Hybrids: Saga Competition Winner. David Thorpe

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       2. Exit From Nowheresville

      I watched Johnny with an amused smile as he reacted to being inside Papa’s vehicle: the smell of upholstered leather made supple with nap oil, the luxury of the satin cushions, the fridge containing energy drinks laced with spirulina and ginseng root. In short, a womb of mercy.

      I leant forward. “Dominic,” I told the driver. “We’re going to see Cheri.”

      He steered north across the river. I told Johnny not to worry. No one could see us through the tinted windows.

      To say he looked odd would be an understatement. It was shocking at first to see someone with no face; instead just a constantly shifting array of pixels obscuring his natural features. No eyes, no mouth, no nose. My mind conjured visions of how the rest of him might be transfigured.

      But I was getting used to it surprisingly quickly. His lanky ginger hair concealed the piteous details of the transition. I felt a surge of pity for him. I’d got off lightly by comparison.

      I liked how he used the screen to express his feelings in an ironic, witty way. When he’d removed his tube from the third bottle, a bloated smiley face appeared. I blew out my own cheeks and smiled back. I asked him if Johnny Online was his real name.

      “No, it’s something they gave me in a role-play game when I was eleven and it stuck after I got Creep. I don’t want to remember my real name. I’m not the same person any more, know what I mean?” His voice was like a train announcement and seemed to come from beneath his chin. He’d chosen one that was neutral, midtone, with only slight inflection, perhaps deliberately to make himself like a robot. He continued: “When Creep hit I was eleven but I didn’t catch it till I was twelve. I left home a year later.”

      I nodded. “Me too. But what a terrible story. You’re a Grey, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah,” he said proudly. “Don’t know how but I’ve managed to stay unregistered for two years. I’ve learnt how to keep my head down.”

      He reached in the fridge again and started on a strawberry yogurt. I couldn’t believe how hungry he was. I tried to see where the tube went—it seemed to disappear into his throat through a hole in his neck.

      “It must be terrible being a Grey,” I prompted.

      “It’s probably better than being a Red though. The Gene Police take them to the Centre for Genetic Rehabilitation and they’re never seen again.”

      The streets passed by outside: Russell Square, Camden High Street, all quiet. Dominic pulled over to let an armoured ambulance, its blue lights flashing, pass by. Johnny ducked instinctively.

      “I know I’ve lived a rather sheltered life,” I began hesitantly. For some reason I felt the need to apologise. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to be homeless…”

      I told him how I’d been protected by my parents’ money and status, and until recently lived a life of careless ignorance. Then I too got the plague and began to find out how awful the world could be.

      He listened to my story without comment. Then “Why pick me?” flashed on his screen with a picture of a blue face in a sea of yellow faces.

      “I found your blog on the net. I-I thought you might be able to help me.”

      “Help you what? Find a cure?!” he snorted and flashed up a cartoon of a detective with a giant magnifying glass, then smashed it with a hammer. I smiled.

      “No, that’s Papa’s company’s job. But I’ll tell you why later. First, we’re going in here. Dominic?”

      I’d timed it nicely. We were in West Hampstead and the car pulled up opposite a rambling, red-brick Victorian house with brown, smoked-glass extensions, surrounded by a few trees and a high security wall.

      “Where are we?” asked Johnny.

      “Don’t you know?” I was surprised. “It’s where they can help you.”

      “Hey. What makes you think I—”

      “Oh, I’m sure you can remain anonymous if you like. A troubled soul checking in briefly from out of the cold. This is Salvation House.”

      “No way,” he said petulantly.

      “Oh, come on, Johnny. This is a hospice. It’s run by my aunt. Everybody’s heard of it. It’s the most hybrid-friendly place in the country. The council’s always threatening to close it down but they can’t because there’d be a riot.”

      “Not interested,” he intoned in an annoying, flat voice. His screen had gone blank.

      “They’ll clean you up, give you a medical…” I sighed. I didn’t think he’d be like this. “Look at the state of you. You could die on the streets any day. The vigilante gangs, no money—”

      “I can look after myself.”

      He kept saying this until I got the message. But Sally House was so nice. It was cosy and right at the heart of the struggle for the rights of Creep victims. My Aunt Cheri treated it as her family, her cause. Her heart was as big as London. He’d no right to turn down my offer of help. It could only be because he didn’t know how marvellous it was. He registered my disappointment. His screen came alive again with a picture of wild mountains and clouds. A wolf howled at the sky. Was this how he really saw himself?

      “Very well,” I said coldly. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”

      “Home.”

      “Home?” I didn’t think he had a home.

      He gave the location to Dominic, who impassively restarted the engine and took the car away from West Hampstead, back, back towards the river.

      Johnny didn’t want to know what I wanted to ask him to do. I felt hurt by his lack of curiosity. I’d been wrong about him. He was perverse. Perhaps he was more machine than boy. There was no heart beating beneath his synthetic casing. He’d been claimed by the creeping inorganic world. No amount of care could warm a heart that didn’t exist.

      There was a sullen silence throughout the journey.

      I walked with him from the car along the side street. We were in a nowheresville, the anywhere of a 1930s suburban estate.

      It had seen better times; the hedges straggled, untrimmed. Grime sucked the colour from all surfaces. Lace curtains drifted, ragged and unwashed. Litter snagged in the weed-claimed flower beds. Grey pebbledashing, like an old mask, had fallen from walls to reveal the shame of naked brickwork.

      “You СКАЧАТЬ