or, as it’s nicknamed, The Cracks Programme.’ She looks down for a moment and I see her swallow.
I’m still at ‘they’ve implanted something in your brain’.
I get the urge to scratch my head violently and my hands twitch. Got to stay calm. ‘Why?’ I say, voice breaking. I will not freak out. I will not freak out. Breathe, Cal, breathe
. . .
‘Well,’ says the woman slowly, ‘it started as a way to help people with severe disabilities communicate by computer. It was important work to begin with. But they wanted to see
how far they could go and you, unfortunately, were their human guinea pig. They are trying to recreate the programme for mass use by testing it on others but it hasn’t . . . gone
well.’
My stomach, already heaving, goes into an icy spasm. ‘What do you mean?’
She swallows again. ‘All cases so far have demonstrated severe mental distress and sometimes a total psychological breakdown. That’s the rather cruel side of the nickname for the
programme. As in “cracking up”.’
I’m struggling to get air into my lungs now. I can’t imagine how I’ve ever done this without thinking. Each breath must be heaved in and out with a huge effort. Dots dance in
front of my eyes.
‘Cal? Cal? Are you all right?’
I clench my fists so hard, my knuckles strain white in front of on the table. ‘Never been better.’ My voice seems to come from the end of a long, long tunnel.
Someone puts a cup of tea in front of me and I take a huge slurp, scalding my tongue but grateful for the heat and the sugar. My body and mind react to the drink and I feel myself breathing
properly but my hands won’t stop shaking.
‘But why?’ I say when I trust myself to speak. ‘What’s the point? So they could have a good laugh at what was knocking about inside my head?’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s rather more sinister than that,’ says Bonaparte. ‘You’ve been out of circulation for a long time,’ she says. ‘Everything is
about control now.’ She pauses. ‘I’m afraid that’s the reality of living in 2024.’
2 024? 2024?
I hear a weird groan and realise it has come out of my own mouth. I’ve finally lost the plot. One of us is definitely mad. It’s the only explanation for the
ridiculous thing I just heard her say. I goggle at her, goldfish-like, too shocked to speak.
She flicks a nervous look at the others. ‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘You must think it is still . . . what, 2012? 2013? I suppose you would.’ She breathes out a long exhalation
before speaking again. ‘That’s when you would have entered the Facility in the first place as a small child. Time was essentially suspended then for you. We realise, from having been
able to observe you these months, that much of what was happening inside your brain was probably based on the donor boy’s real memories. You must have been living his teenage years.
I’ve no doubt that it all seemed entirely real to you.’
I lean forwards and rest my head on my hands, fingers in my hair. I feel hollowed out, like someone scooped out everything inside that makes me who I am. ‘What about the boy?’ I say
shakily. ‘Who was he?’
Bonaparte gives a helpless shrug. ‘I’m so sorry, we don’t have that information. Just that the Revealer Chip was created using brain tissue from a donor. They’d
previously tried to create something of this nature with artificial materials but it failed. They realised that actual brain tissue was required. Not that this was straightforward. You would have
been pumped full of drugs for the first few years so your body wasn’t able to reject the foreign object inside you.’ She leans forward, her eyes kind. ‘What I’m trying to
say is that we don’t know anything about the boy’s identity. Nor, I’m afraid, anything about where you came from. But we’re working on that. We hope to find more information
in time. I hope we can help you to adjust to all this,’ she says softly.
I’m still at ‘they’ve implanted something in your brain’.
I get the urge to scratch my head violently and my hands twitch. Got to stay calm. ‘Why?’ I say, voice breaking. I will not freak out. I will not freak out. Breathe, Cal, breathe
. . .
‘Well,’ says the woman slowly, ‘it started as a way to help people with severe disabilities communicate by computer. It was important work to begin with. But they wanted to see
how far they could go and you, unfortunately, were their human guinea pig. They are trying to recreate the programme for mass use by testing it on others but it hasn’t . . . gone
well.’
My stomach, already heaving, goes into an icy spasm. ‘What do you mean?’
She swallows again. ‘All cases so far have demonstrated severe mental distress and sometimes a total psychological breakdown. That’s the rather cruel side of the nickname for the
programme. As in “cracking up”.’
I’m struggling to get air into my lungs now. I can’t imagine how I’ve ever done this without thinking. Each breath must be heaved in and out with a huge effort. Dots dance in
front of my eyes.
‘Cal? Cal? Are you all right?’
I clench my fists so hard, my knuckles strain white in front of on the table. ‘Never been better.’ My voice seems to come from the end of a long, long tunnel.
Someone puts a cup of tea in front of me and I take a huge slurp, scalding my tongue but grateful for the heat and the sugar. My body and mind react to the drink and I feel myself breathing
properly but my hands won’t stop shaking.
‘But why?’ I say when I trust myself to speak. ‘What’s the point? So they could have a good laugh at what was knocking about inside my head?’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s rather more sinister than that,’ says Bonaparte. ‘You’ve been out of circulation for a long time,’ she says. ‘Everything is
about control now.’ She pauses. ‘I’m afraid that’s the reality of living in 2024.’
2 024? 2024?
I hear a weird groan and realise it has come out of my own mouth. I’ve finally lost the plot. One of us is definitely mad. It’s the only explanation for the
ridiculous thing I just heard her say. I goggle at her, goldfish-like, too shocked to speak.
She flicks a nervous look at the others. ‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘You must think it is still . . . what, 2012? 2013? I suppose you would.’ She breathes out a long exhalation
before speaking again. ‘That’s when you would have entered the Facility in the first place as a small child. Time was essentially suspended then for you. We realise, from having been
able to observe you these months, that much of what was happening inside your brain was probably based on the donor boy’s real memories. You must have been living his teenage years.
I’ve no doubt that it all seemed entirely real to you.’
I lean forwards and rest my head on my hands, fingers in my hair. I feel hollowed out, like someone scooped out everything inside that makes me who I am. ‘What about the boy?’ I say
shakily. ‘Who was he?’
Bonaparte gives a helpless shrug. ‘I’m so sorry, we don’t have that information. Just that the Revealer Chip was created using brain tissue from a donor. They’d
previously tried to create something of this nature with artificial materials but it failed. They realised that actual brain tissue was required. Not that this was straightforward. You would have
been pumped full of drugs for the first few years so your body wasn’t able to reject the foreign object inside you.’ She leans forward, her eyes kind. ‘What I’m trying to
say is that we don’t know anything about the boy’s identity. Nor, I’m afraid, anything about where you came from. But we’re working on that. We hope to find more information
in time. I hope we can help you to adjust to all this,’ she says softly.
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