by Kim Curran
It’s a relief when Corina screeches away the moment the light turns green, leaving the man and his look behind.
The stylish, red brick buildings of the west are slowly replaced by the grey blocks of the east. The further east we head, the more relaxed I feel. The less watched. And yet I still flinch at every speed camera, CCTV and drone. There seem to be hundreds of them. Watching me. I never realised how many there were, monitoring our every movement. Some cultures used to think cameras took our souls. Maybe that’s what’s happened to us. Maybe our need to document our every thought, our every emotion, has robbed us of everything. Stripped us down to nothing but pixels on a screen.
I crane my head to watch a drone buzz by overhead, wondering how many souls it’s captured tonight. I don’t see the car coming.
I feel the impact in my bones: a wave moving through my shoulder and out the other side. It throws me sideways like a rag doll discarded by an angry child. I don’t know if the screeching is coming from me or the metal of the van twisting around us. Glass rains down, biting into my skin.
Outside, everything’s spinning: the lights of the traffic and street signs blur into each other. In that moment, in those few seconds as we spiral across the road, a memory hits me of a fairground ride Zizi took me on once. All flashing lights and booming music. I’d bawled from the moment the bar was lowered over my shoulders, while she’d laughed.
And then everything stops. The roar of the crash is replaced by the creaking of metal and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
I turn my head to check that Zizi is all right and the movement sends a knife of pain down my neck. She’s leaning against the van door. If it wasn’t for the trickle of blood trailing over her eyebrow, you’d think she was asleep, bored with a long journey.
Corina’s crumpled over the steering wheel, her hands folded under her head like she’s crying. Shank, too, is slumped forward, the seat belt straining against his weight.
Ethan is leaning up against the seat in front of him. He coughs, a wet rasping sound. I reach my hand out, wanting to pull him upright, to see his face and know that he’s OK. That if only one person makes it out of here, it’s him. Even raising my arm is an act of will: me against the pain.
My fingers brush against Ethan’s shoulder and I feel the tightness of his muscles under his shirt. ‘Ethan, are you—’
I don’t have time to finish before hands punch through the remaining glass, grab me by my shoulders, and pull me out through the window. I scream as my spine is scraped over the window frame. I’m pulled to standing.
It’s the man from the sports car. He’s staring at me with even more rage and hatred. I look around and see what caused the crash. He must have driven his car straight into us. Its nose is crumpled like a ball of black tinfoil.
As I’m trying to find my balance, he lets go of me with one hand, then whips it back around again, slapping me across the face so hard my teeth clash.
‘You can’t hide from me, bitch.’ Spittle hits my stinging cheek. ‘After the things you’ve done, I should kill you now.’
‘I don’t know what—’ is all I can manage to say before he takes another swing. I twist out of his grip so the blow hits my shoulder rather than my face. The force is still enough to knock me to the floor.
‘It’s her,’ another voice says.
A woman appears from behind the man and looks down at me. Her eyes are as dark and rage-filled as his. ‘The one who killed all those people?’
She takes another step forward and leans over me. She’s rake thin, dressed in a grey skirt suit, with heels so high it looks like she’s balancing on pencils. Hate pours off her like a scent.
The man slips off his jacket, folds it up, and places it carefully on the roof of his ruined car. He rolls his sleeves up.
‘You have the wrong person,’ I shout desperately.
The woman raises her foot over me, and I’m strangely embarrassed to catch a glimpse of a suspender belt before she stamps down on my chest with her stiletto heel.
I’m lucky she’s so thin and not able to put much force behind the stamp. I grab hold of her ankle and pull. She topples backwards, falling against the car.
But now it’s the man’s turn again.
I scrabble away from him when he grabs my hair and pulls me back on to my feet. He balls his hand into a fist. I close my eyes and wait.
The pain is worse than I could have imagined. I’ve been punched by kids before. But this feels like an anvil’s been dropped on my face. I gasp, the shock stealing my breath away.
