Replica

by Jack Heath

  Now ten.

  Five.

  I heave the rod onto my shoulder like a javelin. Then I drive the point downwards.

  It digs into the dirt and quivers. I leap into the air, hair smeared across my face, my palms tight around the rod as I catapult myself over the fence like a pole vaulter.

  Of course, real pole vaulters have mattresses waiting for them. I hurtle down through an asteroid belt of leaves, sticks crackling and hissing around me, before crash-landing onto a bush.

  If I were human, my legs would be broken—but if I were human, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Freddie climbs the fence while Ivan runs back towards the gate. But I have acres of pitch-black forest to disappear in. If they lose sight of me, they won’t get it back.

  I sprint into the trees, and let the shadows swallow me up.

  ~

  I run for perhaps five minutes before slowing down, worried that the guards will hear me crashing through the forest. I tug the torn stocking off my head, but the darkness is no less smothering.

  There are no bus stops or houses around here. Ivan and Freddie will assume I parked nearby. I have to get the car away as soon as possible.

  My outstretched hands divert the raking branches as I stumble through the trees. When they can’t find me, will the guards realize I was burying something? Will they dig up Chloe’s body?

  I tell myself they won’t. They might not even inform the construction company that there was an intruder. It wouldn’t look good on their resumés.

  The trees thin out as I approach the road. If I can get to the car before they find it, I’m probably safe.

  But when I break through the last of the scrub and find myself on the motorway, two cars are waiting instead of one.

  Red and blue lights whirl on the roof of the second vehicle. A police officer stands behind the number plate of Graeme’s sedan, tapping on her PDA. She’s an oak-skinned woman with narrow hips and neatly pressed trousers. Her hat hides most of her face.

  Run, or stay? She sees me before I have time to decide.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I bluff.

  The policewoman tucks her PDA into her pocket. ‘Ma’am, would you like to tell me why you parked here?’ The friendliness in her tone is thin.

  I jerk a thumb towards the forest. ‘I just had to go,’ I say, trying to look embarrassed.

  Her eyes don’t waver from mine. ‘I see. Where are you driving to?’

  ‘I’m on my way home from a gig,’ I say. Chloe’s clarinet isn’t in the car, so I add, ‘I’m a vocalist.’

  She looks at the car, then at me, then at the forest. ‘Your parents know you’re out here?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Dad lent me his car, but he said he’d call the cops if I wasn’t home by three.’ My eyes widen. ‘Is that why you’re here? Am I late?’

  ‘It’s two-twenty,’ the cop says. ‘Where was the concert?’

  ‘Open mic night at the Potbelly,’ I say, choosing the pub at random.

  ‘Uh-huh. Got your licence?’

  I pull Chloe’s wallet out of my pocket, unfold it, and remove her driver’s licence. She smiles out of the photo at me before I hand it over. The police officer shines a torch on it and looks at me before handing it back. ‘Thanks, Chloe,’ she says. ‘You mind opening the boot for me?’

  Digging out Graeme’s keys, I push the button. The lid pops up slightly, and I lift it the rest of the way.

  The cop’s torch reveals the jump leads, the tyre iron, the duct tape, and a dog-eared road map. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You can close it.’

  It thumps shut and she points back up the motorway. ‘Your house is that way. You want to tell me why you’re on this side of the road?’

  I frown. ‘No it’s not. To get to my place you have to go up to Antill Street …’

  ‘Antill Street is back there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I sigh. ‘I must have missed the exit. Where’s the nearest place I can do a U-turn?’

  ‘About a kilometre further along.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  She crosses her arms over her chest. I haven’t entirely convinced her, but there’s nothing she can arrest me for.

  ‘Do a song for me,’ she says finally.

  I laugh, nervously. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a vocalist, right? Sing one of your songs.’

  ‘Here? Now?’

  She looks increasingly sceptical. ‘You have a problem with that?’

  Have I been programmed with the ability to sing in tune? Chloe couldn’t.

  So I clear my throat, and rap.

