Chapter 7 - She Bangs the Drums

     Gemma was meeting the boy " Jake " in Starbucks. She'd been warned about hooded boys that approached young girls and asked to meet them down silent streets, and knew she shouldn't have agreed to go. If he murdered her, it would be no one's fault but her own.

But, who doesn't love a bit of excitement? If he wasn't genuine, he was a bloody good actor. He'd been alone, and she'd looked into his eyes and they hadn't seemed as if they were blank glass covering some dark intention.

She was on her way now to meet him. She liked the way he'd won her over and persuaded her to come. He seemed dangerous.

Gemma liked danger very much.

She had on a worn out pair of red Doc Martin's, black fishnet tights, a black netted miniskirt, her black top with the chains on, and a whole quarter-pencil's worth of eye-liner. Her style could be described as either Gothic and edgy, or emo and freaky depending on what type of person you are.

She had straightened her black hair. It now looked even more severe: just the way she liked it. She liked to scare people, and show them that she wasn't one to be messed with. It was hard to do that in a school uniform, especially one with that awful green and yellow tie she'd been damned to wear for the 5 years of her high school life.

She knew she was different, and she knew what had made her that way. But, that was a secret. No one else but her parents knew why she was different. Something had happened today that had made her think really hard about her secret. There had been a girl in English...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the Starbucks logo. She'd arrived.

She'd arrived at the coffee shop fashionably late. But she didn't mind. She liked making boys wait for her. Not in a jerky way. Just because she liked to see whether they cared enough to stay.

And this one did.

She spotted him straight away.

It was quite busy. They'd agreed to meet at six so it wouldn't be dark but they'd have long enough to talk. The counter was beginning to run out of sandwiches as bothered mothers and evening shift employees greedily grabbed at their chosen flavour. The whole shop was strongly scented of coffee beans which Gemma found quite appropriate. She could hear the gentle whirring of machinery spluttering out the ends of the in-date milk in a mixture to be handed to someone in a business suit who was rudely running their nails up and down the counter as they awaited their skinny latte.

There were enough tables left. She walked over to the one Jake had decided to sit at and allowed herself to be swallowed up by the sofa surrounding it like a pebble on sinking sand, ignoring the fact that she felt firmly suffocated by the cushioned fabric.

“Nice boots,” he smiled cheekily.

“Thanks,” she said, brushing his compliment away, clearly unnerved by the fact he'd tried to make her blush.

They sat staring at each other for a while, neither not quite knowing what to say. Gemma didn't have time for that.

“So, why am I here?” she prompted. Jake looked lost in thought for a moment. She wished she knew him better just so she could know what was going through that head of his.

Then he leant forward and kissed her. His hands cupped her face like a bowl. His neck was strained to reach over to her. She pulled back, having not been expecting such an advance.

He looked surprised.

“April, you remember me now don't you?” he pleaded, in the hope that her coldness had been the result of a sudden glimpse of memory.

Gemma felt sick. April? Of course. How had she not thought of that? Jake was here for April. It was April he liked. The girl from English. Vulnerability lapped over her, crashing down and crushing her like a wave. The classic white horses were trampling her. She had been such an idiot.

“I... I have to leave,” she mumbled whilst standing up, wobbling to one side with dizziness, and grabbing her bag. “You've got the wrong girl,” she said as she walked away.

She walked away embarrassed, a lone black tear dribbling down her pale cheek. She walked past that old book store next to Starbucks, past a charity shop, past a Tesco's express until she was able to turn a corner and run from that haunting street that after today, she never wanted to see again.

Her Doc Martins crushed the ground beneath them.

* * *

In a tiny bookshop somewhere in the heart of a small town, Emily was halfway up a stepladder, reaching for an old copy of a Jane Austen classic. She did love a classic. Her freckled cheeks flushed with delight at the thought of a reread. That was one of the perks of working here, she smiled to herself. Permission to read as many books as she pleased.

Business was never exactly thriving, and the most customers they'd had all year had been when they'd invited an 'up-and-coming writer' (someone who no one had heard of but agreed to come in for free) to sign copies of their latest novel. Unsurprisingly, there had been no queues scurrying out the classic red front door with the little windows and the gold lettering, running up the busy streets of dreary, grey pavements and mazing around lampposts. A few shy students had awkwardly wondered in at one point, taken a quick glance around, realised it wasn't quite what they'd expected, politely traced along the spine of a few of her favourites, then left. And that was about it.

