One of Us

by Jeannie Waudby

  I see a cafe ahead of me, and even though it’s not even seven yet, it’s open. I’m so thirsty. I go in and order toast and tea. It’s surprisingly busy inside. I find a table at the back in the corner. Just like Jeremiah. I should have made him tell me what was wrong before it was too late. I wolf down the toast and pour myself another cup of tea.

  That’s when I see the newspaper rack on the back door. I go and get two newspapers and bring them back to my table. I need to look. Just in case.

  It’s on the front page: ATTEMPTED BOMB AT GATESBROOKE SHOPPING CENTER. I skim through the article: After an anonymous tip-off to police . . . mystery car crash in canal basin . . . triggered remotely but failed to detonate under water . . . police want to talk to unknown caller . . . below average height, slim build, Brotherhood clothing, long black hair . . .

  I look at the blaring tabloid headlines next: HOOD ATROCITY FOILED! . . . What Price Reconciliation Agreement Now? . . . WHAT WILL THEY DO NEXT?

  I rake my hands through my hair. My long, Brotherhood hair!

  Nobody was hurt.

  Oskar tried to blow me up. Now I know it for sure.

  They’re hunting me already. The police. Oskar. I have to get out of here. I make myself get up slowly and walk casually back onto the platform.

  I NEED TO do something about my hair. I almost sob with relief when I see the ladies’ bathroom. I slip inside, and a wild-eyed figure stares at me from the metal mirror. I already look like a fugitive. It won’t be long before they catch me.

  I take my mother’s scissors out of my pocket. Greg would be proud of me for being so well-prepared. I push away the thought of Greg. What will he think of me when he sees the morning papers?

  I unfold the scissors. The sharp metal edges press into my finger and thumb as I hack my hair off in spikes. After a while I don’t look like a Brotherhood girl anymore. I don’t look like me. My face is as spiky as my hair, pinched with cold, eyes with huge black pupils in this dim light.

  I scoop up the cuttings into a bundle and shove it into my pocket. Then I wash the stray strands down the drain and go outside. At the entrance to the park that runs alongside the railway line there’s a compost bin. I drop the ball of hair inside it and stir it into the mulch with a stick.

  I WANT TO search Oskar’s house. Maybe he’s destroyed all my old papers, but if there’s a chance I can prove who I really am, perhaps I can explain all this. Prove Oskar was using me. I think of Jeremiah and Tranquility Sound, the flimsy “evidence” that sent him there. I walk briskly through the streets like a person going somewhere. I’m pretty sure Oskar won’t be there, though if he got wind of my movements he’s had more than enough time to drive back. I’m banking on him staying in Gatesbrooke to look for me. But his housemate Col might be in. The thought of Col makes me shudder. I’ll have to be careful. But I also have to be quick.

  All I have to do is keep walking. I turn left at the seafront and head for the cottage. I need to lean forward against the wind just to keep moving. The sea seethes around the pier supports, white foam endlessly pouring itself on to the land. Although it thrashes so angrily, it can’t mean harm. Not like Oskar. I follow the prom under the castle and around to the other bay. The waves unfold to the sky in an expanse of gray. Nothing would last long in there.

  Seagulls wheel above the castle. The wind soars around the angles of the rooftops. I see the cottage where I stayed with Oskar in the spring, and my feet falter and stop. But I make myself keep going. I’m coming after you, Oskar.

  I slow down as I pass the windows. The front room curtains are open, and I can’t see anyone inside. The curtains upstairs are open too. That’s good. It looks like nobody’s in.

  I turn down the next street to find the alley behind the houses. It comes out into a small yard, and I can see the shadows beyond the kitchen window. I peer into the empty kitchen. There are dishes in the sink. One bowl, one mug, some cutlery. One person’s dishes. I listen, but I can’t hear anything. The key is still where it was in the spring, under an upturned pail near the back door. I unlock the door and put the key back. Then I go in and shut the door softly behind me. I stand still for a moment, absorbing the sounds of the house and the silence after the wind.

  I go upstairs, stopping on the first landing to listen again. I check the bedroom there first: Oskar’s room. My heart starts beating faster, with the hope that I might find something and the fear that somebody will come home before I do.

