Fragments Read online

  ‘Don’t move, Reo!’ says Lewis as he fumbles for his phone. He gets up to try to find a signal but he isn’t hurrying. He doesn’t seem too worried. Is it because he thinks Reo is going to be OK? Or because he doesn’t care either way? We all say encouraging things to him, like, ‘Hang in there, Reo!’ and, ‘It’s gonna be OK!’ Everyone except Skye, who stands a little further back from the group. She has that weird look she gets sometimes. Like she’s zoned out, her eyes glassy.

  ‘Oh God,’ says someone. ‘What’s happening to him?’

  Reo’s body starts to jerk like someone is pulling him from side to side. Pink froth bubbles at his lips and his eyes are open but staring at nothing. Lewis flings his phone aside and runs over before crouching down and heaving Reo over onto his side.

  Reo stops jerking and goes absolutely, frighteningly still.

  Lewis places his fingers at Reo’s throat and swears. He turns him onto his back and starts to perform chest compressions, then breathes into his mouth, pinching Reo’s nose.

  But he only does it three or four times and then stops.

  ‘Shouldn’t you carry on a bit longer?’ I cry. I’ve seen them do it on telly for ages.

  Lewis gets nimbly to his feet and sighs.

  ‘No point,’ he says. ‘He’s had it.’

  I suck in my breath and glance around at everyone else. No one is meeting anyone else’s eyes.

  ‘Wait here while I try again to get a signal,’ says Lewis and he runs the long way around to the outcrop where we started.

  I don’t know what I’m doing. But I drop to my knees anyway and squat over Reo’s broad body. I clench my hands into the same double fist shape I saw Lewis make and start to pump at Reo’s chest. One, two, three . . .

  I stop and attempt mouth-to-mouth, cringing a bit at the intimacy of being so close to him. But it feels hopeless and after a few minutes I get back to my feet. Everyone is looking at me with a mixture of horror and open curiosity. Only Christian gives me a weak sort of smile.

  No one speaks. I clutch my elbows and hug myself against the cruel wind blustering around the outcrop. That’s when I catch Skye looking at me. The expression on her face is so strange that at first I can’t work it out.

  Then I suck in my breath as it all starts to make sense.

  Can it be disappointment that I’m seeing? Like I’ve failed a test of some kind by a small act of humanity towards Reo. She actually shakes her head then and I know that I’m right.

  It’s so callous. Surely she isn’t happy he fell?

  And then other horrible thoughts roll together like a line of pool balls dropping into a pocket.

  Skye was the person who gave out the harnesses.

  Could she have meddled with Reo’s on purpose? I start to shiver now and look over at Skye again. She’s watching me, her lips slightly curled up as though she’s amused by all this. I look away, disgusted by her. A throbbing sound from above makes me look up. A helicopter gets lower and lower, bigger and bigger, until it lands close by, scattering us all as the wind brutally whips up leaves and twigs. Two people I’ve never seen before, dressed in the blue clothes of the medical wing, stroll over in no particular hurry. They lift Reo and dump him on the stretcher in a way that makes me wince. Surely he’s more than just a slab of meat now? He might have been a bit of a git, but he probably had a family once, somewhere. People who loved him. The tears surprise me when they cloud and sting my eyes. I quickly blink them away. What’s happened to tough Kyla who doesn’t care? I didn’t even like Reo.

  I suppose I’m just wondering whether anyone would care if I had been the one who fell down a mountain and cracked my head open.

  After a few more minutes I watch the helicopter beat a path back into the sky, its blades whumping a rhythm that seems to rumble inside my bones.

  Lewis sharply tells us to follow him back to the jeep. His face is pale; his jaw set.

  I start to walk after him, my head lowered.

  ‘What’s with the lifesaving bollocks?’ says a dry, low voice beside me. Skye has caught up. Her hands are in her pockets and her head is high, despite the slapping wind and rain. ‘Anyone would think you were mates or something. Come on, Kyla, he was a total jerk!’

