“Ms. Cobana?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Verity. Verity Nekton.”
“Verity!” Her voice lightens. “How are you?”
“I need your help,” I say. “Is it, could I, talk to you?”
“Of course.” There’s a pause. “Where are you?”
“Gatesbrooke station.”
“OK.” I can hear her thinking. “Can you come to the station where you and Greg got stranded?”
“Yes. All right.” I wonder why she doesn’t say “Limbourne station.” And because she doesn’t, I don’t either.
“I’ll meet you there outside the station. The next train from Central Station. Is that all right?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
She did mean it.
LIMBOURNE STATION LOOKS different in the daytime. I hurry past the waiting room, so I don’t have to think about my night there with Greg, then up the stairs and into the parking lot, where I see Ms. Cobana with her hair flying around her head in a wild black-and-gray tangle.
She pushes her glasses up her nose and smiles at me. “Come on,” she says. “This way.”
“Thanks . . .” I begin, but Ms. Cobana puts a finger to her lips.
We get in her car and drive out into the countryside. She pulls up suddenly alongside a hedgerow with spiky twigs that rattle against my window. She gets out, and beckons for me to follow. This is weird, because there’s nothing here. But I do it. What have I got to lose?
Ms. Cobana takes a piece of paper out of her pocket and holds it up to show me. Have you got any bugs on you?
I stare at her in surprise. She puts her finger to her lips again. Then she takes a small handset out of her bag and runs it over every bit of me. When it passes over my hat, it starts to beep. Ms. Cobana takes it off my head and rummages around inside the lining.
Is she mad? But now she holds something up—a small round metal thing like a watch battery. She has a funny sort of smile on her face, half-rueful, half-triumphant. She finishes running her detector over me and then she pops a stick of gum into her mouth, chews it up, spits it into her hand, and fixes the little metal lozenge into it. She places it carefully in the road and jerks her head back toward the car.
We sit and wait. It’s not long before a van comes up the lane, and drives off with a flattened blob of chewing gum stuck to a tire.
“Good,” says Ms. Cobana, starting the engine.
“Ms. Cobana?” I begin. “I had no idea that was there.”
“I know.” She turns right onto a mud path, drives a short distance, and then stops the car in front of a gate. She gives me a brief smile. “We have to walk the last bit.”
I look sideways at her as she closes the gate. She never seemed interested in security when she was my Art teacher at the Institute.
At the end of this overgrown lane, a small bungalow is almost hidden among the apple trees, which have sprouted right up to the walls. The grass is knee-high. Apples, mostly brown with rot, lie all over the path and in the grass, filling the air with the sour tang of cider.
Ms. Cobana turns her key in the lock. “I don’t get much time for gardening,” she says. “Until summer I was living at the Institute, as you know.”
I’m expecting a damp smell, but it’s fresh inside. I follow her into the kitchen. She fills the kettle and switches it on. She ladles sugar into my mug before I can tell her I take my tea without it. But that’s OK, because I haven’t had any food today.
“We’ll eat in a while,” says Ms. Cobana, like a mind reader.
I follow her into the living room, which has colored concrete tiles on the floor and a rag rug in front of the fire. This is the first television I’ve seen in a Brotherhood building.
Ms. Cobana notices my surprise. “I need to keep in touch with the world,” she says.
She puts the tray down on the coffee table. She’s made a huge pot of tea with a woolly hat tea cozy on top of it. “One cup’s never enough, is it?” She doesn’t seem bothered that I’m just nodding or shaking my head.
“You drink your tea. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I can hear her, going around the house with her bleeper gadget, checking for bugs. I’m starting to wonder again if she’s a bit mad. But she found one in my hat, didn’t she? The hat that Ril gave me. How did Ms. Cobana know?
Then I realize: because it’s not the first time. What else have Ril and Oskar given me? My boots. My bag, with the wooden fastener that disappeared after Greg picked it up on the bus.
Finally Ms. Cobana comes back in and sits down.
