Cracks (20 page)

I
t doesn’t take that long to reach the motorway services. Keeping my head down, I go inside and buy juice, a sandwich and some crisps, trying
not to look as guilty and conspicuous as I feel.

I walk towards the lorry car park.

Footsteps pound behind me then and someone calls out. I drop the bag of food and spin round, looking for somewhere to run. They can’t have traced me already, can they? I look around wildly
for something I can use as a weapon but there’s no time because someone is already right there, next to me.

‘Hey you!’ It’s a bloke in his twenties with a shaved head and loads of earrings around his lobes. A row of jewels sparkle under his bottom lip and a silver bolt is through his
eyebrow with a little chain on the end. He’s wearing some sort of overall and gasping for breath. ‘You forgot your change!’ he says, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. I
finally recognise the man who served me in the shop.

I burst out laughing. I don’t know if it’s a release of tension after everything that’s happened or if I’m just losing it, but I laugh so hard I have to lean against the
wall and get my breath back.

The bloke just watches me, smiling uncertainly. I eventually get myself together and take the money from his hand. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘And thanks for this.’

‘Been one of those days, has it, mate?’ he says. His eyes flick from my cheek to my lip.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘you could say that.’

After two hours of hanging around in the car park I start realising this was a stupid plan all along. I’d pictured lorry drivers standing around talking and me picking up
useful information about where they’re going. But it’s nothing like that. People come and go but no one speaks to anyone else. They just pull in, get out, and come back with burgers,
sandwiches and boxes of fried chicken. Then they get back into their lorries to eat them before driving off with a dismissing hiss of hydraulic brakes.

After a while, though, I finally get some much-needed luck. A massive blue and white lorry with
John Hartman and Sons, Office Supplies
on the side pulls into the car park. It also says
Brinkley Cross, Lancashire
on the back. Result! I just have to hope it’s heading that way. I don’t even know which side of the road, I am – north or south.

I wait, crouching at the back of the lorry until I hear the doors slam and the driver walk away. He’s on his mobile phone. Sounds like he’s telling his wife what time he’ll be
back. They’re bickering because it’s later than he promised, but he’s on his way back.

Result.

It’s the first decent thing that’s happened to me in ages. I creep to the back of the lorry and reach into my pocket for the lock picks that Zander gave me. The first few don’t
fit and I’m swearing a bit under my breath as I try to find one that does.

That’s when I hear voices and a horrible wet, panting sound.

I peek out to see the bloke with the piercings, flanked on each side by CATS officers wearing black crash helmets with the visors up. The piercings guy is pointing to where we had our
conversation. My heart thuds and acidy fear jolts every part of me. Did he report me?

They start to walk over and that’s when I notice the huge, slavering Alsatian dog on a lead in the CATS officer’s hand. He can barely control it and the dog pulls and strains with
its powerful body, tongue lolling and vicious teeth bared. They start checking underneath lorries, the dog making itself flat to sniff underneath. I start praying, silently, my fingers slippery
with sweat as I fumble with one and then another of the lock picks. The whole bunch then slides out of my hand and hits the concrete, making the loudest sound in the history of the world, ever. I
snatch them up and the very last one fits with a wonderful, fantastic
click.

I fling open the doors, panting, and get inside, softly closing the door behind me. The voices are getting closer and now they must be checking the lorries in the parking row next to this one. I
climb behind a load of boxes, crouching down and shaking hard. I watch the doors, expecting them to be flung open any second with an explosion of snarling teeth.

But, thank God, I hear the driver’s voice again then. He’s still arguing on his phone. He doesn’t check the back. I hear the cabin door slam. Everything rumbles around me and
the powerful machine comes to life.

I huddle between the boxes, longing to sleep but knowing I have to stay alert. Every time I feel my head loll or my eyes droop, I make myself press against my busted lip or my throbbing cheek.
The agony brings me back to consciousness like an electric cattle prod.

Have to think. Have to make a plan. I put my head between my hands and try to conjure up the images of Brinkley Cross that are stored somewhere in my brain. Have to get to Amil’s place.
He’ll be what, mid-twenties now? That thought is so freaky it makes me draw in my breath. Of course he won’t know me. His mum and dad won’t know me. I’m a total stranger to
them. But I know I’ve been inside their shop. It’s not much, but it’s a tiny link in the chain that connects to my real identity. If I can make them listen to my crazy story,
surely they’ll help me? Maybe they’ll even remember a small boy called Cal. My heart races again and I can’t stop a smile from coming to my sore face at the thought of finding a
real family of my own. But if I do have one, why didn’t anyone ever get me out of that place? This makes the smile fade and a chill settle inside. I don’t know the answers to any of
these questions yet. But maybe I’m getting closer to finding them.

The engine sounds change after a while and the lorry slows down. It seems to twist and turn for ages. The pain in my ribs is getting worse, like someone is turning up the
volume. I peel back the bandage on my hand and wince at the swollen skin around the cut. It’s red and weirdly firm to the touch. That can’t be right. I put back the bandage. A little
infection is the least of my worries right now.

Finally the lorry stops with a sort of rumbling sigh. I creep further back behind the boxes and a horrible thought occurs to me. What if I have to stay here all night, locked in? But no,
there’s a sound of metal on metal and the doors open.

I pull back further behind the boxes.

A metal ramp is being lowered and then the lorry shakes as someone climbs inside. I swear they can hear my heartbeat, which seems to be booming around the metal walls on loudspeaker.

There’s some huffing and puffing and then the floor bounces gently as the driver walks down the ramp.

I can’t wait any longer. I just have to do it.

As his footsteps recede and I hear him talking to someone in the distance, I get up and run down the ramp. I’m in a loading bay at the back of a factory and the gates are open. I put my
head down, hands in my pockets and walk towards the gates, trying not to attract attention to myself.

