Cloud 9

by Alex Campbell

  I unfold the small piece of paper he’s pushing towards me, turning on my phone to shine a light on it. Instantly, I recognise the foil star stickers and the pictures of dragons and dolphins I liked to draw.

  Tom,

  Wow, that was weird. Did you know you were going to kiss me at the same time I was going to kiss you? Great minds think alike? Oh, I’m sorry, only I have the great mind. Ha, only joking. It was nice. I liked it a lot. And I really needed it.

  Cos I’m petrified about starting school next week. I can’t imagine going to school without you. Mum keeps saying I’ll make new friends. But I don’t want any other friends. I only want you Tom.

  So here’s the slushy bit. BEWARE these words might make your squirm. Will you marry me? Don’t laugh. I mean, it makes sense, yeah? You and me? Kermit and Piggy. Together always!

  Okay – reasons I want to marry you.

  You kiss nice. You really do!

  Sometimes you make me cross, but mostly you make me laugh.

  Yeeess, you can be really, really like mega-annoying (especially when you insist Luke Skywalker is a better fighter than Han Solo, just cos he has the Force) but you are also the KINDEST person I know.

  I think of us being best friends forever and I feel so so so safe.

  Can we make a promise? A promise forever? Here it is – in four years, one month, two or nine days (depending on whose birthday!), we turn sixteen. Let’s run away and get married! We can come back and live in the treehouse together like Tarzan and Jane!

  Okay, in case you’ve not got the question I’m asking (you can be dim sometimes. Only joking again) – I suppose what I’m saying is: Tom, will you be mine forever?

  Love, Hope

  P.S. Answer straightaway

  P.P.S. Treehouse after dinner?

  P.P.P.S. I promise to take ALL the blame for messing with Mr Austwick’s gnomes. Even though YOU broke Fishergnome.

  P.P.P.P.S. I just got given a phone (we can text!). Oh and Mum’s still banging on about getting my first Leata prescription. Since when did I do anything that made Mum and Dad happy? Me and you Tom – that’s all I need.

  I look at Tom. ‘You’ve kept it all this time?’

  Him

  ‘You were really waiting for me just to come grovelling? That’s all?’

  Her

  ‘You don’t know what it took to write that letter; how I felt. Dad was on and on at me to have nothing more to do with you – because of your dad’s libel trial. And I chose you. Because you were more important.’

  Him

  ‘My dad saw your letter and took the piss out of it. That’s why I emailed back the way I did. I was embarrassed.’

  Her

  ‘It really hurt – your email. I got enough mocking, enough of being made to feel stupid at home, from Dad. That’s why I reacted so badly. I didn’t mean for you to take my words seriously.’

  Him

  I strain to see in the dark; her lips are trembling; the whites of her eyes watery.

  Her

  ‘It was my first ever real kiss, Tom.’

  Him

  ‘Mine was Suzi Teller behind the bike sheds,’ I say, trying to bring some levity to the situation. It doesn’t work. ‘I’m sorry. I am.’ Something heavy is dragging through the pit of my stomach. Regret? Yeah, regret. A big huge dollop of it. I put a hand forward, gingerly trying to touch her cheek, except Hope moves and I just get her ear instead.

  I take a breath. ‘The reason I never talked to you after you said we weren’t friends any more … it was because Dad convinced me you thought you were too good for me, off to your swanky school. “Like father like daughter,” he said.’

  I pull hard on my neck. As it hits me.

  ‘It was about them. Not about us.’ I pinch my eyes.

  ‘They messed with us,’ Hope is saying. She folds the letter up and hands it back to me. Shifting down the sofa, she says quietly, ‘We’d better try and get some sleep.’

  I cross back to my own sofa. Even though something’s tugging at me to stay at hers. To say something else. To make up somehow for five years of not knowing each other. I pull the Toy Story duvet back over me. It doesn’t reach my feet. ‘Hope?’ I say softly across the room. ‘It might not have been my first. But it was my best. If you’d have turned up at my door any time after we fell out, I’d have made it up with you.

  ‘You just never came. Till now.’

