Cracks (7 page)

‘Uh . . . well, there’s a serious risk that it could result in some kind of cerebral overload. Either a stroke, or a major psychological trauma that could be just as dangerous.
Mixing the two realities – the world of your coma and the real world – is just not advisable. These are such unusual circumstances. Anything could go wrong.’

I sink back onto the bed and cradle my head in my hands. I feel like my whole world has been picked up and shaken like one of those glass snowstorms.

The silence seems to go on for ever.

‘What happens to me now?’ I say finally through a headful of snot. ‘Where will I go?’

‘As I said, we’ve never managed to trace any family, I’m afraid,’ says Cavendish. ‘But do try not to worry about the future at the moment. You’ll need a
period of recovery. We’ll have to monitor you to make sure there are no aftereffects of the coma.’ He gets up. ‘You should rest now. Try to get some more sleep.’

He moves so quickly I don’t see what he’s doing until I feel a prick in my hand. ‘Just to help you relax,’ he says and I see he’s holding a syringe.

I can feel myself falling, but before I do, a question bubbles out of me.

‘How did you know that Des was my stepdad?’ I start to say. ‘I didn’t tell you that . . .’ but the words just echo inside my own head.

T
ime passes but I don’t know how many days or nights because they all bleed into one. I can’t seem to stop sleeping. I don’t
dream, but every time I wake up, my new reality washes over me like cold water.

‘You’re nothing . . . nobody.’

That’s what Des – or whoever he really was – said. Maybe he was right.

Because it doesn’t seem like anyone here cared about me that much either, if they left me here to rot all that time. It feels like Des and Tina and even Pigface would be better than being
some sort of walking blank page. My insides hurt but I know it’s nothing to do with after-effects of being in the coma. It’s an ache for what I thought was my life.

I keep going over what I can remember but there’s nothing before the cracking ceiling in the boys’ toilets. I have a theory, though: I reckon this was when I was starting to wake up.
I’ve asked Cavendish for details about the crash again and how I got here but he keeps saying he has nothing more to tell me. I wonder about what happened all the time. Who was driving the
car? I must have had parents somewhere down the line. Did they love me, like proper parents? But if they did, how could they have let me stay here so long? Did they die in the car crash? And then I
start thinking about the dead donor boy and wondering who he was. I feel like he’s here, somewhere inside me, all the time. Which is pretty creepy and horrible when you think about it. Who
wants to have a dead person inside them, even if it is just a bit of bodily tissue?

They bring me tablets but they make me feel sick and drowsy so I pretend to take them, hiding them between the mattress and the fitted sheet.

One morning I wake up and I realise I’ve had enough of the pity party in my head. I need to do something. I stink, as much as anything. There’s a bathroom next door but I’ve
only used the toilet until now. I’ve been avoiding the round mirror above the sink, like it’s a portal that will take me somewhere bad. If I look like a different boy to the one I think
I am, I really will go nuts.

I throw back the sheets before I can change my mind and march straight in there. Putting my hands on the sink with my head bent, I count to three . . . and force myself to look up.

I make a little noise in my throat. My knees go and I slump forwards. I have to take deep breaths. Relief is melting all my bones to warm jelly. Once I’ve got a grip on myself, I look
again.

Dirty blond sticky-out hair? Longer than normal, but check. Dark brown eyes? Check. Mole on right cheek? Check.

So far, so me.

I glance down quickly at my hand. I still have the birthmark: a small oval stain on my palm. I take off my musty pyjama top and check myself out properly. It’s weird, but I look like I
really have been training. I flex my fist and look at the sinewy ropes on my arm. I can’t make any sense of it, but I’m grateful. I probably need all the strength I’ve got right
now.

