warmer, to bring out his eyes, whatever colour they are, but I like it. It’s like he’s a soldier, because it strikes me that he’s not looking for clemency, he’s looking for a fight. I study him when he’s not looking, to see what colour his eyes are. I don’t know why I’m obsessing over this. I suppose it’s because Art’s are so clearly blue. You see them before you see him. They’re one of the things I love most about him, whereas with Carrick, his eyes seem black, but they can’t possibly be. Perhaps his pupils are just constantly dilated from anger.
The dumpy man in Carrick’s cell has a red, flustered face, and it looks like breathing is a difficult act for him. He rifles through papers. They’re talking and it’s intense, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. The man is explaining something. He is hot and bothered, and Carrick’s face is angry already.
My door opens. It’s Tina.
“Who’s he?” I ask.
“His adviser.”
I notice she never uses Carrick’s name.
“But I thought he was representing himself.”
“He is, but he still needs assistance. Paperwork to be filed, et cetera. Paddy is his mentor. You would be sent one, too, but you have Mr Berry.”
I look at Paddy, who seems like he’s about to die of a coronary, and I’m once again grateful for Mr Berry despite the fact that in any other situation, I wouldn’t trust him. Just enough to trust him with my life.
“There’s someone here to see you. In the canteen.”
My heart flips. Art. I need him. I want to be back on the summit with my legs wrapped around him, feeling his heartbeat through his chest. I know that as soon as I see him, I will feel calm and human again, and not like this caged animal.
As we’re walking by Carrick’s cell, something, a flash of colour, attracts my notice. I don’t hear anything, because the glass is soundproof, but I see it out of the corner of my eye. I stop walking and look to see a tray of food fall from the window to the ground, cups and saucers and food lying in pieces on the floor of his cell. Behind it is an angry Carrick, the one responsible for firing it directly at my head, his face twisted in anger and aggression.
I’m stunned. It was clearly aimed at me, but I can’t figure out what I’ve done.
Tina surprises me by laughing. “So I guess he just found out.”
“Found out what?”
“Bark! Funar!” she calls. “Bad egg.”
Funar appears at the guards’ office door and grunts.
She turns back to me, and we continue walking. “He’s learned that his case is on hold until yours is finished,” she replies. “That’s the fourth time that’s happened. First Dr Blake, then Jimmy Child and then Angelina Tinder.”
“How long has he been here?”
“A few weeks.”
“Weeks?” I ask, shocked. “And how much longer will he be here?”
“Whenever you’re finished. He’s a flight risk and has anger issues, obviously. Can’t risk letting him go. Been trouble ever since he got here. Serves him right, to be honest. If he didn’t act like such an animal, his case could have been pushed through by now. Now come along this way. You can get breakfast here, too.” She takes me by the elbow and pulls me along.
I look back at Carrick. He stares at me with his cold, hard eyes, chin raised, chest heaving up and down at the exertion of his fit of rage. Tina called him an animal, but I don’t blame him at all. A few weeks in this place and I’d start to behave like one, too. I try to give him a look of apology, but I’m not quite sure how to pull that off. I need words, and he and I have never shared any. I half-walk, half-run along as Tina pulls me. He stands still, hands on his hips, and watches me all the way out the door, probably wishing I’d never come back. Maybe his eyes really are black.
My heart is pounding when I arrive at the canteen, and it is a remarkably different atmosphere from the one I’ve just left. It feels like civilisation, and I can hardly believe it was only yesterday morning that I, too, was walking around freely. People having breakfast meetings before work, lots of dark suits with heads close together, tablets out on every table. Free people who come and go when they want. And Art. Somewhere in this room is Art. My stomach flutters.
“He’s over there.” Tina points and backs away. “I’ll come back in half an hour so you can get ready for your big moment.”
I swallow hard at the thought of it.
I go in the direction Tina pointed me to, searching for Art, for his white-blonde hair, for his turquoise-blue eyes, but I can’t find him anywhere. I’m aware of all the eyes on me as I weave my way between the tables. When I get to the end of the room, I look around, confused, then I start walking back again.
I feel a hand, a rough grip, around my wrist.
“Ow,” I say, pulling away. An old, wrinkled hand with protruding veins grips my arm. “Granddad!”
“Sit down,” he says harshly, but his face is soft.
I embrace him quickly and then slide into the seat before him, happy to see him, but trying to hide my devastation that Art hasn’t come to see me. I wonder if it’s because he’s not allowed or because he doesn’t want to.
I don’t get to see Granddad as often as I used to after he and Mum had their falling out last Earth Day. He’s welcome in our home, but only when invited, and he isn’t invited as much as he used to be. It is all on Mum’s terms now. Grandma passed away eight years ago, and he lives alone, tending to his dairy farm.
He looks around conspiratorially, and for once he’s not just being paranoid. Most of the people here are staring at us.
“We have to keep our voices down,” he says, moving his head close to mine. “Did you see this?”
He reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a newspaper. It’s folded lengthways, and he slides it across the table to me. “They won’t want you to see this one, that’s for sure.”
I open the paper and am shocked by what I see. My photograph takes up practically the entire front page, with only a small space for a dramatic headline and the rest of the story inside. My mouth falls open. The headline shouts, the face of change?
He slides another across to me. It’s a variation of the same photo, with the headline north. NEW DIRECTION FOR FLAWED CAUSE.
“What? Which papers are these?” I ask, not recognising them.
“You won’t see these around here,” he whispers. “They’re not Crevan’s. He doesn’t own them all, you know.”
“He doesn’t own any of them, Granddad. They’re his sister’s, Candy’s,” I correct him, scanning the articles.
“In name only. You’re about to learn Crevan’s more involved with those papers than anybody else is. You’re all over Crevan’s papers, too. However, their slant is slightly different. All about the girl who protects society from the Flawed. You’re a hero on both sides. Or a villain, depending on your opinion.”
Which explains the reason for the level of anger outside in the courtyard. I’ve annoyed just about every side you can imagine. Nobody comes to watch a Flawed cross the courtyard to support them.
Granddad’s conspiracy theories are what Mum fought with him about. It was fine and harmless for him to believe them on his own, on his farm, in the middle of nowhere, but when he kept bringing them to her doorstep, he was, as she said,