‘Hey! Where the hell did you come from?’

The shout feels like an explosion behind me and I run, hard, out of the gates and into an industrial estate where large metal warehouses loom all around. I keep running, following the side of
the road and then come to a stop, gasping for breath at the edge of the estate. I risk a quick glance behind. No one seems to be following me. I’m facing a roundabout that shows Brinkley
Cross railway station as being straight ahead. Dark clouds are clumping together as I walk along the side of the country road. There’s a wall made from rough grey stone at each side and dark
green and purplish hills rear up all around. Everything is the colour of bruises.

I’m about to get moving when something makes me stop, dead still. I sniff the air. I sniff again and close my eyes as a powerful feeling of recognition floods washes over me, sweet and
warm like honey. There’s a rich, hoppiness in the air that’s so familiar, it feels like it’s part of my DNA. It’s the brewery! The donor boy could see the brewery from his
house on the hill. But this is nothing to do with slivers of brain tissue and second-hand memories. This is
my
memory. Mine!

That’s when I know for certain that Brinkley Cross is not just his, but my town too. I’m home.

I
’m grinning like a madman but my eyes are filling up and a funny sob comes out of me. I rub my hand across my battered, sore face and
squeeze my eyes closed. I get a stupid urge to tell Jax and Kyla and then I remember I can’t; they’ve gone, and sadness twists inside me. I take a deep breath. My legs are wobbly and my
face is burning like I’ve been too long in the sun. I feel a bit weird. But I guess it’s no wonder after the last day or so. I take a deep breath and clench, then unclench my fists.
I’m ready.

Right, first stop: Amil’s shop. I have to hope they won’t think I’m a nutter and slam the door in my face. I’ll have to watch my step too. I look around. No CCTV here but
there are bound to be cameras in the town. It’s broad daylight so I can’t exactly use my training from working with Zander’s lot or I’ll draw even more attention to myself.
Just have to wing it. I can’t give up now. I have no options anyway. A memory of Cavendish’s voice comes to me. What did he say? ‘Mixing the two realities – the world of
your coma and the real world – is just not advisable. Anything could go wrong’. Now I know why he said that. He didn’t want me anywhere near my home town. Asking questions and
finding out where I came from. Maybe finding my family.

I pull up my hood, shove my hands in my pockets and start walking.

I soon come to the edge of the town. I can see another sign for the railway station ahead. My heart starts to thump. I rub my damp palms on my trousers, wincing as I remember the puffy wound on
my hand. My eyes hurt and I feel out of breath. Was Cavendish telling the truth? Was coming here a mistake?

I don’t care anyway. I need to find out who I am. No matter what it costs.

I walk past the station, which has hanging baskets outside that sway gently in a light breeze that’s blowing. Something tugs at the back of my mind, a memory of looking up at baskets like
these from much lower down. Excitement throbs in my chest.

I pass a flower shop and then a betting shop. I know I’m not far from Amil’s shop now. I can feel it. It’s up ahead where the road curves. I go faster, praying silently that
Amil’s family will believe my story. There are a few people milling around, going about their ordinary days. I feel a stab of envy and wonder what it would be like to be normal, like them.
That’s all I want. A home. A family. A normal life.

I avoid catching anyone’s eye anyway, not wanting to draw attention to myself and hurry on, shaking now with anticipation. Almost there . . .

And then my feet slow to a stop.

The world shrinks to a small, choking thing.

The shop as I know it has gone.

A metal concertina shutter covers the windows and doors. Faded graffiti is daubed over the brickwork and most of the windows are smashed. I go close to the metal shutter and rest my burning
hands and face against it. Inside I can see empty shelves covered in cobwebs and dirt. Broken glass litters the ground.

‘Excuse me, pet.’ The voice behind me is quivery and low. I start and look round to see an old lady peering at me. She has dyed black hair piled in a bun on her head with lots of
pins in it. ‘You don’t want to spend too long there. You never know who might be watching you.’ She looks around nervously and her tongue creeps over her pink lipstick.

‘What . . .’ I have to make a huge effort to find my voice. ‘What happened to the shop?’

She looks around again and pats her hair. ‘They left. Think they got deported or something, which was a crying shame because that lad of theirs was born and bred here. CATS kept pulling
him in and questioning him like he was some sort of terrorist.’ She puffs out her chest. ‘But I told them, I said, they’re good people, I said. There’s no call to go
interrogating innocent people like them.’ She pauses and gives a ripe smoker’s cough. ‘But they wouldn’t listen to me,’ she adds sadly.

I stare desperately at the front of the shop. The familiar sign saying
Sweet Stop
ripples and blurs. I squeeze my eyes closed and then open them again.

‘Did they leave any kind of an address?’ I ask hopelessly. ‘Do you know how I can contact them?’

The old lady shakes her head. ‘No, pet. One day they were here, then they were gone. Look, you don’t want to go hanging around on the streets. Like I said, you never know who’s
watching you. Best get off to where you come from.’ She pats my arm and then bustles away, clutching a huge black handbag to her side.

Where I come from . . .

I want to punch something. Or someone. Hard. This was my only hope of finding out where that was. I went through so much to get here and for what? Nothing?

I walk away, hands in my pockets and my head down.
This isn’t fair
.
Not fair!
Everything is wobbling and closing in around me and I can hear my breath coming in and out,
harsh and scratchy. I’m not frightened now. I’m so angry I could do anything. To have come all this way and risked so much . . . An empty lager can lies at the side of the road and I
kick it savagely. A bloke washing a shop front across the way stares at me with a quick frown. I scowl back at him and walk on, not knowing where I’m going, too upset and angry to care what
anyone thinks.