Cloud 9

by Alex Campbell

  ‘Slicer? Get rid?’

  ‘Don’t get sentimental on me, Nina. You said Jack Wright’s washed his hands of the girl.’

  ‘He has … but he wouldn’t want us to … she’s in the same year as …’

  I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the moan escaping from me. He washed his hands of you ages ago.

  ‘If you want to keep your job there’s no room for sentimentality.’

  I hear the door open again, followed by a different female voice. ‘Menton, there you are. My secretary said you’d arrived.’

  ‘Morning, Perdita,’ this Menton says, lifting his weight off the desk.

  Names are already flashing in my head from Tom’s dad’s list. Perdita Brightsmith, CEO, PharmaCare. Commander Menton … Shit, MI5.

  ‘Nina, go and wait in my office,’ Brightsmith says.

  The door shuts again.

  ‘Well?’ the woman barks.

  ‘I have the situation under control. Blythe isn’t overly worried.’

  ‘Blythe believes we’re invincible! History records the fall of power – and he’s naive if he thinks nothing can break us. Has he moved his documents into Merkins Bank vaults like the rest of us?’

  ‘He still doesn’t believe everything should be in one place.’

  ‘But he has the Magna Carta of documents stored at his house, for god’s sake! We have massive leaks springing up everywhere! Imogen Poole disappearing with god knows what information. And this Riley boy – what are we doing about him?’

  ‘We’re going to remove all our problems, Perdita.’

  Brightsmith sucks in her breath. They come closer to the window. My muscles tense as I see their faces reflected in the glass above mine. His is round and over-fed. I recognise the woman’s polished Scandinavian features instantly from the media. ‘First, dress the problem appropriately. I have given Bea the green light – Star Media will be releasing news of John Tenby’s death tomorrow morning. Blythe approved it. I called an urgent meeting of our Positive Press members last night to update them. Fight fear with fear, yes?’

  I hear feet padding out again. The door shutting – this time it locks. I breathe out like I’ve just shot up from underwater. Stumbling out from the desk, I return to the door, listening until it goes quiet.

  Quickly, I unlock and move back into the corridor; walk fast, head down to the lift. Praying desperately that no one sees me.

  My throat swelling with fear, my mouth dry, I wait for the lift to reach my floor, hugging the book tightly to me. Once the doors open, I rush in, relieved it’s empty – until it stops at the tenth floor.

  My eyes dart to the ground as he gets in, chatting with a colleague – the beard, the low-hanging jeans: Toby – Leata’s Social Media Manager.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I glance up to see him staring me down in the lift doors’ reflection. ‘We cut you off. You’re causing us big problems.’ His eyes turn to me.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say brightly, counting the levels. Five, four. ‘How stupid have I been?’ Three, two. ‘So I just met with your boss, didn’t she tell you?’ One. ‘To see how I can turn it around, come back on board.’ Zero. I rush out.

  My arm gets yanked back.

  ‘OMG! My boss is CURRENTLY at the New York office!’ Toby raises a ‘got you’ sneer on his face. He looks over at the security guard, the one I was trying to charm earlier, clicking his fingers. ‘Hey, over here!’

  I wrench my arm away. I have no time to think. I dart forward, pushing in behind a woman through the gates; they snap shut against my back. I weave fast through the waiting area to cries of ‘stop!’ A group of Japanese businessmen inadvertently save me as they enter, filling the foyer. I spin through the revolving door, the sound of a scuffle behind me.

  My eyes manically search for Tom.

  ‘Run!’ I scream as he almost slams into me. ‘Run!’

  17

  Not all questions bring the answers we need

  Leata

  Him

  Even by Charing Cross, we’re both still panting hard like we’ve just run a marathon.

  As we reach the Strand I come to a sudden standstill, bending over like I’m winded, as it hits me. My eyes blink back hot tears. ‘Shit, Hope. I thought I’d lost you too.’

  She crouches down, so her head is close to mine. Her breath fast. ‘I’m here. I’m okay.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ I stare down at the ground, pitted with rounds of dirty gum. ‘People go. They leave you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  My breath rattles in my chest. ‘You just said, you heard they’re going to hunt us down, get rid of us. Like they got rid of John Tenby, and Dad!’

