The Chaos (3 page)

She’s terrified.

Terrified of me.

Chapter 4: Sarah

T
hey want to know what’s wrong with me, why I was trying to run away. What can I say? What can I tell them without sounding mad? That I’ve just met the boy I see in my nightmares? That night after night we’re trapped together in some sort of inferno, and he grabs the baby, my baby, and takes her into the flames?

And suddenly here he is, at my new school. This devil. This person who only exists in my head – he’s here.

And now I know it’s not a nightmare. It’s something else, something real.

Yeah, that’ll go down really well. Dad’s told them all about me, my record of suspensions, expulsions, exclusions. Now they’ll think I’m mad as well as bad. So I say nothing. No explanation. No apology. I get the standard bollocking. They know all about my history, which schools have kicked me out, the sorts of things they’ve kicked me out for. I’m privileged, apparently, to be given a place here. I should treat it as a chance to start again, turn over a new leaf.

I stand there and I think,
You don’t know jack shit about me,
and I feel the skin of my belly pressing against the stiff material of my skirt.
Nobody knows. Nobody knows the whole truth.

Then they take me back to register, pair me up with some earnest-looking kid who’s there to make sure I get to my tutor room and don’t go AWOL again. I scan the corridors for that boy, the nightmare boy. I stand in the doorway of my tutor room checking out the kids before I go in. If he’s there, in my tutor group, I’m not going to stay. But he isn’t. I’m okay for a while. So I find a desk, and I sit there, eyes front, while my tutor drones on. I don’t hear a word he says. All I’m thinking is,
Is he real, this boy? Who is he? Why’s he here?
And after a while, I’m half-sure that I made him up, that I really am mad and my mind’s starting to mess up my days as well as my nights.

Then at break-time, I see him again.

He’s sitting on his own on a little wall by the science block. Where I’m standing, I can watch him without him knowing I’m there. I try to empty the madness from my mind and look at him like a normal human being would. I study him.

He’s one of those people who can’t sit still to save his life. All the time on that wall his leg is jiggling. Every now and again, he nods his head as if he’s listening to music, but I can’t see any earphones.

I’m not surprised he’s on his own. There’s something odd about him, something different, the way he moves, the way he is. What am I scared of? He’s just an oddball, a freak, a nobody.

After a bit he pulls a notebook out of his pocket and starts writing in it, bending forward with his arm curved round.
Whatever he’s writing, he doesn’t want anyone else to see. So, he has secrets, this boy – I kind of like that. And I like that he’s got a book, he’s writing on paper, because I like drawing on paper, the feeling of holding a pencil in my hand, and hardly anyone does any more – it’s all touch screens and voice recognition. He’s different. Different’s okay. And I really want to know what he keeps in that book.

He twists round as he writes and the left side of his face catches the light. He’s actually good-looking, no, more than that, beautiful: the shape of his face, his deep-set eyes, the firmness of his jaw-line, the curve of his lips. And his skin. It’s a warm brown, almost honey-coloured, and so smooth and clear … that’s not right. The boy in my nightmare, the one I’m scared of, is scarred, his face so marked you can feel the rawness.

It’s not him.

It can’t be.

I snort and shake my head. I’ve made a fool of myself and I’ve got into trouble for no reason on my first day. Nice work, Sarah.

He must have seen my movement out of the corner of his eye, because he looks round and sees me. He slams his notebook shut and shoves it back in his pocket, keeping his eyes on me all the time. He looks as guilty as I feel, caught looking. And yet I don’t look away, and as we hold each other’s eyes my stomach flips over. There’s a connection between us.

I’m not mad.

I know him and he knows me.

Oh God, what’s happening?

Chapter 5: Adam

‘G
et on all right?’

Nan’s on her stool in the kitchen when I get home, where I expect her to be. Wherever she is – here, Weston – she finds somewhere to perch, somewhere that’s hers, and sticks to it, drinking tea and chain-smoking her way through the day.

I shrug. ‘S’pose.’

Even though she never seems to move, she don’t miss a bloody thing, Nan, but I’m not ready to tell her everything about school. Not yet. She don’t need to know I’ve made an enemy and met a girl.

