by C. L. Taylor
‘Help!’ I pound on the door again. ‘Help! Help! Help!’
I need to slow down my breathing. The faster I breathe the quicker I’ll use up the air. But I can’t slow my breathing down. I feel hot and faint and the tips of my fingers are tingling. If I don’t sit down I’m going to fall down so I sink to my feet and rest with my knees pulled up against my chest. I count to ten then I brace myself with my hands and slam both feet against the door. Thud. The sound fills the small space but still no one comes. I kick at the door again.
Thud.
I kick it again.
Thud.
And again.
Thud.
My feet smack against the lid of the freezer. I’m desperately trying to do a shoulder stand so I can reach the lid but I’m not strong enough to hold the position and each time I kick out I lose my balance and my knees smack against the side of the freezer. I roll onto my knees, crouch, and then pop up like a jack-in-the-box, slamming both palms against the lid. The seals hold fast and it doesn’t move.
‘Dad!’ I scream. ‘Dad, I’m in here! Dad! DAD!’
I’m only little but I know I will eventually run out of air. I don’t want to die in here, alone, cold and afraid. I want my dad. I need my dad. I don’t want to die.
Thud.
I kick at the lid again.
Thud.
And again.
Thud.
‘Dad! Dad, help! Help me, Dad! Please!’
Thud.
The walls of the freezer are damp with condensation. It smells musty, like death.
Thud.
Where’s Mason? Has he given up on our game of hide and seek and gone back into the house to get something to eat? Or maybe he’s watching TV, pleased that he can watch what he wants without his big sister snatching the remote. Or is he still hiding? He gets really cross if he’s the one that’s found first. Sometimes he cries, even though he’s seven years old. He’s such a cry baby sometimes. I need to get out to make sure he’s OK. Mum will kill me if anything happens to him. I’m his big sister. My job is to look after him. That’s what she always says.
Mason.
His face morphs in my mind, from seven years old to fifteen. Long, floppy fringe. Sullen blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes. Help me, Drew. You need to help me.
He needs my help. I need to get out of the freezer to …
More images flash into my mind:
A note. Mason’s handwriting.
A woman, staring into my face, her long, brown hair swept into a sweaty ponytail.
I clutch my head. What’s happening to me? I feel as though a film of someone else’s life is being screened inside my brain. It’s bright and vivid and I can’t turn it off. The voice is shouting in my head – I did some stupid things and I made some stupid decisions. It’s trying to distract me from the film but I can’t stop watching it.
A train. My hands. Holding a book. I see the cover as I close it. Pavlov’s Dogs: An experiment in classical conditioning.
Power lies in submission, the voice shouts. Obedience is good.
My mum, walking away from me. A pained expression on her face when her eyes meet mine.
I press a hand to my knotted stomach. I don’t want her to go. She mustn’t go.
We must all contribute to society, the voice whispers. We will make this country great.
Jude, on her bunk, staring at me. Mouse, gripping my hand. A tunnel. Mason.
A fence.
A room. A white room.
‘Drew!’ The door opens suddenly, flooding the cupboard with light and slamming into my feet.
I shuffle backwards, pulling my knees into my chest, blinking as a head appears around the open door.
‘Drew, are you OK?’
A blond-haired man wearing a white uniform stares at me in concern. I press my palms against my temples and screw my eyes up tightly against the throbbing pain that’s radiating across my head. It’s so intense it makes me retch.
‘The storm caused an electrical outage,’ the man says. ‘All doors locked automatically. It’s in case of security breaches. I heard you knocking on the door. Have you been in here long? Are you OK?’
I open my eyes and look into the face of the man who escorted me to my treatment room. Eyebrows. That’s what I called him.
‘I’m OK,’ I say, scrabbling to my feet.
‘What about your head?’ He looks at my hand, still clutching the side of my head, and his brows furrow with concern.
‘I hit it when the door shut,’ I lie.
