The Girl Clay

  The Girl Clay

  by Amy Cross

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by ACBT Books

  First published: January 2015

  This edition first published: May 2016

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Part Eight

  Epilogue

  The Girl Clay

  Prologue

  Do you want to know what it feels like to get shot in the head?

  I'll tell you.

  There's no time for pain, not really: all you feel is the sensation of your skull being blown apart, of light bursting into the darkness of your head.

  You don't feel the bullet as it slices through your brain, but you feel the light. Your brain has always existed in complete darkness, but now it's exposed to the rest of the world. Trust me, that's when things get really strange: in a split second, your mind is flooded with a million billion sensations. You try to make sense of it, but the neurons simply can't fire fast enough.

  And all this time you're falling.

  There's still no pain.

  The front of your face has been destroyed. Your eyes are no more, but somehow you can still see: bright flashes of light, brighter than the brightest white you can imagine. It's as if your mind has expanded and contracted at the same time. Speaking of time: it's gone. There's nothing left, no sense of past and future, just the present exploding in your soul.

  And you're still falling.

  All the way down, until:

  You land on your knees.

  It occurs to you that maybe you should be screaming, but the thought soon passes. You turn your neck a little, just a fraction, as light continues to flood your freshly-exposed brain.

  What's left of it, anyway.

  Falling still.

  You open your mouth.

  Blood comes gushing out, as if some unknown force is pushing it from your body as fast as possible.

  Your knees are on the cold floor, but you still feel as if you're falling.

  You are.

  You're tumbling forward into the brightest, more brilliantly white darkness that has ever existed. Everything's disappearing now, and you have no idea how long it has been since the bullet hit:

  One millisecond?

  One minute?

  One whole lifetime?

  Finally you realize that your body is gone. You try to find it, to flex your fingers or open your mouth, but there are simply no connections. After falling for so long, you start lifting up into the white void. You don't know where you're going, but you have a very strong sense that someone's up there waiting for you as the whiteness just fills your soul and then explodes into an infinite number of points. Trust me, it's the most liberating, most freeing feeling in the world, and there's still no pain.

  Okay, so that's what it's like to die from a gunshot blast to the head. Next, I'll tell you what it's like to burn to death.

  PART ONE

  Ten years ago

  Beatrice came down to the bottom of the garden today, which is sad.

  I liked Beatrice.

  She's been ill for a while, though, so it wasn't a huge surprise. I overheard the others talking about how she was 'living on borrowed time' and 'fighting so bravely', and although none of the grown-ups actually told me what was wrong, I had no trouble joining the dots together.

  Cancer again.

  She's hardly the first person who's died at the hospital, even though it's not really the kind of hospital that's designed for sick people. She told me once about the doctors she met at the other hospital, the ones who tried to pump her full of chemicals. She hated them, and eventually she refused to see them anymore and she came here instead. She said she knew her time would be up soon and that she wanted to die with a little dignity. Mom told me that sometimes people just feel like that.

  The inevitability doesn't make it any less sad, though: she was always so talkative, and just yesterday I spent the whole afternoon sitting in her room while she taught me songs from her childhood. I guess I was hoping that somehow she might keep going for a little while longer. Maybe I even thought that if I hung out with her a little more, she'd feel better.

  But now she's down here at the bottom of the garden.

  So that's that.

  “Are you okay?” I ask as she reaches the edge of the small ornamental pond, just past the end of the lawn.

  She turns to me, and her eyes - old and scarred by the ravages of glaucoma - look more milky and lost than ever.

  “Don't worry,” I tell her. “Most people aren't okay when they come down here. I think it'd be better if Mr. Kenseth allowed everyone to talk about what happens, but he's got all these funny rules. Mom says I'm too young to understand and that she'll explain it when I'm older, but sometimes I think I understand better than she does. Is it bad of me to think that?”

  She stares at me, and I realize after a moment that maybe she hasn't recognized me yet. That happens sometimes when a person comes down here: it's as if their minds haven't quite had time yet to understand what's happening to them, as if they're still clinging to hope. They haven't accepted death.

  Mom says some people never do.

  “Do you want to teach me some more songs?” I ask, walking over and taking her hand in mine before leading her around the pond in a series of slow, faltering steps. She's so old, I don't want to hurry her. “Or I could sing the ones from yesterday again and show you how far I've got with memorizing them. It was kinda difficult, 'cause I -”

  Suddenly she stops and pulls her hand away, almost as if it hurts to touch me.

  “What's wrong?” I ask, turning to her.

  From the way she's staring at me, it's hard not to worry that something might be different this time. She should be showing some sign of recognition by now, but then again her memory was already a little off when she was alive, so maybe that tendency has continued. It's a shame if she's going to be like this for the short amount of time she has left.

  “Clay,” I remind her. “Clay from inside. I'm Susan's daughter.”

