Fragments (8 page)

I thought I’d get treated a little better after the conversation with Mr Big Cheese Alexander, and agreed to go on his security course or whatever it is. I didn’t expect to get loaded back into this van like I’m not even human.

I want to wash and change my clothes more than anything in the world, even more than I want some more water and to eat something. I’m starving, even though my stomach’s all in knots as I wonder about what’s going to happen next.

I lose track of time a bit but I suppose it’s about an hour before the engine sounds change and the van slows to a stop. It seems ages before the doors are thrown open again. I flinch and tuck into myself tighter when I see the face of the guard. He still hates me. I guess hard blokes like him don’t take kindly to being half beaten up by skinny girls like me. Serves him right. I avoid his eye anyway because I’m not stupid. No point in winding him up further.

‘Get out,’ he orders and I sit up and edge towards the open doors. I lower my legs out and shuffle down, looking around. There’s a high, barbed-wire fence and a massive gate behind us. Two soldiers guard it, their expressions stony. In front of me is a low, red-brick building. I don’t get the chance to see any more of it because the guard takes my arm again and drags me towards a building off to the side of the main one. I crane my neck to look behind me and see a bunch of soldiers marching in formation, their feet crunching in time through gravel.

My biggest fan shoves me into the building, which is a sort of long hut. Inside it’s like a changing room with rows of benches and a stone floor. I have a dim memory of when I went to school and had PE, a lifetime ago.

‘Clean yourself up. Change your clothes. You’re disgusting,’ barks Fan Boy, wrinkling his nose. I hate him for saying this. I’d like to break his nose all over again. ‘Oh, and,’ he’s leering now, ‘these aren’t women’s changing rooms so you’d better be quick. About fifty squaddies are about to use these facilities in five minutes.’

He goes to a locker, laughing, and pulls out some faded green trousers and a shirt. They’re army clothes made for a man and they’re going to swamp me, but anything clean and dry would be welcome about now. He does something to the bindings on my wrists and ankles. My arms flop free and then I move to catch the clothes he throws at my face.

‘Five minutes.’ He sits down on one of the benches and stares at me. ‘Well, get moving then.’

I hurry through to the showers, praying for cubicles, but no, there’s just rows of shower-heads and a long trough. Shivering and looking all around, I peel off the wet clothes, praying no one will come in. The water is hot and even though there’s no soap, I quickly sluice myself down, grateful to be getting clean. I’m in there for all of three minutes and then stand shivering, realising I have no towel. I have to use the top I was wearing to dry myself, all the while so terrified about people coming in that my teeth grind together and my hands shake when I try to do up buttons on the huge shirt.

I have to roll the sleeves up several times and the trouser legs too, but the clothes are dry and clean and the relief is huge. It’s like all my needs are waiting in line because as soon as I feel this I remember the thirst and hunger gnawing at me inside.

There’s a bin and I stuff my other clothes in there. They were never mine, anyway. I had plenty to wear when Jax and I lived at Zander’s place. Never thought anything of chucking something away because it had a tiny tear or stain. For a minute I picture my favourite top, shimmery sky-blue and made from that special material that adapts to your temperature and changes colour in different lights. Thinking Fabric, they call it. Tears fill my eyes and I think,
What, so you’re missing a bloody top now? Get a grip, girl
. But it’s not the top, not really. It’s the thought of having something of my own, even if it only came from thieving. Like I had some sort of control over my own life. I wipe my hand across my face and push hair out of my eyes. I slide my feet into my sneakers, stand up straight and push my shoulders back before walking back to where Fan Boy is waiting.

He laughs unkindly and shakes his head as though he’s never seen anything more disgusting than me. He has small, watery blue eyes and his teeth have the distinctive blueish tinge of whitening tablets that have gone wrong. Who’d have thought a big thug like him would try to change his appearance? His nose is all swollen and smushed looking.

Ha! Serves you right, you pathetic bully
.

‘Right, come on then,’ he says, getting up.

‘Where am I going now?’ I say quietly.

The malicious smile spreads further across his face. ‘Oh, you’re going on a bit of a journey,’ he says. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll be travelling first class all the way.’

