Her
It’s gone midday by the time we arrive at Bristol.
It’s another hour before we find our way to the location Hari texted Tom this morning – in the middle of some half-built business estate, a mid-rise that looks as if it’s still a shell. A girl with a dyed red high ponytail and jeans tucked into cowboy boots is loitering by the front doors. She starts towards us as we get closer. ‘Tom? Hope?’ she says in a high voice. ‘I’m Adele. Everyone’s upstairs. No lift. The building’s not in use yet.’
I’m relieved to finally remove the wig – it itches, makes my scalp hot. We follow Adele through a fire exit and up a concrete staircase. ‘One of our lot knows the architect,’ she explains. ‘Eighteen floors I’m afraid. Take a deep breath.’
We’re all three panting as we reach the top floor. Open plan, a series of anglepoise lights are rigged up across an otherwise deserted floor. Adele walks us through small groups of college-age girls and boys, all of them sprawled across the carpet, in groups or alone, some lying on their stomachs the way small children do, staring intently into the blue glow from their laptops.
‘Hari – they’re here,’ Adele calls across the room before she sits down cross-legged next to a boy with a Mohawk and a stud through his bottom lip.
It must be Hari who comes sauntering over. Through the shafts of golden light, his hair thick and flowing, he appears more like some mystical god sent to save us.
Him
I’ve met Hari a few times in the past, at random family events of Pavlin’s. He doesn’t wear a patka any more. I can still remember Mr Balil’s shock and disappointment when his nephew cut his hair. But now it’s grown long again, wavy, jet black with copper highlights. He’s more broad-chested than I remember. Maybe that’s why Hope seems to gasp as she says, ‘Is that Hari?’
I make a purposeful tut at her gawping, then I spot them, following behind him.
‘Pavlin, Daisy!’ I rush to meet them, throwing my arms around Pavlin, almost crying with the joy of seeing his kind face. We pull away, slapping each other’s backs.
‘Yeah – surprise,’ Pavlin says. ‘Couldn’t have you getting all the excitement.’
Hari’s introducing himself to Hope, kissing her on both cheeks like adults or the French do. I thrust myself towards Daisy to do the same, albeit awkwardly. Her cheeks burn as she says shyly, ‘Great to see you’re okay, Tom.’
‘Let’s get to work, we’re on a deadline,’ Hari says, slamming his palms together.
He finds us both laptops. ‘Ironically, they’re the ones the university get free from Leata,’ he smiles, tapping the engraving on the front. ‘Learn the ways to live happily.’
Hope must be feeling the freeze from me as she sits a little apart to write the post she’s going to publish in tandem with her YouTube vlog.
It’s fine by me.
I hear her announce eagerly to Hari. ‘I’ve just hit four million followers!’
‘People love you again,’ I say under my breath, adjusting my glasses as I watch her listening intently to whatever Hari’s saying back.
The whole floor is busy, ‘making contact with other groups across the UK and globally, linking in with the PAL network and other platforms,’ Pavlin says. He and Daisy are part of the hacktivist-group. Feeling out of it, I start checking the latest news on us (I’m still a terrorist. And Hope’s still my victim). I can’t find anything on Mikey, but there are some tweets doing the rounds from St Patrick’s shelter saying he’s missing. My stomach screws with itself. Three days, till the whole truth is out there. Stay alive for three more days, Mikey.
Her
‘Ready?’ The girl who let us in, Adele, stands in front of us with a video camera. ‘Everyone’s ready for an evening of posting and hacking. We just need a film now,’ she says.
‘I’ve never done a vlog before,’ Tom says to her in a nervous voice, as Adele adjusts the backlight.
‘That’s the least of your problems,’ I smile, but he’s still hell-bent on cold-shouldering me.
Adele steps forward. ‘Just let them see your eyes. That you’re honest,’ she says.
I clear my throat, staring ahead, as Adele pushes Tom’s fringe back from his face.
Tom flushes, pushing his glasses up his nose.
‘I’ll do most of the talking if you like,’ I say once Adele’s back behind the camera.
‘Nothing’s changed there then,’ he says.
I’m about to turn and ask him what his problem is, when Adele starts counting down.
