Cloud 9

by Alex Campbell

  ‘Whatever it is, Jack – Hope will put it right. Won’t you, Hope?’

  ‘Put it right?’ her dad spits back. ‘My neck’s on the line. You dance with the devil and he dictates the moves, Bryony! There is no putting right! PharmaCare think I’m double-crossing them! That I sent Hope to help Matt Riley’s son! Right now – they don’t trust me! And if they don’t trust you – that’s dangerous!’

  Hope watches her mum make a gesture as if she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She wants to ask, what DO you know, Mum? But her throat contracts as she gulps back a barrage of tears. They start to slide out anyway.

  ‘Like crying will fix anything,’ her dad hisses. ‘You’re a troublemaker. Sent to torment me,’ he goes on. ‘You have brought this on yourself. Forced me to treat you this way. You’re still that wild dog beneath all your recent simpering and sweetness. You’ve been set to make my life difficult, from the moment you were bloody conceived.’

  ‘But everything’s been so nice over the last few years with you and Hope, Jack,’ her mum intervenes again, ‘we’ve been such a happy family, Jack.’ She wrings her hands, making a smile as if she’s the one in pain.

  ‘She is your responsibility,’ Hope hears him snarl at her mum. Not Lily. Not Rose. Me. The Disappointment.

  ‘And you will book her in – ASAP – to a Teen Health Farm. It will fix her and PharmaCare will see I’m on side. Sort it out, Bryony!’

  Hope can’t stay any longer. She moves fast, past Dad before he can stop her, past her mum, her puffy face twisting in half-apology, half-admonishment.

  Everything is hurting. Inside as well as out. She goes into her room, closing the door as something starts cracking in her head – china cup slammed on the floor smashing, as more of the past comes flooding through. The times when Dad hit her … in the days before Leata. Before she became what he wanted her to be – more like her sisters, biddable, smiling, pleasing. Those hard slaps and shoves that came every time she misbehaved or answered back, which was most of the time.

  Gingerly she touches her cheek, her head. She can still feel his hands tugging at her hair, throwing her across the room. The misery is too much to bear. So what if there are side effects. She goes over to the flowery box, grabbing out the foil strip there, tearing into the first, ‘Thinking troubled thoughts only leads to a troubled life.’ Swallow.

  Breathing hard; shove in the next. ‘Happiness can be caught if you don’t make waves.’

  Another: ‘Smile and you will be happy. Cry and you will be sad.’

  More: crunching, gulping; digest, digest: fast!

  ‘There’s no before or after, just the now. Live!’

  More, more.

  ‘Laughterle‌adstolongl‌ifeThinkth‌eRIGHTwaya‌ndavoidthe‌wrongpathE‌njoyeachdayasifyou’vejustbeen‌bornThebes‌tkindofliv‌ingislivin‌ghappily.’

  More. Damn you, WORK!

  The tray finished, she grabs another box out of her dresser drawer, spilling the foil trays out onto the carpet. She starts ignoring the messages, consuming pill after pill, challenging Leata to make her happy. Now!

  Twenty-four pills. On an empty stomach. She should be dancing on the ceiling delirious.

  Instead the memories keep rushing through as if the broken dam in her head can’t be fixed.

  Her stomach lurches; she only reaches the wastepaper bin in time. Perfectly formed yellow and blue pills surf out on a mix of lunch and bile.

  Sitting back, she pants, swallowing hard. She starts to think again of the PAL bloggers who’ve disappeared; the anti-Leata voice that PharmaCare globally wants silencing. Like her dad always wanted to silence her.

  She thinks of Matt Riley. And John Tenby. And what PharmaCare and her dad might have done to them.

  After a while, she gets up, her head swaying with her feet. She rubs sick from her mouth. The sky outside has turned from sunset pink to inky blue. She can hear the sound of Rose and Lily watching TV below, her mum calling them for dinner.

  She can almost reach out and touch the ordinariness of it all.

  She has to get out of here. She walks fast, downstairs, out the front door, letting her feet lead where her mind can’t.

  It’s not till she’s walking through his back gate that she realises where it is she wants to be.

  The only place she remembers real happiness and laughter and fun. And safety.