I don’t question him further but a feeling of dread pools in my guts. I don’t like the sound of this at all. He shoves me between the shoulder blades as we go out of the door and I stumble, falling forwards onto my hands and knees. The gravel bites into my palms and I gasp. I hate him. I
hate
him. He squats down on his haunches and looks into my face.

‘Oh, clumsy,’ he says. ‘Did you fall over?’

I look up at him and I can’t stop myself. I mouth an obscenity at him, so clearly he couldn’t miss it. His grin fades and he stands up. His boot connects with my thigh and I fall onto my side, crying out at the spike of agony. I see him pull his leg back again and I’m too winded to roll away. He’s aiming at my head! I think,
Oh God, this is it
, but I hear a shout and the sound of a vehicle drawing up. A soldier comes over – I can see his long, green-clad legs and shiny black boots.

‘What’s going on here, guard?’ says a posh male voice. ‘Is this the girl?’

‘Yes, sir,’ says the guard, crisp and loud. ‘She keeps trying to escape, so you’ll need to keep an eye on her, sir.’

I creak painfully to my feet, rubbing my thigh where that bastard kicked me.

The other soldier stands very tall and straight. He wears a dark green beret and he regards the guard with a cold expression.

‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, guard,’ he snaps and I see the other man’s face tighten and colour up. ‘Maybe if you did yours a little better you would find it easier to hang onto someone half your size.’

A muscle in the guard’s cheek twitches, like someone has a fish-hook through it and is tugging on the wire. This image makes me feel a little better. Is this soldier being kind? Is this kindness? I don’t even know any more.

‘Anyway,’ says the soldier, looking at me. There’s nothing in his eyes to suggest kindness. Maybe this whole scene is just a bit messy for his tidy barracks. ‘It’s time to go. Get in.’ He gestures to the army truck pulled up beside him which is driven by another soldier. The back has a sort of canvas flap thing and I hesitantly lift it up before climbing into the back. I’m dying to ask questions. Where am I going? What’s going to happen next? But my instinct is to keep quiet and be the good little girl. This soldier fella might shoot me without a second thought, despite sticking up for me before.

There are all sorts of ropes and rucksacks in the back here, plus loads of canvas sheets. But I’m only in the back of this truck for a few minutes before it stops abruptly, so that I bang into the side and pain in my bruised thigh shoots down my leg, making me wince.

The canvas flap is yanked out of the way. Another soldier is standing there. He has a gun slung across his front and a different hat from the other guy.

‘Come on, miss,’ he says. He’s got some sort of accent, maybe Scouse.

I go to jump down and he holds out his hand, which I ignore. We’re at the side of a main road in a lay-by. Traffic thunders by and I feel the whip of the wind as lorries pass. The soldier says nothing, just stands straight-backed and peering at the oncoming traffic. There’s a sound from his radio and he lifts the watch device to his mouth and says something I don’t catch into it. I look at the bank behind me and for a second think about trying to run. Then I eye the assault rifle again and know I’ve got no chance.

About a minute later a large black vehicle approaches. It’s covered in thick, armoured panels that look a bit like scales and the window is smoked so I can’t see the drivers, up high above the road. They used to call these Black Marias, Mum told me once. Now they’re known as CAT boxes, as though the jokey name can take away the fear the sight of them provokes.

One of the doors opens and a woman dressed in a black CATS uniform jumps out. She has short blond hair and pale, icy eyes. She has a volter on her belt, plus a regular gun and a canister of something that’s probably crowd gas. I know that stuff will peel your skin off in a second. I swallow. My mouth is so dry. I hope there will be water and something to eat soon.

All my needs are basic ones now. Food. Water.

Survival.

She looks me up and down and nods with her chin at the soldier. He salutes and she nods again. Then she goes to the back of the CAT van and the doors open. A boy – no, a man, but a young one . . . maybe about twenty – falls out onto the lay-by, hard onto his side.

