The Erasure Initiative Read online

  OTHER BOOKS BY LILI WILKINSON

  After the Lights Go Out

  The Boundless Sublime

  Green Valentine

  The Zigzag Effect

  Love-shy

  A Pocketful of Eyes

  Pink

  Angel Fish

  The (Not Quite) Perfect Boyfriend

  Scatterheart

  Joan of Arc

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2020

  Copyright © Lili Wilkinson 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 978 1 76052 505 7

  eISBN 978 1 76087 490 2

  For teaching resources, explore www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover and text design by Debra Billson

  Cover photos by Getty Images/Lauren Bates (face) and

  Shutterstock/Iakov Kalinin (palms)

  Set by Midland Typesetters

  I wanted to write a different book, but Jodie Webster – my excellent publisher, mentor and friend – bossed me into writing this one.

  I dedicate it to her, with thanks.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE BLUE FAIRY: You must learn to choose between right and wrong.

  PINOCCHIO: Right and wrong? But how will I know?

  1

  DAY 1

  09:00

  I wake up, and for a few precious seconds I don’t realise there’s anything wrong.

  Slowly, I become aware of sounds – the rumble of tyres on bitumen, and the hiss of air conditioning. I can smell stale sweat and air freshener. Feel the cool vibration of glass against my forehead.

  I open my eyes, but the world is too bright, and I shut them again – but not before I take in ugly geometric-patterned upholstery, and rushing green beyond the window. I squint through my lashes, and see thick jungle on one side and a cerulean spread of ocean on the other.

  I’m on a bus.

  My head is throbbing, and my mouth is dry. I feel hungover – maybe I’ve been drugged? There’s a bottle of water in the seat pocket in front of me, and I twist the cap off and drink it eagerly. It’s room temperature, but I’ll take it.

  Something moves inside me – a moth-like flutter of panic in the dark.

  It’s one of those long-haul buses, comfortable seats in pairs with an aisle running down the middle. I put the bottle of water back in the seat pocket. There’s nothing else in there. I’m not sure what I was expecting – an itinerary? A page of instructions?

  I’m cold and clammy, as if I have the flu. My hands tremble. I take a breath and feel it hitch in my throat. The thing in my chest is larger now, swelling, trying to escape. I swallow.

  My trembling hands look nice. Slim. White. Female. Young. My nails are trimmed and clean. I don’t bite my cuticles. There’s a white silicone band around my wrist, like a fitness tracker, bright LED numbers standing out on its smooth surface.

  09:02

  There’s no buckle. I try to slip it over my hand, but it’s too tight. I’ve no idea how it got on my wrist, but I can’t get it off.

  I close my eyes and count to ten, then stand up to look around at the other passengers. Six of them. A few rows behind me is a middle-aged woman, and a much older woman, both asleep.

  Behind them, a twenty-something white guy with short red hair and neck tattoos is asleep too, his head against the window. Across the aisle is an Asian kid in glasses, maybe fourteen, staring down at his hands, which he twists into knots. He’s muttering something to himself, the same words, over and over, and I wonder if he’s praying. Behind him is a chisel-jawed guy, blinking his way out of sleep and looking around, his expression slightly bewildered. His eye catches mine, and he smiles, like he recognises me. I smile back instinctively, although I have no idea who he is.

  Directly in front of me is a shaved head. It turns towards me and I see a brown-skinned girl with cheekbones that I’d die for. Her expression is wild. It looks exactly like the flapping thing in my chest. I look away, and try to keep my face neutral.

  The important thing is not to panic.

  Everyone is wearing the same simple T-shirt – either red or blue. We each have a sticker, high on the right side of our chests – one of those HELLO MY NAME IS labels.

  I look down at myself, and see that my own T-shirt is blue. The black texta letters on my sticker swim meaninglessly before my eyes, a jumble of straight lines and curves.

  Are they even letters? Is the writing nonsense, or is it just me?

  Do I not know how to read?

  I blink hard, and the letters suddenly click into place. I make out the upside-down name CECILY. It doesn’t feel as comforting as it should.

  I close my eyes and whisper Cecily, hoping that it will spark something. But there’s nothing in my mind but darkness and fog.

  Maybe I’m still asleep.

  Or maybe it’s a prank.

  I step into the aisle and head to the front of the bus to see if there’s a driver, gripping seatbacks to balance as the bus sails around a long, curved stretch of road.

  There’s no driver. No seat. No steering wheel. No pedals. Just a smooth, featureless dashboard, then the windscreen.

  Not all buses have drivers. That’s something I know. But for some reason, the lack of a driver fills me with a prickling, nameless unease.

  Panic is starting to look like a much more attractive option.

  The road ahead is winding and in a state of disrepair, with cracks and potholes. If there were ever white lines on it, they’ve faded to nothing. For a moment I’m distracted by the beach on my right – powdery white sand and achingly blue ocean. It’s pristine and perfect, the view broken only by the occasional cluster of palm trees or an outcrop of picturesque rock.

