a caged animal. Something feels wrong here. I think Cavendish knows more than he’s letting on. I start pulling open the drawers in the bedside cabinet,
although I don’t really know what I’m looking for. It’s just something to do while I try to think. He was very keen for me to be taking those pills, but what was in them? I think
they were stopping me from being alert. I need my wits about me.
I pull out another drawer. The first two were empty but the bottom one contains a pad of lined paper and an old pencil. I stare at them for a minute then sit down on the bed. I rest the pad
against my drawn up knees and my hand starts sketching before my brain even registers what I’m doing. It’s just something to stop me from climbing the walls until I can get some
answers. I liked drawing in that old world. I quickly realise I’m pretty good in this one too. The movement of my hand as the pencil crosses the page, quick and fluid, makes me feel calmer
inside. I draw the house on the hill as I remember it, filling in all the details like the old tyres and Des’s precious shed. Then I draw the school but with a cartoon curvy version of Miss
Lovett standing outside it, hand on her hip and blowing a kiss. This makes me smile for what must be the first time since I came round.
Then I draw the newsagent’s that Amil’s mum and dad owned, crammed with magazines and newspapers and rows and rows of sweets. There’s a distinctive sign with swirly writing
that says The Sweet Stop . It’s so clear in my mind, I can picture it exactly. It’s so weird to think I’ve never been there. How can this be someone else’s memory and
not mine? It’s insane. Then something else comes to me. The shop is called that because it’s right next to a train station! I close my eyes for a minute and a whole series of images
flit across my mind. I can see a war memorial in the shape of a cross. And then a sign appears as vividly as though someone has shown me a photograph.
It says, Welcome to Brinkley Cross .
My heart starts to pound and I swallow hard. This is it, this is where the boy came from and where all my fake memories were made. Maybe I can go back there and find out who he was. And that
might be a step towards finding out who I am too. I think about Cavendish saying it would be dangerous. Would it be too risky to try?
The light bleeds out of the room but I sit there for ages, just thinking.
After a while, I lie down on the bed, letting my thoughts drift. I still feel really tired, even though I’m not taking the dodgy pills. But I feel as though there’s some vague plan
inside me now. I curl up and start imagining all sorts of daft things, like Amil’s mum and dad adopting me. I can almost taste those yummy pink sweets. I drift into sleep, dreaming about a
new life and starting again with real friends and a real family who love me. It’s warm and safe and I sigh deeply. Sunshine is sprinkling my face. I hear that little kid laughing again and a
woman with red hair is smiling up at me, her eyes full of love.
But then the dream shifts. Something’s wrong.
Pigface is here.
He’s a silhouette that slips across the walls and ceilings, sliding long and tall and then short and wide. The shape morphs and becomes huge on the wall, covering it in darkness. Something
glints and I see a knife.
Then a hand closes over my mouth. I wake up and open my eyes wide in shock. He’s really here. And he’s come to get me.
‘C ome on, Cal,’ he says and slaps my cheek lightly. But it’s not Pigface. It’s Beardy.
I immediately struggle and try to throw him off, but he touches a small piece of paper under my nose and my limbs go feathery light. I can’t speak or move anything but I’m yelling
inside. He drags me into an upright position.
Another nurse I vaguely recognise comes in with a laundry trolley. Between them, they crumple me awkwardly inside it and cover me with sheets. It smells of sweat and something
although I don’t really know what I’m looking for. It’s just something to do while I try to think. He was very keen for me to be taking those pills, but what was in them? I think
they were stopping me from being alert. I need my wits about me.
I pull out another drawer. The first two were empty but the bottom one contains a pad of lined paper and an old pencil. I stare at them for a minute then sit down on the bed. I rest the pad
against my drawn up knees and my hand starts sketching before my brain even registers what I’m doing. It’s just something to stop me from climbing the walls until I can get some
answers. I liked drawing in that old world. I quickly realise I’m pretty good in this one too. The movement of my hand as the pencil crosses the page, quick and fluid, makes me feel calmer
inside. I draw the house on the hill as I remember it, filling in all the details like the old tyres and Des’s precious shed. Then I draw the school but with a cartoon curvy version of Miss
Lovett standing outside it, hand on her hip and blowing a kiss. This makes me smile for what must be the first time since I came round.
Then I draw the newsagent’s that Amil’s mum and dad owned, crammed with magazines and newspapers and rows and rows of sweets. There’s a distinctive sign with swirly writing
that says The Sweet Stop . It’s so clear in my mind, I can picture it exactly. It’s so weird to think I’ve never been there. How can this be someone else’s memory and
not mine? It’s insane. Then something else comes to me. The shop is called that because it’s right next to a train station! I close my eyes for a minute and a whole series of images
flit across my mind. I can see a war memorial in the shape of a cross. And then a sign appears as vividly as though someone has shown me a photograph.
It says, Welcome to Brinkley Cross .
My heart starts to pound and I swallow hard. This is it, this is where the boy came from and where all my fake memories were made. Maybe I can go back there and find out who he was. And that
might be a step towards finding out who I am too. I think about Cavendish saying it would be dangerous. Would it be too risky to try?
The light bleeds out of the room but I sit there for ages, just thinking.
After a while, I lie down on the bed, letting my thoughts drift. I still feel really tired, even though I’m not taking the dodgy pills. But I feel as though there’s some vague plan
inside me now. I curl up and start imagining all sorts of daft things, like Amil’s mum and dad adopting me. I can almost taste those yummy pink sweets. I drift into sleep, dreaming about a
new life and starting again with real friends and a real family who love me. It’s warm and safe and I sigh deeply. Sunshine is sprinkling my face. I hear that little kid laughing again and a
woman with red hair is smiling up at me, her eyes full of love.
But then the dream shifts. Something’s wrong.
Pigface is here.
He’s a silhouette that slips across the walls and ceilings, sliding long and tall and then short and wide. The shape morphs and becomes huge on the wall, covering it in darkness. Something
glints and I see a knife.
Then a hand closes over my mouth. I wake up and open my eyes wide in shock. He’s really here. And he’s come to get me.
‘C ome on, Cal,’ he says and slaps my cheek lightly. But it’s not Pigface. It’s Beardy.
I immediately struggle and try to throw him off, but he touches a small piece of paper under my nose and my limbs go feathery light. I can’t speak or move anything but I’m yelling
inside. He drags me into an upright position.
Another nurse I vaguely recognise comes in with a laundry trolley. Between them, they crumple me awkwardly inside it and cover me with sheets. It smells of sweat and something
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