Page 12

12

NDA

The house is finally quiet.

It’s later than I anticipated, but it’s given me time to prepare.

Not prepare . That sounds like I’m about to make home-made soup.

It’s given me time to premeditate. To strategize. To scheme.

Yes, I like scheme. That’s the right word for it. For Operation TraumaLand.

I’m pretty certain my family are asleep now. Mum and Dad like to go to bed by ten. Mum read in some self-help book that it makes you more emotionally stable. I would try it, but you can’t become emotionally stable without emotions to stabilise. Therefore I am resolved that not sleeping before 2 a.m. is fine for me.

I snuck up to the kitchen half an hour ago to eat the leftover sausages Dad left for me in the oven and all the lights were off. I could hear Lucas in his bedroom on FaceTime to Ingrid and I left a message in the family WhatsApp group saying that if anyone wants me, they should text first because I need a good night’s sleep after today. Mum replied with love heart emojis, Dad a thumbs up and Lucas said sleep well, bro . We love you .

I waited at the top of the cellar stairs and listened through the door until the muffled sound of footsteps and toilet flushes finally stopped. They won’t come down now until morning. My door is bolted shut.

Everything is set and ready.

I close my laptop, the screen still displaying my Google search for TEAR Solutions. I found nothing. Except a website for an American health company that sells medicine to people who have a condition called ‘dry eye’ because, get this: they lack the ability to produce tears, and the medicine helps them cry . Yes, I know what you’re about to say. That would have come in useful for you in your trauma exorcism this morning, wouldn ’ t it? Well, all I can say is irony can be such a bitch. But it doesn’t matter. My family are convinced that I’m fixed. For now.

After my googling, I concluded that TEAR Solutions must provide therapy. Melinda said that Lucas might find all this difficult, but I hadn’t realised just how difficult. He’s been away at uni so I didn’t notice. I feel bad that he’s been struggling.

Well, I don’t. But you know what I mean.

I take his driver’s licence and shove it into my Adidas backpack, along with my phone and bank card and a marker pen for my costume, where I’ve already strategically – no, schemingly (if it’s not a word, it should be) – placed them. What did the TraumaLand website say? Payment by bank card only . I can only hope eighty-three pounds is enough for whatever’s waiting for me there. Fingers crossed, a whole new personality.

One thing’s for certain – I’m about to find out.

I catch sight of the photograph of my family I found in the attic, which I’ve placed on my nightstand. Never forget . I take it and shove it down into the side of my sock, then go to the window.

It’s just big enough for me to get out of. I’ve done it before.

I unlock the handle.

When I lift the pane of glass, the cold night air makes me shudder. Using my chair to stand on, I shove my backpack through the gap, then stick my head out so my chin presses into the grass. I push myself up, my feeble arms trembling under the strain, until my feet follow and I’m crouching in Mum’s newly planted pansies. Trying not to crush them, I lower the grid, wedging it with a rock so it stays slightly open.

When it’s secure, I blow a kiss to my cellar. It feels like something I’d do in the film version of my life and a small part of me does wonder if I’ll ever see it again. I then sling my backpack over my shoulder.

This is easy . Turns out I’m very good at getting out of windows.

Hugging the rhododendron bushes, I tiptoe down the path, watching the front of the house. Mum and Dad’s room is dark behind their William Morris curtains, exactly as it should be. Nothing to worry about.

I head up the hill towards the bus stop, where I wait for the 43.

It’s very cold and I’m not wearing much. Why, you ask? Well, tonight I’m dressed as Regan MacNeil.

Dress appropriately .

I found some green contact lenses I was saving for Halloween and drew on thick black eyeliner to make them really pop. I then fashioned a nightgown out of a bed sheet, poured green paint down the front of it (for the sick) and rubbed black charcoal on my teeth from my art set. It tastes bitter as anything but looks absolutely brilliant. Sadly, I didn’t have a wig.

Regan’s face is ghostly white and she’s pretty much hairless, but don’t underestimate her.

Tonight, she is ready. Tonight, she is ready to go to a place she knows well.

Hell.

I’m freezing my bollocks off. The night bus is like a moving fridge and Regan’s gown isn’t doing much to protect me from the cold. I could feel something damp on the seat through the thin cotton so now I’m sitting on my bag. I won’t question why the seat is damp. Never question that.

‘ Alight here for London Bridge .’

I press the bell, pull my bag over my shoulders and make my way to the doors. As they hiss open, I wave at the driver. He blinks, clearly thinking yet another freak . I get out my phone, open Google Maps, then push on down the pavement.

I hug my arms around me, avoiding the prying eyes of strangers. There are loads of nutters in London so I briefly wonder why I’m attracting attention. I guess with the backpack I look a little like a small, skinhead devil child on its way to small, skinhead devil school. (God, I wish that existed.)

