Chapter 14 - Times Like These

1 year later...

Chapter 14 �" Times Like These

“Goodbye,” Mary said. She wasn't saying this to a person or an item, but a room.

Since April's death, she'd taken to sitting in April's room a lot of the time, when she needed to think or organise her mind.

April's room didn't have anything particularly interesting in. It wasn't covered in the typical teenager's posters and photos of April and her friends that Mary could look at whenever she went in it. It was just simple, and boring, and a little dull.

It was more the memories of seeing April in there that Mary liked. It just had a nice atmosphere; one that Mary could imagine April was still there living inside somehow.

But now, after a tiring year of condolences and 'I'm sorry' greetings cards, her and Blake had finally decided it was time to move on. They were retiring to a little cottage up North, where they could begin a new era of their lives called Doing Things That Old People Do. Activities included knitting, golf and walking extremely slowly.

As hard as it would be to leave, she was really looking forward to picking one place to settle in for the rest of her life. She'd had plenty of reasons to move from place to place before, never knowing when they would have to pack up and move April away from trouble. But, with her gone �" rest in peace �" Mary could live a simple life with Blake who she now got along much better with. All the disagreements from before had melted away, and they were acting like a couple of love-struck teenagers all over again. Poor choice of wording, she scolded herself, but the general idea was that she could remember what it was like to be in love again. She couldn't remember when she'd forgotten, but somewhere along the line she must have done.

Maybe a broken heart can be fixed after all.

“What are you painting, Gemma?” Sue asked with the enthusiasm of a child. “What is it you're painting?”

She beamed at her daughter. After their struggle, Gemma was finally getting back on track.

Her and Jim had adopted Gemma as a baby. They'd loved her like their own ever since, even though she was a clone. On Gemma's 16^th Birthday, she'd gone to the beach with her friend, April. On that disastrous day, both girls had been knocked over by the strong waves and hit their heads. Goodness knows why Mary, April's mum, had let them walk that far out to sea. April had died a few weeks later �" supposedly from brain damage �" whereas Gemma had been granted memory loss. Though tragic, they'd paid for Gemma to be given the best possible help.

Gemma now went to a special unit. They did lots of exercises with her to teach her how to move again. The people who ran it, though they'd never seen a case quite like Gemma's, had been fabulous. Within a month, Gemma had been reaching for things she wanted. Now, a year later, Gemma could feel herself, and had started to paint.

Gemma used to be really good at art, before the incident. She'd studied it at school: it had been her favourite subject. Now her painting was of a similar standard to that of a toddler, but any control of a paintbrush at all was a good sign. All Sue could make out was red splodges, with some black lines down the middle.

Talking was yet to come, but they hoped that she would begin to speak again in the next few months. That's what her vocal coach had informed them, any how.

Gemma turned round to look at them, then flashed them a huge smile, her squinted eyes never quite as bright as they had been before.

“Red boots,” Gemma said.

Words.

Words spoken in a voice both herself and Jim had missed so very much in the last year. A voice they had both secretly feared but never dared to admit that they would never hear again.

Like when a baby says his/her first ever words, Sue felt herself getting excited and emotional at the same time.

“Jim! Come and hear this!” she called, giddily. “Jim!” she repeated. Jim �" as commanded �" came over to where Gemma was painting.

“Gemma, what are you painting?” Sue said again, adapting her voice to sounds as pleasant as possible.

“Red boots,” Gemma said again, in a slightly hesitant, unsure manner. Jim gasped, then hugged his beautiful daughter.

“Well done, Gemma!” he cried, relieved that her normal self was in sight again. “Just think, Sue. A few more years and she'll be her old self again,” he sighed, in the best mood he'd been in for a year.

“I know,” Sue said, matching his high spirits. “I can't wait.”

The girl �" who had now ditched her old name of 5650 and adopted the flowing sound of 'Freya' which she'd seen on a movie poster when she'd got out �" ruffled her pixie cut which had began to grow for the first time in her life.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck even further. She now lived in the city.

She didn't know how she'd ended up there. She had no memory of anything before she'd turned 16.

