Текст книги "Half Bad"

Автор книги: Sally Green

Соавторы: Sally Green
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

The Sixth Notification

It’s just one possible future.

That’s the mantra I repeat to myself. There are millions, billions, of possible futures.

And I won’t kill him. I know that. He’s my father.

I won’t kill him.

And I want to see him. I want to tell him. But he believes the vision. He won’t want to see me. Ever.

And if I try to see him he’ll think I want to kill him. He’ll kill me.

* * *

Mary has given me the address of Bob, her friend who will help me find Mercury. She says that I should leave immediately and I tell her that I will, though I’m just saying words. I don’t know what I will do.

I head home.

I want to talk to Gran. I need to ask her about Marcus. She has to tell me something. And Arran’s Giving is now only a day away. I want to be with him for that and then I’ll leave.

I arrive in the evening. It’s still light. Gran is in the kitchen making a cake for after the Giving ceremony. She doesn’t ask about Mary’s party.

I don’t say “hello” or “missed you” or “how’s the cake coming on?” I say, “How many times have you met Marcus?”

She stops what she’s doing and glances at the kitchen door saying, “Jessica’s come home for Arran’s Giving.”

I move close to Gran and say quietly, “He’s my father. I want to know about him.”

Gran shakes her head. She tries to persuade me that she’ll tell me tomorrow but I threaten to shout for Jessica to come and hear the story too. Even though Gran must know I’d never do that, she slumps down in the chair and, in a voice that’s only a murmur, she tells me all she knows about Marcus and my mother.

* * *

In our bedroom I open the window. It’s dark now and a thin sliver of moon is rising. Arran gets out of bed and hugs me. I hug him back for a long time. Then we sit on the floor by the window.

Arran asks, “How was the birthday party?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

“You tell me about tomorrow. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit nervous. I hope I don’t mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

“Jessica’s come back for the ceremony.”

“Gran told me.”

“Will you come?”

I can’t even shake my head.

He says, “It’s okay.”

“I wanted to.”

“I’d rather you were here now. This is better.”

Arran and I talk for a bit, reminiscing about the films that we watched together, and eventually talking more about his Giving. I say I think his Gift will be healing, like our mother’s. She had a strong Gift, and she was exceptionally kind and gentle; Gran has told me that. I think Arran will be like her. He thinks it will be a weak Gift, whatever it is, but he doesn’t mind, and I know he’s being honest.

Much later he goes to bed and I draw a picture for him. It’s of him and me playing in the woods.

I sit on the floor through most of the night, my head by the open window, watching Arran sleep. I know that I can’t stay for the Giving, not if Jessica will be there. And I can’t tell Arran where I’m going. I can’t even tell him good-bye.

I’m still trying to make sense of my mother and father’s relationship, and why Gran hid it from me, but in the end it’s easier not to think about it at all.

It’s still dark when I leave. Arran is sprawled across his bed, one foot over the side. I kiss my fingertips and touch them to his forehead, put the picture on his pillow, and scoop up my rucksack.

In the hall I switch on the table lamp and pick up the photo of my mother. She looks different to me now. Perhaps her husband loved her—he looks happy enough—but she looks sad, trying to smile but squinting instead.

I put the photo down and walk quickly through the kitchen.

As soon as I’m outside I feel the relief of fresh air. I take a step, two at most, before I hear the hiss of mobile phones rushing at me. Two black figures appear and their hands are on my arms and shoulders, turning me and slamming me into the house wall. I struggle and am pulled away from the wall and slammed into it again. My wrists are cuffed behind my back and I am pulled away from the wall and slammed into it again.

* * *

I’m back in the assessment room. My restraints had been removed after the journey down, which was in the back of a car with a Hunter either side of me. I gathered from their conversation that Gran was in another car that was following behind.

I think about Arran’s Giving ceremony. Gran will not be there, and I realize Jessica came back not to attend the ceremony but to conduct it. The Council will have given her the blood. Arran will hate it. And that’s all part of it too. They love to twist the knife.

I stand before the three Council members. The Council Leader speaks first. “You have been brought here today to answer some serious questions.”

I make an effort to look wide-eyed and innocent.

The woman to the right of the Council Leader gets up from her chair and slowly walks around the table to stand in front of me. She’s shorter than I expected. She’s not in the white robe that Council members normally wear for my assessments; she’s wearing a gray pinstriped suit with a white blouse underneath. Her high heels click sharply on the stone floor.

“Pull up your sleeve.”

I’m wearing a shirt over a T-shirt, and the cuffs are undone as the buttons have been lost long ago. I raise the arm of my left sleeve.

“And the other one,” the woman says. Now that she is close to me I can see that her eyes are dark brown, as dark as her skin, but they contain silver shards that spiral slowly, almost fading and then reappearing brightly.

“Let me see your arm,” she insists.

I do as she says. The inside of my arm is marked by a series of faint thin scars, twenty-eight of them, one for each day that I had tested my healing ability.

The woman takes my wrist between her forefinger and thumb, gripping hard and raising my arm so that it’s directly in front of her eyes. She holds it there and I can feel her breath on my skin, then she lets me go and walks back to her seat. She says, “Show your arm to the other Council members.”

I step forward and hold my arm out over the table.

Annalise’s uncle, Soul O’Brien, hardly gives it a glance. His hair is slicked back in a yellow-white sheen. He bends to the Council Leader’s ear and whispers.

I wonder if they know about the scars on my back. Probably. Kieran would have bragged about what he’d done.

“Step back from the table now,” Soul says.

I do as I’m told.

“Can you heal cuts?” he asks.

Denial seems ridiculous but I never want to admit to anything here.

He repeats his question and I stand silently.

“You must answer our questions.”

“Why?”

“Because we are the Council of White Witches.”

I stare at him.

“Can you heal cuts?”

I carry on with the staring.

“Where have you been for the last two days?”

I don’t take my eyes off him but I answer this one. “I was in the woods near our house. I camped out for the night.”

“It is a serious offence to lie to the Council.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You were not in the woods. You were not in any area that the Council has given you approval to be.”

I try to look innocently surprised.

“In fact, we could not find you anywhere at all.”

“You’re mistaken. I was in the local woods.”

“No. I am not mistaken. And, as I said before, it is a serious offence to lie to the Council.”

I’m still holding his gaze, and I repeat, “I was in the woods.”

“No.” Soul doesn’t sound angry, more bored and unimpressed.

The Council Leader holds her hand up. “Enough.”

Soul looks from me to his fingernails and reclines in his chair.

The Council Leader calls to the guard at the back of the room, “Bring Mrs. Ashworth in.”

The latch rattles and Gran’s footsteps approach slowly. I turn to look at her when she is standing beside me, and I’m shocked to see a small and frightened old woman.

The Council Leader speaks. “Mrs. Ashworth. We have asked you here so that you can answer the accusations leveled against you. Serious accusations. You have failed to comply with notifications of the Council. The notifications clearly state that the Council must be informed if there is any contact between Half Codes and White Witches and White Whets. You failed to do this. You also failed to prevent the Half Code from moving to unauthorized areas of the country.”

The Council Leader looks down at her papers and then up again at Gran. “Have you anything to say?”

Gran is silent.

“Mrs. Ashworth. You are the Half Code’s guardian and it is your responsibility to ensure that the notifications are followed. You have failed to ensure that the Half Code remained in certified areas and you have failed to inform the Council of meetings between the Half Code and the White Witches Kieran, Niall, Connor, and Annalise O’Brien.”

“My grandmother doesn’t know about anything. And I had no intention of meeting Kieran, Niall, and Connor. They attacked me.”

“Our understanding is that you attacked them,” the Council Leader replies.

“One attacking three. Yeah, right.”

“And Annalise? Did you intend to meet her?”

I go back to staring.

“Did you intend to meet Annalise? Or attack her? Or something else?”

I want to kill her with my stare.

The Council Leader turns back to Gran. “Mrs. Ashworth, why did you ignore the notifications?”

“I didn’t ignore them. I followed them.” Gran’s voice is shaky and small.

“No. You did not follow them. You have failed to control the Half Code. Or perhaps you knew of his trips to unauthorized places and decided not to inform the Council of these infringements?”

“I followed the notifications,” Gran repeats quietly.

The Council Leader sighs and nods to Annalise’s uncle, who pulls out a piece of parchment from under the desk. He reads out times and dates of when I left home, where I went, and when I returned. Every trip to Wales.

I feel sick. I was so sure that I had not been followed. But there is no mention of the trip to see Mary. Her instructions worked, but clearly my disappearance aroused suspicion.

“Do you deny that you made these trips outside authorized areas?” the Council Leader asks.

I don’t want to admit anything still, but denying it seems pointless now. “My gran didn’t know what I was doing. I told her I was going to the woods, where I am authorized to be.”

The woman says, “So you admit you failed to comply with the notifications. You lied to the Council. You deceived your own grandmother, a pure White Witch.”

Annalise’s uncle says, “Yes, it is clear that he has tried to deceive us all. But it is Mrs. Ashworth’s responsibility to ensure compliance with the notifications. And”—he pauses now to look at the Council Leader who inclines her head slightly—“as Mrs. Ashworth has clearly failed to do that, we will have to appoint someone who can.”

At that moment a huge woman steps forward from the far corner of the room. I had noticed her before but I thought she was a guard. She comes to stand to the left of the table. Despite her size she moves with grace, and though she stands straight, almost to attention, she has a poise that is strange, as if she’s a cross between a dancer and a soldier.

The Council Leader produces another parchment from beneath the table saying, “We agreed to a new resolution yesterday.” She reads slowly:

“Notification of the Resolution of the Council of White Witches of England, Scotland, and Wales.

“All Half Codes (W 0.5/B 0.5) are to be educated and supervised at all times only by those White Witches who have the approval of the Council.”

“He is educated under my supervision. I am a White Witch. I am teaching him well.” Gran’s voice is timid. It is almost as if she is talking to herself.

The Council Leader says, “Mrs. Ashworth, it is clear that you have failed to comply with at least two of the notifications of the Council. Punishments have been considered.”

Considered? What does that mean? What would they do to her?

“But the Council agrees that we are not here to punish White Witches. We are here to assist and protect them.”

The Council Leader starts reading from the parchment she holds. Annalise’s uncle is looking bored and studying his fingernails; the woman in the gray suit is looking at the Council Leader.

I can’t dodge past the guards behind me, but there is a door in the far wall through which the Council members enter the room.

The Council Leader reads on, but my attention is not on her. “. . . and we realize that the task . . . too onerous. The new notification . . . relieve you of the burden . . . the education and development of a Half Code . . . not to be taken lightly . . . monitored and controlled.”

I run for the far door, leaping onto the table between the Council Leader and the woman in gray. I jump from the table to shouts from the guards and the Council Leader reaches a hand out too late to grab my leg. It is five or six strides to the door and I’m clear of them all. Then the noise hits me.

A high-pitched whirring sound fills my head so suddenly that I’m unable to do anything but clamp my hands over my ears and scream. The pain is excruciating. I am on my knees, staring at the door, unable to move. I scream for the noise to stop, but it carries on to blackness.

* * *

Silence.

I’m on the floor, snot running out of my nose, my fingers still in my ears. I must have been unconscious less than a minute. The big guard/dancer woman’s black army boots are near my face.

“Get up.” Her voice is quiet, soft.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and shakily get to my feet.

The woman is wearing green canvas trousers and a heavy army-style camouflage jacket. Her face is so plain that she can only be called ugly. Her skin is pockmarked and lightly tanned. She has a wide mouth and fat lips. Her eyes are blue, with a few small silver glints. She has short, white eyelashes. Her blonde hair is short, spiky, and thin, barely covering her scalp. She is, I guess, about forty years old.

“I’m your new teacher and guardian,” she says.

Before I can react she turns from me and nods to the guards, who lift me up by my arms and carry me out of the room. I fight as best I can but my feet don’t even touch the ground. Between my struggles and the thick arm and chest of a guard I catch a glimpse of Gran. Tears are in her eyes and her cardigan is off one shoulder as if someone pulled her or held her back. Now she is just standing alone, looking lost.

I’m carried off down the corridors and outside into a paved courtyard where a white van is parked, its rear doors open. I’m thrown inside. Before I can scramble to my feet a knee is in my back pinning me down and my wrists are being handcuffed behind me. Then I’m dragged farther into the van and thick fingers, her fingers, put a collar round my neck. I spit and curse and receive a hard slap on the back of my skull. My head swims. The collar is chained closely to a ring in the van’s floor.

Still I struggle and kick and swear and scream.

But the noise hits me again.

This time I can’t protect my ears. I scream in panic and kick and fight my way into black silence.

* * *

When I come to, the van is moving and I’m being bounced around on its rusting metal floor. The journey goes on and on. I can see the back of the big woman’s head. She is driving the van, but there don’t seem to be any guards or Hunters with us.

I shout that I need to pee. I think there may be a chance of escape with her alone.

She ignores me.

I shout at her again. “I need to pee.” And I really do.

She half turns her head and shouts back, “Then shut up and have one. You’ll be cleaning the van tomorrow.”

Still she keeps driving. When it gets dark my guts are in turmoil from being inside as well as from the motion of the van. I fight not to throw up but don’t manage to hold it off for more than a few minutes.

Because of the collar and chain, my head is resting in my own vomit. She doesn’t stop until we arrive at our destination many hours later and by then I’m lying in a brew of my own sick and piss.

PART THREE: THE SECOND WEAPON

The Choker

You’ve got to give her credit: she’s an ugly witch from Hell, but she’s a worker. She’s been up all night and most of the day perfecting a new band of acid.

She puts it on. Tight.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You can squeeze one finger between the band and your neck.

“I’ll loosen it if you want.”

You blank her.

“You only have to ask.”

You can’t even gob up, it’s so tight.

