Читать книгу Under My Skin - Zoe Markham - Страница 11
ОглавлениеThe crunch of tyres on gravel outside wakes me in a panic, and my heart races as the familiar cold, sick sensation spreads through my stomach. I roll awkwardly off the bed and crouch down beside it, my hands and knees trembling. There’s a loud rap on the front door, I hear voices, and the blood starts to pound in my ears so loudly it scares me. I feel dizzy, and I close my eyes tight, hating myself for being this afraid, but not knowing how to be any other way any more. They’ve found us. The voices stop, and the door slams, and then, nothing. Have they taken Dad? Where do I go? How am I supposed to survive on my own? A new kind of pain tears across my chest and I’m sick with terror. I only have a few months’ worth of vaccine left, what happens to me when it runs out? Don’t think doesn’t always work, however hard you try. My head races and the room starts to blur around me as the bad thoughts multiply.
Dad’s shout shatters the silence and makes me jump so hard I smack my head against the sharp corner of the windowsill, but I’m almost laughing with relief even as warm blood starts to run down my face.
‘Chlo! Food’s here!’
It takes me a minute just to relax my limbs enough to stand up. I wipe the blood away with the back of my hand. I won’t bleed for long, no matter how bad the wound. I run my fingers up to the pain and feel the small patch of torn skin on my scalp. It’s not deep, or wide, and I can probably hide it from Dad. I heal so slowly now, and he gets so frustrated at my carelessness if I hurt myself. It’s the last thing he needs today.
Chinese. I just nearly had a heart attack over a Chinese. I have got to get a grip.
My legs and back are stiff as I make my way down the stairs, squinting hard as I try to focus on each step as I come to it. When I get a whiff of the food my stomach cramps hard enough to make my head spin. Dad’s found a lone candle for the table, and he’s even got the little wood-burning stove in the corner going, so it’s gorgeously warm in here. The food’s on the table, and he pulls my chair out for me with a flourish. My glasses are sitting next to my plate, and I put them on, gratefully, as the room comes into focus.
I don’t realise just how hungry I am until I take that first mouthful. There’s an actual mountain of chicken satay in front of me, and I dig in with gusto. He’s poured me a pint of water too, as if the spice would bother me. I suppose old habits die hard.
‘What did you get?’ I ask between frenzied mouthfuls.
‘Rice and chili beef, with broccoli and spring rolls. It’s beautiful.’
It does look good. I feel a quick pang of jealousy, but I can hardly even taste the satay, eating rice and broccoli would be pretty pointless for me right now.
I attack the skewered meat steadily and feel my body slowly respond to the food. The cramps ease, and my head clears, and the more I eat, the more I tear through the pile like some kind of rabid carnivore, the more human I begin to feel on the inside (although god knows what it looks like from the outside). Even the dull ache in my back is beginning to subside, and I feel stronger with every mouthful. Dad’s told me, endlessly, that I need to eat every four hours or so during the daytime now, and it’s been well over double that since I ate this morning’s mound of cold bacon under the blanket in the car.
Dad chats away as I eat, and I try to nod and smile in all the right places. All I can focus on now is the food, and the effect it’s having on me. After a while, I catch him staring at me with an eyebrow raised, and I realise he’s waiting for something from me. ‘Hmm?’ I murmur thickly through a mouthful of chicken.
‘I said, are you any feeling better now?’
I swallow and take a long drink of water. ‘Yeah,’ I sigh contentedly. ‘Loads better. Thanks.’
‘I really should have got you something to eat sooner, it’s dangerous to go that long without protein now. I’m sorry Chlo, it’s just been a hell of a day. I’ve not been at my best.’
I drop an empty skewer onto my plate, and sit back in my chair, only just starting to feel full even though I’m over three quarters of the way through the huge portion he’s given me.
‘It’s ok,’ I tell him. I didn’t realise how late it was getting, and I thought I was just tired from the unpacking. I should be taking more responsibility for myself. I need to learn the signs of this messed up body of mine better. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Well, it’s something we both need to watch out for. Especially now. I’m going to be putting in some long days at the hospital, Chlo, and I need to know you’re going to be all right here without me.’ He reaches down under the table. ‘So, I got you this.’
He passes a small, white box across to me, and I wipe my greasy hands on my already grubby jeans as I recognise it: an iPhone 6. I dig into the box with glee. A phone is a big deal for me, any kind of phone, never mind an iPhone. It’s a big deal for both us. After the accident, my old phone went the way of my old life. Dad getting me a new one now, regardless of how shiny and cool the brand is, is a real sign of trust. I don’t know what to say.
