Slated

by Teri Terry

  But under all these reasonable things is something dark, something buried. Deep in the pit of my stomach is a cold conviction: I don’t know why I was reported missing, because I’m pretty sure the government was right to Slate me. There is something wrong with me, deep inside, and I don’t want to know what it is.

  Hush.

  Things I can’t know seem just out of reach, just past my understanding. This must be what they are watching me for at the hospital: regression. Dr Lysander saved me once; but this time, if anyone notices, it will be termination.

  Be still. Be patient.

  If Aiden is looking for someone who wants to jump up and down and be noticed, he couldn’t be more wrong than to consider me a candidate.

  Stay silent as the grave.

  Later, before we say goodbye, Ben holds my hands in his. Looks at me with eyes I always want to agree with; that I never want to show disappointment in me or my actions. Just now they are trying to persuade. ‘I know this is scary, Kyla. But we could really do something, make a difference. Think of Tori, and Phoebe. Gianelli, too. Promise me you’ll think about it?’

  And I make the promise, because, after all, it’s not like I’ll be able to think about anything else. He hugs me, holds me close, and I wish so many things. That we could stay this way. That we could be alone some place in a world with no Lorders, no Slating, no Levos. Or at the very least that I could say yes and do what he wants.

  But I just can’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  * * *

  And think about things, I do: late that night. All through school the next day, wandering to classes, unaware of my surroundings.

  The thing Aiden said that stuck the most is that whoever reported me to MIA may be missing me, right now. A mum, a dad, brothers and sisters? Even that grey kitten.

  But unlike Lucy, this imaginary family is faceless. They are unreal; their feelings, abstract and removed. Yet, just the same, I can imagine the agony of not knowing what happened to someone you care about. Even with Tori and Phoebe, who I barely knew and, in the latter’s case, didn’t particularly like, I feel this way: it is the uncertainty, the not knowing. Or with Phoebe I did feel that way, before: because now I know what happened to her.

  Maybe that is one place I can do something.

  ‘I’m going running,’ I announce in the car on the way home from school.

  ‘But we’re doing homework together,’ Amy protests, looks at Jazz.

  ‘So what? Do it. I’ll be home before Mum,’ I say. And they soon agree: though it is against ‘the rules’ for them to be in the house alone. Though Jazz asks where I am going, and says to stay off the back ways on my own. And I almost tell him the truth when I say I will stick to main roads, as I will: until I get to the lane that leads to Phoebe’s house.

  Earlier today, our English teacher gave back our marked books. They were taken in when Phoebe was still here, and I spotted hers in the pile and slipped it inside mine. Written on the inside front cover was all I needed to know: Phoebe Best, Old Mill Farm. A library map has it just a few miles from our house.

  Thump, thump. My feet on the road lull me along, though not at my usual breakneck speed: I need time to think what to say. ‘Hello, your daughter has been Slated’ seems harsh. Be careful. Last thing I want is for them to storm the hospital and demand her back; bet it wouldn’t take long for the Lorders to pin the problem on me. And then there is her creepy uncle, Wayne: I haven’t run into him since that day on the footpath. I shudder. If his van is parked out front, the whole thing is off.

  I almost run past the turn, without seeing the faded sign. ‘Old Mill Farm’ points to a narrow lane, more an overgrown rutted track than a road. Walking now, I set out along it. Trees soon lean and reach above making it closed in, a green tunnel. Nowhere to hide. Unease rises inside my gut. I slip off the track and push into the dense woods alongside.

  According to the map it is half a mile to their house, but picking my way with no path through undergrowth and trees, it soon seems longer. Branches pull at my hair, brambles catch my clothes, and I look longingly at the lane.

  Just as I stand, one foot forward and one back in indecision, engine sounds come from the direction of the house. A vehicle, coming fast: I duck in shadows next to a tree. Wheels spin on the lane as a white van goes past. I catch a glimpse of the driver as it rattles along: Wayne Best.

  My heart sounds thump-thump in my ears. That was close. What would he have done if I’d been on the lane, and he’d spotted me scrambling out of the way? I must be mad. Just be careful.

