Free Cracks by Caroline Green Page A

birthmark is
showing.
    She looks at it and traces it gently with her finger before turning to the blond man. She sighs. ‘First generation, I’m afraid. Bigger than usual.’
    ‘What?’ I say. ‘It’s just a birthmark.’
    ‘It’s not a birthmark, I’m afraid,’ says Helen. ‘It’s a satellite tracking device that can pinpoint your whereabouts at any given time. The technology has
come on considerably since it was fitted but because you’ve been there so long, you have the very earliest type.’ She pauses. ‘They fitted it when you were small, before you got
used to that grotesque pod, in case you went wandering off. I’m afraid we have to remove it before we go any further.’
    She’s looking searchingly into my eyes, as though she can find an answer there. Understanding plops into my stomach.
    ‘ Remove it? What . . . you think you’re going to just cut it out? No way!’
    ‘Cal, I’m sorry but there’s really no alternative.’ She nods her head almost imperceptibly and the two blokes grab hold of my arms.
    ‘Let go!’ I struggle and try to wrench free but they’re both miles stronger than me and all I can do is wriggle sort of helplessly.
    Helen winces and picks up a roll of plastic sheeting and spreads it across the table. She goes to a bag on the floor and produces a small medical kit, which she brings to the table. Then she
gets out a bottle of antiseptic and the biggest, meanest mother of a scalpel I’ve ever seen. Next she goes over to the sink where she wets her hands and starts scrubbing at them with soap and
a small brush, before pulling on a pair of thin flesh-coloured gloves, giving them a snap as she does so.
    ‘I’m very sorry about this,’ she says. Her mouth is set. ‘But it won’t hurt, I promise.’
    ‘NO!’ I’m struggling like crazy and another bloke rushes over. He holds me around the chest so tightly I can hardly breathe. One of the men stretches my arm out on the table
into a vice-like grip and pulls my sleeve but I won’t turn my hand over. I’m all the while crying out, ‘No! Stop! You can’t do this!’ No one takes any notice. Helen
rubs some sort of icy cold cloth over my hand, which immediately goes limp and numb. She nods to one of the men. ‘Hold his head away, I don’t want him to see.’
    I catch the smiley bloke’s eye and he has the cheek to look upset. He says, ‘I’m really sorry about this, mate,’ and takes hold of my face gently. I shout, ‘NO!
You’ll have to break my neck if you try to stop me!’ and he looks at Helen, who nods once. It somehow seems important that I watch. Surely she won’t really do it? ‘There
must be some other way. You can’t just cut it out!’
    ‘Cal, you’re going to have to trust us. You’ve had too much to absorb in a short space of time and it’s impossible for you to think clearly and know what’s best for
you right now. I’m very sorry, but what’s best is this. I’ll be very careful to avoid too much scarring.’
    It’s a good job my hand is numb because I don’t know what I’d do with it if it wasn’t. My other arm is still tightly gripped in a way that means I can’t move in the
chair. I look around the kitchen, thinking about how I can get away. Beardy, or Nathan as he seems to be called, comes back into the room. His nose looks terrible and his eyes are all puffy. Do I
see something triumphant flick across his face as Helen picks up the scalpel? I’m glad it’s not him holding it.
    ‘Hang on!’ I shout desperately, playing for time. ‘Why did he stop me from leaving the Facility if you were going to get me out of there anyway?’
    ‘It wasn’t the right time,’ he says, his voice thick and nasal. ‘We didn’t have everything in place. You could have completely blown it for us. You wouldn’t
have got ten metres away before they tracked you down and then security around you would have increased.’
    I look down and Helen Bonaparte is actually pressing the scalpel