by Terry Tyler
I'm not about to enlarge upon that. Blokes being blokes, and all. "Maybe."
"It's okay; Lori and I aren't exactly love's young dream, either. I dunno, you get together at college because you fancy each other, you fall in love, or what you think is love, and everyone sees you as a couple, but you don't realise that love has to be based on more than great shagging, or because making the jump from college to the adult world is scary and you don't want to do it alone. Then a few years down the line you're a different person, and you feel like you're living with a stranger."
I pull my hood closer round my face; the rain is pelting down now. "Welcome to my world."
"You too, right? Yeah, Lori's changed from the fun girl I met into someone who obsesses over whether her eyebrows are symmetrical. I'm not kidding, the other day she was in tears over it. Going airborne in front of the mirror, about to put pins in a voodoo doll of the girl who lasered them. And as I become less give-a-shit, she becomes more so. We don't really have anything in common any more, apart from sex."
I don't want to tell him that Nash and I scarcely have that. I don't care if I never do it with him again. Wow. That's a sobering realisation. I wonder if he feels the same.
We reach Hub 6; Artsi Gallery is tucked away in the far corner. It's a showroom for local artists, jewellery makers, sculptors. It's due to close in an hour, and there's hardly anyone in here, which makes me feel even more on edge.
A fabulous-looking woman of about forty sits behind a desk; her black hair is sculpted into a fan shape on the back of her head, and she wears gold lipstick and black eyeliner that slants into her temples. She looks like a piece of art herself, untouchable, until she gives me a warm, wide smile.
"Can I help?"
"I hope so―I'm looking for Frankie."
She gets up and walks around the desk, putting her hand out for me to shake. "I am she." She moves closer. "You're Rae and Colt?"
We nod.
"This way." She leads us to a section at the back of the shop; it is filled with sculptures, but devoid of customers. "Gin's through there." At first I don't see the door, as it's part of a fantasy landscape painted across the whole wall.
I turn around to thank her, but she has already disappeared.
I open the door, where we find Ginevra sitting at a table in a shabby kitchen, dressed not in her usual chic suit, but a black polo neck, black jacket and trousers, her hair pulled back in a severe knot.
She smiles at me in the way she would have before I fucked up, and a week's worth of tension evaporates; it seems I am forgiven. She pours out coffee without asking if we want it, and says, "Sit. We don't have long. I need to tell you what to expect, and then we'll go through Xav's plan on how to give Nula the slip―and what happens afterwards."
This is it, then.
"What you need to know, first of all, is that the place Nula takes you to is not the real wasteland. You'll travel with her in a pod to a place about thirty miles from Gate 27; it will look how you expect―a housing estate that's been left to rot. You'll meet people who will show you around, talk to you about how they live, and they'll put you up for the night so that you get the full 'experience'. However, this area is especially designated for megacity visitors―documentary makers, and so on―where you will be given the impression of the wasteland that the government wants you to have. There are several assigned for this purpose, around the country. The people you will meet are wastelanders, but they're in the employ of MC12. Bugs. They deliver information to Security about Link operatives and anyone in hiding, they have smartcoms, power sources from megacities, they're given food and medical supplies in exchange for what they do. Do not tell them anything. They are as much a part of MC12 as Nula Black, and you need to be as careful around them as you are around her. Ask lots of questions, and make notes on your com, because it's got to look real. Have you got that?"
We both say that yes, we understand fully, and she relaxes.
"Now, assuming Xav's plan works without a hitch, you will be delivered to the woman who runs the settlement in Fennington: Yara. She will take you to the Link workers who should be able to locate your family, Rae, if they are still alive―and you must be prepared for the fact that they might not be, or that they can't be found. If all is well you will be taken to meet them, and then it's up to you how long you stay out there before you make your return. I recommend no longer than a week."
"Um, perhaps this is a stupid question," Colt says, "but why can't they just give you the info about where they are, so we can go straight to them?"
