It seemed like forever, it seemed like there couldn’t be enough stairs in the world, before the stealthy tread reach her attic steps. No tacks, thought Heidi. But these feet weren’t bare, anyway. Just purposeful; measured; and very quiet.
She lay on her side, her head in shadow, facing the door. Through her lashes she saw the hand first. It gripped the door frame, sinewy, big; and pale in the light of a torch or candle that was out of sight. Then the face, a white man’s stark, commanding face with deep-set eyes that were just holes under frowning brows. No beard, a gash of a mouth. It looked at her, the man looked at her, and she knew he was making up his mind. She could expect no mercy, no pity. Whatever he wanted, he would do it, he had no limits.
The face and the hand, disembodied, stayed there motionless: longer than Heidi thought she could bear. She could have heard their owner breathing, if he breathed at all. Then they withdrew, disappeared, and the footsteps sank down into the pit again. Heidi sat up, staring into the dark, her hands pressed to her mouth so hard it hurt.
What’ll I do? she thought. What’ll I do if he comes back?
If she caused trouble, Mum would have nobody.
People like you and your mum are lucky to be alive
England was supposed to be different now, people like Heidi and her mum and dad were supposed to be safe. But Mum was so helpless. When the cat crept, trembling, back up onto the bed, Heidi just took it her arms, glad of any company. Miraculously, with that warm, smelly, terrified bundle of fur curled beside her, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
5: A Traveller On The May
The boy called Clancy arrived in the water meadows above Mehilhoc towards sunset.
He’d been keeping out of sight and hadn’t seen a road sign for a day or two, though he’d passed under roads: but he knew where he was. The river May moved slowly here; a rising tide pushed against his gentle progress. He shipped the oars and trailed his fingers in the water: comparing what he saw to the OS map spread on his knees.
Once the May had been navigable. Barges had been pulled up and down, carrying loads of brick and coal. You could still see the old banks: topped by bent-elbowed alders, and washed head-height by a high-tide of flood litter. In mediaeval times ships from France had sailed right up to the inland port, where the castle stood.
Tall trees climbed the slopes on either side of the meadows. To Clancy’s right, they overtopped the wall of the National Trust Gardens. To his left, the Carron-Knowells estate was deer-fenced. Clancy disliked fences and walls, but he could tolerate an old, weathered wall as a neighbour. He licked his fingers.
‘Salt,’ he said to himself, aloud. ‘Close enough.’
Pulling over to the Gardens bank he disembarked, and made fast to a stout root under a hawthorn. The rain had cleared, the afternoon felt almost spring-like. The valley was very quiet. No grazing livestock. A blackbird sang, far off in the trees. Wood pigeons churled softly, take two cows taffy, take two cows taffy. A chaffinch called in alarm, pink, pink, pink,and followed up with a flurry of hurried music. Clancy watched the May’s quiet flow.
‘No reason why I shouldn’t stay for a while,’ he murmured.
Tomorrow he’d choose a site and make camp, which was not something to be hurried. Tonight he’d sleep in the boat. He shifted the rowing bench, spread his sleeping bag on the bottom boards and lashed the tarp into place: completing these tasks with the speed and neatness of long practice. The next hour or so was spent cutting and carrying armfuls of dead bracken from the rusty stands at the foot of the wall, and spreading them over the boat until there was nothing to be seen, for anyone passing: only a heap of winter debris caught against the bank. He didn’t think anyone was going to bother him, but better safe than sorry.
Daylight had seeped away by the time he was satisfied. He pulled his pack from under the tarp, and prepared for dinner by making an offering to the river. A fragment of smoked Polish sausage sank at once. A hunk of bread and a small piece of cheese were adopted by the tide —which had turned while he was making ready for the night— and went dancing off down to the sea. His gifts were accepted, the omens were propitious.
He ate his own share slowly, a woolly scarf muffling his chin; hood well down. He’d have liked a hot drink, but he’d run out of stove fuel, and Clancy never lit a fire in the open.