I get into the shower. All the stuff they told me about comas and brain tissue makes me feel sort of itchy and dirty so I let the hot water run over me for ages, like I can wash away twelve
years of lies. A sudden thought makes me gasp, accidentally inhaling some water. How did I get clean before? Did they wash me? I want to punch a hole through the glass but I’m too busy
spluttering. It’s not just the water. The shower gel is so piney-strong it makes my nose ache and tickle. My old world is fading fast but I know it was never this brightly lit or as smelly as
the real world. It’s like my senses have woken up for the first time and are all doing overtime. Now I’m awake, that other world in my head feels like a faded old photo.

After my shower, I find some clothes neatly folded on the bed. They look old but smell clean. I pull on a plain white T-shirt and some jeans that seem to be the right size. No shoes though and
that’s a pain. How do they expect me to go anywhere without shoes?

Anyway, once dressed, I’m starving. I’ve only picked at the odd sandwich or bowl of cereal left in my room until now. I wasn’t hungry and my throat hurt. But suddenly I feel
like I could eat a scabby donkey if it came with fries. Some toast and jam has been left out for me. The toast is so toasty and the jam so jammy that the flavours make me dizzy. I can’t help
folding a whole piece into my mouth at once.

‘Steady there,’ says Beardy. I hadn’t noticed him come in. They all do that. None of them knock. ‘You might want to take that a bit slower.’

I take a huge slurp of juice, which tastes like sunshine in a glass. It’s such orange heaven I just stare at it for a moment in awe. Something occurs to me.

‘Hey,’ I say, ‘could I eat properly? When I was in the coma?’

Beardy is starting to clear the breakfast stuff away. He’s barely given me any eye contact so far and doesn’t look at me now. None of them are friendly. It feels like they
don’t know what to do with me now I’ve woken up. Like they preferred me when I was a boy in a pod who didn’t ask questions.

‘Yes,’ he says hesitantly, ‘technically you could. But it was thought best that we stuck with tube feeding most of the time.’

I swallow and put the glass down. I’m not so thirsty now. I understand why my throat hurt and my voice was croaky. My hand instinctively goes to my neck.

Beardy’s walking towards the door.

‘Wait!’

He stops.

‘Am I really named Cal?’ Maybe it was the other boy’s name . . . the dead one. A wave of panic washes over me in case I don’t even know what I’m really called.

‘I believe so, yes,’ he says and starts to leave the room.

‘Hey?’

This time his expression is definitely irritated.

‘So do you know my surname as well?’

He doesn’t answer straight away. ‘I’m not sure about that. I’ve only been here for a few months,’ he says, looking away. ‘Maybe you should ask Dr
Cavendish.’

He bustles out of the room and I lean back against my pillows, weak with relief that at least my name is my own. Despite living that weird, borrowed life inside my head, some little part of me
must have hung onto my real identity. But I’d still like to know why they’re so sure. If they know my name, maybe they know a bit more about where I came from? I decide I’m going
to pump Cavendish to tell me every tiny detail of what he knows later.

First I want to get a proper look at where I’ve been living for the last twelve years. It’s crazy, but I haven’t even looked outside the window yet. I yank up the beige
venetian blinds covering the window. That’s weird. There are thick metal bars across it and rolls of vicious spikes curling along the window sill. Rain is running down the window but I
can’t hear it at all. These windows are seriously thick. Outside there’s a car park flanked by a high perimeter wall, also covered in rolls of barbed wire and metal spikes. A lone guard
in a long waterproof coat with a hood is walking up and down with a huge Alsatian dog, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

Why the OTT security? I feel dizzy as a pin sharp memory of being inside Riley Hall flashes across my mind. It’s not like I’m a prisoner here. It’s completely different. Right?
So what would happen if I just made my way to the front door and walked out? I’m a free citizen. I can do what I want. For some reason though, my heart thrums hard against my ribcage as I
poke my head outside the door. I start walking.

