Where the World Turns Wild Page 6

“That was the word. Game. Hunting animals – for food, or sport.”

  “Game. Exactly,” I say, relieved that he’s following me. “And they’d use some kind of gun, wouldn’t they? An air rifle, I think.”

  Barney nods noncommittaly.

  “Well, what if I wanted one of those?”

  His face crumples. “I’ve never allowed anything like that!”

  “It’s not what you think,” I say quickly. “It’s not for here.”

  “There are too many guns in this city!”

  “It’s not for the city,” I say firmly, though I’m cold inside. This could be the most stupid thing I’ve done yet.

  “Juniper, what are you thinking? This isn’t the place.” He’s shaking his head.

  “No.” I turn away. I can’t bear to see the look on his face. The disappointment. “I’m sorry,” I say, kicking myself for even asking.

  I can hear Bear baying with laughter, and Etienne too, and I trail towards them through the shelves of forgotten things. I know where they are from the creaking of the rocking horse. They’re in Pets.

  A patchy old fox with glass beads for eyes makes me jump, even though it’s long dead. Stuffed and put in a transparent box with no blood left for ticks to feed off.

  Barney doesn’t mind breaking a few rules – the plastic animals and the books and the horse. But not a gun. Not an air rifle. I should have known that.

  Bear’s swinging to and fro on the old painted pony, his arms wrapped round its neck.

  Etienne’s next to him, clinking through a basket of silver and gold medallions. “What are these?”

  “Pet tags!” Bear says. “Rufus, Jamie, Leo. Smoky, Poppy, Bo. Goldie. Spot.” Bear sings out the names. He knows all of them by heart.

  “Come on, Bear,” I say in a dull voice. “Annie Rose will be waiting.”

  “Ju! We haven’t found the snow globe yet!”

  “Bear!”

  “It’s OK, Ju. I know where it is.” He leaps off the rocking horse and runs ahead into Miscellaneous. He reaches to the back of the bottom shelf, where the snow globe is hidden behind old tin jugs and kitchen utensils. His little fingers stretch around the glass sphere, and the three of us peer in together to watch the snow fall, turning everything magic.

  After lunch I wait for Etienne outside the old warehouse, a couple of streets away from the Palm House. They’re turning it into flats, but there’s been some delay and it’s been an empty shell for months now. The exterior is painted with fractals. Green ones that remind me of our succulents. I’m staring into the coils – the precision of them, the absolute perfection – when I hear Etienne’s footsteps. His face falls when he sees me.

  “Juniper! What are you doing?”

  “I’m coming with you. To the North Edge.”

  “Juniper,” Etienne says again. “You don’t have a permit. Sometimes the guards check.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe today they won’t.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Then I’ll bluff it.”

  He stares at me, curious.

  “Please, Etienne.”

  He doesn’t look happy about it but he nods.

  The Metro station is just a few minutes from our block. Etienne goes first and I follow. I’m not sure if it’s deliberate on his part, this separation, so that we stand out less, or whether he’s just annoyed at me for risking one of the few good things he’s got going.

  We go through the brick arches of the station and the train’s already waiting on the platform. I don’t need Etienne to tell me to run, I just do – straight past the train guard and into the carriage.

  If the carriages had seats once, they’ve all been ripped out. You hold on to straps in the metal ceiling as the train lurches from side to side, swinging wildly on the tracks.

  I look at Etienne, alarmed.

  “It hasn’t broken yet!” He winks at me.

  The city passes in a blur. It was a university town once and though the colleges are long gone, sometimes you catch the odd glimpse – spires and steeples, golden stone arches, angels and gargoyles. It was meant to have been one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

  It’s just a few minutes’ hanging on and we’re there. North station is all aluminium and sparkling glass. Sort of dazzling, but unsettling too for it’s right on the edge. The Buffer’s just the other side of the glass for everyone to see. To make it clear that this really is the end of the line.