She'd been discovered by police. They had investigated the laboratory, and she'd been found locked away in a side room. They'd had to drill her free from the metal bars that had imprisoned her for all her years. Not that she had any memory of these so-called 'metal bars'.

The police had informed her a lot about where she'd been kept, and she was extremely thankful she didn't remember any of it. Her deep scars suggested methods of torture. She wouldn't have liked to remember being tortured.

Somehow, the man who'd kept her had gotten away beforehand. He must have known they were coming and left, as they'd searched his research lab from top to bottom and found nothing. It had been completely empty apart from his work and herself.

Despite her memory loss, two things still remained in her hollow mind. She could remember a voice explaining something to her, but the voice had no face. Just a blur. She'd been utterly unhelpful when talking to the police, as she couldn't identify anyone as the criminal without her memory. The blurred face was talking about a girl, and how everyone thought she'd died because of him and his expiry date theory. But, in actual fact she'd died because she taken the capsule with her sister's blood inside �" keeping her alive �" out of her wrist, which had slowly set her body to 'self-destruct' mode. She had explained this to the police, but they simply told her that she'd been too traumatised to make any sense and that she should try to forget about the voice. If it progressed, it could be a sign of schizophrenia, they'd told her.

So, she'd tried to forget about that. The thing that had been the hardest to forget was an image. Not of the man, but of a piano. A big one. Grand. Black. Perfectly aligned keys, like teeth that had been packed in braces for several years. Every time the keys went down on the instrument, they made a distinct sound that made her wince and shudder whenever she heard it. Each key made a simplistic tap, tap tapping...

However, as this didn't make any sense to her either, she spent the majority of her time focusing on her future instead of her past, as this offered her many more opportunities and exciting things for her to begin participating in.

She'd been to see shows. Big, spectacular musicals with fantastic, glamorous people belting the notes at an impressive pitch, wearing glittery costumes, and only revealed when the draping red curtains slid to the sides of the stage.

She'd gone to the zoo. She'd experienced seeing tigers, elephants, monkeys, zebras... all greeting her in their own language; be it flapping their ears or trotting up close to the restricting fence.

She'd gone to see a movie. She'd sat in her seat with a large popcorn beside her and enjoyed the daring feeling of being in the dark.

She'd sat in the park, thanking someone from another generation's memorial for the wooden bench beneath her, with a magazine in her hand and had simply watched the world go by and the people passing.

She still had an awful lot yet to learn, however. She would still occasionally get shouted or tutted at for things like not joining queues she didn't know were queues and not leaving a tip in a restaurant; stuff you wouldn't know to do unless you'd been brought up being taught to do them.

She'd sometimes wondered about leaving the city. She felt like she'd always been meant for here. But, should she leave, would the city feel her leaving the way she would?Would it cry and weep, knowing that she'd left a tiny piece of herself within its borders? Would the locals feel as if one stranger was missing, or could she be replaced by just any passer-by?

Either way, she couldn't ever picture herself leaving without justification. She loved it here.

She loved everything �" even the detached neighbours, the pay-for-your-own-heart-attack meal deals, the walking fashion disasters, the endless string of homeless people, the twangy accents and the whole drive to do everything bigger and better than Britain �" despite the transportation system leaving a lot to be desired.

Freya had taken residence in a tiny, 1 bedroom apartment not too far from here. It didn't have much (not even a bed, she thought, as she was reminded of her bundle of mattresses that could only just pass as a futon), but after having gone through what she'd been told she'd gone through, a little was enough.

She'd actually just finished redecorating, and was rather impressed with the dark horse of an eye for interior decorating work that she'd never known she had.

She had painted all the walls a light 'off-white' colour, which added new dimensions to the room. It now seemed big, wide, and open. The wall between the kitchen and living room had been knocked down, leaving a large floor-boarded space with some smooth, silver topped counters lined for a modern feel, and a white L-shaped sofa perched around the corner of a fluffy white rug �" the type that you can run your fingers through the fake fur and it feels like the softness of an untrimmed kitten �" which had a big TV resting on top of it near the edge. In the middle of it lay a clear glass coffee table, on which Freya could never resist perching her feet against. The floorboards continued, as did the almost white walls, into her bedroom. The double mattress was outstretched in the centre, up against the feature wall which was a unique pattern of a black and white floral design. It was covered in white sheets and pillows that matched the fur of the aforementioned rug. On either side, a medium coloured wooden bedside table which was incredibly smooth sat with bright sunflowers in a glass vase on top. A full length mirror was pinned to the other wall, next to an overflowing wardrobe of bobbly jumpers and skinny jeans.

