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  I turn a corner too fast and barge right into Cliff; a boy that could have been Cliff only this morning. He’s tall, the same kind of gangly build, but masked in scarlet and wearing the wrong t-shirt, no price tag. He glares back angry, protective and not Cliff. I have to remind myself that Cliff has already given all of his secrets away.

  A whole line of Mavericks are approaching me. Five of them at once! A mix of girls and boys a couple of years older than me, each teenager holding their face for show. An outstandingly beaky nose leads; challenging eyes that shine from the wrong place; and then frustratingly we have all passed each other and I can only take in the continuing responses around them.

  Fight the distraction of these Maverick strangers; because this is a search for the familiar body of Cliff, his loping walk and his lean height and his ugly bitten-down fingernails, his intense voice and his explanatory arm gestures and the way he follows the every move of my Maverick face. What is his face saying to strangers right now? The strangers gathering to gawp and point at the Naturals, unmasked? I think of Cliff pulling his fedora off so unexpectedly after the cinema, the raw shock of all that exposed hair and skin fresh to the air- and he still had his scarf on that day.

  I reach the steamed up window of the Van Gogh Cafe in twenty-five minutes, hurting. There is the crowd of unmasked Originals as promised by Penny. Perhaps thirty or forty people, not in rows, but forming three outward-facing circles, with their arms linked at the elbow. Each of the circles turns in no particular rhythm and I stand there on the opposite side of the road and search, not for features- I’m not taking them apart- I’m putting them together, to find Cliff, exposed. Each circle turns at a different speed, revealing a limited number of faces to me at any one time, even as I pace the whole length of the pavement, to alter my sight line. Forest is in the centre of it all of course, I hear his voice before I see him.

  “Cheer up Merlot!” he bellows to the side of the building. There is a theatrical pause for the onlookers to laugh, which some do, nervously. “Updates not contributing to your happiness anymore?”

  Forest pulls a massive fake grin and holds it, pointing to his happiness with the index fingers of both hands at once; his team copy this expression one by one, all those differently expanding faces. Some collapse into giggles and Forest is laughing for real now. I laugh too, it’s impossible not to. I wish he could see me, but I understand he’s in his element and this moment is mid-performance. They hold banners of Merlot, frozen with her eyes as down-cast as her mouth.

  When Merlot’s Ultiface advert begins its loop again, the Originals cheer a rousing greeting. Merlot is the size of the building. She is oblivious to the debate, her vast eyes carry over the road with ease and seemingly through me, ever inviting. My phone beeps in my pocket: it’s an automated message to inform me that my location has been requested and obtained by someone. That someone is Cliff.

  I cross the road, closing in to Cliff’s most likely hiding place. Three circles of inter-linked faces just like Forest’s- only they’re not like Forest’s of course; each face does its own thing. Quiet eyes check me out, it’s hard to gauge how many, as this community doesn’t demand to be seen on automatic. A woman in her sixties or seventies stops mid-chatter to size me up. I can’t smile to reassure, so I simply stand still and maintain my distance of perhaps, three metres. She takes shuffling steps sideways, tiny feet turning her away from me, when the circle takes a sudden lurch backwards tugging her with it, her lips form a brief hollow of surprise and her vigilant eyes disappear into the creases of her laughter. Murmurs and exclamations of surprise ripple into the air; arm links undulate and are maintained, tightened.

  “Cheer up Merlot!” Forest, even louder, from within the centre circle. “Updates not contributing to your happiness anymore?”

  Forest is compelling and I have missed faces. The fake stretched grins spread outwards from their leader: closed smiles, open smiles, faces cracking under the pressure to act all Merlot. The real smiles are contagious, and I am in no doubt as to the display of my Maverick dimple. The pointer fingers that struggle to indicate a fake grin whilst locked at the elbow, that’s kind of funny too. I spy a crooked smile on a boy tucked safe in the furthest circle, real happiness- but no gut jolt of recognition, nothing coming back from him.

