The Industry (8 page)

Kirra, distractedly twirling a lock of hair between her thumb and forefinger, watched the same square of sunlight that appeared every day shift across the cell. Milo had been gone for almost three weeks now. The day they'd dragged him from the cell and slammed the door between them was etched firmly into Kirra's memory. She may have lost track of the weeks and months since she'd been captured, but the days without Milo were conspicuous and Kirra carefully counted each one. The cell had once felt crowded because of him, almost suffocating really. Now it was barren and bleak and the time stretched on and on. She knew three weeks was far too long for him to be gone. A few hours wouldn't have worried her. Not even a whole day. Not at first, at least. But three weeks? That was different. A small part of her knew she ought to accept that he might never return.

The long days and nights of solitude left her with nothing to do. In an attempt to distract herself from
Milo's glaring absence, she started to sift through all the things that had brought her to this dismal point. What if she'd just ignored Mr Gummer's assignment? Or tried to do it properly instead of looking for something to plagiarise? What if she'd gone home a different way that day, avoiding Barrie Avenue? What if she'd escaped successfully with Lena? Lena might still be alive.

Her mental tally of events always stopped at the visit from the strange man in the hospital after the Bachmeier bomb. What had he said his name was? Vaclav something? Kirra was sure that was it. Vaclav. Vaclav, with his walking cane and his words of encouragement. Hadn't he said he was trying to help her? Kirra was sure that months had passed since then, and still no sign of help, no hint of rescue. Occasionally she wondered if she'd just imagined Vaclav and convinced herself he was real. Maybe she actually
was
going mad.

When the cell door opened, her heart leaped into her throat, then took a wild nosedive. It was just the recruit Wyles, who never seemed to shave and looked as though he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a decade. Still, he was always weirdly sympathetic towards her when he brought her meals or escorted her to the shower; where another recruit would have shoved, Wyles simply guided.

‘What do you call a kangaroo at the North Pole?' he said. He gave her a tentative smile.

Kirra blinked.

‘A lost kangaroo,' he answered himself.

Kirra stared at him. Unless she was very much mistaken, a recruit had just told her a joke. She debated the merit of shaking herself, just to check she hadn't imagined it.

Wyles cleared his throat, an awkward, unsure look coming over his face, and gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Come on,' he said, and took her hand and lifted her lightly to her feet.

Kirra yanked her hand away. No matter how different Wyles was from the other recruits, no matter how amiable he seemed, Kirra refused to become friendly with him. Yes, he treated her with a measure of kindness, but he was still a recruit.

He escorted her down the hallway, his hold on her arm feather light, and guided her into the dilapidated bathroom. He nodded in the direction of the shower and backed out of the doorway. Kirra watched him go. He never stayed to supervise her showers, not like the others did. Sometimes they congregated at the door to leer at her, saying things to each other in another language. Sometimes they laughed; other times they were silent and still, which frightened Kirra much more.

She had learnt to ignore them, but when Milo was still sharing her cell he'd always nagged her to tell him what had happened each time.

‘Nothing,' Kirra would say. ‘They just stand there and watch.'

‘They never do anything?' he'd asked, over and over. ‘They never say anything?'

‘They say lots of things.'

‘Like what?'

‘How should I know? It's all in another bloody language.'

‘Shower quickly from now on, okay? Get it over and done with before they have time to see anything.'

Kirra, unsure whether to be annoyed by his concern or touched by it, had shrugged. ‘They never
do
anything.'

‘Doesn't mean they won't.'

But Wyles was different. He never watched her himself, and he never let any of the others gather in the bathroom when Kirra was his responsibility. Kirra knew she ought to feel grateful for this, but instead it just made her slightly suspicious. A recruit showing kindness? It didn't feel right.

She removed her clothes quickly and showered under the weak spray. She dried off and threw the clothes back on. Her jeans no longer fitted — she had to hold them up when she walked — and Lena's jacket felt baggier than ever. She'd never once gone hungry in Freemont, and months of imprisonment and neglect were beginning to take a very physical toll. She was thankful there were no mirrors in the factory, for she was certain she'd be appalled by the person she saw looking back at her.

She hitched up her jeans once more and shoved her wet hair back. She was just slipping into her boots, which she'd always suspected had once been Lena's, when a voice rang through the room.

‘Are you the code cracker?'

She looked up. Standing just inside the door was a girl of around fourteen years of age, wearing a black cotton dress and a cherry-red ribbon in her brunette hair. She was quite short, and her dress was ironed and her hair neat. She was considering Kirra expectantly, her plump lips pursed. ‘Well? Are you?' she prompted.

