After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) (22 page)

I change into a set of checked pyjamas found hanging up in my walk-in wardrobe before I hear a knock on my bedroom door.

Shepherd Fines stands outside, still dressed in his black jeans and a dark blue shirt. There’s a drink in each hand. He chuckles when he sees my outfit.

‘You look sweet in those. Very innocent.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ I say dryly, taking the drink angled towards me and walking past him.

‘Cheers to that!’ He catches up to me and clinks our glasses together. ‘This is an Irish speciality. A portion of this is probably more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned.’

I raise my glass, the smile going stale on my lips.

‘What film have you put on?’ I ask, noticing the screen frozen on some opening credits.

‘
Martyrs Rising
. It’s a recent one. I thought you might like it.’

I groan. Another ‘fictional’ film about a group of men who save England and Ireland from rioters. This time they’re robot rioters but the principal is the same.

‘Or you could choose one from my library if you wish?’ Shepherd Fines slides his finger across his digipad to unlock it before passing it over.

Eager to see what kind of films a Shepherd has in his library, I take the digipad. A small face I recognise stares up at me. The title of the document reads:

Extradition records: William Wilson.

I hardly have time to gasp before the digipad is swiped from my hands. Shepherd Fines makes some high-pitched excuse, fiddling around with the device before handing it back to me. This time his film library folder is open.

There’s a moment’s stillness as I stare at the titles in front of me. Shepherd Fines watches my face closely. Although I open my mouth to ask about William, a tight sensation in my stomach stops me. I swallow and scroll through the list, picking one at random.

‘What’s this about?’ I try to sound casual, keeping my voice steady.

‘Ah,
The Godfather
. Banned in every city since 2094, you know.’ He winks at me, the tense moment seemingly forgotten. ‘I suppose I could let my favourite Demonstrator watch it.’

That’s exactly what we do. Well, during the first half an hour I have no idea what’s going on. I’m far too pre-occupied with why William’s face was on the digipad and what that title meant. But soon, the Old Italian restaurants and American streets with no limitations draw me in. I like that I don’t know how to judge the characters. They’re doing terrible things; yet, I’m drawn to them and their exotic accents.

An hour into the film, I reach to turn the heating down and accidentally knock Shepherd Fines’ drink over. He’s in the bathroom, so after a quick glance towards the door I mop up the spillage with a cushion and slide my own hardly-touched drink over to his spot. When I hear the door open, I bring his empty glass to my lips.

‘Finished already?’ he asks.

‘Mmm, delicious,’ I say, wondering what he would think if he knew his ridiculously expensive drink was actually staining the silk lining of a cushion right now.

A few ‘I forgot how long this film was’ comments from Shepherd Fines later and he’s practically lying down on the sofa, his eyelids drooping.

‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you actually, Sola. Let’s turn this off.’

‘Erm, we can talk and watch?’ I offer. The thought of being this close to him with no other distractions worries me.

‘Very well.’ He yawns. ‘In light of our recent—’ He pauses, rubbing his eyes. ‘Our recent . . . progressions, I have a surprise for you.’

I tear my eyes away from Michael Corleone on the screen and try to act pleased.

‘It’s a party. At the camp. For you.’ He takes slow breaths between every few words. When he looks at me I notice his face kind of . . . sag. It’s as though his features are melting: his eyes look up like those of a puppy dog while his lips make a half-drunk smile. ‘You’re very special to me. I think you know it.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I think, I think you feel it . . .’

More breathing. This time it doesn’t stop. I look down at his empty glass and swallow, suddenly not wanting to watch the end of the film. A tingling sense of dread warns me I should run into my room and bolt my door. Yet a different, daring side is propositioning me.

I take a deep breath and test the waters.

‘Sir?’ I say, first quietly, then louder. No reaction. I give his arm a shake. He grumbles something inaudible before settling back into his deep sleep.

Every inch of my mind is on high alert as I creep over to the desk and take his digipad. That’s it now. I’ve gone past the point of no return. If he wakes up, there’s no explaining away what I’m doing.

It’s kind of ridiculous that I’m scared of him. I could end his life in a moment’s notice. It’s the power he holds over everyone—the whole country, including those I love—which really frightens me. I know deep down that I wouldn’t kill him, either. In the Stadium, everything is black and white. The fear controls me and forgives what I’m doing. Kill or be killed. Outside, life is harder to decipher.

I tiptoe back to the sofa. Holding my breath, I take Shepherd Fines’ limp hand. The Italian-American voices are talking quietly on the large screen, but I recognise the tone of coercion.

Please
no gun fire, I beg the film silently.

Shepherd Fines twitches. I freeze in position, not daring to gasp. It’s as if the whole room is counting with me. One. Two. Three. Breathe.

His hands are surprisingly soft. The navy blue cuff of his sleeve hangs over his wrist. Peeling his forefinger straight, I swipe the tip of it across the digipad. The small screen glows white before activating back onto the film list library.

Slowly, I settle Shepherd Fines’ hand to dangle over the edge of the sofa and start to navigate around his digipad. The software is completely different than mine; everything I need to use is on my Debtbook—libraries, contacts, download sites—but Shepherd Fines hasn’t got a profile, only a blank home screen with separate icons.

There’s nothing which hints to William. One icon marked ‘November charges’ brings up a list of names with various offences attached to them, and even as I’m staring at it, another name appears at the top of the list. I close it down and instead double click on an icon titled, ‘October sales’. My breath is fast and shallow, my fingers leaving little moisture marks on the screen. The display shows yet another list of names, this time with titles of countries next to them. I narrow my eyes and tap in ‘William Wilson’ in the search box. One match . . . The country’s title next to him is Greece. I tap on his name feverishly fast.