TraumaLand is not easy to find. I keep circling back on myself beneath the arches of the bridge as the trains rattle above, Google Maps insistent that I’ve reached my destination. I pass the same couple for the third time, pressed up into a corner of a wall, seemingly eating each other’s faces off.

Time is ticking.

‘Hello!’ I shout to the Face Eaters. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’ The male one peels his mouth from the female one. He turns to me, head lolling, eyes glazed, completely … high? ‘Dude…’ he says slowly. ‘What the hell…?’ OK, yep, definitely high.

‘Hello, dude.’ I don’t suit saying that, but want to appear relatable. ‘Can you please tell me where Feral Street is? I’m a little lost.’

He squints. ‘What the fuck are you?’

‘I am no one,’ I say politely. (Regan says that in the film. Well, the devil does, through her.)

‘Whoa…’ he mumbles. ‘That’s so deep. For a second, I thought you were my nan. She looked exactly like you the day she died.’

Aw, I like this guy.

The girl taps him on the shoulder. ‘ Don ’ t encourage it ,’ she whispers. ‘It might put a curse on us.’

I wish. ‘OK, not to worry!’ I say. ‘Have a nice evening, Face Eaters.’

The man whispers to the girl. ‘Hayley, this thing is so real. In more ways than one.’

She shakes her head. I think she might be less high. Her eyeline drifts to something behind my head. ‘You mean there?’ she says, pointing.

I turn to see a small archway in the brick wall with a sign above it, barely visible.

FERAL STREET

Yes, I do mean there, Hayley. ‘Thank you,’ I start to say, but she’s back to dining out on High Man’s face.

I step towards the archway. Well, hello.

It appears Feral Street isn’t actually a street. It is, in fact, a narrow brick passageway with little doors and wall-mounted lamps running down either side. A low fog has gathered in the entrance, which is … eerie as fuck.

I love it .

I keep my eyes on the doors as I move quickly along the cobbles. It’s deserted, save a pissed clubber necking a blue WKD. As I pass, he gives me a wide berth, saying, ‘Bro, the asylum is that way.’

Big flirt.

I stop as a particular door catches my eye: white and covered in faded graffiti. Block lettering, skulls, tags, colourful swirls, all blending together into one washed-out confusion. On top of the graffiti, painted in neon pink, is something that is very hard to miss.

A rush shudders through my body. A thrill. Adrenaline.

Yes. Yes .

A hell rabbit.

The paint drips down to merge with two words, filling me with so much promise.

Feel alive .

I’d like to, door. I really would.

What now? Maybe knock? That seems like the appropriate thing to do.

‘Hello.’

I spin round to see a man inches away from me. There’s a gaping gash across his face, oozing blood. I reach for my rucksack to get my phone and call an ambulance because he definitely looks like he needs one.

‘Let me guess,’ he says casually, pointing to my pale face. ‘Uncle Fester.’

‘Um…’ His gash shines in the lamplight. It looks … syrupy. Oh, I see. Dress appropriately . Wow, that’s realistic. ‘Almost. I’m Skinhead Regan.’

‘Oh, niche.’ He puts his hands into the pockets of his long, dark trench coat. ‘Love it.’

‘Thanks. What about you?’

‘Roadkill.’ He tilts his head and lolls out his tongue. ‘Hit by a truck. Didn’t make it.’ Interesting. A lot of road trauma for one day.

‘It looks very real.’

‘I do all my own prosthetics,’ he says proudly. He seems older than I’d initially thought. Pushing thirty, well spoken, clean-shaven beneath the spatters of blood.

‘Nice.’ I glance down at my bed sheet. ‘Mine was a bit … rushed.’

He narrows his eyes and steps towards me. ‘Have you been here before?’

I can smell the glue holding the gash on to his skin. ‘Nope. First time.’

He nods and a spark of something mischievous, almost wicked, appears in his eyes. ‘Hmm. Curious.’ Is it? ‘People get really into it. You’ll see.’

Nonchalance is key. ‘Yeah? Can’t wait.’

‘This place isn’t easy to find.’ I said that. ‘But once you do find it, it’ll stay with you forever.’

‘So,’ I say, like this is all completely ordinary. ‘What now?’

He pauses. His eyebrows are thick with blood. ‘What do your instincts tell you?’

They tell me to go to any lengths to feel again . But I won’t say that.

‘Would you go to any lengths to feel again?’

I shrug like I hadn’t considered it. ‘Yeah, sure. I mean, why not?’

He smiles. ‘Then let’s go inside.’

Yes, I agree, Roadkill Man. But how?

He stares at me like I know what to do. ‘I don’t know—’

‘What do your instincts tell you?’ he repeats.