It was liveable, to say the least.

Freya swung round a corner and took a last, deep lungful of polluted air before joining the swarm of grotty passengers on a humid bus, currently resting on fourth street.

She was instantly bustled to the back, within a crowd who Freya could only assume had not had access to deodorant, body spray or anything at all antiperspirant for a long load of hours. Paired up with dodgy engine and the distant scent of greasy fries and heart-disease-in-a-box burgers �" a scent which stubbornly refused to hang around and hover anywhere else but the bottom of her nose �" the bus smelled far from the Body Shop.

She tried desperately hard to avoid touching the unsanitary, fingerprint smeared silver poles reaching from the cheap carpeted floors to the dented roof, but gave in after an unexpected stop �" releasing the lucky ones who'd reached their desired destination �" literally knocked her off her feet. Luckily, or not so, there were far to many people crammed in, and packed tightly like sardines for her to have actually fallen. She instead landed promptly into the arms of a stranger, and, after hastily apologising, picked up the remains of her punctured ego from his lap as her pride and dignity somehow managed to wriggle out of the vehicle. She fumbled around self consciously for a while afterwards, smoothing her cropped hair back into place. Now she just wanted to get off the sweaty little bus with its grunting, grumbling driver who surely couldn't be paid enough to make a living.

A man with an incredibly shiny forehead coughed in her face without catching the stray germs that had fled from his nostrils given the first opportunity to get away from them, then turned around before Freya could object and put on a disgusted facial expression by wrinkling her nose and curving her mouth. It wouldn't have been hard. Side stepping away from him, she found herself sandwiched between a teen with her headphones on, mouthing the words to what was most likely a song consisting entirely of screaming (by someone who would be in dire need of a Strepsil after a few minutes whilst scratching their voice box in Track 2), her black eye-liner smeared across her lids carelessly, and her head bobbing furiously along to the rhythm, flicking Freya's shoulder with her florescent purple hair which couldn't possibly be natural every time she did so. On her other side, a middle-aged woman with drawn on eyebrows was in a constant state of shouting at her son to Stop Playing On His Nintendo For Just One Second. The son stared at the screen obliviously, as if his mother were looking right past him and shouting someone else's name.

It seemed like another decade before the bus finally screeched to a halt, jolting all of the passengers and queueing them to all sway in unison from the impact. Freya hauled and dragged herself from the stuffy, metal and now stationary box, grateful to finally be free from sniffing the lady's hair who'd been in front of her.

As much as she'd discovered she hated the experience of public transport, she still loved her town and her city and her not-so-friendly neighbourhood. She still loved the roaring outrage she'd feel when someone stole her cab, and the burning rudeness of, well, everyone.

Whoever had been keeping her had failed. Because she was supposed to have ended up here. Whoever had tried to trap her had failed, because she was sure that living here, in this city with this life and wearing these skinny jeans, was what they'd been trying to keep her from. This was what he'd been hiding from her, and now she'd seen it �" the world �" she would never leave.

At least, not until her hair grew and her scars faded for good.

Mia was no longer the person she had been about a year ago. After the argument at Jess' party, Franki had managed to convince pretty much everyone that she'd been in the right �" that girl should be a politician when she grows up �" so Mia had let the social status that had taken her years to build up collapse around her just for a peaceful way out.

She'd gotten sick of competing in a tear stained battle against Franki, so had given up. She'd simply gotten tired, so had concluded that if losing was the only way to quit the game, that was what she'd have to do.

Fairytales had taught her that good girls get happily-ever-afters, but Mia was happy to settle for a good-enough-ever-after if that's what fate had rolled up in a takeaway box for her.

She felt a protective arm wrap around her waist, and heard the promising words 'I love you'.

