Текст книги "Half Bad"

Автор книги: Sally Green

Соавторы: Sally Green
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

I get up and out, slide the door shut, and bolt it.

I’m holding the bolts in place and leaning against the door, in shock at how easy that was. My ear is throbbing fast, in time with my heart. I heal my ear.

If anyone else was watching the camera they’d be here by now.

I go left, passing Room 2C, and then turn right, away from the cell and up the stone steps. Along the corridor to the left, the way I was brought in, and still no one is coming. I slowly swing open the door at the end and peer through. Another corridor that’s vaguely familiar, but they all look pretty much the same. I stride down it, past an internal courtyard, which I have definitely seen before, but I can’t remember how it relates to anything else.

I keep going. It’s not looking familiar now. I go left and left again. The door at the far end begins to open and I nip down another corridor to the right and dash as quietly as I can to the door at the end. It’s bolted. I can hear footsteps down the far corridor.

The bolt is stiff, but I can jiggle it across. Faster . . . faster . . .

The footsteps are getting louder.

I slither through the door, closing it silently behind me.

I want to laugh at my luck, but I hold my breath and flatten myself against the door. I am in the courtyard where Celia’s van picked me up and dropped me off. Her van is not here. There are no vehicles. There is a high brick wall with razor wire on the top. In the wall is a solid metal gate to allow vehicles in, and near the gate is an ordinary wooden door. It’s probably locked, alarmed, protected by security spells of some kind, but maybe just a spell to stop people getting in, not getting out . . .

I keep close to the walls as I move quickly round the edge of the courtyard. The wooden door is bolted top and bottom. These bolts slide easily.

The whole thing feels too easy.

And I’m now terrified of what’s on the other side of the door—the disappointment of seeing a guard standing there.

I open the door slowly, silently.

No one’s there.

I am shaking. I step through the door and close it quietly behind me.

It’s an alley. Narrow, cobbled. And above is the sky; it’s gray and overcast, early evening.

A person walks past the end of the street. An ordinary person talking on a mobile phone, just walking, looking ahead. Then a car goes past and a bus.

My knees feel weak. I don’t know what to do.

PART FOUR: FREEDOM

Three Teabags in the Life of Nathan Marcusovich

I’ve been free for ten days. I’m okay. I’m in a house in the countryside, just having a cup of tea. I come in here most days but sleep in the woods a mile away. The woods are okay. They’re warm and I can hear if anything approaches. Nothing human ever does. It’s good not to be in the cage. I slept better in the cage, though. I’m having constant nightmares now. The nightmares don’t sound that scary—I’m just running and running in the alley by the Council building.

Food was a problem before I found this place. It’s a holiday home and hardly used. I managed to break in just by messing with the lock with a bit of wire. I shower in here most days, and sometimes I lie on one of the beds upstairs, like Goldilocks, only I never sleep. The beds are all really soft, and there’s porridge too, which is sort of funny.

There’s pasta and cereal in the cupboard, as well as the oats, so mainly I’m living off that. There’s no milk, of course, so I make porridge with water. No lumps in my porridge, but I’ve used up all the honey, jam, and raisins so there’s not much else in it either.

I try to have one meal a day, whatever time feels right. I don’t eat much; there isn’t much here to eat. Rice with salt is my favorite. There was a tin of tuna, but that went on day one and the can of beans on day two. I slip half a Weetabix into my pocket and suck on it slowly in the evening when I’m tucked up in the woods.

A family came and stayed here for two days. I guess it was the weekend. Mum, dad, two kids, and a dog, the perfect fain family. They didn’t seem to notice that I’d been in the house and taken stuff. I always make sure everything is clean and tidy. When they left there was more pasta but no more oats. I was hoping for another can of tuna, but no luck.

* * *

I thought I heard something outside. Nothing there.

I’ve started biting my nails again. I used to do this when I was little, but I stopped because of Annalise. I’ve started again. I try not to think about Annalise too much.

It’s raining. Drizzle.

I’d better check outside again.

* * *

I’m heading back to the woods. I think they are watching me. I can feel it sometimes. My skin crawls with it.

My escape was too easy. It’s unbelievable that the Council took so much trouble to keep me under strict control all my life, all those assessments and notifications, keeping me prisoner with Celia, tattooing me—and yet they’ve allowed me to escape. It can only be some new plan of theirs.

They followed me before, when I was living with Gran and going to Wales. I didn’t know it then but I know it now.

That family that stayed in the house looked like fains, but I’m not sure. Maybe Hunters can disguise themselves as fains. And the first man I hitched with kept looking at me and asking me questions and stuff, though he was all right in the end ’cause he let me out, but I was shouting at him at that point and he looked scared.

