I make a face back, get what? I mean, who’s she talking about now? Fran? Or her?
She turns to leave again. ‘Watch yourself, Tom. I’ll let you know if I find anything from Imogen.’
I stare after her, walking away from me down the drive.
‘Wait,’ I shout, ‘I’m coming with you.’
Her
It only takes a few minutes for Tom to come rushing out of his front door, a similarly large rucksack hanging off his shoulder.
We dart straight to his garage, instantly reading each other’s mind – his dad’s car again, it’s the safest way to travel. We chuck our bags in the back seat. Tom starts the engine, glancing at me, ‘happy birthday by the way,’ he half-smiles, before reversing the car out onto the driveway.
I notice the noise first, screeching to a stop on the road behind, before I see it. The familiar navy BMW.
I draw a sharp breath as I watch Slicer getting out of the passenger seat. Dad stays put; he stares fixedly ahead, like he doesn’t want to look.
‘Keep driving,’ I say urgently to Tom who’s asking, ‘Who is that?’
‘Keep driving!’ I scream out. Slicer is walking down the driveway. I catch the glint of a blade by his side.
‘I can’t, I’ll run him over.’
I swing my leg forward, pressing my foot down over Tom’s on the accelerator. We shoot out of the drive. Slicer jumps out of the way at the last minute, tumbling down onto the front lawn.
Tom is breathing hard as I remove my foot and he changes gear. Not in time. Slicer is up, darting across to us. His hands slam onto the bonnet, the knife pointing upwards. His features snarl at us through the window.
‘Go!’ I urge Tom. He swerves the car round one hundred and eighty degrees, sending Slicer flying again. Shooting us straight through the prickly hedge that divides our homes, dragging half of it behind us before skidding us out onto the road towards its only exit. I glance Dad’s furious expression as Slicer limps back to his car.
‘Faster, Tom. He can’t catch us.’ Please, no.
Tom takes a right swerve into the next street, speeds us bumping across a wasteland waiting for new builds, down another. Left, right, out onto the main road.
‘They’re still behind,’ I gasp, twisting my neck, watching as they swerve round another car to get closer to us.
Tom speeds up towards the crossroads. The traffic lights are turning amber. Now they’re red. ‘Keep going!’ I shout out.
Tom’s foot presses harder on the pedal, careering round the oncoming traffic either side.
I breathe hard as I watch Dad doing the same behind. As I look out front again, I hear it. A crash of metal. I twist round. A car has smashed into them. The BMW’s side is dented. Another car swerves and blocks them in.
Tom drives faster.
I take a long breath, pressing my head against the back of my seat, as Tom’s phone buzzes. He chucks it over for me to read.
‘Your dad,’ I tell him urgently, and read out the message. ‘Ditch your phone or else you’ll be traced. Get a new one. Text me a number.’
‘My anonymous Samaritan knows I’m on the move already?’ Tom says, pushing a nervous hand through his hair. He glances at me. ‘What you waiting for? Do it,’ he says.
I wind the window down, chucking out first his phone, then mine. My tablet too. I tense as I hear them smash and shatter on the asphalt.
‘This is a first – out from instant communication,’ I murmur, winding the window back up.
‘Back to where we were five years again then.’ Tom looks at me fleetingly.
15
Give the gift of a smile!
Leata
Him
We’re both breathing a little calmer as we join the A3. Hope fills me in on her visit to Mikey; tells me about this Slicer. I update her on Miles working as an MI5 agent and what I know about Cloud 9. We both share information on her dad, and John Tenby’s murder, as well as mystery man, Professor Blythe. Until we’re on the same page. But then we always did used to read the same books.
A silence drifts down over us as we get into London and start retracing the route we drove a few days ago. ‘Last Sunday,’ Hope says, reading my mind. ‘It feels a lifetime away.’
We make the decision to abandon the car at Finsbury Park, in case Hope’s dad already has the police searching for our registration. We buy two pay as you go phones from some stack ’em high electrical shop near the Tube. Hope raises neat brows as she tries to navigate the non-swipe, no-internet technology, as we wait for a bus to take us to Muswell Hill.
