Cloud 9

by Alex Campbell

  ‘We stay alive, that’s all,’ Tom says. ‘Hari knows what he’s doing. People are listening. They can’t hurt us now we’ve gone public. There’ll be too many questions.’

  I try and tell myself he’s right. But I know from first hand how fickle internet followers can be. It’s all about the truths people want at the time they want it. ‘They believe us today,’ I say, then point ahead. I remember passing that pub. ‘But what if they believe the likes of Realboystuff and Positiveandperky tomorrow?’

  Him

  It doesn’t take us too long to find the house and its large gated entrance. There’s no way we’re getting over that without being seen, even in the dark. We move round to the adjacent street, and find there’s only a small wood spread out at the back of Professor Blythe’s extensive grounds. Beyond that a high red-brick wall.

  Jumping up intermittently, we see when the ground floor lights go out around ten thirty. By eleven the upstairs is in darkness too. We decide to wait another hour to give them the chance to fall fast asleep, pacing the small wood to keep warm, blowing on our hands so they don’t seize up.

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ I say when the hour’s up.

  The wall’s old, so some bricks jut out to give a bit of leverage. I climb over, jumping down the other side, tumbling down a grass slope. Trying to keep the yelp of agony to my throat as my ankle twists over.

  I hobble up, making use of Ethan’s rope – throwing it over the wall and holding it as Hope makes her way to the top. As she hangs off the edge, I tell her, ‘Jump. I’ll catch you.’ Which I kind of do. I cushion her fall anyway.

  ‘You’re hurt?’ she whispers as I limp up.

  ‘It’s nothing, come on.’

  Her

  My hands and knees sting where I scraped them on the wall. And Tom doesn’t look okay. He’s hobbling as he walks and even in the dark I can see his face pulling into a grimace of pain.

  We creep through the shadows of a manicured lawn and tidy shrubbery, keeping close to the wall in case we trigger a security light. Our torches out ready but not turned on.

  Locating a back door, we use the high-tech lock-pick Miles gave us. Credit card slim, Tom inserts it down the line between the door and the wall and presses to activate. Both the Yale and the Chubb locks open automatically.

  As we step inside, the alarm starts its warning beeping. I make my way fast to the front of the house, torch on, to find it. Spying a white box by the front door, I frantically enter the code Miles texted before we left Bristol. Only breathing again when it works.

  We keep our torches low, quickly examining the rooms until we find one resembling a study. Going in, we close the door gently, sweeping our torches around it.

  Him

  The desk drawers are filled with papers and files. Hope starts to sift through them as I circle round. My torch illuminates a black-and-white framed photograph on the wall. Jesus College 1987–1990. At least five of Cloud 9 are there, including Damian Price, the Prime Minister. Lined up proudly; their poses reflecting the arrogance of the privileged. Eyes shining confidently, as if the world is built only for them.

  The man in the middle, the list below tells me, is Professor Simeon Blythe. A haughty face and slicked back hair. A self-satisfied smile.

  I’m lifting the frame off the wall to show Hope when my eyes widen at what’s behind. A small silver safe door is built into the wall.

  ‘Eureka,’ I hear Hope hiss over my shoulder.

  ‘We don’t know the combination.’

  ‘Fuck combinations,’ Hope says. ‘That’s why Miles gave us these, remember.’ She fumbles a box into my hand. ‘Silent explosives.’

  I set one up following the instructions Miles gave us – a small black cylinder, stuck to the metal box with purple putty. I pull the ring out and we both stand back. It makes a tiny pop and crackles like an indoor firework.

  There’s a hole in the door, but it’s still locked.

  ‘Stand back,’ Hope says. Her arms are stretched out; she has the black gun already in her hands, aiming it at the safe.

  ‘Shit, Hope, which are you, Thelma or Louise?’

  ‘It’s okay, it has a silencer,’ she says as I make a panicked sound. She pulls her face back. And fires.

  It takes two muffled shots for the hinges to snap.

  Hurriedly, I reach in, grabbing what’s there – a heavy pile of papers and files, with a roll of paper on top.

  Hope starts unravelling the scroll.