These tattoos are some kind of tracking device. That can be the only explanation. I’m probably some blip on a screen. I saw that in a film once. Blip . . . blip . . . blip. And they’re sitting in a van watching the screen and can see that I’m cutting down the side of the field and heading back to the woods.

* * *

My shelter’s okay. It keeps the rain out and the ground dry. It’s well hidden, half buried under the roots of a tree near a stream.

I sit here a lot.

And sometimes when I’m sitting here I think that I’m not being followed and I really have escaped and I say to myself, “I’ve escaped. I’ve escaped. I’m free.”

But I don’t feel free.

I cry sometimes. I don’t know why, but it keeps happening. I’m just looking at the stream, say, which runs through the dark brown mud and yet is clear and bright and soundless, when I realize that I can taste tears. There are so many they run into my mouth.

* * *

I’ve had a nap and even with the blanket and some newspapers I brought from the holiday home I’m shivering. How does that work? It’s April and it’s not even cold. I’ve spent nearly two years living in a cage in the coldest, wettest bit of Scotland—which must be virtually the coldest, wettest bit of the planet; I’ve lived through snow, ice, and storms, and then I come down here to a nice warm place and I’m shivering all the time. A few sheepskins would be good here.

I think about Scotland quite a bit, about the cage, doing the outer circuit and cleaning the range, making porridge and digging the potatoes, killing and plucking the chickens. And I think about Celia and the book she was reading with me.

In the book the main character, Ivan Denisovich, is a prisoner. He’s serving ten years, but even when he’s served his time he won’t be allowed home, because people like him are exiled when they are released. I thought that exile meant you had to leave your country and you could go anywhere—somewhere in the sun, a tropical island, say, or America. But exile doesn’t mean that; it means you are banished to a specific place, and guess what, that place isn’t in the sun and is no paradise, it’s not even America. It’s some cold, miserable place like Siberia, where you don’t know anyone and you can barely survive. It’s another prison.

And now I’m free. I don’t want to be exiled.

And I want to see Arran so much.

So much.

I know if I go there, they’ll catch me and maybe hurt Arran too. But I want to see him, and I keep thinking that if I sneak up to Gran’s house in the night or leave a message for him somewhere and arrange to meet him it might work. But I know it won’t. I know they’ll catch me, and it’ll be even worse than before, and I should never try to go back to Arran, never, but then I feel like a coward for not trying.

Ivan Denisovich’s full name is Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, which is a killer name, though Denisovich means son of Denis, which spoils it a bit but shows he’s just an ordinary guy, I suppose.

If you speak to a person in Russia, you wouldn’t call them by their first name alone. You would use their first name and their patronym, so you would say, “Ivan Denisovich, pass the salt, please.” And he would say, “You certainly like a lot of salt on your rice, Nathan Marcusovich.”

I think of Marcus Axelovich quite a bit. I think he probably likes a lot of salt on his rice too. And then today I realized something amazing. I like thinking of my father, and I know I’d think of my son if I had one. I’d think of my son a lot. So I know Marcus is thinking of me.

* * *

The woods are a good place: quiet, no dog walkers, no people at all. It’s interesting just sitting still and listening to what goes on. There are few sounds, the occasional bird not calling but sorting through the leaves, stuff like that, but this wood has deep pockets of nothing when there are no sounds at all, and I love sitting in those pockets.

My head is clear of noise here, like it was with Celia. No hissing at all. No electrical equipment buzzing in my head.

And sitting in those pockets I begin to believe it . . . I have escaped.

* * *

I started running again today. Celia would be pleased with me, though I’m slow so she’d probably not be that pleased. And I’m doing push-ups. Can’t even manage seventy, though. I don’t know how I’ve got so out of condition in a few weeks. I wonder if it’s the tattoos doing something to me, but maybe it’s just that I need more food. My ribs are sticking out.

* * *

It’s getting dark now. Another day nearly over.

When I was with Celia the days flew by, yet the years crawled. I was up at dawn, then exercising, doing chores—never enough time for the chores—and answering her damn questions, and more running and fighting and cooking and cleaning and learning witch names and Gifts and times and places and then back in the cage before I knew it. Now it’s the opposite. The hours won’t budge. And yet the time I’ve got before I’m seventeen seems to be slipping through my fingers, and I’m just sitting here watching it dribble away.

* * *

Another day dawns. I used to like dawns, but now they are just the start of another slow, shivery day. I’ve just remembered Ivan starts his day all shivery. I’d like to have that Ivan Denisovich book. I know I wouldn’t be able to read it by myself or anything, but I’d like to hold it in my hands or put it inside my shirt against my chest.

I do have a book, though. It’s an A to Z that I stole when I was leaving London.

What a great book! A book I can read. I look at maps and they make sense.

I stole it ’cause I knew I’d have to find the address of Bob, the man Mary told me about. The man who can help me find Mercury.

