When we reach the front I shuffle past the others swiping before they each tap a floor number. I find a place near the back, acting as if my floor has been selected by someone else. Alistair is on the eleventh, second from the top, so I follow a tall guy who gets out on the ninth. With my head high I stride straight to the fire exit.
It’s safe in the stairwell, no cameras or motion sensors when I checked, so I take the stairs two a time. When I make it to the top I get this massive head rush. This used to happen sometimes when I was sharing Mum’s rations. I need to be careful not to waste too much energy.
Two hands gripping the handrail, I breathe myself back to normal. Then out to the eleventh floor.
It’s more peaceful up here. A woman holding a sprig of flowers wanders past, peering at the room numbers, so I take that as a good sign: visitors allowed. That’s me.
I’m not sure what I’ll find when I reach Alistair; I’m scared of seeing him sick and frail. But mostly I can’t wait to see him. Maybe he’ll even tell me what job he did all these years. I think he kept the secret as part of our joke that we were secret spies; he didn’t want to let reality mess up a good game.
According to the grid, Alistair’s room shares an interconnecting bathroom with the next one along. So when I see the neighbouring door ajar, I peek inside. A skinny woman with frizzy white hair lies motionless in the bed.
Her bathroom door is part way open.
One more glance at the bed, then I bite my lip and go for it, tiptoeing straight for the bathroom and slipping through. I didn’t have to move the door; bet that woman had no idea.
The door leading from here to Alistair’s room is closed. There’s just a disengage button, no need to swipe. This is where I have to be most careful. I pull out the compad to check if anyone’s in the room and listen for voices on the other side of the door, just in case. Nothing.
Lips pushed together, I hit disengage.
Lights flash on machines and scanners around a lone figure in the bed. A quiet intensity fills the air, just the sound of Alistair breathing with the help of an oxygen mask. His head turns my way but he must be lying at a difficult angle to see because he shifts awkwardly.
The door from the hall to his room is closed. Good.
As I step closer, Alistair grabs at his oxygen mask but it’s held on tight with elastic and he fumbles with it.
I lean in and whisper, ‘Alistair, it’s me.’
It’s him, suddenly old. Really old. His skin is even drier than I remember, and sort of sagging as if it’s only just holding itself in place. His eyelids are rimmed red with a crusty sore in one corner.
He manages to pull the oxygen mask down but the top part is still covering his mouth so I don’t catch what he’s saying.
I pull it below his mouth and say, ‘Sorry?’ It’s so good to see him.
‘Scout … you can’t be here. It’s … not safe.’
‘It’s okay.’ I lift my taped wrist. ‘Again.’ As if it’s some sort of joke and not the curse of my life.
‘No.’ With slow effort, he gestures above my head.
At first I don’t get what he’s doing but when he gestures again, I turn and find a CCTV camera in a corner of the ceiling.
‘Yesterday. They … came. When did you come back?’
Heart thumping, I freeze, but that’s pointless. It’s recording, no matter what I do. How did I miss this one when I checked? It must be off-grid.
All I can do is ride the building panic, my skin tingling with the sense of being watched. Maybe they’ll think I’m someone else, that’s the only hope that I have.
‘Listen.’ Alistair gestures again and sort of pulls my hand as if trying to drag me closer. ‘Don’t let them catch you. You’ll have no … citizen rights.’ He’s speaking clearer now. ‘I think they … want to test your brain function … when you time travel.’
He’s managed to grip two of my fingers, his hand papery and cool, and I get this pang at how frail he is. I’ve only just found him. It’s too soon to leave.
‘Understand?’ he breathes.
‘Mum …’ My whisper comes out as a whine. ‘I can’t find her. She’s blocked from the grid.’
Alistair’s hand loosens for a moment and he turns his head as if he has no energy left. He turns back and his hand grips tighter.
‘I didn’t want you to find out on your own …’ His breath catches. ‘I knew you’d look on the grid.’