Junior don’t bother me, not his threats anyway. I’ve had knuckle-heads like him saying things like that to me my whole life. If he wants me to give him another pasting I will. I’m not scared of him. His number, though, that’s something else. I wrote it down at break-time, but I still can’t get it out of my head. It’s a nasty death, and soon. And the feelings are so strong; they make me think things I don’t want to. Like
maybe I’m there when it happens. Maybe I’m the one holding the knife …

Even now, standing in the kitchen, leaning up against the bench, the sweat’s breaking out on my skin, and I think I’m going to pass out. What if my number’s the same as his? What if it wasn’t his death I was feeling, it was mine? Not knowing my own number bothers me, more than anything. I’ve tried to see it. Done all the obvious things; looking in mirrors, reflections in windows, even in water. But nothing works. It has to be eye to eye and the only person in the world I can’t look at … is me.

S’pose that’s what really worries me about the twenty-sevens. There are so many of them, the chances are pretty high I’m one of them too. There are hundreds at school. There are thirteen in my tutor group.

‘Wake up, Adam, I asked you a question.’

Nan’s voice breaks through my thoughts and my mouth goes into action before my brain has time to stop it.

‘Thirteen.’

Shit! Have I really said it out loud? 

‘Thirteen what, love?’ Nan asks.

‘Nothing. I was just thinking about something … from Maths.’

She narrows her eyes, and blows a plume of smoke up towards the ceiling. I’ve got to distract her, so I ferret in my bag and whip out the palm-net they gave me when I finally registered. I’ve been trying to use it in lessons, but I’ve never had my own computer before, Mum wouldn’t let them in the house, so I’m way slower than everyone else. I could see people watching me, sniggering – a hick from the sticks.

Nan glances at it, but she don’t seem interested. She’s locked in on me and it’ll take more than some freebie IT to
knock her off target.

‘You like Maths, do you?’ she says. ‘Like numbers?’

Do I like numbers?
Like them?
She’s watching me now, and all of a sudden, I’m not sure what she’s asking me. I’ve never told anyone about the numbers except Mum, and one teacher at school when I was little, before I knew what they were. Mum always said they were our secret, something special between me and her. And I kept it like that. I didn’t tell. When she died, I thought that left just me knowing. I was on my own. Now I’m not so sure.

‘I don’t think I like numbers,’ I say, carefully. ‘I think they’re important.’

‘Yeah,’ Nan says. ‘Yeah, they are important.’

We look at each other for a minute and neither of us speaks. The radio’s on – some news report about the government coming clean over the Kyoto targets being missed by miles – and next-door’s dog is yapping away as usual, but the silence between us is electric.

‘I know you’re special, Adam,’ she says, finally, and a shiver runs down my spine. ‘I seen it in you, the day you were born.’

‘What?’

‘I saw, I see, a beautiful boy. They’re there in you, your mum and your dad. Oh God, there’s so much of my Terry in you. Sometimes, I swear I think he’s here again … it’s like he never …’ She tails off. There’s an extra shine to her eyes, and the rims are pink.

‘What else, Nan?’ I know there’s something. She swallows hard, and looks deep into my eyes.

‘Your aura, I’ve never seen nothing like it. Red and gold. My God, you’re special. You’re a leader. A survivor. There’s courage, right through you. You’re strong, you have spiritual
strength. You’ve been put here for a reason, I swear it.’ 

I take a risk. I have to know. 

‘What about my number?’ 

She frowns.

‘I don’t see numbers, son. I’m not like you and your mum.’

So she does know.

‘How do you know about them?’

‘Your mum told me. I knew about her years ago, and then when she found out about you, she rang me up.’

Suddenly, I’ve got to tell her, tell her the thing I’ve been bottling up all summer.

‘Nan – half the people in London are going to die next year. I’m not making it up. I’ve seen their numbers.’

She nods.

‘I know.’

‘You know?’

‘Yeah, Jem told me about 2027. Warned me.’

My hands go up to the sides of my head. Nan knew! Mum knew! I’m shaking, but I’m not scared, I’m angry. How dare they keep this from me? Why leave me on my own with it?

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t she?’

The anger’s fizzing through me now, in my arms and legs. I kick at the board under the kitchen cupboards.

