Fractured A Slated Novel - By Teri Terry Page 0,30

memory pathways have changed. Scans must be avoided!

But how?

Dr Lysander closes her computer, folds her hands and faces me. ‘Now, Kyla. Have you thought any more of what we were speaking about the last few visits?’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, stalling.

An eyebrow goes up. ‘We were talking about difference. Deviation. What is happening with you inside that is outside of the usual. You said you would think about it, and speak to me.’

Give her something.

I swallow. ‘Sometimes…I think I remember things. That I shouldn’t.’

She considers. ‘That is not unusual with Slateds. It is human to abhor the void, the absence of accessible memory. To make things up to fill it. Yet…’

She pauses, thinking. ‘Tell me what you remember.’

Without meaning to, without thinking or choosing something either real or made up, I go straight for the one I want to hug to myself and not share. Dr Lysander has that effect.

‘Playing chess with my dad. My real dad. It was long ago, my hands were small. I was much younger.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she says, and I do. Everything. The feel of the rook in my hand. The sense of warmth and security when I woke.

‘Just a dream, most likely,’ she says.

‘Maybe. But it was so detailed. It felt real.’

‘Dreams can be like that sometimes. Anyhow, I’m glad you’ve left nightmares behind.’ She smiles, looks at the clock. ‘Nearly time,’ she says. ‘Is there anything else you would like to talk about?’

Keep her curious.

I hesitate. Then shake my head.

‘There is something: tell me.’

‘It’s just that before I had the dream, I was playing chess. And I kept picking the rook up in my hand, feeling it.’

She sits forward. ‘You felt drawn to touch and hold it?’ I nod. ‘That is interesting. Perhaps a physical memory lingers? Triggering the dream, which may be a subconscious fabrication, but still: very interesting.’

‘I don’t understand. If a memory is gone, it is gone. Isn’t it?’ And I know I should leave this alone, shouldn’t make her focus more closely on it, but can’t help myself. I want to know.

‘That is the popular understanding of what happens with Slating. It isn’t quite accurate.’ She sits back. ‘It is more like this, Kyla. Your conscious access is what is destroyed. The memories are still there, you just can’t find them.’

They are still there? Trapped like Rain was, behind a wall. Does that mean Lucy is somewhere inside me still, screaming to get out? I shudder. ‘Is that why things come out in dreams? My conscious mind can’t get at them, but when I’m asleep…’ I stop, not liking where this is going; not liking what she will think of it. Slateds don’t have memories, awake or asleep. Do they?

‘Rarely, this can happen. It is far more likely that your dreams are made up in that overactive imagination of yours.’ She taps her fingers on the desk a moment. ‘We’ll leave doing scans. For now. Away you go.’

It isn’t until I’m back in the car with Mum, driving away from the hospital, that I trust myself to think. What happened? One minute Dr Lysander wants scans, then she doesn’t.

If I’m accessing old memories, and the pathways show up on scans, she’d have no choice but to tell the board. I’d be terminated.

But if Dr Lysander realises something has gone wrong with my Slating, surely that is what she is supposed to do? I think about our conversation, what was said, and not said; her facial expressions. All I can come up with is that she is curious.

She can’t study me if I am dead. She wants to know what makes me tick.

Tick like a bomb.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

* * *

Dad’s car is out front when we get home. He and Amy are arm in arm on the sofa with cups of tea when we walk in.

‘There’s my other two girls!’ he says, smiles, and holds out a hand. I walk across. ‘Give your dad a kiss on the cheek,’ he says, and with no obvious escape, I do.

He’s in a good mood today.

‘Sit down, Kyla. I’ll make us some drinks,’ Mum says, and disappears into the kitchen. No kiss on the cheek from her.

Third degree follows.

‘So, how is school?’

‘Fine.’

‘Who is this new boy I’ve been hearing about?’ he says, and winks.

I glance at Amy. Thanks a lot, I say with my eyes. But she just smiles, oblivious to the look I give her.

Amy doesn’t seem to get that some things should be said, others not. It used to be