  I turn away from the protesters to scan the gathering crowd, scanning for Cliff’s height and shoulder curve. His running shoes. In contrast to the members of C.O.F, this lot are a bunch of individuals suffering from the closeness of strangers, their growing numbers balanced on a narrow strip of pavement. There is markedly no body contact. The front row faces are controlled, and alert. A glance tells all. Faces that say: waiting for trouble. My gaze is returned in assorted colours, invitations to engage that I actively ignore. Cliff is not a colour. A man dressed for business turns to his female colleague and they exchange a few words in a low, serious voice. Strangers loiter six deep, eight deep at the pavement edges. All I need is a passing glimpse of a significant feature, somehow something of Cliff. But maybe I am wrong. Maybe it will be the steady grey stare, inviting me out of the crowd.

  I turn slowly on the spot, a signal designed to encourage his approach. Instead, an ambulance pulls up level to me, on the far side curb, blocking in the Van Gogh Cafe. A couple of police cars follow behind, dark sets of eyes at the front and back windows, the usual authoritarian effects undone by shadow. Three engines cut off.

  Security forces gather in the doorway of Ultiface, a separate and silent crowd in helmets with visors, waiting for a sign. I wonder what. The Originals are surrounded, and so am I.

  A surge in the babble of voices; a young man has pulled free from the middle circle and remains outside it. His hands are shoved deep into pockets, and his gait suggests anticipation. I can’t see his face, but the torso is not a C.O.F t-shirt and the outline of his body is all wrong- it isn’t Cliff. A young woman still turning the circle draws up opposite to him, and forms an Original face of recognition and pleasure. He seizes her around the waist and plucks her from the circle pulling her towards him until their bodies touch. He dips to whisper something in her ear, and some negotiation takes place in the private space between their faces. Something has been resolved. She leans back on her heels, but not for long. His hand is on the small of her back and their faces tilt into each other, into a kiss, her arms completing their own private circle around him. The kiss belongs only to them; each face is shielded from the crowd by the presence of the other. Two faces that connect, at the softest most sensitive part. The C.O.F crowd whoops as the couple come up for air. Each face is perfectly compelling in the eyes of the other. Straight whites flicker on the faces of Updated strangers; everybody understands a kiss.

  My phone delivers a text:

  Meet me on the tunnel in one hour Cliff x???

  I have to read it five times over to decide it’s a typing error and nothing more- the question marks belong after the question, not after the kiss. (Blame the real kiss for any confusion.) Texts cause trouble; he should have come for me in the crowd instead. Cliff’s kiss must be the start of an apology. Symbols are not enough, new boy.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  This time I’ve seized the advantage, I watch Cliff enter the park through the archway of vines – and he’s all masked and knotted up again, especially for me. So he dares to keep that hat on in my presence! He expects an encore out of this overexposed face? Some kind of a happy ending for ‘Us’?

  He’s early, not early enough, the top of the tunnel is mine. His strides say, let’s get this over with. He flies past the bed of gaudy roses focused on the grass beneath his running shoes. You should be running, new boy. The tiniest lift of his chin and I’d be revealed glaring down upon him, but he’s over-confident as ever. He assumes he can still surprise me.

  It’s the grey scarf again, freshly washed and unfolded. The ridges on his chest come into focus as he draws nearer. I know what they feel like on the inside, densely weighted, yet soft to the skin.
A brisk breeze shunts the rain clouds along- nothing to see here. I couldn’t risk any of this in earshot of Rex or Penny. I want him on his own, so the tunnel suits me just fine.

  The gate clanks. I don’t wait until he’s comfortable.

  “How was I selected?”

  Cliff climbs faster than last time and slides closer, but a little bit of tunnel remains, exactly as I imagined.

  “You chose me too, remember?” His voice is steady. “You suggested meeting in the park. You needed to observe me, to decide exactly how messed up I was.”