She spoke with an accent Kirra was unable to distinguish, but it was very clear that she'd been educated in an English school. Kirra was openly puzzled. Who was she?

‘Yes,' she murmured, thinking that wasn't the title she would have chosen for herself.

‘I didn't know you were so young,' the girl mused.

Kirra thought this was an interesting comment coming from someone at least two years younger than herself.

‘My father takes great care to keep us apart,' the girl said, checking the corridor for recruits. ‘He says I shouldn't want to see things like you. He's not here right now, so I thought I'd take my chance.'

Kirra ran her fingers through her wet hair, thinking. ‘Latham is your father,' she said quietly.

‘Mm-hm,' the girl confirmed, tightening the ribbon in her long locks. ‘I come to work with him during my school holidays.'

Kirra suddenly remembered the purple room she had glimpsed at the hangar all those months ago.

‘Do you know who … what … your father is?' Kirra ventured carefully.

Surely the poor girl couldn't know the truth. The idea that she might accompany her father on his killing sprees was horrendous but, to Kirra's immense surprise, the girl merely raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course,' she said with the air of someone who enjoyed shocking people. ‘Of course I know. I'm not an imbecile.'

Kirra frowned, doubtful they were talking about the same thing.

‘Your father …' she began slowly, wondering how she could put it without alerting the girl to the truth.

The girl's plump mouth curled into a patronising smile. ‘Kills people? No. My father doesn't kill people.
Rich people kill other people. My father's just hired in the middle.'

Wyles' sudden reappearance severed the tension in the bathroom.

‘Simone! What are you doing here?' he barked.

‘Meeting the code cracker. I haven't had the pleasure yet,' the girl said.

‘You shouldn't be in here,' he said.

‘If you tell me to leave, I'll tell my father you were trying to break her out,' Simone said, all the while staring at Kirra.

The recruit narrowed his eyes. ‘What did you say?' he asked quietly.

‘Don't tempt me!' she fumed. ‘Now go away!'

Wyles seemed to be pondering the authority of her order. In the end, he stepped back into the corridor and left them alone.

Kirra's eyes skimmed over the girl thoughtfully as she in turn fixed Kirra with another expectant stare. As Kirra looked at the long dark hair cascading over the girl's shoulders, she felt her breath catch. Simone suddenly reminded her so much of … No, it couldn't be!

‘Was … was Lena your mother?' Kirra asked, her heart almost bursting at the prospect.

Simone didn't seem to share in Kirra's excitement. Her eyes flashed dangerously. ‘Lena was left here by an old recruit,' she said. ‘My father kept her around to take care of the men. She was just a servant. Nothing, really, and certainly
not
my mother.'

She folded her arms. ‘Wyles, you can take her back
now. I'm done with her.' Her long hair flicked over her shoulder as she left the room.

Kirra stood stock-still for a moment, feeling furious. When Wyles reached for her arm, she shrugged away and walked ahead of him. She didn't need to be guided back to her cell. She knew the way.

It was clear, thinking about it later, that Lena wasn't Simone's mother. Kirra had noted the hair and jumped to conclusions. Indeed, there were more differences than similarities between the two. Lena had had a round, happy face and thin lips, whilst Simone's face was thin and long, her lips fat and pouting. Plus, Simone had none of Lena's vivacity and certainly none of her beauty. Kirra felt relieved. Lena could never have deserved a child like that.

 

She glanced up distractedly when Wyles entered the cell a while later and placed a toasted sandwich and a small bottle of orange juice on the floor. Both were unusually good in comparison to most of the meals she got. Without a word he removed a shiny little package from his pocket and deposited it beside the plate before disappearing once more. Kirra found it was a chocolate bar filled with chewy toffee and softened biscuit. She stared at it for many minutes. Just when she thought Wyles' confusing behaviour had reached its peak, he went and did something like this.

Looking at the meal, she decided not to question it too much, and devoured the sandwich and nibbled at the chocolate, wanting to make her first real treat since Lena's death last.

The next day Milo returned. The door swung open and he was pushed inside. Kirra had been dozing, and struggled to get her bearings, in which time Milo kneeled beside her, lifted her into his arms and held her tightly. It took her a moment of bewilderment to realise what was happening, but when she did she buried her face deep into his chest.