Emily's left leg was dangling off the ladder, her thick, black knee-length socks wrinkling at the tops where they had been folded over like a footballer's. Travelling a few more centimetres up her unshaven legs, you would reach her long, pleated brown skirt. Like a school uniform, it had a classic button on the side. It was the type of skirt that could be described as 'vintage' and 'comfortable'. On contrast, any well-respected, high-in-fashion snob would describe it as 'hideous' or 'from the charity shop next door', which ironically it was. Why would she bother spending all her money on tiny, revealing outfits when she could get a perfectly acceptable knee-length in beige for under a tenner, and then buy a whole series of books, which would undoubtedly be read before the following morning.

Frumping over the skirt and covering up her ever-expanding stomach and in her opinion " flat chest " was a maroon, woolly jumper, which polo-top snuggled her neck like a scarf. It was bobbly and had a hole in one sleeve, but it kept her warm, and that was the purpose of clothes, wasn't it? Honestly, she worked in a book store. Life wasn't a fashion show. She couldn't believe how much time some people spent in front of the mirror, applying bottles of chemicals that claim to be natural materials to their faces. She was sure she didn't even own an eye-liner, or whatever it's called. And she looked fine. Didn't she? At least she was comfortable. 'At least she was comfortable.' Ha.

She had started to eat quite a lot recently too, she thought guiltily. That big slice of cake sat uncooperatively in her plumper-by-the-minute belly, refusing like a teen to be digested. The editor of Vogue or whatever would choke on her cheese cubes.

What could she say? It was hard working for an old book store conveniently placed next to Starbucks.

Pushing up her thick, black framed glasses to her bushy eyebrows " complete with scratch-resistant lenses and everything " she reached for a tatty looking hard-back. The long sleeves of her polo-neck rode up, revealing her plain, bitten fingernails.

On her way off the stepladder, proud of her finding: their first edition of Emma, she tucked some stray strands of frizzy ginger hair behind her unpierced ears. She was probably the only girl left who had not at one point ever dyed, straightened or had extensions put in her hair. She sometimes blow-dried if she was in a rush, which she wasn't often, but mostly she just tied it back in a messy bun to sleep in, which usually made it even more curly in the morning, but that didn't really matter to her. She wasn't the type of person to spend all morning faffing around and attacking her hair with straightening tongues.

She lightly jumped off the last step, her sensible, sturdy, buckled leather, school-typed shoes-that-mums-love landing with a slight bump on the creaky floorboards. She settled in her chair behind the coffee-circle stained desk decorated with messy documents, a pot of broken pencils and chewed Biros and her knitted, bright mustard scarf snaking along the wood, with her matching hat plonked aimlessly next to it. It was a fresh winter day, and Emily " knowing she would be walking against the wind on her journey home to her lonely, 1-bedroom flat " liked to prepare herself for the brisk harshness of England's worst weather season. Although she was usually the least organised a person could be, her hat and scarf were necessities on cold days like today.

However, the walk home wouldn't feel like any effort at all, so long as she would be walking with David, her boyfriend. He worked in a classy restaurant as a chef, just around the corner and their shifts finished around the same time, so he walked her home on week days. Fate? Emily liked to think so. By her choice of books " piles of romantic novels and love stories that cluttered her hardback ridden flat and over-flowed from the bookshelf " anyone could tell she was a hopeless romantic who firmly believed in fate, destiny and all things love and kisses.

She'd only been with David for about a month, but she knew she was in love with him. Uncontrollably, undeniably, unbearably in love with him. And, she'd never been more delighted when he'd called her cute and asked to see her again over dinner. He'd said all the right things, taken her to all the right places, and kissed her at all the right times. When he'd confessed his secret love of chick-flicks, coco-pops and strong, hard, teeth-staining black coffee (unlike those Al-bran, Colgate add, action film Americans) she'd been ready to die at his feet on command.

The gold bell rudely interrupted her pleasant train of thought by dinging and donging, signifying the entrance of some customers. Ohhh: customers! How exciting. Such a rare occasion caused Emily to stand up ready to fuss around them just enough to accidentally scare them away.

She offered her assistance to what revealed to be a teenage girl and her mother (who had either been old already when she'd had her daughter or was in dire need of some anti-wrinkle cream) in search of revision guides to see them through the school year with a grade B or higher in every subject.