  Another bend, and buildings are in sight. Though they look more like a collection of sprawling barns and outbuildings than a house, some of them half falling down. A fence and gate surrounds the lot. Out front is a metal graveyard, littered with shells and bits of rusted out cars, tractors and other machinery I cannot identify. None of the cars look operational: maybe no one is home? I consider turning around. You’re here now.

  One building to the right of the cluster looks to be falling down less than the others. There are a few straggly bushes in front of it, and an actual door rather than a hinged bit of wood.

  I hesitate, then cross to the lane and open the gate. The lane becomes a track that leads off to the left behind the buildings; fields slope up beyond. Uneven chunks of concrete are spaced through mud at even intervals to lead a path through bits of machinery to the door. Listen, first. There are rustlings in the trees, behind; no voices, no radio.

  I step out on to the first concrete step, and hop along to the next. They are soon so far apart I almost have to jump between them. The house is just a few steps away when there is a small noise, a movement, to my left. I turn.

  Two eyes. Teeth, sharp teeth. A low rumbling growl. A big dog, maybe a mix of Alsatian and something else, and he doesn’t look happy.

  I start to shake. Do I back up slowly, do I run, what? I eye the distance between me and the gate. Somehow I think if I run, he will chase. I’m fast, but not that fast: the gate is too far. I’m closer to the house. Hold your ground.

  He takes a few steps closer, growling still, then starts to bark.

  I tremble with the effort not to run, and my stomach starts heaving. Sure, barf on the dog. That will improve his mood. I swallow and back up slowly, one step at a time, towards the house. Maybe, someone is home. Maybe the door is open, either way.

  He growls deep in his throat, stalks towards me.

  Run.

  I bolt for the house. Jump at the step and scrabble at the handle. But it won’t turn: it is locked.

  Maybe this is it.

  He launches at me, so big a paw hits each shoulder and knocks me off the step and on my back in the dirt. My head thunks hard against the ground, my eyes fill with tears. Pinned down. Struggle – don’t struggle – no decision: frozen in fear I stare up at bared, sharp teeth; waves of hot, rank breath on my face; his eyes on mine. He growls.

  ‘Hold!’ A man’s voice.

  The teeth go back inside the dog’s mouth but he doesn’t move, still heavy on my chest, growling rumbling through his paws into my shoulders.

  Footsteps.

  ‘Well now Brute, what have you caught there? UP! So I can take a look.’

  The dog – Brute, huh – jumps back. I sit up, start to stand.

  ‘Stay put,’ he says, scowling.

  I sit back in the muck, and stare up at his face: close set eyes and greasy hair, so like Wayne he must be his brother. Phoebe’s dad?

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m Kyla. A f-f-f-friend of Phoebe’s,’ I manage to get out. Brute’s ears perk up when I say her name.

  ‘That worthless brat didn’t have any friends without four legs.’

  ‘We were in school together.’

  ‘So? You must know she ain’t here, then. What do you want?’

  ‘To see her mum.’

  ‘She ain’t here, either. Get lost.’

  I stare back at him, and at Brute.

&
nbsp; ‘Go! Get up, and get out of here before I change my mind.’

  I scramble up, and Brute growls louder. Hoping he’ll hold him, I dash for the gate. I’m nearly there when I hear thumping sounds, running, behind. Without turning I run the last few steps, rip the gate open and slam it shut. The latch clicks to just as Brute slams against it; it shudders, but holds. Phoebe’s dad is laughing by the house. ‘Don’t come back!’ he yells.

  No chance. See what happens when you try to do the right thing? That is enough of that. Phoebe is a closed book to me from now on.

  My Levo says 4.8: how? Just like when I was at the hospital, scared and running. Both times you’d expect my levels to plummet. I walk up the lane, too shaky to go through the woods this time, or to run. All at once it is too much; I stop and lunch heaves up out of my stomach.

  Lovely. As if mud or worse all over me and a powerful headache aren’t enough.

