Half Bad (17 page)

The woman looks a little confused and irritated. She’s probably trying to work out if it’s some sort of rhyming slang.

“No, you are Nathan Byrn. Son of Cora Byrn and Marcus Edge.”

I lean back and try to sound casual. “Nah, I’m Ivan. You must be after the guy in the next cell.”

“There isn’t anyone in the next cell.”

“You mean he’s escaped?”

She pulls her lipsticked lips into a smile, perhaps to show she has a sense of humor.

“We just need to ensure that you are aware of what is happening.”

“Course I’m aware of what is happening.” That wasn’t at all casual, and I have to recover my tone. “I’ve been treated like a king by the wonderful Council of White Witches. Fed the best food, given the best bed and”—I lean forward again—“been introduced to the most charming, fresh- smelling White Witches.” The guard pulls me back by one arm. “My name is Ivan Shukhov, and I am aware of what is happening. Are you?”

“You are not Ivan Something-or-other. You are Nathan Byrn and you are going to be codified.”

“I’ve no idea what that means.”

Her eyes are cold, fixed on me, pale blue shimmers glacially in pale blue.

“It doesn’t sound too good,” I say. “I kind of feel sorry for this Nathan guy.”

“
You
are Nathan.”

“What does codified mean? I’d like to tell Nathan if I see him.”

“It’s a sophisticated tattoo.”

“I can’t imagine you think any tattoos are sophisticated.”

She smiles. “This one is. Mr. Wallend has been working on the potion for some time.”

“What is the tattoo?”

“It’s your code, of course.”

I lean forward and the guards grab my arms and hold them back. “A brand, you mean.”

She opens the pink lips on her beautifully made-up face to speak again and I spit at them. The gob lands perfectly.

She screams and splutters, rubbing at her mouth. The guards hold me back.

The woman has backed away a pace; her makeup is not so immaculate as she wipes it with her handkerchief. She holds the handkerchief to her mouth as she says, “You are Nathan Byrn. You have a mother who was a White Witch and a father who is a Black Witch. You are a Half Code and as such you are to be codified.”

This time my spit lands on the hem of her skirt. She staggers back as if I’ve hit her. The guards still keep hold of me.

“Take him to Room 2C.”

The guards shuffle through the cell door, dragging me out, and in the narrow corridor they have to go sideways, which is better for me as I can climb the walls with my legs, even though one guard has me by the neck. They get me in front of a green metal door with 2C painted on it. It slides open and I stop struggling for a second.

Room 2C contains what looks like an operating table with lots of black plastic straps. Again I start struggling and shouting.

In the end they have to knock me out with a punch to the side of my head.

* * *

I wake and begin to gag and choke. There’s something in my mouth. I can’t spit it out. It’s rubber and metal.

The woman is standing beside me, looking down at me. She smiles and says, “Ah, awake at last.”

I squirm and squeal, but it’s pathetic so I stop. Room 2C has painted white walls and the ceiling is bare except for a light and what looks like a camera nestled in the far corner. That’s all I know about Room 2C because I can’t move to see anything else. I’m lying down, my body strapped to a table. My hands are no longer handcuffed, but they are secured, and I can feel with my fingertips that the table has a thin layer of padding under a sheet. My head is strapped by my forehead and rests in a sort of hollow in the table. It feels like there are straps over my body, arms, legs, and ankles.

I’m trying not to think of Retribution. I don’t want to think of the powder Kieran put on my back. But I have a clamp in my mouth. Is
codified
another word for Retribution?

The door rattles and then I hear it slide open and there is the sound of something metal being dragged over the floor. A light is shone so bright that even with my eyes closed I see a red glare. There is the sound of more dragging and the clink of delicate metal objects.

“Nathan. Look at me.”

It’s Mr. Wallend. He has very dark blue eyes with white flecks in them. He’s wearing a lab coat.

“You’re here for codification. I’m going to carry out the procedure. It may be a little uncomfortable, but I’d like you to be as still as possible. Try to relax.”

I start to squirm again.

“It’s a bit like a tattoo, only a much quicker and easier process. We’ll do the ones on your finger first. Give you the feel of it. You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”

He can’t possibly make sense of my squirming and squealing.