“Mum, did we really have to come here tonight?” the girl tried to whisper. “I'm tired, and I have homework...”

“It won't take long, April. Stop being so difficult. You know how useful these revision guides are, and isn't it nice to have a look around the new area?” the mother hissed back.

“Can I wait in the car? Please? I need history, French, English, all the sciences and maths...”

“For goodness sake, I don't know why you're making such a fuss. Fine. Go straight to the car. I'll only be a few minutes behind you, so if I find out you're not there...” the mother warned sternly.

“I will be, I promise.” the girl said, whilst accepting the car keys she was being handed before wandering off.

“Teenagers,” the mother sighed, rolling her eyes. Emily realised that last had been directed at her. She laughed and produced a murmur of agreement.

“So did I overhear you saying you needed History? We have a wide selection of historical novels...”

“Hey! You!” April called, her voice reaching a higher volume than it ever had done before. “You!” she called louder, desperate to get the girl's attention. The girl was practically running away, not even looking behind her. All April could see was a pair of post-box red boots landing on the ground one after the other.

She was sure it was the better her. The girl she'd seen in English. “You with the red boots!” she called, surprised at how loud her voice could go considering it was well out of practise.

At last, this caused the running girl to turn around. The girl looked straight at her, then looked over her shoulder as if about to carry on running, then thankfully she started to make her way over to April.

It was like looking in a distorted mirror. All April's features were right in front of her, only with slight differences.

April only had a few minutes. It felt as if her time was nearly up by the time the girl reached her.

“You're April, aren't you,” the girl said coldly, as more of a statement than a question.

“Yes,” April replied with equal coldness.

“Look, I know you're confused about all this, but I really just want to go home now. Meet me tomorrow in school. Second break. By the art rooms. Yeah? I'll explain everything then. You have a right to know, I get it. But I can't explain it all now.” The girl started to walk away again. April held her back, helplessly.

“So you know?” April asked. “This isn't just some weird coincidence? There's something going on, isn't there? Are we related?” she called.

The girl had already gotten away and had started to retreat. She made one last promise before she continued her journey.

“Tomorrow.”

When April's mother returned, armed with a stack of books large enough to construct a house with, April was sat in the car, deep in though.

Strange child, Mary muttered under her breath.

It was getting late.

Mia and her mates would be catching the train home soon. They would probably try to make the quarter-to-nine one. They all had school tomorrow, and a Mia still had an English essay due for tomorrow that had followed her around town like a storm cloud behind her, looming in the depths of her thoughts.

She'd memorised a big word to get vocabulary marks on her essay, and she'd been surprised to find the word had actually fascinated her. Abyssopelagic. It meant pertaining the depths of the ocean. The sinister "abysso" recalls Tartarus, and overall conjures an image as beautiful as a child's curiosity of blind prognathous fish constellating the dark with the aching lambency of their bioluminescence.

Her arms, behind their sleeves, were dotted with goose bumps. The crowd bustled around them, the sea of bobbing heads rippling like a wave through the paved streets; all variations of people lovingly gripping brown paper bags containing winter woollies and maybe something sparkly for That Night Out At That Place Next Week. Mia watched amused as a beaming just-about-adult marched her boyfriend through the swarm like a soldier, armed with a couple of credit cards, as he followed " a terrified look upon his face as he worried about his credit limit after involuntarily entering Gucci.

Personally, Mia was more of a bargain hunter on a budget with a hawk's eye for a 'SALE TODAY' sign, but she enjoyed the happy hum of chatter that buzzed contently around her ears as she weaved through the maze of late night shoppers. A couple of well-lit buildings stuck out their chests in attempt to appear inviting, which was only enhanced by their glittery window displays, automatic doors and promises of a student discount. They stood tall; their rooftops were literally scraping the mystical sky and touching upon the ambient mood that made her cheeks flush despite the teeth-chattering temperatures.

She noticed an older couple tottering hand-in-hand at a pace even a snail could match over the cobbled pavement. They were deliberately ignoring the many discarded cigarettes and fast-food wrappers littering the stone beneath them, which surprised Mia as the only old person she knew " her grandma " would do the exact opposite and purposefully turn her nose up at any example of the 'disgusting young generation' whilst obviously tutting and scowling, promptly sending icicles to run up Mia's spine. Grandma's frown and sour, tutting scorn sent her imagination running wild with images of thunderstorms and lightning whenever she pulled the expression that had become known within the Day family as Grandma's 'pissed-off' face. For some reason, this face was most often the chosen mood of the day whenever Mia wore even a scrap of make-up or clothes like jeans that 'boys could wear' in her Grandma's presence.