At the end of the corridor I see Cavendish talking to another man, a real bruiser with pock-marked skin and shoulders as wide as an American footballer. He pushes the jacket of his blue suit
back to adjust his belt and I spy a gun there, nestled against his waist. I draw back behind a large metal trolley filled with cleaning equipment. Cavendish is speaking in an animated way and if
he’s intimidated by a bloke that size who’s tooled up, he isn’t showing it. If anything, the other bloke has his palms up as though he’s apologising about something. I creep
down the corridor in the other direction and pass a room where some men dressed in dark blue uniforms – something between a policeman and a soldier’s uniform – are leaning over a
table. I pause for just long enough to see that the table is loaded with machine guns and the men casually pick them up as though they’re nothing.

I quicken my pace, heart banging almost painfully now.

I’m looking back over my shoulder to check I’m not being followed as I hurry round the next corner. And slam straight into Beardy.

‘Where are you going?’ He puts his hand on my arm. His eyes and voice are cold as ice.

‘Just a walk,’ I say, trying to strike the exact right balance between casual and not-to-be-messed-with.

Beardy’s eyes dart about and he licks his lips. ‘It’s not a good idea to go wandering,’ he says. ‘You’re still quite weak. Come on, back to your room.’
He takes me by the arm again and I try to shrug him off but his grip is strong.

‘But I’m not weak!’ I say. ‘I feel fine!’

‘That’s as maybe,’ he says, ‘but you don’t know what’s best for you right now. You need to rest.’

Within about four seconds I’m back in my room. I hear a key turning in the lock.

I pace about furiously. This is all wrong. Why won’t they let me go where I want? And what’s with all the guns? I try a few experimental bangs on the door but no one comes.

Ages later, two female nurses come in, locking the door after them. Without saying anything or looking at me they start putting together a tray with syringes and stuff on it. I’ve had
enough. I snatch a syringe from the trolley and hold it to my throat.

‘Go get Cavendish,’ I say, ‘or I’m going to stick this in my neck and you’ll have to explain it to him.
Do it!’

I must look crazy enough because the two nurses look nervously at each other and one scurries out of the room. Seconds later, Cavendish comes bustling through the door.

‘Just put that down, Cal, and we can talk. You could hurt yourself.’

‘I want to know why I’m locked in,’ I say and he approaches slowly, nodding. ‘And I want to know everything you know about me. About who I am.’

‘OK! OK . . . Please, Cal, you could hurt yourself. If you’ll just put that down we can talk. Please?’

I feel a bit stupid, to be honest, so I drop the syringe onto the trolley.

Cavendish visibly relaxes. ‘Right, thank you. Sit down, Cal.’

‘I’ll stand, thanks.’ I lean against the wall and cross my arms.

He sighs and then sits down on the end of the bed. ‘First of all, what we do here is not just any old research,’ he says. ‘We’re at the very cutting edge of
neuro-technology.’ He clocks my baffled expression. ‘That is, technology as it relates to brain science and the study of consciousness.’ He brushes a bit of dust from his
immaculately pressed trousers and leans closer. ‘We don’t publicise what we do, because much of our work involves confidentiality of patients, but, inevitably information sometimes gets
out. The fact is we’ve had a security breach. There’s an organisation that wants to disrupt our work and we discovered that someone working here, one of our nurses, was involved. They
are criminals who are against the work we do. They want to turn the clock back. They spread lies and propaganda about our organisation.’

‘What kind of lies?’

He blinks. ‘They’re just fanatics. Extremists. They really shouldn’t concern you because you are perfectly safe here. We just have to protect our patients and our valuable
technology and, sadly, that can necessitate high security.’

‘But why lock me in?’

There’s the briefest pause. ‘We’re carrying out a security check. Please don’t be concerned. It shouldn’t take long.’

I take a deep breath. ‘OK. So how come you know my name is Cal? What’s my surname? What else do you know about me?’

Cavendish runs his tongue across his lips. His expression is weird and he keeps blinking. ‘Your full name is . . .’ He hesitates, as though making a decision. ‘Callum Conway.
There will have been paperwork. I’ll have to look at our records.’ He looks at me. ‘You shouldn’t really be out of bed yet. Have you been taking the medication we’ve
been giving you, Cal?’