* * *

Muggy and rainy again. I’m watching telly and drinking tea. Well, not really watching telly, but it’s on and I’m trying to analyze the sound in my head. There’s a hissing in my skull, that’s the nearest I can describe it as. It’s not a sound in my ears, it’s in my head, to the right upper side.

This is the same as the hiss from mobile phones, but much quieter. I never got any hissing with Celia. She didn’t have a mobile. But when the Hunters came I could hear them hissing.

There is no hissing in the woodland here.

* * *

Just had a shower. There’s a load of shampoo, soap, and stuff in the bathroom. And there’s an electric razor, which is a nightmare and hacks bits off my chin, but I can heal quick enough so I use it.

I check the tattoo on my neck. It’s just the same.

I check all my tattoos every day and they are all just the same as the first day. I scraped the skin off the one on my ankle to see what would happen and Mr. Wallend was right: the tattoo reappeared. It even showed through on the scab as a fluorescent blue.

I look in the mirror at my eyes, my father’s eyes. I wonder if he looks in the mirror and wonders about my eyes. I want to see my father for real one day, just once, just meet him once, talk to him. But maybe it’s best for us both if we never meet. If he believes the vision he won’t want to meet me. I wish I knew more about the vision. Was it of me stabbing him with the Fairborn? Stabbing him through the heart? I want to tell my father that I would never do that. I couldn’t.

My eyes look so black now, the triangular hollows are hardly moving.

* * *

I’m back in the kitchen, the last teabag and me.

I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find the way to Mercury and get my three gifts. And I’m running out of time. It’s just over two months to my birthday.

And that means I’ve got to go to Bob’s place, the place in the A to Z. Only that leads me back to my problem. It leads me back to the alley.

When I stepped through the door from the courtyard of the Council building into the alleyway and I started running, I went at a good pace, a hard pace. I was still running three or four minutes later and I still wasn’t at the end of the alley. It was like running on a conveyor belt that was going the wrong way, like they were drawing me back in. And I was panicking and almost screaming by the end of it but I kept at it and somehow I got to the end, where the alley turned. I held on to the corner of the wall, and a woman walked past and stared at me. Then I walked round the corner but I didn’t let go of the wall, not for ages did I let go of that wall.

And now I have to go back there, past that corner and up the alley. The address of Bob, the man I need to see, is Cobalt Alley. That alley.

Nikita

The Council building is across the road on my left. I wasn’t sure it was the right building at first. I was expecting it to be gothic with spires and leaded windows like it is inside, but it’s different on the outside. It’s a seventies office block, all big and square and concrete, dark gray and stained black in places. I know it’s the right building because of the alleyway next to it. Also, I’ve walked round the block and found the entrance Gran and I used to use. It’s at the back through a little gatehouse that’s still there. That’s the only old bit of building that can be seen from the outside.

I’ve been standing in a doorway for a while watching the building. It’s sunny today, but this side of the road is in the shade and the shadows stretch across to halfway up the street frontage opposite. The Council building has rows and rows of regularly placed square windows, most of which reflect the sunlight in a blue-black shimmer, though tatty vertical blinds can be seen hanging unevenly at the lower ones in the shade, unwatered potted plants standing on the sills. It looks like an unloved, uncared-for office building. There’s no movement inside. I’ve seen two people go in, two women. They might have been witches, but I couldn’t see their eyes from here.

Nothing and no one has gone up or down the alley.

I told myself I would watch for an hour or two, but it feels like the office windows are watching me. I need to get this over with.

* * *

Feeling a bit shaky.

Couldn’t do it. I got close but I couldn’t go up there.

I will do it though. I’ve got to do it.

Just not yet.

* * *

Nothing happening at all. I was hoping to see the bloke, Bob, walk down the alley, but he hasn’t appeared.

He has to come out at some stage though. The best idea is to keep well back and watch.

* * *

He might be having the day off or be away on holiday for all I know.

It’s only one day gone. Only one day less.

* * *

Day two.

Okay. Day one was not a success. Nobody went up or down the alley (including me). A few people went in and out of the Council building.

But I’m here early now. Slept in a different doorway half a mile away.

And success already. A few people have gone into the Council building, but, more importantly, a van drove up the alley. It drove up, the gates to the courtyard opened, in the van went, and the gates shut. It all looked normal.

Nobody has walked up or down the alley yet. I’m waiting for my man to do that.

And waiting.

And waiting.

But everyone just walks on past the end of the alley, not even looking up there, like they don’t even notice it. There’s a dead-end sign and a brick wall at the far end, so no one’s likely to go up there. But still it’s like it’s invisible to passersby.

And what if he never comes? Mary told me about him years ago. Maybe he’s not here anymore. Maybe the Council has caught him.

Of course just when I’m not really paying attention, someone steps off the street and walks up the alley. A man. But is it Bob?