  ‘Shouldn’t we just take it all and run?’ I say nervously.

  ‘Video it first,’ she says. ‘Let’s send it to Hari now. Just in case we never get back.’

  I don’t want to entertain that thought, but I dutifully pull Pavlin’s pad out and press record on the video function. I pass it over the paper she’s now flattened out onto the desk.

  ‘Their Magna Carta,’ Hope explains for the camera. ‘A declaration with nine signatures under a summary of what Leata will do for society.’

  I pan its heading. ‘Cloud 9’s Utopia’.

  Hope starts flicking through the top folders beneath. ‘A collection of contracts. It doesn’t stop with nine names.’ She fingers through paper after paper inside. ‘Tom. It’s more like Cloud 99. This is un- … shit, Lord Richard Mills, isn’t he a cousin of the royal family? It looks like he was at Eton with the Prime Minister. And, my god, there’s an Archbishop signed up too. And the Head of the Metropolitan Police, Tom. Wait.’ She makes a noise of pain from the back of her throat as she rifles through further papers. ‘The American President’s signature … the German Chancellor … Spain. France. Sweden. Australia. It goes on … There are signed contracts here from leaders worldwide … they are on the PharmaCare payroll. It looks like profit from sales goes to their political parties … to keep them in power …’ She keeps reading. ‘As long as they ratify Cloud 9’s political practice: Positivity yields prosperity’.

  Her

  Tom is breathing hard. ‘This is big. Grab it all, we’ve got to go,’ he says as he emails the film to Hari.

  ‘It’s worse,’ I say, my voice straining with my stomach. ‘Video this too.’

  He does as I ask, directing the tablet over the first page of a thick document I’ve opened. Tears prick my eyes as I explain for the camera. ‘It’s their policy plan. A three-stage attack at cleansing society of ‘negativity’.

  Tom curses under his breath as he moves the video over a summary of its contents.

  1. Completion of sale of NHS Mental Trusts to PharmaCare

  2. Fast-track Health Farm treatment of emotional disorders, mentally ill, addicts and disaffected

  3. Intensify treatment and commence ‘removal’ of untreatables

  Medicating and servicing mental illness is a drain on the economy and detrimental to the general positivity of the nation. Ultimately, the Progress Party’s aim is to rid society of a certain, mentally ill, ‘strata’ of the population.

  I flick deeper into the document. ‘It charts current methods being used,’ I whisper hoarsely, slapping a hand to my mouth when I see what the video now sees. Images of young people strapped to beds. A copper band round their heads. It flashes up in my mind – the pink mark around Tara’s forehead when she returned from the Health Farm.

  ‘Shocked, are you?’ a voice says politely behind us, as light floods the room.

  Him

  We both whip our eyes round. In the doorway – an older version of the man in the photograph flanked by students – stands proudly in a burgundy dressing gown. A gun directed at us both.

  ‘Well, aren’t you clever little children. Persistent too. Now back away from the desk. Over there. Towards the window. Go!’ he adds in a bark, flicking his gun when we don’t move.

  Hope moves, dragging me with her; I’m still videoing. ‘You’re a monster,’ she says. ‘Those photos. That’s treatment you’re administering – NOW. They were taken at a PharmaCare Health Farm!’

  ‘Indeed. Turn that thing off and I’ll tell you
more,’ he says coolly. I lower the pad and pretend to switch it off. ‘We might as well enjoy a little storytime before the adults arrive to take you home from the party.’

  Her

  Adrenalin pumps through my body; Blythe has called someone already? I glance at Tom, dragging my hat and wig off. Do we run? Ram into him before he has chance to shoot? I suddenly feel like a complete novice. Stupid child soldiers who’ve gone into battle without proper training. Why did we think we could pull this off? My only hope is Hari’s got the video.

  ‘So you’ve been looking at the photograph of Cloud 9 at Oxford, I see? Happy days,’ Blythe continues. ‘Yes, Damian Price was my best student.’ He makes a face as if he’s a proud father. ‘He and our current Chancellor had been at school together. They arrived burning with political ideas. We spent wonderful afternoons debating how utopia was possible. A utopia that would build a happy, prosperous society … It was Damian who got on board the cream of his friends. Perdita Brightsmith was going to inherit her small family firm PharmaCare and Bea Tyler would be taking over her father as MD of Star Media. And Philip Menton was already on a scholarship with MI5. It was as if it was fated really.’