“So,” she says. “Verity. What’s on your mind?”
“Ms. Cobana,” I begin. “I’m not—”
“Call me Tina,” she cuts in. “Short for Constantina.” She makes a face.
“I’m not Verity Nekton,” I start again. “My name is K Child.”
CHAPTER 32
MS. COBANA LOOKS at me, waiting.
So I tell her everything, and now that I’m finally telling the truth, the words spill out. I stop and watch when she hears that I’ve never been a real Brotherhood girl. But she doesn’t look shocked. She doesn’t seem at all like a teacher now.
“Ms. Cobana?”
“Tina.”
“Tina . . . Was I bugged at the Institute? From the beginning?” Eyes and ears.
She smiles at me. “The Institute has quite sophisticated security,” she says. “Even before the visitors’ book disappeared. I thought maybe you’d worked it out when Brer Magnus took your boots.”
“I just thought he had some kind of boot fetish.” The corner of Tina’s mouth twitches. “Did Greg know?”
“What do you think?”
Then I tell her about Greg. But it’s hard to talk about Greg, and about visiting his family. I dash tears away with the backs of my hands. Tina doesn’t say anything.
And now I can’t stop talking, but it all comes out in a jumble. I tell her about Verity Nekton’s terrorist parents, and about the Brotherhood Student Fellowship, and how only Jeremiah went there, and how now he’s been sent to Tranquility Sound, because of me. I tell her about the girl who Oskar and Ril pretended was me, who drowned and whose ashes were scattered in Gatesbrooke crematorium, and how I saw my name on a plaque there. And how since then I haven’t told Oskar anything at all, ever, about anyone.
“But it’s too late.” I can’t stop the tears from spilling out. “For Jeremiah,” I go on. “I thought he was very militant at first, but still, he’s not a terrorist. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“Hmm,” says Ms. Cobana. Tina.
“I don’t know whether I should talk to Oskar about him.”
“I strongly advise you not to do that,” says Tina. She leans forward. “Why did you decide to become Verity Nekton?”
She must think I’m so stupid. Or that I’m lying. So I try hard to give her a true answer. “After the bomb,” I say. “I wanted to fight it. I thought I could do something to stop it happening again. And Oskar believed in me.” I pause. “I thought Oskar believed in me. I wanted to study Art. I didn’t think past that . . .” I stop. “I never thought I’d be stuck as Verity. I didn’t think it would matter. It didn’t feel real until it was too late.”
“Well,” says Tina. “I think you’re going to have to go on being Verity Nekton for the time being.”
“I could do that,” I say. “But I think Jeremiah was arrested because of me. So I’m scared for the others.”
Tina doesn’t speak. She picks up the teapot and pours us both more tea.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say eventually. “I can’t go back. Everything’s gone.”
“Have you said anything about anyone other than Jeremiah to Oskar?”
“No.”
“Do you feel you are in actual danger from Oskar?”
I shake my head. “Not me. But Greg.” The tears spill again. “I split up with him this morning. Because I don’t want Oskar to tell anyone about him, or the others.” Greg’s f
ace looking at me through the bus window comes back into my mind, and I have to stop.
Tina puts her fingertips against her bottom lip. She pushes a big box of tissues across the coffee table toward me. “I need to think about what you’ve told me.”
I make myself stop crying.
Eventually she says, “I think you’ve done the right thing in splitting up with Greg.”
I nod.
“Did you tell him why?”
I shake my head.
“That’s good,” she says. “I did try to warn you how close he is to Brer Magnus.”
Of course this is what Greg didn’t want to have to tell me—that he kept watch on me for Brer Magnus. But I can’t think about it. I know I can’t trust Oskar anymore but I want to remember Greg as somebody I did trust. So I stop listening to what she’s saying.
“Verity?” she says. “I think you should go back to the Institute. Carry on as normal.”
I shake my head. “How can I do that?”