  “But I didn’t film your every move and record your every stupid thing you said! Was your Dad in on it? Am I some sort of C.O.F campaign?”

  “Dad knows nothing about the film. Nobody does, just us.”

  I halt at his use of the word: Us.

  “Did you pay that thug to rip your scarf off? Was that some kind of test?”

  “Nothing was set-up, I swear. The film had to be you reacting to me, precisely as it happened. Reacting to my scarf; and later, to me.”

  “How can I believe anything you say ever again?”

  That’s got him, he hasn’t prepared a response this time. He swivels to face me, dropping a leg either side of the tunnel then walking his hands back to maintain the gap. He’s right to keep a safe distance, everyone in the known universe can read my face right now.

  “I’ll tell you everything you want,” he continues. “One thing was planned. Not a set-up, but a kind of spur-of-the-moment thing. After the cinema, when I whipped my hat off and temporarily stopped the filming? I thought you liked me, but I wasn’t sure. I knew after that.”

  I practise my PokerFace.

  “Ask me anything.” he says

  “The beginning is all wrong! It’s not how we started.”

  “You mean the Library? I’m waiting for the footage. I really did need help downloading my essay, I never lied. I’m glad it was you that day.”

  “What about earlier in Mrs Singh’s class when you got stuck under the molecular model? Of course you wouldn’t put that bit in. You’d look stupid.”

  “We didn’t meet in History of Science.”

  “I saw you! Everybody saw Dollar floundering under that stupid model. I came in late, Mrs Singh was picking on the both of us for answers.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “I’d just done my Maverick mouth, everyone noticed me! You laughed.”

  “I’ll get hold of the classroom footage. Just for the record, I believe it will show that I wasn’t laughing at you...you were probably just-”

  “Just what?”

  “Being paranoid. Self-conscious, I mean. But we’ll open with that if you want! You’re the star.”

  “I’m the Editor. It’s a takeover.”

  “Done.” Cliff nods. “But I demand a final scene: True’s side of the story. The bit where you get to say exactly what you think of me, from the beginning.”

  Cliff actually has the cheek to adjust his fedora at me for a better angle. “So, are you ready to start?”

  “Pass me that thing.”

  If he wasn’t filming me I’d snatch it harder.

  “My story has played out on my face.” I announce. “I’ve got nothing to add. Hand it over. Now.”

  Cliff watches me position the careworn black fedora. I turn to face him on the tunnel, because interrogations demand eye contact. We sit face-to-face, rigid backs. Is this to be the new ‘Us’?

  “Right. This is Cliff’s story- it always was. Get explaining. Why’d you film me?”

  “I was curious about what it feels like to get to know me.”

  “So you changed schools...”

  “I needed someone who didn’t already know me.”

  “You lost a few too many girls through hidden camera?”

  “I’d never filmed anyone before. Only Dad, doing his thing, protesting.”

  “So, you set yourself up as the good guy, the Rex Rayne.”

  “Me as myself. You stood up to Seven, you can be Rex Rayne.”

  “I’m no movie star.”

  “You were perfect.”

  “It could have been anyone. Beijing for instance...”

  “No, it couldn’t. She wouldn’t have worked, not for me. You have this set range of...I mean, when you make up your mind, there’s these green flecks in your eyes, and then you go for it, your facial expressions are like a whole other language. But the Blocked Smiles are the best. Everyone will want a part of your face. Promise me right now for the cameras, never to sell that smile?”

  Cold specks of rain begin to decorate the surface of the tunnel, I glance at the sky. No threat of a sunset, not this time. Something else is niggling at me.

  “Aren’t you angry with me?” I say. “Angry at everyone?”

  “Angry got boring. I decided to do something with it, to create something instead: a story. In the beginning, we have that day right here on the tunnel when your eyes were screaming stay back, and you couldn’t bear to look at me, so it’s all this one side of your face.” Cliff strokes the air down my dimpled side. “But you let yourself start to like me and your face changed. Especially that smile.”

