Текст книги "Half Bad"

Автор книги: Sally Green

Соавторы: Sally Green
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Gran

The months after my assessment pass; the routine is the same as ever. Autumn comes, the nights get longer and it’s good. Winter. Snow. Winds. I’m stronger than ever. I don’t mind the rain. The frost is beautiful. My feet are tough as hide.

The snow melts, though a few pockets remain in a few hollows. The sun has some warmth in it, but I have to really stay still to soak it into my skin.

My seventeenth birthday is months away, not years.

Celia never talks about my birthday. I ask her often, but she doesn’t tell me anything.

I’m inside one day, making bread. Celia is writing at the kitchen table.

I try again, with a well-worn question. “On my birthday, will I be given three gifts?”

Celia doesn’t answer.

“If you want me to kill Marcus I’ll need my Gift.”

She carries on writing.

“Will my gran give me three gifts?”

I know they wouldn’t let me near her, not in a million years.

Celia looks up, opens her mouth as if to answer but closes it again.

“What?”

She puts the pen down. “Your gran.”

“What?”

“She died a month ago.”

What? A month ago! “And you forgot to mention it until now?”

They can tell me nothing or anything, and how do I know if any of it is true?

I throw the dough on the floor.

“I’m not supposed to mention it at all.”

So Celia’s being considerate, and for all I know that is another lie. And Gran is dead. That’s true for sure. They will have killed her or made her commit suicide, and everyone else can be killed as well if they want.

“And Arran?”

She blanks me.

I kick the chair over, pick it up, and slam it down.

And they’ll do just what they want and kill everyone and I hate them, hate them, hate them. And I’m slamming the chair down again.

“I’m going to have to put you in the cage if you carry on like that.”

I throw the chair and leap at Celia, shouting.

* * *

I wake in the cage, shackles on.

Visitors

A few weeks after Celia tells me about Gran, I’m collecting eggs. I’m thinking about Gran and her hens and how they tried to get into the house, and Gran with her beekeeper’s hat on, lifting the honeycombs . . .

I put the egg basket on the ground and listen.

Listen hard.

A faint, not-quite-there sound; distant, but somewhere in the hills.

And a clatter from the kitchen.

I run on to the wall and from there leap onto the cage to look toward the southwest, where Marcus will come from in my fantasy.

The hills sit there quietly, giving nothing away. I swivel around, looking and listening, holding my breath.

That is not the wind.

It’s a growling, a distant growling.

Celia is at the kitchen window staring at me. She hasn’t heard it but knows something is up ’cause I’m on the cage. She disappears then reappears at the front door. And now it’s there, the unmistakable sound.

Not my father. A vehicle.

“Get in the cottage!” Celia shouts at me.

A 4x4 appears as a distant black cube moving along the track.

“Get off the cage!”

But if these are people, real people—fains, walkers, holidaymakers—then I must be able to do something. I’ll tell them I’ve been kept in the cage. The choker—they might be able to get it off. Maybe I should wait until she gets rid of them and . . . club her with something . . .

But then she changes. Her body slumps a fraction. She says, “Get in the cage, Nathan.” Her voice is flat now. She knows who it is.

I watch the jeep for a couple of seconds more before jumping down and going into the cage.

“Padlock it.”

She walks toward the track.

I pull the door shut but don’t lock it. I go to the back of the cage and find my nail in the soil. I put it in my mouth, digging it into my cheek and healing it over.

The jeep revs and churns louder. It stops at the far side of the cottage. Celia walks over to it.

She’s talking through the driver’s window. Waving her hands around, in frustration it looks like. Unusually dramatic for her.

I can’t see the driver.

The jeep doors open and Celia is holding her arms wide as if she can stop them. They are almost as big as her. All in black, of course. I don’t see the driver’s face until Celia moves to the side, but I know who it is.

Have they come to kill me? What other reason? To give Celia instructions to do it? Do I padlock the cage now? It seems pretty pointless.