‘You still need to be careful,’ he says, presumably thinking exactly what I’m thinking. ‘You can’t ever go back, Chlo. Things can’t ever be how they were.’ He pulls another, identical box from below the table and sets it next to his plate. ‘But we need to be able to keep in touch, all the time. In case… Well, just in case. And the lad in shop said you can set alarms on these, for reminders and what have you; so, once we get yours up and running you can program one in for your meals. And then you won’t have to worry, well, I won’t have to worry about you forgetting.’
I get up and go over to give him a hug. Because it’s more than a phone. It’s him trusting me to be smart, and trying to keep me safe. And as I hug him I start to cry, because I’m not sure I deserve either.
*
While Dad gets the phones registered in some fake name, and starts them charging, I close the door to my new room with a sigh of relief. I know he only wants to help, but I really don’t want him in here with me, going through my things. Not that I have much stuff any more, but still, I need to do this by myself. Three large boxes are neatly lined up for me, and I grab the scissors and dig in.
This is my life now. Three boxes.
I start with the books. The built-in shelves in here are gorgeous, and crying out for some literary love. I couldn’t keep all of my books when we left, there were way too many; but he let me make a list of fifty, and he went through and packed them up for me. There were a couple he couldn’t find, but he did a Waterstones run to pick up the AWOL titles. He can be amazing like that. I need to remember him like that, that version of him, not the way he is in my dreams. I wonder if Mum could ever have done that, pushed that version of him aside… but… well, it doesn’t do any good to wonder.
I kind of thought it was the end of the world at the time, with the books, I mean. I’ve been collecting them since I was a kid, and I lost hundreds of them to whatever charity shop Dad thought best. Loads of them were signed, too. But now it doesn’t seem so bad. Taking the ones that made it out of the boxes and finding places for them on the shelves feels almost like kicking back with friends. And these are pretty much the only friends I’ll ever have now. At least we won’t fight.
They’re mostly all urban fantasy novels, or classics, all far removed worlds that take me well away from my reality, which is everything I need right now. When I read, I can completely forget what I am, or why I am. I didn’t get to spend any time with them at the flat, I was out cold for most of it, and working through exercises and body function tests with Dad for the rest. My head totally wasn’t in a place where I could’ve read even if I’d been given the chance. I don’t want to think about those six months ever again. I need to find a way to let them go, but I’m not there yet. Now, well, I’m going to have plenty of time on my hands; so maybe they can be my escape. Maybe they can put me back together. Because I’m not really sure Dad did it right.
Once all the books are out, there’s hardly anything left other than my sad collection of jeans and hoodies. There are a couple of photos, my ancient teddy bear, Archie, and a first generation iPod that only ever works when it feels like it. The room feels almost as empty as I do.
Back when Dad moved us into the basement flat, he hardly took anything except his notes and his computer. And as much of the vaccine as he could carry, of course. Most of the stuff back home got sent around to various charity places. Dad said it would look better that way. Like he was clearing out and moving on. Like people would expect. It’s all about keeping up appearances with him; I resented that at first. All I wanted to do was grieve, and wallow in my guilt. I didn’t care about what anyone else thought. Now though, well, let’s just say I’ve kind of finally caught up. Keeping up appearances means Dad gets to stay alive. As for me, well, I suppose it’s not really that simple.
One of the photos in the box is of me and Tom, taken just a few days before the accident. I look so young, and so happy. My eyes are shining. I don’t think I’m quite ready to have this one up on display just yet, because it pulls at what’s left of my heart when I see it. I hardly even recognise myself. I slide it under my mattress for now. The other is of me with Mum and Dad when I was thirteen. We were on holiday in Spain, and we’re all sunburned and tired and smiling. That was the last family holiday we ever had. When we got home, things really ramped up for Dad at the Agency, and he never took more than a day here and there away from the place again. That one hurts too, but it also reminds me of a better time so strongly that I force myself to stand it up on the shelf, and take a good look. I don’t know why it seems more important to face up to it than the Tom photo. Maybe because it was taken longer ago. Maybe because Dad and I are there, and we’re both still here and in this together now, regardless of what happened before. Maybe it can somehow help me to remember who I was. Who I am.
I look for safer ground, I don’t want to start crying again for fear that I won’t be able to stop. Don’t think. I sort my clothes out next. They don’t even take up a quarter of the built-in wardrobe in here. All my old clothes got boxed up and thrown in with the charity run, and Dad’s had to do all my shopping for me since. Given that today is only the second time I’ve ever left the flat, and also that he’s probably the only person you’ll find who’s less fashion conscious than me, it’s pretty much just a small pile of jeans, t-shirts, lumberjack shirts and hoodies. Comfort clothes. It’s not like I need anything else. I’ve been losing weight steadily since it happened, and most of them are pretty baggy on me now, but I kind of like them that way. It feels like big, heavy clothes cover a multitude of sins.