Old people are weird, she concluded.

The old couple in town had made little progress when she turned to face them again. Her heart was an ice-cream on a hot day; it melted quicker than imaginable when the old man took off his beige jacket and wrapped it around the frail shoulders of his partner like a blanket one would use when camping so as to not freeze when roasting marshmallows round the camp-fire and singing jingles out of key. He stroked the soft wisps of her grey, cotton-candy hair, then smiled warmly at her causing the wrinkles around his lips to grow deeper.

Each wrinkle upon his ageing face held a memory, and some funny story he would no doubt go home to tell his children who would tell their children and so on.

* * *

Rebecca rolled over in bed, wrapped up in the arm of her gorgeous boyfriend. Her skin was sticky with sweat. Her head was a matted clump, not differing hugely from a bird's nest. Her black eye make-up was smudged, and her chest moved up and down rhythmically with every heavy breath she took.

The room smelt of smoke and weed. It was made almost entirely from wood and was illuminated with yellow lighting. She felt as if her naked skin was being looked at through a vintage camera.

She had no idea what the time was. They were in some little town somewhere where everyone spoke a foreign language. She would catch a plane home soon, before her mother started to worry about her.

She rolled out of bed, and pulled on some lose khaki combats and a baggy white shirt made of material thinner than tissue paper, which she tied into a knot around her hips and rolled up the sleeves to three-quarter-length. It was so hot she felt as if she could simply melt away. She took a swig of spirit left on the sink, which was no colder than the air she inhaled.

She pulled her hair back behind her head and splashed her face with cold water. Her eyes " still drooping with laziness " lit up as she felt a body pressed behind her, an arm wrapped around her waist and a hand stroking her skin.

Judging by eye and by past experiences, you would never believe her to be only 16. Despite her tiny physique, her face was mature. Most would estimate her to be in her early twenties. This allowed her " with the help of fake ID and the lack of security in the majority of places she visited " to drink and dance as much as she pleased, go where she pleased, sleep with as many people as she pleased, and generally do as she pleased.

That was the only explanation as to how the girl ended up in bed with a man she'd only known for a day, in a hot yet uncivilised country, not having eaten anything in approximately a week and curing a hangover with even more alcohol.

She'd always been independent. She'd always been the type of kid who would turn down a lift from her mum to get the train on her own. She'd always been the type to offer to work alone when dumped in the sticky situation of choosing pairs between three.

However, in her teen years, her longing for independence had gotten worse. It had become a sickening illness. She couldn't bare anyone not thinking of her as precocious. She pushed everyone who tried to own her away. It started when she used to go out and meet friends at night, and she would forget to tell her parents her whereabouts. Then she would forget to come home. Exams were of secondary importance. Her theory had been: Have a social life, Get enough sleep, Achieve good exam grades. Choose two.

She had chosen the first two, but had gradually dropped the second like she had dropped geography in third year, after her discovery of tobacco and dark alleyways: age 13.

Everyone loved the way she would keep a good few feet away from anything mildly mainstream as if it were a bad smell. Everyone loved the way she acted like she was already in Uni, enjoying her party days like she wouldn't have time for them later.

But things had gotten much worse since then. She not only got the train places on her own and disappeared for the night, but her trips away could sometimes last up to a few weeks. Her parents would have long given up calling the police to drag her home had it not been for their constant fear that one day she would never return.

As he nuzzled his face against her bare neck and kissed her, she decided that she would bring this man home with her. He was from London, but the rough parts. His name was Miles. They just so happened to have ended up at the same place in the right lighting, and at the right level of intoxication. But she liked him, so he would come home with her.

Because, like always, she was in charge.

* * *

Gemma waited for April outside the art rooms, as promised. Nothing had ever meant more to her in her life. That girl was like a celebrity to her. All her life she'd been taught about her, 5003. Or April, as she was known as at school.

Every nerve in Gemma's body was causing an uprising inside her. Every bit of her tingled like she had pins and needles. She had been waiting for this day forever, when she could finally meet her.

