Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (2 page)

Goose bumps rise up across my pale arms. It's kind of creepy, but it's also very intriguing. What could be the answer, and how is anyone supposed to work it out without a clue? Why did that boy bring it here for Dad? And why is it locked away in a safe-box? This is all just too weird.

The sound of the front door opening jolts me back to my senses. Dad's home from work! He's in the house, hanging up his coat and walking up the first flight of stairs. I've got no time to get out of the attic without being caught.

I quickly replace the hangman game in the safe-box, stick the key to the back of the picture then flick off the light. Stepping behind the curtains, I try not to think about the darkness or lack of air threatening my
lungs. I sit on a storage box struggling to control my breathing. Dad's heavy footsteps climb the stairs and his hand grasps the door knob.

Being
in a dusty attic isn't ideal for someone who is asthmatic and afraid of the dark. My throat becomes tickly as I breathe in the dust particles so I take a quick puff from my inhaler. The door handle rotates slowly. I'm too scared to close my eyes and even more afraid to keep them open.

The door creaks
ajar. Dad flicks on the light switch and I'm glad for the thin, bright ray that shoots through the slit in the curtains. My heart is beating so loudly I'm certain he'll hear it. Peering through the gap, I watch Dad tap a number into his mobile.

"It's Hunter reporting in," he says in a low voice I don't recognise. "The target has been eliminated."

Dad pauses to listen to the voice on the other end. Why did he call himself by his surname, and what is the target he's eliminated?

"Permission to move onto the next
assignment?"

I strain to hear the conversation over the steady thumping in my chest.

"Thank you."

He ends the short conversation and slumps into his desk chair. As he examines the parcel the realisation hits home. . . I've left the safe-box unlocked! I hold my hand across my mouth to stifle a gasp as he lifts the lid, surprised to find it open. He removes the hangman game and sinks back in his chair, breathing a sigh of relief.

"That boy needs to be more careful," he mutters to himself. "I told him not to come by the house."

Rocking gently, Dad unfolds the yellowed paper. He rubs across the creases on his forehead and repeats the words "What can it be?" Eventually he scribbles on the paper, curses, then gets up and leaves the attic room. I sit trembling as he closes the door behind him.

Listening intently to his heavy footsteps going back downstairs, I slowly move through the curtains. I need to get out of the attic room quickly, but I can't resist glancing at the paper on the desk. Another wrong guess is crossed out and the matchstick hangman now has another leg.

When I hear Dad in the kitchen filling up the kettle I creep down the stairs into my room, gently closing the door behind me. I climb into bed and lie with my eyes closed, faking sleep. After a while, Dad comes back upstairs and my bedroom door opens ajar. I can't see him, but I know he's peering in to check on me. He does the same thing every night. Sometimes I'm asleep, the rest of the time I pretend to be. Usually I don't want to speak to him because I'm annoyed, but tonight is totally different. Tonight I'm afraid.

"Happy birthday, Sash," he whispers.

I clench my eyes shut and wait for him to go back downstairs before I relax and take a much needed pump from my inhaler. Lying awake, I'm unable to answer the questions revolving around my head.

Who was that boy, Aaron? And who is Dad ─ a terrorist, an assassin, a spy? How has he kept his secret for so long? I have to confront him.

Chapter 2

Saturday 14 September 11:04am

You can't be too careful, which is why I stay in my bedroom for as long as possible, pretending to sleep in. I lie in bed staring
upward, finding patterns in the ceiling. When I finally get up, I try to occupy my mind with normal things rather than relive the events of last night.

I glance into the mirror, the one I accidentally cracked tw
o years ago: that's seven years' bad luck and I've still got five to go. My long dark hair is a tangled battleground of warring strands. This morning's bed-head is particularly severe due to the tossing and turning of a sleepless night. Hours passed yet my eyelids refused to get heavy, and today my appearance is paying the price for it.

I opt for a shower before I commence war on my hair. The familiar weekend smell of
Katalina's bacon and sausages, Dad's favourite breakfast, tells me that he's still home. I stand under the shower with my eyes closed, hoping the hot water will wash away the questions revolving in my mind. Was last night a dream, or did I really find a dagger in Dad's attic room and hear him talking about eliminating targets?

Back in my room, I make a towel-turban around my wet hair and flick through songs on my MP3 player. The lyrics of a song leap out like a personal epitaph: "Hope for me was a place unchartered and overgrown". I'm lost in the lyrics, until
Katalina pops around my bedroom door, head-banging to the heavy guitar riffs. She never fails to make me laugh.

"Hey, Sasha.
Want breakfast?"

Katalina
is the nicest person I know, even if she does leave out the odd word when she speaks. Nothing's too much for her, and she's always smiling like she knows something everyone else doesn't, but in a nice way. Not many people can carry three shopping bags in each hand and vacuum an entire house in less than twenty minutes. Dad's lucky to have someone like Katalina who seems willing to stick by him despite his reclusive lifestyle. If all people from Romania are as nice as she is, then maybe I'll move there one day.