  ‘And Professor Tenby?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I recruited John. He was the best scientist at the university. I knew he could do it. Create a harmless drug that makes people happy.’ He looks into the air to his right as if he’s reminiscing. Tom pulls a face at me, nodding curtly at the pad in his hand. He must have left it on record.

  ‘A formula that no other scientist could decipher and dispel,’ Blythe continues. ‘Few did. We silenced those who mastered its formula. People can always be silenced if the price is high enough. And if it’s not,’ he dances his gun through the air, ‘there are other ways.’

  I take a sidestep to hide Tom completely from view, saying angrily. ‘Your story’s not going to have a happy ending, Professor Blythe.’

  Him

  Temporarily concealed behind Hope, I quickly swipe onto Hari’s email. Attaching the last video. I press send.

  ‘We have nine names,’ Hope is saying, fixing her eyes on Blythe so they stay with her. ‘We have a motive. We have a dead body. And we have a big secret. They’ll perform this in the West End once the truth is out.’

  Blythe’s gun rocks through the air as he starts to laugh. Big, bellowing laughter. ‘The public won’t believe you, my dear,’ he says. ‘People want a happy ever after. That’s why Disney died a billionaire.’ He smiles thinly at us. ‘You think society will let you take their Leata off them!’ he continues, echoing Ralph. ‘They won’t let go of their cigarettes and nuclear weapons, so, why an innocuous drug that hurts no one?’

  ‘You’ve been playing games of power with the public, people won’t like that!’ I pitch in – Hari has visual proof, as well as John Tenby’s book – now we just need to get out of here. ‘This is corruption at its highest level! The government should exist for the people!’

  ‘No – no.’ Blythe shakes his head enthusiastically, as if I’m one of his students and he truly believes I’m wrong. ‘The people should exist for the government. Unless you’re the game-players, you’re no one. One of the crowd.’ He starts to get excited. He really believes this shit. ‘The masses need to be told what to do, what to eat, how long to sleep, what to buy … because in their next purchase … lies happiness!

  ‘Why else do people want to stare at screens all day rather than communicate properly? The internet’s a giant global field for all the sheep to parade into, following the sheepdog, doing as, saying as … pouring ice water over their heads if everyone else does it; liking what everyone else likes, so they blend in and everyone likes them back.’

  ‘No! You’re wrong!’ Hope is shouting. ‘Right now, social media is filled with angry people who are going to take you down! For every blogger you have manipulated there are another dozen seeing you for what you are. And they are fighting back, spreading the truth over your manure of lies!’

  ‘Well, I’d say there are a few less of your PAL bloggers, since we started an operation to rid ourselves of the most anarchic. It won’t be long before we manage all internet content.’ Blythe pulls a sycophantic smile. ‘We’ve made people happy, and society prosperous at the same time. And it’s not just us! Every slogan you read on every product you buy has a message for you … brainwashes you.

  We’re a happy nation as a consequence of Leata – why on earth would you want to pull that down?’

  ‘Because you are murderers as well as manipulators. You were instrumental in my dad’s death. You ordered the execution of John Tenby!’ My blood’s at boiling point.

  Blythe reacts just as angrily. ‘Pah! John Tenby was one of us – Cloud 9. We all agreed to live by the sword, or die by the sword. John fell on his.’

  ‘He wasn’t my dad’s source.’

  The Professor’s eyes narrow a little. ‘No? Well, he soon would have been … his soul always was too poetic. And your dad? He was a pumped-up little man seeking a sense of worth. But we didn’t kill him, so if you’ve done all this out of revenge then you’re sorely mistaken.’

  ‘This isn’t revenge,’ Hope interjects, grabbing my arm, pulling it as if she wants us to leave, now. Even though it’s impossible. ‘We simply believe people have the right to know the truth. Always.’