The stars came out. He tried to name them, alternately lying on his back and sitting up to consult his Planisphere with a shaded penlight. (He knew that in country darkness the tiniest light leaps out at people, and can attract unwelcome attention). Betelgeuse, Aldebaran and Mars: Astrology and Astronomy both appealed to him. Do the stars and planets send us messages? Do they know what patterns they are making; from the point of view of human eyes? Are they really talking to the people who look out from the surface of this blue dot, in the family of an ordinary sort of star called the Sun? Like a complicated, aeons-long-distance kind of mirror-writing. If they do make signals for us, he thought, I bet they make mistakes too. Did we send disaster is nigh? Oops, typo! We meant, delight is nigh. Prepare for the end of the world: prepare for better times. But he should turn in, the March night was cold and he was getting chilled.
Cocooned in his sleeping bag, he made up the log and marked his personal map. Tuesday, approx. 16.00 hrs arrived at destination. When he’d put his colours and inks away, with the map and notebook, in their waterproof box, he turned off his wind-up, and lay awake. He was glad there were no cattle. Cowpats, Clancy hated cowpats. Was that the sound of footsteps? Sometimes he wished he had a dog, or a cat (if you could get a cat to accept this way of life); just for the early-warning system. He heard an owl, and felt his demons gather.
It was always hard to sleep in the boat, with the tarp almost on your nose. In the end he abandoned the fight, wriggled out of his cocoon, and clambered onto the bank.
The stars had vanished. The moon, some nights past the full, was rising in a veil. White mist filled the meadow. He waded up to his thighs, his cargo pants getting soaked. Two dark shapes raised their heads above the foam; antlers like springing thorns: roe deer. They leapt away, reached the wall and bounced right over it, as if on springs. Clancy laughed, slipped, and fell on his face in the wet grass. Ouch. His right palm had connected with the edge of something hard, smooth and squared. He sat up, shook his penlight so he could see what he was doing, and dug the thing out. It was a cigarette lighter. He rubbed dirt from an inscription he couldn’t read, and thumbed the wheel as a matter of form. A gout of fire sprang up. He was so astonished he flamed it three times before he realised what he was doing.
Lighter fuel, he thought. Is somebody around here selling contraband?
It was an intriguing item, anyway. He stowed it in an inside pocket.
Heidi had found her window’s missing panes, in the old fireplace behind the bookcase: glass diamonds tangled in a dusty knot of lead strips. At home she’d have looked up ‘Mending Leaded Windows’ on the internet. She would have a go, anyway. Smooth out the lead with a hammer, track down some heavy-duty glue, maybe in that Utility Room:something that would stick metal to glass. It was a project to pursue.
She’d taken a good hard look at Stubbly Chin, under cover of serving breakfast, lunch and supper. The monster must have been him, who else? But everything’s always different in daylight. Old Wreck Roger didn’t look all that dangerous, and nothing had happened, he’d only peeked. She’d decided to hope for the best. He was probably harmless.
The cat had not pooed in her room: although the hole in the window was now securely covered. It must have other exits and entrances from its rooftop home. Maybe that’s why the whole attic floor was so cold. She leaned out as far as she could. The moon, no longer her enemy, had risen blurred in cloud. A long way off, deep in the dark, she saw a tiny flash.
Three times—
‘Did you see that, Bad Dream Cat? D’you think it was a signal?’
The Bad Dream Cat was curled up tight on her duvet, hoping to spend the night there. It still s
melled horrible, but she couldn’t bring herself to chuck it out. She shut the window, got into bed, and her feet found its warmth like a hot water bottle.
‘All right, grumpy. Don’t have a conversation. Goodnight.’
6: The Inspector and the Inquisition
On Wednesday morning, before making breakfast, Heidi circled the Garden House with her phone in her hand: puzzled that she still couldn’t find the hotspot. She had no luck.
The rain on Monday night had left everything drenched and shining. The world looked brand new, and Heidi’s head felt washed clean of nightmares after two solid nights of sleep. On the lawn outside the breakfast room a set of garden furniture had been left to rot, under a cedar tree. In the tall hedge a wrought-iron gate was hung with sparkling dew, and one perfect, crystal-sprinkled spider web. Heidi was feeling so normal she took its photo; though her phone’s camera wasn’t that great.
