wearing off. It’s almost a high-pitched whine that only I can hear; an angry mosquito in my ear.
‘Well, it does hurt a bit, to be honest,’ I admit.
Tom goes to the van and comes back with tablets. ‘Swallow these and then eat something.’
I gulp the bitter tablets back with some lukewarm water from a plastic bottle.
We sit on a fallen-down tree and Tom produces tuna sandwiches and warm cans of Coke. I start wondering if 2024 is any different at all and then I remember I have a dirty great computer chip
inside my brain that shows people my darkest, deepest secrets. I stuff in my sandwich to distract myself, barely pausing to swallow.
‘Easy now,’ says Tom, but I ignore him and stuff the remains of it down before giving a ripe and satisfied burp.
‘Feel better for that?’ he asks with a mischievous grin.
The painkillers are starting to dull the pain already and I’m feeling almost half decent. A smile tickles my mouth. ‘Blinding, thanks,’ I say.
Tom laughs and then he burps too, even louder than mine.
Nathan swoops his eyes disgustedly, which just makes Tom laugh harder. It’s like Nathan is Dad and Tom is the cheeky teenager, even though there’s probably only a few years between
them.
‘I think it’s about time we —’ sniffs Nathan.
But Tom, suddenly serious, cuts him off with a harsh, ‘Shhh!’, his finger to his mouth. There are two sides to him, I can see, and the professional one kicks in effortlessly.
Both men go absolutely still.
‘I heard something,’ murmurs Tom.
Then I hear it too.
A faint snapping of branches is coming from somewhere behind us.
Without saying another word, Nathan runs to the back of the van and I hear the clang of the doors slamming closed after he clambers inside. Tom grabs the evidence of our lunch and stuffs it into
a carrier bag.
‘Quickly, Cal, get in,’ he says sharply.
The back of my neck prickles with anxiety. We clamber in and Tom starts the engine before I’ve even closed my door. The tyres screech as we pull away from the lay-by.
‘What was it?’ I say.
Tom checks the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m not sure, but could be cats,’ he says grimly.
Somehow I’m guessing this isn’t the kind of moggies I’m familiar with.
I open my mouth to ask more and then something flashes in front of the car. Tom swears and we brake suddenly. I’m violently jerked forwards and the seatbelt bites into my shoulder.
Something slams into my side window and I gasp, looking into the face of a young Indian man, his eyes bulging with terror and his face bloody and scratched. His clothes are ripped and purple
bruises and small red scabs spot his arms.
He seems to mouth the word ‘help’ and tries to open my door but I hear Tom clunk the central locking.
I spin to look at him and see a hard set to his face.
‘He needs our help!’ I yell but Tom just pulls away in a screech of tyres. I look in the wing mirror and see a pack of dogs emerging from the bushes with several men in black
uniforms. The man crouches in the road and the dogs set upon him like he’s a juicy bone.
‘Why didn’t you help him?’ I shout.
Tom stares stonily at the road ahead. ‘I couldn’t, Cal,’ he says quietly. ‘He was beyond help. We’d only have drawn attention to ourselves. It might have meant you
being captured again. Do you understand?’
I nod, reluctantly. I’m shaking all over and can’t get the image of the man’s terrified face out of my head.
‘Who are those people? Are they police?’ I clench my good hand and try to breathe. The lunch I just bolted down feels like it might come right back up again.
‘More powerful than the police,’ says Tom. ‘They’re known as Counterinsurgency and Anti-Terrorism Squads, or CATS. It’s difficult to monitor some rural areas, so
they send in these CATS to sniff out terrorists. Or at least that’s what they say. Really they like to bully and intimidate residents. Black and Asian residents usually get
‘Well, it does hurt a bit, to be honest,’ I admit.
Tom goes to the van and comes back with tablets. ‘Swallow these and then eat something.’
I gulp the bitter tablets back with some lukewarm water from a plastic bottle.
We sit on a fallen-down tree and Tom produces tuna sandwiches and warm cans of Coke. I start wondering if 2024 is any different at all and then I remember I have a dirty great computer chip
inside my brain that shows people my darkest, deepest secrets. I stuff in my sandwich to distract myself, barely pausing to swallow.
‘Easy now,’ says Tom, but I ignore him and stuff the remains of it down before giving a ripe and satisfied burp.
‘Feel better for that?’ he asks with a mischievous grin.
The painkillers are starting to dull the pain already and I’m feeling almost half decent. A smile tickles my mouth. ‘Blinding, thanks,’ I say.
Tom laughs and then he burps too, even louder than mine.
Nathan swoops his eyes disgustedly, which just makes Tom laugh harder. It’s like Nathan is Dad and Tom is the cheeky teenager, even though there’s probably only a few years between
them.
‘I think it’s about time we —’ sniffs Nathan.
But Tom, suddenly serious, cuts him off with a harsh, ‘Shhh!’, his finger to his mouth. There are two sides to him, I can see, and the professional one kicks in effortlessly.
Both men go absolutely still.
‘I heard something,’ murmurs Tom.
Then I hear it too.
A faint snapping of branches is coming from somewhere behind us.
Without saying another word, Nathan runs to the back of the van and I hear the clang of the doors slamming closed after he clambers inside. Tom grabs the evidence of our lunch and stuffs it into
a carrier bag.
‘Quickly, Cal, get in,’ he says sharply.
The back of my neck prickles with anxiety. We clamber in and Tom starts the engine before I’ve even closed my door. The tyres screech as we pull away from the lay-by.
‘What was it?’ I say.
Tom checks the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m not sure, but could be cats,’ he says grimly.
Somehow I’m guessing this isn’t the kind of moggies I’m familiar with.
I open my mouth to ask more and then something flashes in front of the car. Tom swears and we brake suddenly. I’m violently jerked forwards and the seatbelt bites into my shoulder.
Something slams into my side window and I gasp, looking into the face of a young Indian man, his eyes bulging with terror and his face bloody and scratched. His clothes are ripped and purple
bruises and small red scabs spot his arms.
He seems to mouth the word ‘help’ and tries to open my door but I hear Tom clunk the central locking.
I spin to look at him and see a hard set to his face.
‘He needs our help!’ I yell but Tom just pulls away in a screech of tyres. I look in the wing mirror and see a pack of dogs emerging from the bushes with several men in black
uniforms. The man crouches in the road and the dogs set upon him like he’s a juicy bone.
‘Why didn’t you help him?’ I shout.
Tom stares stonily at the road ahead. ‘I couldn’t, Cal,’ he says quietly. ‘He was beyond help. We’d only have drawn attention to ourselves. It might have meant you
being captured again. Do you understand?’
I nod, reluctantly. I’m shaking all over and can’t get the image of the man’s terrified face out of my head.
‘Who are those people? Are they police?’ I clench my good hand and try to breathe. The lunch I just bolted down feels like it might come right back up again.
‘More powerful than the police,’ says Tom. ‘They’re known as Counterinsurgency and Anti-Terrorism Squads, or CATS. It’s difficult to monitor some rural areas, so
they send in these CATS to sniff out terrorists. Or at least that’s what they say. Really they like to bully and intimidate residents. Black and Asian residents usually get
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