  I look systematically through the desk drawers, under the bed, in the wardrobe, on top of the wardrobe. Then in all the pockets of the clothes. It’s clear that Oskar has been living here recently, because in the bin there’s a coffee receipt from last week. But there are no papers or letters anywhere.

  Why did I think I would find anything? It’s hopeless. Of course he would have destroyed everything that linked me with my old life.

  The room at the front must be Col’s. It’s very tidy. I look quickly and carefully through the closet, the shelves, and drawers. But here too there’s nothing personal. I don’t bother trying to keep my fingerprints off anything, because I’m looking, not hiding. I stare out at the churning sea.

  I go back into Oskar’s room for one last look. Come on, K, think. Where would you hide things if this was your room? Ceiling, walls, floor. Floor.

  I kneel down and begin patting the carpet for loose boards. There’s one that moves under the window, but to check it I have to lift the bed leg and pull the carpet out from underneath. It’s all taking too long. My fingers are fumbling. And then I see that there is a board with no nails.

  I prise the board up and edge my hand into the cavity. My fingers find a thick envelope. I pull it out, and tip the contents on to the floor.

  Certificates, documents, photos: a life history in paper. Not for K Child, but for Verity Nekton. A real person after all.

  I think of the girl who was cremated with my name, and nausea rushes over me. I swallow it, and I push all the papers back into the envelope. I can’t read this here.

  Now I can’t wait to get out of Oskar’s house. I’m outside Col’s room when I hear a key turning in the front door lock. I don’t have time to get downstairs. I dart into Col’s room. The only place to hide is under the bed. At least the quilt hangs down to the floor. I crawl underneath. Footsteps thunder up the stairs.

  I hold my breath, hugging the envelope to my chest. I forgot to put the carpet back in Oskar’s bedroom!

  Whoever it is bounds into this room. Col. I stay very still, staring at the piping on the gray quilt.

  Music blasts out from Col’s radio. I peer under the cover. Feet.

  “Hello? Hello?” says Col’s voice.

  I stay frozen.

  “Oskar? You’re breaking up . . .” Col goes out onto the landing.

  I have to get out. I have to get out now. I roll out and tiptoe behind the bedroom door.

  “What?” There’s a pause. Col crashes the door into my face as he strides back into the room. The radio clicks off.

  There’s a little silence. “Here? You’re sure?” Col’s voice is cold. “This was your last chance.” Another pause. Then, “I’m going to say two words: Mona. Talbot.” Another silence. “Ril and I will have to leave the country now. You’ve sabotaged everything.”

  Col’s footsteps thud upstairs toward the attic. “You’d better find her,” I hear him say.

  I take my chance and run down the stairs, gripping the envelope.

  “Hey!” A shout, thundering footsteps on the stairs. “Stop!”

  He’s behind me, he’s seen me.

  The front door is making a noise, the noise of a key turning.

  Oskar! Oskar is here!

  CHAPTER 44

  I HEAR THE thump of Col leaping down the last few steps as I bolt through the back door.

  I fly down the alley, running out into the street that leads to the seafront. They’ll be here in a moment. There’s a supermarket, and I duck inside. Blend in. If Col hadn’t seen me in
the house, I would be getting the first train out of Yoremouth. But now it isn’t safe to go anywhere near the station. I grab a cart and force myself to push it slowly through the hardware aisle until my heart stops hammering. I make myself think.

  I buy a big bottle of water, some sandwiches, chocolate, and a small backpack to hold them. Then I add a flashlight and a hacksaw, because I might have to break into a beach hut to hide out. I’m turning into Greg, I think. Before coming out of the door, I search the street for Col and Oskar and put my hood up. But as I hurry toward the seafront, I see Col on the corner, scanning the promenade. The movie theater is behind me, and now I dart inside and join the line, pulling off my coat to make myself look different. I buy a ticket for the same film as the woman in front of me and follow her in.