Through the gate and along a short path she found a dead tennis court, weeds pushing through the red gravel; and a rectangular swamp that had been a swimming pool. The pool cover, rolled on a rusted stand at one end, would never move again. The water’s surface was so thick with duckweed it looked solid. Plants grew out of it. Bubbles plopped busily. Heidi crouched for a closer look and confirmed that the bubbles were frogs. The Jurassic swamp of a swimming pool was alive with beautiful little bright green frogs. Fairytale creatures, with golden jewel eyes, staring up at her cheekily before vanishing—
The swamp heaved. A head appeared, crowned in scum, duckweed trailing down its cheeks, catching on stubble. It surged towards her, scrawny white neck and shoulders bobbing in and out of view. Heidi leapt to her feet. The swimmer grasped the rim of the pool, scummed to the nipples, and grinned at her, gap-toothed.
‘Get out!’ shouted Heidi, completely forgetting she was a slave. ‘You can’t swim in there. Those frogs are endangered and protected! You’re messing up their habitat!’
‘Friggy froggy, frig frog,’ said Stubbly Chin. ‘It must be spring, eh?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Heidi backed off. ‘I beg your pardon. But you shouldn’t.’
‘Come on in Heidi! The water’s lovely.’
He hauled himself out by the steps and sat there ankle deep in slime, scooping handfuls of duckweed from himself. It was the first time she’d spoken to him, or heard him speak. First time she’d seen him, apart from in what might have been a nightmare; except at mealtimes.
‘Excuse me. I have to go now. I’ll be careful your egg isn’t hard.’
‘Heieieidiiyiyiyi! ’
She looked back. Stubbly Chin was sitting there grinning at her. She wondered why he didn’t just get out, as the water must be freezing as well as slimy, and he clearly wasn’t shy. Maybe his feet were even uglier than the rest of him.
At breakfast he was clothed as usual, a streak of duckweed around one ear. As usual the brother and sister did not speak: not while Heidi was in the room, anyway.
Unbroken sleep had sorted out her plans as well as clearing her mind. She knew what to say to the Inspector. It was simple; it was the only thing that made sense. She zipped through her chores, served lunch, cleared away, and set out running.
What if somebody had locked the door in the wall?
Nothing had changed. When she reached the lane she walked slowly, breathing deep. She needed to be calm and relaxed to make the right impression. At the doors of the Learning Centre a boy about her own age slipped by her: brown hoodie pulled well down over his face. She guessed he must be another Exempt Teen, and waited until he’d gone down a corridor before she ducked into the Access Booth. Once inside she took a last deep breath, entered the number and followed the prompts.
An interview room appeared. She seemed to be in it, sitting on one side of a pale blue table, facing a door. It looked very like the room in her memory: the real place where she’d been interviewed, in the cloudy days after Dad died. She was alone this time. Someone had been with her the last time: a woman, but not Immy; or Verruca. The Police Inspector came in, sat down, and looked at Heidi across his joined hands.
Was it the same policeman? She thought so. Would he remember her?
He did remember. When she told him she wanted to visit her mum, he seemed perplexed: like Virtual Verruca when she discovered Old Wreck didn’t have a 3D biometric printer in the house. But unlike Verruca, he wasn’t hostile.
‘Why are you asking me, Heidi? It’s not in my remit—’
‘She had a breakdown. Wouldn’t you? She went out somewhere, she came back and found him like that, covered in blood. My mum did not kill my dad. I know she didn’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do, and that’s why I want to see her. She won’t talk to you, or anyone like you. People in authority scare her. She might talk to me. She might tell me what happened.’
‘Heidi, if it’s about visiting your mother, you need to talk to your social worker. Ms Obigana, isn’t it?’ The Inspector seemed to look at the bare blue table-top for information.‘Immaculata Obigana? Or is it Verushka Zabata, now? I have two names.’