He pushes me backwards and I stagger into the woman. She wrenches my arm behind my back and pulls my hair back, pinning me in place. ‘All those children,’ she hisses into my ear.
‘No, no,’ I say, trying to squirm away from her. But I’m weaker than her.
The man’s in no rush. He looks like he’s enjoying hurting me too much to get it over with quickly. Whoever he believes I am, he thinks I deserve to suffer.
A few more people have gathered, watching the show. Men and women, all wearing grins of twisted hatred. What can I have done to make them detest me this much?
The man raises his fist again.
‘Come on then!’ I shout, my rage and anger and helplessness all wrapped up in that stupid taunt.
He smiles. Then jerks, like he’s woken up from a nightmare. His eyes widen and the hatred is replaced by fear. He falls to his knees, his hands clawing for me, then collapses on to his face. Blood pools out from under him.
I look up to see Shank holding a blade, coated from tip to hilt in blood.
Corina stands next to him. She looks unharmed, apart from a cut on her arm, although she’s shaking hard. ‘What have you done?’ she says, looking at the man on the floor. He’s not moving.
With a blur of motion, Shank flicks the knife closed, then slips it into his pocket. ‘Don’t thank me then.’
The woman’s still holding me but her grip has loosened. I spin out of it and punch her in the face. I don’t know if the crunch is my knuckles breaking or her cheekbone.
‘There’s more coming,’ Shank says, his knife out again.
He’s right. Maybe ten people are descending on the crash site. Cars are stopping and people getting out. Every single one is staring at me.
The car door creaks. Ethan gets out. Blood coats the side of his face and he’s holding his arm against his chest.
It takes him a second to take in what’s happening, his eyes darting from the man on the floor, to the blade in Shank’s hand, to the descending crowd.
‘Run!’ he screams. He grabs my arm and pulls me forward.
Corina starts to jog away, looking back over her shoulder at the body on the floor. Shank is faster than any of us and races off ahead.
‘I can’t leave Zizi.’
‘I’ll get her,’ Ethan says. ‘You go.’
And I do. I turn and leave him and my mother and I run. Because I know that these people—every last one of them—want me dead.
Shank is sprinting straight on and I realise where he’s heading. We’re not far from Logan’s estate. The NAZ. Where no one dares go.
Maybe it’s the only place I can be safe.
I run, ignoring the pain exploding in my legs and the pounding in my jaw, heading for the faded blue gates of Ivy Towers.
I risk glancing behind me, not wanting to see what the people might be doing to Ethan and Zizi, but having to see. My self-hatred wanting to punish me.
Nothing has happened to them. Ethan stands next to the car, screaming at the people to stop. But they’re ignoring him. Instead, they’re fixed on me.
I have maybe a hundred yards on them. But there’s still that much distance again to the gates. That’s if they’ll even let me in. I pour everything I have into my legs, willing them on, as if they’re not a part of me anymore.
Fifty yards. The people behind me shout and scream. Calling me foul names. Murderer. Evil. Whore.
Ten yards. I can hardly see now for
the tears filling my eyes. Shank is at the gates and pounding his fists against them. Corina is right behind him.
I slam into the gates and start hammering on them, screaming to be let in.
There’s no reply.
I risk another glance behind me. They’re almost on me now.
I punch at the entry screen, pressing every button, hoping that someone, anyone, will take pity on me.
A face appears, and for a second I think I must be dreaming. It’s Logan.
Then I look closer and realise it can’t be him. The jaw is too square, the hair shaved rather than dreaded.
‘Help,’ I shout into the camera. ‘Please help.’
‘You,’ the man says on the screen. ‘And what trouble have you brought to my doorstep?’
‘Please,’ I cry. ‘They’re going to kill me.’
The face seems to consider whether this would be a bad thing.
Corina pushes me out of the way. ‘Leon, it’s me. You have to let us in. These people are going to kill us.’
‘Listen to her, kin,’ Shank says. ‘We is cancer.’