She'd discovered that if she were a book, she would most often get attraction from people who would merely read the blurb. They would like what they read; cool, popular, funny, perfect, right? There would be queues of people snaking from the bookshop doors to own a copy of her. It had taken her a few years and a Jake to realise that she wasn't interested in being a best seller any more. She wasn't interested in people who would probably only ever read up to chapter one. She was more interested in being a beautiful, insightful book hidden away in a corner, somewhere where only the most special people would find it.

She'd discovered that she needed someone who would read past the beginning. Past the scene settings and vague character introductions. She needed someone who would know her inside out. Someone who would be able to recite their favourite lines of her. Someone who would read her so many times to the end that her spine would wrinkle and her every page would be lovingly creased where the owner had folded her over. She needed someone who would happily purchase the paperback instead of the shiny, new hardback. She needed someone who wouldn't sneak a quick read of another book at the same time just for some extra excitement and thrill once they'd gotten bored of her, and the glitter on her cover had worn off.

And that someone had turned out to be Nick.

After the Jake Thing, she'd banged into him �" now fully dressed after the Tarzan incident �" and he'd escorted her home after seeing her distress. They'd become friends first, because obviously she'd been too upset about Jake to see anyone immediately afterwards. After about a month, she'd figured she'd mourned enough, so had agreed to go out with him.

Almost a year later and they were still going strong. Both being seventeen, they were planning on renting a flat together after college.

Her and Nick were as close as the bones that made up her ribcage; the strong armour for her heart, which had developed the annoying tendency to break at the most inconvenient times.

Perhaps a happily-ever-after wasn't so far away after all.

Mia had stepped down.

Franki had always known that b***h had a weak side �" she'd just needed to find a way to show it to everyone.

She supposed that she used to be a little jealous of Mia. Mia had had the perfect house, hair, face, teeth, body, parents, skin, smile, laugh, and �" at the time �" boyfriend. It just wasn't right for any one person to have so much. She'd wanted to be Mia so much, she'd even copied her a few times. Anything Mia had said she liked, Franki would have instantly loved. If Mia had bought a top, Franki would have gone out that weekend and purchased the same one, then exclaimed 'what a coincidence!' with a surprised expression drawn upon her pinched face.

But, as Mia had gotten more involved with Jake, she'd forgotten that being the most popular girl in school was a full time responsibility. That was when Franki had started to realise that Mia wasn't as cool as she'd first seemed.

She hadn't meant to kiss Jake last year, at Jess' 16^th. That had just kind of happened. She'd been a little too drunk and vengeful �" a dangerous combination �" and had almost tumbled on top of him when they'd both found each other in the closet...

Getting slapped had been a nice addition, weird as it sounds. That had been the turning point for Mia, and when everyone had seen what she was really like. Everyone had witness her snap, almost completely unprovoked. After that, Mia had been kind of dropped from the social circle.

And �" trust her �" it's bloody hard to get back in.

So, now Franki was top of the food chain.

Forget that, she was the top of the whole f*****g world �" if the world reached no further than the walls of Greendale High. She'd noticed that people had started to copy her. She'd rated the new fashion magazine out, Right Now, made by some designer called Antonio who �" judging by his 6 page interview �" was obsessed with a foreign designer who mimicked the flapper dress in his collections, and within a week the flicking of magazine pages had been all she'd heard thanks to her recommendations.

However, there was still one thing that bugged her more than anything. Despite all her efforts, she still sometimes felt a little unwanted. Like, people were hanging out with her not because they wanted to because she was funny and cute and bright, but because she was the person to hang out with. She got the feeling that people were laughing at her jokes not because they were funny, but because they were supposed to be funny. People invited her places not because they wanted her there, but because it would be considered uncool not to have Franki there.

She wondered if Mia had ever felt that way.

She was still alone, was what it came down to. She'd kind of thought that getting the perfect boyfriend when you get popular was like a done deal, like getting a company car with a new job. It had worked for Mia, why not her?

She hadn't been completely alone though. Of course not. Of course, she'd got off with a few different boys at a few different parties, but was that really the same? Could she really compare that to a relationship? Could that satisfy her, or was she really looking for someone who could date her without being pissed? Someone who she would see �" you know �" in the daytime?

Franki shook this thought away. Love is weakness, she told herself brutally.