‘Find out what?’
He blinks. ‘Your mother died, Coutlyn. In the fire. I’m sorry … I wanted to be with you when you …’
All I can do is shake my head, because those words can’t be right. My brain doesn’t accept them.
Alistair squeezes even tighter and covers my hand with his other one. He’s trying to comfort me but I pull away and immediately wish I hadn’t. ‘But her chip was already blocked, before the fire …’
His forehead creases. ‘Later, I went back. After it had happened.’ His tone is soft.
Of course. He went back and changed the section on the grid that gave the truth away. Rewriting history. It’s obvious now that I know, but I don’t think I knew how to face that possibility. Not even sure I can now.
‘I’m … so sorry.’
All I can do is nod, biting hard on my bottom lip as my throat constricts.
‘Listen,’ Alistair whispers, reaching for me again. I rest one hand in his and he squeezes my fingers so tight that I wince and lean closer. ‘A bank account … in my name. For you. Transfer the credits … before I die. Understand? Or the state will seize control.’
‘No.’ Head shaking. ‘You’re not going to die.’
Alistair closes his eyes. Like I’m a kid who gave the wrong answer. ‘Scout.’ His eyes open and narrow on me. ‘Find somewhere safe to deal with this. You need to accept what’s happened. The truth is all you have. Understand? Sugar-coating will get you nowhere.’
‘It’s just …’
‘You have to go,’ Alistair says and releases his grip on my fingers. ‘Remember how strong you are, Agent X. Stay safe.’
Biting my lip to hold back the tears, I back towards the bathroom, holding onto the sight of him. I pause. Alistair’s shape seems to disappear beneath the blankets. How can I leave him like this?
How do I keep going?
‘Alistair, I just want you to know … how much …’ I’m fumbling for words. But before I find them, the dull patter of boots filters through from the main hall.
‘Go!’ breathes Alistair.
It works as a release, my body responding even before my brain. I’m through the bathroom and the neighbouring room, madly scanning the main hall. Three security guards scramble towards Alistair’s room, leaving the hall empty.
I dash for the stairwell, sure they’ll be right behind me but not sure what else to do. Somehow I make it without anyone trying to follow and I ease the door closed. Made it.
It should be easy racing downstairs, but I’m clumsy as I leap down, taking two steps at a time. Each leap jolts hard in my chest, a lump rising in my throat. Blood pounds in my neck at the idea of being trapped, so I try a longer jump, three stairs at once, but I stumble and have to grab onto the rail, panting.
My breath breaks into sobs. What was it like for Mum during the firestorm? Did she run, did she hide?
Did she think of me?
My eyes close. Shutting it all out. But that only makes it worse. I can’t crumble yet, even though my chest aches.
Somehow I make it down the rest of the stairwell and disengage the door to the basement. In the dim light I track a zigzag course, ducking behind rubbish containers all the way out to a lane at the back of the building.
Keeping out of sight behind a pillar, I check out a bunch of maintenance workers and staff on breaks. No police uniforms that I can see. They still might be watching for me though, so I hang back in the shadows, trying to decide whether it’s better to hide, or run.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch the smal
lest of movements: one of the workers pushing the side of his ear as he speaks into thin air. He breaks off and glances my way.
Just briefly, but it’s enough. I have to run for it.
Arms pumping, I dash across the alleyway and past a row of parked ambulances, aware that there’s no turning back: the guy with the earpiece is behind me.
As I clear the front ambulance, two police round the corner of the hospital to my left and keep coming.
They’re not running straight for me, but at an angle. They must be planning to cut me off at the end of the alley.
Not if I get there first.
My whole focus is speed: legs and arms, harder, faster. Each breath is sharp, thighs burning in protest. This is it. Right now.
Run.
Being caught is not an option. I hug the fence line as I sprint, staying as far to the right as I can, keeping the angle in my favour. And I’m going to make it. Somehow, I can already tell I’ll reach the corner before they do. The timer in my brain must have measured the speed of the police, compared it to mine and determined who will make it first. I’m living in real time, but predicting the future.