He pushes a metal ring over the little finger of my right hand and tightens it.

“Okay. So this is simple. Just relax. It’ll be over—”

I scream into the gag as a needle pierces into the bone of my finger.

It is drawn out.

Mr. Wallend loosens the ring and moves it up my finger. “Next one.”

I scream and curse him and move my finger as much as I can but the ring tightens and the needle goes into me again.

As it comes out I’m sweating.

He moves on to the top of my finger, over the fingernail. The needle goes through again.

I bite on the gag and stare at him, tears streaming out of my eyes.

It stops.

My heart is thudding.

That was not a tattoo.

Mr. Wallend is undoing the ring and taking it off. He and the woman peer at my finger.

“Excellent. Excellent. There’s hardly any swelling. Your body is exceptional, Nathan. Exceptional.”

Mr. Wallend walks round the table to my left hand.

“Now for the bigger tattoos. These might feel a bit more intense.”

I feel cold metal on the top of my left hand, along the line of my middle finger. I stare at him and curse into the gag.

Mr. Wallend ignores all that and gets on with his job so that all I can see of him is the top of his head. Dark brown wavy hair.

“Try to relax.”

Yes, of course, easy. Something is scraping against the inside of my hand, on my bone.

Mr. Wallend’s hair is wavy and still. I’m still too.

When the scraping stops I feel sick, dizzy.

Mr. Wallend looks up. “Not too bad, hey? Now, the thing to remember is that it won’t come off. Ever. It’s inside you now. If you try to remove it with scarring of the skin, say, it will reappear. So there really is no point in trying.”

He looks at my hand again, smoothes it over with his finger. It feels bruised and tender. “The code looks very good. Very good indeed.”

He’s moving down the bed.

“Now the ankle. Try to relax. It’ll just be a few seconds.”

I can’t help but try to pull away, however feebly. It seems more than a few seconds that it’s scraping into my bone and through into my marrow. The gag’s in my mouth and I know I mustn’t be sick.

“It takes longer on the bigger bones,” he says. “Just the last one now.”

He moves the machine round the table, disappearing from sight and reappearing on my right side.

He puts the machine on my neck.

Oh no . . . no . . . no . . .

“Try to calm yourself.” He leans forward, his face close. “It may feel a bit strange here.”

* * *

I am lying on a thin mattress, curled up. My right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bar of the bed. I can feel where I’ve been codified. My fingers and hand feel bruised. My ankle is the same. But my throat is more than that. There is a taste, a metallic taste.

I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I woke up here some time ago.

I want to go back to my cage.

An image of Mr. Wallend comes into my head and he smiles at me. I open my eyes.

This cell is different from the stone cell. This one has a medical feel to it, like Room 2C. The room is lit by a weak, white glow emitted from a small light in the corner of the ceiling. In the other corner of the ceiling is a camera. The cell is empty except for the bed.

I raise my left hand to look at it.

B 0.5

It’s a black tattoo. The one on my ankle is the same.

So much for being designated as a White Witch. To them I’ll always be half Black.

I heal my hand and finger. The bruised feeling goes. The same works for my ankle and my neck. Slowly the taste fades and the buzz arrives. I curl up and look at the tattoos on my little finger. Three tiny black tattoos: B 0.5.

* * *

I need a plan.

* * *

The light is on so that they can watch me. I resist looking at the camera.

The nail is still in my mouth. I bite through my cheek and slide the nail out with my teeth and tongue, taking it with my left hand as if I’m wiping my lips. Picking the handcuff lock isn’t difficult, though I have to do it while hiding what I’m doing. I leave the cuff on but open.

Now I have to get in role.

I start shaking and then fling my legs around, make choking sounds and grabbing at my throat. I only have to keep it up for twenty seconds before there is the sound of a bolt sliding back. I roll onto the floor, my right hand still looking like it is cuffed to the bed. My eyes are open but hidden under my arm.

The legs and bottom of the lab coat of Mr. Wallend rush toward me; he really must be worried. The black boots of a guard stop in the doorway.

