Free Falling by Debbie Moon Page A

risk.
    â€˜Whenever. It’s going to happen.’
    Her mother stumbled back a step, fell against the bed, and crumpled onto it, breathing hard. ‘Is that what you think? Is that what you want?’
    â€˜No.’ She meant it, she’d always meant it, but the words came out flat and accusing, and her mother turned away. ‘But it’s what I get. I’m sorry. But I have to know if there’s anyone who knows – and who’d want to kill me because of it.’
    There. Cover blown. Better hope this never gets back to Warner…
    Her mother pressed her hand to her forehead for a moment, as if suddenly afraid her skull was splitting and everything was going to come tumbling out.
    â€˜You’re doing it now, aren’t you?’ she said.
    â€˜Mum –’
    â€˜I told you, you mustn’t. You can’t keep doing this. They’ll find out about you, and then you know what will happen.’
    Something tugged at the edges of Jude’s consciousness, dragging her unwillingly towards the inevitable future.
    â€˜I’m sorry. Mum.’
    And the nightlight glow expanded to fill the room, and everything was gone.
    Oh God, no.
    Still falling.

FOUR
    Morphotech Offices, three months ago
    And there she was, standing outside the shiny office block, looking up at the garish ‘before and after’ pictures pasted in the cracked, dirty upper windows, and thinking, It would be so easy.
    The sun was shining, though the sky to the west was still streaked with grey, and fledgling rock-pools were forming among the broken paving stones. It was strangely quiet. The rain had driven the respectable citizens of Monopolist’s Wharf back to the offices where they’d once worked and now squatted, dreaming of lost grandeur. The less respectable had simply moved on, seeking shelter in the down-market pubs and cafes in adjoining streets. Here, among the glistening and battered skyscrapers, monuments to another, inscrutable age, Jude was all but alone.
    Thinking exactly what she’d thought the first time.
    I only need to sign the paperwork.
    No one can stop you, not after you’ve signed. Not the police, not Warner, not even you yourself. No going back. I mean, why bother? If you decide you don’t like it, it only takes another 48 hours to change back.
    Leaning her full weight against the door, an intricate design of steel and glass, Jude eased it open.
    They’d done the place up nicely. Knew what their customers wanted. A little class, a little taste of how things used to be down here, before commerce went green and moved out to the Hursts, and greed fell, yet again, out of fashion.
    Dim lighting with spotlights picking up carefully placed plants or display boards; the reception desk neatly repaired, the carpets relatively clean. A hand-painted sign over the brass plaque that would have identified the building’s original function (and owners): MORPHOTECH INDUSTRIES in big gold letters, solid and reassuring. PURVEYORS OF BIOTECHING SERVICES FOR OVER A DECADE.
    The ‘classy operation’ act was obviously working. They had customers, even in this weather. She’d never been in anywhere upmarket, but she’d gone window shopping with friends in the cheaper, backstreet places, and she knew all the customer types by sight.
    The old man and the fidgety woman hovering around the displays nearest to the doors. They’d be the loiterers. Timewasters, in out of the rain. And the kids. A couple of eight-year-old music fans in Prissy Boy T-shirts, far too young to buy, waiting to see if someone would take their eyes off their wallet before security got round to throwing them out.
    There’d also be – yes, there in the shadows – a single, scowling figure waiting for the crowds to dissipate so he could enquire about the availability and/or legality of some dubious alteration. This time it was a young dark-haired man with purple eyes. Eyes right out of a