Dad’s worried about the weight loss thing. The problem is that it’s hard to know anything for certain any more. Seeing as I’m such an honest-to-goodness, real life guinea pig, all we can do is wait to see what happens to my body, and hope for the best. Part of me really wishes he hadn’t quit the Agency, however dangerous he says it was; because now if anything goes wrong… well… I’m not supposed to think about it. Don’t think. I’m waiting for that reaction to become automatic, but I suppose I’m not quite there yet. Nothing good ever comes from thinking about it all. A person could go mad pretty quick that way. Anyway, he’s got this research post at the hospital down here now, something to do with stem cells, saying it’s the nearest he can get to having the same kind of resources as before, so I suppose I just have to sit tight and hope that he’ll work it all out. Somehow.
‘I do know what I’m doing Chlo,’ he’s told me, more times than I can remember, but I worry that he does it as much to convince himself as me. ‘The Royal has some of the most up-to-date equipment available, and one of the biggest research budgets in the country. I didn’t just pick this place for the views.’ He’s put so much effort into it all. All the time I was sedated he never stopped working. And he still never stops. He must be confident this job will give him everything he needs, even though he’s going to have to do all his ‘Project Chloe’ work in secret. I mean, it’s not something you’d want to have to explain to your new boss. Oh, this? I’m just trying to perfect my death vaccine! Ha. Awkward.
He’s kind of like a twisted superhero these days. Tirelessly working to save me. I feel bad sometimes that I don’t feel better towards him for it. I know why he’s doing it though, risking everything the way he is: Epic Guilt. He’s trying to make up for what he did to Mum. And I can’t stop myself from wishing that he’d put even a fraction of the effort in when she was still alive. The accident was his fault; I do think that, most of the time, but other times I convince myself it was mine. We never talk about it though. It’s like if we don’t say it out loud, it didn’t happen, and that way it can’t destroy us. It has destroyed me though. And here I am trying to hold it together because I don’t really know what else to do; I keep as much of it all on the inside as I can, trying not to let it show, but there isn’t a single day that goes by where I don’t wish that he’d brought Mum back instead of me. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for that.
I find my diary in the last box. I never kept one before all this, but when I was first starting to get better, Dad thought it might be a good idea for me to start writing one. It was a pretty poor substitute for being able to talk to someone, but I suppose it did help, in a way. It was all the emails and texts and tweets I could never send. Flicking through the pages my stomach twists as I see how weak and spidery my handwriting was. I close it again quickly, but not before some of the words leap out at me: frightened, confused, weak, alone. They’re like ghosts. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to remember how I felt. And most of all I don’t want to admit that really, nothing’s changed. I’m still all of those things, I’ve just got a little better at hiding it. I wear my mask, even when it’s just me and Dad. Hell, I wear it even when it’s just me. I don’t dare take it off. Act happy Chlo, take the piss Chlo, don’t think Chlo. I slide the photo of me and Tom back out from under my mattress, slip it into the diary, and shut both of them in the bottom of the wardrobe.
With the boxes all empty, I fold them down flat and fling them out of the window. It’s easier than carrying them down the stairs, and I’ll ask Dad to go out and move them later; if he falls over them in the morning I’ll never hear the end of it.
I’m starting to ache again from bending and stretching, so I treat myself to a long soak in the elaborately sunken bath in my en suite. Dad had to help me in and out of the narrow, cracked tub in the flat, it was pretty manky and he was always worrying that I’d fall, always hovering outside the door just in case. Having a bath on my own like this, well, it’s a rare treat. Dad shouts in that he’s heading down to try and sort things out in his ‘office’, which means the creepy, cobweb-filled basement. It was on his list of must-haves for the new house – not the cobwebs, I mean, but a basement. I don’t know what it is with him and them, I’d be happy to never see one again. I yell back a ‘’kay!’ and then sink my head under the water and lose myself in the heavy, salty warmth.