Clay is walking toward me.

Celia is a step behind him, and behind her are two female Hunters.

Celia says, “But I’ve not been informed about this.”

“You’re being informed now. Get him out of the cage.”

Celia doesn’t hesitate for more than a second before she swings the door open.

They can only be here to kill me. Maybe they’ll walk me to the end of the field and do it there, or not even go to the trouble of that, just do it by the cage. I’ll be buried with the potatoes. And this must mean that they’ve killed Marcus. They don’t need me any more. My father is dead.

“Come out.” Clay’s voice is casual.

I back up and shake my head. They’ll have to kill me here. And I can’t believe my father is dead.

Then I hear a buzzing in my head—not Celia, a phone. And it’s not coming from the Hunters behind Celia; it’s closer. I feel something grab my right arm and go around my wrist, and the fourth Hunter materializes beside me. He’s as big and as ugly as I remembered. Kieran is holding my arm, the handcuff now visible. I try to strike his face with my free hand but he drops down, pulling me by the handcuff, and another of the Hunters has run into the cage and grabbed my left arm. I get a kick in to a female Hunter, but then I’m slammed into the bars, my arms are cuffed tightly behind me, and I’m slammed into the bars twice more.

“Move again and I’ll rip your arms out,” Kieran growls in my ear.

The great thing about hate is that it takes away everything else so that nothing else matters. So then the old trick is easy. I don’t mind about having my arms ripped off, about pain, about anything. I whip my head back and catch Kieran in the face, a cushioned scrunch of his nose on the back of my skull.

He squeals but doesn’t loosen his grip.

My arms get pulled up so I can’t move, but they don’t get ripped off, so I’ve got to wonder how serious Kieran really is.

Kieran drags me out of the cage and pushes me to the ground, but I roll and kick up so my boot makes contact with the side of his face. Roll again and get to my feet, but the two female Hunters are on me then and the punch to my kidneys is explosive.

I’m on my knees, my face on the path.

Celia is shouting at Clay, “This is unacceptable! I’m his guardian.”

Clay’s voice is calm. He says, “The orders are for us to take him.”

There’s a boot on my head keeping my face crushed against the ground.

Celia complains, argues, says she has to come, says she’s going to come, but Clay is good. He just says no.

In the end Celia says she has to take the choker off me. She asks permission.

As she unlocks it her hands are gentle and she says, “I’m going to follow you down.”

Clay says, “No. We’re going to have to borrow your van. He’s too dangerous to risk putting in the jeep.”

“Then I’ll drive your jeep.”

“No, Megan’ll drive it. If you insist on coming I suppose you could ride with her.”

There’s a threat in his voice; Celia must hear it. Megan couldn’t hurt Celia, but she’ll go the wrong way, get lost, run out of petrol. Celia won’t risk falling out with the Hunters; she’ll stay here. She’ll do what they want.

“Oh yes, I was supposed to give you this.” Clay’s voice is casual again now.

“A notification! When did this happen?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Two days ago? I should have been told. He’s my responsibility.”

Clay still doesn’t reply.

“It says that all Half Codes are to be ‘codified.’ What does that mean?” And I know Celia is saying all this for my benefit.

“I’m just providing the transport, Celia.”

“I’ll come down—”

But Clay cuts in. “I’ve told you the situation, Celia. He’s ours.”

“And when are you bringing him back?”

“I haven’t got instructions about that.”

Codified

I’m in Celia’s van, face down on the metal floor. It’s nearly two years since I was last here, and yet the rusting paint seems familiar.

Kieran has begun to heal his broken nose but it’s well mashed. He is holding a chain that is attached to my handcuffs and wrapped round my ankles, and he jerks on it to pass the time.

Clay is sitting in the passenger seat at the front, Tamsin is driving, Megan is following in the 4x4, and I guess Celia is still at the cottage.

