conversation had become quite intense. I dry my face on my coat and drag my fingers through my wild hair, suddenly conscious of my appearance
The group of people descend, like birds nesting, onto the piles of sleeping bags and duvets. I’m keenly aware that I’m the central focus of attention and try to avoid making direct eye contact with anyone. Lake stands up to meet his brother Redd and they walk into the kitchen together, overtly glancing over their shoulders towards where I’m sat.
The vacant space on the sofa next to me is quickly filled by the girl that kicked me, although her expression is now softer and almost apologetic.
“I’m Star,” she says, tugging down the hem of her miniskirt.
“Zia,” I reply, although I suspect that she already knows that.
“So I guess you’re going to be staying with us.” I can’t decide whether she means it as a question or a statement so I nod slightly. “That’s Kim,” she says, waving her finger in the direction of the girl that she was arguing with earlier.
Kim looks over at the mention of her name and I fan my fingers out to acknowledge her. She draws deeply on something that looks like a cigarette and then her eyes glaze over. I wonder what came first; whether the drugs propelled the need to prostitute her body for money, or whether the drugs were a way of distancing herself from it.
“That fat git over there’s Aaron, but I guess you’ve already met,” Star says with a cruel laugh.
I follow her gaze and find a podgy blond-haired boy with roses in his cheeks and no discernible eyelashes or eyebrows. I remember him well; he was the one that stopped me from entering my apartment block, but now he looks younger and less intimidating. He must only be about thirteen-years-old and stands on the fringe of a group of older boys who are laughing and joking. Amongst the group is Lake who’s listening to Redd talk animatedly, but glances back towards the sofa at regular intervals.
I can’t decide whether it’s a blessing or a curse to be surrounded by so many people. On the one hand it’s a distraction from the grief that would otherwise consume me, but on the other hand it prevents me from reading the newspaper article that both Grant and my mother might have died for. Tomorrow I’ll find out where Grant lives and check if he’s home, but I don’t think that he will be. I feel my eyes begin to water and blink rapidly to dissipate the tears.
Redd sits down next to me on the arm of the sofa. “I hear that you’re a fan of my homebrew.”
“Yes, I think it would make an excellent paint thinner,” I joke, although it probably could fetch the paint off wood.
He laughs freely. “What about a top up?” he asks, peering into my mug.
“That’s probably enough for tonight,” Lake intervenes as I drain the dregs of my mug.
My mind is humming with a wonderful warm sensation that makes me feel like I’m trying to think through a fog, but I know that Lake’s right. I’ve never tried alcohol before, but I’ve often witnessed its effects on others. From my recollection there’s a U-shaped correlation between the quantity of alcohol imbibed and one’s ability to act in a socially appropriate manner. To begin with alcohol makes a person talkative and social, but cross the threshold and you’ll wind up on your hands and knees heaving into the gutter. But that’s not to say that I appreciate Lake speaking on my behalf.
I stifle a yawn with my hand.
“If you’re tired you can sleep in my bed tonight,” Lake says. “It’s not much but at least you’ll have some privacy to collect your thoughts.”
I’m not sure having
time to myself is what I need, but I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness and at last I’ll be able to read the article stashed in the lining of my coat. “Thanks, that sounds great.”
Lake helps me up and leads me out of the room. I glance back to where I was sitting on the sofa. It seems inconceivable that my worldly possessions currently consist of the clothes I’m wearing and a crumpled piece of paper. He leads me into a small room with heavy curtains drawn over the window and flicks on the ceiling light, which casts a dim orange glow over the room.
Besides the bed, the only other furnishing is a chest of draws with a smashed mirror mounted over the top of it. Most of the draws are open but are oddly filled with fewer clothes than the floor. I wonder why he has a room to himself, or maybe multiple people usually share the room which would account for the large array of clothes. I consider what qualities Lake has which make him the alpha male of the gang; perhaps they’re the same ones that make me feel so safe in his presence. A wave of exhaustion floods over me and I sit down heavily on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you, for everything,” I begin to say, but when I look up I see his dirty white t-shirt exiting the room. He closes the door behind him with a stiff pull as it jams.
Unfastening the clasps on the front of my coat, I remove the newspaper article from the lining. Pulling back the duvet cover I am met by a waft of stale smoke mixed with a faintly musky odour as I slide the paper out of sight. I pull my stained infirmary tunic dress off over my head and screw it into a ball in my hands. Then I throw it into the corner of the room like I’m trying to distance myself from today’s events.
My life will never be the same, but I suppose that’s true of every action that we make. Every dip of the oar into the water has the potential to alter the course of the boat, it’s just that some strokes alter it more drastically than others and a few unlucky vessels hit an iceberg. Perhaps the only uncertainty left is whether I’ll sink or not. Tonight will be the first night that I’ve ever spent away from home and I can feel myself starting to sink.