  I stop walking and turn to her. She coolly meets my eye. ‘Skye,’ I whisper. ‘Did you . . .’ I swallow, as her frown deepens. ‘Did you have anything to do with what happened there?’

  She stares so blankly for a second I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m about a second away from trying to stuff the words back in my mouth and mumble a pathetic apology when a tiny smile creases the sides of Skye’s mouth.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says in a strange, expressionless voice. ‘It was just an accident.’ And then she smiles again. Her pupils are dilated and her eyes seem all blackness. For a second she looks . . . wicked. It’s the only way I can describe it. Then she leans in and whispers in my ear, so close I feel hot breath on my cheek, ‘Wasn’t it, Kyla?’

  Lewis stomps past me, jerking my attention away from her.

  ‘Get a move on, you lot,’ he says. ‘This has really mucked up the afternoon.’ Then he mumbles, bitterly, ‘It’ll be effing paperwork all the way for the rest of the day.’

  Shocked, I say, ‘Will there be a funeral or anything?’ and Lewis actually laughs. I gape at his retreating back. Doesn’t he care at all that a boy just died?

  Inside the truck I look around at the rest of the group. Everyone is a bit quiet, but by the time we’re back a few conversations have sprung up. Even Christian looks quite relaxed as he yawns and watches the scenery go by. I stare at him so hard he turns and meets my eye. I make a questioning face but he looks away, pointedly.

  What’s wrong with everyone here?

  Is this how I’m supposed to be? Isn’t there some middle ground between not allowing myself to get hurt, and being totally dead inside?

  We’re told we can have the afternoon off. But I don’t think it’s because they care about anyone being upset. It’s probably so they can sort out the paperwork caused by Reo’s inconvenient death.

  I don’t want to speak to Skye so I avoid our room and instead veg out in front of an old movie in the rec room. But I’m not really taking it in. I keep hearing the sound of Reo thumping to the ground and picturing the useless helmet lying nearby. I’m not going to grass Skye up. And anyway, maybe they wouldn’t care that much. But I’m not hanging out with her any more. I’m starting to wonder what kind of people this place turns out.

  And whether I want to be one of them . . .

  Christian wanders in when I’m lost in thought and at first I don’t notice him at all.

  He sits on a chair opposite me and crunches loudly into an apple. I look over at him with a start.

  We eye each other for a few moments. I suddenly feel angry; agitated.

  ‘So that’s it, then,’ I say sharply. ‘Someone dies and they just disappear? There’s no more mention of them? Done,’ I swipe my hands together, ‘and dusted, eh?’

  Christian regards the half-eaten apple and then throws it neatly into the waste-paper bin on the other side of the room. He looks around and then comes to sit a bit closer, looking at me intently.

  ‘A word of advice, Kyla,’ he says. ‘You’re not meant to care about this stuff. You’re going to attract the wrong sort of attention if you make a big deal out of this Reo thing.’

  ‘Oh, and you’re such a hard man,’ I say. Almost spit, really.

  His brow creases and his lips tighten. He sits back and looks away. And I realise something, way later than I maybe should have done.

  Christian likes me. Likes me likes me. I look down. I can’t even think about stuff like that. He’s not bad-looking. But everyone in this place feels like damaged goods and I’ve got enough of my own worries to be dealing with. And anyway, I’m never letting anyone else in. I’ve promised myself that.

  ‘Why’d you warn me before?’ I say now, trying to shrug off the slight embarrass
ment my realisation has brought. He looks up, a defiant expression on his face now. ‘About Skye,’ I go on. ‘What do you know about her?’

  Christian looks around again and then speaks in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘OK, so something happened on the journey here,’ he says.

  I gnaw a fingernail as anxiety flutters in my stomach.

  ‘You remember that boy they shot?’ he continues.

  I make a face. ‘How could I forget that?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, well, he hadn’t stopped talking on the way,’ says Christian. ‘About how he was only coming here to get out of prison and that he was going to escape as soon as he got the chance. He came out with a whole thing about how Torch were going to bring down the regime and free everyone.’ Christian swallows and looks down at his hands. ‘It was all talk. He was just trying to show off.’ He looks up again. ‘Anyway, when we stopped to collect you, Skye asked to speak to the commanding officer in private. They shot him right afterwards. And Skye was given something to drink and allowed to sit more comfortably. It was obviously her reward.’