  “I trusted you.”

  “The filming had to be a secret. That way, everything I captured is real.”

  Cliff follows my gaze. His hair is flattened in a band where the fedora made contact with his scalp, the strands darkening in the rain. The edge of the grey scarf presses up against his earlobes where my fingers once lay. It’s okay to look.

  “Were you real?” I say

  “If I was acting, the film would mean nothing. But it turned out better than I ever imagined- and that’s down to you.”

  “I’m glad your project worked out. It’s been nice doing business with you.”

  I extend my hand for a firm handshake. Cliff turns my hand in his and raises it to where his lips would be, pressing my hand to the fabric. There is an exaggerated kissing sound. Confident.

  “Did you actually watch yourself in the clips I sent?” he says.

  “But what about Seven’s text today?” I venture, cautiously. “You know, with the photo of, um...”

  “Oh that. Not your most flattering picture. I deleted it straight away, if it makes you feel any better?”

  He squeezes my knuckles gently.

  The rain suddenly accelerates against the tunnel like badly timed applause, because we’re not finished yet. It’s time to take shelter. I seize the raised edge of the tunnel and shuffle backwards, lower my feet into the tunnel entrance with a wet squeak and a slip. Cliff grabs my upper arms too late, I’m fine. Stooping, I walk into the dry and settle cross-legged in the centre of the tunnel to film Cliff’s approach. He plonks himself in my exit and plants his running shoes up high, knees bent, arching his back and neck against the metal. I decide to let him have his profile shot. Beyond Cliff’s raised legs, the wind gusts and the tree branches all around the park surge like crazy. A metal-framed circle of pelting rain seals us in. The nanocameras are our witness: we haven’t killed each other, yet.

  Cliff falls still and I know he’s smiling and that’s galling because what has he got to smile about, exactly, in this moment? He concealed everything.

  “You ever hear of the halo effect?” he says, conversationally.

  I shake my head. He takes my hand, the same as before.

  “It’s this Psychology theory from way back, the late 1900’s, which goes, basically: if you and I went in front of a jury for the same crime, I’d probably get found guilty and you’d get off. Because people think they get an overall impression of your character from your face; the right face is your halo.”

  “What’s your dad got to say about that?”

  “His exact words were: don’t end up in front of a jury.”

  I laugh and find myself thinking like the film-maker, imagining how that exchange will come out onscreen. Did my laugh sound forced? Is this how it’s been for Cliff? This is officially doing my head in. I pull my hand
out of Cliff’s grasp because suddenly I need it; I grab the rim of the fedora and lift it off my head.

  “I’m ready to destroy your hat.” I tell him.

  This is the ending I had planned: destruction. Crushed cameras underfoot, sudden darkness for anyone who dares to watch this film. Cliff takes my arm.

  “Keep it on. I’m... almost done, I swear. Then you can kill the cameras.”

  I lower the fedora. “I invited you here for a reason. You have given me more than you can ever know. Now I’ve got something for you.”

  Cliff raises his head from the tunnel, releasing the knot from the metal. Is this actually going to happen now? I’ve got this wrong at least twice before. I tug the fedora firmly back down to make sure I capture every second of this; his fingers fumble and I get that flutter of anticipation that used to happen when Dollar slid out of my phone. This will be like nothing I’ve seen before. Come on Cliff, nobody takes this long over a knot!

  “I may need some help.” he says

  I notice his hands are shaking, this is rapidly becoming real. I move up onto my knees and shuffle closer along the base of the tunnel, our eyes are now level and that’s when I know for sure: he wants me to do this. When I reach around his head to unpick the knot, it is already so loose it comes apart in my hands. So I unwrap him. It’s hard to be slow, the two ends of the scarf come around his head and away from his face and I hold the grey fabric up like a veil in the air between us, before I let go. It flutters down, easy as that. He might have caught it in his lap, I don’t know. Cliff has a face. One word sticks on my lips, I force it at him: