Cracks

by Caroline Green

  Kyla slaps him hard on the chest. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she hisses. ‘He’s going to kill me when he comes round! And you don’t even know what happened! Matt’s wanted, man! They’re trying to blame him for a bomb!’

  Jax’s eyes go wide. ‘What you talking about?’ he says. ‘Why?’

  I stare at him helplessly. I don’t even know where to begin. ‘It’s . . . complicated.’

  ‘Complicated? You bet it’s complicated!’ shouts Jax. ‘What are we going to do? Where are we gonna go, Matt?’

  ‘Matt’s not my real name.’

  I hear Kyla’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I’m called Cal,’ I continue. ‘I escaped from somewhere bad and the authorities want me back. I’m . . . valuable to them. They’ll do anything, say anything, to get me.’

  There’s a heavy silence. I blink hard, trying to stop tears from leaking out.

  Just as I’ve found people I care about, I’m going to have to leave them.

  I meet eyes with Kyla. A Revealer Chip isn’t always necessary to see inside someone. She already knows what I’m thinking.

  ‘He’s got to leave us, Jax,’ she says softly. ‘We can’t stay with him. It’s not safe.’

  She doesn’t take her eyes off mine. We stare at each other for ages. I hear Jax cough and when I look at him, suspicion flashes across his face.

  ‘Where was you, anyway?’ he says.

  ‘What?’ says Kyla sharply, her face scornful.

  ‘What are you talking about. This is serious, man!’ I say.

  ‘Last night. Where was you?’ says Jax, moving a bit closer to her.

  She snorts, disgustedly, and steps away, crossing her arms. ‘I wanted to show him the flat. You got a problem with that? You’re not the boss of me, Jax! And we got more important things to think about now!’

  Jax starts to say something else and I interrupt him.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I say. ‘We just fell asleep, that’s all.’

  Jax tips his chin and narrows his eyes.

  I make a frustrated huffing sound. It makes my busted lip hurt more.

  ‘Where will you go, M— Cal?’ says Kyla.

  I stare at my shoes. ‘I’ve got to find a place called Brinkley Cross,’ I say after a moment. ‘It’s not that far. But I’ve got to try to change my appearance first. There are pictures of me everywhere. Will you help?’

  Kyla says she knows what to do and disappears off to a chemist. She comes back with a small paper bag a few minutes later.

  We find some public toilets whose floor is crunchy with broken glass and litter. The smell is horrible in there and the tap water’s brown but it’ll do. Kyla hacks at my hair with nail scissors. Then I wet it under the freezing, smelly water and she applies the dye. The colour is called Cocoa Kisses on the box. Stupid, that I notice that. It’s dark brown, anyway, as far as I can tell. Changing how I look, that’s what counts.

  Someone tries to come down when we’re halfway through. Jax, who’s guarding the stairs, says, ‘Sorry, suspect device found here. Police on their way.’ I hear panicky footsteps skittering back up the steps.

  We don’t really speak during the whole process, apart from the odd ‘Move that way’ or ‘Head back’ from Kyla. Jax keeps staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Maybe that’s how it feels. He keeps looking at Kyla too. I want to know what he’s thinking, and at the same time I don’t.

  I’m miserable, cold and wet by the time she’s done. After rubbing my head a bit on the filthy hand towel, I look in the mirror. I’m not sure I look different enough. It’s clearly me behind the freaked-out eyes and dark, spiky hair, even with the fat lip and purple bruise on my cheek. Some of the dye has trickled down my neck leaving brown stains. I rub at them for ages but the towel just makes them worse.

  I think quickly about how to get out of Sheffield. I’ll go to the motorway services on the edge of the city that I saw with Tom, then hitch a ride. I noticed a load of lorries there last time. One of them must be heading in the direction of Brinkley Cross.

  Outside the toilets, Jax tells me how to get there. It’s not far. I can keep to the backstreets. I’ve started to learn a bit about this city on my night jaunts with Zander.

  ‘Thanks. For everything,’ I say. ‘And I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to mess things up for you both.’