He starts to shout something I can’t make out and the woman CAT calmly pulls the gun out from her belt, takes aim, and shoots him. He jerks and his limbs splay. His eyes are open and his forehead has a massive, messy hole. A whistling sound fills my head and for a few moments I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Some cross between tears and vomit, a cocktail of horror, rises up in my throat and I start to shake hard, all over, as she walks back towards me. Her expression is as blank as if she had just stepped on a fly.

‘Deal with that, will you?’ she says to the soldier who salutes and taps his booted heels together.

I stare at her with eyes widened by terror at the sickening violence I’ve just seen.

She looks impassively down at me. She’s a good head taller. Her irises are so pale that her pupils are like weird holes in the centre.

‘Want to know why I did that?’ she says. I don’t know how to react. I blink stupidly at her. She carries on speaking and I know I was right not to respond.

‘Because he was bitching and whining in the back. Saying he’d changed his mind and that he never signed up to . . .’ she pauses and then mimics a whiny male voice, ‘
no effing boot camp
.’ She skewers me with her eyes and then turns back to the soldier.

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ she says and he snaps a salute again. She reaches into her belt and pulls out some of the stretchy tape stuff I was tied up with before. Handing it to the soldier, she goes to the back of the CAT van. He kneels down and binds my feet, again giving me just enough space to shuffle-walk, but leaves my wrists free. He doesn’t meet my eyes the whole time, even though he’s only centimetres away, close enough for me to smell some sort of mint on his breath.

I’m escorted to the back of the CAT van where the female officer stands, doing something to the 3D touch screen on her mobile. Inside I can see there are two rows of seats facing inwards. People are sitting in the seats with bars coming down over their shoulders. It reminds me of a picture I saw once of a rollercoaster at a theme park, where people got dangled upside down in their seats, only held in by restraints like these. I never got to go to a theme park before the bombings closed them all down. I can’t imagine a world where people would pay money to frighten the crap out of themselves. It seems to me there are plenty enough ways to do that for free.

Most of the people in the back are looking at the ground, ignoring me in a weird way. Aren’t they curious? Then I notice the screen at the far end of the van. I see myself standing there and understand. They saw what happened just now. They’re too frightened to catch this woman’s eye. Maybe they think they’ll be next.

God, what have I got myself into?

Only one person looks out at me, a white girl a bit older than me who has blond hair twisted into a messy ponytail. She has a sharp face and quick, darting eyes.

I climb into the back of the CAT van and sit in the empty seat nearest to her. The woman jumps neatly up and brings down the arms of the seat over my head. With a sharp click they lock into position. I understand why my hands aren’t tied now. The position of the restraints means my arms are wide apart, my hands useless.

‘We will stop for a break when we reach Carlisle,’ says the woman. But she does a weird thing then. She throws a bottle of water to the blond girl, who nods in thanks. I can’t understand it.

And then without another word, she slams the doors closed and I hear a series of clicking sounds, as though several locks are sliding into place.

The engine starts up and the van begins to move. No one speaks.

Trying not to draw attention to myself, I look around at the other people here. There are four others, including the blond girl. A thin boy with a mop of dark hair who looks about my age. I can see his lips moving ever so slightly. Maybe he’s praying. A woman in her twenties, with tattoos and short dark hair, has her head tilted away. One of her hands plucks at the material of her skirt over and over again. The last passenger is a smallish black boy about my age who catches my eye and stares at me until I look away.

The blond, sharp-faced girl is looking at me too. I stare back. I’m not prepared to smile and pretend we’re all off on some jolly trip together. I don’t know exactly what happened back there, why that man was shot. I close my eyes as the image replays, sickeningly, in my head. I feel a bit sick and force myself to breathe slowly. I’m still desperate for some water. I have no idea how far Carlisle is from here or how long it will be until we get a break.

I’ve never known time move so slowly. I can’t sleep and I don’t want to meet anyone’s eye. It feels like every second is an hour.

After some time that could be anything from half an hour to half a day we stop. I guess this is Carlisle. I need to pee now, as well as being so thirsty I think I’ll go mad. One at a time we’re led at gunpoint by a male CAT to some bushes at the side of the road. I try to hide away to pee, embarrassed. I’m given a plastic container of water and I greedily gulp from it, feeling sick because I’ve drunk too quickly.