‘Do you need to see the nurse?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. Would you like me to continue with the cleaning? I was about to mop the floors and ceiling in treatment room ten.’
He laughs. ‘You obviously didn’t lose your memory when you hit your head.’
‘No.’
I turn and yank the mop and bucket from where they’re wedged under the shelf, smiling to myself as they come free. I haven’t lost my memory. I remember absolutely everything.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It’s strange, and more than a little bit scary, being the only non-brainwashed person in the room. I feel like an alien, masquerading as a human – a Cylon in Battlestar Galactica. I look like everyone else, I sound like everyone else but, if they discovered who I really am, they’d turn on me. I only have the vaguest memory of how I felt when I was brainwashed. I can remember feeling really calm and in control of my emotions but that’s about it. So that’s what I’m doing, acting calm and in control. I’m not speaking until I’m spoken to and then I’m keeping conversation to a minimum. Mouse isn’t all that chatty so she’s not a problem but Mason does like a rousing ‘aren’t we wonderful, enlightened people’ conversation. It’s freaky, looking into his brainwashed eyes, and seeing absolutely nothing. It’s like all traces of his personality have been wiped out. Scary to think that that happened to me too. So much for my ‘I won’t be brainwashed, I’ve read a few psychology books’ bravado. A few days, weeks, hours – however long it was – of electric shocks, starvation and sleep deprivation and I was broken. I would have said or done anything for them to stop.
I take a seat on the sofa between Mouse and Mason and resist the urge to scratch at my horrible, itchy skirt and jacket. I look like I’m playing a Fifties housewife in a school play. In a minute one of the orderlies will come in, asking which community activities we’d like to do today. Thank God for the storm when I was cleaning yesterday. If I hadn’t ended up locked in a cupboard, I’d still be spouting crap about Making Britain Great like Mason.
It was fear that reversed my brainwashing. I was reading about it on the train up here. Back in the Twenties a Russian physiologist called Pavlov was researching the way that dogs salivated when they were fed. He noticed that the dogs salivated whenever he walked into the room, whether he had food with him or not. He began to ring a bell when he fed the dogs and noticed that, whenever he rang the bell, the dogs would salivate, expecting food. The dogs had been conditioned to salivate whenever they heard the sound of a bell. One day the laboratories where the dogs were kept were flooded and the dogs had to swim to the top of their cages to avoid being drowned. Pavlov’s assistants realized what was happening and saved most of the dogs by submerging them into the water and pulling them out. Later, when they repeated the ringing bell experiment on the saved dogs, they didn’t salivate. The fear the dogs had felt during the flood had reversed their conditioning.
And that’s exactly what happened to me. All I need to do now is watch what I say, stay out of trouble and sit it out until they release us. With any luck Mum will be alone when she comes to pick us up. I’ve got the entire train journey home to tell her what’s happened. There’s no way she’ll be able to deny what they’re doing here when she sees the difference in Mason. I’ll ask her to drive me straight to the police station once the train arrives then we’ll get Mason to a proper psychologist who’ll know how to reverse his conditioning. I’ll have to get Mouse’s home pho
ne number so Mum can call her parents and let them know what’s happened too. And then I’ll need to get in touch with Zed to see if –
‘Are you looking forward to it?’ Mason says, making me jump.
‘Looking forward to … what?’
Mouse gives him a look and shakes her head. ‘They haven’t told her yet. And it isn’t your place, Mason.’
‘What should I be looking forward to?’
Mason is jiggling up and down in his seat he’s so excited. ‘The evaluation at the end of the week.’
‘For what?’
‘Students suitable for Home Office training.’
‘What?’ I say the word so loudly several students look round in surprise. I need to keep it together but I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I assumed we’d be going home after we completed our treatment. Charlie did. But then again, Charlie decided he wanted to be an accountant.
‘Home Office training?’ I repeat.