  We stand there, the three of us, shuffling our feet and no one looking at anyone else. A light rain starts to patter on our shoulders. My head feels cold and exposed with my new short hair.

  I open my mouth to say something else and Jax pulls me into a bear hug so tight I can’t breathe. My bruised ribs scream with angry pain but that’s not the only reason my eyes prickle and burn. I have to squeeze them tightly closed. He releases me and looks at his feet. A weird, out-of-place happiness that he forgives me for getting too close to Kyla warms me inside for a moment.

  ‘It’s not too late for us to come,’ he says. ‘We could still —’

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, voice wobbling. ‘It’s not safe for you. The people who want me are really bad. You two need to carry on looking out for each other. Just like before.’

  They exchange glances. Kyla’s eyes shine and she wipes a hand across her nose. Then she sniffs loudly and straightens her back. ‘Come on, Jax,’ she says. ‘There’s no point hanging about. We’ve got to find somewhere else to stay.’

  She avoids my eye. If I thought – hoped – there would be any hugs from her, I was wrong. It’s maybe for the best. I’m not sure I can go through with this if I touch her and smell her cinnamon smell again.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says, and takes him by the hand. ‘Bye, Matt, I mean, Cal. Take it easy.’ If it wasn’t for the way she swallows and keeps blinking, you’d think she wasn’t feeling anything at all right now.

  I mumble, ‘Yeah, you too,’ and turn away first. It feels like something inside has been ripped out, leaving a raw, open wound. I walk fast, head down and don’t look back. Without making a conscious decision to do it, I start to run, ignoring the thumping pain in my ribs and the wetness on my face that isn’t rain.

  I feel like a great howl inside me is trying to break free so I run faster, harder, and don’t stop.

  They were the only real friends I’ve ever had. All I brought them was trouble.

  And now I’m alone again.

  It doesn’t take that long to reach the motorway services. Keeping my head down, I go inside and buy juice, a sandwich and some crisps, trying not to look as guilty and conspicuous as I feel.

  I walk towards the lorry car park.

  Footsteps pound behind me then and someone calls out. I drop the bag of food and spin round, looking for somewhere to run. They can’t have traced me already, can they? I look around wildly for something I can use as a weapon but there’s no time because someone is already right there, next to me.

  ‘Hey you!’ It’s a bloke in his twenties with a shaved head and loads of earrings around his lobes. A row of jewels sparkle under his bottom lip and a silver bolt is through his eyebrow with a little chain on the end. He’s wearing some sort of overall and gasping for breath. ‘You forgot your change!’ he says, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. I finally recognise the man who served me in the shop.

  I burst out laughing. I don’t know if it’s a release of tension after everything that’s happened or if I’m just losing it, but I laugh so hard I have to lean against the wall and get my breath back.

  The bloke just watches me, smiling uncertainly. I eventually get myself together and take the money from his hand. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘And thanks for this.’

  ‘Been one of those days, has it, mate?’ he says. His eyes flick from my cheek to my lip.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘you could say that.’

  After two hours of hanging around in the car park I start realising this was a stupid plan all along. I’d pictured lorry drivers standing around talking and me picking up useful information about where they
’re going. But it’s nothing like that. People come and go but no one speaks to anyone else. They just pull in, get out, and come back with burgers, sandwiches and boxes of fried chicken. Then they get back into their lorries to eat them before driving off with a dismissing hiss of hydraulic brakes.

  After a while, though, I finally get some much-needed luck. A massive blue and white lorry with John Hartman and Sons, Office Supplies on the side pulls into the car park. It also says Brinkley Cross, Lancashire on the back. Result! I just have to hope it’s heading that way. I don’t even know which side of the road, I am – north or south.

  I wait, crouching at the back of the lorry until I hear the doors slam and the driver walk away. He’s on his mobile phone. Sounds like he’s telling his wife what time he’ll be back. They’re bickering because it’s later than he promised, but he’s on his way back.

  Result.

  It’s the first decent thing that’s happened to me in ages. I creep to the back of the lorry and reach into my pocket for the lock picks that Zander gave me. The first few don’t fit and I’m swearing a bit under my breath as I try to find one that does.