‘Who’ve we got to communicate with anyway? Now we’re fugitives?’ I say, trying to make her laugh. Because she looks like she’s going to cry.
At Muswell Hill, we have to ask someone for the way to Imogen’s road. It’s further than we thought. There’s a chill in the air. As if autumn’s finally realised it’s no longer summer. It makes us walk faster, down the main street.
As if to taunt us, nearly every shopfront advertises Leata in some form or other. A poster in the charity shop promotes an event Leata is sponsoring: ‘Give the gift of a smile!’ The pharmacy announces Leata Happiness Week starts end of November, ‘banish those winter blues’. Even the bookshop has a big window display with a bestseller from some Leata blogger – Be Like Me! by Happyaslarry.
I share Hope’s relief when we turn the corner into Imogen’s road and see she’s there – packing the car outside her house. Benny, wrapped up in a scarf and bobble hat, is swinging on their metal gate.
‘Imogen.’ Hope darts forward. ‘Benny!’ she adds as he rushes, shiny-faced, towards her. She gives him a hug. I stand back a little, watching the Hope I remember. The Hope who cares, and cares deeply.
‘Hope, Hope, why do cowboys ride ’orses not cows?’ Benny’s asking Hope as Imogen looks both ways down the street, before beckoning us impatiently inside.
‘What are you playing at?’ Imogen says as she closes the door behind us.
I scratch my head, unsure about being here, inside her house. Was this where Dad came when they …? I shake it out of my mind.
‘You’ll get in trouble.’ Imogen’s face hangs heavy with worry before she adds, ‘Who’s done that to you?’ She gently moves Hope’s cheek to the side.
‘We’re already in trouble,’ Hope replies. ‘We found Matt Riley’s draft article with the names of the nine who created Leata. Matt wrote his source is a woman. Did the list come from you, Imogen? Are you the source?’ Hope finishes, appealing with those big browns of hers. It’d be enough to make me confess.
Benny is still bouncing up and down around us all. ‘Hope, why can’t dogs drive cars?’
Hope pats his bobble hat, staring earnestly at Imogen. ‘Please. We’re desperate.’
Imogen moves her head, as if she’s trying to dislodge something painful. Eventually she lets out a long sigh. She looks at me as she says, ‘Hope, if you can take Benny to get the rest of his bags. They’re in his room.’ She waits until they’re upstairs before she turns to me again.
‘Yes.’ She fixes her lips tightly as if she’s trying not to cry. ‘I was your dad’s source.’ She bends down to zip up a bag by her feet. ‘I’m sorry I lied to you.’ Looking up, tears are in her eyes. ‘I think John let PharmaCare believe that it was him who was Matt’s source, because John guessed it was in fact me. Because I was the only person he confided in about Cloud 9. PharmaCare aren’t even aware I know anything!’ Her eyes blink fast. ‘John was protecting me.’
I stand and wait for her to continue. Benny’s squeals and questions fill the air from upstairs.
‘And instead he gets killed by Matt – for not revealing to me the final secret!’
‘My dad didn’t kill John Tenby.’
‘He did. PharmaCare told me – it was Matt.’
‘They lied,’ I say. ‘Hope’s dad is Jack Wright, the lead lawyer for PharmaCare. He organised John Tenby’s death. And probably Dad’s too.’
Imogen lets out
a strangled gasp.
‘I need to know,’ I continue. ‘The big secret?’
Imogen seems to slump. I push out an arm to keep her upright. She almost laughs. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
I’m bowing my head – the nine names alone aren’t going to be enough – when I hear her add, ‘But I think I know where you can find it.’
Her
I walk downstairs with Benny, dragging his Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase behind him.
‘John left me a letter when he died,’ Imogen is saying. ‘I think he recorded the secret. I suppose he wanted me to have it.’
She looks between me and Tom.
‘Can we see the letter?’ I say, lightly, for Benny’s benefit.
Imogen shakes her head. Benny speeds off down the hallway pretending to be Superman. ‘I burnt it. It was too dangerous to keep. It mentioned the title of a book he’d left for me in his office. The Fundamentals of Existence. “It will answer the big question you asked me, keep it safe in case you need it,” he wrote.’