While she waited, she peered nosily around the corridor. It had display boards hung on the bleak walls as often as baubles on a tree, each confidently projecting some younger kid's efforts at a Picasso consisting entirely of a right angled triangle and a bright yellow square in order to obtain a position in the desirable category of 'abstract'. Being a devoted art student herself " her art folder a permanent accessory in addition to her Greek bracelets and piercings " she remembered doing this project herself a few years previously. She shuffled from side to side in her black Creepers; her substitutes for school shoes. The soft breeze caused when someone opened the back doors leading to the outside of the building felt like a huge butterfly was batting its wings in front of her. It would be just strong enough to keep her wavy black hair from her face.

She didn't know how she would say it. The conundrum still defeated her. She'd been brought up knowing about it, so naturally she was fine with it. There had been bad days and worse days, but overall she was glad she knew about her condition, so she could work out how to deal with it. The compassion she felt for April was maddening. She couldn't imagine not having that knowledge. She couldn't imagine how hard it must be for April, always wondering, never being sure...

She took deep breaths. Slow, patient breaths.

Her parents had called her Gemma after the Gemma-bear she had spent the first six months of her childhood with in her orphanage. She didn't remember Gemma the bear, but she'd been told all about it. Her parents, who she called Jim and Sue as they had no real relation to her, had decided that they would call her after the only thing she loved in that home.

But, Gemma wasn't really called that. Back when she was a little brunette baby, she hadn't had a name. The orphanage nurses had called her 'Baby 12'. It hadn't been the best orphanage.

Her name wasn't too dissimilar now. Her real name was 5234. That was her code. That was who she was. Jim and Sue had, of course, renamed her as Gemma so she wouldn't have stood out at school registers, but at home they called her Gemma-234, as if 'Gemma' was somehow a substitute for the 5. So, Gemma was known as lots of different things to different people. To her old nurses: Baby 12. To her teachers: Gemma. To Jim and Sue: Gemma-234. To herself: 5234.

April's real name was 5003. Jim and Sue had taught her that. Since then, 5003 had been her favourite number.

Seeing 5003 in English the other day had been really weird. There had been a tear of joy in Gemma's eyes as she had watched her read out her work. It had been really great to finally see her in person.

Here she came now. 5003 in person. This girl meant everything to Gemma.

“April,” she greeted her. “Sorry about last night. I was upset... I shouldn't have been so harsh on you.”

“Oh, it's fine,” April assured her. “But can we do this quickly? I'm really not supposed to talk to people. If my parents found out...”

“No, we can't. Well, we could, but I promise you when I tell you about me, you won't want this to be over quickly.”

“Don't be so sure. What is it then?”

“OK, I'll tell you. But first you need to have some background, because this will change your life. You'll see everything differently forever after I tell you. And your parents will probably want to kill me. This is what they've been hiding from you; after this they'll have no reason to stop you talking to people. The secret will be out. Are you positive you want to know?” Gemma checked. She hated that by telling April what she was, she would no doubt break up their family. But it had to be done.

“Yes, I'm positive.” April said firmly.

“Here goes. I was handed in to an orphanage as a new born. My real parents didn't want me because I had an incurable disease. I wasn't there for long though. My only love there had been a teddy bear called Gemma. Still as a tiny baby, I'd been rescued. A man took me. Not legally. He stole me. He stole me away, and handed me back aged at around 5 months old. By then I was a different baby. Different eyes, different hair, different face, and a tattoo on my wrist. I was lucky to ever get adopted. Actually, it wasn't so much luck as dealings. Jim and Sue had been put up to adopting me. They'd been told they were saving a life, which maybe they were. I'm not clear on the details. I was brought up knowing all this. It sounds crazy, but I'm grateful that it all happened or else my disease would have killed me by now. This way, I get a half-normal life, which however you look at it, is better than no life at all.”

April started to ask questions. “But how is any of this to do with me. Are we twins? Were we both handed into that orphanage?”

“No. You came from a different one. We weren't related as babies, but we kind of are now. I'm just getting to that. What that man did to me made me a different person. A person without a disease. You were the same. He searched for years to find babies that matched his requirements: new born, orphans and really sick. He saved us, April.”

“But how?”

“I don't know. I'm not a scientist. But whatever he did saved us. There's one more too. One more of us.”

“But why do we look the same?”

“I've not finished yet. I do know a little bit more.” Gemma said, whilst bracing herself to say the hardest part.

“What?” April persisted.

Gemma closed her mouth and opened it again.. The bell went, signalling the end of break. Then she said the words. The words that would pose a million more questions that would have to wait. She said:

“April, we're clones.”