Damn! It’s asking me for a password. I chew on my nail, my chest hurting with how many times it’s flipped in the last minute.

Come on, come on.
I look at Shepherd Fines, racking my brain.

‘F-R-A-N-K-E-N-S-T-E-I-N’ I type. I tap enter.

A loud chord strikes from the digipad, telling me I guessed wrong. My stomach and guts leap into my mouth and I start, whizzing around to face Shepherd Fines. He rubs his eyes, groans, and turns onto his side to continue his heavy nasal breathing. I can’t try again. I’m out of ideas, and bravery.

With legs like empty, wobbly shells, I replace his digipad on the desk. It rattles with how much my hand is shaking when I put it down. As soon as it’s out of my grasp, there’s a flutter of relief. Without a second thought I run to my room, bolting the door behind me and dragging my laundry box across the entrance just in case.

As I get under three duvets, hiding my head within the mountain of pillows, I add some factors to my ever-growing mental list of things I know for sure.

-I have now killed seven people.

-As soon as I see Dylan, I’m going to tell him how I feel.

-For some reason, William is in Greece.

-Shepherd Fines tried to drug me tonight.

IF I COULD, I would hit the ground running. Instead, I wait with agitation pulsing in each fingertip for Shepherd Fines to unlock the gate in Zulu. We’ve hardly spoken all morning. I’ve been avoiding him like I would a spider I’m too scared to get rid of, while most of his sentences have started with him clearing his throat. I have to face it: he knows I checked his digipad. I forgot to change the screen back onto the library list, and I cringe to think of him unlocking it to the words ‘password needed’ when he woke up. To complicate matters, I have no idea where we stand on the whole ‘you tried to drug me but fell asleep yourself, do
you
know that
I
know?’ saga.

As the wind from the spinner drops, settling my hair back on my shoulders and giving my ears some respite, the gate beeps open. My breath is practically condensing on the metal bars because of how close I’m standing, and I jolt with the impact of it opening. That familiar garden scent welcomes me back.

‘Don’t forget the party I’m holding for all the Demonstrators on Thursday. I believe I . . . mentioned it last night.’ Shepherd Fines tries to force his cheery tone but it sounds mechanical and awkward. I notice how the party ‘for me’ has turned into one for everyone. Well, perhaps some good has come out of last night after all.

‘Yeah, you did. See you later,’ I say without even glancing in his direction. I slip through the gap in the gate while it’s still widening and sprint down the path, searching the white uniforms on the fields for Dylan’s muscular, tall frame. No avail.

I head to the refectory and sweep my eyes over the tables . . . nope . . . nope . . . ugh. Coral leans back on her stool, listening to Gideon speak with his arm around a disgruntled-looking Dao. Jamey’s on her right, staring at her with a gooney grin. I’ve only been away for two days, but it’s as if I’m seeing her for the first time since she arrived. She’s different. Her body looks strong, with a toned roundness to her forearms and thighs. Every movement she makes is with such grace I wonder whether I look like Jamey right now, staring opened mouthed. She took dance classes in city Juliet, one of three girls in my year who could afford it, and coupled with her obvious strength and conviction in everything she does, even the way she moves her hair from her neck, amazes me.

As though she can sense yet another pair of eyes on her, she turns from her conversation, her half-closed eyes locking on me. In a quick, easy motion, she blows a dainty kiss my way, followed by a swift smile before turning back to her group. None of them react, and in that second I wonder whether I’m going mad and conjured the whole scene up in my head.

No.

She sits there, laughing and joking with her friends. And she almost looks
nice
. Fun to be around. If I was anyone else I might be tempted to think that the kiss was an invitation to join them. The thought of walking over, being part of her group, still mesmerises me.

I hate that.

Anger broils up from my feet, spreading through my legs, stomach and up to my throat. It’s not even for her, but for myself. For being so weak. The force of it takes me by surprise and my face flushes hot. I spin on my pumps and storm straight out of the refectory.

I haven’t checked the Wetpod for Dylan, so I head over there. The November cold seeps through the blue jumper which I found in the hotel wardrobe this morning. It’s the only thing I’ve worn except my school uniform since I’ve been here that isn’t white. I have no intention of giving it back. I scan in, ignore my locker, and head straight to the hot pool on the first floor. My pumps leave rebellious brown smudges on the wet floor, and I get more than a few funny looks from the swimming costume-clad Demonstrators who lounge around, working out their cramps from the morning.

I take three flights of narrow stairs rather than the busy shaft. I glance up to the next floor. There’s only the plunge pool level left. Well, that’s not strictly true; there’s the open-top level which I’ve only ever seen from the spinner, but that’s no entry except with special authority. I know exactly why—the same reason any high rise buildings in Juliet are jump-proof. Suicide.

I pad up the stairs and slide the door open to the plunge pool level. A wall of cool, misty air hits me. When the door slides shut, it locks out the chatter and splashing noises from the floors below, cocooning me in the silence of the large space. I’ve not been up here before, preferring the hot water and steam rooms like everyone else. It seems ghostly; a cold, empty parody of the bustling places underneath.

I walk through the wide corridor of showers before coming to the edge of a large, oval-shaped pool. The rim runs all the way around, thick enough to walk on. Splashes and movement tell me there’s one person swimming.

Dylan’s body cuts through the water like a wave breaking. He’s front crawling straight down the middle, his sharp breaths punctuating the splashes from his legs. I draw breath, fighting the twist in my tummy at the sight of him. His white swimming shorts are the only thing he’s wearing, and his perfect body shimmers underneath the surface.

Wow.

I pull off my pumps, roll my linen trousers up to my knees and sit at the edge of the pool, near the apex of the oval. The water is
freezing
, so I quickly abandon the plan to dangle my feet in the pool and instead tuck them underneath my bum.