‘What would you do if they told you to kill me? If they said, “Put a bullet in the Half Code’s brain.”’ I mime a gun, pointing a finger to the side of my head, and make a shooting sound.
She gets up and walks round behind me, pushes a finger hard against the back of my skull and makes the same sound.
I don’t sleep well. It’s not cold. There’s no wind, not a breath. The clouds are still. There’s no rain.
I’m nervous about seeing the Council. My hands are shaky. Nerves, just nerves.
I can still feel Celia’s finger on the back of my skull. I know they can kill me at any time. Who would do it and how is irrelevant; the end result is the same. But still the thought of it being Celia has got to me. I know she’d do it. She’d have to, or someone would do it to her.
The trick is to enjoy it. How do you enjoy that?
You have to find a way.
Celia has told me that Annalise is unharmed, as are Deborah, Arran and Gran, but the implication is that that may change at any time. When I’m dead they will be safe.
That’s the upside.
I can enjoy thinking they are all alive and well and safe.
Annalise is in the woods, running around, smiling, laughing, climbing the sandstone cliff. I want to see her and touch her skin again; I want her to kiss my fingers, my face, my body. And I know it will never happen and instead she will be with some shithead White Witch who has his paws all over her. Enjoy that!
Deborah will marry a nice guy, have kids and be happy. I can imagine that. That’s true. She’ll have three or four kids and she’ll be a great mum and they’ll all be happy. Gran will live peacefully in her house drinking tea and feeding the chickens.
They are good thoughts. And then I remember Gran and Deborah crying on the landing. But their tears dried then and they’d dry again – maybe they already have. Maybe they think I’m dead already.
I don’t think Arran will believe I’m dead. I remember him sweeping my hair back and saying, ‘I couldn’t stand it.’ His foot is sticking out of the bed and my fingertips are kissing his forehead, and I am crying.
a hunter
It’s my sixteenth birthday. I’ve been weighed and measured by Celia. She’s shaved my head and removed my piercings.
It’s mid-morning and I’m back in the cage, shackled up. I guess Celia thinks it makes her look conscientious.
A jeep appears on the track. In the stillness it seems grotesquely loud. And it just keeps getting louder. Eventually it stops and they get out.
The Council Leader hasn’t bothered to come and neither has the other woman. But Annalise’s uncle, Soul O’Brien, is here and with him are two other men. A dark-haired youngish man, dressed in new walking boots, jeans and a pristine waxed jacket. He’s so pale he looks like he’s not been outside for years. In contrast the other man looks like he’s spent his life outdoors. His blond hair is mixed with grey. He is tall, muscular and dressed in black, which gives me a clue to what he is. But it’s easy to tell them. They have a way of looking down at everyone else, even the Councillors.
Celia goes to meet them. I wonder if she will salute or shake hands. Neither.
They come over to look at me. Caged up. The Hunter has pale blue eyes that are hardly blue at all they have so much silver in them.
They all look at me, then they all turn their backs on me and look at the scenery and then they all go inside.
It’s the usual routine for Assessments after that. I’m left to wait.
Eventually Celia comes to get me. She doesn’t say anything, just unlocks the cage and leads the way to the cottage. She stops by the front door. As I walk past her and go inside I wonder if she’ll say good luck, but she’s not that nervous.
The three visitors are sitting at the kitchen table. I’m standing, of course. Outside, Celia passes the window, pacing.
Annalise’s uncle asks all the questions and makes notes. The same sort of questions that Celia has asked me every month. He squirms when I try to read but mostly his expression is one of boredom. He never hurries and we eventually work through all the mental tests.
He says, ‘That’s all my questions.’
He’s not talking to me but to the Hunter. The Hunter’s not spoken yet. Not to me, nor to them.
The Hunter gets up and walks round me, eyeing me up. He’s taller than me, but not by much, and he’s solid. His chest is twice as thick as mine and his neck is huge.
He stands behind me and speaks quietly, close to my ear so that I can feel his breath. ‘Take your shirt off.’
I do as he says. Slowly, but I do it.
The third man, the dark-haired one, gets up and walks round to look at my back. He takes hold of my arm and it’s all I can do not to pull away. His fingers are clammy, weak. He turns my hand over, looking at the scars on my wrists. ‘You can heal well. And quickly?’
I’m not sure what to say.
‘Let’s go outside and see,’ the Hunter says. Again I feel his breath on my neck.
The Hunter speaks to Celia. She nods and walks over to the area where we practise self-defence.
‘Show me what he can do,’ the Hunter says.