  16

  The world shines brighter when you smile harder

  Leata

  Her

  I bolt awake from a light and fitful sleep as I hear it; a violent banging on the front door. Immediately I imagine: Dad. He’s hunted me down, come to get me! To incarcerate me in a Health Farm. Slam Tom into prison. I fumble for the kitchen knife I placed under the sofa last night.

  The banging stops, then comes again, harder this time, rattling the glass in the front door. Tom is up, scrambling for his glasses. His hair all over the shop. The bell’s pressed next. Continuously.

  ‘We have to get out. Now,’ Tom is saying, shoving his feet into his Converses.

  I grip the knife as we urgently stuff items into our rucksacks, grab our coats.

  More banging, this time with a voice: ‘Imogen, open up. Now.’ It’s not Dad’s. ‘Imogen, I must speak to you.’

  ‘It’s Nina Mitchell,’ I hiss at Tom. His eyes stare back at me, a panicked white amidst the fuzzy grey early light.

  ‘Come on.’ He pushes me down the hall, into the kitchen. I watch him fumble with the key in the back door until we are out, the chill of early morning hitting my face like a wall of glass.

  Diligently, I insist on locking it behind us, then we run to the end of the garden, clambering over the back fence, jumping down into another garden. We creep up its path, out the side gate and into another suburban road – breaking into a run, rushing past the first commuters and the rattle of a milk van.

  We keep running. The knife still held tightly in my hand.

  Him

  I watch her putting on make-up on the Northern Line. Smearing gloss over her lips. Stretching them into that plastic smile I’ve not witnessed for a while. Raking her hair sleek and neat. Fake Hope again.

  We get off at King’s Cross station, and go into the first greasy spoon we see, wasting time until normal office opening hours. We share a full English with two teas, counting the cash between us. Thirty-two pounds, eighty-five pence will have to last us. We daren’t use our bank cards.

  Stepping outside forty minutes later, the sky casts a gloomy grey over the concrete skyline. Yet still, the tall PharmaCare building cuts a proud figure. Its wide glass windows twinkling, as if even the weather can’t dent its happy mood.

  I follow Hope towards it – she’s the one leading this mission; she always was the Holmes to my Watson – on through revolving doors and into a sparkling bright foyer.

  I try not to stare around like I’m in another world. But I am in another world. It’s like the setting for some futuristic film, complete with robot-women at reception, dressed in air hostess blue and yellow. Fixed above their heads is a large screen showcasing the latest Leata advertising campaign.

  New and shiny; walls of white painted glass. I can almost see my reflection in the polished white floor. Leata brand colours are splashed everywhere. Even the table football we pass has men in tiny yellow and blue strips.

  Hope is talking all bright and breezy nonsense by my side. Hyper-happy-Hope again. Pretending to be showing me around. Only I can recognise the anxiety showing in her eyes, the slight tremor in her jawline. She has tucked her hair behind her ears, like Imogen’s on the security pass looped round her neck, but if anyone glances long enough at the photo to recognise it as Imogen, we’re done for.

  I trail Hope, her head held high up to the security gate. The man there’s smiling like you never see security guards smiling. Leata happy.

  ‘Can I just take my friend into the canteen for a coffee? Really quickly, I promise,’ Hope asks,
batting eyelids; cute smile; her hand spreading casually across her chest to cover the security pass.

  I hold my breath.

  ‘As long as you sign him in,’ the guard replies cheerfully.

  We all smile. ‘You know, maybe I’ll just get us takeout,’ she beams at me. We pull back. ‘Change of plan. I go in alone,’ she whispers to me. I can hear the nerves escalating in her voice.

  ‘No. You need a lookout,’ I say under my breath. ‘We can’t split up.’

  ‘And I can’t risk signing in as Imogen. We’re sticking out too much anyway with our bags, the way you’re dressed,’ she says, looking at my clothes – another of Dad’s T-shirts, Dad’s jacket and my dirty black Converse –‘Wait outside.’

  Her

  I follow three others into the lift, beaming all the way. It hurts my cheeks. I’m out of practice.

  ‘My message this morning was “Everyone votes for happiness”.’ A woman slides in next to me, a Starbucks in one hand, shiny briefcase in the other.

  ‘Mine was “The world shines brighter when you smile harder,” I lie.

