Slated (14 page)

There is a sound, a small vibration, muffled by Ben’s coat.

‘Let me see,’ I say, and he holds out his hand. I push up his sleeve to see his Levo: 4.3.‘What can I do?’

He shrugs a bit helplessly. ‘I should run,’ he says, but he doesn’t move. His other hand tightens on my shoulder, and his Levo vibrates again. 4.1.

I slip my arms around him; his go round my shoulders. He moves closer. The rain is falling harder but he is so much taller, leaning over, that I am sheltered. And even through school jumpers and jackets I can feel the
thump-thump, thump-thump
of his heart. Mine is beating faster, warmth is sliding through me as I bury my face in his damp jacket. But he is upset because of Tori. It isn’t me he wants to hold.

A whistle sounds, we both jump and pull apart.

‘That’s Miss Fern, calling everyone in. She must have decided it’s raining too hard,’ he says.

‘Run?’ I ask.

And we do, slipping and sliding on wet leaves down the path, until a few minutes later we reach the group just as Miss Fern starts counting heads.

Today’s prac abandoned due to weather, Miss Fern sets us questions to answer.

But I can’t concentrate. What happened to Tori? I have a sick feeling in my stomach that says
nothing nice.
I didn’t know her for long. She had a knack of saying things out loud that were in my head. Mum had snapped at her at the show, telling her to mind her words. Maybe she wasn’t being nasty like it seemed at the time. Maybe, Mum was trying to warn her.

Ben’s levels are so up and down that Miss Fern finally excuses him from class, and sends him to the track with a TA to run laps.

When the bell is finally about to go, Miss Fern comes round and looks over my shoulder, and sees how little work I’ve done. ‘Is this the thanks I get,’ she scolds. But then she smiles and I see she doesn’t really mean it.

‘For what?’

She sits in Ben’s empty seat. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Gianelli, head of the Art Department, and showed him your drawing of the owl. Made much of your dreams to become an artist.’ She winks.

‘And?’

‘He’s doing battle to get you in his class: we’ll see what happens, but I expect he’ll win. He is too annoying to say no to for long.’

I don’t see Ben again until Assembly.

He’s sitting with his tutor group, a few rows up and across. His hair is plastered to his head – from rain, or sweat? – and his colour is better. He turns when we file in, spots me.

Okay
I mouth? And he nods yes, with a small smile.

Every year group has Assembly once a week: Year 11 on Friday afternoons, so this is my first. I’m at the end of the row, Phoebe enough seats away to ignore. The girl next to me, Julie, I sat next to in English yesterday; while not entirely friendly, she has been okay. Showing me where we are in
Romeo and Juliet
, and explaining stuff. Everyone shuffles in their seats and there is a low hum of voices that abruptly ceases when a door opens at the front.

‘
That
is the Head: Rickson,’ Julie hisses in my ear. So she is still explaining.

He wears a blue suit that doesn’t quite fit against his gut, and stands very straight as if to compensate. His eyes are cold as they sweep around the room, stopping here and there as if to say
I’m keeping an eye on you
. Though I’m not sure if it is him that has everyone still and quiet like stone, or the two men and one woman who file in behind.

Their faces are neutral; their suits identical grey jackets and trousers.

‘Lorders,’ Julie says in the quietest whisper, so faint I’m not sure if I heard or imagined the word.

They are the same as we saw at the County Show, when just by being there they silenced the crowd, as they do now. And just like that day my stomach twists in a cold knot of dread.

Who, or what, are Lorders? Somehow I know, but don’t know, at the same time. And then I remember my dream: the school bus blown up, so many students dying, and the sign hanging on the building next to the bus that said
London Lorders Office
. But if it was just a dream, something my mind made up after seeing the memorial, how did I put Lorders in it when I didn’t know what they are? Maybe it wasn’t just a dream. Perhaps Lorders were the target of the bombs that killed those students. But if it wasn’t a dream…why was I there? Six years ago I was just ten years old. It doesn’t make sense.

The Lorders move off to the side, taking no obvious part: just listening, watching.

Rickson addresses the Assembly, and I carefully force my eyes away from the three of them, to him; doing my best to listen with part of my brain while the rest still whirls in shock. He goes on about academic and sporting achievements of students. He mentions the school cross-country team open training continues Sunday; he hopes many of us will go along, and names students from our school who placed in the county finals last year. Team try-outs will be next month. Then he says with great sadness that some students are still not fulfilling their potential, and suggests we all try harder.

Everyone stands, and Julie nudges me to do the same. We start filing out, past the Lorders. I almost can’t breathe, but somehow put one foot in front of the other, carefully keeping my eyes straight ahead. All the while expecting a cold hand to reach out and clamp my shoulder.