The only thing to do is rest, but as soon as I doze Kieran yanks at my ankles or lashes my buttocks with the chain. When he’s fed up with that he shouts to the front of the van, “Hey, Tamsin, I’ve got another.”

“Yeah?” she shouts back.

“What’s the difference between a Half Code and a trampoline?”

She doesn’t answer and I get a heavy stomp on my back as Kieran says, “You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.”

His next joke he says quietly, just sharing it with me. “What’s the difference between a Half Code and an onion?” He lifts my shirt up. I feel his fingers scratch over the lower part of my scars, his scars, as he says, “Cutting up an onion makes you cry.”

* * *

After four or five hours the van stops. From the few voices I hear it has to be a motorway service station. They fill up with petrol and then sit around eating burgers and chips and slurping drinks. The smell would be tempting, but I’m desperate for a piss and don’t want to think about food and drink.

It probably isn’t going to be worth it, but I say it anyway. “I need to pee.”

The chain whips across the top of my thighs. I have to clench my teeth and breathe through my nose.

When the pain eases I say, “I still need to pee.”

The chain hits my thighs again.

The van sets off. Clay is giving mumbled instructions to the driver but I can’t hear them.

Twenty minutes later the van stops. I’m dragged backward by the ankles and out of the back of the van, which is backed up into some bushes. There is little traffic noise. They’ve found a quiet spot.

“Any trouble. Anything. And you’re dead.” Kieran says it so close to my ear I can feel the spray of spit.

I don’t acknowledge him.

He undoes my handcuffs and frees my right hand.

I piss. A long, long wonderful piss.

I’ve hardly zipped up and I’m back in the cuffs and shoved into the van again. I’m smiling inside at the relief, and because I’m thinking of Celia. She is tougher than these idiots.

The journey just keeps joggling along. Kieran must be sleeping ’cause he’s not bothering me. The nail is still in my mouth, but there’s no chance of escape with three Hunters round me.

* * *

The rust of the van’s floor scratches across my cheek as I’m pulled out of the back end of the van once more.

“On your knees.”

I’m in the courtyard of the Council building, the place where I was taken from just before my fifteenth birthday.

I’m pushed down. “Your knees!” Kieran shouts.

Clay has gone. Tamsin and Megan are by the cab of the van. Kieran is standing to the side of me and I squint up at him. His nose is swollen and he has one black eye.

“Your healing’s a bit slow, Kieran.”

His boot flies at my face, but I roll out of its way and up to my feet.

Tamsin laughs. “He’s fast, Kieran.”

Kieran feigns disinterest and says, “He’s their problem now.”

I look around as the two guards reach me, grab my arms, and drag me off without a word.

They take me into the Council building through a wooden door, along a corridor, then right and left and past an internal courtyard, through another door to the left. Then I am in the corridor I recognize and sitting on the bench outside the room where they do the assessments.

I heal the various scrapes and bruises.

It’s almost like old times. I have to wait, of course. My hands are still cuffed behind me. I stare at my knees and at the stone floor.

A long time passes and I’m still waiting. The door at the far end of the corridor opens; there’re footsteps but I don’t look up. And then the footsteps stop and a man’s voice says, “Go back the other way.”

I look up and then I stand up.

Annalise’s voice is quiet. “Nathan?”

The man she’s with must be her father, and he’s pushing her back through the door. The door shuts and that’s it.

The guard stands in my way, blocking the view. I know he wants me to sit, and I hesitate but I do it, and the corridor is the same as it always is.

But Annalise was here. She looked different: older, paler, taller. She was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt and brown boots. And I replay it over in my head: the footsteps, “Go back the other way,” seeing her, our eyes meeting and her eyes are pleased, and she says my name softly, “Nathan?” and the way she says it she isn’t sure, like she can’t believe it, and then her father pushes her back, she resists, he pushes and blocks the way, she looks around his arm, our eyes meet again, then the door shuts. The door blocks all noise out; footsteps and voices on the other side can’t be heard.