Every girl wanted to be Franki Dhillon. Every guy wanted to shag Franki Dhillon. Everyone wanted to be seen with Franki Dhillon.

Even just for a second, before they realised �" as Franki Dhillon now did �" that after so much effort, being popular wasn't all it had made out to be.

“I now pronounce you...”

Emily felt a rush of tingles work their way up her spine. She couldn't believe she was standing here, with all her closest friends and family members watching.

As it had turned out, that night when David had taken her out to dinner at what had definitely been 'quite a nice place', he'd proposed.

She remembered getting ready for it. It had been that day when the Wild convention had been in town, and she'd watched the dark haired girl kiss the handsome boy who'd ran after an attractive brunette...

She'd bought a new top in the end. And it had been worth it, as David's first words to her that night had been, “Hey, Em, you look gorgeous.”

He had no idea how long she'd been waiting for someone to say, “Hey, Em, you look gorgeous.”

After years of substituting romantic novels for her own love life �" or lack of it �" it felt so good to finally be with someone who loved everything about her, including her many imperfections.

Because, that's what love is about, isn't it?

It's not about finding someone flawless, because those people don't exist, so you'll die alone thinking that no one was ever good enough for you which isn't a very nice thought to think when you die. No, it's about finding someone who's flaws you can stand. Flaws that are compatible with yours. Flaws you don't mind; they are kind of cute, or maybe kind of funny. Flaws you can stand up in holy matrimony and promise to spend the rest of your life with, in sickness or in health.

So, Emily had put down the books for a short while, and had instead promised to spend her time pursuing her own happy ending instead of reading about someone else's. She'd agreed to see the world with David. They were planning to visit as many places as possibly for their honeymoon, so she was temporarily swapping reserved suitcase space from books to flip-flops.

Note that this was a temporary arrangement, as no new resolutions could ever keep her away from diving into a fictional world of love and fantasy for too long.

She just couldn't believe that this was happening. She'd been so close to losing hope. Like a battery, her beliefs kept running out, and every now and again she needed a boost to prompt her back into functioning. David had charged her up for life by inviting her to stand next to him today.

She was wearing the most gorgeous dress. It had lace sleeves and an elegant neckline. She stood straight, sucking in the fat that had resisted her pre-wedding diet. David loved her imperfections and all, but everyone wants to look like Kate Middleton on their wedding day, really.

She caught David's steady eyes, reassuring her that he was certain he'd made the right decision. Emily beamed, as she allowed the vicar to finish his sentence.

“...husband and wife.”

Robby fished around inside his bag for the packet of crisps he was sure he'd tucked inside there. When his chubby fingers grasped the foil packaging, the packet of potato chips rustled tellingly, like leaves in a forest sniggering between themselves.

Should he?

Things weren't as bad now. He wasn't bullied as much, even less now Mia had left the popular crowd. People kind of respected her for that: the fact that she'd been the first person to ever walk out on them instead of being kicked out. But Franki was much worse.

It hadn't been Mia who'd made up the nickname that would stalk him even into his college years, but she'd been the one to advertise it until it had sort of stuck, back when she'd still been a b***h.

Fat Rob.

It wasn't his fault he'd been born with the comfort eating gene. It wasn't his fault he wobbled everywhere like a balloon that was super-sensitive to the magnetic field of the planet. However, this magnetic field would be aligned with cakes, pies, chip shops and leftovers. Without any prompting his hands would seek to gorge his mouth, his mouth seek to fill his stomach, his stomach seek to press ever harder against the elastic waist of his George-from-Asda sweatpants. He hated how people would judge him as he walked home from school, stuffing his second lunch into his mouth like he'd stuff his P.E kit into his backpack in the morning, hating the promise of sporting activities that lingered with the kit. He hated how people would tut between their skinny selves, and think 'bless'. They would exchange disappointed glances as if to say, look at our generation. I pity that poor boy. They would think, 'bless the poor boy. The one over there who eats his feelings'.

Robby really hated being obese.

Maybe it was time he did something about it? Maybe it was time he stuck to �" dare he say it �" salads? Maybe he could shake off the nickname for good, before it found its way into his future?

Robby dropped the crisp packet back into his bag, making a point to strike against calories.

