Cracks by Caroline Green

which tastes like sunshine in a glass. It’s such orange heaven I just stare at it for a moment in awe. Something occurs to me.
    ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘could I eat properly? When I was in the coma?’
    Beardy is starting to clear the breakfast stuff away. He’s barely given me any eye contact so far and doesn’t look at me now. None of them are friendly. It feels like they
don’t know what to do with me now I’ve woken up. Like they preferred me when I was a boy in a pod who didn’t ask questions.
    ‘Yes,’ he says hesitantly, ‘technically you could. But it was thought best that we stuck with tube feeding most of the time.’
    I swallow and put the glass down. I’m not so thirsty now. I understand why my throat hurt and my voice was croaky. My hand instinctively goes to my neck.
    Beardy’s walking towards the door.
    ‘Wait!’
    He stops.
    ‘Am I really named Cal?’ Maybe it was the other boy’s name . . . the dead one. A wave of panic washes over me in case I don’t even know what I’m really called.
    ‘I believe so, yes,’ he says and starts to leave the room.
    ‘Hey?’
    This time his expression is definitely irritated.
    ‘So do you know my surname as well?’
    He doesn’t answer straight away. ‘I’m not sure about that. I’ve only been here for a few months,’ he says, looking away. ‘Maybe you should ask Dr
Cavendish.’
    He bustles out of the room and I lean back against my pillows, weak with relief that at least my name is my own. Despite living that weird, borrowed life inside my head, some little part of me
must have hung onto my real identity. But I’d still like to know why they’re so sure. If they know my name, maybe they know a bit more about where I came from? I decide I’m going
to pump Cavendish to tell me every tiny detail of what he knows later.
    First I want to get a proper look at where I’ve been living for the last twelve years. It’s crazy, but I haven’t even looked outside the window yet. I yank up the beige
venetian blinds covering the window. That’s weird. There are thick metal bars across it and rolls of vicious spikes curling along the window sill. Rain is running down the window but I
can’t hear it at all. These windows are seriously thick. Outside there’s a car park flanked by a high perimeter wall, also covered in rolls of barbed wire and metal spikes. A lone guard
in a long waterproof coat with a hood is walking up and down with a huge Alsatian dog, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
    Why the OTT security? I feel dizzy as a pin sharp memory of being inside Riley Hall flashes across my mind. It’s not like I’m a prisoner here. It’s completely different. Right?
So what would happen if I just made my way to the front door and walked out? I’m a free citizen. I can do what I want. For some reason though, my heart thrums hard against my ribcage as I
poke my head outside the door. I start walking.
    At the end of the corridor I see Cavendish talking to another man, a real bruiser with pock-marked skin and shoulders as wide as an American footballer. He pushes the jacket of his blue suit
back to adjust his belt and I spy a gun there, nestled against his waist. I draw back behind a large metal trolley filled with cleaning equipment. Cavendish is speaking in an animated way and if
he’s intimidated by a bloke that size who’s tooled up, he isn’t showing it. If anything, the other bloke has his palms up as though he’s apologising about something. I creep
down the corridor in the other direction and pass a room where some men dressed in dark blue uniforms – something between a policeman and a soldier’s uniform – are leaning over a
table. I pause for just long enough to see that the table is loaded with machine guns and the men casually pick them up as though they’re nothing.
    I quicken my pace, heart banging almost painfully now.
    I’m looking back over my shoulder to check I’m not being followed as I hurry round the next corner. And