The Fall (18 page)
‘I see you,’ he said.
Outside the wash-block she slid the bump key into the lock. With a small hammer from Cole’s tool kit, she firmly struck the top of the key and twisted it in the lock. It opened! Just as the locksmith had said it would. She strained to listen for sounds behind and in front, hoping there were no patients hanging out near the back of the Old Lab who would see her entering. A faint hubbub of voices drifted from the compound.
Ana retrieved the bump key and entered the foul-stinking darkness of the wash-block. She fumbled to secure the door behind her, then brushed a hand against the wall to guide herself down the corridor. The smell of vomit and disinfectant sieged her nostrils. Remembering a time she’d been wheeled through the wash-block and seen the state of the walls, she snatched her hand away and continued to inch towards the seldom-used girls’ toilets at the back of the building, without anything to steer her step.
‘I’m here, Ana,’ Cole whispered. She wished she’d told him to speak only when absolutely necessary. His reassurances would be distracting once she was among the patients.
The black passage lightened to a murky grey. Muffled voices echoed off the tiled walls. Ana pushed open the swing door to the girls’ toilets halfway down the main corridor. Sensor lights flickered on. She ducked aside, snapping the door shut again.
Damn.
She’d forgotten the surveillance camera in the far top corner of the toilets. She couldn’t risk entering in jeans.
No time to think about this
. Ana pulled off her jumper and T-shirt and shimmied the pilfered robe over her head. She had to move fast for two reasons. Firstly, the orderlies used the wash-block corridor to ferry special therapy patients in and out, which meant they could turn up at any moment. Secondly, the wash-block was a dangerous place for girls. It’s why they queued for twenty minutes to use the safer toilets at the front of the building. No one ventured this far in unless they were in a strong posse like Tamsin’s. Even then it was rare.
Robe over the upper half of her body, Ana pulled down her jeans and kicked off her flat-soled pumps and socks. She stuffed her clothes in Cole’s black rucksack along with the Stinger, grabbed the plastic bag of sedatives and syringes, and pushed open the swing door to the girls’ toilets. She tossed the rucksack into the bin below one of the hand dryers, then jerked the door closed again.
A scuffing noise sounded behind her.
Someone else is in the corridor.
Breathe. Keep breathing.
She fumbled to open the plastic bag and pick out a syringe, pushing the rest into the pocket of her blue patient robe along with the bump key.
More shuffling of feet.
No longer caring about making a noise, she ripped off the syringe packaging. Whoever was lurking had seen her in the light from the girls’ toilet. It was too late to hide.
‘Ten twenty-four,’ Cole whispered in her ear. Another six minutes and Stitch would be recording.
A silhouette formed. Eyes gleamed white against dark skin. The boy stepped towards Ana. He was one of the older ones, sixteen or seventeen. Her fist tightened so hard around the syringe there was a chance she would snap it. The boy raised his arm. Ana’s breath shuddered in her chest. Her legs locked. In the dull light, she saw the boy’s finger touch his lips, signalling for her to be quiet. Beyond, a flame fluttered in the murk.
‘So is there someone back there, or not?’ A male voice asked from further away.
‘Nah, nothing.’
‘Well wot ya messin’ around for?’
The boy near Ana scratched his shaved head. He crept backwards until he was halfway between her and the compound doorway. Rustling sounded over Ana’s ragged breathing. Adjusting to the gloom, she saw the second boy, crouched down with his back against the wall. One of his arms was outstretched. A belt was wrapped around the top of it. He held it in place with his mouth and with his free hand he was injecting himself with something. He sucked in through his teeth. Everything went silent. Then there was a scrape as the crouching boy slumped. Feet pattered towards Ana. The first boy grabbed her. She pulled away.
Bony fingers locked around the top of her shoulder and the boy shoved her hard down a side passage. Her legs wobbled precariously, threatening to collapse. The boy thrust her against a wall. Light from a high window oozed across his scabbed face.
‘Wot you doing in ’ere?’ he said. Ana held the syringe close to his leg, ready to stab him if he tried anything. She hadn’t had time to fill the barrel, but the needle would still catch him by surprise.
‘I was desperate for the toilet.’
