The kitchen’s sparkling, and the living room’s empty. I really don’t want to go down any further; I’ve had enough of basements to last me a… Well, a good long while.
It’s either that, or a shaky-handed skin-stab, and I sigh as I slowly make my way down the narrow staircase.
‘You know,’ I say, picking my way across the cold stone floor and wishing I’d gone for an unprecedented three pairs of socks, ‘the living room up there is huge, and there’s masses of room in the kitchen, or even the hallway in that little eaves-y bit under the stairs. Why do you want to hide away down here like some kind of… mole martyr.’
He’s in the middle of hooking his computer up, and he laughs as I curl up on the big, flattened cardboard box next to his desk, enjoying the minor respite from the damp flagstones. ‘It’s freezing down here, and it smells… funny.’
‘You know what would smell even funnier?’ he asks, not laughing any more. ‘If someone dropped by unexpectedly, to welcome me to the area, or read the meter, or who knows what else, and while they’re standing in the hallway they catch sight of this lot.’ He points to a towering pile of battered files, and a whiteboard covered in sprawling equations.
‘So?’ I shrug. ‘It’d look like you’re a scientist, which you are. No biggie.’
‘Well, it would depend how closely they looked, wouldn’t it?’ he counters. ‘And whether or not they recognise what they’re seeing. We can’t be too careful, how many times do I need to say it? I just don’t see the point in taking any chances, Chlo, not when we’ve come this far.’
‘I suppose,’ I concede, yawning as I hand over my kit and raise my hoodie to expose my stomach, hoping my ‘please do this for me, you know I hate it’ pitiful expression will do the trick. He tuts at me, but does the honours all the same.
‘You know you’re going to have to –—’
‘Yes, I do know,’ I snap, cutting him off. ‘Just… not tonight, ok?’
I stay put and watch him work for a while, knowing he won’t let me help with anything because he’s totally OCD about everything being in exactly the right place. And given that every file, memory stick, and hand-scribbled equation down here is because of me, I’m not going to be the one to disturb any of it.
It’s pretty hard not to think about the vaccine in here. That’s probably the real reason I don’t want to be down here. I’d be a psychologist’s dream right now. We’ve got so little of it left. I look over to see the case he keeps the vials in, and there are so many empty slots that my insides turn around and I start up a slow, cold sweat. I can’t function if I let that particular thought roam free in my head – the obvious one – What’s going to happen when it runs out? See, that’s the most messed up thing about it all: I can’t even say to myself, Well, you’ll die Chlo, and that’ll be that, because it’s a million miles from being that simple. I have something arguably worse than death to look forward to.
Dad’ll find a way to make more before we run out. Of course he will. However clueless he can be at emotions and life in general, he’s a genius in the lab; the Agency proved that. They don’t hire anyone who isn’t a total Einstein. It’s a shame that they don’t actually treat their Einsteins a little better while they have them, but then isn’t that always the way. I reckon you’re far better off being completely mediocre in this life – that way, people don’t notice you, don’t expect anything of you, and tend to just leave you alone. You stay under the radar, and you really can’t go wrong. That’s what I’m all about now: staying under the radar.
‘Chlo, you’re making me nervous,’ Dad mutters, tugging a little too forcefully on some cables under the desk. ‘Plus you’re right, it is cold down here, and I haven’t got to grips with the thermostat yet. You’d better go on back up.’ He straightens up and stretches, stifling a yawn. ‘It’s been a long day. Why don’t you get an early night, it’d do you good.’
I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep after my nap earlier, but he’s told me a million times that sleep helps my cells regenerate, or at least helps them think they’re regenerating, so… I guess it’s worth a try. The trouble is, more often than not, with sleep comes the nightmares, which is why I prefer to put it off for as long as possible.
‘It’d do you good too,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I won’t be too much longer. I just want to get this all hooked up so I’m ready to crack on as soon as I get in tomorrow night.’
‘You said you’d need to keep your head down at the hospital for a couple of weeks before you could even start researching… stuff. You won’t really need much down here for a bit, so why not ——’
‘Chlo…’ He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘Just let me get on, ok? We’re working against the clock here.’
I suppose it doesn’t occur to him that I’m the last person who needs reminding, that maybe it would be nice if just for once he could pretend there wasn’t a great big timer counting down to my imminent… whatever. Maybe we could sit and watch a film together, or something, anything, if he could just drag himself away from his research long enough. What difference would a couple of hours really make? But if I say anything, I’m going to look like a sure-fire contender for worst-daughter-of-the-year, so I nod, and smile, and wish him goodnight as I make my way back up the stairs. This is us now, our life: Dad hiding in the basement, me hiding upstairs, the clock ticking on us the whole time.
There are three compounds he needs to finish the vaccine, compounds he had access to in the Agency but wasn’t directly involved in engineering. He has a tiny sample of each of them, and needs to figure out a way to create them, from scratch, before the supplies he managed to smuggle out of the lab run out. If he can’t, I suppose late nights and cold rooms will be the least of his worries, just like lonely nights will be the least of mine.
I get the kettle on and make some tea, taking his down and hugging him tight, before downing my pills with mine, hauling my tired body up the stairs and crawling into bed. I leave the bedside light on, and dig into a book, reading until the last possible moment, when the words start to dance on the page in front of my eyes, and I can’t hold sleep off any longer. The nightmares don’t come, and I sleep peacefully for the first time in months. Maybe they can’t find me here. I dream that Dad keeps me hidden in the basement with all his research. I’m cold, and alone, but I’m safe.
It’s pitch dark when the shouting wakes me, and for a second I don’t know where I am. I hear my name nestled in amongst a flood of swearing, and recognise Dad’s as the only voice before panic takes hold completely. The boxes. I wince as I remember throwing them out of my window. Fumbling for the light switch, I let rip a mini swear-fest of my own – why would he have come in and turned the lamp off? He knows I hate the dark. I pull back one heavy curtain and see him out on the drive, furiously gathering them up. I sigh, and brace myself as I open the window.
‘Chloe! I just went arse over wotsit over these! What did I say yesterday?’
‘Sorry!’ I shout back down. ‘I meant to say…’
The look he gives me speaks volumes, and I hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Just…’ He sighs, ‘Can you please try and keep things a bit tidier? I’ve got enough to deal with right now as it is.’
‘Yeah, sorry Dad, I will. Are you leaving already? Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?’
‘I