iBoy

11001

Fragments again. Snapshots.

Disconnected moments.

... Lucy getting to her feet — her knees all scratched and bloodied, her face cut and bruised, her nightgown cut open ... both of us sobbing our eyes out...

... Lucy's fumbling hands, and her desperate silence, as she tries to untie me from the girder — pulling and twist­ing and tearing at the wire, cursing every now and then as the metal slices into her fingers ...

Shit.

Fuck it.

Bastard bloody thing ...

... Lucy and me, standing there in the pale yellow light, holding each other, hanging on to each other ... our bodies shaking, our tears pouring out, neither of us able or willing to talk ...

... and the carnage all around us. Bodies, blood, bits of flesh ... we can't think about it, can't look at it, can't care about it. Dead or alive, we can't afford to care about them.

We just have to go.

Get out of there. Leave them. Go...

... walking home in the early hours of the morning, both of us shivering with cold and shock, Lucy wearing my jacket over her mutilated nightgown ... hobbling awkwardly in my socks and trainers ...

Are you OK?

Yeah ... no.

Holding hands, holding each other, helping each other.

All right?

Yeah ...

We can't talk about it — what happened, what's going to happen, what I've done, what it means — it's all too much for now. Too complex, too confusing ... too many unanswerable questions.

We can't do it.

Not now ...

... Crow Lane, Compton House, flashing blue lights in the darkness ... the police are all over the place. I barely have time to say goodbye to Lucy before we're both taken away for questioning.