  The thing inside my chest is trying to claw its way out of my throat. I can’t let it out. If I let it out, I’ll scream, and that’s not going to help me.

  I dig my nails into my palms until I’m calm again. I can’t let anyone know how rattled I am. If this is a prank, I’m not going to be anyone’s punchline.

  I look back down at the silicone wristband.

  09:06

  As I turn and start back up the aisle to my seat, the middle-aged woman shoots upright, gripping her seatback, her jaw set. She has the same startlingly blue eyes as the hot guy, and I wonder if they’re related. She looks trustworthy – in her forties, white, with a haircut that promises commonsense and professionalism. She’s wearing a blue T-shirt – the same as me – a
nd her sticker says her name is SANDRA.

  Sandra looks like she’s here to take charge. I walk towards her, expecting her to explain what’s going on, and what she’s going to do about it.

  But Sandra doesn’t take charge. She doesn’t say anything to me. She doesn’t address the bus, or pull out her phone and make an important call. She just nods at me, politely but without really seeing me, and sinks back into her seat.

  I’m so thrown by this that I miss my own seat, and end up sitting down next to the girl with the shaved head.

  Up close she is stunningly beautiful. The striking angles of her cheekbones are echoed in the strong lines of her jaw. I can see tiny holes in her ears and lip where rings or studs once were. Thick lashes frame dark eyes that glare at me with undisguised animosity.

  The sticker on her red T-shirt says NIA, and I realise very quickly that Nia is angry, and that she has decided to point that anger at me. She leans close and speaks in a low, aggressive voice.

  ‘Who are you? What did you do to me?’

  I stare at her, wondering how to answer. The jungle beyond the window is a blur behind her, but I catch the faintest glimpse of my reflection – a ghost, with pale hair hanging to her shoulders, and an oval-shaped face. The ghost has no features. I can’t see the shape of her nose, the curve of her mouth, the colour of her eyes. I lift a hand to my face, and the ghost lifts hers too. I lean closer, trying to make her out, hoping that she might be the key to solving this puzzle.

  Nia is staring at me. The muscles of her jaw are clenched tight, her whole body vibrating with barely suppressed agitation. She is close enough that I can smell the generically fresh smells of laundry powder and deodorant, not quite masking the more animal scents of sweat and fear. She’s waiting. She wants from me what I wanted from Sandra. Confidence. Assurance. Answers.

  I’m flattered she thinks that I’m the kind of person who can provide these things. I want to live up to her expectations. But I have nothing to offer, except for the clawing, clamouring terror inside my chest.

  I don’t remember getting on the bus.

  I don’t remember who I am.

  I don’t remember anything.

  To: The Blue Fairy

  From:

  I know who you are. We need to talk.

  2

  DAY 1

  09:17

  ‘I don’t know who I am.’

  A wave of relief washes over me at Nia’s words. So I’m not the only one. But the relief is quickly swallowed by fear again.

  The fog in my mind is thick and impenetrable. When I reach in to find the details of myself – my name, how old I am, the memories that make me me – there’s nothing. Only fog. But I know things. I can talk and read, and I know times tables and what the capital of Bolivia is (Sucre). I just don’t know how I know them.

  Nia is still talking. ‘I don’t remember anything. My surname. How I got here. And I certainly don’t remember how this happened.’

  She leans forward and rolls up the left leg of her jeans. Instead of brown skin, I see what looks like smooth white porcelain painted with dark blue – gabled pavilions nestled in among delicate bushes and trees. Along the curve of Nia’s shin, a blue painted path rises into a three-arched bridge, where a willow tree bends over a stream. Just below her knee, I see a broad expanse of water, punted boats with little cabins, and above it all, a pair of flying swallows, their beaks turned towards one another as if they’re about to kiss.

  Willow pattern. The words swim into my mind through the fog, and the feeling of remembering is so familiar and intense that I want to cry.

  A crack runs through the middle of the tableau, from Nia’s knee to her ankle. It’s filled with gold, a spidery glittering line. At the bottom of it, in tiny gold copperplate letters, I see the word UNBREAKABLE.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  It’s the first time I’ve spoken out loud, and I’m startled by my own voice. Feminine. Lower-pitched than I’d expected. And significantly calmer-sounding than the inside of my head.

  Nia taps on her leg, and it makes a hollow, plasticky noise. ‘I think it’s a type of resin, or maybe carbon fibre,’ she says, yanking her jeans leg back down.

  ‘Can you …’ I make a vague gesture.

  ‘Walk?’ Nia asks. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been too … I didn’t want to try.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  She glares at me. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘Okay, just sit here and not know, then.’ I lean back in my seat with a shrug.