  ‘The truth?’ The Professor’s small smile grows. ‘How wrong you are, my dear. What we’ve created – is the only truth people want. Same as heaven is full of fluffy pink clouds with angels playing harps, and death won’t happen to you. Why else do you think religion was created?’

  Her

  I pull on Tom’s sleeve again. We’re running out of time. We have to find a way out of this. ‘Okay, fine, carry on with your brainwashing with harps. You’ll never hear from us again if you let us leave,’ I lie.

  ‘You’re going nowhere.’ Blythe raises his gun higher, training it between my eyes. ‘I will shoot. I have no sentimentality about life. We’re just cockroaches scampering around. That’s why we need organising to live comfortably.’ He clears his throat. ‘Besides, don’t you want to hear how the story ends?’

  ‘We’ve already read about your happy ending,’ I say, tightening a hold around Tom’s arm. ‘The vulnerable, the disaffected, the plain depressed – you get rid of them, or subject them to nineteenth-century methods of dealing with mental illness.’

  ‘Ah, yes, electric shock treatment was a success back in the day. Lobotomies are on our agenda next. But only for those we must treat, because their families would cause a stink if we don’t keep them alive.’

  I think of Aggie. It all makes sense. ‘You’re murdering vulnerable people who don’t have families to fight for them?’ I hiss, my throat tightening at the thought of the extent of what’s been going on while I’ve been blithely promoting Leata.

  Blythe shrugs. ‘Only those who are a pestilence, a plague on society. You squash a cockroach if he attacks your food source.’ He turns his head as I hear it. ‘Ah, now there’s a sound that’s music to my ears.’

  The sirens become louder, tyres skidding and engines whirring to an abrupt stop on the road beyond.

  He backs away, the gun held out still. ‘Let me open the gates so our guests can come in.’

  ‘Out! Now!’ Tom says as Blythe drifts into the darkness of the hall.

  I wait for a shot to the back as we bolt out of the study, back the way we came, towards the door we broke through.

  Him

  We make it.

  We both skid to a halt, breathing fast.

  They are already waiting there.

  Three, four of them in uniform blue.

  ‘You took your time. I thought you were patrolling the area?’ Blythe saunters in behind us.

  20

  Close your eyes to ugliness

  Leata

  Him

  They hold us back in the study. Blythe has retreated upstairs to get dressed.

  ‘We’re waiting for officials to come to tak
e you away,’ a policeman finally explains when Hope asks again. Another hour, and the officials arrive. Flanked by more uniforms: Commander Menton. Nina Mitchell … and Agent Miles, a gun by his side.

  I see Hope shake her head angrily at him. Miles pulls a face back as if he’s saying ‘so what?’

  ‘You bastard,’ I hiss at him. Soon after, Blythe enters the room, launching a diatribe at Menton. ‘You clear this mess up. Start doing the job you’re paid to do.’

  ‘Sorry, folks, you’ve got to come with us,’ Miles is saying tonelessly. ‘You’re terrorists and we’re arresting you under the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2011. You’re not the ones in control here,’ he adds as Menton calls him over. ‘Face that fact and come nicely.’

  Her

  I stare around at their faces. All the police were dismissed when the others arrived, except for one uniform who still has his gun trained on us while Miles and Nina Mitchell get briefed by Blythe and Menton. Terse, whispered words hum in the background. It already feels like I’m in some film noir scene – I have to think darkly.

  This is war, Hari said.

  And I’m not going without a fight. I know that. Burn, burn, burn, one of Tom’s T-shirts said.

  Hari has enough proof to bring PharmaCare and Cloud 9 down. There are plenty of PAL supporters and bloggers to keep the truth out there.

  Before the policeman can act, I take a leap sideways, slamming into the desk where I think I remember putting the gun down. Grabbing it from under the pile of papers, I lift it up, swinging it around, unsure where to place it. Commander Menton and Blythe stare over at me, their faces: one shocked, the other bemused. I move it onto Agent Miles, as he lifts his own gun. He’s the one who betrayed us.

  ‘Now, now. Don’t get excited, little missy. Put your gun down,’ Blythe is saying. He starts to make steps towards me, his thick hand outstretched.