‘And you think this book holds the secret?’ Tom asks.
‘I’m sure it does. That was the big question I asked. That Matt pushed me to ask: if there are side effects. Though I suppose I wanted to know it for myself too.’
‘So where’s the book now?’ I say, my eyes darting round.
‘I never picked it up. How could I?’ she adds when I shake my head in disbelief. ‘It’s in John’s office. I told you, Nina Mitchell and her cronies watch me at work constantly. They would know instantly I’m up to something if I’d gone into John’s office. And they’re probably waiting for me to do that to see if I do know anything. They’ll be ringing soon just to check why I called in sick today. Which is why I really must get going.’ She calls out for Benny.
I’m inclined to agree. She has to get Benny somewhere safe. ‘Where will you go?’ I say as I trail them to the car.
‘We’ll be okay. John left me some money along with the letter.’ Imogen gets Benny into his seat, strapping him in. ‘Maybe I’ll come back if this is ever over.’ She turns, staring strangely at Tom behind me.
‘We’ll get the truth out there,’ I whisper, so I might believe it myself. We have to. Imogen and Benny can’t stay on the run for life. Nor can we.
‘You’ll need this,’ Imogen is saying, leaning over the driver’s seat to rummage in the glovebox. She straightens up, handing me a blue and yellow security pass on a loop. PharmaCare’s silver logo glints next to a faded picture of Imogen with longer hair. ‘The photo is so old, from a distance they won’t know you’re not me. This is for John’s door.’ She taps a key card attached to the pass. ‘I don’t know where the book will be in John’s office,’ she says, with a sad undertone, ‘he loved reading, so there are many.’
I thank her and help her take the rest of the bags to the boot after I’ve told Tom to wait inside. It’s more likely the police will be searching for him than me.
‘Stay here tonight if you want,’ Imogen says when we’re finished, giving me a brief hug. ‘But I wouldn’t hang around much longer than that. There’s a spare key on the hall table.’ She gets into the car, starting the engine.
Benny knocks on his window, excitedly calling out, ‘Hope? Why do the leaf fall off trees, Hope?’
I try to match his grin, blowing a kiss through the glass. ‘Because everything has to start again,’ I answer him, as the car pulls away.
Him
We start plotting the minute Hope’s back in the house. I agree with her, we’ll stay here, just tonight. ‘We have to get that book,’ Hope is adamant. I’m less sure. Even with Imogen’s security pass, it’s dangerous. And we have no idea if we’ll even find it.
I call Hari on the dinosaur phone, leaving a message for him to call. By the time we hear the sounds of children outside coming back from school, he rings me back on a borrowed number. I update him on all that we have now. That the nine names include the Prime Minister and MI5. Then I put him on speaker so Hope can hear too.
‘We’ll need to choose a channel not connected to OpenFreeNet to release the story first,’ Hari’s saying, ‘to stop us getting shut down.’
Hope is pointing at herself vigorously.
‘Are you sure?’ I mouth at her and she nods, eyes wide. So I suggest it.
‘Okay, that sounds good,’ Hari replies. ‘Especially as Hope’s already a name in the vlogosphere,’ he says. His voice climbs excitedly as he starts to lay out how it will work.
‘It’s important we do it right. We release three names each over three days,’ Hari continues. ‘That way we build up a drama. People like to tune in for a climax – especially if we get the big secret too. It will ensure a bigger swell of an audience, worldwide.’
Hope agrees eagerly like she knows what Hari’s talking about, even if I don’t. He starts sounding like Pavlin as he excitedly runs through some hacktavists’ plan they’re preparing with the PAL network, to get the information running through all kinds of feeds and sites and threads. ‘We’ve got two major platforms on board too,’ Hari goes on. ‘One’s an underground movement that hacks into all kinds of political sites. The other’s the Big Pharma Watch-out – they specialise in stories on Leata. Now, we just need a campaign name. Something to make sure it trends.’
‘Cloud 9,’ I bite back fast. ‘We call it Cloud 9.’
‘I was thinking more on the lines of STOPLeata … you know.’
‘It will make sense. Cloud 9’s the secret club who started Leata.’ And it’s Dad’s story, I add to myself.
