The Programme: Book 1: The Programme Trilogy - the completely believable and gripping YA dystopian trilogy that will have you holding your breath in suspense by I S Thorne

Author:I S Thorne [Thorne, I S]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-14T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Adam instructs the barman – the same man who checked us in and is still eyeing us suspiciously – to line up glasses. He raises his eyebrows and hesitates a moment before following Adam’s instructions, all the while managing to avoid eye contact. He knows we’re too young, but the thought of entering into conversation with us seems enough of a deterrent to question us.

“Ready?” Adam asks watching me with a look of challenge on his face. “No stopping and no cheating.” I nod, his grin infectious. “After three. Three, two, one...”

I pour glass after glass of burning amber liquid down my throat, barely distinguishing the taste before the next follows. The whisky warms me, bringing me alive and, after a while, the alcohol rewards me and numbs my mind as we laugh maniacally between mouthfuls.

After we’ve had enough of spirits Adam asks the barman for two pints of lager and we take our drinks to sit beside the roaring fire where we chat about everything and nothing.

I find myself at ease telling Adam about Thomas and losing my grandparents. It doesn’t even strike me as strange to be telling him these things, private things. He tells me about losing his father and how his mum spiralled downhill after his death. He tells me some more about Jen. He shows me a dog-eared photo of her from his wallet and her wide, innocent eyes connect with mine as if the photo is her.

It’s past midnight when the barman finally clears his throat loud enough that we hear. “I guess that’s our cue,” Adam says, as the barman disappears into the kitchen with dirty glasses, the words blurring into the other.

“Beach?” I ask, not ready for the night to end and the harsh return to reality that awaits. Adam shrugs his agreement and grabs our coats from the back of the large sunken sofa that he’s just vacated. “Gonna go to the toilet,” I say, aware of my head spinning ever so slightly. “I’ll catch up.”

As I make my way through the hotel lobby to the toilet I pass the barman. He doesn’t say a word but in the briefest moment, his eyes make contact with mine I see it. Suspicion. Curiosity. Pity. It makes me feel ill. He has no idea, but like the rest of them, he suspects. Of course, he does – we’re hidden away, segregated in Villages like prisons. We go in young and come out in family units.

It hits me as strange that nobody questions it. Do they not wonder what happens when we leave on the buses? They accept our cards as payment. They know we’re somewhere. Our cards distinguish us from them. Eyebrows rise when we pull them out; they cast nervous glances at us. Wondering, always wondering. But nobody ever asks.

In the toilet, I splash cold water on my face. It doesn’t make any difference and I feel as unsteady and hazy as before. But that’s what I want; I don’t want to think straight.

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