Mr. Wallend bends over me, and I pull him down, punch his face, roll up to standing, and stamp on his balls.

The guard is in and grabbing at my arm. I kick his knee. There’s a crack and the guard grunts and falls backward, but his arms are long and there’s no room to get back from them. He’s pulling me with him and I twist and roll to the side where I can kick his knee again. He’s still got my arm, and his other arm swings over and catches my ear with a glancing blow. I slither around and kick him in the face. His grip loosens, and after another kick I pull away from him. He is quiet. Mr. Wallend is quiet too.

I get up and out, slide the door shut, and bolt it.

I’m holding the bolts in place and leaning against the door, in shock at how easy that was. My ear is throbbing fast, in time with my heart. I heal my ear.

If anyone else was watching the camera they’d be here by now.

I go left, passing Room 2C, and then turn right, away from the cell and up the stone steps. Along the corridor to the left, the way I was brought in, and still no one is coming. I slowly swing open the door at the end and peer through. Another corridor that’s vaguely familiar, but they all look pretty much the same. I stride down it, past an internal courtyard, which I have definitely seen before, but I can’t remember how it relates to anything else.

I keep going. It’s not looking familiar now. I go left and left again. The door at the far end begins to open and I nip down another corridor to the right and dash as quietly as I can to the door at the end. It’s bolted. I can hear footsteps down the far corridor.

The bolt is stiff, but I can jiggle it across. Faster . . . faster . . .

The footsteps are getting louder.

I slither through the door, closing it silently behind me.

I want to laugh at my luck, but I hold my breath and flatten myself against the door. I am in the courtyard where Celia’s van picked me up and dropped me off. Her van is not here. There are no vehicles. There is a high brick wall with razor wire on the top. In the wall is a solid metal gate to allow vehicles in, and near the gate is an ordinary wooden door. It’s probably locked, alarmed, protected by security spells of some kind, but maybe just a spell to stop people getting in, not getting out . . .

I keep close to the walls as I move quickly round the edge of the courtyard. The wooden door is bolted top and bottom. These bolts slide easily.

The whole thing feels too easy.

And I’m now terrified of what’s on the other side of the door—the disappointment of seeing a guard standing there.

I open the door slowly, silently.

No one’s there.

I am shaking. I step through the door and close it quietly behind me.

It’s an alley. Narrow, cobbled. And above is the sky; it’s gray and overcast, early evening.

A person walks past the end of the street. An ordinary person talking on a mobile phone, just walking, looking ahead. Then a car goes past and a bus.

My knees feel weak. I don’t know what to do.

I’ve been free for ten days. I’m okay. I’m in a house in the countryside, just having a cup of tea. I come in here most days but sleep in the woods a mile away. The woods are okay. They’re warm and I can hear if anything approaches. Nothing human ever does. It’s good not to be in the cage. I slept better in the cage, though. I’m having constant nightmares now. The nightmares don’t sound that scary—I’m just running and running in the alley by the Council building.

Food was a problem before I found this place. It’s a holiday home and hardly used. I managed to break in just by messing with the lock with a bit of wire. I shower in here most days, and sometimes I lie on one of the beds upstairs, like Goldilocks, only I never sleep. The beds are all really soft, and there’s porridge too, which is sort of funny.

There’s pasta and cereal in the cupboard, as well as the oats, so mainly I’m living off that. There’s no milk, of course, so I make porridge with water. No lumps in my porridge, but I’ve used up all the honey, jam, and raisins so there’s not much else in it either.

I try to have one meal a day, whatever time feels right. I don’t eat much; there isn’t much here to eat. Rice with salt is my favorite. There was a tin of tuna, but that went on day one and the can of beans on day two. I slip half a Weetabix into my pocket and suck on it slowly in the evening when I’m tucked up in the woods.

A family came and stayed here for two days. I guess it was the weekend. Mum, dad, two kids, and a dog, the perfect fain family. They didn’t seem to notice that I’d been in the house and taken stuff. I always make sure everything is clean and tidy. When they left there was more pasta but no more oats. I was hoping for another can of tuna, but no luck.