“It’ll be all right,” she says. “But keep away from Greg. And now I think we should eat something.” She goes into the kitchen and shouts through, “What do you want—pizza, hamburger, sweet-and-sour chicken, or battered fish?” She appears in the doorway waving a frozen dinner in a cardboard box. “I’m having this,” she says. “But you can have whatever you want.”
I wonder if perhaps she doesn’t believe me. We eat in the living room.
“Can anything be done for Jeremiah?” I say.
She puts down her fork. “I’ll certainly look into that.”
“And the girl, the girl they identified as me?” I hurry on. “I believed Oskar when he told me she wasn’t Verity Nekton, but now I keep wondering.”
“I’ll need some time,” says Tina. “About Jeremiah, especially. Are you absolutely sure that Oskar poses you no threat?”
“He wouldn’t arrest me,” I say. “I think he does hate Brotherhood people. But he knows I’m not one.”
“Good. Of course, you’re welcome to stay.” She stands up. “But I think it would be much better if you went back tonight. That way hopefully nobody will notice that you were away at all. There’s a train in ten minutes.”
THE LIGHT IS failing as I walk along the drive. The wind has sprayed oak leaves against the wire fence, crumpled brown fairy lights strung against the concrete sky. The air smells of fog.
After Mr. East lets me in I open the door, drawn in by the warmth and the smells of dinner. I hurry as fast as my cold feet will let me, through the courtyard and past the canteen. I could go in. But instead I go up to our room in the Sisters’ house. When I open the door a blast of cold air hits me. I left the window wide open this morning, and the fog has drifted in with its sharp smell of sodden leaves. Even the light seems gray when I switch it on. My bed is a tangled mess, with the bottom sheet half off. I close the window and the curtains and write a message on Serafina’s pink notepad, then stick it to the door for Serafina and Celestina:
Have gone to bed now, not feeling well. See you tomorrow. V
That should keep them off my back for tonight. I get into bed as I am—I’m too tired to get undressed—but then the door flies open.
“Verity?”
“Serafina?”
Serafina snaps the light on again, twitches back the duvet and looks at my clothes. “In bed, huh?”
I shrug.
She sits on her own bed. “So,” she says pleasantly. “What’s up? Where have you been? First Jeremiah, then you disappear. Everyone was really worried.”
My tired brain cranks into gear, trying to think of a story. Serafina and I stare at each other. She’s waiting.
“Serafina,” I say. “How . . . how good friends are we?” I’m too tired to talk properly.
“Good?” she says.
“OK,” I say. “Good enough for you to trust me, even if I don’t tell you anything?”
Serafina picks up my note. “Good enough for tonight, I guess.” She stands up. “I’m worried about you, Verity,” she says, switching off the light.
“Don’t be.”
She’s gone. I think she must know about Greg. But I’m so tired that I just pull the duvet back up.
A submerged thought bobs up to the surface of my mind and floats there: Greg and Brer Magnus. What did Greg tell him about me? Did he report every little conversation? Did Brer Magnus tell him to help me with my Math? Was I a fool to feel that our friendship was slowly growing, like a blade of grass pushing itself up between paving stones? When did Greg stop reporting to Brer Magnus?
And the thought I can’t bear: Did he ever stop?
CHAPTER 33
I SPEND EVERY spare minute of the next day in the Art room, printing olive green over the yellow-gold and orange on my woodcut. When I hear the ink hiss as I pull the paper off the block, it’s as if the dead sunflower has come alive. Thankfully I have the room all to myself. Greg has gone to the city for the afternoon with Celestina and Emanuel.
I put the last print into the drying rack and scrub the wood with white spirit. Outside the clay-tiled windowsill there is only swirling gray, with white rain beads spattered onto the glass. Before I leave, I cut away the bits I want to stay green. There’s not much standing out on the block now.
THE WEEKEND COMES and I know it’ll be harder to avoid Greg now that there’s just a handful of us here. Dismal light oozes around the curtains. Ten o’clock. I’ve missed breakfast. I think about the day ahead. Lunch in two hours, then the long, empty afternoon. I throw on some clothes: long skirt, polo-neck sweater, red-checked scarf, leggings, warm socks. I brush my hair, and I’ve just opened the door a crack when I hear people talking downstairs by the front door.