In the end Tom talks as much if not more than me. Once we get going it’s like he forgets the camera’s there, that he’s pissed off with me. Passion takes over. He talks about his dad and Mikey. And how ‘they’d better not hurt Mikey’.
I take over to pull us back to the agreed script. ‘Over the next three days, starting today, we will tell you the story behind Cloud 9, behind PharmaCare – and what their drug Leata is doing to you. On the third day: their big secret that will blow your mind.’
‘Nine powerful people are involved in an elite club called “Cloud 9”,’ Tom breaks in. ‘It’s a conspiracy that launched Leata twelve years ago … you will want to know their big secret. Because it affects everyone, whether you take the pill or not. The big secret Cloud 9 kill for.’
Adele cuts. I remind Tom we can’t mention murder. Not till vlog number three, Hari briefed us, so the courts can’t automatically shut all content down.
Starting again, I look straight down the camera. ‘So, the first name,’ I say, as if I’m announcing the lottery numbers, but on Crimewatch, ‘is …’
‘You’re a natural,’ I smile teasingly at Tom once we’ve done all three vlogs. Changing our tops so it looks like three different days.
‘Thanks,’ he mutters, and walks away.
Him
I start heading back to Pavlin and Daisy. I don’t mean to be acting like a shit. But my skin prickles with frustration when I see Hope acting like that conversation with Miles never happened.
When I hear Hope protecting Imogen over again in my head, it feels like we’re back there … when she broke us up … when she left me anchorless all those years, without her.
So yeah, I’m pissed off with Hope. She should be on my side.
I hang around the hacking team, while Hope helps Adele edit the videos.
Before the first vlog is posted, Hari stands on an upturned plastic box. It’s late now; the sky’s darkened outside and the anglepoise lights reflects us all in the glass as if we’re double our numbers.
Hope comes and stands the other side of Pavlin. I give a shrug to her ‘okay, Tom?’
‘Tonight,’ Hari says, looking round, ‘in approximately fifteen minutes – war will commence.’
I watch everyone whooping, punching their fists in the air. I suppose it does have a feel of going into battle. The virtual kind.
‘Remember, they will fight back nasty,’ Hari continues, ‘make sure you keep changing laptops and tablets. We publish, we share, we hack, then you switch IP addresses pronto. It’s the only way to ensure we don’t get traced. We’ll have to get cleverer over the next two days, so we can post without getting caught.’
‘Your cousin’s a great spokesperson,’ I hear Hope tell Pavlin. I pretend I’ve not heard, purposefully smiling at Daisy along from me.
Once Hari’s done speaking, there’s another frenzy of fingers flying over keyboards; eyes fixed on screens.
The vlog is posted on Hope’s Lifelife YouTube channel, before being shared on OpenFreeNet globally. Then onto the other partnership platforms, and leaked onto the sites and channels and walls the hacktavists have gained entry to.
A sense of silent excitement fills the air as Hari walks through the hunched and spread-out bodies, announcing, ‘Okay, we’re done. Five minutes to clear out of here, lights, computers, everything out.’
He stops by me. ‘Don’t look so worried, Tom,’ he says, smiling. ‘We dump the laptops, we pick up others. We have sou
rces to help us with that. Never own anything and stay free, right?’
I nod. It reminds me of something Dad would say. ‘Stay free.’
Once we’ve finished clearing up, some of us head down to a bar by Bristol harbourside. The water laps angrily outside, but the bar is warm with a low light and we find free tables in a far corner. Hari and some others take the borrowed laptops back to the university. They bring new ones back with them. Everyone’s in high spirits as we check online. ‘We’ve gone viral,’ Hari snaps his fingers in the air. ‘Views are already well into the millions. #Cloud9 is trending, big time. It’s happening!’
I take a sip from my beer and stare round at them all as they holler and slam each other’s backs, and clash beer bottles. It’s a mix of all kinds of students, geek guys, goth girls; some with piercings and tattoos and coloured hair; others dressed more conservatively, eyes lowered. But all have real smiles. Their own messages. It makes me wonder if there is somewhere to belong once I’m done with A levels. Dad said there was. ‘Just stay intact through school, and come out yourself.’