  That’s when I hear voices and a horrible wet, panting sound.

  I peek out to see the bloke with the piercings, flanked on each side by CATS officers wearing black crash helmets with the visors up. The piercings guy is pointing to where we had our conversation. My heart thuds and acidy fear jolts every part of me. Did he report me?

  They start to walk over and that’s when I notice the huge, slavering Alsatian dog on a lead in the CATS officer’s hand. He can barely control it and the dog pulls and strains with its powerful body, tongue lolling and vicious teeth bared. They start checking underneath lorries, the dog making itself flat to sniff underneath. I start praying, silently, my fingers slippery with sweat as I fumble with one and then another of the lock picks. The whole bunch then slides out of my hand and hits the concrete, making the loudest sound in the history of the world, ever. I snatch them up and the very last one fits with a wonderful, fantastic click.

  I fling open the doors, panting, and get inside, softly closing the door behind me. The voices are getting closer and now they must be checking the lorries in the parking row next to this one. I climb behind a load of boxes, crouching down and shaking hard. I watch the doors, expecting them to be flung open any second with an explosion of snarling teeth.

  But, thank God, I hear the driver’s voice again then. He’s still arguing on his phone. He doesn’t check the back. I hear the cabin door slam. Everything rumbles around me and the powerful machine comes to life.

  I huddle between the boxes, longing to sleep but knowing I have to stay alert. Every time I feel my head loll or my eyes droop, I make myself press against my busted lip or my throbbing cheek. The agony brings me back to consciousness like an electric cattle prod.

  Have to think. Have to make a plan. I put my head between my hands and try to conjure up the images of Brinkley Cross that are stored somewhere in my brain. Have to get to Amil’s place. He’ll be what, mid-twenties now? That thought is so freaky it makes me draw in my breath. Of course he won’t know me. His mum and dad won’t know me. I’m a total stranger to them. But I know I’ve been inside their shop. It’s not much, but it’s a tiny link in the chain that connects to my real identity. If I can make them listen to my crazy story, surely they’ll help me? Maybe they’ll even remember a small boy called Cal. My heart races again and I can’t stop a smile from coming to my sore face at the thought of finding a real family of my own. But if I do have one, why didn’t anyone ever get me out of that place? This makes the smile fade and a chill settle inside. I don’t know the answers to any of these questions yet. But maybe I’m getting closer to finding them.

  The engine sounds change after a while and the lorry slows down. It seems to twist and turn for ages. The pain in my ribs is getting worse, like someone is turning up the volume. I peel back the bandage on my hand and wince at the swollen skin around the cut. It’s red and weirdly firm to the touch. That can’t be right. I put back the bandage. A little infection is the least of my worries right now.

  Finally the lorry stops with a sort of rumbling sigh. I creep further back behind the boxes and a horrible thought occurs to me. What if I have to stay here all night, locked in? But no, there’s a sound of metal on metal and the doors open.

  I pull back further behind the boxes.

  A metal ramp is being lowered and then the lorry shakes as someone climbs inside. I swear they can hear my heartbeat, which seems to be booming around the metal walls on loudspeaker.

  There’s some huffing and puffing and then the floor bounces gently as the driver walks down the ramp.

  I can’t wait any longer. I just have to do it.

  As his footsteps recede and I hear him talking to someone in the distance, I get up and run down the ramp. I’m in a loading bay at the back of a factory and the gates are open. I put my head down, hands in my pockets and walk towards the gates, trying not to attract attention to myself.

  ‘Hey! Where the hell did you come from?’

  The shout feels like an explosion behind me and I run, hard, out of the gates and into an industrial estate where large metal warehouses loom all around. I keep running, following the side of the road and then come to a stop, gasping for breath at the edge of the estate. I risk a quick glance behind. No one seems to be following me. I’m facing a roundabout that shows Brinkley Cross railway station as being straight ahead. Dark clouds are clumping together as I walk along the side of the country road. There’s a wall made from rough grey stone at each side and dark green and purplish hills rear up all around. Everything is the colour of bruises.