I won’t say that my instincts told me to just knock on the door because I have a feeling that’s not the correct answer and I’m going to look stupid if I say it. Maybe I should say something mysterious and intriguing like my instincts told me to sa y TraumaLand three times, spin round, draw blood with a knife and smear it all over—

Oh, OK, so he’s knocking on the door. ‘Pretty simple,’ he says as he raps three times.

‘That’s what my instincts told me,’ I say quietly.

‘Follow them,’ he whispers, his eyes fixed on the bunny. ‘Like the rabbit.’ A smile creeps across his face. ‘Trust your gut. Down the hole we go.’

I hear the noise of a key in a lock, then the door begins to creak open. A woman peers through the gap.

‘Yes?’ she says flatly.

‘We want to go down the rabbit hole,’ the man says.

The woman looks us both up and down. ‘Are you together?’

‘No,’ he says quickly.

The woman glances down the alleyway. She must be about fifty. Hair pulled back in a neat bun, stern features. ‘Right, you first.’ She points to Roadkill Man, then widens the gap.

‘See you down there, I hope,’ he says as he disappears.

The woman looks at me. ‘Wait here.’ She closes the door.

I dig my toes into the cobbles to try and keep myself warm. I’m not freaked out, by the way. I have no fear. But logically I feel – well, not feel – I am becoming increasingly aware that something might be a bit off here.

‘Skinhead Regan?’ The woman’s head reappears.

It startles me. Slightly. ‘Me?’

‘You see any other Skinhead Regans out here?’

Good point. I step through the gap into near blackness. It smells like mildew and I hear the low thrum of a noise, a beat, below my feet.

A torch clicks on. The woman is now standing in front of a wooden lectern with a slanted top covered in sheets of paper. She opens what appears to be a ledger, licks her finger and turns the page. ‘ID,’ she says.

I pull my backpack off and root around until I find the small, shiny driver’s licence.

She takes it from my hand and studies it, squinting into the torchlight. ‘Name?’

‘Lucas Arthur Pew.’

‘How old are you, Lucas?’

‘Twenty.’

She glances up at me. ‘You look different.’

She knows . I need to say something charming. Something witty. ‘That was before I lost my mind.’

The woman pauses. Then the corners of her lips turn up into a tiny smile. She hands the driver’s licence back. ‘You’re funny.’ She looks back down at the lectern and begins to scribble with a pen. ‘Come here,’ she says sharply, the smile gone. ‘You need to sign this.’

‘What is it?’

‘An NDA.’

‘A what?’

‘A non-disclosure agreement.’

Oh, I’ve heard of those. They’re what important people make less important people sign so they can’t tell anyone things. Things they’ve done to them – typically something horrendous. Stops them telling the truth, basically.

‘Sure,’ I say.

She keeps the torch pointed at the lectern so I can read the words.

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT

TRAUMALAND

I, The Receiving Party, named LUCAS ARTHUR PEW, hereby agree not to disclose anything witnessed or experienced in TRAUMALAND. This refers to any and all third parties, including via the use of social media, talking to the press, people in the public eye, or any medical professionals. I understand that breach of this contract will result in appropriate action taken by TRAUMALAND LTD, which they will determine as they see fit: action may include banning, lawsuits, or financial reparations. At TRAUMALAND, secrecy is key to safety.

All responsibility for any physical, emotional, or psychological damage occurred shall remain entirely mine.

I have full capacity to make the decision to enter. My state of mind is not impaired by the influence of drugs or alcohol, nor do I have any mental health illness (to my knowledge) that may compromise my judgement. I have not been forced, nor am I experiencing any blackmail or external control. The choice is made by me and me alone.

I enter TRAUMALAND out of my own free will and desire.

Signed:

I look up at her. ‘Is this legally binding?’

Her voice is quiet, but each word she utters is crystal clear. ‘You don’t want to mess with these people. Believe me, Lucas.’

My instincts are a little conflicted, I must admit. But, hey. Feel alive .

I press the pen into the paper and sign Lucas’s name.

‘OK,’ the lady says. ‘Phone.’ She holds out her hand.

‘Sure.’ I hate my phone anyway. I reach into my bag and take it out, along with my bankcard. ‘Is there an entry fee?’

‘No,’ she replies. She opens a drawer in the lectern. I glance down to see it’s filled with phones. She puts mine inside, on top of the others. Just before she closes it, I see one I recognise. Purple. Stickers all over.

Nisha’s. Nisha is here .

‘I need to search you. Backpack, please.’ I hand her my bag and she roots through it, the torch between her teeth. She then drops it on to a pile of other bags. ‘You can pick it up when you leave. Arms up,’ she says, her words muffled by the torch.

She proceeds to pat me down through my makeshift nightgown. My thoughts begin to speed up, jumping from one to the other: Nisha, Lucas, TEAR Solutions, the photograph – still in my sock. I start to feel dizzy as the blood churns in my brain. I can hear it slushing between my ears. I’m about to ask if I can sit down when—

‘All done.’