  ‘But right now we’re here still,’ she says, pulling my chin up to see her. ‘We’re alive.’

  Gradually, I nod; I rub my eyes and straighten up. ‘So now we know their dirty secret,’ I say, thinking back over what Hope whispered to me as the Tube rocked southward. Fucking placebo? ‘People are getting prescribed to inhale air, to make them feel good about themselves.’

  Hope’s eyes dart left, right. ‘We should get off the streets.’ She starts pulling me across the road.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t meet Ralph,’ I say lamely. My legs feel weak, as if my body’s giving up. Hope tugs me harder.

  ‘No, come on, let’s do it. Like you said, we need someone in the press on the inside, a paper not owned by Star Media.’ She glances around. ‘The café in St Martin’s crypt.’ She pulls a wry smile. ‘If anyone’s following us, we can claim sanctuary in the church.’

  Once I’ve topped up my phone and texted Ralph, I let her drag me underground, down a narrow staircase into a serene space, far away from the traffic chaos just outside. Subdued honey lighting glows on a brick-vaulted ceiling. Tombstones cover the floor. Epitaphs engraved on stone amongst the civilised clink and clatter of afternoon tea.

  ‘Sit,’ Hope commands me, claiming a table in the furthest corner behind a stone pillar. She leaves to get us drinks. I raise my eyes to the curved ceiling, imagining an altar above us. Surely the church can’t be in bed with PharmaCare too.

  Eventually Hope returns with a tray. ‘I bought us coffees, double shots. Cake too. Sugar for shock, that’s what we both need.’ I can tell by the tone of her voice she’s trying to act like everything’s okay, for my behalf.

  I reach my hand forward and clutch at hers. It’s trembling like mine is. ‘I’m so sorry I got you into this, Hope.’ I can feel the tears threatening to return. I clench my mouth to halt them.

  ‘I got myself into it,’ she says, grabbing one of the cake slices and taking a big bite. ‘I’m okay. I feel sort of delirious with fear to the point I can’t feel frightened any more – you know, how people say pain can get so bad you don’t actually feel it?’ She talks with her mouth full, like she used to.

  It makes me smile. I gesture at my own mouth to show her she might want to wipe hers.

  She laughs; takes a slurp of coffee. ‘We’ve got to get access to Blythe’s house somehow. He’s the one behind it all. Find out what they say he’s hiding there before they remove it. It’ll be the final proof we – ’

  ‘He’s here,’ I interrupt her, waving a discreet hand round the pillar as I glance Ralph’s red head cutting through the room.

  ‘Hell, Tom,’ he says as he reaches our table. He looks as tense as I feel, bags under his eyes; his hair is sticking up in places. ‘What we going to do with you?’ he asks, passing a tired ‘hello’ Hope’s way.

  I introduce them as he passes over an envelope with a sigh. ‘I really don’t want to fund this, but I made your mum a promise to give you some money. She says she’d rather you ate than not.’ Another sigh. ‘I wish you’d stop this and go home.’

  I thank him for the envelope, pushing it into the top of my rucksack. ‘We know PharmaCare’s big dirty secret, Ralph. We know it.’

  Ralph taps the table, looking from me to Hope, back to me again. ‘Are you for real?’

&nbs
p; His response makes me impatient. ‘Ralph! Dad was telling the truth; he wasn’t deranged, delusional! There are nine powerful people at the helm of creating and driving Leata. We know who they are. And the secret they protect.’

  Ralph shakes his head; pinching both eyes with finger and thumb. ‘I’ve heard these stories before. Rumours, conjecture. No one ever has any proof. Do you have proof?’

  I tighten my hands round my coffee mug. ‘Dad listed the nine names and –’

  ‘Tom, people won’t believe your dad! People love their Leata. Like people love their cars, their TVs, their tablets. The public won’t let you damn Leata! “So what?” the man on the street will say, and carry on taking it … because it makes him happy!’

  ‘We have proof about their big secret,’ I say, annoyed at his tone. ‘We have it in print. We’re going to get our message out there.’ I stab at my chest. ‘Internet, international media; a bloody plinth in Trafalgar Square and a loudspeaker down Oxford Street if we have to! Whatever it takes. We will expose PharmaCare and people will see what they’ve been swallowing!’