  She breaks into a run as she sees the spikey silhouette of the branches it’s built into. Charging fast up the creaking ladder as if wild dogs are chasing below.

  Only when she reaches the wooden platform does she freeze.

  Him

  I jump as Hope’s face suddenly cuts a ghostly shape within the square of dark sky at the treehouse entrance.

  Her breath is coming fast. She looks as shocked to see me as I am to see her.

  ‘Tom – I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.’

  ‘No we don’t,’ I say, avoiding eye contact, screwing up my face, as she pulls herself up onto the platform.

  ‘My dad took photos of your dad and Imogen. I think he set your dad up somehow.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I snap. It’s stuff I’ve only guessed at – but I passed it on to Hari. My stomach creases with fear. ‘Are you tapping my phone too?’

  Hope licks her lips, shaking her head worriedly. ‘What?’ She pauses. ‘Tom, you’re in danger. I think Imogen is in danger. And my dad is behind it.’

  I make eye contact now. What game is she playing?

  She sucks in her breath. ‘Dad’s employing this dog of a man and they’re talking about blood money. I think they were behind John Tenby’s death. Something’s really wrong, Tom. It’s a man Blythe – like in the house we visited – who seems to be giving the orders!’

  I tighten my fists. I feel so alone right now. ‘Get out! Why would I believe anything you say – when you’ve been spying on me for your dad?’

  ‘You know?’ she moves closer. I back away. ‘You don’t understand. I didn’t realise. I thought I was helping you.’

  ‘Helping me? Reporting back to your dad where I went, who I saw? If Imogen is in danger, it’s because you told your dad we met her.’

  ‘I didn’t mention Imogen … but,’ she bites on her lip, ‘I told them about the shelter … you’re right, I started it, and I’m sorry, I didn’t –’

  I shake my head furiously. ‘Stop talking,’ I say. ‘Just go.’ I turn my face away. ‘Get lost. Get away from me. I never want to see you again.’ When she doesn’t move, I repeat it. Angrier. More forceful.

  Her own words, from five years ago. The words that put an end to us – Hope and Tom.

  They chase her back down the ladder.

  TRUTHS

  I hold a beast, an angel and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, downthrow and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.

  Dylan Thomas

  12

  If you don’t stoke a fire, it will simply burn out

  Leata

  Her

  Livelifewithope

  Thursday 14th September

  If our happiness is manufactured – forced from self-medication – what sort of happiness is that?

  I know this will lose me more of you, followers. But I’m going cold turkey. The pill on my last message said, ‘If you don’t stoke a fire, it will simply burn out.’ But the thing is, I think I want to keep the fire going. Like this slogan on my old friend’s T-shirt said, I want to burn, burn, burn. I want to know what’s it like to really feel alive.

  Look up from your screens for a moment, check out the world you live in, and ask yourself: is your life truthful? Or just the version of truth you’re being forced to swallow?

  I lift my hands from the keyboard. I don’t bother wiping the tear trickling down the side of my nose. I let it pool on my top lip; there’ll be more where that came from. Tom never wants to see me again.

  I press publish on my dashboard.
Nor should he.

  Tom’s better off without me. Because you? You’re stupid, useless. Loveless.

  I flick onto my blog. Trolls are still stalking there, vultures soaring in to join the afterkill.

  ‘Live life with hope? More like with misery.’

  ‘Pull yourself together you stupid cow.’

  ‘Just go jump off a bridge if that’s what you want. The rest of us want FUN!’

  The last is from a fangirl who started every day telling me how beautiful I was.

  On Facebook, I find Millie, Bels and Kat making it clear through coded conversations that they have to distance from ‘hopeless’ negativity. In my emails, Toby, Leata’s Social Media Manager is announcing I’ve contravened my sponsorship contract. That accounts for the gap on my blog where their panel advertising used to run.

  I’ve been sent into the wilderness. Or rather, I’ve taken myself there.

  I refresh my blog page. People have started posting comments already on what I just published. I pull my head back, surprised that the incoming isn’t all bad. Jay99 is saying he knows how I feel; he’s stopped taking Leata too. He’s campaigning his local GP for proper help with his anxiety. Daisychix says she’s joining me on my Leata diet because she’s watched her sister sinking under agrophobia ‘and no one will help except to prescribe a PharmaCare Health Farm’. Others are querying whether Leata’s even safe to take.

