Numbers 3: Infinity (8 page)

‘I can help you, Adam. You want to see Sarah again, don’t you? She’s here. I can get you back with her, if you cooperate.’

Sarah.

Blonde hair and blue eyes. 2572075. Is that Sarah?

‘Does she have really blue eyes?’ The question blurts out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to stop it.

Grey-hair frowns for a moment, then he sits back in his chair, folds his arms and smiles.

‘Blue eyes? Yes. Yes, she does my friend. And if you want to see those blue eyes again you’d better start cooperating. It’s up to you, Adam. Now, shall I call Newsome back in?’

Chapter 17: Sarah

I
’m still awake when the cell door opens and breakfast is wheeled in on a trolley. It’s the same squaddie who escorted me from the lift to the cell. He doesn’t look at me. There’s tea, milk and toast on the trolley. I’m not hungry, but I know we ought to eat.

‘I heard … things, voices in the corridor last night,’ I say. 

He glances over his shoulder at the open door, then closes it.

‘There’s a guard out there, for your own security. Maybe they were changing shifts.’

Mia’s waking up. She opens her eyes and looks around her. She sees the squaddie and ducks down under the covers. I go over to the bed, peel back the sheet and help her up.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ I say brightly. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ 

‘Where Daddy?’

I look at the squaddie, and then back to Mia.

‘He’s busy at the moment. How about some milk?’

‘Where Daddy?’

‘We’ll see him later.’ Then to the squaddie, ‘Will we?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ he says. He won’t look me in the eye. ‘I don’t know. I just … look after people, like you.’

Prisoners, he means. How many are there here? Who are they? What was that screaming I heard last night?

‘But you know what’s going on here, don’t you? What sort of place is this?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Where are we?’ I press him.

He’s really uncomfortable now, almost squirming.

‘I just bring the meals and work the lift.’

And close your eyes to everything else?
Is that true? He must know more.

‘Is there anything else you need? Mr … Saul said I had to ask.’

‘Maybe some smaller clothes for Mia … and some bigger ones for me.’

He almost smiles, back on more comfortable territory.

‘We don’t often have children here, but … I’ll see what I can do.’

We’re on our second piece of toast when there’s another knock on the door.

The squaddie leaves, and Mia instantly turns her face away from the woman that comes in – she’s the one who was trying to comfort her yesterday when I arrived.

‘Hello again,’ she says, holding her hand out towards me. ‘I’m Marion. We got off to a bad start yesterday, but we’re going to have a chat this morning.’ She sounds very sure of herself. She’s wearing a sensible skirt, a cardi, and metal-rimmed glasses. I’ve met her type before, professional busy-body, social worker type. Someone like her took Mia
away from me once. Someone just like her.

‘Not until I’ve seen Adam,’ I say, ignoring her hand.

She smiles and smoothes her skirt.

‘I don’t think that’s possible. Let’s have our chat and then we’ll see, shall we?’

It’s not possible.
Why? Because he never got here? Because he’s dead? Or still unconscious? What isn’t she telling me?

‘I’m not going anywhere until I know how he is.’ I fold my arms across my chest, try and draw myself up a bit taller.

‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘You’ll be able to see him later.’

‘Fine? What does that mean? Have you seen him?

‘No, but—’

‘So how do you know he’s okay?’

‘Sarah,’ she says firmly, ‘I’ve been told. I’ve been told that he’s awake and alert, and they’re running some tests. Now, do you want to talk here or shall we go to the interview room?’

He’s okay. Thank God.
My legs are trembling a bit. I don’t want that bitch to see, so I turn away from her and crouch down, making a show of attending to Mia, while taking some deep breaths to try and get my feelings under control.

We’ve got a chance to get out of this cell now, have a look at the place, so I gather up Mia.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

Marion ushers us into the corridor, and along to the interview room.

It’s not what I was expecting. There are leather sofas, a coffee table, a tray with tea and biscuits, and some toys for Mia. They’re ordinary enough, the sort of tat that everyone used to have, but they look like they’ve come from another age. Plastic cars, a toy phone, a cash register – commonplace things before the Chaos. Things that mean nothing to Mia
now. She looks at them and puts them to one side. She picks up a doll, a baby that opens its eyes when you sit it up and closes them when you lie it down. She’s hooked.