The salts I have to use each day feel like heaven while I’m in the water, but if I don’t use the shower to rinse off properly before I get out they scratch like crazy through the night. It’s such a bloody complicated process. Dad developed them himself, but, like everything, he’s still ‘tweaking’ them. I’m still running as ‘Chloe 1.1’ – he says there’s a long way to go yet. If I soak in them for at least thirty minutes a night, my skin looks clearer and brighter in the morning. An hour’s better, but some nights I just can’t be bothered, even though I know I should. It’ll be easier here, in a warm bathroom that isn’t crawling with mould. It’s my face that needs the salts the most, which of course is the one part of me it isn’t really easy to submerge for long. I soak my flannel in the mineral-enriched water, and lay it over my face, recharging it every few minutes as much for something to do as anything else. The heat of the water feels good on my back and legs, and after my meal and my soak combined I feel better than I have done all day as I shower off and then towel myself dry. Better than I have done in months. If I could feel like this all the time, I don’t think it would be so bad. It would be maybe a little easier to forget about things, at least. Not thinking might come a bit more naturally. I keep wondering if I should ask Dad if he can make me a pill for that.
When I finally part company with the water there are two creams I need to douse my skin in. The first one’s fine, it’s just one of those water-based over-the-counter moisturisers. The second is a nightmare; it’s thick and oily and takes forever to sink in. And the smell, god. If there was one reason I had to give for why I’ll never be able to get a boyfriend, it’s this. No one in their right mind would want me sliding into bed next to them in this state. And the worst part of it is that if I don’t use the cream, I’ll look even worse in the morning. Even more of a monster. Damned if I do…
Of course, there’s really a much bigger and more obvious reason for why no one would ever want to be with me than the smell and state of my skin, but it’s never going to come to that anyway, so why worry.
Dad’s tried but he hasn’t been able to do much to help with the scar. I wipe the condensation from the mirror over the sink, and there it is, plain to see even in my horribly blurred reflection: a raised, white, jagged reminder, running across the bridge of my nose, over my eyelids, and then out in almost a straight line to just above both my ears. It runs further, but my hair hides the rest. It kind of looks like I’m wearing these weird comedy glasses, only it’s really not funny. I hate looking in the mirror, I don’t know what possessed me to wipe it. It starts playing in my head again. Glass flying towards me, shattering as it finds my face. I don’t feel it slice my skin open, the pain comes much later, now there’s only the warm wetness of the blood and the coppery taste of it as it fills my mouth. I smell the rain, mixing in with the burnt, rubbery tang of shredded tyres, and I hear the sick cacophony of crying and screaming and twisting metal, and then that awful silence that followed. The silence is always the worst part. The silence means she’s gone. And this is the moment, right there, when my world ended.
I turn away, too late. Seeing the glass of the windscreen in the glass of the mirror like that, well, it’d mess with anyone’s head, I think. I’m frightened I’ll totally lose the plot if I look for long enough. Why would I want to look, anyway? I’m a twisted, broken mess. If I don’t see myself, I can sometimes almost convince myself, just for a little while, that I’m not a freak – a perversion of nature – a nightmare in my own right. When I see myself, I don’t know what I am. It’s better not to look.
Dad said it’s a miracle my eyes made it. I used to feel sick thinking about what it would have been like to come back like this, but not to have my sight. It’s the only way I can imagine my world could be any darker. But now, a lot of the time I wonder if it would have been a blessing in disguise. See no evil… it works the same for ‘see no freak’ I’d imagine.
After the cream, it’s time for my all-important injection – the one thing keeping my body under the illusion that all is well – before a variety of tablets get chased down by my bedtime cuppa. I hate injecting. I mean, I get that no one would enjoy it, but I really, really hate it. My hand shakes so badly when I push the needle in. I make a right mess of it. It almost doesn’t hurt when Dad does it, but I know I have to get used to it, especially with him starting work tomorrow; tonight though, I wimp out at the last minute. I clamber into a clean pair of PJ bottoms, pull on two pairs of thick socks and a fresh hoodie, scoop up my portable medkit – which is basically an enormous, glorified makeup bag filled with all the twisted things I need to keep myself alive and kicking – and head downstairs to find him.
The kitchen’s sparkling, and the living room’s empty. I really don’t want to go down any further; I’ve had enough of basements to last me a… Well, a good long while.
It’s either that, or a shaky-handed skin-stab, and I sigh as I slowly make my way down the narrow staircase.
‘You know,’ I say, picking my way across the cold stone floor and wishing I’d gone for an unprecedented three pairs of socks, ‘the living room up there is huge, and there’s masses of room in the kitchen, or even the hallway in that little eaves-y bit under the stairs. Why do you want to hide away down here like some kind of… mole martyr.’
He’s in the middle of hooking his computer up, and he laughs as I curl up on the big, flattened cardboard box next to his desk, enjoying the minor respite from the damp flagstones. ‘It’s freezing down here, and it smells… funny.’
‘You know what would smell even funnier?’ he asks, not laughing any more. ‘If someone dropped by unexpectedly, to welcome me to the area, or read the meter, or who knows what else, and while they’re standing in the hallway they catch sight of this lot.’ He points to a towering pile of battered files, and a whiteboard covered in sprawling equations.