I replay it all again, and again. I think it was real. I think it happened.

* * *

They take the handcuffs off to weigh, measure, and photograph me. It’s the same as before an assessment, but it’s not my birthday for months so I’m not sure if I’m going to be assessed or what. I ask the man in the lab coat, but the guard who stands watching it all tells me to shut up, and the man doesn’t answer me. The guard puts the cuffs back on, and I am back in the corridor, and there is more waiting.

When I’m taken in it’s Soul O’Brien sitting in the center seat this time. I’m not surprised. The woman Councilor is back on the right, and Mr. Wallend is sitting on the left. At least Clay isn’t here.

They start asking me questions like the ones in my assessment. I’m uncooperative, in a silent sort of way. Soul is his usual bored self, but I’m more convinced than ever that it’s an act. Everything about him is an act. He asks each question twice and doesn’t comment on my lack of response, but they soon give up and don’t even seem that bothered. After his last question, Soul whispers to the woman and then to Mr. Wallend.

Then he speaks to me.

“Nathan.”

Nathan! That’s a first.

“It is less than three months until your seventeenth birthday. An important day in your life.” He looks at his nails and then up at me again. “And an important day in mine. I’m hoping that I will be able to give you three gifts on that day.”

What?

“Yes, that may seem a little surprising, but it’s something I’ve been considering for many years, something I would be . . . interested in doing. However, before I can give you three gifts I must—we all must—be sure that you are truly on the side of White Witches. I have the power to choose your Designation Code, Nathan. I suggest that it is in your interest that you are designated as a White Witch.”

And I used to want that, used to think it was the solution, but now I know for sure that I don’t.

“Nathan, you are half White Witch by birth. Your mother was from a strong and honorable family of White Witches. We at the Council respect her family. Some of her ancestors were Hunters and your half-sister is now a Hunter too. You have a proud and respectable heritage on your mother’s side. And there is much of your mother in you, Nathan. Much. Your healing ability is a sign of that.”

And I’m not sure if he’s talking a load of bollocks, because I’m convinced my father is pretty good at healing too.

* * *

“Do you know the difference between Black Witches and White Witches, Nathan?”

I don’t reply. Waiting for the usual good-versus-evil argument.

“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Something I’ve often pondered.” Soul O’Brien looks at his nails and then at me. “White Witches use their Gifts for good. And that is how you can show us that you are White, Nathan. Use your Gift for good. Work with the Council, the Hunters, White Witches the world over. Help us and . . .” He leans back in his chair. “Life will be a lot easier for you.” His eyes seem to glow silver as he says, “And longer too.”

“I’ve been kept in a cage for nearly two years. I’ve been beaten and tortured and kept from my family, my family of White Witches. Tell me which bit of that is ‘good.’”

“We are concerned for the good of White Witches. If you are designated White—”

“Then you’ll give me a nice bed to sleep in? Oh, yes, of course, as long as I kill my father.”

“We all have to make compromises, Nathan.”

“I won’t kill my father.”

He admires his nails again and says, “Well, I’d be disappointed if you agreed readily, Nathan. I’ve watched you with interest every year since we first met, and you rarely disappoint me.”

I swear at him.

“And in a way I’m glad you haven’t done so now. However, one way or another you will do as we require. Mr. Wallend will ensure that.”

I’m not given a chance to reply, because Soul nods at the guards and they come up to me and take an arm each.

As I’m hauled out of the room and along the corridors I try to keep track of the directions—the lefts, the rights, the benches, windows, and doors—but it’s too complex and I’m soon in a part of the building where the corridors are less straight, and this one is descending until it becomes so narrow that one guard is in front of me and one behind. Stone steps take us farther down. It’s cold. There’s a row of metal doors on the left.

The guard ahead stops by the third door, which is painted blue, though the paint is scratched off in places to show gray beneath. It’s not a door to fill anyone with hope. He slides it open and the guard behind me pushes me through.