"Thanks Kat, but I'm not hungry."

She doesn't mind me shortening her name, like friends do. Still in her twenties, Kat is more like a big sister than a housekeeper. She's a trendsetter; her off-set bobbed hair dyed bright red. She's far too cool to be a housekeeper. As Kat withdraws with a nod and a smile, the door closes then opens again immediately. It's Dad, using his predictable tactic of sending Katalina in first to gauge my mood.

"Afternoon, lazy bones," he says jokingly, as if nothing has happened. "How's my birthday girl?"

His face drops as he notices my expression. No doubt the crimson tint in my eyes is burning brighter than ever, like a thermometer to my mood.

"My birthday was yesterday."

"Sash, I'm sorry I missed you last night. I tried to get home early but you'd gone to bed."

Dad's face is lean, framed by a
parted fringe which he often rakes his fingers through in a stressed, habitual way. Dad and I don't look alike; he has fair hair, mine is pure black. In fact, we share little in both looks and personality. The haggard look in his eyes hints at late nights and snatched hours of sleep.

"I know we've not seen much of each other recently. How about I make it up to you tomorrow? We could pop into town, grab a pizza and go shopping?"

I scroll through the MP3 player and stop on the angriest song I can find. It's always tomorrow with him.

"What about today?" I ask, although I have much more important things on my mind than a day out.

"Sorry Sash, I'm working today. So did you get many birthday cards?"

"Just the usual from family I hardly know," I reply. "A parcel came but it was for you. I left it in your attic room."

I leave the comment hanging in the air, hoping for an explanation.

"Yes, I got it, thanks. So how was
your day yesterday?"

It annoys me when Dad changes the subject like this. What does he care about my birthday? If I tell him about how horrendous I felt all day what difference would it make?

"Fine." The lie slips through my lips with ease.

I've tried this conversation so many times before; instead of answering my questions he starts asking about my life. Lots of questions that have nothing to do with each other where I grunt back in monosyllables.
Stupid questions to which he already knows the answers. A lot of our conversations go like this. Not this time.

"So who was the boy who delivered the parcel? He said he knew you."

I ask the question, not bothering to look up at him as I apply Mum's dark red lipstick. It's the same shade of red that my mother wore in the last picture taken of her.

"Just somebody I work with. It's complicated, Sash. I'll explain things one day."

I crank up the volume on the MP3 player.

"You always say that it's complicated. How am I supposed to understand if I don't know where you go or what you do?"

"Sash, I don't have time for this." Dad raises his voice to try and compete with the music. "Can you turn that down please? I refuse to shout," he shouts.

"But you never have time for me… like you didn't have time for Mum."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could reel them back in.

"Sasha Jo ― that's enough."

Dad glares at me with a stern look which makes me feel younger than I have felt in years. He never really lectures me; the unspoken words are written on his face. I pull the MP3 lead from the speaker to cut the music, still regretting my last words. Whenever he uses my full name it means the debate is over. He never loses his temper or raises his voice, he simply seems to tire.

Trying to get him to talk about Mum is even harder than getting him to talk about his job and I've long since given up. It's not fair. Why should he know all about my life when I know nothing about his? I feel like challenging him over what he's hiding from me.

"Sash, I understand that you're upset." His world-weary tone is so familiar. "I know I'm not around as much as I should be, but I want you to know that I'm working on a big project at the moment. If it goes well, it will change everything."

I wonder what the "big project" is and whether it involves knives.

"If it comes off, I might even be able to take some time off work."

Inside I'm screaming, torn between wanting to confront him and wishing I'd never opened the stupid parcel in the first place.

"This is for your birthday."

He gives me a small gift bag. I force myself to grunt a "thanks". Dad lingers at the door for a moment,
then heads off back to his attic. He probably thinks I'm just being a typical moody girl. I open the bag to find a small, blunt knife with a black wooden handle. It's the same knife that I found in Dad's attic room last night. In daylight, the dagger looks less sinister. It's far from impressive; the size and bluntness makes it more appropriate for opening letters than for use as a weapon. A small paper note is wrapped around its wooden handle:

Sasha,

Hope you have a
great birthday. Keep this safe ─ it's very important. I'll explain one day. Things will change soon, I promise.

Love,

Dad.

I shove the knife in my bedside table drawer and slam it shut. So things will change soon? Soon isn't soon enough. His words feel like empty promises. Things have already changed. I want some answers and I know there's only one way to get them. If I want to know the truth, I have to follow him to work. Tonight.