  ‘Let me say hello, let me show, that I know you. Tell you so, let me go, let me grow on you. Take a chance, take my hands, let me dance with you …’

  The cop looks as shocked as I feel. I’m not surprised that I know all the words to this song, since Chloe probably uploaded her mp3 collection into me along with all her e-books, but I’m astonished at how much my voice sounds like a man’s. Specifically, that of Chloe’s favourite rapper.

  I don’t have vocal cords—just a speaker at the back of my throat. It can imitate any voice. Perhaps even any sound.

  ‘That’s enough,’ the cop says.

  I’ve run out of excuses and explanations, so I just stand here.

  ‘Thanks for your cooperation,’ she continues. ‘Have a nice night.’

  ‘You too,’ I say, as she gets back into the police car. She stays seated for a while, fiddling with her PDA again, before pulling out onto the motorway and driving off.

  My hands are shaking. Another human handicap, programmed into me for no good reason. The driver’s seat creaks under me and I take a few deep breaths—artificial, but they seem to help—before starting the engine and rolling out onto the road.

  ~

  The lights are off at Chloe’s parents’ house. No voices. No movement behind the curtains. But the silence and stillness are not as reassuring as they should be.

  I park the car exactly where I found it and tiptoe across the lawn. I pull off my shoes, slip the key into the front door as slowly as I can bear, and turn it.

  Only shadows greet me on the other side, but I have the unnerving sensation that I’m being observed. Perhaps a hundred people are in here, waiting to shout ‘Surprise!’ when the lights are switched on.

  Perhaps not. I step in and close the door behind me.

  Remembering to switch the motion sensor back on, I sneak through the shadows of the house. Still no sign that anyone is here—or that they’re not. I pause near Chloe’s parents’ bedroom and listen.

  A rumbling snore. I’m safe.

  I’ll have to wait until sunrise to wash off the dirt. The hot-water pipes rattle loud enough to wake up not only everyone in this house, but all the neighbours too. In Chloe’s room, I collapse onto her bed.

  It’s over. I evaded Chloe’s killers, hid her body, escaped from some security guards, fooled a cop and made it home in one piece. My first day of freedom was a nightmare, but at least I survived.

  I pull Chloe’s laptop onto my thighs and switch it on. On a local news site, the headlines read: Government not dependent on PMCs, senator says. Quantum computers soon a reality. Singer caught on camera with new man.

  Nothing about a dead body found at a construction site. But there could be soon, if the security guards called the police.

  A widget hovers in the sidebar, listing real-time updates from reporters. A new one flashes up every five minutes. Capitals falling behind, 18 points to 4. Another aftershock rocks Argentina. Opposition leader says defence spending out of control.

  I can’t sleep, I know the contents of every book on the shelves, and it’s risky to leave the room. There’s nothing to do but watch headlines.

  Three hours later my head is stuffed with current affairs. But nothing came up about Chloe’s body.

  Something moves outside the door. Graeme is getting up. I hear him opening and closing the wardrobe, switching on the extractor fan in the bathroom, and turn
ing the tap in the shower. He must be having a cold rinse, since the pipes aren’t shaking and groaning.

  The water stops three minutes later. His footsteps thud back into his bedroom. I trot up the hall to the bathroom with Chloe’s pyjamas bundled under one arm and some jeans and a blouse under the other.

  Showering with my new body is weird. No matter how far I twist the taps, I can’t get the water hot enough. My skin isn’t as sensitive as Chloe’s was. My hands stick to my rubber armpits and abdomen. When I wash the dirt off my palms, slivers of soap get trapped in the invisible seams beneath my knuckles. I hang my head and let the lukewarm water tumble down the back of my neck.

  I’m not human any more. This is my new life.

  When I dry off, the towel leaves thin fibres all over my body. Chloe dressed as a witch for a Halloween party a few years ago, and found similar residue clinging to her prosthetic nose afterwards. I’ll have to find a better way to get dry in future. For now, I’ll just hope no one comes close enough to see.