  I glance over at my numbers in the box at the bottom of the screen. My total – it’s starting to climb again. There are retweets and shares happening. I take a breath, sharing it myself, as, ‘Hope!’ Mum appears at my door. Her puffy face filled with a forced smile, she’s dressed in her tan and pink uniform for a day playing golf. ‘Great news! The Health Farm in Watford has a space for you from tomorrow. ’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Dad says you have no choice,’ she says, the words at odds with the beam she gives me.

  My stomach clenches. I say nothing as Mum fidgets by the door. ‘We’re leaving for school in a minute. Why not go in for today. It’ll distract you.’

  I sniff, reluctantly nodding. She’s right. I can’t just stay here. Doing nothing, except checking for comments. I get up and grab my bag, chucking stuff inside it as she adds, ‘It’s all for the best.’

  Out on the landing, there’s drilling noises. Dad’s got the odd-job man in, fixing a lock to his study door. His tinny radio finishes the song it’s playing and a Leata advert kicks in. Reminding me, in case I’ve forgotten. ‘Life’s short. Enjoy it!’

  For once, Rose trots solemnly alongside me as we walk into school. Her eyes seem to be asking me silent questions. I don’t know how to answer, except to tell her: our dad’s a monster. But I don’t even say that. Instead I shake her off and head to the toilets, closing the door on the last cubicle as I wait for a gaggle of chatty Year Ten girls to leave. Once it goes quiet, I make the call.

  ‘It’s Hope. I need to warn you,’ I say when Imogen answers with a hesitant ‘hello?’

  ‘Hope? You shouldn’t be calling me,’ Imogen replies, her voice terse, tense. ‘It’s not safe. I’ll text you, okay?’

  ‘Imogen?’ The phone goes dead. My blood runs colder. I scratch absently at one of the many Leata messages graffitied on the back of the toilet door, ‘Play the game of positivity. Everyone’s a winner,’ jumping as my phone buzzes.

  Warn Tom 2be careful. I’m being watched at work. I’m making a run for it. I’ll be in touch again. Tell Tom I’m sorry.

  Him

  I meet Pavlin a few roads from school. His kind, dark eyes hang heavy as I fill him in on everything I’ve told his cousin Hari.

  ‘You’d better call Hari, this time, in case they are tapping my calls. Remind him – if the police are letting PharmaCare impersonate them … if they’ve got coroners fabricating verdicts … then he’s got to be really careful.’

  Pavlin nods his head soberly. ‘Don’t worry. Hari will know what to do. OpenFreeNet can release things in ways that don’t look like it’s come from them. Let me talk to him.’

  Pavlin makes the call. I tug Dad’s jacket tighter against a fierce wind that wants to disable our walk. Across the road a man in overalls is up-high, cleaning PAL graffiti from a Leata billboard.

  ‘Okay,’ Pavlin breathes out as he comes off. ‘Hari says you need to try and get the other five names that make up this group, Cloud 9. OpenFreeNet are one more story away from shutdown. His counterparts across the world are getting threatened. One has gone missing in Australia. So they need as much concrete proof as you can give them.’ Pavlin nods his head encouragingly, as if he believes I can get that. ‘Other than that, he’s talking about a hacktavist strategy and how we have to plan for maximum exposure so it doesn’t get instantly dismissed as hate press by all the Leata lovers.’

  Pavlin puts an arm around my shoulders as we battle on through the wall of cold wind. I put mine round him too and keep it there till we get to our study room. We must look like a couple of kids coming off the football pitch. I don’t care; he’s on my side. I dump my bag and head off to Economics.

  Mr Jones’ class is a double, so I use the time to plan how I find these five other names. In the end I decide I need to convince Ralph somehow to help me. Looking up, Mr Jones has his eyes closed. He does that whenever he talks. Around me, students are taking the opportunity of a long sermon to stare down at their phones. I get mine out, to text Ralph, sitting up straighter when I see Hari has messaged me with a time and new number to call him. Another text pings through as I hear ‘Tom Riley?’

  Mrs Mayhew, from the school office, is peering round the door. ‘Headmaster wants him,’ she clips primly at Mr Jones, who stops talking and opens his eyes. He nods at me to go.