I'm glad I'm not on the end of that particular steely gaze. "Yara makes the rules out there, not me, and certainly not you."
I've never seen Colt look embarrassed before.
"Of course. Sorry."
"So how will Xav get us out?" I ask. "And how will I get back?"
She smiles. "Ah―that's the part I'm coming to next."
Chapter 11
Hope Village 9
Six Months Earlier
Dylan is woken not by the morning alarm screeching through the vast men's dormitory of Hope 9, but by the snoring and farting of Kevin, who sleeps in the bunk above. As his brain wrestles out of sleep, his ears take in other sounds around the room: belching, more farting and snoring, hushed growls and, somewhere in the distance, crying.
Yawning his face awake, he reaches under his pillow to look at his com. The screen tells him that the date is the 5th April, but in this room, with its bare walls and floors, winter lives on. His body temperature is low after being asleep, and the heating is turned off, now, for the 'summer' months. This occurs on the 1st of April every year. Whatever the weather. Even when there were freak gales and floods one Easter, the heaters remained cold.
His com screen also tells him that the time is six-forty a.m., which means he should get to the bathrooms before the crush starts after the alarms go off in fifteen minutes' time, but he can bear his bursting bladder for a few moments longer, before he braves the cold.
He has slept in his clothes; they're warmer and not much different from pyjamas. Soft, thick jogging bottoms, a t-shirt and a hoodie. He's got a pair of jeans in the locker under his bed, and a shirt, but they're for best. He only wears them once or twice a year, because in Hope 9 there is no 'best'. No visits out. No visitors. Nowhere to go, no reason to smarten up.
Dylan is twenty-five. Or so his Hope records say. He's pretty sure he's twenty-seven. When they found him they asked him lots of questions, but he knew not to tell them anything. The lady who picked him up pretended to be nice, but he wasn't stupid; he could see the guns behind her. They thought he looked about seven, so that was the age they gave him.
When they put him in the van they told him he would be 'safe now'. They said they were taking him to a Hope Village, where he would be 'properly looked after' and where, they said, he would be very happy.
He said, "But I'm happy now." Because he was; he has only hazy memories of his life before the Hope Villages, but he knows he used to run free, play, and laugh a lot. He felt warm and loved, by all the grown-ups. He doesn't know if that was 'properly looked after', but he was happy.
When he got to the Hope Village, he wasn't happy at all. There were too many people. A huge room where he slept with lots of other kids with no parents. Too many. They seemed unhappy, too. Some of them would cuddle each other and cry.
He told them he was called Dylan, which was the name of the boy in a story his mum read to him before he went to sleep at night. He knew he must never tell his real name to anyone who wasn't from the wasteland. He didn't know any pretend last names, though, so he said he didn't know what it was. They glanced at each other and muttered things like, 'Bloody savages, can't even teach their kids their own names', and said that from now on he would be Dylan Hall; all the children who they 'rescued' from the wasteland were called Hall or Smith, and there was already a Dylan Smith.
He wishes he could remember more about his life before the Hope Villages. When he arrived th
ey stamped him with something behind his ear that they said would help him focus on his new life. Of course, he knows better now, because he is twenty-five (or twenty-seven). He knows that it's a 'chip', by which he can be tracked. He had lots of 'sessions' when he got to the first Hope Village, with smiling people who fixed things to his head, injected him with stuff and showed him pictures of places where he might have been, until he didn't know what was a real memory and what had been planted there, by them.
Mostly, it's just a blur, now.
They asked him about his mother and father, but by then his memories were confused, and later, when he was older, he wondered if they were only asking him questions to discover how effective their methods were. Just because you've been brainwashed, it doesn't mean you don't know about it. That was what a man in the first Hope Village used to say. George. George used to talk about the brainwashing all the time, to anyone who wanted to listen and many who didn't, then one day he didn't turn up at breakfast. The staff said he'd been taken ill in the night and transferred to a hospital, and they never saw him again.