There’s a file on the coffee table. Marion sits on one of the sofas, puts the file on her knee, and opens it. What’s in the file? Is it about me? Or Adam? I sit on the opposite sofa and cross my arms again.

‘So, you and Adam have been together for quite some time.’

It’s not a question.

‘S’pose.’

‘And you’ve got one child and one on the way?’ She tries to look sympathetic, but I don’t want sympathy from her. ‘That’s going to be difficult for you.’

‘We’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘Mia’s very good.’

‘Who do you think she takes after? You or her dad?’

This is dangerous territory, somewhere I don’t want to go.

Officially, Adam’s Mia’s dad. That’s what I told the nosy social worker who found me living in the squat in London. It was just a spur of the moment thing, but it was easier than telling the truth. Although, it’s an obvious lie if you stop to think about it – Mia’s skin’s darker after two years in the open and her hair is curly, almost afro, but it’s blonde and she’s got blue eyes, all the Halligan features, which is what she is. Halligan through and through.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t look for that. She’s just her. She’s her own person.’

‘Don’t you and Adam play that game? Whose nose? Whose ears?’

‘No,’ I block. ‘We don’t play games.’

She must have sussed us, surely, but she doesn’t follow it up.

‘What about her talents? She’s precocious in her speech for two. And it says in my notes that you’re an artist – is that something Mia’s good at too?’

An artist. I’d pretty much forgotten that side of me. I haven’t picked up a pencil, or brush, or even a lump of charcoal for two years.

‘You painted a mural, a vision of the Chaos, didn’t you? That’s pretty powerful stuff.’

Something else I’m uncomfortable talking about. My dreams, my nightmares – they’re best forgotten. I don’t want anyone looking inside my head.

‘Where did that image come from, Sarah? How did you know what was going to happen?’

‘That was two years ago. What’s the point of talking about it?’

She puts the file down on the desk in front of her. I try to look at it, and she moves it out of my view.

‘But it’s fascinating, Sarah. You saw the future. You were able to express it. Where did that vision come from?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘Oh, come on. It must have come from somewhere, you didn’t just dream it up.’

She’s got under my skin now. She’s pushing me and I want to push back.

‘That just shows what you know,’ I say. ‘I did dream it up. That’s where I got the picture.’ I’m looking her in the eyes now, defiant. She’s sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning forward.

‘You had a dream?’

‘Yes. The same one, over and over. Every night.’

‘And you saw Adam and Mia, and the city in ruins and houses in flames?’

‘Yes. Yes. All of that, but I don’t see it any more. It’s gone. It’s past.’

‘What do you dream now, Sarah?’

‘Nothing. My dreams have stopped.’

I’ve lost Mia in this cold and lonely place. I scream her name …

‘You don’t dream anything at all?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And Mia, how does she fit into this?’

‘She doesn’t. She’s my daughter, that’s all.’

I want this to stop now.

‘What does she see, do you think? Does she see numbers, death dates like her dad, or visions like you?’

I scoop Mia up from the floor onto my lap. She brings the doll with her.

‘Nothing. She’s just a baby.’

Marion smiles, but it’s only her mouth that’s moving. Her eyes are cold and searching.

‘More than a baby, Sarah. She’s a toddler. She can talk. Let’s see, shall we? Perhaps she’ll draw for us.’

She gets up and walks round the coffee table.

‘Leave her alone,’ I say. This is getting out of order. I can cope with questions about me, but Mia’s nothing to do with anyone else.

‘I’m not touching her.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Let’s try her with these.’

Marion reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a wedge of paper and some coloured wax crayons.

‘Mia,’ she says. ‘Can you choose a pretty colour and draw me a picture?’

Mia looks at her, pulls a face and buries her head in my
shoulder. She still hasn’t forgiven Marion for yesterday.

