Numbers 3: Infinity (7 page)

We step out of the shower and I wrap a towel round me while I get Mia dry and dressed. Soon she’s all pink and clean and warm. The smaller clothes on the bed are too big but she snuggles into them anyway.

When I hold up the others, it’s obvious they weren’t expecting me to be pregnant. There are underclothes and a T-shirt, sweatshirt and jogging bottoms. The bottoms are stretchy but they’re still pretty tight over my stomach.

I take in the chemical smell of the shower lingering in the
room, stare at the lock in the metal door and at the blank, windowless walls.

Where is the air coming from? How can we breathe in here, thirty metres down?

Safest place in England. One way in, and one way out.

I don’t care what that man said. We can’t stay here. I’ve got to get us out.

Chapter 14: Adam

I
go in and out of sleep for hours. I don’t know how long, but there’s always some stranger there when I wake up, and there are always questions.

‘How are you?’

‘Can you feel this?’

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

And there are tests – temperature, blood pressure, pupil reaction to light.

And sometimes there are injections. They soften the edges of the room, the people around me – the nurses, the guy with the tweed jacket, the guy with the scar and the shimmering number – and the mattress I’m lying on. They blur the thoughts in my head and before I know it, I’m asleep again.

This time when I wake up I don’t want to go back to sleep. Somewhere between dreaming and waking I’ve remembered who that voice was.

My mum.

I can see her now. I can see it all.

She was only little, but boy, was she tough. No Dad, just Mum. We lived by the seaside. We’d walk on the sand, walk for miles and miles. I’d chase the seagulls. There were icecreams, donkey rides.

Jem Marsh. That’s who she was.

And I’m her son. Adam.

I’m Adam.

And that’s where the numbers came from. She saw them too, when she was growing up. She understood and she tried to help me, even after she died. I feel a stab of grief just under my ribs as I realise she’s dead. It’s like losing her for the first time. I’ve only just remembered her and now she’s died again. My mum’s dead.

Those words I heard, about not telling, she never said them to me. She wrote them in a letter I only got after she died. I remember every word on that paper, and I remember who gave it to me.

Nan.

I can see her, too. Perched at the kitchen table in her grotty house in West London. Her hair a brilliant, ridiculous purple. ‘My crowning glory,’ she’d say. She scared the shit out of me at first – I thought she was my worst nightmare. But I loved her. The inside of my nose tingles as I inhale the smoke from her cigarette. ‘I’ll be the last smoker in England,’ she said once, bloody-minded and proud of it.

The smoke takes me somewhere else …

I’m sitting by a bonfire, in the middle of the woods. I’m in a circle, a circle of friends, and I’ve got my arms round a girl. She must be my girl if I’m holding her like that. She’s got her back to me and I’ve got my arms round her waist, my
chin’s resting on the top of her head. I kiss her hair and she twists her face up towards mine, and I see her blue, blue eyes. My God, I could get lost in those eyes. Her number’s a beautiful thing, not full of sadness and horror like most of them. I get a a comforting feeling from it, like it’s washed through with love.

This girl. My girl. What’s her name? Is she still mine? Where is she?

‘Time for another shot.’

They’re back again. Two people in white coats.

No! Not now. Not yet.

I try to fight them off, but I’m outnumbered. There’s two of them for a reason; one to hold you down, the other to stick in the needle.

‘Have you got him?’

‘Yes. Quick, though.’

I don’t want it. I want to stay awake, to hold on to my memories … Mum, Nan, my girl …

Where am I? What is happening to me?

Chapter 15: Sarah

I
 can’t see her. I’ve lost her. She’s gone. 

I’ve lost Mia in this cold and lonely place. I scream her name, over and over, until my throat is hoarse. My voice is swallowed by the fog, absorbed by the trees and the stones.

   ‘Mia! Mia!’

How could I let her out of my sight? I only looked away for a second and she was gone. The gravel crunches under my feet, and I leave the path and walk through and round and over the graves until the pain stops me again and I have to stand, gripping onto a stone, closing my eyes, trying to breathe.

When I open my eyes again, she’ll be here. She’ll smile at me and hold her arms up for a cuddle.