* * *

I thought I heard something outside. Nothing there.

I’ve started biting my nails again. I used to do this when I was little, but I stopped because of Annalise. I’ve started again. I try not to think about Annalise too much.

It’s raining. Drizzle.

I’d better check outside again.

* * *

I’m heading back to the woods. I think they are watching me. I can feel it sometimes. My skin crawls with it.

My escape was too easy. It’s unbelievable that the Council took so much trouble to keep me under strict control all my life, all those assessments and notifications, keeping me prisoner with Celia, tattooing me—and yet they’ve allowed me to escape. It can only be some new plan of theirs.

They followed me before, when I was living with Gran and going to Wales. I didn’t know it then but I know it now.

That family that stayed in the house looked like fains, but I’m not sure. Maybe Hunters can disguise themselves as fains. And the first man I hitched with kept looking at me and asking me questions and stuff, though he was all right in the end ’cause he let me out, but I was shouting at him at that point and he looked scared.

These tattoos are some kind of tracking device. That can be the only explanation. I’m probably some blip on a screen. I saw that in a film once.
Blip
 . . .
blip
 . . .
blip
. And they’re sitting in a van watching the screen and can see that I’m cutting down the side of the field and heading back to the woods.

* * *

My shelter’s okay. It keeps the rain out and the ground dry. It’s well hidden, half buried under the roots of a tree near a stream.

I sit here a lot.

And sometimes when I’m sitting here I think that I’m not being followed and I really have escaped and I say to myself, “I’ve escaped. I’ve escaped. I’m free.”

But I don’t feel free.

I cry sometimes. I don’t know why, but it keeps happening. I’m just looking at the stream, say, which runs through the dark brown mud and yet is clear and bright and soundless, when I realize that I can taste tears. There are so many they run into my mouth.

* * *

I’ve had a nap and even with the blanket and some newspapers I brought from the holiday home I’m shivering. How does that work? It’s April and it’s not even cold. I’ve spent nearly two years living in a cage in the coldest, wettest bit of Scotland—which must be virtually the coldest, wettest bit of the planet; I’ve lived through snow, ice, and storms, and then I come down here to a nice warm place and I’m shivering all the time. A few sheepskins would be good here.

I think about Scotland quite a bit, about the cage, doing the outer circuit and cleaning the range, making porridge and digging the potatoes, killing and plucking the chickens. And I think about Celia and the book she was reading with me.

In the book the main character, Ivan Denisovich, is a prisoner. He’s serving ten years, but even when he’s served his time he won’t be allowed home, because people like him are exiled when they are released. I thought that exile meant you had to leave your country and you could go anywhere—somewhere in the sun, a tropical island, say, or America. But exile doesn’t mean that; it means you are banished to a specific place, and guess what, that place isn’t in the sun and is no paradise, it’s not even America. It’s some cold, miserable place like Siberia, where you don’t know anyone and you can barely survive. It’s another prison.

And now I’m free. I don’t want to be exiled.

And I want to see Arran so much.

So much.

I know if I go there, they’ll catch me and maybe hurt Arran too. But I want to see him, and I keep thinking that if I sneak up to Gran’s house in the night or leave a message for him somewhere and arrange to meet him it might work. But I know it won’t. I know they’ll catch me, and it’ll be even worse than before, and I should never try to go back to Arran, never, but then I feel like a coward for not trying.

Ivan Denisovich’s full name is Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, which is a killer name, though Denisovich means son of Denis, which spoils it a bit but shows he’s just an ordinary guy, I suppose.

If you speak to a person in Russia, you wouldn’t call them by their first name alone. You would use their first name and their patronym, so you would say, “Ivan Denisovich, pass the salt, please.” And he would say, “You certainly like a lot of salt on your rice, Nathan Marcusovich.”

I think of Marcus Axelovich quite a bit. I think he probably likes a lot of salt on his rice too. And then today I realized something amazing. I like thinking of my father, and I know I’d think of my son if I had one. I’d think of my son a lot. So I know Marcus is thinking of me.