But how do I know anything Dad said is right any more?
I take a gulp of beer. He’s become like some hero whose flaws are revealed as the film progresses. But you still root for anyway. I feel my eyes filling. I miss you, Dad, you bastard. I miss you. I take a longer drink from the bottle. Ignoring my own warning, take it easy. It’s not like it’s the hard stuff.
I hear someone teasing Hope to reveal ‘the big secret’.
‘Leave her alone,’ Hari says. So far only he and Adele know the truth. I watch him put his chiselled, manly arm around Hope; his long hair mingling with hers.
For some reason it makes my anger towards her swell.
I drain my beer back and reach for another.
19
Enjoy life’s journey
Leata
Her
I shake Tom awake. He’s sleeping head to toe on the sofa with Pavlin. I shared a bed with Daisy upstairs, at Hari and his friends’ student digs.
I shake him again. There’s no rush to leave. We can’t reach Blythe’s house any sooner than nightfall. We can’t risk a break-in till its occupants are fast asleep. But something about the fact Tom’s still fast asleep after the way he acted last night annoys me. I poke him this time. Hard on the shoulder.
‘What?’ he answers groggily, hand to his head.
I want to tell him he drank too much. I want to tell him he was an idiot on the walk (or rather sway) home, pestering me about whether I fancied Hari. Before putting his arm round Daisy, keeping it there, embarrassing her I could tell, with his slurred praise. And after how he treated Fran!
I poke him harder even though he’s awake now. ‘We’ve got twenty-four hours to find more proof, remember? We have to plan what we do if we can’t get into Blythe’s house,’ I snap.
He rubs his face and groans.
‘And don’t get drunk again. Not while we’re doing this,’ I continue, annoyed at myself for letting it get to me.
He mutters something that might be an apology before he stretches. Putting his glasses on, he makes a surprised face as if I’ve just come into focus. So now he jokes? After ignoring me for two days!
I stiffen. ‘We’re running for our lives. Take it seriously.’
‘I’m going to get a shower,’ he says, getting up and shuffling out of the room as Hari and some others start traipsing in, with tired faces. The TV gets turned on. We steer clear of Star Media, but even the BBC hasn’t reported our story yet. Clearly PharmaCare’s firing on all barrels to stifle it, whilst escalating the terrorism charges. Commander Menton makes another appearance; this time a studio interview. He sits explaining what a danger teenagers like Tom Riley pose to positivity. ‘We must stop youths like him terrorising society.’
Hari and some of the others are already busy on computers, posting the second vlog on my Lifelife channel to share. Within seconds it’s causing more of a stir than the first. Partly because it shames the MD of Star Media, as a Cloud 9 member, for broadcasting and printing Leata-biased news stories … for her own profit.
Hari quickly becomes excited. ‘#Cloud 9 – it’s taking over the internet. It’s alive with PAL bloggers and tweets joining in.’
‘The non-conformists are revolting,’ I hear Pavlin say to Daisy. ‘How did we suddenly become cool?’
‘The Prime Minister’s turn tomorrow,’ Hari says, then swirls his fist in the air. ‘Man! Retweets are in the millions already. And hey, look – we’re even getting some offline media at last.’
We crowd round him. The press in developing countries who don’t yet endorse Leata prescriptions are using their free rein to launch an attack at PharmaCare. To shame them.
But then Hari clicks onto another page and there’s a chorus of curses, as we read about OpenFreeNet’s main contact in the USA – he was arrested last night their time.
‘War is raging,’ Hari concludes, staring round at us all. ‘We’d better armour up.’
Tom is stumbling back into the room, his hair wet from the shower. ‘Look,’ he says, holding out his phone to me.
Him
We wait until early evening, abandoning the car as Agent Miles’ text instructed (‘Security cameras snapped you at a motorway station’), to make our way via public transport to Temple Meads station, joining the commuters leaving Bristol. I’m wearing Pavlin’s leather jacket. I’ve swapped Converses too. His are pale green and much cleaner. I know who got the better deal. It feels sort of liberating to be wearing someone else’s clothes rather than Dad’s. As if it’s connected, I don’t feel so mad at Hope any more. Walking alongside me, she’s dressed all in black, care of Adele. She’s still got on the blonde wig, but under a low beanie hat that I saw on Hari last night. I’d ask how she came by it, but it seems like it’s her turn to be pissed off with me.