Neither said anything for the longest time. Milo touched her straggly hair, his chin pressed firmly against her temple, and Kirra clung to him. Something within the moment felt charged, and she shuddered against him. The sensation, whatever it was, was so alien to her that she seized up, unable to breathe for several moments, goose bumps trailing her arms. The surface of her skin seemed more sensitive than usual as Milo gripped her, and she wondered why they'd not hugged until now. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, a thing they should have done as much as possible. She finally disentangled
herself from his grip to look at him properly, and was delighted and surprised when his fingertips dragged across either side of her face as she drew back, as though he hadn't wanted to let go so soon. She gazed at him. He was alive. She kept saying it to herself, over and over.

They sat together on the cold cement, Milo's face close to hers as he inspected her with an intense expression she couldn't label. He seemed different; harder somehow.

‘I've brought you something,' he said, reaching into his pocket, his voice hoarse. ‘They took me all over, but when I was in your country I found this.' He held out a flimsy piece of newspaper.

Kirra unfolded it carefully, holding her breath. It was a clipping from a newspaper, and in the bottom left-hand corner of the page was a small article.

Kirra skimmed her hand over the tattered clipping.

‘They didn't actually take you to Sydney, did they?' Milo asked.

‘No.'

It didn't matter that someone had made an incorrect identification of a girl who possibly matched Kirra's description in Sydney. It didn't matter that her parents were looking in all the wrong places. All that mattered was that they were still searching. They hadn't given up.

She glanced at Milo. He'd obviously gone to great lengths to secure this tiny bit of information, this precious comfort, and deliver it back to her. He couldn't possibly know how much this meant, and she couldn't find the words to properly tell him.

‘Oh, and I have this,' he added, as though the article hadn't been enough. He pressed something flat and cold into her hand.

She found a tiny, chipped brass watch lying in her palm, the size of a ten-cent coin. It was dirty and scuffed
and the wristband was missing. All three hands were loose and swivelled around the numbers instead of staying in place.

‘You know, if things were different … if we were different … and I went away somewhere, I'd bring something for you when I came back. You said you wanted a watch.' He shrugged, his voice suddenly gruff. ‘I found it … I thought … I don't know. It doesn't work … but what's the point of time for us anyway?'

Kirra curled her fingers around the tiny timepiece, wanting to say so many things. Instead, she swallowed down the sore lump in her throat and took a steadying breath. ‘Thank you,' was all she could manage.

He seemed to understand.

‘What happened?' Kirra asked him, storing the watch in the pocket of Lena's jacket. ‘What have you been doing all this time? I thought they'd killed you or something.'

‘Really?' he asked.

‘Well … yeah. What was I meant to think?'

‘Sorry,' he said, looking guilty. ‘They didn't tell you anything?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Oh. Well, Latham had jobs, right, all over the place and he took me with him.'

‘Why'd he do that? He hasn't done it before.'

‘Not sure,' Milo confessed. ‘Guess it was just easier that way, to take a Translator with him, especially as he was on the move. Anyway, a fair few people were killed — nothing like Bachmeier though. Just people here and there. One in Australia. A woman, in this huge office all to herself. She was shot at her desk. That's — that's
where I grabbed the newspaper. It was on a table near the door, and I took it before anyone noticed.'

He was gazing at the floor, looking tired and disturbed.

‘There were others,' he went on. ‘These two men in Durban. They were shot in this secure car park — that's where I found that watch. Then this old man in his apartment in Boston.' He went silent for a moment before — ‘It's July.'

‘What?'

‘Yeah. July. Can you believe that? Can you believe we've been stuck like this all that time?'

Kirra watched him sadly.

‘Why didn't you refuse to give the sequences? We were separated, Latham couldn't use us against each other.'

‘He did,' Milo said immediately. ‘Said you'd be killed if I didn't do it.'

‘Oh.'

He shrugged. ‘Didn't know what else to do.'

Kirra nodded, suddenly feeling hopeless.

‘Yeah. I'd have done the same thing.'

 

The very next day Latham had both Kirra and Milo steered out of their cell and into a wide room plastered with graffiti. Kirra was no stranger to this room. She'd visited it many times since her arrival at the factory after the Bachmeier bomb all those months ago. Every few days, it seemed, they were strapped into adjacent chairs and given alternating roles. One was handed the code, the other given Balcescu's drug, and Latham would wait patiently as his method yielded excellent results. Kirra couldn't bear to watch Milo face the torment of the drug for long, and would write the
sequence as fast as she could so he would be released. He did the same thing when it was Kirra's turn to be injected, watching her struggle for only a moment before giving in.