And now he has his back to me.

He’s gray haired, thin, wearing beige trousers and a navy blue jacket, and carrying a holdall. He walks fast, not looking to the door on the left that I escaped out of, not looking at the gates that the van went through, and he carries on to the end where he turns to the door on his right and unlocks it. As he turns the handle and steps inside he looks toward me. Then he’s gone.

So, if that is Bob, do I wait for him to come out again? He might stay in there for a few days. I’ve got to see him. Must stop being so pathetic. I’m crossing the road.

Now what?

A girl is walking up the alley ahead of me; she’s moving fast and is already at the end and knocking on the man’s door and going in.

What?

Do I do the same? Or wait?

A horn blasts. I’m in the middle of the road. I scuttle back to my side of the street and my doorway.

Was the girl watching too? Is she seeking help, or is she his assistant . . . daughter . . . friend?

She’s coming out already. She’s a kid, younger than me.

She’s walking fast, jogging across the road through a gap in the traffic, turning to her right and glancing at me.

Beckoning me.

I look at the alley.

It will still be here later.

I swivel round in time to see the girl turn down another street and I jog to catch up.

She cuts down another side street and then another and out into a major road with people and shops. Busy, barging people and I can’t see the girl. She could be in any of the shops. Clothes. Phones. Music. Books.

I turn round and she’s standing right in front of me.

“Hi,” she says and grabs my arm. “You look like you need a drink.”

* * *

She’s chosen a table at the back of the coffee shop. We’re sitting opposite each other. She bought the hot chocolates and asked for extra mini-marshmallows, then told me to carry the tray, and now she has the cup to her lips and is staring at me over its pink and white mountain. Her eyes are definitely fain: green, pretty but lacking that witch thing . . . the sparks. Definitely fain. And yet they’re weird; they have a liquid quality. There’s another color in there, a turquoise that’s sometimes there and sometimes not. Like a tropical ocean.

“You want to see Bob?” She flicks her long brown hair over her shoulder.

I nod and attempt to sip my drink but can’t get at it for the pile of marshmallows. I eat all the marshmallows to get rid of them.

“I can help you.” She picks at her marshmallows, waves a pink one in the air as she says, “What’s your name?”

“Um, Ivan.”

“Unusual name.” She picks up another marshmallow and adds, “Well, not in Russia, I suppose.”

She takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “I’m Nikita.”

I don’t think so.

“Do you work for Bob?” I ask.

She looks about fourteen, fifteen tops. She should be in school.

“Do the odd job for him. A bit of this. A bit of that. Run errands for him. You know.”

Not really.

She finishes her hot chocolate, getting everything out with a spoon. After a lot of scraping she puts it down, and says, “Want a cookie?” She’s up and gone before I can answer.

She comes back with two huge chocolate cookies and passes one over to me. I have to concentrate on not stuffing the whole thing in my mouth at once.

“You shouldn’t hang around in front of the Council Building,” she says.

“I was being careful.”

“I spotted you.”

I was being careful.

“You need to get some sunglasses to hide your eyes. And I’ve no idea what those are”—she points to my tattoos– “but I’d get some gloves.”

I have a scarf round my neck that I took from the holiday home, but there weren’t any gloves.

She leans over. “Cobalt Alley is protected.”

“Yeah, how?”

She waves her hands around. “Magically, of course. Fains don’t see the alleyway. Only witches see it.”

So she is a witch. But her eyes are different.

“Once you’re in the alley you won’t get out of it unless you look at where you’re going and think about where you’re going. And I mean look hard and think hard. On the way in only look at Bob’s door, think about the door and nothing else and you’ll get to it. On your way out stare at the buildings on the street at the end. Don’t look down. Never look down. If you look at the gates to the Council building, if you think about the Council building, that’s where you’ll end up.”

“Right . . . Thanks.”

“Your homeless disguise is good, by the way.” And she gives me a smile, so I’m not sure if she’s joking or not. Before I can reply, she gets up and walks out of the coffee shop.

My stomach gurgles, and I get that taste in my mouth and have to run for the toilet. I throw up into the bowl, a coffee-colored mix of little floating marshmallows and sludge.

I wait, and nothing more comes up, so I swing around to drink water from the tap. The face looking back in the mirror is pale with bloodshot eyes weighted down by black sacks. I do my best to heal, but decent food and water are the only solution. I look at the state of my old jeans, worn thin at the butt and knees. My shirt has holes on the arms and around some of the buttons. My T-shirt underneath is gray and frayed around the neck.

I head out of the shop but the woman behind the counter runs after me.

“Your friend just left you something,” she says, handing me a large paper bag.

Inside the bag are two packs of sandwiches—ham and cheese and BLT—a bottle of water, a bottle of fresh orange juice, and a napkin with writing on it. It takes me five minutes to figure out what it says.