I’m standing in a cell. The only light is from the corridor. The cell is empty except for a chain attached to the wall, which the guard is now shackling to my ankle. Then he’s out of the door, turning the lock and slamming a bolt.

Complete blackness.

I’m still handcuffed. I step forward and make my way around the room, feeling the uneven stone walls with my toes, my body, and my cheek. Three paces to the left of where the chain is attached is the corner and then two paces farther I run out of chain. It’s the same on the right. The short chain stops me from getting near the door.

The floor is cold and hard but dry. I sit with my back against the wall. Four stone walls, one door, a length of chain and me.

But soon nausea and fear join us.

The moon is halfway through its cycle, so things are bad but not really bad. I’ve not been inside at night for a long time, though. I jiggle my feet. Then I jiggle my body. This helps the panicky feeling but not the nausea. I roll on to my side but keep jiggling and crawl into the corner and push my head into it. Some of the time I jiggle, some of the time I don’t.

I bring up watery vomit, but there’s not much of it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but my stomach retches repeatedly. There’s nothing to come out, but it clenches and turns, and I’m coughing up nothing, but still my stomach wants to get rid of something.

Then the noises start. I hear hissing and banging, but I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they’re real noises. The hissing is horrible, persistent; the bangs make me jump, they’re so loud. I try to anticipate them but I can’t. All I can do to help is to shout. Shouting drowns out the noises, but I can’t keep it up all night. I’m sick again, and I lie with my head pressed into the corner, and I hum and jiggle and shout back at the noises from time to time when they make me jump.

* * *

It’s dawn. The cell is still dark, but the nausea and noises leave as quickly as they arrived.

No one comes.

I should make a plan but I’m too exhausted to think of one.

Still no one comes.

I try to rest. I’m hungry. My mouth tastes disgusting. Will they bring food and water? Or will they forget about me and leave me here to die?

* * *

They have remembered me. They have brought water but not remembered that I need to eat as well. They have forgotten my name too.

I can’t seem to remember it either.

“I’ll ask you once more to state your name.” The young witch has stopped saying please.

I’m going with my usual plan, the one where I say nothing. It’s not the most sophisticated plan; it’s bound to cause irritation, and it’s not likely to have a profound effect on anything that will ultimately happen. But at least it’s a plan.

I stare back at her, taking in her appearance from the top of her neatly brushed, mousy hair, past her small, pale blue eyes, perfectly applied mascara, smooth, thin coating of foundation, and precisely painted, pink lipstick. Her narrow frame is well dressed in a beige suit, tights, black patent shoes. She looks like she’s made an effort, and she looks like she’s had a decent night’s sleep. She is even wearing perfume, which is floral.

And the more I look, the more overcome I am by her appearance, her prettiness, and her basic, cruel stupidity. She is dressed for some business meeting, and I’ve been kept in a cell.

And I now have a new plan. I slouch on one hip and leaning forward slightly toward her I say, “My name is Ivan. Ivan Shukhov.”

The woman looks a little confused and irritated. She’s probably trying to work out if it’s some sort of rhyming slang.

“No, you are Nathan Byrn. Son of Cora Byrn and Marcus Edge.”

I lean back and try to sound casual. “Nah, I’m Ivan. You must be after the guy in the next cell.”

“There isn’t anyone in the next cell.”

“You mean he’s escaped?”

She pulls her lipsticked lips into a smile, perhaps to show she has a sense of humor.

“We just need to ensure that you are aware of what is happening.”

“Course I’m aware of what is happening.” That wasn’t at all casual, and I have to recover my tone. “I’ve been treated like a king by the wonderful Council of White Witches. Fed the best food, given the best bed and”—I lean forward again—“been introduced to the most charming, fresh– smelling White Witches.” The guard pulls me back by one arm. “My name is Ivan Shukhov, and I am aware of what is happening. Are you?”