‘Yes, Drew. The Home Office.’ Mason smooths his fringe across his forehead. Not that there’s a hair out of place. He looks like he’s just stepped out of a Forties men’s clothing catalogue in his grey suit and waistcoat, white shirt and oiled hair. ‘They are responsible for immigration, security and law and order.’
‘But you’re fifteen. You can’t get a job.’
‘It won’t be a job. Yet. It’s training.’
‘In what?’
‘I’ll find out when I get there.’
‘If you get there. There’s no way Mum will agree to that.’
‘She already has.’
I stare at him in horror. I can’t believe it. I won’t. Agreeing to a short stay at Norton House is one thing but the Home Office is in London. He’s fifteen years old.
‘How long is the training?’ I ask.
‘A year.’
‘You can’t go away for a year. You’ll miss Mum.’
‘No more than I do now.’
‘And your friends?’
‘I’ll make new ones.’
I feel sick. I can’t believe what he’s just told me. If he passes the evaluation, I won’t see him for a year. I won’t be able to get him to a psychologist to reverse his brainwashing. And Mum won’t be able to see how much he’s changed. She’s not going to believe me if I tell her what’s been happening here. She didn’t believe Mason when he sent the note. Oh God. I slump forward and rest my elbows on my knees. If I say a word, Tony will convince her to send me straight back.
‘Drew?’ Mason touches me on the back. ‘Are you OK? Are you feeling unwell? Should I call for an orderly?’
‘No … no. I sit back against the sofa and stare straight ahead. I want to cry, to scream, to shake Mason by the shoulders until his stupefied brain rattles in his skull. But I can’t. I am dying inside and no one can know.
‘Will you apply?’ Mason asks. ‘Megan is. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all passed the test?’
I don’t answer. Instead I stand up, walk to the window and press my hands to the glass. I’m going to have to try to reverse Mason and Mouse’s brainwashing myself. But how? I could start a fire. If I volunteer for cooking duty, I might be able to get my hands on a lighter or a box of matches. The orderlies in this unit don’t watch us as closely as the friends did in the main building. Why would they? We’ve been brainwashed to do what we’re told and not cause trouble.
A fire though. It’s risky. I’d never forgive myself if someone died. I’m going to have to target Mouse and Mason individually but the only time I see them is in this stupid lounge. Unless I want to try to frighten them to death with a chess piece I’ve got no hope. Although … if I’m given the same community activity as them I could do something. If we were given maintenance duty maybe I could push them off something or pretend to hit them with a spade. Oh God, I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I have to.
‘OK, ladies and gents.’ Eyebrows appears at the door. He’s holding his hands up for hush, which is pretty stupid considering no one is speaking. ‘It’s time to assign community activities for today.’ He consults the clipboard in his right hand. ‘OK, so, hands up for cooking. I need four volunteers.’
Mouse and Mason don’t move a muscle so I keep my hands at my sides.
‘Winston, Nesta, Sanj, Camille, OK, good.’ He clicks a pen against his teeth and scribbles on the board. ‘Maintenance?’
Several hands shoot into the air, but not on the sofa. They must be holding out for cleaning duty. Weirdos.
‘Cobey, Lou, Paddy, Hari. Great. So now we have … well, it’s a bit of an unusual one. Several of the friends in the main block are doing training today so we need three of you to stand in for them. Do we have any volunteers?’
Mason and Mouse’s hands shoot straight up. Mine joins them a split second later. This could be perfect. If we’re taking the place of friends that means we’ll be given staff passes. If I can convince Mason and Mouse to leave the building with me I can work out how to reverse their brainwashing later. The main thing is for all three of us to get the hell out of here before Mason is shipped off elsewhere.
‘Okayyyy …’ Eyebrows says, looking around the room. ‘We’ve got five volunteers for three opportunities. Right … um …’
His eyes flick from Mouse to me to Mason and then over to the window where two girls are sitting at a table holding a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. I stretch my hand higher into the air and give him a dazzling smile then promptly adopt a neutral expression. Mouse and Mase couldn’t look more serious.