‘So?’ I shrug. ‘It’d look like you’re a scientist, which you are. No biggie.’
‘Well, it would depend how closely they looked, wouldn’t it?’ he counters. ‘And whether or not they recognise what they’re seeing. We can’t be too careful, how many times do I need to say it? I just don’t see the point in taking any chances, Chlo, not when we’ve come this far.’
‘I suppose,’ I concede, yawning as I hand over my kit and raise my hoodie to expose my stomach, hoping my ‘please do this for me, you know I hate it’ pitiful expression will do the trick. He tuts at me, but does the honours all the same.
‘You know you’re going to have to –—’
‘Yes, I do know,’ I snap, cutting him off. ‘Just… not tonight, ok?’
I stay put and watch him work for a while, knowing he won’t let me help with anything because he’s totally OCD about everything being in exactly the right place. And given that every file, memory stick, and hand-scribbled equation down here is because of me, I’m not going to be the one to disturb any of it.
It’s pretty hard not to think about the vaccine in here. That’s probably the real reason I don’t want to be down here. I’d be a psychologist’s dream right now. We’ve got so little of it left. I look over to see the case he keeps the vials in, and there are so many empty slots that my insides turn around and I start up a slow, cold sweat. I can’t function if I let that particular thought roam free in my head – the obvious one – What’s going to happen when it runs out? See, that’s the most messed up thing about it all: I can’t even say to myself, Well, you’ll die Chlo, and that’ll be that, because it’s a million miles from being that simple. I have something arguably worse than death to look forward to.
Dad’ll find a way to make more before we run out. Of course he will. However clueless he can be at emotions and life in general, he’s a genius in the lab; the Agency proved that. They don’t hire anyone who isn’t a total Einstein. It’s a shame that they don’t actually treat their Einsteins a little better while they have them, but then isn’t that always the way. I reckon you’re far better off being completely mediocre in this life – that way, people don’t notice you, don’t expect anything of you, and tend to just leave you alone. You stay under the radar, and you really can’t go wrong. That’s what I’m all about now: staying under the radar.
‘Chlo, you’re making me nervous,’ Dad mutters, tugging a little too forcefully on some cables under the desk. ‘Plus you’re right, it is cold down here, and I haven’t got to grips with the thermostat yet. You’d better go on back up.’ He straightens up and stretches, stifling a yawn. ‘It’s been a long day. Why don’t you get an early night, it’d do you good.’
I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep after my nap earlier, but he’s told me a million times that sleep helps my cells regenerate, or at least helps them think they’re regenerating, so… I guess it’s worth a try. The trouble is, more often than not, with sleep comes the nightmares, which is why I prefer to put it off for as long as possible.
‘It’d do you good too,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I won’t be too much longer. I just want to get this all hooked up so I’m ready to crack on as soon as I get in tomorrow night.’
‘You said you’d need to keep your head down at the hospital for a couple of weeks before you could even start researching… stuff. You won’t really need much down here for a bit, so why not ——’
‘Chlo…’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘Just let me get on, ok? We’re working against the clock here.’
I suppose it doesn’t occur to him that I’m the last person who needs reminding, that maybe it would be nice if just for once he could pretend there wasn’t a great big timer counting down to my imminent… whatever. Maybe we could sit and watch a film together, or something, anything, if he could just drag himself away from his research long enough. What difference would a couple of hours really make? But if I say anything, I’m going to look like a sure-fire contender for worst-daughter-of-the-year, so I nod, and smile, and wish him goodnight as I make my way back up the stairs. This is us now, our life: Dad hiding in the basement, me hiding upstairs, the clock ticking on us the whole time.
There are three compounds he needs to finish the vaccine, compounds he had access to in the Agency but wasn’t directly involved in engineering. He has a tiny sample of each of them, and needs to figure out a way to create them, from scratch, before the supplies he managed to smuggle out of the lab run out. If he can’t, I suppose late nights and cold rooms will be the least of his worries, just like lonely nights will be the least of mine.
I get the kettle on and make some tea, taking his down and hugging him tight, before downing my pills with mine, hauling my tired body up the stairs and crawling into bed. I leave the bedside light on, and dig into a book, reading until the last possible moment, when the words start to dance on the page in front of my eyes, and I can’t hold sleep off any longer. The nightmares don’t come, and I sleep peacefully for the first time in months. Maybe they can’t find me here. I dream that Dad keeps me hidden in the basement with all his research. I’m cold, and alone, but I’m safe.