  Headache? I touch my hand to the back of my head, and wince. My fingers come away red: must have hit the ground harder than I realised. Since I was distracted by a snarling monster with bad breath and big teeth at the time.

  I want to collapse on the ground, right here. Not caring where I am, or who might come along. Get going.

  Nothing for it but a few miles walk home. I just start back up the lane when I hear something coming up behind, and spin round, terrified. Perhaps I’m not going away fast enough: has he sent Brute to hurry me along?

  But it is a woman, half running towards me. She raises a hand. ‘Wait,’ she calls out, and reaches me, breathless, moments later. ‘Did you want to see me? I’m Phoebe’s mum.’

  I stare back at her: thin, straggly hair tied up, lines etched around eyes full of care and worry. My resolve to have nothing more to do with Phoebe and her family wavers.

  ‘Do you know something about what happened to her? Please tell me, please.’

  She grips on my arm, tight.

  I nod, and wince with the movement.

  ‘Are you hurt? Let me see.’ And she gets out a hanky and dabs at the back of my head. ‘It’s just a small cut, maybe could use a stitch. I’m sorry about Brute. He’s been a monster since Phoebe went. He loved her.’

  ‘That dog was her pet?’

  ‘Oh yes. He used to follow her around, tail wagging, like an overgrown puppy. Made Bob so angry; he is a guard dog, after all.’ And when she says Bob a trace of fear crosses her face. Imagine being married to that man; imagine him being your father. She looks nervously back the way she came as if he might appear, and I start walking fast in the other direction.

  She follows, her hand on my arm. A silent plea. And I hear Aiden in my head: imagine not knowing what happened, the worry. Imagine.

  ‘I saw Phoebe last weekend,’ I finally say. ‘Just by chance.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In hospital in London.’

  ‘Oh God. Is she hurt?’

  ‘No, no! She’s fine.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why is she in hospital?’

  ‘She’s been Slated.’

  She stops in shock, and I forget about pursuit and stand with her.

  ‘Oh Phoebe,’ she whispers to herself. ‘You are lost to me.’ Her eyes start to fill with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and turn to go.

  ‘Is she happy, is she well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, and for telling me.’

  I start walking away; she turns the other way to the house. Words drift back, faint on the air: ‘Maybe she is better off.’

  Maybe, she is.

  ‘What on earth happened to you?’ Amy says.

  ‘I fell over.’

  ‘Get those things off here so you don’t trail mud through the house. You don’t smell too good, either.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Amy bundles Jazz into the kitchen and strips me off in the hall, dumps my stuff in the washing machine while I have a shower. The cut on the back of my head isn’t bleeding any more, and is hidden by my hair.

  By the time Mum gets home the three of us are sitting at the kitchen table with cups of tea, doing homework.

  ‘You lot look industrious,’ she says. An eyebrow raised as if somehow she knows there is more than meets her eyes.

  That night Sebastian purrs and I try to sleep. My head still aches, but more of a dull throb now than a sharp pain.

  Despite the encounter with Brute, I’m glad I told Phoebe’s mum: at least she knows. And I can see they won’t storm the hospital or raise a fuss: her dad could care less she is gone, and her mum wouldn’t dare.

  Maybe Phoebe is better off: her own mother said it. Any family Phoebe gets assigned to in months to come has got to be better than where she came from. No wonder she was so miserable to everyone; everyone, that is, except animals like that horrible dog. At the hospital her face was full of joy. What they did to her was a kindness, wasn’t it?

  Maybe my family was just as bad.

  The voice won’t go away though I shut my eyes tight. It says things I don’t believe, don’t want to hear. Now that it is night and all is quiet, it is even louder inside my head.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy aren’t coming for you, Lucy. They don’t want you. They gave you away, and you will never see them again.’

  Cold, I pull the covers tight around myself. The sheets feel wrong, all scratchy. Nothing is at it should be, even the air is wrong: it smells funny. Salty from the sea that I never saw before today.

  I wrap the pillow tight around my ears, but it is still there.