  “This way,” Etienne says, brushing past me. I follow, dodging the Eco Park workers on their way for a shift and a group of kids who have somehow found space for a game of football. Then Etienne grabs my hand to pull me away down a quieter street.

  It’s only once we’ve left everyone else behind that he starts talking. “Sam can write a permit for the way back. Don’t forget to ask.” That’s all he says. He doesn’t ask why I’ve come.

  Sam’s there when we go in, watering a row of plants. “You’ve got company?” he says to Etienne, his voice gruff in a way I didn’t notice yesterday.

  “I thought Juniper could help.”

  “Of course,” Sam says, but there’s a distinct coolness. “If you supervise her. I’ve got work to do.” He disappears off, abandoning the watering can in the middle of the walkway.

  “This way,” Etienne says. “You can help with the weeding.”

  For a while I work in step with him. There’s a different quality to the earth here. It’s denser, wetter than the Palm House. We’re picking out seedlings – new little sproutings, pairs of leaves that have sprung up in the wrong places. We put them all in a blue plastic bucket.

  “Shouldn’t we start repotting them?” I ask. “Before they dry out?”

  “These? There’s nowhere for them to go. Sam just composts them down. You can’t save everything, Juniper.”

  “I guess,” I say, throwing another seedling into the bucket. “Sam wasn’t exactly pleased to see me.”

  “He’s just busy.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Juniper? What’s going on?”

  “Don’t, OK?” I say quickly. “Please. Don’t.” I can’t answer his questions and I don’t want to lie.

  Etienne shrugs. “He’ll be in the Potting Shed.”

  “The Potting Shed?” I raise my eyebrows. “That sounds like something from a hundred years ago.”

  Etienne laughs. “It’s what he calls his office. That way. Look up. You can’t miss it.”

  There’s a cylindrical staircase to the top of the glasshouse and then a long walkway just below the ceiling with a birdcage bit at the end. Looking at it makes me queasy, but that’s where Sam is – I can see his silhouette.

  The steps are tight and narrow, circling round to the centre – a spiral, going higher. I have to focus on my feet so I don’t look over the banister, which is low, so low that I feel top heavy. Like my own weight might drag me down to the floor. Vertiginous, that’s the word.

  I used to think vertigo was a fear of heights. It’s not the fear itself though, it’s the feeling it gives you – things spinning, tilting. The dizziness. The sickness. Acrophobia – that’s a fear of heights. But this morning I climbed to the top of the climbing wall and if I can do that – scale a vertical tower – I can walk along a horizontal walkway.

  There’s no door at the end, but Sam hasn’t heard me coming and it feels awkward to just start speaking. I knock on the metal frame.

  “Juniper!” Sam’s voice is heavy, unsurprised. Like he’s been expecting me.

  Potting Shed? The name’s misleading. There are no plants at all, just a computer and stacked empty plant pots and on the wall, Portia Steel’s official photo. Her yellow hair, all straight and perfect; her face, like white stone or porcelain, untouched by sun or laughter or age. It’s been the same photo for as long as I can remember. Surely Portia Steel has aged like her city?

  I deliberately turn my back on it. “You knew my mum?” I say.
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  “Not really.” Sam’s eyes are glazed over like he’s not actually looking at me.

  “But you met her?”

  “She came here once.”

  “Are you still in touch?”

  “No,” he says quickly.

  “I need to find someone who can help me. Me and my brother. I think we might be in trouble.”

  Sam laughs – this low, bitter laugh. “And you think I can help?”

  “Yes,” I say, undeterred. “You helped our mum.”

  “Juniper,” Sam says, angry now. “You can’t talk like this. You don’t know who might be listening.” His eyes flick to Portia Steel’s photo.

  If Sam’s warning me, I call his bluff. There’s a camera in the corner, but barely any of them work any more. Our city’s all out of electronic parts.

  “You’re listening and you’re a Plant Keeper. We need to find a way out of the city. And things we need for our journey.”

  Sam sits on a high stool, his shoulders drooped. He hands me one of the pots with black letters emblazoned around the rim.

