Beauty Sleep

by Kathryn Evans

  There was no way Marsha could walk anywhere, and if we did, we’d be getting further from Brighton. For all I knew that would make it worse. I couldn’t put her through any more of this.

  “This is stupid,” I said. “We’ll go back. It’s okay, Marsha. we’ll go straight back.”

  She couldn’t speak. I managed to get her across the bridge and steered her to a bench, then I looked to see if I could find out when the next train was.

  An electronic sign said, This is an unmanned request stop. Please press the button for a train. The next train to Brighton is in seven minutes.

  I pressed the button and went back to Marsha. She was huddled in on herself but I was feeling quite a lot better. I put an arm round her shaking shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry, Marsha. It’ll be okay. The train will be here soon.” I stroked her back but that made her shake even more. I couldn’t believe this was allowed. Whichever way you looked at it, this was not okay. It was like torture. It was torture. Marsha was sick again, all over the platform. She slumped against me.

  “Marsha? Marsha?”

  I shook her a little bit. Her head lolled to one side. This couldn’t be right. I fumbled for my phone in a panic and called Keisha.

  “Marsha isn’t moving. What do I do? What do I do?”

  “Oh God! Where are you? Get the next train back. You need to come back.”

  “I know that! The train is coming but what do I do now?”

  Marsha slid further down the seat.

  “Keisha, I think she’s stopped breathing!”

  “Put her in the recovery position.”

  “I can’t – there’s sick on the floor.”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake… Is there a bench? Lay her on that.”

  I turned Marsha onto her side. She made a huffing noise that could have just been air getting knocked out of her lungs. I checked the clock. Four minutes until the next train.

  I fumbled for my phone. “What next?”

  “See if she’s breathing – put your cheek next to her mouth. Can you feel breath?”

  I leaned next to this girl who’d become my friend the instant I met her, and felt the softest tickle of breath. “Yes, yes. Oh thank God, she’s breathing.”

  I heard Keisha let out a sigh of relief but that was all I heard because two people in green and yellow uniforms came running onto the platform.

  “Okay, love, stand back. Paramedics. We’ve got this.”

  I watched them tear things from sterile packets, put a patch on Marsha’s arm and slowly lift her into a sitting position. Her head was still a bit wobbly but she was coming round.

  “An ambulance is here, Keisha,” I said into the phone. “It’s okay. She’s going to be okay.”

  “The tracking virus must have triggered an alarm. Stay with her. I’ll see you back at school.”

  The paramedics scanned Marsha with a hand-held paddle like the one they’d used at school. “Okey doke, this one’s Marsha Trifonova.” They scanned me as well and then said, “Did you find her here?”

  “No. I came with her, we were out together. I’m Laura Henley.”

  She waved the paddle at me again. “Nope, we’re not picking anything up.”

  She tapped at the screen on the paddle and said, “Laura Henley was one of three girls with Marsha Trifonova who had a tracker administered this morning. That can’t be you.”

  “It is me.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “But it is. I am me. I had a really bad headache on the train – maybe it just didn’t affect me quite so much.”

  She scanned me again, checking the results.

  “Are you sure you’re Laura Henley?”

  “Yes.”

  “More like they didn’t administer the virus properly, lucky for you. What on earth were you thinking?”

  “I didn’t know what would happen…”

  She shook her head. “Well, we’d better take you both back then, hadn’t we?”

  They drove us back to school in the ambulance. Marsha was groggy but awake. I held her hand. Pretty soon the back door of the ambulance was opened and the familiar wind on the cliff whipped through the air.

  Madam Hobbs was standing on the drive, her face stony. She said to the paramedics, “Could you take Marsha to the health centre – Keisha will show you the way.”

  Marsha tried to say, “Laura…”

  I made to follow but Madam Hobbs stopped me. “My room, I think, Miss Henley?”

  I went with her, sick with nerves and regret.

  In her office, Madam Hobbs said, “Close the door. I am not sure what you thought you were doing today. It was irresponsible in the extreme and a vast betrayal of trust. This school has high expectations of its pupils and today you did not meet them. In any way.”

  Shame flooded through me.

  “So what did you think you were doing?”

  I looked at the floor and muttered, “I needed to see Miss Lilly.”

  I heard her sigh and tap a pen on the desk. “Why did you not just call her? Or request a pass to see her? Why this elaborate ruse? Laura, you signed an exeat agreement, which you have broken. You were extremely lucky not to suffer the same unfortunate effects as Marsha.”

  “It wasn’t a ruse. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “No, you didn’t, did you? Not even for a minute. I am so very disappointed in you. Your guardian has been notified of your transgression. Now go to your room. You will be informed of any further sanctions in due course.”

  I sat in my room staring out of the window, waiting for someone to tell me that Marsha had brain damage or worse and for Miss Lilly to call me and tell me how ashamed she was of me. It seemed like hours before a message envelope appeared above my slate, blinking Miss Lilly’s name. I watched it spin until I got the courage to open it:

  Sweetheart, what happened? I had five missed calls from you! I tried to ring you back but you didn’t answer and now the school say you were trying to come home. Are you okay? Message me and let me know you’re all right! I’m sending you something that’ll cheer you up.