  Chills run down my arms. I reach for my hoodie. Pulling it on, I zip it up and wrap my arms around my legs.

  I don’t know what to say. Would Skye really do something like that? But I already know the answer to this question. I think about her expression earlier. She looked disgusted when I tried to help Reo. Like I’d let her down in some way.

  ‘You know earlier . . .’ I start to say and then Skye is walking into the room, drinking a bottle of water, her hair loose around her face. Her eyes are bright. Too bright. As though she’s glowing from the inside for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ she says. Christian sits up and away from me. I square my shoulders and meet her eyes.

  ‘Not much,’ I say.

  ‘I’d better be getting off to bed,’ says Christian hurriedly. He gets up and gives a really fake yawn. ‘Night.’ And any slight ideas about whether I could be with him in different circumstances melts away.

  It’s every person for themselves here. Fine by me.

  I mumble, ‘Goodnight,’ back and watch Skye as she slumps down on the sofa next to me. She starts to watch the film, a mocking look on her face. ‘God, did they really dress like that once?’ she says. ‘Check out the mullet on that guy. And is he wearing leg warmers?’

  I ignore her. I actually can’t stand to be near her any more.

  She let someone die for a bottle of water.

  She killed someone else just because she didn’t like them. She’s toxic.

  And actually, I am a little afraid of her now, even though I don’t want to admit it. I uncurl and get to my feet. ‘I’m off to bed,’ I say stiffly.

  ‘OK,’ she says in a careful sort of voice, eyeing me. Her lips are a thin, tight line. As I walk away, she calls my name.

  I turn round to look at her.

  ‘You have sweet dreams, OK?’ she says.

  Feeling a bit flustered, I turn away and carry on walking.

  In the bathroom I brush my teeth, looking at myself in the mirror as my mind whirrs. My eyes look big and fearful.

  Keep out of her way, Kyla, I tell myself. Just keep out of her way.

  But a few minutes later, as I curl up under the cheap, thin duvet that never properly warms me, I wonder how I’m going to do that when I have to share a room with her.

  I don’t know how much longer we’re supposed to be here. And it’s with a jolt of horror that I remember how I opened up to her before. Could she try to use it against me now?

  CHAPTER 14

  three minutes

  I pretend to be asleep when she comes in and then creep out of bed before Skye in the morning. I can’t keep this up but it’ll have to do for now.

  We’re learning about plaster bombs in Explosives Training. The trainer is a woman called Mrs Harris, who has a face that doesn’t seem to move much.

  Plaster bombs are creepy. The only way to disable them is to fully immerse them in liquid. But chucking a glass of water at them isn’t enough. They have to be properly soaked.

  We’re halfway through the lesson when Harris says, ‘Right, I think it’s time for you to see what you’ve learned. Come on, everyone.’

  We follow Harris across the courtyard towards the building where all the gyms are. Instead of going in the usual direction, we’re led down several flights of stairs into a gloomy basement and towards some big, glass double doors where an armed guard sits, looking bored. Harris speaks to him and he lets us through. We’re facing a corridor with a series of plain white doors.

  ‘One room each,’ says Harris, unlocking the one in front, which happens to be right by me. I step into a small, white room. There is a table in front of me and cupboards around the walls. A potted plant is on a shelf high up. Fake, I think, although they’re so realistic now it’s hard to tell.

  It has been set up to look like an office up in here. There’s even a half-full glass coffee pot and some cups laid out on a tray, plus a small sink with a dishcloth hanging over the tap.

  I stand there, not knowing what to do, when a crackle from some speaker in the ceiling reminds me that I’m being watched.

  ‘Now Kyla,’ says the voice of someone I don’t recognise. ‘Your job is to identify the location of the explosive device and then disable it. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yep.’ Well, this isn’t going to be that hard. There’s very clearly a sink there. I’ll bung it under the tap. It’s not as though it’s going to be a real bomb. Maybe they just want to check whether we’ve been listening properly.