  “Future Science,” I read aloud. “That’s why you can keep all the plants. That’s why this place still exists.”

  “You’d think it was a benevolent enough kind of existence.”

  “It’s science, isn’t it? You’re growing the plants we might need one day, for food, and medicines. Someone has to. It’s important.”

  Sam shrugs.

  “You have to help us! They took my brother’s blood!” I say, desperate now. “They would have taken mine too, if I’d been there. If I hadn’t been here instead.”

  Sam nods but stays silent.

  “Annie Rose says they’re trying to make a vaccine, to go into the Wild.”

  “No,” Sam says in this low flat tone that frightens me. “A vaccine won’t work. Not with that disease. You need to be born with immunity. You need to inherit it. Or…”

  “Or?” I prod, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “You need a live supply. Of antibodies. Steel finally thinks they’ve got the science to make it work. They’re going to do transfusions – pass immunity from one person to another. Your blood into theirs.”

  I gasp. “We have to stop them!”

  “We?” Sam laughs and my skin crawls. “This place is a test zone now.”

  “A test zone?” I look down to that meshed corner with the fluorescent tape. Like a crime scene. “The ticks are here, aren’t they?”

  “Steel’s people are already recruiting,” Sam says, still in this detached tone. Robotic. “For volunteers. For blood, like your brother’s, and trial participants to test out their theory. Imagine volunteering for that!”

  “My brother wasn’t a volunteer,” I say caustically.

  “That’s what they’ll call him. That’s what they call me.”

  “You made a deal with them. They pay you and you get to do the best job in the city. Bear’s a kid – he didn’t get anything for his blood.”

  “He’ll get something soon enough. You both will. A bed with your name on in one of their hospitals.”

  “How can you?”

  “How can I not?” Sam’s gaze sears into me. Of course he’s looking at me. He always was. It’s just the light is gone from his eyes.

  A door slams below and there’s heavy footfall on the concrete, ricocheting up to us. Sam looks startled. He’s about to head down the stairs but turns back to the desk instead to scrawl words on a small card. “You’ll need this. Your permit.”

  “I won’t need it,” I snap. “I’m not coming back. And you shouldn’t let Etienne either, or any of the others.” I picture us all yesterday – the Remedials, running through the plants like it was a big playground.

  “You’ll need it,” Sam says again, forcing the card into my hand. “Stick to what I’ve written.”

  Etienne’s waiting at the bottom. “You’ve got guests,” he says to Sam and his eyes flit to the card.

  A woman and a man are walking in our direction, both in the grey-sheen suits of the regime. They’re city officials, coming to police their project.

  “We’d best get back,” Etienne says loudly, casually.

  The officers stand across the walkway, blocking it.

  “This site is restricted entry,” the woman says. “We’re going to need identification. For the minors.”

  Sam’s voice is friendly. “The kids? Ah, you don’t need to worry about them. It’s one of those therapy things the schools are trying. These two are harmless enough.”

  “It’s the weekend,” the woman says, her face unchanged. “Why are they here now? We’ll need verification.”

  “Show them,” Sam says, and Etienne and I hand over our cards with our full names printed on. Except it isn’t my name.

  “Mary Lennox,” the woman reads out loud.

  I stare at Sam. Mary Lennox from The Secret Garden. Is this his idea of a joke? I keep on smiling, even though my insides feel like they’re being squeezed by a huge great fist.

  The female officer nods. The name clearly doesn’t mean anything to her. “You’re on the wrong side of the city,” she says, pointing to the bottom of the card where Sam has printed SOUTH. “You better get a move on. Curfew’s coming.”

  I walk to the station in a daze and don’t notice anything until Etienne hisses my name. “Ju! Your permit!”

  There’s a guard at the door of the train. She glances down at our cards and we both jump on board.

  “Did Sam help you? Did you get what you needed?” Etienne asks as the train rattles off. The carriage is virtually empty and we’re in a corner by ourselves, clinging to the straps. “Aren’t you going to tell me anything? I got you into the North Edge. You owe me!” He smiles to show he’s at least half joking.