‘Okay. Hashtag #Cloud 9.’
#Cloud 9. I can feel excitement stirring within me. Is this how Dad felt? Is this what made him lose sight of what was right and proper?
Lastly, Hari tells us, ‘… meet us in Bristol, day after tomorrow? We should be ready by then.’
Hope nods; I say, ‘We’ll be there.’ It’s best we leave London soon anyway. Before we end the call, I ask him to run a search on Mikey, to somehow broadcast the fact he’s been wrongfully arrested. I need to do something to help him. Who knows what they could be doing to him right now.
By seven we’re both shattered. Hope’s using Imogen’s computer to make contact with the PAL bloggers she’s in touch with. While she puts social media to rights, I make us a meal of whatever is left in Imogen’s cupboards: baked beans, some green potatoes; scrambled egg with the last of the milk. I was up for going shopping, but Hope’s anxious we don’t leave the house, not until we go for good tomorrow.
We daren’t put the lights on either, so the lounge goes steadily darker as we eat on the coffee table. I shuffle closer to Hope to see her as we chat quietly. Closer up, her face is drawn, her features pinched and strained. Like mine, her eyes are bloodshot. Unbroken sleep is a long ago memory.
It’s virtually all we talk about – how with OpenFreeNet’s support maybe we can pull this off. Maybe we can blow the lid on PharmaCare wide. Even bring them down. If we can prove Leata is harmful.
We don’t touch on anything else. The past, recent and long gone. Her spying, my being an idiot with Fran, our old friendship. It all feels out of bounds.
‘What if it’s wrecked my body, my mind already?’ Hope wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, pushing her empty plate away. ‘What if it’s a planned plague, some mad way to dramatically reduce the population?’
‘Or more likely: reduce emotion in the world – and they don’t give a toss about any long-term side effects.’
‘What does a world look like with no emotion?’ Hope says.
‘No more wars.’ I screw my eyes up, contemplating that one.
‘No more love, just the “happy face” variety. Feelings courtesy of emoticons.’
‘Shit no – then we have to bring them down,’ I say. Hope laughs.
I wash up as Hope grabs some duvets and pillows from upstairs. We decide to sleep on a sofa each in the lounge. Dressed, in case we need to make a quick exit.
I shuffle down under Benny’s Toy Sto
ry duvet. Apart from an orange strip of light coming from the streetlamp outside, it’s completely dark in the room. Maybe that’s what makes me say it.
‘Sorry.’
Hope’s voice across the room asks faintly, ‘For what?’
I inhale, exhale; rub at my face. Sit up. ‘For getting you into this. For falling out.’
‘Which time?’
I laugh briefly. ‘Both times.’
She’s quiet for so long I think she must have fallen asleep. Till her voice floats back across to me. ‘Why did you never talk to me again when we were younger?’ There’s a pause. ‘After we kissed?’
‘Because you told me you didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was I supposed to do?’ I answer rhetorically, maybe a little too bluntly. I didn’t realise till right this minute I was still so pissed off about it.
I hear her shuffling into a sitting position. A grey shadowy figure across the room.
‘What were you supposed to do?’ she repeats.
I think I hear tears in her voice.
‘You were supposed to come grovelling,’ she continues. ‘You were supposed to say sorry for upsetting me. You were supposed to try and understand why I was mad with you!’
A burst of anger travels across with each word. She’s going on before I have chance to butt in.
‘How could you have thrown our friendship away like that?’
‘You did,’ I say back. Well, she did.
She takes wheezy gulps of air as if she’s exasperated with me. ‘I was upset! Scared! All kinds of nervous, about starting a new school without you. And then you, my best friend in the whole world, you reject me! What I wrote meant nothing to you!’
I lean forward, getting angrier myself now. ‘Hope – I didn’t reject you! I was an eleven-year-old boy – marriage wasn’t high on my agenda.’
She’s gone quiet again. I bite down on my lip. Throwing the duvet off, I get out and root through my rucksack in the dark until I find my wallet.
I take it over to her sofa, perching on the edge. My voice comes out with a long exhale. ‘I’ve kept it all this time. Because it did mean something.’
Her
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