  “Clay,” she whispers, frowning a little as if maybe the name means something to her after all. “Susan.”

  “From inside,” I add, pointing at the hospital. “Remember?”

  She opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. When she turns to look across the garden, toward the hospital, I can tell that she doesn't quite know where she is. I don't blame her: with its carefully-tended flowerbeds and flat green lawn, the garden is like a kind of paradise.

  “I've been here for nearly two years,” I continue. “Mom... Well, it's Mom who wanted to come and live at the hospital, really, but there's nowhere else for me to go so I just sort of hang around. It's okay, though, Mr. Kenseth likes me more than he likes a lot of the other people here and it's not like I ever get bored. I mean, I'm the only one who isn't an adult, but I like spending time with people like you. Don't you remember teaching me those songs and watching T.V. in the sun room? This time yesterday we were laughing and having fun.”

  “Sun room?”

  “Just try a bit harder,” I tell her. “Please? It'll come to you if you concentrate.”

  She continues to stare at me for a moment, before a sudden moment of realization seems to dawn across her face.

  “Cl
ay,” she says hesitantly, before pulling her shawl tighter over her shoulders. “What... What happened?”

  “You've come down to the bottom of the garden,” I explain, taking her hand again so that we can resume our little walk around the pond. “Don't worry, it happens to everyone eventually. I guess it'll even happen to me one day. I always try to be down here to welcome people when they arrive, but I don't always manage it. Sometimes people die during the night, or it happens when I'm in class, or when Mom or Mr. Kenseth are talking to me, but most of the time I'm here. I just figure that someone should try to explain things. I mean, it must be pretty scary for you.”

  We stop for a moment, and I turn to look down into the pond, where large orange fish are swimming around. For a fraction of a second, one of them comes to the surface and seems to look at me, before going back down again. I wonder what he thought of me.

  “Clay,” Beatrice says cautiously, “I don't understand. How did I get here? I was just in my room, why... Why am I in my night dress?”

  “Because that's what you were wearing when you -”

  I catch myself just in time. I'm not certain, but I think it's better not to use certain words here. She might get scared.

  “No-one ever remembers the journey down here,” I continue. “Don't worry, it doesn't really matter. The journey's nothing, you just walked across the lawn, that's all. What matters is what you do now that you're down here, 'cause you've only got a certain amount of time. I guess that's one of the main things I need to make you understand, really. This isn't...” I pause as I realize that, once again, I'm struggling to explain the situation properly. “You should just enjoy being down here while you can, that's all. You never know what's just around the corner.”

  “I want to go back to my room,” she replies, trying to pull away from me.

  “No!” I say firmly, keeping hold of her hand and forcing her to stay with me. “That's not how it works!”

  “Let go of me -”

  “No!” I shout, yanking her back toward me. “You can't!”

  “Excuse me, young lady?” she continues, looking shocked. “I can assure you that at my age I've earned the right to do absolutely what I want, when I want, and I most certainly won't be pushed around by someone who's barely out of kindergarten!”

  “You don't understand!” I hiss. “Just let me explain it to you properly! There's a -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a faint rustling sound nearby, and I turn to see that there's movement in the bushes over by the wall. Immediately tensing, I realize that I'm being watched again. I don't know why the man insists on hiding in there, but he seems to be very interested in me, and sometimes he even tries to get me to talk. Most of the time, though, he just seems to want to stay in there and observe. I'm convinced that he'll come out one day, and that thought scares me because I don't know what he wants or whether he'll be alone.

  He's not like Mr. Kenseth, though. I'm pretty sure of that.

  “Will you let go of me,” Beatrice asks, “or do I have to call one of the attendants?” She pauses again. “I don't even remember why I was here in the first place. How long have I been in hospital?”

  “A while,” I tell her, “but you shouldn't worry.”

  “It's indecent for a woman of my age to be outside in her night dress,” she replies. “Someone might see me, I must go back inside at once.”

  “You can't,” I reply. “I'm the only one who can go back inside from the bottom of the garden.”

  “You're not making any sense,” she continues, sounding distinctly annoyed. “I don't know what kind of game you're playing, young lady, but I've just about had enough of your antics!”

  Suddenly I hear a voice in the distance, calling me from the hospital's back door.

  “Clay!” my mother shouts. “Clay, it's time! Clay, we need to get you ready for Mr. Kenseth!”

  “Stay here!” I tell Beatrice, letting go of her hand and rushing around to the other side of the pond, before stopping and looking back at her. In the pond between us, the fish seem a little more agitated than usual. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Just don't try to come back to the main building, and don't talk to the man who's hiding in the bushes. I promise I'll explain everything and it'll all make total sense, but right now, you just have to trust me!”