  Chloe’s clothes don’t quite fit my shop-window mannequin body. They’re a little loose around the thighs and belly, a little tight around the chest and hips. I guess She’s Alive didn’t have a model with her exact physique, so she just went for the closest match. I’ll have to go shopping.

  But I’ve only met six people so far, and it’s been terrifying each time. How could I survive a shopping centre?

  I open the bathroom door to find Graeme standing there. I jolt, then try to cover the movement with a yawn.

  ‘Morning Dad,’ I say.

  ‘You’re up early,’ he says. His voice is deep and rough. It’s the first time he’s used it today.

  ‘Didn’t sleep well. Thought I’d get a head start on the day.’

  He nods. ‘You want a lift to school?’

  Of course. It’s Thursday. Am I really ready to fool Chloe’s friends and her teachers?

  ‘Actually, I’m not feeling all that well,’ I say. I try to breathe only through my mouth as I talk, so my nose will sound blocked, but it doesn’t work. My voice sounds healthy as ever. ‘I might have to stay home today.’

  Graeme frowns. ‘That’s no good. Symptoms?’

  ‘Sore throat. Headache.’

  ‘Maybe we should take you to the doctor.’

  Who would realize I wasn’t human. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘No, wait … damn it. I have that test today. For English. I have to go.’

  ‘They’ll let you take it some other time,’ Graeme says. ‘If you’re sick, you shouldn’t be at school. You could infect somebody.’

  ‘I might not be sick. I might just be tired.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel after breakfast. OK?’

  Graeme is a big believer in the healing power of breakfast. ‘OK,’ he says.

  He follows me into the kitchen, where I pour muesli into a bowl and spread dollops of yoghurt across it. Graeme heats the kettle and sprinkles some instant coffee into a mug.

  Your digestive system is basically just a plastic tube and a two-litre tank, but it works. I hoped Graeme would leave me alone for a few seconds so I could scrape the muesli into the bin. But he’s too close, so I’m forced to trust Chloe.

  The first spoonful tastes like wet Styrofoam. It’s weird, because my sense of smell is fine, but my tongue doesn’t seem to have any taste buds. Chewing works the same way it always did—but swallowing is entirely different. A plughole opens up at the back of my throat and sucks all the air out of my mouth. A valve sprays water against my teeth and cheeks, hosing them down.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Graeme asks.

  I wait until the alarming mechanism in my mouth has stopped hissing before I speak. ‘Hear what?’

  He listens again. ‘Nothing. Never mind.’

  ‘Could you put the kettle on again? I’ll have a cup too.’

  He switches on the kettle, and it overpowers the noise of me swallowing four more spoonfuls of muesli. With practice, the spray can be controlled. I dial it back to a safer volume.

  Graeme puts a mug of coffee in front of me. The smell is rich and bitter but, when I take a sip, the liquid has no more flavour than water. The incongruity almost makes me gag.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asks.

  ‘Much better now,’ I say, holding up the cup. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, do you want a ride to school, or not?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  He takes his keys off the hook. ‘We leave in forty-five minutes.’

  THURSDAY

  I sit on my hands as the car pulls out of the driveway. It’s the only way not to fidget.

  The road is full of other vehicles, occupied by weary-eyed drivers and passengers who text message or brush their hair.

  Graeme drives in silence, one hand knuckled around the gear stick, his gaze motionless on the road.

  Is he phrasing and rephrasing a question for me? Or will he wait for Kylie to do it? Don’t you want to know what kind of young woman is living in our house?

  Sometimes the easiest way to deflect a question is to ask one of your own. ‘Dad?’ I say.

  He grunts.

  ‘Do you think defence spending is out of control?’

  He glances over at me, surprised. ‘Why do you ask?’

  I shrug. ‘The opposition leader says it is. I heard it on the radio.’

  ‘Well,’ Graeme says, ‘what they’re spending would be fine, if they spent it in-house. But, at the moment, most of it is going to PMCs. That’s what I have a problem with.’