  Below her message was a little video clip of Batfink sitting in the bath watching the tap drip, trying to catch the water splashes in her mouth.

  Miss Lilly wasn’t even annoyed; she was just worried about me. Stacey was so wrong about her. She had wasted her life trying to bring down a woman who was nothing but kind.

  I chewed my lip. What could I say to Miss Lilly that would make up for what I’d done? Whatever she said, my behaviour must have embarrassed her. I was embarrassed of my behaviour. I wrote back:

  I’m so sorry – there’s nothing wrong. I just realized I never asked about Mum and Ima and Alfie, about where they were buried. I got a bit upset. I thought Alfie might be near the clinic. I just wanted to say goodbye.

  She wrote back straight away:

  Of course you did, darling girl. I am so sorry. This is my fault. I should have told you. I scattered Alfie’s ashes where both your mothers are buried, in France. It seemed the right thing to do. Just say the word and I’ll take you there. We’ll organize the time off school.

  He was with Mum and Ima. Relief flooded through me. I wrote back:

  Thank you. I’d like that.

  As I sat back, a dark, pulsating cloud appeared on my computer. I’d never seen it before. It looked poisonous. I wanted to get rid of it, so I tried to pinch it closed but as soon as I touched it, it expanded to fill my screen and burst open.

  I still didn’t know why I was locked up. After the doctor came, I thought they’d tell me what was going to happen to me. I cycled through panic and numb calm over and over. I fantasized about them sending me to a commune for homeless people, where we’d build our own shelters and grow our own veg. I’d get Scrag back and have a life. And then I started to think I’d be left in the cell for ever, just me, that I’d never hear another human. Never feel the soft fur of my dog’s belly.

  If I closed my eyes, I could imagine S
crag curled up next to me. I could bury my fingers in his fur and hear his soft snore-y breathing.

  I closed my eyes and kept them closed.

  Green letters scrolled across my screen:

  This is an encrypted channel inside the Dark Web. We’re safe here. Have you played the recording I gave you?

  My hand went to my pocket. I’d forgotten about the little compact thing.

  I fished it out.

  Mum had had something that looked just like it, only hers had had powder in the bottom and a mirror in the lid. Between the two halves of this one spun a tiny glistening prism. I touched it with my finger, disturbing the image and prompting, “Identify yourself.”

  I snapped it shut.

  The black cloud flashed with a little lightning bolt, another message:

  Please, Lu. Please. I know this is hard for you, but imagine what it’s been like for me. I lost you, my best friend, and none of it made sense. One minute you were there and the next you were gone and I didn’t know if you’d be back next year, next decade or ever. No one spoke to me about it. Your mum and Ima, I loved them, you know I did, but even they closed up. No one understood. The only person who might have done was you and you were lost. So near and yet so far. I might have got things wrong but I swear I was trying to do what was right. You know me. You’re the only person alive who really does. Please, listen to the recording.

  I pressed my hands to my forehead. What was I supposed to do? How could I ignore a plea like that from my oldest friend? I pictured how she’d been when her gran had died. She’d huddled on her bed, her mascara silently laying black tracks down her face as tears puddled on her pillow and an unchanged record spun round and round on her turntable, hiccupping over grooves in the disc, scratching a rhythm from dust and distress.

  I opened the compact.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “Laura Henley.”

  “Your voice does not match our records. Please identify yourself by answering the following question: who was your year nine geography teacher?”

  I smiled. “Mr Gudgeon.”

  “Access granted.”

  A grainy image of the older Stacey appeared, grey hair flopping across her face. She smiled briefly.

  “If you’re watching this, I must have found you and you must be alive, which, believe me, are two things I doubted I’d ever live to see. God, I hope I do. Please listen to the whole of this message. Lu, all I can do is tell you the truth and hope that you believe me.

  “After you were put into stasis, there was a lot of news coverage – your mum and Ima were the lesbo parents who gave their kids up for experimental treatment. Some of the papers said they’d been paid to hand you over. It was awful. The press made up whatever they wanted, and your mums wouldn’t do any interviews. They wouldn’t see me, they wouldn’t see anyone. I tried every day and one time I arrived at your house to find it empty. They’d just gone. I was lost. I had no clue what to do.

  “Do you remember PAFA? The activists we met in town? You were right about the skinny guy – Zappa – by the way, total creep. But after what happened to you, they picked me up, helped me through it.

  “They were like a new family to me. I was young, I wanted to impress them, so I did all the stuff you’d have hated. Broke in places, smashed stuff up, released animals. We were always fundraising – activism is expensive – so Zappa suggested I did the interview about you to get some cash. I should never have done it. I’ve beaten myself up over it every day since but I can’t change the past, no matter how bad I feel. And one good thing came out of it. A woman got in touch.”