  Without waiting for her to answer, I turn and run across the lawn. I can't afford to be late for Mr. Kenseth. He's usually so nice and friendly, but the one thing that makes him angry is when he's kept waiting. And when he gets angry, he gets really angry.

  Today

  “Clay you bloody whore, where the hell have you been?”

  Hurrying past the gang of idiots huddled by the shop door, I make my way straight over to Carl. He's standing in his usual spot, directly beneath the light that illuminates this corner of the otherwise pitch black parking lot. I guess he doesn't have to worry about keeping out of sight, not with the reputation he's built up over the years: cops never come to this part of town unless there's a full-blown street war going on, and even then they tend to hang back and wait to clean up the aftermath. The only laws you can rely on out here and the ones you're able to enforce yourself.

  “Here,” I mutter, pulling the bundle of folded notes from my pocket and stuffing them into Carl's hands. “Two hundred, like we agreed.”

  “Woah,” he replies, “rewind. When did we agree what, exactly?”

  “Two hundred,” I repeat, trying not to sound too impatient. “Last week, remember?”

  “I don't remember shit from yesterday,” he replies with a grin, already counting the money, “let alone a week ago. I'll take your hard-earned cash, little lady, but you're gonna have to tell me what you're expecting in return. I'm not a mind reader, and the mall Christmas lights are kinda dazzling me, know what I mean?”

  “One bag.”

  “You've gotta be kidding me.”

  “It's the deal we made last week.”

  He lets out a snort of derision. Whenever he smiles, the scar on his left cheek becomes more visible.

  “You agreed!” I hiss. “Right here, one week ago, you said that if I could come up with a hundred quid by tonight, you'd let me have a ten ounce bag of super green. And it has to be the good stuff, too. That crap you gave me last week didn't do a damn thing. He'd have got a better buzz if he'd just taken a deep breath next to a drain.”

  “He?”

  “Just give it to me!”

  I wait for him to stop being dumb, but he's clearly in one of his moods.

  “Carl, please... You know I hate games. A deal's a deal, let's just get this over with.”

  “Why the hell would I agree to a deal like that?” he asks. “I'm not a charity, bitch, I'm a capitalist with a capital C, do you know what that means? It means that whatever you give me, I give you a little less in return every time. That's how I make my margins.”

  “Don't do this!” I say firmly. “It took me all week to get that money together!”

  He laughs.

  “I mean it!”

  “And how'd you do that? Tell me, Clay, are your knees sore?”

  “Go to hell,” I whisper.

  “Oh, sure,” he replies, “now I'm supposed to feel sorry for you. I'm not Santa, I don't give a shit whether you've been naughty or nice this year, and I don't give fucking gifts. You want what I've got, you pay the market rate and the market rate fluctuates. Don't you watch business news? The rate last week ain't the rate this week. The cost of doing business has risen and my prices have changed accordingly.”

  “That's bull!”

  He smiles.

  “You know it is!” I shout, trying not to let my desperation show. “You're just trying to cheat me!”

  “What did you say?” he snarls suddenly, grabbing me by the collar, spinning me around and slamming me face-first against the wall with enough force to rattle my fillings. “Do you know who the fuck I am?” he asks, leaning close to my ear. “I will fuck with whoever the fuck I want to fuck wi
th, and if one day I decide that it's gonna be you, your only fucking option is to bend over and practice your best smile. Who the fuck are you anyway, bitch? You don't talk to me like that!”

  “You know who I am,” I whisper, very much aware that in my desperation I probably went too far. I just get so angry sometimes, and I'm so cold I just want to get this over with so I can get the hell out of here.

  “I know what you are,” he replies. “You're a skinny little whore named Clay something or other. You've got pretty eyes, Clay, but that's about it, I don't see anyone paying for the rest of you.” He pauses for a moment. “Tell me, what's Clay short for, anyway?”

  “Nothing,” I grunt, trying to get free from his grip.

  “Nah, it's short for something. Come on. Clay... more? Clayton? Tell me and I might let you walk away from here without two broken fucking arms.”

  “I want ten ounces,” I tell him firmly, “and -”

  Before I can finish, he twists my arm so hard, I swear I can feel the bone bending almost to breaking point. I let out a cry of pain, and my whole body seems to be vibrating in anticipation of a snapping sensation.

  “Please,” I whimper, “don't hurt me...”

  “You've got some fucking nerve,” he hisses into my ear. “Coming here, making up all this bullshit about some deal we're supposed to have made, treating me like I'm a goddamn idiot. Why don't you try coming and showing me the respect I deserve, huh? Why don't you act humble, Clay, and remember that you're just one of a hundred fucking cockroaches that come crawling to me every day, begging for a fix?”

  I try to answer him, but the pain is too much and all I can do is gasp.

  “Fuck this,” he mutters finally, suddenly pulling me back and then shoving me to the ground.