Ladies and gentlemen, Robert Gregson was about to start his first ever diet.

Miss Bunty braced herself.

She'd yawned through the painfully large number of Sporting Achievement Awards. She'd clapped mechanically at each of the Music Awards. She'd had a spontaneous sneezing fit through the charity section (embarrassing).

But now it was her turn.

She watched as a young girl wearing pigtails wriggled her toes in an unsuccessful attempt to rid them of the unavoidable pins and needles. Her friend had relaxed her facial muscles, allowing her eyes to fall half shut and her mouth to fall half open. She was a wilting flower, her features drooping miserably into the darkened and inescapable enclosure of boredom.

She sent them both psychic messages to wake up and pay attention, as this was the good part.

“And the Teacher of the Year Award goes to...”

Her and Mr Wilkinson exchanged friendly (or not so) rivalry glances.

It wasn't just about winning a trophy to put upon her fireplace, or even about getting to show off her new haircut to the entire school.

It was about the glory.

It was about being able to boast to her parents who'd been the first to tell her that she wasn't really 'teacher material', as if she were somehow polyester and all teachers were exclusively cashmere. It was about having the image of her shaking the Head's hand imprinted deep within the minds of every other teacher. It was about being able to sleep that night knowing that within a year of her career, she'd succeeded.

There were, of course, many drawbacks to working in a High School, but the two and a half hour long assemblies would definitely win first prize for that �" on the topic of awards. The Head was in the habit of proclaiming 'oh, and one last thing' at the end of every paragraph, before drowning on for another half hour and repeating the phrase when concluded once more. By which point, Miss Bunty would definitely not have zoned out a little because Teachers of the Year don't do that.

But, there was only one of these whole school gatherings every year, so she could grit her teeth and bare it. She could grit her teeth and bare it as each subject went through an endless string of pointless certificates to celebrate every student in one way or another. She could grit her teeth and bare it as kids would wonder up, one after the other, and bow their head for a meaningless medal. She could grit her teeth and bare it as the Head dragged out the process even further by saying an extra thank you to those of inferior importance.

Her most memorable experience as a teacher so far had definitely been her first encounter with 11H. All those months ago, she remembered how she'd been horrified after finding her classroom infested with ill-mannered fifth year students.

Lets see: there had been the shy, mousy girl with the dark hair who'd moved schools after one lesson. There'd been Mia, who was now much more independent and spent her time actually doing the work instead of draping herself across Jake, who also seemed to have his head down these days, but in a different corner of the classroom to Mia. He simply didn't acknowledge anyone these days. Whereas at the beginning of the year, Jake had been the centre of attention, he now seemed to religiously avoid anything remotely similar to being noticed. There had been Fat Rob �" excuse her �" Robby, who'd never been able to last an entire PSHE lesson without reaching in his bag for some sort of snack, and Oliver who'd been stood on the table (who was now her secret favourite because he was actually kind of funny despite being so immature and annoying). Franki and Jess had gotten louder and ruder throughout the course of the year, and Miss Bunty found herself getting irritated and sending them out two or three times a lesson. Franki's gob had expanded, it seemed, and she was now a rather difficult student to handle.

God, she thought. They've all changed so much since the beginning of the school year.

Greendale's Head teacher opened his mouth to present the winner. Miss Bunty could hear his breath against the microphone echoing ominously around the hall.

“Miss Bunty!” he announced.

Miss Bunty flashed her winner's smile that she'd been practising in the mirror this morning (along with her Loser Face which she'd been hoping she wouldn't need). She strode confidently up the isle in her kitten heels �" she still hadn't learnt �" and flicked her hair casually. The Head reached out his hand for her to shake �" a formal gesture of congratulations �" and she did so gratefully, not letting the discovery of his moist palms be reflected upon her face. Her beam did not waver; she simply wiped her hands down her pencil skirt accordingly, smoothing it down in the process.

Who's f*****g cashmere now, mother? Miss Bunty mused as she accepted her trophy and held it up in good spirit.

Her smug smile took a while to wash off.