  The recorded Stacey rubbed her face and then went on. “At first, I thought she was just a nutter. She was an addict who’d had her kid taken away. She’d got clean and wanted the kid back but he’d run away from his foster-home in Brighton and no one had bothered to tell her. He was eight years old, Laura, and no one knew where he was. She scoured the streets looking for him and some homeless guy told her that he thought the kid might have been taken to Blackhurst Clinic. It didn’t make a lot of sense but the woman was desperate for any clues. When she saw my interview, mentioning the clinic, she tracked me down to see if I knew what went on there. Somehow she’d got hold of some police records and realized that there was a string of kids who’d gone missing – kids of addicts, runaways, children blamed for their own disappearances. Kids the newspapers wouldn’t shout about.”

  Stacey blew her fringe out of her eyes. The hair may have changed but the gesture was pure Stacey.

  “Two weeks after she got in touch with me, she was found dead on a railway line. The police said it was suicide but I knew she would never have given up on her son. Something had happened to her and I was sure it was to do with her investigations. I felt honour-bound to carry on her research, not just for her, but for you. I had to know if you were in any kind of danger. I had to get inside the clinic to see what was going on, so I persuaded PAFA we should break in.

  “It wasn’t hard. They knew there had been animal testing there, some of it pretty grim – search for it, you can still find stuff on the internet, buried under the weight of stories Crisp’s PR team put out to counter it…”

  The image flickered and switched off.

  I shook the compact. Closed it and opened it again. Was that the end of the message? It couldn’t be. Maybe it was solar-powered like Miss Lilly’s car? It was late but there was still a bit of sun coming in my window. I sat it in the light, hoping it would charge, and pulled my slate closer.

  I typed in Miss Lilly, animal testing. A list of results came up: Miss Lilly judging a puppy competition, Miss Lilly investing in animal welfare, Miss Lilly opening an animal sanctuary, sponsoring a donkey, cuddling a kitten. I kept going through the list, just to be absolutely sure I wasn’t missing anything and finally came to something horrible.

  It was a poor-quality video of cages and cages of rabbits with bloodied eyes and bald patches of sore skin. My stomach lurched; it was revolting. Then I saw the date: 1982. I did a bit of maths in my head – Miss Lilly didn’t even look as old as Stacey, so I reckoned she’d have been about twelve in 1982. Miss Lilly’s dad must have been in charge then. She couldn’t be held responsible for what her parents had done. Then I realized what else that meant – she’d have been so young when her parents died in that fire, when she had to take over the running of the business, she’d have been barely older than me. No wonder she felt a connection…

  The compact flickered back into life. I snatched it up and Stacey started speaking, halfway through a sentence.

  “…left. They’ve been back recently. I think he’s still at the clinic, Laura, I think Alfie is alive.”

  The message stopped, along with my heart. I held it in the sun, trying to fire it back into life, but it seemed dead as a dodo. That little hook of hope seemed like a cruel taunt. I threw it down and poked the dark cloud on my slate.

  I sent Stacey a message:

  What do you mean about Alfie? The fire made all the other pods unviable. I was the only one to survive.

  I was tight with tension. I felt like Stacey had been dripping poison in my ear ever since I’d made contact – what if this was just another way to get at Miss Lilly?

  A photograph pinged up on my slate. It was grainy but you could make out a series of silver pods. I’d never seen the capsule I’d been stored in – I hadn’t wanted to – but I guessed that’s what I was looking at.

  These photographs were taken by a member of PAFA working undercover in the basement of the clinic. They are all occupied and working.

  I stared hard at the image – there seemed to be lights on the front of the pods. The photo could have been taken before the fire. It meant nothing.

  Another picture pinged up. It was the same one but zoomed in. A red circle was drawn around a date at the bottom of the photograph.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  It was six weeks ago.

  Six weeks?

  I couldn�
�t believe it. I’d been there then. How would PAFA have got an activist in to take it? It wasn’t possible, the security was too tight. Or was it? There’d been the photographer in the window. And the man who’d walked straight into the corridor when I was with Annie.

  Stacey sent another message:

  Alfie might still be alive. Isn’t that worth being sure about?

  I didn’t know what to think. I messaged:

  If you really believe something’s going on, why haven’t you gone to the police?

  She replied:

  The word of PAFA against Miss Lilly? There are warrants out to arrest most of us.

  Us. Was she still one of them? PAFA. The people who’d killed Miss Lilly’s parents. The murderers who’d killed Miss Lilly’s parents and destroyed my brother’s chances of survival. Or had they? Could he really still be there? In the basement? Somewhere on those two floors of storage?

  Stacey messaged:

  She tightened security recently. There’s no way any of us will get in there now. You could though. You could see if Alfie was still there. You could get more evidence.

  Us. Us. Us. She was manipulating me like they had manipulated her. Only the image of those undamaged pods wouldn’t leave my mind. Six weeks ago? And if I did go back and check, PAFA couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to.

  No. Why was I even considering it? Miss Lilly wouldn’t lie to me. She wouldn’t.

  Lu? Are you still there? I know you’re finding it hard to process, but the photo proves there is something worth investigating, doesn’t it? You should go now.