“You are not Ivan Something-or-other. You are Nathan Byrn and you are going to be codified.”

“I’ve no idea what that means.”

Her eyes are cold, fixed on me, pale blue shimmers glacially in pale blue.

“It doesn’t sound too good,” I say. “I kind of feel sorry for this Nathan guy.”

“You are Nathan.”

“What does codified mean? I’d like to tell Nathan if I see him.”

“It’s a sophisticated tattoo.”

“I can’t imagine you think any tattoos are sophisticated.”

She smiles. “This one is. Mr. Wallend has been working on the potion for some time.”

“What is the tattoo?”

“It’s your code, of course.”

I lean forward and the guards grab my arms and hold them back. “A brand, you mean.”

She opens the pink lips on her beautifully made-up face to speak again and I spit at them. The gob lands perfectly.

She screams and splutters, rubbing at her mouth. The guards hold me back.

The woman has backed away a pace; her makeup is not so immaculate as she wipes it with her handkerchief. She holds the handkerchief to her mouth as she says, “You are Nathan Byrn. You have a mother who was a White Witch and a father who is a Black Witch. You are a Half Code and as such you are to be codified.”

This time my spit lands on the hem of her skirt. She staggers back as if I’ve hit her. The guards still keep hold of me.

“Take him to Room 2C.”

The guards shuffle through the cell door, dragging me out, and in the narrow corridor they have to go sideways, which is better for me as I can climb the walls with my legs, even though one guard has me by the neck. They get me in front of a green metal door with 2C painted on it. It slides open and I stop struggling for a second.

Room 2C contains what looks like an operating table with lots of black plastic straps. Again I start struggling and shouting.

In the end they have to knock me out with a punch to the side of my head.

* * *

I wake and begin to gag and choke. There’s something in my mouth. I can’t spit it out. It’s rubber and metal.

The woman is standing beside me, looking down at me. She smiles and says, “Ah, awake at last.”

I squirm and squeal, but it’s pathetic so I stop. Room 2C has painted white walls and the ceiling is bare except for a light and what looks like a camera nestled in the far corner. That’s all I know about Room 2C because I can’t move to see anything else. I’m lying down, my body strapped to a table. My hands are no longer handcuffed, but they are secured, and I can feel with my fingertips that the table has a thin layer of padding under a sheet. My head is strapped by my forehead and rests in a sort of hollow in the table. It feels like there are straps over my body, arms, legs, and ankles.

I’m trying not to think of Retribution. I don’t want to think of the powder Kieran put on my back. But I have a clamp in my mouth. Is codified another word for Retribution?

The door rattles and then I hear it slide open and there is the sound of something metal being dragged over the floor. A light is shone so bright that even with my eyes closed I see a red glare. There is the sound of more dragging and the clink of delicate metal objects.

“Nathan. Look at me.”

It’s Mr. Wallend. He has very dark blue eyes with white flecks in them. He’s wearing a lab coat.

“You’re here for codification. I’m going to carry out the procedure. It may be a little uncomfortable, but I’d like you to be as still as possible. Try to relax.”

I start to squirm again.

“It’s a bit like a tattoo, only a much quicker and easier process. We’ll do the ones on your finger first. Give you the feel of it. You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”

He can’t possibly make sense of my squirming and squealing.

He pushes a metal ring over the little finger of my right hand and tightens it.

“Okay. So this is simple. Just relax. It’ll be over—”

I scream into the gag as a needle pierces into the bone of my finger.

It is drawn out.

Mr. Wallend loosens the ring and moves it up my finger. “Next one.”

I scream and curse him and move my finger as much as I can but the ring tightens and the needle goes into me again.

As it comes out I’m sweating.

He moves on to the top of my finger, over the fingernail. The needle goes through again.

I bite on the gag and stare at him, tears streaming out of my eyes.

It stops.

My heart is thudding.

That was not a tattoo.

Mr. Wallend is undoing the ring and taking it off. He and the woman peer at my finger.