I open my eyes. She’s not there.

‘Mummy! Mum-meee!’

Mia’s shaking my shoulder.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Mummy shouting.’

‘Was I? Did I wake you up?’

This place is pitch black. I don’t know where we are or whether it’s night or day. I can’t smell the musty closeness of our tent, and there’s no breeze. The air is perfectly still. But Mia is here. And right now that seems terribly, terribly important. I can’t remember the dream any more, but hearing her voice, feeling her little hands digging into my shoulder feels like the answer to a prayer.

I put my arms round her and she snuggles in close. My eyes start to make some sense of the darkness. There’s a strip of light at the top and bottom of a door, and a bright rectangle where a shutter’s open a crack. And now I remember.

We’re in a room, a cell.

Mia and me.

But Adam … Where’s Adam? There was a crash. He was flying through the air. Saul said they were bringing him here, but did he arrive? Is he okay? Is he still alive?

I’ve got Mia snuggled close, but suddenly this cell seems like a lonely place. It doesn’t feel right without Adam.

‘Let’s go back to sleep, Mia,’ I say, although I know I won’t be sleeping any time soon. ‘Shall we sing “Twinkle”?’

I start singing. But Mia doesn’t join in. Halfway through, she reaches up and puts her hand on my mouth. It stops me in my tracks. ‘No stars,’ she says.

‘You don’t want “Twinkle”?’

‘No stars,’ she says again, and she points to the ceiling. And then I get it, how strange it must be for Mia to sleep indoors.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘We can’t see the stars here, Mia, but they’re still out there. They haven’t gone away. They’re waiting for us. They can hear us when we sing.’

I start again, and this time Mia joins in. We sing together
until her voice trails off and her breathing becomes regular and heavy.

She’s asleep. I hope she’s somewhere different, somewhere better than this place. I wish I could sleep, too, but I can’t. I can hear someone shouting, a long way away. A man’s voice, screaming in the night. Then footsteps, quiet at first, but getting louder until they’re outside my door. They stop. My heart skips a beat. There are voices, low, male.

I’m trying to think what I could use as a weapon if they come in. There’s nothing.

I can make out the odd word, but I can’t make sense of their conversation. It ends with a joke, though. Two deep voices laughing in chorus. Are they laughing at me, at us?

Then footsteps start up again, getting fainter until they’re finally gone. But this time it’s only one set of steps, and there were two voices. Is someone still there?

Mia’s arm is slung across my body. I lift it up carefully and lay it on top of her, then I ease out from under the covers and tiptoe across the room.

I look through the crack in the shutter. My stomach turns over.

There’s an eye looking in, only a few centimetres away from mine.

‘Who are you?’ I whisper. I’m scared of getting an answer, scared of not getting one. I’m back in the house where I grew up.
There’s a door and a man outside and I’m trapped.

My dad’s dead but the panic’s still there, waiting to get me. Waiting for moments like this. I hold my breath.

The eye blinks, once, twice, and moves away.

Chapter 16: Adam

‘Y
ou’re doing very well, Adam. Your cognitive functions are excellent, considering what you went through yesterday.’

It’s the guy with the squished face again. Newsome. He’s asking the questions now, doing more checks. And next to him, sitting silently, is Grey-hair, the guy with the scar and the shimmering number. Every time I look at him, the violence of his number hits me. It’s sickening and mesmerising at the same time. There’s something about that number … but I can’t get it. Not right now.

‘Excellent,’ Newsome says. ‘So now it’s time for some more sophisticated tests.’

Before I know what’s happening, an assistant has put a leather strap through the arm of my chair and buckled it round my right wrist.

‘What the—?’

‘Just a precaution.’

‘No, no, I don’t want this.’

‘We can’t have movement or the tests won’t work.’

I try to fight back, but I’m weak and there are two of them now. My left wrist is held down and strapped too.

Another assistant wheels forward a trolley with monitors and a bunch of wires like spaghetti on it. As he looms nearer I realise he’s gonna attach most of these wires to my head.

‘No—’

‘It’s all part of the assessment of your condition,’ Newsome says smoothly. ‘Essential medical treatment. Nothing more. Just sit back. Try to relax.’

