Havoc by Jane Higgins Page A

into Sol’s room—what used to be Sol’s room. It was all packed up: bare walls,
stripped-down bed, toys crammed into boxes. Next door, Fyffe’s room hadn’t been packed
yet, but it was almost as sparse as if it had been. There was a bed with a white
coverlet, a white wooden desk and chair and a sky-blue rug on the floor, her single
concession to colour. It wasn’t how I remembered it. The frills and clutter were
gone: no plumped up duvet and cushions, no basket overflowing with the soft toys
she’d had when she was a kid, no dresser crowded with girl stuff. Fy had grown up
and grown serious in a hurry.
    Lou’s room was tidy and packed, which felt completely wrong. I’d never seen it tidy.
I wanted to go in there and toss clothes out of their carefully stacked boxes, mess
up the sheets folded on top of the bed and open every drawer and door.
    Every door.
    I had a thought, went in and heaved aside the desk. Behind it in the wall was a small
metal door. It looked like an ordinary cupboard door with a simple elock: type in
the code and you’d expect it to pop open. But it wasn’t a simple elock. I knew, because
I made it.
    Lou had wanted a place that, short of a stick of dynamite or a hacksaw, no one could
get into. ‘For what?’ I asked. ‘Stuff,’ he said. I’d made him an elock with a disguised
thumbprint scan that responded to his prints. He tried it out and gave a whoop when
he discovered how it worked. ‘You’re a born spook,’ he said. ‘I always said so.’
    I made it to respond to my thumb as well, just to see if I could, but I’d never used
it. I used it now, and the little door sprang open. Lou’s stuff fell out. Nothing
earth-shattering: a folded wad of cash, a spare phone, some pages of song lyrics
he was working on with lots of crossings out and doodles in the margins, his favourite
guitar pick, a photograph of him and Bella at a clandestine zombie party. They stared
out at me, heads together, grinning like maniacs with stupid fake blood dripping
from their lips and eyes and pretend head wounds.
    â€˜Hey you.’ Lanya crouched at my elbow.
    â€˜Hey.’
    She touched my cheek. ‘You’re crying.’
    I wiped my face on my sleeve. ‘Thinking.’
    â€˜Is that what you call it. All right. Thinking. Was this your friend’s room?’
    â€˜Lou. Yeah.’
    â€˜What’ve you found?’
    â€˜Just some of his stuff. And this.’ I handed her a black leather cardholder.
    She flicked it open and smiled slowly. ‘An ID? Your ID! I thought you lost it when
your school was bombed.’
    â€˜I did. This one’s fake.’
    She peered at it. ‘Oh, yes. Look, you’re twenty-one years old.’ She sat back on her
heels and ran her thumb over the photo. ‘You and Lou and the nightlife?’
    â€˜Me and Lou and, yeah, the nightlife, such as it was. His should be in here too.’
I fished about in the safe and found it.
    â€˜Any chance Sandor looks like Lou?’ she said, holding it up. ‘Nope. Wrong colour.’
    â€˜How is he?’
    â€˜Asleep. It’s proper sleep too, not that creepy drifting in and out and eyes rolling
back in his head. I woke him just now and he grouched and drank some water and dozed
off again.’
    â€˜Good.’ I looked at her face, quiet and grave in the fading light. ‘How are you?’
    She smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘Hard to know. Here I am in the city at
last, and I nearly got shot today, and Sandor did get shot, and I knifed a security
agent, and I’ve broken into this—’ she looked around, ‘—this palace on the riverfront
with someone who—’
    She stopped and looked at me. ‘There’s a you in this city that I haven’t met before.
You’re more at home here than you know.’
    â€˜I am not.’
    â€˜No?’ Her eyebrows shot up and she smiled a