  ‘PMCs?’

  ‘Private Military Corporations. Soldiers who work for a company rather than the government.’

  ‘But they are working for the government,’ I say, ‘if that’s where the defence budget is going. Right?’

  ‘Not directly. The government hires the PMCs, and the PMCs hire the soldiers, who were often dishonourably discharged from the real military.’

  ‘In that case, why does the government use them?’

  ‘They say it’s cheaper,’ Graeme says. ‘But this year, they’ve paid more than ever before—a ridiculous amount. And now that the private companies are doing so much R and D …’

  ‘R and D?’

  ‘Research and development.’

  Sometimes talking to Graeme is like reading assembly instructions.

  ‘They design their own equipment and weaponry, so they can refuse to sell it to defence if they won’t hire their soldiers.’ His cheeks inflate as his teeth clench behind them. ‘The alternative is equipping troops with outdated gear. So the PMCs have a lot of power, without much accountability. That’s pretty scary for guys like me.’

  ‘People who work for defence?’ I ask.

  His voice is filled with quiet anger. ‘People who don’t think wars should be fought for profit.’

  We lapse into silence. A bus trundles past, with almost as many people standing in the aisle as sitting on the seats.

  I say, ‘Can I put the radio on?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I push the button and adjust the volume. A reporter babbles about the weakening dollar and what it means for retailers. When she gets to the headlines, there’s still nothing about a corpse found in a construction site. But I can’t let myself feel safe. Not until there’s a layer of concrete over Chloe’s body.

  Perhaps not even then. Maybe not until I’m old enough to move out of Graeme and Kylie’s place, so as I can live on my own and work from home and never let anyone come near me in case they discover what I am.

  And then what? Sit around waiting for my parts to wear out?

  Scullin High School is up ahead. We join a long queue of cars, waiting to pull into the drop-off lane.

  I stare at the other students. Girls are hugging, boys are punching one another in the arms. Lonely kids are walking with their heads down and their shoulders up. I guess I’ll be one of them from now on.

  ‘Chloe.’

  Uh-oh. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘
If something was on your mind,’ Graeme says carefully, ‘you’d tell me. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Any kind of thing. About school, or your friends, or a boy …’

  Or if I was secretly a machine, say.

  I force a laugh. ‘I haven’t had a boyfriend since I was eight.’

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m just saying you don’t need to shut me out.’

  ‘I’m not shutting you out.’

  Graeme raises a hand, as though surrendering. ‘I didn’t say you were. I just want you to know that your mother and I are here for you. Always.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ he says, ‘my dad bought me a bike. Dual suspension, twenty-one speeds. I stopped taking the bus and rode it everywhere. One day I went into the supermarket to buy a chocolate bar and, by the time I came back out, my bike was gone. The lock was lying on the ground, cut in half. No one nearby had seen anything.

  ‘Dad wasn’t the easiest man to talk to. I was afraid he would say it was my fault—I should have bought a stronger bike lock, I shouldn’t have spent so long in the supermarket, I shouldn’t have been wasting my money on junk food in the first place—so I didn’t tell him. I pretended my bike was in our garage and, whenever he invited me to go for a ride with him, I said I had too much homework to do. By the time I’d saved up enough money to buy a replacement, exactly like the one I’d lost, he’d stopped asking.’

  This story isn’t in Chloe’s memories. Perhaps he never told her about it. Maybe she never got the chance to learn about her father, her grandfather and the relationship between the two.

  ‘I grew up dealing with a lot of things on my own.’ He looks at me. ‘I don’t want you to have to live like that.’

  My chest hurts. ‘I can get out here,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘No problem,’ Graeme replies. ‘Can you catch the bus home?’

  ‘Sure. See you tonight.’

  I open the door and the noise hits me like a train. Screaming, laughing, shouting. The rattling of thousands of books in hundreds of schoolbags.

  I can do this. I have to do this.

  I get out of the car and wave to Graeme. He nods, swerves out of the queue and disappears up the street.