  ‘They gave you away, and you will never see them again…’

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  * * *

  ‘Heh, how’re things?’ Ben smiles his killer smile, and I want to answer him, tell him everything. That I actually did something, in talking to Phoebe’s mum. And even about the dream that woke me again and again last night. He is the only one I could even think about telling any of this, but what would he make of my dream? If my parents gave me away and didn’t want me then, why would they have reported me missing now?

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asks.

  I just shrug and swipe my card as we file into biology class. What can I say, surrounded by so many ears?

  We take our usual seats on the back middle bench. And there, at the front of the room, is a surprise: no Miss Fern.

  Instead there is a man, one I’ve never seen before. He is half sitting on the desk and facing the class, watching everyone as they take their seats. Whispering soon starts between some of the girls, and it is easy to see why: he is gorgeous. And it isn’t just the attractive bits – wavy streaked blond hair, the height of him, the way his clothes fit and hug his body – but how they are all put together. He draws the eye.

  He scans across the room, casually, bench by bench. His eyes reach mine, and something happens. I can’t work it out. It is like something passes between us. Nothing stupid and mushy, but something else. Some recognition in his, some answer in mine…but it isn’t me. I feel all flustered, and heat rises in my cheeks as he holds my gaze, unsmiling, for too long to be reasonable. When he finally looks away it feels like I’ve been dropped from a height. My head spins; my stomach twists.

  ‘Good morning, class,’ he says. ‘Miss Fern won’t be in today, or for some time. She has had an unfortunate accident. I am Mr Hatten.’ He turns to write his name on the board.

  Was there a pause in his words between ‘unfortunate’ and ‘accident’? No accident. Not Lorders, like Gianelli; not again. I bite my tongue to focus on that pain, instead. Have they taken her, and if so, why? I can’t think of a single reason. She was a good teacher, but in other ways under the radar. Anyway, there was no secret about it when they took Gianelli, so why would there be now?

  Maybe there was some other reason to replace her. Maybe Hatten is one of them.

  I study him as he goes through the class from the front, getting everyone to introduce themselves while he makes a seating plan. He doesn’t look
like a Lorder. For a start, they always wear a grey suit, or dress in black on operations. But it is more than that. Lorders, however alert and vigilant they may be for trouble, don’t acknowledge anyone under the age of twenty or so: we are beneath notice. Hatten is different: he is here, present, interested and aware of every person in the room. He is something else.

  ‘And you are?’

  Ben smiles. ‘I’m Ben Nix. But is Miss Fern all right? What happened to her?’ he asks.

  Heads swivel; ears perk up. It isn’t always the right thing to do, asking questions.

  But Hatten smiles. ‘She will be fine. She was involved in a car accident, and is in hospital.’

  ‘Next?’ Hatten says. And his eyes are on me, again. Even across the room they are a strange colour. Blue, but a pale, barely there shade of blue. If not for a darker rim on the edge of the iris they would almost blend into the white.

  ‘My name is…Kyla,’ I say. What is wrong with me? I’d been on the edge of saying something else, a name that had winked into existence, and then vanished before I even knew what it was. He raises an amused eyebrow, like he felt the slip I nearly made. Get a grip. This time I manage to look away before he does. My hands I clasp tight together to stop them from trembling.

  Hatten finishes his seating plan and begins the class. He borrows one of the student’s notebooks to see which modules we have studied; we just started a section on biological classification.

  He shuts it.

  ‘We’re going to do something different today,’ he says. ‘A practical on the brain.’ He points at Ben and me. ‘You two, help me out. Get the brain models, and pass them around: one per pair.’ Ben jumps up and I follow after him; we get small boxes out of a side cupboard Hatten indicates.

  Inside we find three-dimensional models of the brain, each bit numbered and fitting together, interlocking like a puzzle. The minutes tick past with us taking the brain apart and putting it back together, writing the names of each structure by number on a worksheet. Cerebellum, brain stem, frontal cortex, left and right hemispheres… The diagram reminds me of the cross sections of my brain I saw on Dr Lysander’s computer. That wasn’t a sketch, though; it was a scan through my living brain.