The seconds stretch out like decades. Then the door buzzes and we squeeze in, slamming it shut behind us as the crowd surges against the other side.
30
THE POUNDING OF FISTS on the gates beats in my head along with my heart.
I hear them, screaming for me. Murderer. Killer. Bitch.
I walk backwards, away from the gates, away from the hatred, hoping to escape the voices. But I carry them with me.
Who must they think I am to hate me this much? The way they looked at me, it was the same way Ethan did when he’d wrapped his hands around my throat. Can it be that everyone has gone mad?
I look at Shank next to me, his skinny chest rising and falling as he fights to get his breath back. And Corina, staring at the gate as if it was responsible for the gash on her arm.
Not everyone. Then why?
And that idea, that unthinkable idea, scratches at the corners of my mind again.
‘Trouble follows you like a stink, girl.’ It’s the man from the intercom. It’s clear now he’s nothing like Logan: too tall, too broad.
‘You’re out!’ Shank says, offering him his hand. The two do a complicated handshake that finishes with a shoulder bump.
He then turns to Corina. ‘Looking good, ‘Rina.’
She’s bent over, red-faced and puffing. ‘You too, Leon,’ she says, straightening up. ‘Lockup seems to have suited you.’
‘It had its moments. How are you? Still playing at being a revolutionary?’
‘It’s no game, Leon.’
They stare at each other for a really uncomfortable length of time, talking with their eyes. I feel totally in the way.
Shank coughs and the two turn away from each other.
‘Thank you,’ I say when Leon finally looks at me. ‘I’m—’
‘I know who you are,’ Leon says. He jerks his head indicating that we follow.
‘But Ethan...’ I say, looking back at the gate. The noise has stopped now. I risk looking through a hole punched in the metal where a screw used to be. The crowd are walking away. There’s no sign of Ethan.
‘Ethan Fisher?’ Leon says.
‘Yes, you know him?’
His face bursts into a smile. ‘Know him? He’s my brother.’
Before I can ask how that could be possible, Leon laughs again and pulls up his sleeve, revealing a black tattoo of the letters: TRAZ.
‘Tabula Rasa?’
He nods.
‘Then you have to help him. Ethan’s still out there, with my mother.’
‘He’ll find his way,’ Leon says. ‘He always does.’
There’s no invitation this time. He turns and walks back toward the double doors of the flats, Corina by his side.
People have poured out of the flats to see what’s causing the chaos. I scan them, looking for that black stare. All the eyes are clear.
Leon waves a hand at the gathered crowd. Nothing to see here, it says, go back to your homes. As if obeying orders, they go back to whatever they’d been doing before I brought a mob banging on their doors.
‘Who is he?’ I hiss as Shank bounds past me, his rolling walk dialled up to full.
‘That’s Leon.’
‘Yes, I gathered that much. Leon who?’
‘Leon Fox. Logan’s bro.’
Logan’s brother? The one no one messes with? The one who has a dead brother thanks to me?
I guess if he’d wanted revenge he’d have left me to the mob. So the question is, what does he want with me?
‘And are he and Corina … ’
‘Nah way, man. For a start, Leon’s not into girls. And even if he was, Corina would be totally off limits.’
‘Why?’
‘You really don’t know nothing, do you? She was Logan’s girl. You think she’s helping you out thanks to the goodness of her heart?’ He laughs. ‘She’s doing it to finish Logan’s work.’
It all makes sense now. Although why Corina would want to help me when I’d got her boyfriend killed, I don’t know. I know I wouldn’t have done the same.
Before we step inside, I look back at the gates, hoping Leon’s right about Ethan. Guilt burns in my stomach. Guilt and shame. When it came to it, I was willing to sacrifice him to save myself. The thought sickens me. Exactly what am I willing to do to stay alive?
I’ve made Shank a killer, although it doesn’t seem to bother him. As we get in the elevator he’s retelling the story complete with hand actions.
‘Bam! He hit the floor.’