We left our bags at Hari’s. We have only a smaller rucksack I borrowed from Pavlin, carrying just the gun and some of the equipment from Miles. We left John Tenby’s book with Hari for safekeeping.
A giant screen hangs next to the destination board as we enter the station. It films people live as they come in, the words above it written in Leata script and colours: ‘You’re on camera – so smile!’ Hordes of people pause, like daffodils at the sun, to watch themselves above the messages streaming beneath. ‘Enjoy life’s journey, with Leata!’ ‘Just look out the window and enjoy the ride!’
My hangover getting worse, I go and buy some soluble aspirin, swilling it in a bottle of water while Hope gets us tickets at the kiosk. The plan is to return to Bristol by first thing tomorrow to film any extras for the last video. If we don’t make it in time, I have Pavlin’s iPad packed so we can film and post it ourselves.
‘Did I say or do anything last night to annoy you?’ I finally ask as Hope re-joins me with tickets.
‘Forget it,’ she says.
I knock the cloudy water back, gagging at the taste. ‘Is that forget it for real, or “come grovelling” forget it?’ I can see my words sting her.
‘Let’s just do what we have to do,’ she answers finally. ‘Forget everything else.’
I shrug. If she wants to keep the chill from thawing between us, I’m not going to challenge it. Besides, from what I remember, she was the one making a fool of herself last night, giggling around Hari like everything he said was funny.
Hope’s phone buzzes in her pocket. ‘A text from Hari,’ she says. Talk of the devil.
‘How come he’s contacting you now?’
Her forehead creases as she reads it. It must be the beer still in my system that makes me want to push out a finger and smooth it down.
‘Hari says PharmaCare are threatening to serve a writ on OpenFreeNet. My channel’s been blocked. He doesn’t think they have a leg to stand on yet. And the video’s already gone viral. But it means we need further proof more than ever, Hari says.’
Hari this, Hari that. ‘Is Hari our manager now or something?’ I mumble, p
ressing a hand against the part of my head that hurts most.
She doesn’t say anything. Just gives me that fierce look again.
We’re both silent on the train. The screen in front of my seat has the app for playing Leata’s children’s game, Head Rush. Adults get the Leata Countdown to Happiness app. I stare out of the window as the view exchanges Bristol’s candy-coloured terraces for green rolling hills and patchwork fields.
Next to me Hope stares fixedly out of the opposite window.
I puff out my cheeks. ‘I can’t even remember how I acted last night. But I’m sorry if I was an idiot,’ I say suddenly.
‘You should apologise to Daisy, not me,’ Hope says stiffly.
‘Okay, I will,’ I say.
She stares at me. ‘We’re being hunted,’ she says quietly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters to me,’ I say honestly. I won’t be like my dad. ‘I’m not going to drink like that again.’
Hope draws a deep breath, and whispers, ‘I’m scared.’ She bites her lip as a tear slowly drops from her eye.
My insides slump. I do it instinctively – like I used to when she came over to the treehouse, upset over the grief her dad was giving her. I pull my arm out from between us and I put it round her shoulders.
I never told her it was going to be all right then. And I don’t now. Who knows what’s going to happen next.
I never thought we’d ever stop being friends.
I never thought I’d lose my dad before he reached old age.
I dip my head in towards hers and she presses hers against mine.
And that’s how we stay for the rest of the train journey.
Her
An hour and a change of trains later, we arrive at a small village station. It’s just gone nine. Despite the rain, or maybe because of it, it’s the picture of middle England. A prettily painted platform with well-dressed passengers sitting as neatly as the station’s boxes of winter plants. Though even here, posters and benches advertise Leata.
We head out into the grey air, into quiet, leafy streets lit by the orange glow of streetlights, and start searching for the road we recognise from the drive here last time. Despite the fact Tom and I have made up, my stomach is filling to the brim with fear, like the swollen rain clouds above. I hardly notice we’ve stepped from the train holding hands, until Tom squeezes mine harder.
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