  Hope passes me a sharp look. I shake my head briefly, to let her know I won’t. We agreed, we won’t say anything until we film the vlogs. Don’t trust anyone, Mikey said. Shit, I hope he’s all right.

  Ralph is pushing out a hand at me, frowning. ‘So tell me: is it side effects? Is Leata bad for you?

  ‘I can’t tell you yet.’

  ‘Hell, Tom: my kids take it.’ He raises his hands in the air when I don’t answer. We stare each other out. ‘Okay. So what do you need from me?’

  ‘Get me a promise from the Daily Herald that you will run the story and I will hook you up with the release just before it comes out online.’

  Ralph bites down on his lower lip. Eventually, he pushes himself away from the table with a long sigh. ‘All right. Okay … give me a minute, let me talk to my editor, yeah?’

  Hope’s eyes follow him as he walks away. ‘Sod him if he’s not keen. The Daily Herald’s just one paper in a mass of global media.’

  ‘He’s my godfather. My dad’s best friend. I have to give him heads up, even if he doesn’t fully believe us.’

  I jump up to help a woman with a pram navigate the small space beside our table. The pram bangs against Ralph’s chair as she passes, knocking his satchel onto the floor.

  I bend down, shoving loose items back in, when the colours catch my eye. The distinctive shades of blue and yellow.

  I tug it out. A security badge, not dissimilar to the one Imogen gave Hope, except this one, above Ralph’s name and mugshot, is titled Leata Positive Press Member.

  I glance up. Ralph is still over on the far side of the room, his phone pressed against his ear; one hand gesticulating as if he’s arguing over something.

  I flick the badge Hope’s way.

  ‘Shit, Tom,’ her mouth gapes open. ‘The Positive Press network. I read rumours about it on a PAL blog. And Perdita Brightsmith mentioned meeting members from it yesterday.’

  I rub at my face, thinking about what the Commander said in the car that time, how they bury bad news.

  ‘We have to get out. Now.’ Hope starts tugging me upwards.

  We’re making our way to the exit as Ralph reaches us. ‘What are you doing?’ He looks down at the badge still in my hand.

  ‘Tom.’ He licks his lips nervously. ‘Come back to the table. Please. Let me explain.’

  ‘Show me your phone first. Show us who you just called,’ Hope interjects.

  ‘So many press are doing it now. Why should I be left behind!’ Ralph reaches out to me. ‘Molly and I desperately needed the extra money. For a bigger house … good schools for the boys … you can’t comprehend the pressures being a parent puts on you, Tom, not till you have a family of your own.’

  I bare my teeth, resisting Hope pulling on me to leave. ‘My dad had a family too, Ralph. What about my dad and his family?’ I throw the words out as new ones form in my head. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I stare into his familiar grey eyes. We’re both breathing hard, two bulls in a field. ‘The nine names – he sent them to you. Dad wrote up those notes for his story – for you!’

  Hope’s grip on me loosens. She steps closer towards Ralph, her brow creasing.

  Ralph wipes a palm over his mouth.

  ‘And you called him in. You told PharmaCare that Dad had something on them,’ I say my voice thin.

  ‘I thought your dad was taking the piss at first …’ Ralph breathes out, ‘but he was adamant – about the Progress Party having created Leata – Leata creating the Progress Party. And then this big secret, that he reckoned was about side effects. I asked PharmaCare, because I wanted to know the truth. How was I to know they’d mess with him – if I’d known … I would never have …’ He collapses his face into both hands, lifting it again. ‘They promised me they didn’t kill Matt!’

  Slowly, I shake my head at him.

  ‘You don’t understand how they operate,’ Ralph appeals to me, his eyes panicking. He lifts his fringe. ‘They did this when I asked questions about what happened to Matt.’ The bruise there has paled to a bluey yellow.

  ‘Almost Leata colours,’ I say, slamming the security pass into his chest. ‘You traitor,’ I hiss. ‘You might as well have killed him yourself.’

  ‘Tom. I had to look out for my family. Your dad was –’

  I don’t hear what Dad was. My arm swings up, my fist making contact with the side of Ralph’s pale skin. ‘That’s for Dad.’

  Ralph stumbles backwards, a hand clasped to his jaw; his eyes registering shock.

  I shake my knuckles; already they throb and sting.