Leon is not listening. His eyes are fixed on me. Even as I look to the floor, letting my hair fall in front of my face, I can feel his gaze on my skin like hot hands. It’s a relief when the door pings on the seventh floor.
Leon seems to fill the tight corridor as he leads us to the end. He pushes the door open and I notice it was unlocked. Who would have the confidence to leave their door unlocked here? Logan used to play at being the big man in Ivy Towers. Turns out he was simply walking in his brother’s shade.
Inside, the server blades are gone, leaving hungry wires trailing around the metal shelves.
‘Sit,’ Leon says, pointing to the sofa.
Shank’s knees buckle under him and he sits like a dog obeying its master. Corina perches herself on the armrest. I stay standing.
I walk over to the window. I can see clear over the gate, to where the crash took place. The blinking lights of an ambulance reflect off the damp pavements. No police as of yet. Or WhiteShield, which is surprising. If I’m right, they should be smashing down the gates any minute.
What have I brought down on these people?
‘I should leave,’ I say, turning away from the window. ‘WhiteShield will be coming. All of those people saw me. It will have got back to them.’
‘So it’s true?’ Leon says. He not looking at me, he’s looking at the bank of screens covering the wall. On each, my face stares back along with the same words I heard those people screaming at me. I step closer and read the first article.
YOUNG WOMAN WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH LAST WEEK’S MASS MURDER.
Yesterday, WhiteShield released information that they were looking for a teenager whom they believe may have been responsible for the torture and brutal deaths of three other teenagers last week. The mangled bodies were found in the basement of an abandoned abortion clinic.
WhiteShield have released a photo-fit of the redhead on Glaze and are asking that anyone who sees her, or has any information about her location, come forward.
So that’s Max’s game? Why bother bringing me in himself when he can turn the world against me? ‘No, it’s not true,’ I say with a sigh.
‘It’s streaming network-wide. That’s true enough for most people.’
‘Like I’ve been saying, Petri. Control the media, control the people,’ Corina says.
Shank leans forward in his seat and reads the same piece. His lips move as he struggl
es with some of the longer words.
‘Damn. You’s an evil piece of work. I should be scared of you.’
‘Shut up, Skank. She didn’t do any of that,’ Corina says, smacking him around the back of the head.
‘Turn it off,’ I say. ‘Please,’ I add, seeing Leon’s expression.
With a wave of his hand, all the screens go blank. ‘Why has Max got such a hate-on for you?’
‘He thinks I know something. Something...’ I hesitate before I say the name. ‘Something Logan found.’
‘That dammed fool, I told him his Anonymous bull was going to get him killed one day. But I never thought I’d still be around to see it. I hope whatever he found, it was worth dying for.’
‘That’s the thing. I don’t know what it is. That’s why I’m here.’
‘You thought I’d know something? That little bro would have shared his grand scheme with me? Sorry to disappoint you, but I know nothing.’
‘No, I need his equipment so I can... Well, I can’t do anything now. Not without my mother.’
My stupidity mixes with my guilt, like oil and water: swirling and unsettling. By leaving Zizi behind, this has all been for nothing.
‘Is that your mother?’ Leon points out the window.
Ethan’s walking across the empty grasslands towards the flat, Zizi in his arms.
31
I PRESS MY HAND against the window to stop myself from falling. My heart swells to twice its size and I swear it’s trying to pound on the glass to get Ethan’s attention. At the same time, the acid burn of guilt eats away at my gut.
I promise, there and then, watching him make his way through the doors seventeen floors below, that I will never let him down again.
I race out the door and to the elevators. The floor counter is already ticking its way up from floor to floor. It stops for a maddening amount of time on the fourth floor and I have to stop myself from screaming.
Finally the elevator pings and the doors slide open. Ethan has dried blood covering the left side of his face. It’s seeped into the collar of his shirt, dying it a muddy red. I can tell from the awkward way he’s cradling Zizi there’s something wrong with his arm too.