I reach the corner and turn hard right, continuing up the footpath beside the back road. It’s busier out here. I have to dodge past people that barely seem to be moving. I breathe hard as I run, clear my head. To my right is a row of shopfronts. I’m dodging to the left of a row of people as the crowd parts in front of me.
‘Make way! Police!’
‘Stay where you are!’
I’m trapped. Two police officers are coming right at me, stun guns lifted. Already I’ve veered to the side, towards the road, and I see it: a gap in the traffic, the break between batches of cars that we trained for last night.
Ahead, a batch is fast approaching, so I sharpen the angle of the turn, blood pounding in my throat at what I’m about to do.
An alarm screams as I leap off the curb but I keep going straight for the second lane of traffic. It’s not a risk if you know what you’re doing, right?
Speed and power fill the air.
I pin-drop into the tunnel.
Numbly I grope forwards, fumbling through the mess of my mind. Thoughts drift like echoes around me. The further I go, the further I leave her behind …
My thoughts reconnect and reality floods back. Sirens scream. I’m inside bright lights, flush with the pulse of my blood.
A gasp as I register. They’re still coming, the first batch of smartcars, closer than before. I’ve barely travelled a few seconds.
My shoulders are grabbed with such force that I stumble backwards and land on the footpath as the cars flash past.
‘Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!’ I gasp, adrenaline rising. I nearly died.
I’m tangled with another set of limbs, struggling to stand.
‘What happened?’ It’s Mason, dragging me by the arm, and pulling me upright. We keep running, half-stumbling, our hands locked. Have to get away.
‘Mum … she died … in the fire.’ It comes in breaks and sobs. ‘I couldn’t –’
Mason turns back with a shot of sympathy, but I break off. Beyond him, the crowd has parted and police are coming right for us.
I pull back on this arm. ‘This way!’
Together we spin around, only to find a wall of Feds in black fatigues. So many, moving fast.
‘Can you jump now?’ Mason breathes.
‘Yes. Ten days?’ Even if I can’t make it, Mason has to jump. He has to get away.
Before he has a chance to reply, Mason’s pushed to the side with such force that my wrist twists as he’s yanked from my grip. He’s surrounded by so many bodies and guns that I can only just make him out.
‘Now, Mason!’ He has to jump.
He doesn’t call back, but I can still see his shape surrounded by bodies and legs. Two officers move, and I get a clear view as Mason’s eyes roll back in his head and his mouth falls open, slack. One of the officers pulls a syringe from his neck and he drops like a broken marionette.
‘Nooo!’ I kick and thrash against the grip of hands.
The officers around Mason are reacting now, pointing and calling to each other. Something’s wrong. He’s just a tangle of limbs. Lifeless. With everything I have left, I wrench free as they flip him onto his back like a rag doll and cover his face with a medical mask.
Before I can reach him, the hands grip me again, holding me back. ‘Let me go! What have you –’ The rest of the sentence disappears as I turn to find another syringe right next to my cheek. It’s held upright and glowing fluoro blue in the hand of an officer just beside me.
‘Sir?’ The officer jerks her head towards the crowd around Mason. ‘Drop the dose? Other subject is non-responsive.’
‘Okay. Let’s try a half dose.’
‘No!’ I’m thrashing with all I have. It’s the biggest syringe I’ve ever seen. Subject is non-responsive …
But he’s okay. Please, he has to be okay.
I’m grabbed from all sides, a straightjacket of hands. A deep voice hisses in my ear, a woman with a low husky voice: ‘Stop struggling. You’re going to be okay.’
I’m trapped, suffocating as stars creep in from my vision. Can’t pass out now. I jerk my arms free, and strain to see Mason lying on the ground. A hand removing the medical mask is all I catch before the hands tighten around me once more.