  ‘Consider yourself officially relieved from godfatherly duties.’ This time I let Hope guide me away.

  Her

  We move fast, back up to street level – the distant sound of sirens mixes with other traffic. ‘Ralph must have alerted them,’ Tom breathes out.

  My heart is racing. Something tells me we’re running out of time, out of luck.

  ‘We’ve got to hide. Quick.’ I grab Tom’s hand, pointing over the road at the National Gallery. ‘It should be packed with people.’

  We take the stairs two at a time, diving inside the main doors, as the sirens become louder. From the foyer, we hear the screech of tyres out in Trafalgar Square.

  ‘Try and look normal,’ I hiss at Tom. His mouth is wide open; his forehead glistening with sweat.

  I tie my hair up into a ponytail, stabbing it into a bun with a pen from my bag. Reaching across, I pull off Tom’s glasses. ‘Can you see still?’

  He stares back at me dazed, but nods.

  I pull the flatcap from his pocket, pushing it onto his head. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ I say, trying to get him to focus. ‘We split up, just for fifteen minutes or so. They’re looking for us together,’ I add when Tom shakes his head briskly. I grab a map from the nearby leaflet stand. Despite the Leata-sponsored audio guide ‘touring paintings with positive depictions of the human condition’, the National Gallery’s not yet been wholly sanitised of ‘negative’ pictures. ‘Meet me by Samson and Delilah. Level Two. Fifteen minutes.’ I push him off in the opposite direction, watching him hesitantly slope away, before I go on.

  I keep walking, past a panel advert for a new Monet exhibition: ‘His happy period’. Naturally it’s sponsored by Leata. I could almost tear it down.

  Eyes averted from the guards, I stay to the most densely populated galleries. If I enter a room that’s quiet I turn round again.

  Ten minutes later, my skin’s prickling with regret. I’d rather know Tom’s safe and risk being spotted together. My phone has no signal, I’ve no way of reaching him. Looking down, I realise I still have his glasses clutched in my hand.

  I begin making my way to Level Two. As I get closer, I start to rush. A feeling of foreboding is washing through me; the same I got when I wrote that childish letter of a marriage proposal. A fear that everything is going to dissolve, that I’m going
to lose Tom. Our friendship. My safety net.

  I walk faster still. Please be there. Please be okay. Down corridors, through swing doors, past rooms of seventeenth-century art with portraits of fine ladies and gentlemen that the audio guide includes on its ‘happy’ tour.

  Something tugs and pulls inside of me, when I spot Tom amidst the crowd of people admiring Samson and Delilah. A feeling floods me, like sand mixing with sea water … all the adoration I held for him as a kid, washing over the way I’ve viewed him distantly these past years.

  He’s pretending to concentrate on Samson; but his lips move as if he’s talking to himself; his eyes darting nervously. I push gently past people till I’m standing right behind him. I lightly flick the back of his head like I used to as children. ‘Are you scared you’ll lose your strength if you cut your hair?’ I say, my voice low into the side of his neck.

  ‘If it’s a weakness to look neat and ordered – and I consider it to be – then yes,’ he says back, under his breath. He turns, breathing hard. His face close to mine.

  Instinctively our heads slant and tip at the same time. I’m not even thinking as my mouth moves – to meet his.

  It’s as if we never left the treehouse.

  The first kiss, continuing into the now.

  Tom and Hope. Against the rest of the world. His lips soft. His skin smelling of Tom.

  Shockwaves ripple through me as he puts an arm tightly around my waist. We kiss harder, until the crowd sways and someone jerks into us. Our mouths pull away. ‘We’d better go,’ he says softly.

  He takes my hand, staring intently at me with his newly naked eyes.

  We head together, hands clasped, down to the ground floor, on into the packed café, both freezing as two policemen sprint past the far window.

  We stay put. I pass Tom his glasses as he swears under his breath. We wait, until more crowds of moving tourists swarm in front of the glass. Slipping out of the café exit quickly, back into the cold, we walk fast, staying hidden amidst crowds of people, until we reach Leicester Square. It’s satisfyingly crammed with tourists, all nationalities, all ages, like some global melting pot. We keep walking full pelt, zig-zagging through the crowds and out the other side. It starts to rain as we approach Piccadilly Circus. It offers a welcome shield, the number of umbrellas that spring open.