Jake held the restless envelope between his hands. It contained his future. He could imagine opening it up and peering inside, seeing a little window into his life-to-come, and watching a 2-years-from-now Jake wondering happily around. Either that or he would tear the saliva seal and an explosion of cartoon question marks would jump out, bursting from the paper, each one representing a possibility.

An option.

He felt the tension build up inside him. He would open it fast �" like a plaster. Get it over and done with.

One his left: his mum. She'd taken a day off work for them to work out options together. Then they would either go to Nando's to cheer him up after bad news or Nando's to celebrate after good news.

He didn't mind that she was squeezing his free hand. It comforted him �" despite his aversion to having feelings.

Him and his mum got on a lot better now. Jake had gone and got himself a job for the weekdays, so after school he wouldn't be home alone for so long. He could help out a bit too; chip in here and there. Get some groceries on his way home or something.

And, surprisingly, so did him and his dad. The Porsche that was now no longer a Porsche as it had been swapped for an Alfa Romeo had swerved by one humid afternoon to drop off Jake's Arctic Monkeys CD, only two hours later than promised.

After that greeting, the car had appeared in the drive a lot more often: sometimes unannounced, and sometimes planned. Either way, Jake's day would be instantly brighter if he returned after work to find that car parked outside his house.

Jake's thumbs gripped the edge of the paper, and slowly, he began to rip the sealed envelope apart. He could see a word on the paper, but the word was simply a connective and gave no clues away as to the content of the letter.

He unfolded it rapidly. Blink and you'd have missed his ninja hands whip the creases from the page.

“Dear Mr Burns,” he read aloud. Jake took a breath, not daring to look ahead. “Congratulations! We are delighted to offer you...”

By this point, Jake had stopped reading and had started to jump up and down like an excited five year old.

He'd done it.

He felt instinctively in his pocket for his lighter. This would be a fantastic time to enjoy his last ever cigarette.

Jake had decided to quit smoking a few weeks ago. The weeks following this decision had been the most stressful few weeks of his life �" and he'd had some pretty stressful weeks �" but whenever he'd felt weak he'd simply thought of his love, April �" may she rest in peace �" and how strong she'd been to fight whatever had been killing her for as long as she'd fought.

Why should he abuse his healthy organs, ones that some people would die for? The phrase 'to die for' had adopted a sudden distaste in his eyes.

Along with the lighter, he felt something else in his pocket. A crumpled slip of paper; battered and dirty from living inside his pocket for God knows how long.

As he'd done with the letter, he opened it slowly, to reveal a phone number. Now he remembered: the one his dad had given him. He'd never called it before �" afraid of bothering and that �" but it was nice knowing he had it if he wanted to.

An option.

Just like he now did with his education. He'd got in. He'd been accepted. All that time spent studying hadn't been for nothing after all.

Him and his mum left for food. On the way she got a call from her creepy boss. Some things never change.

But, he felt good now that he had them.

Options.

Nelly blew a spit bubble then sucked it back into her mouth.

She was 8 months old today. Not that her mother �" Norah �" was counting.

Norah-The-Receptionist was no longer the receptionist, so now she was just Norah.

She wasn't planning on going back to work any time soon, or any time at all for that matter. She wanted to be one of those mums who could smile and nod and listen to their child run through the dramas of primary school life as they walked home after school together. One of those mums who could attend every single school play �" be it Christmas, Easter or even the bloody harvest festival. One of those mums who could volunteer to help out some days and to be a parent helper on school trips.

One of those mums Norah had never had.

Still, Nelly starting school was a good few years off yet. For now she just wanted to be one of those mums who loves her baby.

These first 8 months had been far from peaceful what with the constant cycle of changing, feeding and being woken up, but the months beforehand had been worse. She'd hated being a clingy, moody, hormonal and generally high maintenance woman. She'd hated being so dependant on her partner; it had been infuriating for the both of them. She'd wanted to be able to do things herself, and he'd wanted her to be able to do things herself. Once little Nelly had arrived, they'd taken on full time occupations called Doing Things For Nelly, so they'd pretty much forgotten about their previous minor disputes.

Nelly began bawling, her shiny, toothless jaw gaped wide open, the thumb that had not five seconds ago been wedged between it now flailing in the air, glistening with saliva.