You’re in the kitchen again, sitting at the table. No morning exercises, no breakfast, but you won’t be able to eat with this thing on anyway. She can’t seriously mean to leave it like this. You can hardly swallow, hardly breathe.

The buzz from healing has gone, like it’s been used up. Your hand is swollen and has healed only slightly. It’s throbbing. You can feel your pulse in your arm and your neck.

“You’re looking tired, Nathan.”

You are tired.

“I’m going to clean your hand.”

She dips a cloth into a bowl of water and wrings it out. You pull your hand away but she takes it and strokes the cloth over your wrist. It’s cool. It feels good. Taking away some of the burning even for a second is good. She slides the cloth down the back of your hand and then gently turns your hand and cleans the palm. The dirt won’t come out but the water feels fresh. She’s very gentle.

“Can you move your fingers?”

Your fingers can move a little but your thumb is numb and won’t move at all because of the swelling. You don’t move anything for her.

She rinses the cloth in the bowl of water, wrings it out, and holds it up.

“I’m going to clean your ear. There’s a lot of blood.”

She reaches over and wipes round it; again she does it slowly and gently.

You can’t hear with your left ear but it’s probably just dried blood blocking it up. Your left nostril is blocked too.

She puts the cloth back in the bowl, blood mixing with the water. She wrings the cloth out and reaches out to your face. You lean back.

“I know the choker’s tight.” She smoothes the cloth across your forehead. “And I know you can stand it.” She’s dabbing the cloth tenderly over your cheek. “You’re tough, Nathan.”

You turn away slightly.

She puts the cloth in the bowl again, mud and blood and water mixing together. She wrings the cloth out and hangs it on the side of the bowl.

“I’ll loosen it if you ask.” She reaches over and brushes your cheek with the back of her fingers. “I want to loosen it. But you have to ask,” she says again so quietly and gently.

You pull back and the choker cuts in.

“You’re tired, aren’t you, Nathan?”

And you’re so tired of it all. So tired you could cry. But there’s no way you’re going to let that happen.

No way.

You just want it to stop.

“All you have to do is ask me to loosen it and I will.”

You don’t want to cry and you don’t want to ask for anything. But you want it to stop.

“Ask me, Nathan.”

And the choker is so tight. And you’re so tired.

“Ask me.”

You’ve hardly spoken for months. Your voice is croaky, strange. And she wipes away your tears with her fingertips.

The New Trick

The routine is the same as ever. And so is the cage. And so are the shackles. The choker is still on, loose but there. If I try to leave, I’ll die, no doubt about it. I’m not at the point of wanting that just at the moment.

The morning routine is the same. I can do the outer circuit in under thirty minutes now. That’s down to practice and the diet, which means I’m a lean, mean running machine. But mainly it’s down to the new trick.

The new trick is no easier than the old trick.

The new trick is to stay in the present . . . Get lost in the detail of it . . . Enjoy it!

Enjoy the fine tuning of where I put my fingers when I’m doing push-ups, I mean really finding the finest tuning of where my fingers are in relation to each other, how straight or how bent, and how they feel on the ground, how the sensation changes as I move up and down. I can spend hours thinking about the feeling in my fingers as I do push-ups.

There’s so much to enjoy, too much really. Like when I’m running the circuit, I can concentrate on the deepness of my breathing but also the exact dampness of the air and the wind direction, how it changes over the hills and is slowed or speeded up as it’s funneled through the narrow valley. My legs carry me effortlessly downhill—that’s the bit I love best, where all I’ve got to do is spot the place to put my foot: on a small patch of grass between the gray stones, or on a flat rock, or on the stream bed. I do the spotting, looking ahead all the time, and move my leg to the right position, but gravity does the hard work. Only it’s not just me and gravity; it’s the hill as well. It feels as if the earth itself is making sure I don’t put a foot wrong. Then the uphill section and my legs are really burning and I’ve got to find the best foothold and handhold if it’s steep, and push and push. I’m doing the hard work and gravity is saying “payback time” and the hillside is saying, “Ignore him, just run.” Gravity is heartless. But the hill is my friend.

When I’m in my cage I can memorize the color of the sky, the cloud shapes, their speed and how they change, and I can get up there, be in the clouds in the shapes and colors. I can even get into the mottled colors of the bars of the cage, climb into the cracks beneath the flakes of rust. Roam around in my own bar.

My body’s changed. I’ve grown. I remember my first day in the cage and I could only just reach the bars across the top, had to do a little jump to grab them. Now when I stretch up, my hands and wrists reach freedom. I have to bend my legs to do pull-ups. I’m still not as tall as Celia, but she’s a giant.

Celia. I admit she’s hard to enjoy, but sometimes I manage it. We talk. She’s different from what I expected. I don’t think I’m what she expected either.