+ + +

I kill time in my room, avoiding Dad by playing on the teenager-in-a-strop image. Through the early evening gloom, I watch out of my bedroom window as he leaves the house, pulls up his collar and heads off up the road. In his well-worn waxed trench coat and with one shoelace trailing after him, Dad cuts an awkward figure. He hasn't owned a car since he drove over a black cat last year. Everyone knows that it's unlucky when a black cat crosses your path. It's even worse luck to kill it while it's crossing your path.

With Dad on foot I know it'll be possible to follow him wherever he goes. The only issue is that I'll have to risk breaking the curfew. It's a stupid law anyway, supposedly for the protection of society. If the police catch me without any ID, I'll be in
big trouble. Dad works for the government so I know it will cause problems for him as well. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. With my black jacket on inside out, my hood up and a scarf around my chin to disguise my face, I head out into the night.

The
dark air feels cold and rich in my lungs. Avoiding the street lamps, I follow Dad several hundred yards behind as he walks briskly through the darkening evening. I half-run to try and keep up as he descends the steps of a tube station. From the top of the stairs, I watch him as he passes through the ticket barriers, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. Taking the stairs two at a time, I move fast to follow him.

The platform is busy with a typical Saturday night mix of theatre goers and those heading out to hit the clubs and bars. It didn't take long for most people to get on with their lives after Dystopia Day. Either
that, or some people just want a distraction from what society has become. Dad takes the first train and I board two doors down, mingling with the nightlife to remain undetected.

The carriage of the tube rattles furiously as it makes its hidden progress underneath the streets of London. Dad has his hand gripped onto a rail above his head; my eyes fix on his wedding ring. He has never taken it off and I hope he never does. My mind wanders to an obscure memory of the time Dad thought he'd lost his wedding ring. Mum didn't give him a hard time about it, suggesting they get new ones. But Dad spent three days scouring every inch of the house until he found it, wedged behind a radiator. He found the ring, but we lost Mum.

I glance up at the tube map on the wall, trying to work out how many stops have passed. It's too late, I've lost count. Next to the tube map is a government poster with the tag-line "If it feels suspicious, it probably is." Since Dystopia day the state has encouraged people to report any dubious behaviour. It's meant to make us all feel safer; instead, it's created a society dogged by paranoia.

Finally, we get off the tube and exit the station into a much nicer part of town. The autumn breeze ruffles Dad's
fair hair as he picks up his brisk pace once more. When the wind rustles the trees it sounds like they're whispering together like old friends, talking about me behind my back. I start to get a stitch in my side and I think about giving up and going home. Before I turn to leave, Dad stops on a nice road in front of a large house with a "For Sale" sign outside. Maybe we're moving to a new home? My heart sinks as I realise that he hasn't gone to work after all. As he opens the gates and walks in, I decide to follow. I've come this far, I might as well take a look.

Hiding behind a bush near the gates, I watch as Dad enters through the grand front door. My breath makes small, white clouds in the air. It's a cold night for this time of year. The old detached house has at least six bedrooms and must be worth a fortune. How can
he possibly afford to buy it? I'm more intrigued than ever to know what he does for a living. I wait for more than ten minutes when something unusual strikes me: the house is still in darkness. Why hasn't Dad put a light on? And why go to view a house so late in the day? Something isn't quite right about the whole situation. I convince myself to take a closer look.

Avoiding the noisy gravel path, I creep through the flower beds and peer inside through the front bay window. An empty room with a dust-covered fireplace tells me that Dad must be in one of the back rooms. The only other way around the house is down a dark passage. Worse still, the passage is spanned by a ladder propped against the wall. If I want to get past, I'll have to walk under the ladder. It's the worst kind of bad luck.

My head starts to spin and my breaths become snatched. If I want to know more, I have to overcome my fear and walk down the passage, alone and in the dark. My hands are shaking and I can't do anything to stop it. I breathe quickly through my nose. Focusing on the wooden gate at the end of the passage, I take a pump of my inhaler, dip my head and run for it.

As my hands press against the cold wood of the back gate, I know I've made it. I try not to think about the bad luck I've incurred by walking under the ladder. I unhook the latch and walk into a large garden. Suddenly everything becomes brighter. Damn, did I trigger a security light? Dad will notice and I'll be in big trouble. My eyes adjust and I realise it's simply the light of a full moon appearing from behind a dark cloud – another bad omen. As I creep along the back of the house the moon casts my shadow onto the wall, creating a taller, darker version of me. I make my way to a window and slowly raise my head to peer inside.

Dad stands motionless in a dark, empty room, his back to me. What's he doing – taking measurements? But in the dark? Maybe he's some kind of nocturnal Estate Agent. The moon gives enough light to outline his silhouette, but little more. Dad inhales, long and slow, through his nostrils, like a dog trying to catch a scent. That's a bit strange. The whole situation is unusual, but most bizarre of all is Dad's pose; leaning forward with both palms against the wall. What's he doing? He turns his head to one side and rests his cheek to the exposed brickwork, as though he's listening in on a conversation.