Dylan can remember faces of people he thinks might have been his parents, but he's not sure. There were lots of them, and he was looked after by different people. He is pretty sure he had a sister, but sometimes he thinks he had several.
"There were lots of adults, and lots of kids," he told them. "We didn't stay in the same place so there were always new ones."
They said he was 'very bright', but Dylan felt as if his mind had been falling in and out of shadows, with no understanding of what was real and what wasn't, since he got there.
When he was thirteen (or fifteen), bigger boys gave him pills that made him see lots of weird things, which added to his disorientation. Later, there were other sorts of pills, too. Blitz. Blitz made you unable to stop talking or go to sleep, and made everything brilliant fun. Trouble was, he would get depressed if he couldn't get any. If the delivery man who sold it was a day late. So he got into smoking this stuff from a bloke who worked in the canteen. Cirrus, it was called. Calmed him down, made him feel great but not all speedy, like the blitz. But then he got so that he wanted the cirrus even more than he wanted the blitz. Felt ill when he couldn't get it.
A nice woman called Willa arranged for him to transfer to another Hope Village, to get him away from the people who sold the blitz and cirrus. Willa was his 'primary carer'. She was so lovely to him, like a mother, that he dared hope he might be allowed to live with her, in her house nearby where she had a husband, a son of his age and a dog, but she never suggested it. When he asked her―hesitantly, red of face―she seemed embarrassed and said it was 'quite impossible'.
He couldn't see why. He didn't take up much space.
Dylan thought she cared about him, but she couldn't have, because once he was transferred to Hope 9 he never heard from her again. He was seventeen-or-nineteen by then.
Hope 9 was different. It was one of the originals dating back to 2024, and the staff were proud of how well they maintained it. It was cleaner. Not so noisy. He liked it. Even felt happy without the pills and cirrus. He went to his computer classes, passed an exam, and studied English literature. Found that he loved reading. He played basketball, and got himself a girlfriend. Tiana. She used to sneak him into the girls' bathrooms and they'd fuck in the toilets. Life was good for quite a while, but it didn't stay that way.
Tiana started having sex with one of the guards, too, and became pregnant. They took her away, and he never saw her again. He was miserable for a long time but, just when he was starting to get over it, to pick himself up and carry on with his studies, a new governor was put in charge, a younger, weaker man.
Slowly, Hope 9 went bad. The place became shabby, stuff broke, and no one bothered to fix it. Then, last year, some new residents from London turned up. A big gang of scary guys. Everyone was wary of them, even the staff. Under instruction from their leader, a brute called Lennox, they started riots, and beat up anyone who looked at them the wrong way, or wouldn't fall in with their plans. The previously minimal drug trade of Hope 9 began to thrive.
People said that Lennox had friends in a megacity who'd found out where the governor's family lived, so he didn't dare discipline them.
"This used to be a decent place to live before those animals turned up," said old Bob Hodges. "You want to stay under their radar, Dylan, lad. Keep your head down."
So he did. For a while.
It's no good, he's going to piss himself if he stays here a moment longer.
Dylan swings his legs off the bottom bunk, reaches underneath for the bag containing his toothbrush and shaving kit, and heads out for the bathroom block, to have a shave in peace before the rowdies pile in. After Tiana went he rarely bothered with shaving because he had no one to impress, but he's got a new friend now: Emma. He loves her. She doesn't make his groin ache like Tiana did, but she makes him feel warm and safe, which is better. She cares for him, too. He'd like her to be his girlfriend. If they were together he would feel whole. The two of them against the world―but they talked about it, once, and she said she didn't see him 'in that way'.
"I've got a thing for bad boys, and you're one of the good guys!" she said, snuggling up to him. "Can we just be BFFs, instead?"
Dylan held out a mild hope that she might change her mind, and for some months they grew so close (inseparable, said Bob Hodges) that he thought it could only be a matter of time before her feelings for him deepened, as his had for her―but then Rocky arrived.
