Slated (29 page)

‘Some people think they have a point. That the Lorders go too far; that they are the evil ones. That what happens in that hospital and others like it is wrong.’

My eyes widen, shocked he’d dare say that, even as something that
some people
– unidentified and faceless – may think. ‘But the AGT kill people, innocent people, who don’t have anything to do with
anything
. It doesn’t matter why, it is still wrong.’

He tilts his head side to side, as if considering what I said. ‘So, it isn’t so much their point of view, as their methods, to which you take exception? Interesting.’

He pulls into the school. I was going to ask him to wait a moment, unsure if Ferguson has been told by Mrs Ali to exclude me from Sunday training as well as keeping me off the track at lunchtimes. But suddenly I just want
out
of the car, away from Dad, his questions. His saying
interesting
in a way that says so much more is hidden in every word.

And this time Ferguson is already here. He tilts his head in a hello as I get out of the car; doesn’t register surprise that I am there. Dad gives a half wave and pulls away.

Mum had been adamant I should stay home today, but Dad said she couldn’t keep us under her eye all the time, and might as well let me go. She was back to being herself this morning; last night, too. By the time Aunt Stacey left and we had dinner, she was all contained. When Dad got in hours later, you wouldn’t have known she’d ever been upset.

Dad certainly says the strangest things.

‘I know what happened to Phoebe.’

‘What? I mean, how could you?’ Ben leans back against a tree, breathing heavily. I’d run as if Lorders were after me, from the course beginning to the top of this hill; he barely kept up. Until I was exhausted enough to stop, to be able to talk, and know our levels would be in check.

‘I saw her.’

‘Where?’

‘At the hospital. She’s been Slated.’

Quickly I tell Ben the events of yesterday. I skip the worst bits – not so much not wanting to tell him, as not wanting to think about it enough to describe it – like they are hidden behind a little door, slammed shut, in my head. Some things want to stay in a dark corner and never come out, and that is just fine with me. I’d visualised this in my mind before I went to sleep last night: pushing the memories behind a door and locking it with a key. Maybe that is the real reason for no nightmares?

‘Terrorists actually got into the hospital? I can’t get my head around this,’ he says, looking very like he wants to dash up the path. I grab his hand to hold him there, and he holds mine tight.

‘And don’t forget about Phoebe,’ I say.

‘Are you certain it was her?’

‘Yes.’ It was her. Because despite her smiling a grin of joy I’ve never seen on her face before, I had no doubt.

‘So, she’s been Slated. But she was just taken by Lorders, what: a week and a few days ago? There couldn’t have been a trial or anything.’

‘No.’

We walk along the path. We should have ages before anyone catches us up: there was no rain to slow things down today, and with last week’s mud mostly dried up now, we went at speed. When we reach the rock, the place we sat last time, Ben stops, sits, pulls me on to his knee. Wraps his arms around me tight. Says in my hair, ‘I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t know what I would do if you disappeared, too.’

Disappeared, too…
like Tori
. Though being blown up by terrorists isn’t quite the same as Lorders taking you. At least if you are splattered, your fate is obvious.
Not if no one knows about it.

We just sit like we are, not moving. It’s a frosty October morning, but the sun is warm on my back, the rest of me warmed by Ben, so close. My face is against his chest, breathing in damp, and sweat, and something else that is just
Ben.
His breath is on my hair; his heart thuds along with mine, and I want to stay here, in this moment, forever.

Finally he pulls away a little. Face serious.

‘Listen. Phoebe was fifteen – I checked with a friend of hers. So when they took her, they Slated her. But what about Tori? She was seventeen. And Gianelli – decades older. What happened to them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We have to do something about this,’ Ben says, and fear swirls through my guts.

‘Like what?’

‘Tell people – about Phoebe, at least – since we know what happened to her. What they did to her is illegal. Others might guess, but they don’t really
know
, do they?’

I shake my head. ‘You can’t say anything! Or you’ll be the next to go.’

‘But how will things change if no one knows?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘But—’

‘No!’ I jump up, start stalking down the path.

Ben follows. ‘Kyla, I—’

‘No. Promise me you won’t.’

We argue back and forth, and, in the end, the only promise I get off Ben is that he won’t do anything without talking to me about it, first. Then we take off running once again before anyone can catch us up. Thudding along the trail, to the place where all I am is running, and I can think about anything or nothing and both are okay. When the end is in sight – our bus and Ferguson ahead – I pull Ben’s hand.

‘Listen. Come with me after school, tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Come see the websites I told you about. People are telling about stuff, there.’

He grins.

Jazz looks seriously annoyed.

‘Which part of
tell no one
didn’t you get?’ he says, and scowls.

‘Ben is all right.’

He shrugs. ‘He probably is, but that isn’t the point.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Now I’m not sure whether to take you to Mac’s, or not.’