They stop a few students at the exit, and take them to one side. The students go pale and everyone avoids their eyes. Maybe, they weren’t fulfilling their potential.

Maybe Tori wasn’t, either.

He spreads white stuff – cement? – with a metal thing like a pie spatula across the top row, then, one at a time, plonks bricks on top. Wipes cement that oozes out between the bricks, smoothes it around between them. Then starts on another row.

I stare. He glances up a few times, keeps working, placing the bricks one after another.

I know I’m staring, and that you shouldn’t stare at people: they generally don’t like it. But I can’t help myself.

Brick after brick. It is five rows off the ground now.

If I stand here much longer, there will be trouble. Mum is probably timing how long it should take me to mail the letter still clutched in my hand at the post box on the corner of the next street. The first time I’ve been allowed to go anywhere on my own. It will also be the last time if I don’t get on with it, most likely.

He looks up again, sits back on his haunches. About thirty years old, in blue overalls covered in streaks of paint, cement, grime. Greasy hair. He spits on the ground.

‘Well?’ he says.

I jump.

‘You want something, darling?’ He grins as his eyes focus on my wrist, my Levo, then slide back up to my face.

‘Sorry,’ I say, and dash across the street and around the corner, hearing him laugh behind me.

I post the letter and cross back again. There is a white van parked where he works, with
Best Builders
painted across it. He is still placing bricks one after another, building a garden wall.

He whistles when he sees me and I keep walking, cheeks burning, home.

‘What took you so long?’ Mum says, perched on the front step. Watching, she’d waved as soon as I turned the corner to our street.

‘Nothing; just walking.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, fine.’ I head for the stairs.

‘Where are you going?’

I turn. ‘To do some homework,’ I lie.

‘Well, all right. Diligent little student, aren’t you? Dinner will be in an hour.’

In my room I shut the door and grab my sketch pad, hands shaking. My Levo starts to drop: 4.4…. 4.2…

And I start drawing a wall. Brick after brick from the ground up. My pencil moves fast and then faster; my Levo stops falling, then creeps back up to 5. I must finish the wall, and I must draw it with my right hand for it to be correct. After everything today: Tori
returned
, Lorders in Assembly, Lorders in my dream. Somehow I know that as long as I build the wall, everything will be fine.

Green trees blue sky white clouds green trees blue sky white clouds…

‘Not the most interesting subject.’

I jump. Amy: somehow she must have opened the door, crossed the room and looked over my shoulder, all without me hearing a sound.

I snap my sketch pad shut, and shrug. Calmer, now that the drawing is finished: the bricks cover every space on the page. Somehow, this is very important.

Why?

I almost forget about the wall during dinner. The surprise announcement from Mum that she and Dad have decided, Slated or not, Amy is old enough to see Jazz if she wants. Washing up, which I am starting to hate now the novelty has worn off. Homework – real homework, this time.

But before I go to sleep I pull out the drawing, checking there are no gaps in the wall, no imperfections that can be got through. By what, I do not know. I shade in around the edges and finally put it down, close my eyes. Seeking blankness, nothingness, sleep.

But all I see are bricks being slapped in place, one after another.

Bricks…cement…

Wall.

Pain fills my legs, my chest. There is no going on, not for me. I collapse on the sand.

It doesn’t matter how he shouts or threatens or pleads, nothing he can do to me will matter soon.

It’s getting closer.

He kneels and holds me and looks in my eyes. ‘Never forget who you are. It’s time. Quick, now! Put up the wall.’

Closer.

So I build it, brick by brick; row by row. A high tower all around.

‘Never forget who you are,’ he shouts, and shakes me, hard, as I put the last brick –
clink
– into place. It cuts out all light.

All there is now, is blackness, and sound.

Horrible screams split my skull. Terror and pain, like an animal backed in a corner. Facing death.

Or something worse.

It is a while before I realise.

It is me.

Then, it is as if I step through a kaleidoscope; everything shifts and changes. Grasses tickle my bare feet. Children’s voices sound through trees, but I lay down, hidden in the long grass, and watch clouds drift across the sky. I don’t want to play today.

Gradually the clouds and the grass drift away. I open my eyes, dreaming over for tonight. I won’t shut them again.

It worked, once again – going to my Happy Place in the middle of a nightmare.

But this time, I hadn’t wanted to leave it, no matter how horrible. I was sure I was about to find out something, something important. As if seeing bricks cemented into place today, one after another to form a wall, somehow triggered something deep inside. Some recognition, a trail that if followed may help me finally understand who or what I am, what is wrong with me.

What was chasing? Who was the man?
Never forget who you are
, he said.

But I have.

Most of all: why – and how – was I building a wall?