  ‘Oh, I sooo love that one. I’ve had it twice now. I got a coffee mug with it printed on for my husband.’

  ‘Lucky husband.’ I force a laugh as fake as hers.

  We both smile some more into the mirror, the messages printed there appearing scrawled over our reflection. I want to scratch them off.

  The lift doors open. ‘Sixteenth floor. Executive suite,’ the recorded ‘happy’ voice trills.

  I step out, holding the directions Imogen gave me like a personal sat nav in my head. Take a right, down through the open-plan secretary pool, another corridor; next right. The first double doors … I’m there.

  I swallow back the panic rising tidally in my chest as I lift the key card, stopping as a group of smartly dressed people walk past. I smile away – the one easy thing about pretending you work here – and get out my new crappy phone. Pretending to speak into it, I jig excitedly on the spot; my free hand trying to discreetly slot the stiff card into the door behind my back.

  ‘You!’

  I jump. A middle-aged woman, brown hair pulled into a tight bun, is coming towards me. She points at me with the pen in her hand.

  I freeze, my heart pounding so loud the whole floor must hear it.

  Him

  I’m pacing back and forth outside with our bags. I can’t keep the nerves from my face, my feet. I stride further away from the front entrance in case I’m starting to look suspicious. Pulling Dad’s old flatcap out of my jacket pocket, I put it on.

  I look back towards the glass front of PharmaCare, more fear hijacking my body. Is she in Tenby’s office yet? What if she gets caught? What will I do then, carry on? Or surrender? I can’t do this without Hope.

  I need to do something constructive. I think of Ralph. I’ve not spoken to him yet. We still need his help.

  My mobile doesn’t have enough top-up for a long call and I need to keep what’s left in case Hope rings. I look around for a telephone box. I’ve never had to use one before. I walk away a little, obsessively staring back at the revolving doors, till I spot one beyond the water fountains, back towards the station. It stinks of piss and mildew inside; stubs of cigarettes carpet the floor. I’m half-surprised to find the phone actually has a tone.

  ‘Tom!’ Ralph exclaims when his wife Molly passes the phone to him. ‘I’ve tried calling you. Your mum’s going out of her head with worry. What the heck are you playing at! Drugs! Escaping house arrest!’

  ‘I’ve been set up.’ I lean my head against the glass, fixing my mind against the image of Mum alone at home. ‘Tell her sorry, will you? That I’m trying to sort it.’

  ‘Tom – you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.’

  I take a breath. ‘We’ve got information that will damage PharmaCare. And we’re just about to find out Leata’s big secret – the one Dad was after when he died.’ My eyes stay fixed on the front of PharmaCare. Please, Hope, be all right in there. ‘I can’t tell you over the phone.’ I slot in more coins as the beeps go. ‘It’s serious shit, Ralph. But you can be part of announcing it, if you can convince the Daily Herald. In memory of Dad,’ I add.

  ‘You’ve really discovered the big secret Matt was banging on about?’

  ‘You should have believed in him, Ralph.’

  I hear him sigh long and hard down the phone. ‘All right. All right, Tom. I can hear you’re serious. Let’s meet then – tell me where.’

  I try to think on my feet. ‘Can you head to … I dunno, Trafalgar Square, like now? I’ll text you where I am once I’m there. But … Ralph – don’t tell Molly, don’t tell anyone.’

  Her

  ‘Are you up here for the nine thirty meeting? It’s been delayed by ten minutes, okay?’ Tight-bun lady says.

  ‘Okay!’ I beam back, pulling my phone back to my ear, for a faked ‘Really? But that’s fantastic!’ Until the woman leaves and the corridor goes momentarily quiet. Hurriedly I turn, slotting the key in, my ears pricked for more incoming. I try the handle. It’s still locked. My breath’s coming out in short bursts, the key card slipping in my clammy fingers as I try again, slower this time.

  Yes. The door clicks open. I slip through it, locking it behind me.

  I make a long exhale, before staring hurriedly around. Imogen wasn’t joking – John Tenby loved books. This is going to take ages. There are shelves and shelves of them; old, new, thick, slim. The only wall not covered is the one made out of glass. A floor-to-ceiling window framing a perfect view of London.