‘Don’t do that!’

I want to smash something. I kick out again, and this time the board thunks down onto the floor.

‘Adam! Stop it!’

Nan’s on her feet now, coming towards me. She makes a grab for my arms. I try to shrug her off, but she’s strong, much stronger than you’d think to look at her. We stand wrestling with each other for a few seconds. Then, quick as
a flash, she lets go one of my arms and slaps me across the face.

‘Not here!’ she shouts. ‘Not in my house! I won’t have it!’

I come back to myself then, I see things like they’re happening to someone else, a teenage boy grappling with an old woman in her kitchen, and I feel the shame spreading through me like a blush.

‘I’m sorry, Nan,’ I say. I rub my cheek where she got me. I don’t know where to look, what to do with myself.

‘Should think so,’ she says, and she turns to put the kettle on. ‘If you’ve calmed down, if you’ll
listen,
then we can talk about it.’

‘Okay,’ I say.

‘In fact you make the tea. I need a fag.’

She sits down and reaches for her packet, and her hand is shaking, just a little, as she draws a cigarette out and lights it.

When the tea’s ready I sit down opposite her.

‘Tell me, Nan,’ I say. ‘Tell me everything you know. About me and Mum and Dad. I’ve got a right …’

She’s studying the table top or pretending to. She brushes a little bit of ash onto the floor, and then she looks up at me, blows a long trail of smoke out of the corner of her mouth and says, ‘Yeah, you do have a right, and I s’pose now’s the time.’

And she tells me.

Chapter 6: Sarah

H
e’s trying the door.

I hold my breath.

In the darkness, I can hear the handle turn, the scraping of metal on wood as the door pushes against the chair I left tipped up against it. There’s a scuffling sound as He moves the door backwards and forwards, gently at first, then with more force. I can picture His face – confusion turning to anger – and I shift up further on the bed, sitting upright, knees up to my chin and I cross both sets of fingers.

The room falls quiet for a few seconds, and then He’s there again. He can’t believe it. He needs to check.

Then footsteps, and silence.

It worked! It fucking worked!

I hug my knees in closer and rock from side to side. I want to shout out, scream, dance, but I can’t break the silence. I can’t wake the others; Marty and Luke in the room next door, my mum further down the landing.

I should sleep now. It’s safe to sleep. I uncurl my legs and
slide them down under the duvet. I’m tired, but not sleepy, and I lie there for ages, triumphant and scared at the same time. I’ve won a battle, but the war’s not over yet. Rain starts battering against the window.

I ache for sleep, eight hours of blankness, but when I do drift off there’s no rest. I’m back in the nightmare that waits for me every night.

The flames are orange.

I’m being burnt alive. I’m trapped, penned in by rubble.

The flames are yellow.

The baby’s screaming. We’ll die here, me and her. The boy with the scarred face is here too. He’s fire and flame himself, scarred, burnt, a dark shape in the thundering, crackling, spitting heat.

The flames are white.

And he grabs the baby, my baby, and he walks away and is consumed.

The room’s still dark when I force myself awake. The back of my T-shirt and my sheets are drenched. There’s a date in my head, neon-bright, dazzling my eyes from the inside. The first of January 2027. I’ve never dreamt that before. It’s new. He’s brought it to me. The boy.

The boy at school
is
the boy in my nightmare. It’s him. I know it is. He’s found his way out of my head and into my life. How? How has he done that? It’s bullshit. It’s not real. Stuff like that doesn’t happen.

I reach out next to me and switch on the light. I screw up my eyes until they adjust and then I see the chair wedged up against the door handle.

Of course stuff happens, I think, dully. Stuff happens all the time.

Chapter 7: Adam

T
hey were famous! My mum and dad. I never knew they were famous. For a couple of weeks in 2009 everyone in the country knew about them, was looking for them. ‘Most wanted.’ For something they didn’t do – just wrong place, wrong time. And all because Mum could see the numbers, like me.

Nan’s kept some of the cuttings from the papers – gives me chills looking at them. My mum and dad, so young, younger than me now, staring out of the front page. They were only kids when they had me. Well, Dad never even knew about me. He died before Mum knew she was pregnant.