  The glare darkens into the dirtiest look imaginable; then Nia takes a deep breath and stands up. I tuck in my legs so she can get past me, then watch her stride up the aisle. From my perspective, her gait seems smooth and even – I can’t tell that one of her legs is a prosthesis. She turns at the door to the toilet, and comes back again, clambering over me to sink back into her seat.

  ‘So you can walk,’ I say.

  She nods. ‘It feels … natural. I’ve definitely been … like this for a long time.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt? Feel uncomfortable?’

  She shakes her head. ‘The thing that’s uncomfortable is my brain.’

  This would be a good time for me to tell Nia that I don’t have any memory either. But something holds me back.

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ I ask instead.

  Nia frowns, thinking. ‘I–I don’t,’ she says. ‘I know stuff, like that this is a bus, and how to walk and talk and read. But I don’t remember anything about who I am.’ She looks down at her nametag. ‘I don’t even know if this is my real name.’

  I blink and realise she’s right – maybe I’m not Cecily, either. It’s a paralysing thought – Cecily is all I have.

  ‘So you don’t know how you got here,’ I say. ‘Nothing at all?’

  There’s a hollowness to her expression that I recognise. Like she’s reaching inside to find the parts of herself, but finding nothing. She shakes her head. ‘I don’t even know where here is.’

  Her voice rises on the last word, and she turns to stare fiercely out the window. I follow her gaze, hoping for another glimpse of the reflected ghost that is me, but the bus is moving through a patch of bright sunlight, and all I can see is a blur of jungle outside. Running my hands over my face, I’m relieved to confirm that I actually do have facial features, but they don’t tell me anything.

  We must have been drugged. It could be a prank show, or maybe we’ve been elaborately kidnapped and are being held for ransom. I look around the bus for cameras or recording devices, but it just looks like an ordinary bus.

  Nia’s head whips around and she narrows her eyes at me. ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’ve asked a lot of questions, but you’re not volunteering any answers. How did you get here? Do you remember?’

  I hesitate, glancing around to see if anyone else on the bus is listening to us.

  ‘Cecily. That’s your name, isn’t it? Cecily?’

  I don’t answer her. If I tell Nia the truth, she’ll feel better. She’ll know she’s not alone. It’s the right thing to do. But I can’t. If I tell her, then I’m admitting that I’m not in control. And I have to stay in control, because if I don’t, then I’ll fall to pieces.

  I look at the window again, but I still can’t see myself. Maybe if I see my face, my memory will return.

  ‘Tell me I’m not alone here.’ Nia’s voice is edged with despair.

  I have to see myself. I stare into Nia’s eyes, looking for my reflection. Then I remember the bathroom at the back of the bus, and I stand and stumble up the aisle.

  ‘Screw you,’ Nia calls after me.

  Nobody looks up as I walk past. The old lady and the guy with the tattoos are still sleeping. The Asian kid is still staring at his hands. Sandra has closed her eyes again, and the hot guy is looking at her, a crinkle in the centre of his otherwise perfect forehead.

  The bathroom is pret
ty disgusting. It’s tiny and cramped and smells like stale urine, with a plastic floor, a utilitarian metal toilet and a shallow basin under a sensor-activated tap.

  There is no mirror. Just black plastic walls.

  The metal basin provides no real reflection, nothing but distorted pale skin, a beige featureless blur. I sit on the toilet seat and allow myself a moment of silent panic, my body heaving with sobs. I shove my fist in my mouth and bite down on my knuckles to stop myself from screaming.

  I want to go home.

  Wherever that is.

  I stand up and the toilet automatically flushes, whirling and sucking the way toilets on planes do. I don’t know how I know this – it isn’t associated with any particular memory. Washing my hands is automatic too, a habit deeply ingrained enough that I do it without thinking. I lace my fingers together, then pull them apart to rub the back of my left hand, then my right.

  Do I always wash them this way?

  The water is lukewarm and smells strongly of chlorine. I stare at where my face would be, if there was a mirror, and give myself a good talking-to.

  Stay strong. Don’t show weakness. Survive.

  What do I know? I pull up my shirt and look at my body. I’m wearing a plain white bra. I’m thin, and the fact that I’m relieved makes me wonder if I’m also a bit shallow.

  A loose thread dangles from the hem of my T-shirt, and I wrap it around my finger and snap it off. I tie a knot in it, the movement automatic, like it’s something I do all the time. Then I slide the thread into the back pocket of my jeans, take a breath, and step out of the toilet.

  Back in the aisle, I survey the passengers. I need help. The hot guy or sensible Sandra are appealing options, but then I’d need to admit to them that I have no memory, and I want to keep that knowledge to myself. What if they haven’t lost their memories?

  I sway down the aisle and plonk myself next to Nia again. She’s examining her silicone wristband.

  ‘Tell me what I look like.’

  She doesn’t even glance at me. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was freaking out. I … I don’t have any memory either.’