Undaunted, Marion puts the crayons and paper on the floor. Mia peeks sideways at them for a moment, fascinated. Then she slithers down from my lap and kneels by the crayons. Without anyone showing her, she grabs a blue crayon, leans forward so her face is only a few centimetres from the paper, and starts scribbling. I say scribbling, but it’s only the first few movements that are uncontrolled. I didn’t want this, but I can’t help but watch. Marion looks over Mia’s shoulder intently.

Within a minute or so, Mia’s making deliberate marks, shapes on the paper. She’s turned the crayon in her fingers so that instead of gripping it in her fist, she’s holding it between her thumb and index finger.

‘That’s remarkable,’ Marion says, ‘for a two-year-old. She must have got it from you.’

‘She’s never seen me draw,’ I say, and then I realise it’s true. For a moment I feel sad, for a part of me that’s been lost, and for the childhood that Mia hasn’t had.

‘It must be innate,’ Marion says. ‘From within. She’s got it, hasn’t she?’ She’s making notes in her file, then looking up and studying Mia again, desperate not to miss anything.

I can’t tell what she’s drawing, but it’s definitely something – a shape like a potato with a couple of lines coming out of it. Then she does something else quite deliberate. She looks at the crayons in the plastic envelope, puts the blue one back and picks out a pink one. Then she traces round the outside of the blue. That crayon goes back and out comes a red one. She draws a similar shape next to the first one.

I lower myself onto the floor next to her. I can’t help being fascinated.

‘That’s lovely, Mia,’ I say. ‘What are you drawing?’

She’s hunched over the paper, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Drawin’,’ she says. ‘Me drawin’.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful. What is it?’

She sits back up on her heels and points to her picture.

‘Mummy and Daddy,’ she says.

I’m the blue and pink potato; Adam’s the red one.

A shiver runs down my spine.

She sees us as colours.

Just like Adam’s nan.

The first time I met her Val described my aura, the haze of colour I carried with me. I can hear her voice now, harsh and gravelly:
Lavender, of course, but also dark blue. And all bathed in pink.

I look at my daughter, and she turns and smiles at me, proud of what she’s done. I smile back at her.

‘What about Marty and Luke?’ As I say their names, a lump rises in my throat. In my head I’ve got images of Luke clutching his face, Marty with tears running down his face. Are they okay?

Mia reaches for the crayons again and draws two more potatoes; one green and yellow, one orange.

If Adam was here, he’d see her number, but I don’t need to see it. I know.

2022054.

And she’s not just got Val’s number.

She’s got Val’s gift.

Chapter 18: Adam

‘F
or the last time, what do you see when you look in my eyes?’

I look at Newsome, his squashed face, the death in his eyes. Saul’s next to him.
Don’t ask me what I see in Saul’s eyes – I don’t know if I could find the words.

‘I see a number.’ It’s the truth. It’s the answer to his question, but I feel uneasy saying it. 

Don’t tell, Adam. Never tell.
 

‘What does the number mean?’ 

‘It’s the date you’re going to die.’ 

It’s true, but why does this feel so wrong? 

‘What’s my number?’ 

I stop.

‘What’s my number?’ he repeats. 

Don’t tell, Adam. Never tell.

‘I don’t tell people,’ I say, echoing the voice in my head. ‘It’s wrong.’

‘But I’m asking you to. What’s my number?’

‘I just said, didn’t I? I don’t tell.’

Saul joins in now. ‘Adam, you’re doing this for Sarah, remember? It’s all right to tell. It’s the right thing to do.’

Newsome starts again. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who can see them?’

‘No. I dunno. There might be other people but I don’t know.’

‘You’re right. Other people do see them. Other people tell, and it’s okay.’ I don’t know if this is just a line. Something to make it easier for me to tell him what he wants to know. ‘What’s my number?’

I’m squirming now. They just won’t let it go, will they? My body’s tense against the restraints, my mind’s twisting and turning. I told Saul I’d cooperate for Sarah’s sake, I know I don’t have any choice … but this feels wrong.

‘I don’t want to say it.’

‘Just say it.’

He’s too close to me, right in my face.

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Say it.’

‘I can’t.’

I want him to back off, but he won’t. A fleck of his spit hits my cheek.

‘Say it. What’s my number? Say it. Say it. Say it.’

‘8112034.’