She missed the photograph.

She takes the torch from her mouth and points it into the darkness behind me. At the end of the tiny, brick-walled room is an alcove. ‘In there.’

Right. Right . I begin to follow the shaft of light, trying not to sway as I do.

‘Oh, and Lucas?’

I turn, squinting into the torchlight. ‘Yeah?’

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for here.’

I hope so too or I don ’ t know what I ’ m going to do to continue on in this world feels a bit much. So I just say, ‘Thank you.’

‘Follow the staircase down to the bottom. Be careful not to trip. You’ll reach a door. Everything will make sense when you go through it.’

I nod. ‘Great.’

I do exactly as she says. As I begin to step slowly down the twisting stairwell, her words echo in my mind. Everything will make sense .

Nothing makes sense.

Through the door is a small room with a bar at one end. A three-headed woman sits at the counter. Next to her is Snow White, drinking a Martini, having vomited blood all down the front of her dress. Beside Snow White is Pennywise, the murderous clown from IT , eating a bag of salted peanuts. In the centre of the room are twelve circular tables. Freddie Krueger sits at one of them, doing a crossword. Ghostface from Scream is here. And the Babadook. Alex DeLarge from A Clockwork Orange , drinking a glass of milk.

There are evil dolls too – JIGSAW, Chucky and Annabel – all sitting silently together, while M3GAN dances around them to the slow, jazzy elevator music that’s playing from invisible speakers.

Oh my God. Is that … Jason? Jason Voorhees is here . I’m in the same room as Jason Voorhees, who’s doing a sudoku in the corner, smiling to himself behind his mask.

Well, holy shit. Melinda was wrong. This is my tribe. These are my people.

I look for Roadkill Man and find him sitting with the girl from The Ring . She keeps having to part her long black hair to take sips of her cocktail through a straw. I put my hand up to him. Hi . He sees me and reciprocates. You made it .

The room is lit with candles: on the tables, on antique-glass wall mounts and chandeliers. The wall to the right of the bar is covered in a deep red curtain.

I don’t see Nisha.

Behind the bar is a small man in his late twenties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He is very slight, his baggy white T-shirt tucked into a little waiter’s apron. He looks up at me, smiles and beckons me over.

‘What you having, pal?’ I notice a slight accent. Northern. Scouse.

‘Sorry?’

‘What would you like to drink?’

Well, this could be fun. ‘Um… Triple vodka coke, please.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘We don’t serve alcohol. There are plenty of other places you can get that.’

‘Oh, right.’ I glance at Snow White’s Martini.

‘Mocktail,’ he says. ‘We get our kicks differently here.’

I look at the name badge pinned to his apron. CASIMIR. Something about him is familiar. I swear I’ve seen him before. Maybe he’s an actor and this is his part-time job to pay the bills. They do that, don’t they, actors? Come to think of it, he does look like the kind of guy that’d die first in a horror movie. ‘Do you do cranberry juice?’

Casimir smiles. ‘Now you’re talking my language.’

As he busies himself putting ice in a glass, I scan my eyes around the room. It all feels slightly … not what I expected. Everyone looks – well, bored .

‘Here you are.’ Casimir hands me the drink.

‘Thanks. How much?’

‘This one’s on me, pal.’

‘You sure?’

He nods. ‘Save your money for the good stuff.’ He then picks up a dishcloth and goes back to work.

I lean forwards slightly over the bar. ‘Casimir?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, head down.

I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Is this it, then?’

He looks up. ‘What do you mean, pal?’

‘You know…’ I try to sound nonchalant. ‘So, this is… This is TraumaLand ?’

‘ This? ’ He smiles. ‘No, my friend. This is the holding area.’ His eyes move to the clock on the wall. ‘Three minutes, then you’re in.’

Holding area. Interesting . ‘Oh! Right. Yes, of course. I forgot.’

He folds his arms, not buying it. ‘First time?’

‘Um… Yeah.’

He winks. ‘Hold on to your bollocks.’

‘Will do!’ I plaster on a big fat smile.

He stares at me for what feels like far, far too long. ‘Yeah,’ he says quietly. ‘You’re in the right place.’

I sip my cranberry juice, counting to sixty three times. When I’m done, nothing happens. I must have been off, damn it. But then I hear the tinkling of a bell. I turn to see the red curtain open.

Behind it is another door. But this one is iron. Bolted shut.

People begin to stand, remaining completely silent. A queue forms and I join it, right behind Nurse Ratched and Harley Quinn. Casimir steps out from behind the bar.

‘It’s time to feel.’ He pulls the bolt and the door opens. ‘Welcome to your worst nightmare. Welcome to TraumaLand.’