Shattered

by Teri Terry

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I guessed from an orphanage; as JCO she is in charge of those also. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want her to take you away from me.

  ‘And this was months later that you got me? Didn’t anybody notice you had a baby, then didn’t, then did again? What about Dad?’

  ‘I told you. I was…away. At Mother’s. Your dad and I didn’t see each other for a long time. Then when he finally came back he saw you, and assumed you were ours: we got back together. I didn’t tell him the truth about you.’

  I shake my head at her. ‘How could you lie to him like that?’

  ‘I had to. Mother threatened to take you away if I ever told. But then years later, she held it over me, and then one day you and Danny heard us talking about it—’

  ‘News out.’

  ‘Yes. He couldn’t handle it; he took off. It was a few days later when you went missing: Mother found out the AGT had you. That he’d given you to them. I know you don’t want to believe it. Mother tried again and again to get you back, but couldn’t find exactly where you were being held.’

  ‘You say you always loved me as your daughter. Why would it be any different for Dad? Okay, he had a shock to get over, but I was still me. Still the daughter he’d always known.’ I shake my head.

  ‘Maybe you are right. Maybe he didn’t have anything to do with what happened to you.’ She says the words like they are difficult to say out loud, and the interplay is there on her face. For her to accept he was blameless would be hard after all the blaming she has done over the years. Then to accept how he died. ‘Does it matter now?’

  ‘It does to me.’ But then I’m shaking my head, my eyes are welling up.

  ‘It is too much to take in all at once. I’m sorry you didn’t know. I—’

  ‘It’s not just that. I think I remember what happened that day. The day I disappeared.’

  She stays very still, quiet.

  ‘There was this note from Dad under my pillow to meet him at Castlerigg. I went there at lunchtime, but he wasn’t there. Somebody else was – from the AGT – he said Dad sent them to get me. But when we got where they took me, he wasn’t there. I didn’t see him for two years, when he tried to rescue me.’

  Her face goes hard, angry.

  ‘No, wait,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t mean he wrote the note. Maybe they faked it.’

  ‘But how would they get a note under your pillow, or know that Castlerigg was the place you and Dad always went, if he didn’t tell them?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it; I can’t believe it.’

  Stella struggles to pull away from her anger. ‘Listen to me. Whatever happened, he still tried to save you, didn’t he?’

  ‘So he died.’

  ‘He died trying to be a hero.’ Behind her words is an unsaid echo, one she can’t forgive him for even if he wasn’t involved in my disappearance in the first place. He failed.

  We talk a bit longer, but I feign sleepiness, and she leaves. I stare at the wall in the dark.

  So I’m back to this: as if I’ve been Slated all over again. To not knowing who I am. No parents, no place I come from. There is not even a name that is really mine. Lucy Howarth or Lucy Connor: either way, it is the name of a dead baby.

  I’m numb.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  ‘Take a seat,’ Mrs Medway says, and I sit opposite her desk. She closes the door.

  ‘Riley, have you enjoyed your week at our school?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say, trying to be in the here and now for her, even though I failed at it most of the day.

  She sighs. ‘I don’t quite know what to make of you, my dear. Our art department is screaming for you to be one of our next apprentices: you’ve made quite an impression there. That is fantastic, but the other days haven’t been quite as positive. The thing is, if we take you as an apprentice, you have to spend a year working in every year and class in the school.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself these last few days.’ How could I be, when I don’t know who that is?

  ‘I understand you must be upset about your friend Madison. Is there something else?’

  I’m startled she mentions Madison again; it isn’t the done thing – admitting to feelings about someone taken by Lorders. And her face is full of genuine interest, concern. There is nothing that threatens here. But how honest can I be?

  I hesitate. ‘Confidentially?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I found out recently that I’m adopted. It’s been a shock.’ I’ve never said anything more true.

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I was wondering if there are any teaching jobs at orphanages?’

  ‘There used to be.’ She half frowns, shakes her head. ‘The nearest is the Cumbrian Care Facility; we used to supply teachers there on rotation. But a few years ago, they hired their own. Shut us out completely. I could ask.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m not sure what is going on there. It might not be a good place for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s isolated: stuck out in a valley with nothing but a few farms miles away, and people who work there never come to town.’ She frowns. ‘Let’s just leave it at that, shall we? Now, what shall we do with you?’ She opens a netbook, stares at the screen for a moment, then touches it and looks up again. ‘Right. I’ve recommended you for an apprenticeship here. If you decide to select us as your top choice, that should clinch it. But don’t decide until you’ve had the rest of your trials.’

  I stare back at her, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Riley, I’m taking a gamble on you here. I take our responsibility to every child in our care, every child we teach, very, very seriously. There are no off days allowed, however good the reason, when every child counts.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now, go. Whatever you decide, I wish you all the best.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again, my throat feeling choked. She doesn’t even know who or what I am, but she is willing to give me a chance. I hesitate at the door.

