by Will Hill
“I was so angry with him for leaving us,” he said, eventually. “My mother always told me I was being unfair. But I wasn’t. He betrayed everyone.”
“Your father was a good man who did an awful thing,” said Frankenstein. “He made a terrible mistake, and he paid for it with his life.”
“And eight other people’s lives,” said Jamie, his voice suddenly fierce. “What did the people on the plane do to deserve what happened to them? Not be nice enough to anyone whose surname was Carpenter? How pathetic is that?”
Frankenstein said nothing.
“I’m ashamed to be his son,” spat Jamie. “No wonder everyone in this place looks at me like they do. I would hate me too. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Don’t say that,” said Frankenstein. “He was still your father. He raised you, and he loved you, and you loved him back. I know you did.”
“I don’t care!’ Jamie cried. “I don’t care about any of that! I didn’t even know him; the man who raised me wasn’t even real! The man who raised me was a case officer at the Ministry of Defence, who went on golf weekends with his friends and complained about the price of petrol. He didn’t exist!”
He leapt to his feet and kicked his fallen chair across the room. It skidded across the tiled floor and slammed into the wall.
“I won’t waste another second thinking about him,” he said, his pale blue eyes fixing on Frankenstein’s. “He’s dead, my mother is still alive, for now at least, and we need to find her. I’m going to talk to Larissa again.”
The monster stiffened in his seat.
“What good do you think will come of that?” he said.
“I don’t know. But I think she wants to help me. I can’t explain why.”
Frankenstein stared at the teenager. He was about to reply when the radio on Jamie’s belt crackled into life.
Jamie pulled it from its loop, and looked at the screen.
“Channel 7,” he said.
“That’s the live operation channel,” said Frankenstein. “No one should be using it.”
Jamie keyed the CONNECT button on the handset, and then almost dropped it as a terrible scream of agony burst from the plastic speaker. Frankenstein stood bolt upright, staring at the radio in the teenager’s hand.
A low voice whispered something inaudible, and then a man’s voice, trembling and shaking, spoke through the radio. “H-hello? Who i-is this?”
“This is Jamie Carpe—”
There was a tearing noise, horribly wet, and the scream came again, a high-pitched wail of pain and terror.
“Oh God, please!” shrieked the man. “Please, please, don’t! Oh God, please don’t hurt me any more!”
Jamie looked helplessly at Frankenstein. The monster’s face had turned slate grey, and his misshapen eyes were wide. He was staring at the radio as though it were a direct line to Hell.
Something whispered again, and then the voice was back, hitching and rolling as the man who was speaking fought back tears.
“You have to come,” the voice said, between enormous sobs of pain. “H-he says you h-have to come to him. He s-says if you d-don’t then you’ll n-never see your m-mother again.”
Rage exploded through Jamie. “Alexandru,” he growled, his voice unrecognisable. “Where are y—”
The man screamed again, so long and loud that the scream descended to a high-pitched croak. Something laughed quietly in the background, as the man spoke two final, gasping words. “Help me.”
Then the line went dead.
Jamie stared at the radio for a long moment, then dropped it on the table, a look of utter revulsion on his face. Frankenstein slowly lowered himself back into his chair, and looked at the teenager with wide, horrified eyes.
“How would he have that frequency?” Jamie asked, his voice trembling. “How could he possibly have it?”
“I don’t know,” replied Frankenstein. “It’s changed every forty-eight hours.”
“So someone must have given him it in the last two days?”
Frankenstein’s eyes widened, as the realisation of Jamie’s point sank into him. He pulled his own radio from his belt, twisted the channel selector switch, then spoke into the receiver.
“Thomas Morris to Level 0, room 24B, immediately,” he said, and then Jamie gasped as the monster’s voice boomed out of the speakers that stood in the high corners of every room in the base.
“You’ll wake the entire Department,” he protested. “What are you doing?”
“Getting some answers,” replied Frankenstein.
Barely a minute later Thomas Morris pushed open the door to the office and staggered inside. His face was puffy and his eyes were narrow slits, and he was yawning even as he asked them what the emergency was.
“You’re Security Officer, Tom. So you can search the network access logs, correct?” asked Frankenstein.
Morris rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I can do that,” he replied.
“Good. I need you to search for anyone who has accessed the frequency database in the last forty-eight hours.”
Morris groaned. “This couldn’t have waited until—”
“I need you to do it now, please,” interrupted Frankenstein.
Morris shot the monster a look of mild annoyance, then pulled his portable console from the pouch on his belt. He placed it on the desk, coded in and ran the search, as Jamie and Frankenstein watched over his shoulder.
Beep.
The three men looked at the words that had appeared on the console’s screen.
NO RESULTS FOUND
“There you go,” said Morris. “No one’s accessed the frequency database in the last forty-eight hours. Can I go back to bed now?”
Frankenstein stared at the screen, then looked at Morris. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“It’s all right,” sad Morris, a weary smile on his face. “Good night, gentlemen.”