  I sit in an empty row, in the middle, so that there are two ways to get out. It’s good to be in darkness. I zip the envelope safely inside the backpack. Maybe this is a safe place to hide. I can stay in here until it’s dark outside. I hug the backpack to me, ready to leap up. Could I read the papers in the bathroom stall? No. People don’t spend long in theater bathrooms. I can’t do anything that might attract attention.

  At first I wait for the footage of the Gatesbrooke Massacre. But of course they don’t show it here. The film opens with a train rushing into the night. I stay alert: wide-eyed, forehead creased into a taut frown, staring at the screen but seeing nothing. I jump when a little girl pats my knee, wanting to climb past. When the film ends, I change seats and wait for the next one.

  It’s 3:15 when I come out of the movie theater. I peer down the street before I step out, but it’s almost empty. The sky is dark blue and the streetlights have come on. The wind funnels between the shops. At the end of the street, waves break over the promenade.

  I need to hide. I need to eat. I need to sleep. But most of all, I need to read. I clench my precious backpack to my chest. Wind lashes the spikes of my hair. Long hair yesterday, short hair today.

  The beach huts. I lean into the wind and push toward the shore, where pebbles rattle and crash against the surf. Verity yesterday, K today. Nobody tomorrow if I don’t find shelter soon. Oskar and Col could be watching me now, from a window. It’s too exposed on the promenade. I double back and dart down the little road that leads to the castle. Try to breathe calmly.

  By the time I come out by the seafront and cross the road, I am as far as possible from Col’s house. There’s only one car parked at the end of the promenade. It looks empty. I keep my head down, but rain and spray, sweet and salt, lash my face.

  The beach huts at this end are the old ones, with rusty metal windows and doors. Maybe I won’t even need the hacksaw. I stop outside the last one and check behind me. Nobody. The sea is loud on the shingle, pitching white foam over the breakwaters. I try to smash the rusty padlock on the door with a rock, but in the end I have to saw through it. All the noise is sucked away by the wind. No wonder nobody is out on the beach.

  When I’ve got the door open, I edge inside, trying to pull it shut behind me. For a moment it feels warm and silent, out of the wind. The hut is small and bare, smelling of mildew and damp. There is an iron bench and a table. Behind me, the wind worries at the door. This isn’t much of a refuge after all.

  I sit on the bench and try to focus on the sound of the waves sweeping over shingle, rather than the thumping of my heart inside my rib cage and the roaring of my blood in my ears. I need to remember who I am. But all I can think about is the girl they called K Child, drowned in the sea. Maybe when I read Verity Nekton’s papers I’ll find out what really happened to her. I don’t think it’ll be anything good. I am sure now that they are the same person.

  I take the envelope and flashlight out of my backpack. The door begins to bang against the frame. Bang BANG. Bang BANG. Wind whips the corner of the hut. Maybe someone will walk their dog past here, the way they do every evening, and wonder why this door is banging today. Or maybe the parked car isn’t empty at all. And I can’t use the flashlight, because the light will show. Stupid! Stupid! No place to hide.

  Then I hear a stealthy crunch on pebbles. I fumble the envelope back into my backpack and tiptoe to the door. I can’t see anyone, but I hear footsteps on the promenade behind the huts. I creep out of the hut and hurry down the row, on the seaward side, my breath gasping in my throat.

  When I reach the end of the huts I sprint for the promenade, but as I leap my foot slides under a large stone and turns sideways. A sickening splinter of pain shoots up my ankle. I bite back the scream. Footsteps pound on the shingle behind me. I run into the stabbing pain, limping across the road and into an alley.

  The alley emerges into a square. Grandma’s community center, where Oskar and I once talked, looms over it.

  The door is open and people are arriving and going inside. Best way to hide? In plain sight.

  Heart thumping, scarcely breathing, but with a vague smile on my lips, I walk as naturally as I can up the steps, wave over the heads of the people in front of me to look as though I have a friend inside, and go into the lobby. But it’s all right. I don’t look like a Brotherhood girl anymore. I rummage in my bag for a tissue to give me time to look about. On the right there is a staircase and a sign for the ladies’ bathroom. On the left there is a men’s and a corridor. I go toward the stairs, and when I’m sure nobody is watching, I crawl under them, behind a stack of folding tables.