It’s killing me that I can’t get to him, can’t do anything to hold them back. Pressure at the base of my neck is followed by the ache of the needle going in. The husky voice hisses again. ‘I can only help you if trust me. Don’t disappear and you’ll be okay.’
But it’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
Coolness begins to spread, a strange fug creeping in from the edges of my mind. This is my last chance to escape. It’s not really a decision; I’ve only ever had one choice.
Survive.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’M STILL HERE; a failed attempt. I’ve forgotten how to skip. The ache from the needle spreads into my mind. Ice shoots down my spine. Hands grip me hard as my knees give way. The fug grows thick, stopping me from disappearing.
But I won’t let them keep me, can’t let the police lock me away. With all that I have, I focus each thought, wrenching my mind out of now. Tearing my soul free.
All time stops.
The tunnel sucks me deep.
CHAPTER NINE
I’M NOT SURE how long I’ve been here. No idea who I am. More is out there somewhere, I think, beyond the horizon of no time, but I don’t know the way.
Here, there is no future and no past. Every moment exists at once. But every now and then I catch a glimmer of time, a spark of memory. Staring into a sky that never ends. Arms around me, holding me tight. Sharing pancakes.
Home. It’s like the faintest breath of cool against your cheek on a summer evening after a heatwave, a promise that relief exists just over the horizon.
So now, with all that I have left, I follow: an idea so faint that it’s almost out of reach. But it is something. And that is so much more than nothing.
Even as I turn towards its breath, I feel it strengthen. The pulse quickens, calling to me. I know it’s there, this shoreline that will take me back. And with this certainty comes hope; my memories form into fragments of the people I once knew. Mason. Alistair. Kessa.
Their pull grows clearer until I’m accelerating towards them, a single point in time. A place. A home.
It’s familiar, and layered with possibility. I’ve been here before.
Mum.
CHAPTER TEN
WITH A LURCH, I’m sucked up to the surface, recoiling as my lungs expand. A wave of reality washes over me as I open my eyes.
It’s night. I’m breathing hard and hot all over, bedclothes flat beneath me. It brings a sudden sense of deja vu. I’ve been here before, felt this already.
I’m sitting upright, but I topple backwards at the shock. My hands catch me and contract around softness, trying to make sense
of all this. I should have returned to the street where Mason and I were caught. Where am I now?
When am I now?
I regain my balance and one hand lifts to my mouth, finding lips and skin, reconnecting with the things I know. It slides down my neck and keeps going to rest on my chest, the truth of my own heartbeat.
It’s racing at a million miles an hour. I’m here. I’m alive.
Light from a streetlamp shines through the edges of the blind, enough to see. Pale legs stretch before me. They seem strange somehow, part of a world beyond me.
Clumsily I clamber onto the floor, expecting it to give way or swallow me completely. Each sense is overtaken by fresh reality. The rug is soft and warm beneath my palms, cushioning my knees. So many details clamour for attention that suddenly it’s too much. The world tilts and spins.
I only just make it to the bench before I puke into the sink. My guts contract, spewing out of me.
I’m clutching the bench, panting, when it’s over. I wipe the spit from my chin and examine the remnants of my stomach now splodged around the drain. The stench of it seeps into my nostrils. I’m breathless and sweaty. Brown lumps and soft jellylike bits. That looks kind of like lentil and veg soup …
Weird. The last thing I ate was a ration bar.
It’s only as I turn on the grey-water tap to rinse the mess that I get a memory-flash of blood dripping into a hole in a dismantled sink. The crunch of a glass blade against my chip, digging hard into my flesh.
It’s like the remnants of a dream, raw with emotion but difficult to hold in my mind. I lift my arm and peer at it in the dull light. There’s no wound anymore, just the faded line I drew on with make-up. And I remember drawing it on. The moment is clear in me, as if it were days ago. The pencil pressing against my skin and the hope that it would help me pass as any other citizen …
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