– Well, said Tilda, sitting down heavily, her face white. Thank God for the death penalty.
– But everything’s been twisted! blurted Hannah, pulling off the mask.
Tilda stopped drinking in mid-sip and looked at her daughter sharply.
– What?
– The Hoggs aren’t like that! They’ve made them look – if you knew them, you wouldn’t see them like that, you’d –
She stopped. The room seemed to tilt even further.
Tilda was staring at her incredulously.
– You know this Hogg family then? You’ve actually met these people?
– Sort of, Hannah mumbled. And then backtracked. – No, of course not. Not in person. She gulped. – I’ve heard about them, that’s all. At Head Office.
Her mind was whirling. I should have known… something must be going wrong on Atlantica. Badly wrong. The research I did – the Multiple Personality Disorder…
She groaned.
If Harvey could see what they’d done to his family – how his nearest and dearest had been demonised, turned into –
– Scum, repeated Tilda vehemently. They’re scum!
But maybe he had seen. He must have been adjusted by now. She had to see him, tell him she didn’t know –
– Let me check something, she said to Tilda, gulping. I need to log on.
– You fire away, said Tilda, swivelling her legs off the footstool. I’ll go and make us a cup of tea. And then you can tell me more about this Hogg family.
When Tilda had hobbled out to the kitchen, Hannah opened up the computer and ran a search. Her fingers were trembling; she was so tense she kept bungling it and clattering the wrong keys. Concentrate, she told herself. Keep calm. And then, after a couple more slips, she got there; Head Office, Social Adjustment Department. And there was Harvey.
His photo, his name underneath.
And the Machine’s decision.
The world went white. It had to be a mistake. Pike said – She stopped short. Pike had said nothing. Nothing. And she hadn’t asked. She’d just assumed – a case of fraud. The words on the screen jumped about. The room was hot again. She must have groaned or cried out, because Tilda’s voice came through from the kitchen.
– Are you all right there, Hannah? Did you say something?
That’s when she remembered Leo Hurley, and the look in his eyes. Damage limitation. Her heart was pounding, fast and hard. It hurt. She’d been so stupid. Locked in her little bubble. Too scared to think beyond the here and now. Hiding behind her Crabbe’s Block, which Harvey said –
She shut her eyes. It’s all happening too late.
The anger that swept out of her was so fierce and huge she thought it might kill her. Things went white again, a white-hot light, and there was a screaming noise like steam, a scream that went on and on, higher and higher, and then her mother was hobbling in.
– Hannah! Stop it! What’s happened to you?
– Where’s that envelope? screamed Hannah, and realised the terrible noise she’d been hearing came from her own mouth.
Her mother had changed gear; she was suddenly hobbling backwards now, reversing out of the room, one hand in the air.
– Stop this, Hannah! she whispered, hoarse with fright. Stop this now! You’re having a – fit!
– No I’m not! Just tell me where that envelope is! She was raw with rage.
– What envelope? stammered Tilda.
– The one I sent you to look after.
Tilda, still backing away, flushed. She put her hand over her heart.
– Well, I said I’d put it with your peanut-butter-label collection, up in the spare room, but I never got round to it, so it’s –
– Where? hissed Hannah in a pale, hoarse whisper. Where?
– Top drawer, there. I’m going to finish making that tea. I think we need a cup, don’t we, after this – scene.
And she limped out of the room.
As Hannah pulled the envelope from the drawer, she heard her mother’s voice coming from the kitchen: high and excited. She must be on the phone, thought Hannah. Consulting Dr Crabbe. Or telling one of her friends from the girl gang that her daughter has flipped.
She forced herself to take some deep breaths, then began to open the envelope. As she attacked the flimsy seal, she stopped, and looked closer.
Someone had already done it.
But who? Tilda? She didn’t know. And there wasn’t time to think.
She ripped further, pulled out the document within, and devoured its contents.
Three minutes later she stuffed it back in the envelope, her head reeling. Everything suddenly made sense.
– The whole island, she murmured. – The whole island, the whole of Atlantica –
Leo had known. But he hadn’t known what to do, except get the document out of Head Office. What had happened to him? Where was he? She shuddered, thinking of the craters. And then it struck her. If they find out I’ve seen this, whatever’s happened to Leo, could happen to me.
Just then the doorbell rang, and immediately she heard voices in the hallway: her mother’s. And a man’s. There was no time to do anything; Tilda was ushering him in. Her face glowed, as though she were presenting a long-lost son. The man was tall, pale, good-looking. He had crystals stuck to his coat. A whiff of lavender followed him.
– I’ve been telling my daughter all about you, said Tilda.
Hannah swallowed. Her heart was banging. She knew him.
– Meet our Liaison associate, said Tilda, with her Visitor smile. What a lovely coincidence for us, he’s popped round. We’ve just watched the film.
Hannah looked up. The young man had pale eyelashes. Eyes the colour of indoor swimming-pool water. The shallow end.
– Pleased to meet you, said Benedict, looking at her steadily. He was as tall as Pike. Hannah, suddenly aware of the envelope in her hand, flushed, and dropped it on the table. Benedict Sommers’ eyes followed it, then moved to the computer screen with Harvey Kidd’s face on it. Registered. Then shifted back to Hannah. When he grinned at her, she saw a flash of green in his mouth and her stomach did a slow, ugly turn. She was trapped.
– We’ve met before, said Benedict, working the gum over to one cheek and holding out a big hand for her to shake. The Festival party in Head Office? He grinned again.
As they shook hands, Hannah felt something pass between them like an exchange of static.
That’s it, she thought with sudden clarity. I’m dead, like Leo. They’ll crater me.
Just when I was beginning to live.
BLAME
After the documentary was over, we were assigned cabins, and the engines roared to life. I was alone at first. Then put with a Greek, Kogevinas, who spoke no English. But at mealtimes, in the mess, I’d strain to overhear the conversations of the other cons. They were a revelation. Many of the Atlanticans – about 70 per cent, I reckoned, actually were criminals. Another 10 per cent borderline. But they all knew whose fault it was that they were there. The Hoggs’.
The psychology’s pretty simple, when you think about it. No one likes to admit they’ve done wrong. I listened to grown men close to tears, telling how they’d been manipulated by followers of the Sect. To intelligent fraudsters and extortionists claiming they’d been brainwashed into committing crime. To sex offenders explaining how they felt vindicated, in little huddles by the poop.
– But how d’you know they even exist? I ventured once over breakfast, after a burly bloke had been holding forth about what he called Hogg filth. He rounded on me then, and a couple of other blokes shot me angry glances.