  Blowing out through my cheeks, I collect my stuff – it’ll be another visit to check on my emotional progress. Whether I’ve seen the light and turned to Leata to get me through yet. Or whether I’ve read that PharmaCare leaflet on grief. Have I thought about a Teen Health Farm?

  I follow behind Mrs Mayhew’s tightly curled head. It’s a short walk to the headmaster’s office. We’re outside his door, when I remember to check the last text.

  I freeze. Blood pumping fast, thudding into my ears. It’s Dad’s number.

  Get out. They’re coming for you.

  Mrs Mayhew pushes me forward.

  Her

  The English class has been plastered with replacement posters of the new curriculum texts. The picture of the Brontë parsonage has been swapped for Jane Austen’s Hampshire home. Crime and Punishment has been replaced with Barchester Chronicles, Macbeth with Midsummer’s Night Dream.

  It feels like the same has happened to me. The propaganda in my head telling me how to live, and behave, and feel, has been defaced, torn down. My stomach boils with the need to act. To stop Dad from hounding Tom. To protect Imogen somehow, so she doesn’t need to run.

  I zone out of Ms Shone talking about themes of bad parenting in Persuasion, until I hear the bell go for break. Leaving, I see Fran collecting a pile of books off Ms Shone. I hear her whisper, ‘Don’t tell your mum,’ to Fran.

  It jolts my mind – Nina Mitchell. I wait outside for Fran to catch up before I say, ‘Did Tom ever get in touch with you?’ as students flood the corridor.

  ‘Tom?’ Fran breathes back as if I’ve uttered some evil name that shan’t be spoken. ‘Was it you?’ Her expression suddenly hangs somewhere between panicked and pissed off. ‘Did you make Tom ask me out? For a laugh?’ she continues before I can answer.

  My mouth gapes. I don’t know how to answer her, except, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you’d be good for each other.’

  Fran shakes her head dismissively in short, sharp movements. Jolting away fast, she knocks into a group of girls. They elbow her back, giggling, ‘Watch it, Frigid!’ and the pile of books in Fran’s arms scatter across the corridor.

  I rush over to her, bending down to help pick them up. Jude the Obscure. Anna Karenina. Madame Bovary. ‘I should
borrow these after you,’ I say, handing them back to her. There are tears welling up in Fran’s eyes. I take a breath, asking as gently as I can. ‘Have you seen Tom then?’

  ‘Seen Tom?’ Fran stares at me, eyes hostile as she chokes the words out. ‘He came to my house. Acting like he was interested in me. Some game of yours? Like spying on him?’

  ‘You told him I was spying on him?’ My stomach is sinking lower by the second, churning and tightening. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d gone to your house, honestly.’

  Fran swipes at her eyes. ‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘Mum says all men suck. Something we’re bonding on at last.’

  I stare down at the books piled in her arms. ‘Your mum won’t bond over your reading those.’ I put a hand out to her as she turns away. ‘Please. I need your help, Fran. I think your mum, my dad are doing bad things. Dangerous things. And Tom’s in trouble.’ My face pleads. It stops her pulling away more. ‘Look – I’m sorry if Tom was an idiot with you. He can’t be thinking straight,’ I continue. ‘But he’s finding out some home truths about Leata, and PharmaCare don’t like that.’

  Fran exhales heavily, coming closer to me, screwing up her mouth as if she wants to hurt me. ‘Is that why your dad’s sending you to a Health Farm?’ she says, eyeing me suspiciously.

  My breath quickens. ‘How do you know about that? Fran, please,’ I add as she stays silent.

  Fran shifts the pile of books in her arms, steering me back into the now empty classroom behind us. She shuts the door behind her.

  ‘I don’t want to get my mum in trouble,’ she says, nodding her head until I say, ‘I get it.’

  ‘She came home, she was furious, her whisky half-drunk and Tom had smashed and stolen her favourite photograph of us.’ Fran blinks rapidly. The tears start to escape all the same. She brushes them away roughly. ‘I told her Tom had wanted to get on her computer, and she lost it, big time. Threatened me with a Health Farm too!

  ‘Then your dad came round.’

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. ‘What did he want?’