‘Immy’s not my social worker any more. She was in an accident, the same day Dad got killed. That’s why she didn’t answer the phone. Now I only have Ms Zabata, and she’s not a social worker. She’s a placement manager for Indentured Teens.’
‘I’m very sorry for what’s happened to you, Heidi, but—’
Heidi said nothing. Keep it simple, said her instincts. You’ve told him why he should fix this for you. If you argue, he can argue back. She looked at him, hoping that silence would inspire him to admit the truth. And the truth was that he was Heidi’s only hope.
‘One moment.’
The Inspector left the virtual room, then he came back.
‘All right, Heidi. I’ll see what we can do. I’ll need to send you a travel warrant, if this works out. I have your phone number. I’ll call you about that.’
‘You can’t call me. I haven’t got signal. I’m in the country.’
He frowned, but didn’t tell her she’d have to ask Ms Zabata. He was very calm. His bony, serious face had barely moved, except for a faint smile that flitted there each time Heidi spoke, like an apology. Excuse me for being so smartly dressed, sorry I’m so far above you. She hoped the frown was a good sign. She looked at his reddish hands, clasped on the spotless table, the left thumb uppermost. His nails were cut straight and buffed; a few black hairs grew on the backs of his fingers. He wore a wedding band; and a silver pin with initials on it, in his lapel. She couldn’t read the letters.
‘If I can’t reach your phone, I’ll need the IP address of your placement.’
‘I can’t get mail there. Could you send it here, to the Learning Centre? I’ll have an address on the Exempt Teens Register.’
‘That will be fine. Don’t expect too much, Heidi. Your mother is not well at all.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. And you’re living with the Maylocks, a brother and sister, down in Sussex, I see. How’s that working out?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. Don’t forget, if there’s anything at all, anything you think you should tell me—’
‘The thing I don’t forget is that I know my mum didn’t do it.’
‘How do you know, Heidi? Have you remembered something?’
‘I just know.’
She got up to go, leaving the inspector to break the connection. Her face felt like wood, she was afraid she was going to cry. He wasn’t going to do anything about a travel warrant. She hadn’t been talking to a person, just a digital avatar. There could be anybody or nobody behind that mask. She’d been pleading with a stupid doll, and thinking it could understand like a human being.
The Exempt Teens meeting was already in session when she tracked them down. They were in the Computer Room. Workstations lined the walls, old-fashioned but functional. Tanya with the thick glasses sat facing a motley group of teenagers ‘informally arranged’ on library-style comfy chairs. Heidi
slipped into an empty place.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘No problem,’ said Tanya. ‘We haven’t really started.’
The boy in brown was also in the back row, hood down, shoulders hunched, fists in his pockets. The other teens looked more at home. She was surprised to see so many of them, the village had looked tiny. About half looked younger than Heidi: about half looked fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen-ish. A tall boy with coat-hanger shoulders, and chestnut brown dreads tied in a ponytail, was one of the older ones. He looked vaguely familiar, but it was probably just the way he was dressed: as if maybe she’d seen him in a magazine, modelling expensive, hippie-type country clothes. What was he doing here? Next to him was a girl with tattoos all over her face, her head half-shaved, stencils in the stubble: who glared fiercely when she caught Heidi’s eye. Another pair of girls, both Heidi’s age, she would guess: one with shining, red-gold hair, the other wearing a blue pull-on hat. A sixteenish goon with muscles (but the goon was a girl). A beaming Munchkin, the size of a five year old, wearing ragged skater shorts, a scruffy work shirt meant for an adult, and unlaced army boots. A plump boy in a painfully white shirt; with a terrible haircut. One more girl, dishwater blonde with vague, round, pale blue eyes. She checked them out, and they clocked her back, without anyone actually staring; except for the surly girl—
Heidi remembered this experience vividly from when she was thirteen, and the Camps had just opened. Nearly everyone disappears to work on Essential Food Production. You meet the other rejects, mostly strangers, in what used to be the school library. Not that you wanted to be dragged off to Agricultural Boot Camp, but still you feel rejected. And everyone’s wondering what’s wrong with the ones who’s problems are not obvious.
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