‘Goddamn newbies,’ he said. He glowered at her a moment, then spat. Without warning, he yanked her back through the central corridor. As they reached the queue for the girls’ toilets at the front of the building, he pulled her in towards him. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you,’ he growled, pushing her into the queue.
She stood with her head lowered, hands and legs quivering. One or two girls snatched looks at her, but most either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. From the murmuring in the courtyard beyond, she knew a lot of people were outside. She inhaled slowly. The idea of taking one of the Valium pills in her pocket flashed through her head.
You’re in. The worst bit is over. You can do this.
She straightened up and strode out from the shade of the wash-block into the bright, exposed yard.
Flat-roofed hangars lined the sixty-foot long compound. The smaller yard with an entrance to the games room and the canteen lay to the right. Cliques of barefooted girls and boys in blue robes clung to thin grey blankets despite the mild weather. A few girls perched on a low wall gossiping and plaiting each other’s hair. A girl of around thirteen stood pushing herself against a wall, twiddling something in her fingers. She flinched whenever anyone passed.
It was less than two months since Ana had been here. It felt like years.
‘Two minutes,’ Cole’s voice whispered. Her stomach muscles flapped like dying fish. She would get a camera shot of the dormitories first.
Head lowered but watching everything, she moved towards Studio 5. It was the studio she’d slept in when she’d been trapped in Three Mills for four days – the worst four days and nights of her life. She forced her steps to form an unassuming shuffle. Nobody inside the compound moved fast, unless the lunch bell was ringing or it was first thing in the morning and they were racing for the showers.
Once Stitch began recording – if Stitch began recording . . . Her thought process shattered as panic seeped into her. Had Cole actually checked Stitch was in place before sedating Farmer?
Have a little faith
, a voice whispered deep inside.
Once
Stitch began recording, Ana had three minutes to capture the worst aspects of Three Mills and get footage of Tamsin. Three minutes. Anything after that was borrowed time.
‘Thirty seconds,’ Cole announced.
She stopped at the entrance to Studio 5, glanced back at the patients clustered about the compound.
Tamsin, where are you?
‘OK.’ Cole spoke like he was sucking in his breath.
She entered Studio 5. There were no lights in the dorm, only daylight shrugging through the hangar doors. As her vision adapted, she saw forty mattresses sprinkled across the floor. The smell of vomit and urine hung on the air. It was worse at night when they closed the doors, she remembered.
About ten feet away, a barelegged girl lay with her arms across her chest, staring at the ceiling. She was breathtakingly still. Ana tiptoed towards her, angling her body around so that the camera clipped to her robe panned across the black three-storey-high walls; the vast empty darkness. Another girl lay curled up in a ball on a mattress, crying. Further in, a shadow rocked on the concrete floor, humming to herself.
Thirty seconds had already passed. She’d seen enough. Now to show people the compound and find Tamsin. Swinging around to head out, a blabbering noise caught her attention. Five feet away, moulded into one of the spongy soundproofed walls, was a blonde-haired girl. Spittle ran down the girl’s chin. Big blue bruises shone beneath her eyes. She wobbled as though she was struggling with her sense of balance. Ana froze
.
Helen!
It was the blonde girl from the tanks. The girl who had peed herself the first time she and Ana were in ‘special therapy’ together, who’d screamed as the water lapped over their bodies, who’d disappeared the following day and hadn’t returned. Helen had drowned in the tanks, been revived and presumably taken to hospital. Now she was back. But why did she look like that?
A voice cut the gloom. ‘She’s had the snip.’
Ana jumped. Leaning against the hangar door was the boy who’d caught her coming through the wash-block.
‘Lobotomy,’ the boy clarified.
Her stomach dropped from a high ledge leaving the rest of her body behind. She stumbled backwards, instinctively scrambling to get away.
Cut yourself off
.
You’ll deal with it later. Not now. Now you find Tamsin. Find Tamsin. Get out of here.
‘What you looking for?’ the boy asked as she hurried past him, out into the fresh air. Ana strode stiffly, arms stuck to her sides. She didn’t look back to see if he was following. The camera clipped to her robe could see it all. The twitching, shuffling, murmuring, crying, arguing. No nurses. Nothing to do. Her throaty breathing wouldn’t settle down. She couldn’t think properly.
A sea of faces bobbed in and out of focus.
Where are you?