  I’m about to get moving when something makes me stop, dead still. I sniff the air. I sniff again and close my eyes as a powerful feeling of recognition floods washes over me, sweet and warm like honey. There’s a rich, hoppiness in the air that’s so familiar, it feels like it’s part of my DNA. It’s the brewery! The donor boy could see the brewery from his house on the hill. But this is nothing to do with slivers of brain tissue and second-hand memories. This is my memory. Mine!

  That’s when I know for certain that Brinkley Cross is not just his, but my town too. I’m home.

  I’m grinning like a madman but my eyes are filling up and a funny sob comes out of me. I rub my hand across my battered, sore face and squeeze my eyes closed. I get a stupid urge to tell Jax and Kyla and then I remember I can’t; they’ve gone, and sadness twists inside me. I take a deep breath. My legs are wobbly and my face is burning like I’ve been too long in the sun. I feel a bit weird. But I guess it’s no wonder after the last day or so. I take a deep breath and clench, then unclench my fists. I’m ready.

  Right, first stop: Amil’s shop. I have to hope they won’t think I’m a nutter and slam the door in my face. I’ll have to watch my step too. I look around. No CCTV here but there are bound to be cameras in the town. It’s broad daylight so I can’t exactly use my training from working with Zander’s lot or I’ll draw even more attention to myself. Just have to wing it. I can’t give up now. I have no options anyway. A memory of Cavendish’s voice comes to me. What did he say? ‘Mixing the two realities – the world of your coma and the real world – is just not advisable. Anything could go wrong’. Now I know why he said that. He didn’t want me anywhere near my home town. Asking questions and finding out where I came from. Maybe finding my family.

  I pull up my hood, shove my hands in my pockets and start walking.

  I soon come to the edge of the town. I can see another sign for the railway station ahead. My heart starts to thump. I rub my damp palms on my trousers, wincing as I remember the puffy wound on my hand. My eyes hurt and I feel out of breath. Was Cavendish telling the truth? Was coming here a mistake?

  I don’t care anyway. I need to find out who I am. No matter what it costs.

  I walk past the station, which has hanging baskets outside that sway gently in a light breeze that’s blowin
g. Something tugs at the back of my mind, a memory of looking up at baskets like these from much lower down. Excitement throbs in my chest.

  I pass a flower shop and then a betting shop. I know I’m not far from Amil’s shop now. I can feel it. It’s up ahead where the road curves. I go faster, praying silently that Amil’s family will believe my story. There are a few people milling around, going about their ordinary days. I feel a stab of envy and wonder what it would be like to be normal, like them. That’s all I want. A home. A family. A normal life.

  I avoid catching anyone’s eye anyway, not wanting to draw attention to myself and hurry on, shaking now with anticipation. Almost there . . .

  And then my feet slow to a stop.

  The world shrinks to a small, choking thing.

  The shop as I know it has gone.

  A metal concertina shutter covers the windows and doors. Faded graffiti is daubed over the brickwork and most of the windows are smashed. I go close to the metal shutter and rest my burning hands and face against it. Inside I can see empty shelves covered in cobwebs and dirt. Broken glass litters the ground.

  ‘Excuse me, pet.’ The voice behind me is quivery and low. I start and look round to see an old lady peering at me. She has dyed black hair piled in a bun on her head with lots of pins in it. ‘You don’t want to spend too long there. You never know who might be watching you.’ She looks around nervously and her tongue creeps over her pink lipstick.

  ‘What . . .’ I have to make a huge effort to find my voice. ‘What happened to the shop?’

  She looks around again and pats her hair. ‘They left. Think they got deported or something, which was a crying shame because that lad of theirs was born and bred here. CATS kept pulling him in and questioning him like he was some sort of terrorist.’ She puffs out her chest. ‘But I told them, I said, they’re good people, I said. There’s no call to go interrogating innocent people like them.’ She pauses and gives a ripe smoker’s cough. ‘But they wouldn’t listen to me,’ she adds sadly.