Norah-The-Exhausted-Mother and her partner both took a few seconds to register that one of them would have to get up. Unsurprisingly, both looked accusingly at the other, and they said as if they'd rehearsed it to land perfectly in time: “Your turn.”

The lanky little man who everyone had forgotten about pushed his glasses to the top of his nose.

Police were stupid, he concluded. Had they really thought they could compete with him, the Saviour? He'd had it all planned out. They would come for him, he wouldn't be there (when, in fact, he would), they would find his gemstone, 5650 (he'd left the door open), they would take her with them, then they would leave after a few more hours of investigation.

All this time, Xavier had been hidden away in the secret parts of his laboratory. He'd been done with the girl anyway. After she'd turned 16, she'd been no use to him. She'd lost her memory, and her genes had started to mutate in odd fashions that even he couldn't understand. After attempting to track her changes for a few weeks, he'd given up, and had needed a simple way to dispose of her.

Once he'd been sure they'd left, he'd re-entered his safe to make sure his babies were still there.

The disguised door behind the girl's table had been excellently hidden. People were always far too distracted by tortured children to notice things like secret doors standing behind them. He supposed it was just a common weakness of the human mind, like a mosquito's fixation with a light bulb.

He entered the code now in the same fashion, to see his babies again now he knew they were all there.

Most people called him mad, but he preferred... adventurous.

The door swung to a stop, leaving him enough room to fit through, round the glass table with the metal bars that had held that pathetic excuse for a girl captive for 16 years.

Inside the room was shelves. Lots of shelves. Rows of impeccably lined shelves. They outlined, bordered and filled up the walls. In fact, the walls weren't visible beyond so many shelves. They weren't fancy shelves �" just simple ones. Ones that did the job.

Xavier smiled at the beautiful room he'd built. He loved his shelves. They were so close to his heart. Each and every one of them. While they would make some people gag or retch or shudder, they were beautiful to him.

On top of every shelf, in perfect rows and columns like a giant game board were glass jars. They were all sitting above a label with a code on. What had started at zero with deformed and dissembled body parts crossed with some genetically modified animals had eventually lead him to a cloned human, who had started in a glass jar on top of a label reading 5003. She'd been the special one. After 5234 attempts, he'd managed it again, and a final time in the glass jar numbered 5650. He'd taken a break for a little while after that. 5650 had been the last glass jar upon his shelves for 16 years. But, now these attempts were all gone �" or at least out of his life and rendered unsuccessful �" he'd returned to his task, as he saw the bigger picture.

Xavier began to laugh to himself. How beautiful they all looked! All standing in a line. All of his babies together.

He was now up to glass jar 8793. That meant thousands more babies if they were all successful. Discounting failure statistics of about a third, that left around 2000 new babies to be born to his world. They were growing at such fast rates. He just couldn't wait until it was time for him to open up all of his glass jars and free his growing little embryos.

The next generation of clones would be better. Thanks to attempt 5650 �" the girl �" he'd been able to fix the little gene that had sidetracked, and caused memory loss. He'd then began to grow new versions. Updated versions, like the fixing of a bug on an application. He'd then done as he had done with all his previous attempts and stored them in hydratoroxide �" the perks of having a singular Chemistry lab �" and fixed tubes that connected to each of his babies, providing them with the nutrients they needed to grow like they were no more than seeds in soil. He'd created an environment close enough to a womb to grow his own people inside.

It was a good job Rebecca had been such a pretty little girl. Three of her just hadn't been enough; two thousand wouldn't be either, but that was just the beginning. Soon there would be millions of her, and everyone would know who was responsible, and everyone would thank him for creating such a caricature of a beautiful woman. Introducing her as the dominance of the female species, and making her the mascot for her kind. Men would thank him. While their brothers would marry young and leave home, they would not be left to sort everything out as he had been. They could simply take a Rebecca to help them out. If only someone had thought to do what he'd done before his brother had married, and deserted the family, disgracing their name...

Xavier crept forward, wiping the dribble escaping from his wry lips with the back of his hand. And then, extending his forefinger, he proceeded to lean up close to each of the glass jars, starting with 5651, and make the noise that would forever haunt the future clones with or without their memories.

Tap, tap, tap...