Zoe Markham - Under My Skin

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.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s pitch dark when the shouting wakes me, and for a second I don’t know where I am. I hear my name nestled in amongst a flood of swearing, and recognise Dad’s as the only voice before panic takes hold completely. The boxes . I wince as I remember throwing them out of my window. Fumbling for the light switch, I let rip a mini swear-fest of my own – why would he have come in and turned the lamp off? He knows I hate the dark. I pull back one heavy curtain and see him out on the drive, furiously gathering them up. I sigh, and brace myself as I open the window.

‘ Chloe ! I just went arse over wotsit over these! What did I say yesterday?’

‘Sorry!’ I shout back down. ‘I meant to say…’

The look he gives me speaks volumes, and I hold my hands up in surrender.

‘Just…’ He sighs, ‘Can you please try and keep things a bit tidier? I’ve got enough to deal with right now as it is.’

‘Yeah, sorry Dad, I will. Are you leaving already? Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?’

‘I left you a note,’ he says, leaning the boxes against the garage door. ‘I thought you could use the sleep, and I could use a head start.’ He wipes his hands on his jacket, then looks back up at me. ‘Don’t wait up for me. Keep the blinds and curtains closed, and don’t even think of answering the door to anyone. Even if it’s the police. Especially if it’s the police.’

I get that kick of fear in my belly that I narrowly avoided when I heard the shouting. It’s never far off.

‘Your phone’s all charged up,’ he says, his voice softening a little, ‘and I’ve put my number in it for you. Text me if you need anything, ok?’

‘Ok,’ I try to reply lightly, but my voice breaks and betrays my sudden terror at being left alone. I try again, and do a little better with a faux-cheery and not entirely appropriate ‘Good luck!’ Good luck finding the thing that will save me before we find out what the hell happens to me if you don’t.

I actually thought I’d be fine about it, I’ve been on my own in the flat a few times over the last few weeks, when Dad had his interview, and when he went to sign the lease on the cottage, but when I close the window a massive wave of anxiety hits me, hard. I have to physically steady myself, and I’m just about to pull the curtain back across when a second wave, packing an even harder punch, crashes over me as I see the car’s taillights disappear down the drive. I’m on my own, in the middle of nowhere. Anyone could be out there, watching the house, watching me from the darkness right now. I pull the curtain closed so hard that a couple of the hooks ping out and it sags heavily in the middle. I duck down next to the wall, and sit with my back to it, knees pulled tight against my chest, trying to get a grip. Agents could be watching Dad leave from anywhere down the lane, getting ready right now to come in and take me; and all that stands between me and them is a front door that I’m pretty sure would give with a swift kick or two from a decent enough boot. How could he leave me alone like this? What was he thinking? After everything he’s told me about them…

God. I can’t breathe. Don’t think, dontthinkdontthink.

Day one. Hour one. And it’s not going well.

Take the piss. Make it funny. Poor little rich girl cries for Daddy when she’s left alone in a beautiful house all day to do whatever she wants. Someone forgot to put their big girl pants on. What are you, six years old? Are you really so special that anyone would go to this much trouble to get hold of you? Self-important much!

It starts to work, slowly. It’s a pretty thin veneer, and it doesn’t hold up to too much questioning, so I don’t. I just try and go with it. It’s either that, or hide with my back to the wall all day. And I’m already getting cramp.

I pull myself up, take a deep breath, purely for effect, and shuffle over to get another hoodie from my wardrobe. I think about getting back under the covers for a bit, but my head feels light and cramps are slowly starting to make themselves known in my stomach as well as my back and legs. I need to eat, and I need to take my mind off things. This is a job for bacon.

I get through two packs of Danish before I cast a guilty look over at the frying pan, wondering how the hell I’m not the size of a house by now. I suppose it should be a bonus, but I can’t help wondering what all the fat and salt is doing to what’s left of my insides. I’ll have to try and talk to Dad about it again soon. I should probably at least switch to grilling the meat. Or maybe there’s a way I could just get some protein shakes, like those gym maniacs, instead of being such a carnivore. I’ve asked him about it before, and he didn’t exactly say no, as such, just gave me a kind of mutter that it’s ‘not quite that simple.’ No, well, nothing really is any more.

I contemplate a third pack, before realising that we don’t actually have one – we didn’t bring much shopping with us and we’re going to need to do a grocery run PDQ. I say ‘we’ meaning Dad, obviously. You do see a lot of frightening sights in Asda, I know, but there are limits. Resigned to a bacon-less environment, I set to work de-greasing the kitchen from my fry-fest, and before I know it, I’ve got the Marigolds on. Dad’s ‘keep things a bit tidier’ must still be swimming around in my head, because I have a sudden vision of cleaning the whole place from top to bottom. Or, almost the whole place. I don’t want to go into the basement. Being down there alone would bring back… well, I don’t know if there are words to describe the memories. The accident was horrific, but it was an understandable type of horror. I mean, it’s the kind of thing that happens every day, you just always hope it’s never going to happen to you or yours. What came after, well, that’s a whole different story. Not something I think the human brain is really equipped to deal with just yet; I know mine isn’t at least. I should be worrying only about shoes and hot boys, according to the books and magazines I’m supposed to buy. Not whether or not I’m some kind of soulless demon who has absolutely no right to exist.