I can’t do anything but sit there, but my jaw’s clenched and my arms and legs are tense and stiff as they tape me up. They don’t need to shave my head: most of my hair was burnt off when I fell in the fire the night Junior died and the rest is so short they’ve got no trouble attaching the electrodes.

They wire up my chest, too, so they can monitor my heart through the tests. And my fingertips. What’s that all about? Looks like something out of a spy film. Isn’t that what they do to see if you’re lying?

‘No way. Stop it. Stop!’

This feels wrong. Really wrong.

Newsome’s set up two other chairs facing me, about a metre away. Now he sits in one and Grey-hair sits in the other. He still hasn’t said a word. But his eyes … those dark eyes … and that number… . I can’t tear my own eyes away.

‘I’m going to ask you some questions,’ Newsome says, ‘and I want you to fire the answers back at me. First thing that comes into your head.’

‘Okay.’ I feel my temper flare. ‘Undo the straps.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what’s in my head right now.’

‘I haven’t started yet. I haven’t asked you a question.’

He’s getting tetchy. But he started this with the wrist-straps. I’m not going to make it easy for him.

He turns to the bank of monitors next to him and fiddles with a couple of controls. He keeps reaching up, tucking his hair behind his ear – the thick, brown hair that looks twenty years younger than him. It’s a wig. It’s got to be a wig.

‘What are you thinking?’ he says. I hesitate, and he leaps in. ‘What’s in there right now? Right now.’ He snaps a finger in front of my face.

‘I was wondering … who cut your hair.’

One of the assistants stifles a laugh. I think I see the corner of Grey-hair’s mouth twitch, but I’m not sure. Newsome’s eyes narrow, just a little bit, and some colour creeps into his face. He turns away and makes out he’s checking the monitors, then turns back to me.

‘What’s your name?’

Start with the easy ones.

‘Adam.’

‘Adam who?’

‘Adam … Marsh.’ My mum was a Marsh. Am I, too? I can’t remember.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘What’s your date of birth?’

‘Twenty-second of August 2010.’ Some things are there in my head, some things aren’t.

He’s not looking at the monitors any more. He’s focusing in on me.

‘Where were you born?’

‘Dunno.’

‘What do you see when you look in people’s eyes?’

Don’t tell. Don’t ever tell.

‘Nothing.’

The assistant nearest the monitor says, ‘Lie,’ without looking up.

‘You heard him, Adam. Let’s try telling the truth. What do you see in people’s eyes.’

‘The black bit, the coloured bit, the white bit.’

‘You see something else.’

‘Is that a question?’

He’s getting really narky now.

‘I know you see something else,’ he says, emphasising every word. ‘What is it, Adam?’

We’re face to face, and he’s leaning in even closer now, questions and answers firing back and forth.

‘Nothing. Sweet FA.’

‘Do you see a number, Adam?’

‘No.’

‘Lie, sir.’

‘Do you see a number?’

Don’t tell.

‘No.’

‘What do you see, you little bastard? What is it? What?’ He’s losing it now.

Grey-hair steps in. He gets up from his chair and puts a hand on Newsome’s arm.

‘All right, Newsome. Take five.’

‘What?’ Newsome says.

‘Go and cool down.’

‘I’m fine.’ He shrugs the hand off.

‘It’s an order,’ Grey-hair barks. They’re squaring up to each other and there’s a moment’s silence, then Newsome backs down. He presses his lips together in disapproval and stalks
out of the room gesturing to his assistants to follow, closing the door behind them. So now I’m alone with Grey-hair.

He shuffles his chair forward a little and puts his face close to mine.

‘It’s okay,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘It’s okay to tell.’

I don’t know what to say. If I start a discussion then I’m giving away that there’s something to discuss.

‘I know what it’s like,’ he says. ‘What it’s like to be different. To keep secrets. But some secrets are like cancer, they eat away at you. There’s no shame in telling that sort of secret.’

Have I told anyone? Are the numbers secret? I can’t remember. There are big gaps between my childhood – my mum and my nan – and waking up in this place. My mum and my nan are both dead, but what about the girl? The girl I had my arm round, by the fire? I don’t know who she was. Or is.