* * *

The woods are a good place: quiet, no dog walkers, no people at all. It’s interesting just sitting still and listening to what goes on. There are few sounds, the occasional bird not calling but sorting through the leaves, stuff like that, but this wood has deep pockets of nothing when there are no sounds at all, and I love sitting in those pockets.

My head is clear of noise here, like it was with Celia. No hissing at all. No electrical equipment buzzing in my head.

And sitting in those pockets I begin to believe it . . . I have escaped.

* * *

I started running again today. Celia would be pleased with me, though I’m slow so she’d probably not be that pleased. And I’m doing push-ups. Can’t even manage seventy, though. I don’t know how I’ve got so out of condition in a few weeks. I wonder if it’s the tattoos doing something to me, but maybe it’s just that I need more food. My ribs are sticking out.

* * *

It’s getting dark now. Another day nearly over.

When I was with Celia the days flew by, yet the years crawled. I was up at dawn, then exercising, doing chores—never enough time for the chores—and answering her damn questions, and more running and fighting and cooking and cleaning and learning witch names and Gifts and times and places and then back in the cage before I knew it. Now it’s the opposite. The hours won’t budge. And yet the time I’ve got before I’m seventeen seems to be slipping through my fingers, and I’m just sitting here watching it dribble away.

* * *

Another day dawns. I used to like dawns, but now they are just the start of another slow, shivery day. I’ve just remembered Ivan starts his day all shivery. I’d like to have that Ivan Denisovich book. I know I wouldn’t be able to read it by myself or anything, but I’d like to hold it in my hands or put it inside my shirt against my chest.

I do have a book, though. It’s an A to Z that I stole when I was leaving London.

What a great book! A book I can read. I look at maps and they make sense.

I stole it ’cause I knew I’d have to find the address of Bob, the man Mary told me about. The man who can help me find Mercury.

* * *

Muggy and rainy again. I’m watching telly and drinking tea. Well, not really watching telly, but it’s on and I’m trying to analyze the sound in my head. There’s a hissing in my skull, that’s the nearest I can describe it as. It’s not a sound in my ears, it’s in my head, to the right upper side.

This is the same as the hiss from mobile phones, but much quieter. I never got any hissing with Celia. She didn’t have a mobile. But when the Hunters came I could hear them hissing.

There is no hissing in the woodland here.

* * *

Just had a shower. There’s a load of shampoo, soap, and stuff in the bathroom. And there’s an electric razor, which is a nightmare and hacks bits off my chin, but I can heal quick enough so I use it.

I check the tattoo on my neck. It’s just the same.

I check all my tattoos every day and they are all just the same as the first day. I scraped the skin off the one on my ankle to see what would happen and Mr. Wallend was right: the tattoo reappeared. It even showed through on the scab as a fluorescent blue.

I look in the mirror at my eyes, my father’s eyes. I wonder if he looks in the mirror and wonders about my eyes. I want to see my father for real one day, just once, just meet him once, talk to him. But maybe it’s best for us both if we never meet. If he believes the vision he won’t want to meet me. I wish I knew more about the vision. Was it of me stabbing him with the Fairborn? Stabbing him through the heart? I want to tell my father that I would never do that. I couldn’t.

My eyes look so black now, the triangular hollows are hardly moving.

* * *

I’m back in the kitchen, the last teabag and me.

I’ve got to go. I’ve got to find the way to Mercury and get my three gifts. And I’m running out of time. It’s just over two months to my birthday.

And that means I’ve got to go to Bob’s place, the place in the A to Z. Only that leads me back to my problem. It leads me back to the alley.

When I stepped through the door from the courtyard of the Council building into the alleyway and I started running, I went at a good pace, a hard pace. I was still running three or four minutes later and I still wasn’t at the end of the alley. It was like running on a conveyor belt that was going the wrong way, like they were drawing me back in. And I was panicking and almost screaming by the end of it but I kept at it and somehow I got to the end, where the alley turned. I held on to the corner of the wall, and a woman walked past and stared at me. Then I walked round the corner but I didn’t let go of the wall, not for ages did I let go of that wall.

And now I have to go back there, past that corner and up the alley. The address of Bob, the man I need to see, is Cobalt Alley.
That
alley.