“Goodnight, Tom,” said Jamie.
Morris closed the office door behind him, leaving Jamie and Frankenstein alone again.
“So,” said Jamie, in a tired voice. “I think you’re going to struggle to blame my dad for this, don’t you?”
“Jamie—” Frankenstein began, but the teenager cut him off.
“Not now. I can’t even think about who gave Alexandru the frequency now. We have to find him, and we have to do it before he hurts anyone else. I’m going to get some sleep and then I’m going down to the cellblock, and we’re going to do whatever she says we should do.”
He walked towards the door, and was about to turn the handle when the monster called to him.
“Do you really think you can trust her?”
He turned, and looked at Frankenstein with sadness in his eyes.
“As much as I can anyone else around here,” he replied.
Jamie had lied to the monster.
He was tired, that was certainly true, but he wasn’t going straight to the dormitory. Instead he pushed open the door to the infirmary, walked quickly across the white floor and into the room marked THEATRE.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, flopping gracelessly into the chair beside Matt’s bed. The teenage boy was still as pale as a ghost, and the rhythmic beeping of the machines still filled the room.
“I don’t know what to believe, or who to believe, or anything. I feel like I’m completely lost.”
Jamie looked at the peaceful expression on Matt’s face, and found himself envying it. He didn’t know what he was doing in the infirmary, but he had been filled with a powerful compulsion to see the injured teenager. He wondered if it was because this boy was the one person in the Loop who would not tell him something new, who didn’t know who he was or what his father had done, and who he could talk to without worrying how he sounded.
“Frankenstein was my dad’s closest friend, and even he thinks he betrayed the Department. And if he thinks it’s true, then it probably is. But then who gave Alexandru the o
perational frequency so he could call me on it? It’s been changed a thousand times since Dad died. Larissa knows more than she’s telling me, and the chemist definitely did, and I’m pretty sure Frankenstein does as well. Why doesn’t anyone want me to know the truth about anything? It’s like no one cares if I find Mum or not.”
His hand went involuntarily to his neck, and he felt the wad of bandages that had been stuck to his skin.
“I got hurt today. Not as badly as you, I know, but I got burnt. And it made me realise something, you know? It made me realise that this isn’t a game, or a film, where the good guys win in the end and the bad guys get what’s coming to them. It’s real life, and it’s messy, and it’s complicated, and I’m scared, and I just don’t know what to—”
Jamie lowered his head into his hands and wept. The machines beeped steadily, and Matt’s eyes remained closed.
Jamie didn’t think he would be able to sleep when he lay down on his dormitory bed fifteen minutes later, but he was out as soon as his head touched the pillow. His sleep was long and dreamless, and when he awoke, his body feeling rested but his mind racing with the enormity of the task before him, he saw that it was past three in the afternoon.
He showered, dressed quickly, made his way back down to the detention level, and walked quickly down the long block. When he reached her cell, he looked into the square room, and found Larissa standing in her underwear, pulling on her jeans. She was facing away from him, and he hurried back along the corridor, flushing a fiery red.
“I can hear you,” she said conversationally, and he closed his eyes and groaned. “You might as well come out.”
He stepped back in front of her cell, and looked at her. She was now fully dressed, standing easily in the middle of her cell, looking at him with her head tilted slightly to the left.
“Your heart’s pounding,” she said. “I can hear it. Is that embarrassment or excitement?”
“Embarrassment,” said Jamie. “Definitely embarrassment.”
“Pity,” she said, and flashed him a wicked smile. He blushed again, his face now feeling as though it must erupt, it was so hot, and then a thought occurred to him.
If she can hear my heartbeat, she must be able to hear my footsteps like an elephant’s. Why didn’t she hurry up and get dressed when she heard me coming down the block?
“Because it’s fun to tease you,” she said, and Jamie took a shocked step backwards.
“How did you know—”
“You’re a smart boy,” she said, smiling again.
She floated across the cell and spun elegantly on to her bed. She laced her hands behind her head, and looked at him.
“Did you talk to the monster?” she asked.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I wish I hadn’t. But I’m glad I did. Does that make sense?”
She smiled at him, and Jamie’s heart leapt in his chest.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said.
Jamie composed himself. “I want to take you up on your offer,” he said. “I don’t have permission to take you off the base, but I’ll do it if you to take me to the person you think can help me.”
Larissa untangled her fingers and pushed herself up on her elbows.
“Are you serious?” she asked. “This isn’t you getting back at me?”
“I’m serious.”
“What brought on the change of heart?”
“I’ve got no choice,” he said. “I don’t know what else to do. I get why Alexandru wants to hurt me now. I know about what my father did. You were right; it all started with him.”
She looked at him with kindness on her face. “I bet that hurt to say,” she said.
“A little bit, yeah.”
Larissa flipped up off the bed, soared slowly through the air, and landed silently in front of him, a look of excitement on her face.
“Let’s do it,” she said, eagerly.