  The moment I sit down, the pain overwhelms me. But it’s OK, because this is a good hiding place. It’s very cramped behind the tables and I can’t take the papers out in case someone hears them rustle. The people in the hall are singing. I put my wrist nearer to the light to look at my watch: 4:20. This is the first time I’ve ever been in Grandma’s community center, even though she spent half her life here. The last few people don’t leave until almost eight. I can hear laughing and chatting by the open door, and an icy draft slices through gaps under the stairs. Finally the door slams.

  I wait until I’m sure I’m alone. Then I slowly unravel myself and crawl out from behind the tables, trying not to put weight on my ankle.

  I find a place to read the papers in the ladies’ bathroom. There’s no window, so I can put on the light. A fan comes on too, but it’s quieter than the wind. I lock the outer door and sit down on the green linoleum floor, with my back against some warm pipes. I get out the envelope I took from Oskar’s house, and everything changes.

  I EMPTY IT all onto my lap, and I can’t believe what I see.

  First a letter from my old school saying: Congratulations! You have been successful in obtaining a place for junior year. I riffle back to find the date. Just days after I met Oskar. I cast my mind back. I wasn’t failing then.

  Oskar manipulated everything. He set me up to fail. But why did he choose me?

  I put the letter down. The wind is louder now, whining around the side of the building. I must make myself read the papers about Verity Nekton. She was a real person. The first page is her birth certificate.

  Mother: Kit Nekton

  Father: Ambrose Nekton

  With shaking fingers I shuffle through the papers, and I find Verity Nekton’s parents’ marriage certificate.

  Her father’s name was Ambrose John Nekton. Her mother was Kit Jane Child.

  My mother’s name was Jane Child.

  Tiny dots crackle around my eyes as I stare at the type. Kit Jane Child. Jane Child, my mother. John Child, my father. Ambrose John Nekton.

  Grandma, what did you do?

  I am K Child.

  I am Verity Nekton.

  CHAPTER 45

  I SEARCH THROUGH the papers until I find the photos and peer at them in the dim light. That must be my mother, Kit, holding hands with my father, Ambrose. My mother is pregnant. Kit looked like me. Ambrose was tall, with curly hair. I pore over the photos through my tears, at these people I feel I’ve never seen. There’s another photo, of a newborn baby asleep with arms flung up above her head. Me. And one of the three of us
together. I can imagine them choosing a pretty name for their baby girl. Verity. And I’m smiling too, almost laughing with relief, to finally see their faces.

  It takes me a moment to notice the Brotherhood clothes my father is wearing. My father was Brotherhood! And my mother too. She wore Brotherhood clothes—she must have joined when she got married. How could Grandma ever have accepted that? Of course: she didn’t. Everything suddenly makes sense. My name, K. It’s just my mother’s initial. That’s all my Grandma could bear to give me. No wonder she never let anyone see me.

  Oskar hates the Brotherhood. That’s why he hates me. He was never a policeman. But he does work for an organization. One that can provide cars. And bombs.

  I scrabble through the rest of the papers. Here’s another birth certificate, a copy from when I was two. K Child. Grandma must have gotten this one.

  Eventually I reach for the bundle of newspaper cuttings, and as I read them, the knowledge seeps into me with a chilly inevitability: something that’s always been there, just out of sight.

  Grandma’s house, where there were no photos. The life I led with her, hidden away, never going to school, never coming here. I read through the articles until I get to the end.

  All the clippings are about the bomb that killed my parents. It went off in the concourse at Gatesbrooke Central Station, killing nineteen people. I close my eyes when I read that. Then I make myself read on, even though I’m hardly breathing now. First there’s a list of the dead, with names and photos. My parents’ faces are there too. Nothing about me.

  I turn to the next cutting, and the next. I know what I’m going to find now.

  First the calls to find those responsible. Then recriminations. The possibility of a suicide bomber.

  And then I finally allow myself to face it. I am Verity Nekton, and Verity Nekton’s parents are my parents.

  My ears begin to ring. I snatch up the last clipping, but my vision is blurring. I force myself to hold the paper still and look at the photos.