I shrug. For my part, I don’t really want to go. Once I’d started thinking things through more carefully, anything he wants to talk to me about over his illegal computer I can do without. Despite practising, my poker face still isn’t up to scratch if anyone asks questions, and who knows if Ben even has one?

Amy appears in one direction, Ben in another. I’d run full tilt to get here first, and asked Ben to take his time so I’d have a chance to explain.

‘Well, you decide,’ I say.

Jazz sighs. ‘All right. He can come. Mac can always choose not to talk to you about whatever the hell it is, or not.’

I wave at Ben to let him know he can come over; he gets there as Amy does.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, if it isn’t Ben.’

He grins, she grins back and I wonder if I see the real reason Jazz didn’t want Ben to come along. Now that they stand next to each other, I see that Ben is taller, and while Jazz is all right in a big brother kind of way, Ben’s smile and everything that is Ben wins hands down. Jazz slips an arm around Amy and kisses her cheek.

‘All in!’ he says, opens the door and pushes Ben towards the back seat. He clambers in and I after him. I get the side with the seat belt.

‘Hang on tight,’ I say, as I do it up. ‘There’s only the one.’

When we get to Mac’s and out of the car, Mac raises an eyebrow at Ben, but once he spots his Levo seems less bothered by him being there than Jazz was.

Jazz introduces them, looks at me and shrugs: universal male language?

‘Shall we go for a walk, Amy?’ Jazz says, and holds out his hand. Looks at Ben, then Mac. More unspoken words: the question on his face says
do we have to take him with us
?

Mac shakes his head. ‘Go on you two luvvy-duvs. Enjoy the sunshine. Won’t be many more nice days like this until spring.’

They disappear down the footpath.

‘Come on in. Drinks?’ Mac says.

I shake my head, as does Ben.

‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ Mac says.

‘I thought you wanted me to come,’ I say, confused.

He raises an eyebrow and I realise he means Ben.

‘Oh.’ I colour. ‘Ben’s all right. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ Ben says. ‘We’re both worried about people who’ve gone missing, and—’

Mac holds up a hand. ‘Not my problem. In fact, I don’t know a thing about it.’

Ben and I exchange a look.

‘How about you two watch TV, or do whatever takes your fancy on the sofa. I’ve got a car to work on.’ And he goes out the back door; it swings, and slams shut with a bang.

I look at Ben and shrug, about to say some variation of
I have no idea what is going on
, when the door to the hall opens behind us.

We both spin around. In the door stands some guy: twenty or so, red hair, freckles; a serious face. One I’ve never seen before.

‘Hello, Lucy,’ he says, and smiles.

He walks towards us.

‘I’m Aiden,’ he says, then looks at Ben, one eyebrow raised.

‘This is Ben. But don’t call me Lucy: I’m Kyla.’

‘You
are
Lucy. I’ve seen the photos, and now that I see you in person, Mac is definitely right. You are she; she is you.’

‘Maybe I was. But I’m not any more. And what has it got to do with you?’

‘Yeah, who the hell are you?’ Ben says.

Exactly what I was thinking, but my eyes widen in surprise when Ben says it.

Aiden laughs. ‘Ben, I can see you are someone I need to talk to. Glad you came.’

We both still look at Aiden, not speaking.

‘Ah, sorry. Who am I, or who am I supposed to be?’ He laughs. ‘Officially, a telephone technician by day; but I also work for MIA.’

‘MIA?’ Ben asks, puzzlement on his face, but the letters mean something to me.

‘M – I – A: Missing in Action, right?’ I say. ‘Like on the website. Trying to find out what has happened to people like…like me,’ I say, finding the nerve to say the words out loud.

‘That’s it,’ he says, and grins. ‘Come on; let’s show Ben.’

We go down the hall to Mac’s spare room, where the computer is already out from its hiding place and turned on.

‘Show me Lucy,’ Ben says. Aiden searches her name, and there she is. I can see Ben assessing the happy face on the screen: Lucy Connor, age ten. Then looking back and forth between the two of us. ‘Yes, it is definitely you,’ he finally says. My heart sinks. It’s not like I wasn’t already pretty sure, but if somebody I know as well as Ben is convinced it is so, there can be no arguing with the conclusion. It changes from ‘maybe’ to fact.

Aiden grins. ‘So. What is next for Lucy?’ He spins my chair around, a hand on each arm and stares straight in my eyes. His are blue, deep blue, and unwavering. ‘The question I have for you, Lucy, or Kyla – whatever you want to be called – is this. What are
you
going to do about it?’

‘What do you mean?’

He takes the computer mouse, and moves the cursor over a button marked ‘found’ on the screen, underneath Lucy’s photograph. ‘Should I press it?’

‘I don’t understand. What does it mean?’

‘Simple: it will tell whoever reported you as missing that you are okay. Then you enter information to get in contact.’