‘Mason.’ Eyebrows waves a hand towards my brother. ‘Megan and …’
I clench my teeth together to stop myself from shouting, ‘Me! Me!’
‘And … Rae.’
What?
‘Drew and Takesha, you’re on cleaning duty with the others.’
‘But …’ I barely breathe the word but Mouse and Mason immediately give me questioning looks.
‘Is there a problem?’ Mouse asks.
‘Should we inform the orderly?’ Mason says.
‘No.’ I look him straight in the eye, softening my gaze to match the blank expression in his eyes. ‘I enjoy any activity that benefits the community.’
He nods approvingly and looks back at the orderly. That was close. One false move and these two will blow my cover. I need to be more careful. But I’m not letting them go to the main house without me. This might be my only opportunity to get my hands on another staff pass.
‘Please return to your rooms to change into your overalls,’ Eyebrows says, passing out the vile green outfits. ‘Cleaners report to Ian. Cooks to Anabel. Maintenance, you’re with me. Mason, Megan and Rae, you should go to the front desk and wait to be escorted to the main building.’
*
I hang back until Rae gets up from her chair then follow her out of the lounge. She stalks, rather than strolls, down the corridor – her back ramrod straight, her overalls under one arm, the arm. My room is on the opposite side of the corridor but no one questions me as I walk in the wrong direction. I match Rae for pace, close enough to keep up with her but not so close that she notices me. When she stops outside a door labelled ‘Post Treatment #17’ I walk straight past. As the door clicks shut, I double back. As I do a tall, gangly black guy walks past me. He doesn’t question why I just did a sudden about turn. He’s too focused on getting to his room to get changed.
I walk back to door number seventeen and stop. My heart feels like it’s going to beat itself right through my chest but I raise a hand and knock. I can do this.
The door opens.
‘Yes,’ Rae says. She’s already removed her white blouse but she doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit bothered that she’s answered the door in her bra.
‘I was … um …’ I swallow nervously. ‘Do you have any toothpaste? I appear to have run out.’
‘Toiletries can be obtained from the front desk. That information was made available to you in your welcome pack when you were assigned your room.’
Uh oh.
>
‘Yes, that’s true. But they are awaiting a delivery. The orderly requested that I should ask a fellow student.’
‘Did he?’ There’s the faintest flicker of suspicion on her face.
‘He did. Yes. As you know the welcome pack also states that we should be properly turned out at all times. If I don’t clean my teeth, I will lower the standards of Norton House.’
The flicker of suspicion fades.
‘In that case,’ Rae says, ‘I will lend you my toothpaste but you must return it after dinner.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’
She turns and crosses the room, heading for the open door of the en-suite bathroom. Her bed, to the right of the door, has been neatly made. On the chair to the left of the door is her blouse, neatly folded. Nothing in the room is out of place. There are no photos from home, no books, no jewellery. It is as devoid of personality as Rae herself.
When she reaches the sink, she looks back, hearing the click of the door as it closes behind me.
‘Drew.’ She glares at me indignantly. ‘It is not permitted for other students to enter –’
I leap forward, slam the door to the en suite shut and reach for the chair. The door handle wiggles up and down as I jam the top of the chair under it.
‘Open this door!’ Rae calls from inside. ‘Open it immediately!’
The door shakes as she shoulders it but the chair holds firm. I strip off my clothes, my shaking hands fumbling at the buttons on my jacket and skirt, and pull on my green overalls. It’s only a matter of time until the cleaning duty orderly realizes that I haven’t turned up and sends out a search party.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘Rae was taken sick?’ Mouse asks again as we walk across the field towards the main house.
‘Yes.’ I fight to keep my tone even. I’m terrified that, any second now, an orderly will come flying out of the treatment centre, screaming that I imprisoned another student. I desperately want to glance over my shoulder to have a look but if I don’t walk with my shoulders back and my chin slightly tipped up – like Mouse and Mason – I’ll draw attention to myself.