Today, of course, started out the same way as all the others. Latham laid a page before Kirra, and indicated for Balcescu to torture Milo.

‘Don't,' Kirra said. Balcescu halted. ‘Don't bother. I'll just do it.'

Milo looked over at her.

‘Really?' Latham asked. ‘How considerate of you, Kirra. You've saved us a dosage.'

Kirra ignored him, wrote out the sequence and pushed the page away. Latham looked over it, a very satisfied expression on his face.

‘Take them back,' he ordered the two recruits at the door.

That night, they fell asleep in their usual corners, but some time later Kirra awoke to feel Milo's hands in her hair. It felt as if he was attempting to plait it, though he didn't seem to know how, and Kirra decided to pretend to still be asleep, not wanting to interrupt or embarrass him. His movements were tentative, as though he was afraid of disturbing her, but with each of Kirra's deep breaths, he grew more confident.

Kirra felt her skin tingle as his thumbs trailed her hairline and grazed with agonising tenderness over her skin. Desire like she'd never known it unfurled somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and though she chose not to act on it, the awareness of it alone thrilled her. She kept her eyes tightly closed, enjoying each gentle tug of her hair, every brush of his fingers against her temple.

Something in Milo's ministrations also felt slightly wrong; as though Kirra was partaking in something her parents never would have allowed or approved of, as though she was taking something that belonged to someone else.

For a moment she wondered what her parents would think if they could see her now. She wasn't even sure they'd believe it was her, lying there, held firm in Milo's embrace. It was the sort of situation reserved for Olivia, who was always encouraged to relay the details of her growing relationship with Steven to their mother.

In an instant, Kirra felt an eternity's worth of affection for Milo rising up inside her. He didn't care about who she used to be. He had no idea about any of it, and for once Kirra was entirely glad to be stuck in the cell. She shifted very slightly and felt his hands freeze amongst her tangles. He seemed terrified that she may be waking up, but she continued with her deep breaths and lay perfectly still, and he started up again, oblivious to the smile she was struggling to keep from her lips.

 

One particularly warm evening, just as it was getting dark, Kirra spotted two moving shadows beneath the door. Milo saw them at the same time. His jaw clenched and he reached out to wrap his hand around her wrist. They stayed perfectly still and silent, Kirra's heart in her throat. Milo's reaction to the men outside frightened her even though she didn't fully understand it. They heard the men muttering in their own language, and then, just as they had before, the shadows disappeared.

‘We're leaving,' Milo declared suddenly.

She looked at him. ‘Huh?'

‘We're leaving.'

‘What?
Leaving
leaving?'

‘Yes.'

‘Milo —'

‘We're not staying here. You're — we're not safe here.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Things are getting more dangerous. Those men … I know what they're thinking of doing.'

Kirra stared at him. He seemed so serious, and it was scaring her.

‘We can't escape,' she said firmly. ‘They'll kill us.'

‘No. No, I don't think they will. They need the sequences too badly. And if they do, so what? At least we won't be sticking around to … to see what happens.'

Kirra stared at his set face, his tight jaw, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He seemed older than usual as he glared at her through the darkness.

‘It's been half a year. Do you want to stay here like this forever?' he asked her. ‘What sort of life is that?'

‘It's bad, but —'

‘It's worse than bad!'

‘It's better than being dead!'

Milo frowned.

‘If you say so,' he said, looking annoyed.

‘I don't think it's a good idea. Not yet, anyway.'

‘Not yet? How much longer do you want to rot in here?'

‘Milo —'

‘You're coming.'

‘You can't make me,' Kirra retorted. ‘I'm staying.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘You can't tell me what to do.'

‘Look!' he nearly yelled. ‘If you're not going to cooperate, I'll drag you out of here. Don't think I won't.'

Kirra, sick of arguing, ignored him.

‘Please,' he said. He took her hand. ‘Please, Kirra. We've got to try.'

She closed her eyes for a long moment, the memory of Lena's blood running into her hair hitting Kirra with full force.

‘I'm scared,' she admitted.

‘But … you'll do it?'

‘Okay.'

‘Okay?'

‘Yes, but … we've got to plan it. We've got to go over it and over it. Things could go very wrong, you know.'

‘They won't.'

‘You don't know that. We've got to account for everything.'

‘We will,' Milo assured her. ‘We'll do whatever you want. Nothing will go wrong, you'll see.'