  A digital clock display floats up out of nowhere in the middle of the room. It says 03:00.

  ‘You have three minutes to complete the task,’ says the voice, ‘beginning now.’

  02.59.

  ‘OK,’ I murmur, bending down to have a look under the table. It’s hard to see all the nooks and crannies under there so I feel around with my hand, trying to find the telltale feel of soft, papery plastic we’ve handled in other lessons.

  Nothing there. I check the chair next, then stand on it and open the cupboards, one by one.

  I’m balancing a bit precariously and feeling at the top shelf when a loud BOOM from somewhere outside makes the walls shudder. I’m knocked from the chair. I crash painfully onto the hard, tiled floor, twisting my ankle.

  ‘What was that?’ I yell. I’m thinking earthquakes. There have been a few small ones around the UK in the last ten years. There was one in Cumbria that killed a couple of people when I was living at Zander’s. I wince and rub my ankle, which is already starting to swell.

  ‘That was one of the students failing the test,’ says the voice calmly. ‘These are live bombs, Kyla. Please resume the task.’

  LIVE? What kind of sadists are these people? Could they really do this? Then I remember the snake incident.

  They’re monsters. But I have no time to waste now. No time to think about anything else but finding that bomb.

  I start to look in the same places again, my fingers slipping with sweat as I bang open cupboard doors and frantically feel about inside every surface.

  Think, think!

  01:15.

  I clamber onto the chair and then hoist myself onto the sink so I can reach the plant. I pat around the pot and then feel something on one of the huge glossy leaves.

  Turning it over quickly, I see the small, grey patch stuck to it. It looks so harmless. But we’ve been told a plaster bomb just three centimetres square could destroy a two-storey building. I rip off the leaf (real) and climb down again, accidentally putting weight on my hurt ankle. I whimper in pain. But a busted ankle is the very least of my worries as I run painfully to the sink, glancing at the projected clock as I go.

  00:25.

  God, the bloody sadistic bastards . . . I wonder whose bomb exploded and how hurt they are.

  All these thoughts are running through my head as I carefully lie the leaf holding the small, deadly device in the sink. Will th
e impact of the water detonate it before the moisture can penetrate the plastic? Taking the leaf out again I lay it on the side and fumble for the plug, stuffing it into the hole with fingers that are almost useless because they are trembling so much.

  I twist the tap as hard as I can.

  And nothing happens.

  There’s no gush of water.

  The sink remains completely dry. Whimpering with terror now, my whole body shaking violently and my breath coming in short, squeezed gasps, I look round the room.

  00:10.

  Oh God, it’s going to go off – what am I going to do?

  00:08.

  Then I spy the coffee pot containing the cold coffee. I pick up the leaf again, trying not to squeeze it or shake it and force myself to move carefully across the room to where the pot sits.

  00:05.

  I pull at the lid, but it’s wedged down firmly.

  ‘I hate you, you bastards!’ I scream. ‘I hate you!’

  00:02.

  I bang the pot down on the table and it’s enough to dislodge the lid. I’m plunging the leaf into cold coffee as the clock switches to 00:00.

  Sliding onto the floor, panting, I try to catch my breath. And then I start to cry, wishing I could stop, as relief chugs through me.

  ‘Well done, Kyla,’ says the cool voice. ‘If you could please leave the room now. You will find that the door is open.’

  I’m too washed out and hollow to move.

  ‘Kyla, please vacate the room now.’

  I slowly get to my feet and only just manage to resist lifting a finger to the cameras to show these people what I think of them.

  Emerging from the room, I see Skye and Zoe and Christian, all looking dazed like me. Christian has a huge gash on his forehead and his eyes are wide and frightened-looking.

  I quickly look around to see who is missing . . . who failed the test.

  ‘It’s a simulation,’ says Skye. She’s a little pale but looks in better shape than the rest of us. ‘The rooms are rigged to move and shake as though someone has set off the bomb. We were all safe the whole time.’