  She looks up. ‘Is there anything else?’

  I long to tell her that I’m her missing student, Lucy, the one she couldn’t account for all those years ago. Does it still haunt her? But I’m not really her, anyhow.

  ‘No, that’s it. Thanks again.’ And I bolt out the door.

  I stop by the Moot Hall, where Madison and I met with Finley and went on the walk up Catbells. I’d noticed they had maps up in glass cases on the side of the building, and study them closely.

  ‘There’s more maps inside,’ a voice says. I jump. Finley is standing in the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Apparently, my mind isn’t on my job enough to do anything fun, so I’m on duty here.’ He pauses, glances about. ‘Any news?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve got word out, but I’m waiting for contact still to get her put on MIA. It should be soon. But don’t get your hopes up,’ I say, gently.

  ‘So, what are you doing – planning a weekend walk?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Maybe. Don’t ask why, but I want to go past the Cumbrian Care Facility. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘No, but I can find out.’ He gets me to follow him inside, hunts through indices and finds the right map. ‘I haven’t been this way before; it isn’t on a main walking route. But it’ll be good to get out and away from everything and everybody, and up high.’

  ‘I know. For me, too. Can we keep where we are going between us?’

  He looks at me curiously. ‘Of course.’

  We work out the way: we’ll have to drive out of Keswick to a point where we can pick up a trail, bu
t Finley says he can borrow a car. He reckons from there it’ll take about three hours each way. We arrange to meet in the morning.

  As I head back to the house, I wonder: what am I doing? Really. What possible good could it do to go look at an orphanage I may or may not have come from, something like seventeen years ago? Stella only guessed I came from an orphanage, and even if I did, there is no guarantee it is that one.

  I shrug. I don’t know. Something inside wants to go there, to see it.

  That night Stella knocks on my door, peeks in. ‘May I?’ she asks, hesitant. I nod.

  ‘I’ve brought something to show you.’

  In her hands is a small album. It doesn’t match the others in the wardrobe. She opens it, and inside are page after page of a small baby, much tinier than that four-week-old one I saw yesterday. With loads of dark hair, eyes that don’t quite open. Even in the photos she seems very still.

  ‘This is Lucy.’

  ‘Why did you give me the same name?’

  She shrugs, uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have.’ She sighs. ‘I’ll always regret that she died, but I still loved you – and I still do – for who you are. That doesn’t change because of any of this.’

  ‘But the name Lucy must always remind you what you lost.’ I stare back at her, and some inkling of understanding creeps in. She was so afraid of losing me, like she lost the baby in these photos. All the other babies, too. Then, years later, when I disappeared, all her fears came true. I feel like I’m starting to understand her, just a little.

  Doesn’t mean I always like her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  * * *

  ‘There is something about being up here, that no matter how life sucks, I feel better.’ I’m looking through my camera at the lonely fells sweeping around us, valleys below. The climb ahead.

  Finley is silent, and I lower the camera. ‘Sorry,’ I say, looking at him sideways.

  ‘It’s okay. I haven’t got the worldwide monopoly on misery; you can have some of it, too. So why is your life sucking?’

  I shrug. ‘Mostly I can’t say.’ I hesitate. ‘But there is something I can. Between us. Somebody I care for got hauled off by Lorders not long ago, too.’

  ‘Somebody?’

  ‘Okay. A guy.’ Ben.

  ‘And you loved him.’

  ‘Correction: I love him. Past tense not allowed.’

  ‘Deal on that one.’

  We continue on, mostly silent after that, stopping to check the map a few times when paths branch off, steadily climbing all the way. We reach a ridge: high on a desolate path, wind bitingly cold sweeping across it. No snow up here: blown away? The sky is almost clear, but it seems thin, as if even the oxygen has been stolen by the howling wind. We’re walking fast to stay warm.

  ‘Nice day you picked,’ Finley says, but I can tell he doesn’t care, any more than I do, about being battered by the weather. But when we dip down again it is still a relief to get out of the wind.

  ‘Nearly there now; the orphanage is in that valley.’ He points it out; we have a traverse down this hill. ‘Are you going to tell me why we’re going there?’

  I glance at him sideways. Sigh. ‘To be honest? I’m not really sure. But it’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve got time.’

  I shake my head. ‘How about you tell me a story instead?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Where do you live?’

  ‘Keswick Boys: land of noise and beautiful toys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We have a reputation for boat races. And a few other things. It’s not far from your place. A quick row across and then a walk, or about an hour’s stroll along the lake’s edge on foot, up the hill.’ He shows me on his map.

  ‘I hear it is more chilled out than our house.’

  He laughs. ‘Very much so. We come and go at all hours. I couldn’t believe what Madison said about your place.’ His smile fades. ‘Tell me. Was it because of getting out of that lunch to see me?’

  He doesn’t say what he means, but I know.

  ‘It’s not your fault. Whatever happened to Madison: you didn’t do it. Lorders did. And their reasons are their own.’

