Fractured A Slated Novel

Chapter THIRTY THREE



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Since yesterday morning, it is as if the world in sympathy has been dipped into a deep chill: the temperature staying near zero all day, and much lower at night. That and Ben have kept me numb, going through the motions of school, home and in between, almost without awareness. Minutes ticking past in a strange way where I can stare out the window, blank, and look up a moment later to find hours have passed. I even did my Shakespeare homework for English to have something, anything, to occupy my mind. A poor effort, but that is one less thing to get in trouble over. At least until they read it, because it is pretty bad. Though Nico or Coulson may have made my English homework irrelevant by then.

And tonight, it is Group.

Running usually makes me feel better, more myself. Whoever that is. But as my feet thud up the road, I’m not sure this was a good idea. All it does is make me remember running to Group with Ben.

We used to run to overcome our Levos. All those happy brain chemicals from excessive exercising – endorphins – made it possible to think, to talk about unpleasant things without our levels dropping. But it was so much more than that: Ben loved to run. Even more than I did. It was part of who he was.

My feet falter, I almost stumble: running is still part of who Ben is.

I slow to a walk. What does this mean? Something has been niggling away at me behind the grief, and that is it. I’d guessed Ben would run in that place in the morning because I know him so well. He did. That means part of him is still there.

I force myself to remember every moment of yesterday morning, examine it. Something I’d been trying to avoid. He didn’t know who I was, so I’d assumed he’d been re-Slated. There wasn’t a new Levo in sight, but his sleeves were too long to tell. They would have hidden it.

But something isn’t right. If he had been redone, he’d have been like a new Slated, wouldn’t he? All joy and big dopey grins. It hasn’t been that long. And he wasn’t like that, at all: if anything, he was less that way than he used to be. Whatever has happened to him, it isn’t that. This is something else.

I walk along the icy road, deep in thought, barely noticing the grip of the cold now I’ve stopped running. Now and then lights come up bright behind me then are gone, as cars, then a van, sweep past.

As I round a corner the van is pulled in at the side of the road.

Some part of my brain notes: a white van.

‘Best Builders’ painted down the side.

Run!

The thought barely forms when hands reach out from shadows at the side of the road and grab my arm.

My instant reaction is to spin and kick, but car lights come the other way. He lets go of me as light sweeps over us, and confirm the only conclusion: it is Wayne.

Wayne, but he has changed. His face, never a picture, is worse: an angry scar runs from his eye and into his scalp, hair missing around it that isn’t growing back.

‘Pretty, ain’t I?’ he says, reading my face.

‘What do you want?’ I say, stalling. Reminding myself that he doesn’t remember: that is what Amy said was going round at the doctor’s surgery. He has traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t remember who beat him up. Unless seeing me brings it back?

Another car passes.

‘I think you know.’

Every instinct screams run, get away. ‘Tell me,’ I say.

He raises his eyebrows and one, trapped by the scar, looks like it splits in half. ‘Just this. Keep looking over your shoulder, honey, because one day, somewhere lonely, I’ll be there.’

He winks and I realise one eye is false; it looks the wrong way.

‘Later,’ he says. Walks back to his van. Gets in, starts the engine and drives up the road. Gives the horn a double tap ‘toot toot’ before he disappears from sight.

My knees are shaking so much I have to stop, and lean against a tree. I look at my hands: so much damage they caused. Nico’s training brought out in danger. It was self-defence, yes, but all I can see is the blood. His head soaked with blood. I breathe in and out, fight not to be sick.

And Wayne remembers. He knows it was me who did that to him, yet he hasn’t told the authorities. He wants to deal with me himself.

I shiver and start moving again, walking then running. Let’s face it: terrifying as he is, Wayne isn’t the worst bogeyman in my closet. There are so many threats to look for over my shoulder, I should install a wing mirror to keep them all in sight.

The bright lights and smiles of Group don’t lift the chill. I’m still shivering when Mum picks me up at the end.

‘See. I told you it was too cold to run. You should listen to your mother.’

Honk, honk! Car horns are loud in my ears. But the traffic is stopped. They’re not going anywhere, and I yell at the bus driver: move, do something! I know what is going to happen, but he can’t hear me.

There is a whistling noise, a flash, a BANG that rattles into my bones, sends me sprawling, but there is no way to get away. The side of the bus is splintered, folded in on itself.

There is screaming from inside; bloody hands beat on windows. Flames lick the back of the bus.

A pause. Another whistle, flash, explosion.

Opposite the bus a sign hangs on a pole, half dislodged – from some stray bit of shrapnel? The building behind is untouched.

The sign says London Lorder Offices.

Heart beating wildly, eyes finally open, I’m shaking: a blanket in my mouth to stop a scream.

A Free UK attack gone wrong. A face floats into view: Dr Craig. Why? What has he got to do with this?

Katran would do anything to strike at the Lorders. So would I! Determination clenches tight, inside. But not that. I couldn’t do that.

Something went wrong when that bus was hit – it was a mistake.

Was I there? Everything says yes – the details, the sounds, the smells – so real, so clear.

I’ve had this dream a few times before. In one version, Mum’s son Robert and his girlfriend were on the bus. But it happened over six years ago: I was ten years old! I couldn’t have been there; it doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t even with Katran and the Owls until I was fourteen.

Yet I must have done things like this in the past. That must be why the details are so real, so clear. Then, when I was one of the Owls, I would do anything to strike at the Lorders. I was strong.

I will be strong again.

I can do anything.