Not only had she not seen Tamsin, she hadn’t spotted one girl from Tamsin’s posse either. She moved robotically towards the games room, afraid to swing her arms in case they swung right off.
Pull yourself together. Tamsin, concentrate on Tamsin
.
In the four days Ana had been institutionalised in Three Mills, Tamsin had never hung out in the games room. She couldn’t be in the showers, and she and her posse hadn’t been in the wash-block. This only left the studio dorms.
‘An orderly’s coming through with a patient,’ Cole said through her earpiece. ‘We’re at ninety seconds.’
Ninety more seconds of guaranteed hijacked airtime left. Ana halted, jiggled on the spot. The choice was either wait in the courtyard and show the whole country what the patients returning from special therapy looked like, or continue trying to track down Tamsin – potentially show the whole country that a Pure was locked up in a mental rehab home, but possibly end up with nothing.
Logically, she should go for the special patient therapy. Emotionally, she wanted Tamsin.
A spine-tingling hush suddenly fell over the compound. She glanced about. Everyone was looking in the direction of the wash-block, without actually looking at it. Heads cocked, eyes averted. She turned to face the Old Lab. A slow pulse pumped through her. Of dread. Clarity. Determination. She lifted a hand to her chest, checked the camera. A form was emerging – an orderly pushing a wheelchair. Loose green trousers, plain green top, a truncheon on the belt around her waist. The orderly stepped into the light, revealing a jagged scar that ran from the corner of her mouth to her chin.
Orderly McCavern.
McCavern’s gaze roamed the yard. Ana dropped her head, but on the edge of her vision she watched the proceedings. The girl in the wheelchair was flopped forwards, hair in tangles across her face. McCavern unbuckled the restraining strap around the girl’s chest, then tipped the chair, giving it a shake.
The girl fell out head first. A crack sounded, like a dropped boiled egg. Spaghetti legs twisted up behind the ragdoll body, revealing white thighs and grey knickers. A ribbon of blood trickled down the side of the girl’s face where her cheek grazed the tarmac.
Ana’s throat swelled and itched. She raised her hand to her neck to stop herself from coughing. McCavern sniffed. Her hand lay on her truncheon as though she was daring someone to challenge her. Around Ana the whole compound seemed frozen. Patients didn’t even twitch. Ana couldn’t repress the scratch in her throat anymore. She coughed. McCavern’s eyes rolled onto her. Ana crushed her head as far as it would go into her chest, without disturbing the camera, hair falling across her face. If McCavern addressed her now, it was all over. She’d know Ana wasn’t a patient.
Behind Ana someone spat. The orderly’s attention shifted. From the corner of her eye, Ana saw scabby, dark legs. It was the boy who was ‘keeping an eye on her’. He spat again. McCavern stared at him, then arced the wheelchair around slowly, as though goading him to try something while her back was turned. She ambled into the wash-block corridor with exaggerated nonchalance.
Ana tilted sideways to take in her newfound protector. His gaunt body jerked. She realised his head wasn’t shaved, his hair had fallen out. And his skin was dry and scaly up his neck. A Benzidox addict?
She coughed, the itch still scraping at her throat. Blood snaked down from the wheelchair girl’s head. Ana shuffled forward. A couple of feet from the girl, a hand caught her wrist.
‘Man,’ her protector said. ‘You’re either a slow learner or a whole bag of trouble.’ Ana yanked back her hand, but the boy didn’t let go. ‘They’re watching everything. You try to help her, you’ll end up in her place. If you were here a month ago, you’d know that.’
Ana looked the boy in the eye. Slowly, he loosened his grip. She knelt down beside the girl, tugged at her robe to cover her knickers and thighs, then gently smoothed back her hair. Pale skin. Pale neck. A vine tattoo.
She’d found Tamsin.
Ana’s fingers twitched violently as they pushed into Tamsin’s neck: her pulse felt strong, defiant, despite her state of unconsciousness.
‘Tamsin,’ she whispered. A tiny moan sounded through the crack in Tamsin’s mouth.
‘It’s the anaesthetic,’ the boy said. ‘Might take another twenty minutes to wear off.’ Ana didn’t have twenty minutes. In less than thirteen minutes Stitch would start taking control of a news channel and begin loading up the footage.