“Excellent. Excellent. There’s hardly any swelling. Your body is exceptional, Nathan. Exceptional.”

Mr. Wallend walks round the table to my left hand.

“Now for the bigger tattoos. These might feel a bit more intense.”

I feel cold metal on the top of my left hand, along the line of my middle finger. I stare at him and curse into the gag.

Mr. Wallend ignores all that and gets on with his job so that all I can see of him is the top of his head. Dark brown wavy hair.

“Try to relax.”

Yes, of course, easy. Something is scraping against the inside of my hand, on my bone.

Mr. Wallend’s hair is wavy and still. I’m still too.

When the scraping stops I feel sick, dizzy.

Mr. Wallend looks up. “Not too bad, hey? Now, the thing to remember is that it won’t come off. Ever. It’s inside you now. If you try to remove it with scarring of the skin, say, it will reappear. So there really is no point in trying.”

He looks at my hand again, smoothes it over with his finger. It feels bruised and tender. “The code looks very good. Very good indeed.”

He’s moving down the bed.

“Now the ankle. Try to relax. It’ll just be a few seconds.”

I can’t help but try to pull away, however feebly. It seems more than a few seconds that it’s scraping into my bone and through into my marrow. The gag’s in my mouth and I know I mustn’t be sick.

“It takes longer on the bigger bones,” he says. “Just the last one now.”

He moves the machine round the table, disappearing from sight and reappearing on my right side.

He puts the machine on my neck.

Oh no . . . no . . . no . . .

“Try to calm yourself.” He leans forward, his face close. “It may feel a bit strange here.”

* * *

I am lying on a thin mattress, curled up. My right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bar of the bed. I can feel where I’ve been codified. My fingers and hand feel bruised. My ankle is the same. But my throat is more than that. There is a taste, a metallic taste.

I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I woke up here some time ago.

I want to go back to my cage.

An image of Mr. Wallend comes into my head and he smiles at me. I open my eyes.

This cell is different from the stone cell. This one has a medical feel to it, like Room 2C. The room is lit by a weak, white glow emitted from a small light in the corner of the ceiling. In the other corner of the ceiling is a camera. The cell is empty except for the bed.

I raise my left hand to look at it.

B 0.5

It’s a black tattoo. The one on my ankle is the same.

So much for being designated as a White Witch. To them I’ll always be half Black.

I heal my hand and finger. The bruised feeling goes. The same works for my ankle and my neck. Slowly the taste fades and the buzz arrives. I curl up and look at the tattoos on my little finger. Three tiny black tattoos: B 0.5.

* * *

I need a plan.

* * *

The light is on so that they can watch me. I resist looking at the camera.

The nail is still in my mouth. I bite through my cheek and slide the nail out with my teeth and tongue, taking it with my left hand as if I’m wiping my lips. Picking the handcuff lock isn’t difficult, though I have to do it while hiding what I’m doing. I leave the cuff on but open.

Now I have to get in role.

I start shaking and then fling my legs around, make choking sounds and grabbing at my throat. I only have to keep it up for twenty seconds before there is the sound of a bolt sliding back. I roll onto the floor, my right hand still looking like it is cuffed to the bed. My eyes are open but hidden under my arm.

The legs and bottom of the lab coat of Mr. Wallend rush toward me; he really must be worried. The black boots of a guard stop in the doorway.

Mr. Wallend bends over me, and I pull him down, punch his face, roll up to standing, and stamp on his balls.

The guard is in and grabbing at my arm. I kick his knee. There’s a crack and the guard grunts and falls backward, but his arms are long and there’s no room to get back from them. He’s pulling me with him and I twist and roll to the side where I can kick his knee again. He’s still got my arm, and his other arm swings over and catches my ear with a glancing blow. I slither around and kick him in the face. His grip loosens, and after another kick I pull away from him. He is quiet. Mr. Wallend is quiet too.