  I start searching to the right of the desk, its weighty, dark wood incongruous with the corporate PharmaCare furnishings. The Fundamentals of Existence … where are you? I’ve made it halfway around the room when I finally see it. Red and leather-bound, like an old-fashioned encyclopaedia. Pulling it from the shelf, hands trembling, I start flicking through text on the fundamentals of existence, not knowing what I’m looking for. Then, in the middle, the font suddenly changes: a smaller typeface. I find where it starts, my heart whirring. I need to know what five years of taking Leata has done to me.

  My body rocks as I read it. I can’t believe my eyes. I slam a hand across my mouth as I almost shriek out loud.

  Leata, the smaller typeface reads … it’s a placebo.

  … The components of my manufactured plant source: a special hybrid of lemon balm and chamomile, mixed with water and the prescribed list of innocuous chemicals. Harmless, ineffective ingredients all of them, making a wonder drug that casts the spell to send us all happy.

  My eyes skim over more words, before: … the plant source I created in the lab might have a mild calming effect, but no more than, say, peppermint tea. My challenge was ensuring the formula was complex enough to remain undecipherable, so that none of my science colleagues might identify its components. The few who did, PharmaCare paid off handsomely.

  I keep reading as Tenby lists the precise route to making Leata, and ends with an outline of the strategy he was presented with.

  Professor Simeon Blythe is the mastermind behind Cloud 9 … he set out to use clever marketing and media, product messaging and advertising campaigns, for Leata to brainwash the nation into believing themselves happy. Like it says in Hamlet, ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’

  Him

  My whole body jolts against the phonebooth as they walk right by me. Their backs straight. His bent nose, the suit straining over the familiar barrel stomach. The Commander. Miles’ boss, who I now know to be MI5. And a member of Cloud 9. Walking alongside is Nina Mitchell, Fran’s mum.

  My chest tight, I exit the booth, following behind them. I watch them walk in through the revolving door of PharmaCare.

  Grabbing my phone out again, I punch till Hope’s new number comes up. Through the glass, their heads are disappearing towards where Hope caught a lift. My heart bangs in my chest, constricting my throat.

  Come on, come on, pick up. I start pacing, grind
ing my phone against my ear till my skin burns.

  ‘Hope!’ I say as finally she answers.

  And the line goes dead. I stare at the phone. I’m out of top-up.

  Her

  ‘Tom? You okay?’ I listen to silence the other end. I try calling him back but it goes straight to voicemail. He must be warning me of something. I close the book and start moving towards the door. My hand’s reaching out to unlock it, one ear pressed to hear into the corridor beyond – when I catch it. Voices coming towards me. Getting louder. I jump back at the sound of a key card being slotted into the lock. Oh, god. I look around frantically. The only way out is the glass window. Sixteen floors above ground level.

  Him

  I keep making to dive through the revolving doors, before I stop again. I need to rescue Hope. Get her out of there. But how? I’m almost crying. I clutch at my hair. My heart is ramming so loud against my ribcage, I swear I can hear it over the thrum of Kings Cross traffic.

  I can’t bear the idea of losing Hope.

  Not after Dad.

  Not now.

  Her

  I try hard to hold my breath; the book pressing tight against my chest to stop it even rising. If they look carefully at the reflection in the window they’ll see me curled up, under the desk, a faded part of the composition of St Paul’s grey dome, the Grater and the Shard.

  ‘And you said someone checked thoroughly in here?’ A gruff male voice asks.

  ‘We looked in-between the books; lifted up the carpet. We found nothing.’ I know that voice – it’s Fran’s mum, Nina Mitchell, again. ‘Just like there was nothing in his house when we searched it.’

  ‘I have my people trying to locate Imogen Poole.’

  ‘Good.’ She sniffs. ‘What is it you believe she has?’

  The desk above me creaks as a body weighs it down. The male voice exhales heavily. ‘John Tenby’s solicitor finally admitted last night – under severe pressure – that he passed on a letter to Imogen at John’s bequest. He says he has no idea of its contents. I think he’s telling the truth. Blythe insists we find this letter. He also wants you to employ your rat to get rid of that boy once and for all. The girl too if you have to.’