“You’ll need to wear an explosive belt.”
“Fine.”
“You can’t leave my sight.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Why would I want to?” she purred.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You take us to this person who can help, we get the information from them, and then you come back here. Quietly and peacefully.”
“Of course. Let’s go, let’s go.”
Larissa was hopping gently from one foot to the other, such was her excitement at the prospect at being allowed to leave her cell, to stand under the open sky again, to feel the night air in her hair.
“Not just yet,” said Jamie, and smiled at her.
She stopped still, and looked at him.
I don’t like that smile, she thought. I don’t like it at all.
“Why?” she asked, cautiously.
“You’re going to tell me something first. And you’re going to tell me the truth.”
Chapter 28
ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR
READING, ENGLAND
24TH JULY 2004
Larissa Kinley knew it was early before she opened her eyes; it was too dark in her bedroom, too quiet. She forced her gummy eyelids open and saw that she was right. The digital alarm clock on her bedside table read 5:06 in glowing green letters. She sat up in bed and stretched her arms above her head, yawning widely. It was the eighth night in a row that she had found herself awake when she should be asleep, watching the green numbers tick over until she could legitimately get up and go in the shower. She hadn’t told her parents about what she was beginning to think qualified as insomnia; she knew that they would nod, half-heartedly sympathise, and then go back to whatever they were doing.
Larissa rolled out of bed and walked over to her bedroom window. She was about to open it, to let some fresh air into the room in the hope that it would tire her out, when she looked down into the small garden at the back of their little semi-detached house, and clapped her hand over her mouth so she didn’t scream.
The old man was standing in her garden, looking up at her with a gentle smile on his face, his grey overcoat wrapped around him, his hands casually in his pockets. His eyes were bright in the soft orange light of the streetlight that stood beyond the garden fence and horribly, revoltingly friendly.
She took a step backwards and tripped over one of the leather boots she had dropped at the end of her bed the night before. Her arms wheeled as she tried to keep her balance, but it was futile. She fell to the floor, hard, her teeth clicking shut on her tongue and sending a dagger of agony through her head. Tasting blood in her mouth, she scrambled to her knees and crawled back to the window. She inched her head above the windowsill and looked down into the garden.
The man was gone.
There was no more sleep for Larissa that night. She lay on her bed, playing the events of the previous two days over and over in her head, looking for a way to put the pieces together. She was still trying when she heard her brother’s bedroom door thump open, and she got up and raced across the landing, shoving him out of the way and closing the bathroom door behind her. Liam hammered half-heartedly on the door, but they both knew how this game went, and he quickly gave up and went back to his room.
Standing in front of the mirror, Larissa poked her tongue out and looked at the tiny cut her teeth had made. She sucked the blood away, watched it instantly well up again, then brushed her teeth, carefully, and stepped into the shower. She emerged twenty minutes later with her mind no clearer; every time she managed to push the old man out of her head and think about something else – her coursework, the funfair she and her friends were going to that evening – he would suddenly appear, smiling his soft smile, staring at her with those wide, friendly eyes.
Her parents were already sat at the table when she made her way downstairs to breakfast, her wet hair wrapped in a towel and piled on her head. Her dad was reading the business section of The Times and slowly demolishing half a grapefruit, while her moth
er nibbled unconvincingly at a piece of toast and stared into thin air. Neither of them said anything as she sat down and poured herself a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of orange juice. She again considered telling them about the old man, but decided against it.
She knew Liam felt it too, although he refused to talk about it with her. Their father had stopped going to Liam’s football matches at the start of the summer, without ever offering an explanation or an apology, as though he had simply forgotten that it was something he used to do. Larissa knew it had hurt her brother more deeply than he would ever admit, particularly to his big sister, but he had never questioned his dad about it. It was obvious that something bigger than football was going on: a dark cloud of depression had descended on him at the start of the year and showed no signs of lifting. She was sure that telling them about the old man would bring nothing more than tired suggestions that she had had a nightmare, that there was nothing to worry about.
Even if she told them it was the third day in a row she had seen him.
Larissa ate her cereal in silence, said goodbye to her parents as they left for work, then went upstairs. As she passed her brother’s room she saw him sitting at his desk in his school uniform, instant messaging with someone, probably one of the large number of seemingly identical adolescent boys who were his friends. They were polite and more than a little shy when she answered the door to them in the evenings, but she nearly always caught their eyes crawling over her chest, and it made her shudder.
“Morning, Liam,” she said.
He grunted, which Larissa knew was the best she was likely to get from him.
In her room, Larissa pushed the pages of her coursework around her desk for the next couple of hours, her mind on anything but Jane Austen. She made herself some lunch, downloaded some music, lay on her bed, paced around her bedroom, and generally killed time until it was time to go to the fair. Her father was getting out of his car when she stepped out of the house, and he waved a half-hearted greeting at her. She returned it with an equal lack of enthusiasm, and he stopped her as she passed him.