  I should thank him for letting me tag along, but I just shake my head. The train’s fitted with cameras and even if it is all phony, I can’t take risks. Not now. Not after what Sam said.

  “Did you tell Sam about The Secret Garden?” I ask.

  Etienne looks surprised. “No. Why would I?”

  “I dunno. Why would he write Mary Lennox on my permit?”

  Etienne shrugs. “Maybe he read it once. He’s old enough to have had a copy. And you’re the girl with the garden. The glasshouse garden anyway. Sam likes to kid around.”

  “Does he?” I frown and turn away to gaze out at the city as the train lurches us home.

  Annie Rose was right. Bear and I have to leave. We have to leave before the labs open on Monday.

  Between our platelets and our plasma, there’s this thing other people lack. This specificity. The right kind of white blood cell – fast, shifting. Theirs can’t keep up with the disease, but ours can. The Wild’s in our blood. It’s in our blood and Steel will want every last drop.

  The train doesn’t go through the Warren but I’m there in my head already, retracing Mum’s footsteps. Silvan, Annie Rose said. If he was an actual ReWilder, surely he’ll help? Is it too much to hope he’s still there?

  The Curfew siren’s wailing as we make it home and Annie Rose is in the doorway of the Palm House, waiting. “Juniper! What on earth were you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry,” I pant. “Can Etienne go through the kitchen?”

  “He better had. The drones are out. Can you not hear?”

  I listen for the low moan in the distance. Annie Rose is right, the drones are circling, but that’s the same every night – it’s background noise and I’ve tuned it out. I barely hear them.

  I set out early Sunday morning with my empty school bag. Annie Rose hands me leaves of money at the door.

  “Our rainy-day money, Annie Rose!” I exclaim. “I can’t take that! What if you need it? After we’ve gone?”

  Annie Rose presses the notes into my hand. “When’s it ever going to rain in the city, Juniper? You get what you can and be careful.”

  I nod. I looked up Silvan in a book of names we have on our kitchen shelves. The omens are good
. It means of the forest.

  It’s dark in the Warren. Shadowy. It’s not that the buildings are taller, they’re just closer together. It’s dirty too. I bet Street Patrol don’t linger here. At least that means I’m unlikely to run into them.

  I turn into the first street like it’s familiar and walk at average pace, holding myself tall but not too tall. I want to look like I’m from around here. Then I turn a corner and jump.

  Pairs of orange eyes stare back at me. Strokes of black and grey with shards of sunlight flecked in their fur. Wolves. Poised. Ready. Circling round their heads are black birds. Crows, ravens, jackdaws? Bear would know. Birds that were portents of doom, or stole bright shiny things.

  The girl drops her spray can and it clatters on the stone pavement.

  She turns, ready to run. Maybe it’s the way I’m looking at her wolves and birds that stops her. She laughs. “Your face! They scared you!”

  “They’re beautiful. They’re so…” I’m not sure what word to pick. I’ve never seen anything like them before, not this big, this brazen, out on the street for everyone to see, where it would usually just be fractals.

  “I get enough practice!” the girl says.

  “Yes?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes they come, early in the morning, like you,” she says, suspicious.

  “They?”

  “Street Patrol. To whitewash them.”

  “No!” I shudder. I don’t know if it’s the thought of Steel’s Street Patrol being here after all or imagining a can of white paint blotting out her work in one go. Real. That’s the right word for her paintings. They’re so real. “What if they caught you?”

  “They never would,” the girl says. “I know this place. I’d run. Fast. Like my wolves.”

  “Yes?” I say and I blush because she’s caught me staring at her legs. They’re held in a kind of frame. Metal on the outside, so her trousers bunch up above her thighs and you can see where metal pins enter her legs, just above her knees. The skin’s purple and rubbery.

  “Yeah! Course!” The girl looks defiant. “I’m waiting to have them out,” she says, gesturing at the frames. “Mum’s saving up. Anyway, they don’t slow me. Get aways, see?”