  I can tell by the grim set of his face that he’s not convinced.

  ‘I know what it’s like,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To think what happened to somebody is your fault. It eats you up inside. She wouldn’t want that, Finley.’

  ‘Neither would your boy. But you can’t stop how you feel.’

  ‘No.’

  We’ve been steadily descending into the valley as we talk, still high enough to see all around, and then, there it is. A cluster of buildings set in a clearing in some woods below us, along a creek that meanders; a distant fence that wanders around it encloses large grounds. A scenic place, but somehow odd, and cold, and it isn’t just winter that makes it so. It looks lonely and devoid of life.

  ‘Look there,’ Finley says. ‘Along the fence line.’ I focus where he points, and dots are moving along the fence, inside the boundary: people? But they are evenly spaced, moving at the same rate. Odd.

  I get the camera out again, and zoom in. A long line of children are walking along a path on the inside of the fence. I sweep along; where visible, it looks like the path runs all of the perimeter of the grounds.

  ‘What can you see?’ Finley asks.

  ‘Children. They’re out for a walk, I guess.’ I frown. ‘It’s weird, though.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They’re walking, evenly spaced, in single file. ’

  ‘Shall we go down for a closer look?’ Finley asks, and I hesitate. Something feels wrong, so wrong, but I don’t know what, and there is a sense of foreboding inside. One that says we shouldn’t be here. At least, Finley shouldn’t be here.

  I pull us back along some trees. Take off my pack. ‘Can you wait here? I’m going down for a careful nosy. I don’t want us to be seen.’

  ‘I don’t know. I should come with you.’

  ‘Honestly, there is nothing to worry about,’ I lie. ‘I’m really good at staying hidden, and it’ll be easier without the pack. I’ll just creep down, have a quick look and come straight back up. Just stay out of sight here. All right? I’ll be fine. I promise.’

  ‘You’re just going to have a look and come back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, and looks at his watch. ‘I’ll give you an hour. If you’re not back by then, I’m coming down to look for you. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  I take off my outer coat: it’s light blue and might stand out. My wool layer underneath is grey and should blend into shadows.

  At first I stick to the path: it is cut into the hill, so with me bent down I shouldn’t be visible from below. Then as I get closer to the trees I cut off the path into the scrub, hugging rocks, then trees, heading for the fence along from where we saw the children, estimating where I should intersect them with the passage of time. Moving careful, quiet, slow. These skills, so useful now, of moving without noise, using the cover such as it is to best advantage, are all things I learned from Nico and the AGT years ago. I stop behind some rocks, the fence a bit less than fifty metres away, and wait.

  Before long the first of them round the corner and come into view. As it appeared from above, they are just walking. Smiling. Single file, no chat, nothing. I scan into the grounds: no adults in sight.

  I should go back now, but creep forward, bringing the layout I saw from above into my mind. If the children stick to this path along the fence line, there will soon be trees, and the way the ground slopes I should be out of sight of the buildings.

  I scurry quickly along the ground, cutting down closer to the fen
ce. It’s not high: I can easily see over it. But there are telltale signs – a faint glint of wire along it. Is it electric, or is it an intruder alert? Either way I’m staying on this side of it. I duck down, and wait.

  Footsteps are coming this way. I hesitate; this is insane.

  I stand up just as the children approach. The first is a boy of about eleven or twelve. Walking, smiling. He sees me; he must see me, but keeps walking. Children follow behind him, a few metres apart, pass me one by one, no reaction. As they go they are getting younger.

  A girl of perhaps seven is approaching now. ‘Hello,’ I say.

  She smiles. ‘Hello,’ she says, but keeps walking.

  Some younger ones, about four or five years old, bring up the rear.

  ‘Stop,’ I say. The last three children look at me, and stop. Saying nothing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I look at the one in front.

  ‘Standing,’ he answers.

  ‘No, before I said “stop”. What were you doing?’

  He looks puzzled. Smiles. ‘It’s Saturday. We’re doing our Saturday morning walk. The three of them smile, make no move to continue. It’s like they do what I say when I say it, smiling all the while. Just like the others, all walking the same pace, smiling. It’s almost as if—

  No. No, it can’t be. It can’t.

  I start to shake, horror swirling inside.

  ‘Hold out your hands,’ I say, unable to stop the tremor in my voice. In unison all three of them hold out their hands. ‘Pull your sleeves up,’ I say, and they do.

  And there, glinting on their wrists: Levos. I have just enough presence of mind to take some hasty photographs, hands shaking so that I have to balance the camera against the fence to make them clear, forgetting it might be electric until I realise it mustn’t be, because I’m still standing here. This can’t be, it’s completely illegal. Slating is a punishment for teenage criminals under sixteen. Not little children. What could they possibly have done to deserve this?

  And as I focus through the camera at them, I see. The last boy: that crooked grin. No. It can’t be. The day I came to Keswick on the train. That mother and son. It’s the same boy.