“I’m going to see Verity.” Greg’s voice.
“You can’t come in the Sisters’ house!” That’s Serafina. “I’ll get her for you.”
I grab my bag and put on my coat and shoes. Then I fling the window open.
Just as I’d suspected back in the spring, it’s easy to drop down onto the roof of the back porch and then down the drainpipe. I land with a thud in the back garden, with its straggling autumn lawn that spreads down to the willow tree and the woods.
“Verity,” says Greg.
I jump. He’s standing beside the porch. For a moment we both freeze, like cats meeting on uncertain territory.
Then Greg shrugs. “Why use a door when there’s a window?” he says. “Or stairs when you’ve got a drainpipe?”
Is he angry? Is he trying to be funny? I’m not sure what to say. He’s so close that I could reach out and touch his face.
But Greg speaks again. “Why talk when you can run away?” He thinks I’m a coward.
Suddenly I just can’t do this anymore. “Why not leave me alone?” It’s not a pretend shout. It’s a real, angry shout, coming up through my feet and out through my face. “Why not get lost? Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
I see the surprised look on his face, the recognition of genuine feeling. Then I run past him, and I don’t stop running until I reach the lodge.
“I’m going for a walk,” I say to Mr. East.
“Want to take Raymond?”
“When I get back,” I promise.
I’M HOT AND tired now, but I keep walking quickly. I don’t want to stop. The morning mist is beginning to drip off the trees that line the drive. Some of them have bark that has turned black with damp.
I jump on the first bus into town and get off at the station. I’m going to buy some boots at the New City shopping center—warm boots with laces that tie snugly around the ankles. But as I look across at the door into the center, I realize that the old building next door is a swimming pool. I go in, up some curving concrete stairs. The reception desk has goggles and swimsuits hanging for sale behind it. I buy a plain black swimsuit and rent a towel.
Beside the pool, the air smells of chlorine, and there’s a booming soft echo to all the splashes. It’s busy, with lots of children, because it’s the weekend.
<
br /> I ignore the stares as I go into a cubicle. I guess it’s not every day that a Brotherhood girl goes swimming in public. After all this time being covered up, it feels strange to come out wearing only a swimsuit. But as soon as I slide into the deep water, I feel I’ve come home. As my hands cut into the blue water, I can’t stop thinking of the things I want: Greg. My name back. Not to have to pretend. Grandma’s voice comes sharply into my mind: “I want, can’t have!”
I plow up and down until I’m tired. When I’m dressed again I decide to skip the shopping center after all and buy some boots in an army shop instead. I put them straight on. The laces and hooks hug my ankles. They’re stiff, but they feel good. I cross the bridge and walk down to the canal, along the service road next to the Meeting Hall. They’ve taken the scaffolding down from the front and now they’re working on the side. I stand looking into the canal basin. There’s no wall by the water’s edge, just a strip of grass. Was I right to tell Tina? Maybe she can’t help, but I don’t think she would hurt me. I think I can trust her. I watch the rushing water of the dam, so smooth and black for the moment it hangs suspended over the drop, and then so angry and broken into white tumult when it falls. A heron is frozen on the wooden bridge to the houseboats.
IT’S SUNSET BY the time I get off the bus at the Institute. The light is blue, the sky glowing pink and gold behind the firs.
I become aware of eyes fixed on me. Raymond is watching me from behind the gate, tail wagging slowly and hopefully. I promised him a walk, and it’ll be good to talk to him and listen to his silent wise dog replies.
As I walk through the gate Raymond trots happily beside me, sniffing from left to right. “He looks with his nose,” I say to Mr. East when I reach the lodge.
“Of course he does.” He grunts. “He used to be a police sniffer dog.”
“Shall I take him for a walk?”
“Just in the grounds now it’s dark.” He goes inside to fetch the ball.
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