Rocky came from another Hope Village. He'd been sent to Hope 9 because he was too clever for the arseholes who ran the last one, or so he bragged.
"It's a sad day when Hope 9 is seen as a place to put the troublemakers," said Bob.
Perhaps they thought Lennox would sort Rocky out. If they did, it hasn't worked.
Emma's mad about him.
Dylan can see that Rocky is good-looking. The type that appeals to women. He's got a way about him, too. Bit of a scoundrel, but cheeky and funny with it.
Dylan wouldn't have thought Rocky would notice Emma―she's quiet, pale-faced, with long, mid-brown hair falling in curtains to her waist. Beautiful to him, but she's not the sort to attract a great deal of male attention. Not loudmouthed, with crazy, coloured hair extensions and loads of make-up, like many of the other girls―but Rocky says she reminds him of his first love. He says she gives him stability in this crazy world.
That's what she gives me, Dylan wants to say. She's my stability, and I'm hers. We don't need you. We were fine before you came along.
Rocky leads her a merry dance, but just when she's decided she's had enough, he'll turn up with kisses, chocolates or even a bit of blitz. Emma said blitz makes sex fantastic, though she looked embarrassed when she said it. Dylan didn't say anything. He hated hearing that. Hated that she said it to him.
Now they are three, when once they were two. Rocky doesn't mind Dylan always being around.
"You can keep an eye on her when I'm busy!" he says. Rocky seems to like him. Doesn't see him as a threat. Calls him 'Little Bro', even though they're the same age. Rocky is twenty-seven, but of course Dylan is really that age too. The more he thinks about this, the more sure he is; he is positive he can remember his birthdate ending in 2034. He even went to the records lady recently, to tell her this, but she sent him to the doctor, who explained that he will have some 'false memories' because of his 'traumatic early years'.
But his early years weren't traumatic. He can barely remember anything about them now, only flashes, but he knows how he felt.
Sometimes he looks at the high fences surrounding Hope 9, and imagines taking Emma's hand and running, far, far away, back to the place where he was happy.
Chapter 12
Frenemies
Two days until blast off. I'm jumpy and restless with anticipation. No, that doesn't even begin to describe it. My stomach churns constantly, and I can't eat or sleep. I'm terrified in case our plan goes wrong, and as scared as hell in cas
e it works―because that will mean being out in the wasteland for real, and lying my head off when I get back.
Pretending I was abducted. Being questioned about it.
Can I do this?
I've got to. I'll never get another chance.
Lori is off with me. I can't believe she's that insecure―yes, we're staying overnight in the fake wasteland, but Colt's never shown interest in me in that way, and I'm damn sure I've never given her reason to think I'm after him, not least of all because I'm not. If anything, it's she who flirts with Nash.
Colt suggests a Sunday afternoon walk in Wildacre, as it's one of those gorgeous, golden, mid-October days straight off a photography site, but the atmosphere is so icy you could break it up, stick it in a glass and pour a Mallory over it. Lori's mooching behind the three of us, with a big sulk on.
In the end I fall back, and ask her what's up.
"Oh, so you're guilting now, are you?" she says, without looking at me.
"No, but I know you're not okay with me."
"Too bloody right I'm not. Why does my boyfriend have to go with you on this stupid trip? You couldn't have asked one of your Balance mates. Or Nash. Like, your boyfriend, not mine."
Colt looks round. "Can it, Lori. She didn't ask, I offered."
Angry green eyes flash at him. "Why? Why would you want to go out into rat-land? The whole point of living here is that we're away from scumbags and danger, isn't it?"
He laughs. "If you say so."
"What do you mean?"
He stops. "Not all rats are scumbags, not all scumbags are rats, and danger takes many different forms."
I can tell by her face that she hasn't a clue what he means.
When we get back she ignores both Colt and me, and flops onto the sofa with Nash, sitting unnecessarily close to him, giggling, teasing him and stroking his hair, presumably to piss me off. It doesn't.