Truly Deadly: The Complete Series: Books 1-5

By Rob Aspinall

Meet the world's unlikeliest assassin.
Lorna Walker's got her new heart. But it came at a price.
She remembers another life. The life of an assassin.
And then there's the crazy new skills. Her donor died from a bullet wound.

Could they be his?
Just as Lorna is getting her life on track, she activates the list.
Now a secret agency wants her dead. They'll stop at nothing to silence her. And she'll do anything to survive.
You'll love this fast, funny, action-packed YA thriller series because it's full of spies, assassins and adventure.

About the series
From the UK to the US, Europe to Africa, the Far East and beyond, expect a fast, funny series readers are calling "CHERUB meets Bourne".
Truly Deadly (Lorna Walker #1)
When sassy teen Lorna inherits the heart of a dead assassin, she inherits a world of trouble. Hold on tight for the first in an action-packed YA spy thriller series.
Infinite Kill (Lorna Walker #2)
Carrying the scars from her first adventure, Lorna faces a destiny-shaping decision: Run and hide or stand and fight. Can she save thousands of innocents? Can she save herself?
World Will Fall (Lorna Walker #3)
Global disaster looms and Teen spy Lorna stands in the way. Brace yourself for a full-throttle blast. Things are about to get crazy. And you won't believe what's coming your way.
Made of Fire (Lorna Walker #4)
It's Lorna's 17th birthday. It might just be her last. A suicide mission to Mexico her special treat. The clock is ticking. She's left for dead. And in totally the wrong shoes.
Slave Nation (Lorna Walker #5)
A dark new world awaits us all. Lorna is alone except for some dangerous friends. Can they be trusted? The action goes global in one last epic thrill ride.
Get the complete series boxset now.
Recommended for age 16+. Not for the faint-hearted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Aspinall
• Release date: Feb 3, 2019

Book preview

Prologue

Sixteen and my life was basically over. And, no, I’m not being dramatic.

I kept the accelerator planted to the floor, doing over a hundred, with the grille of a Range Rover twisted in a tangle of metal to the rear bumper of the ambulance, driven by a grim-faced bitch doing her best to run us both off the road.

Two police cars tried their best to box us in and slow us down. A sniper leaned out of a black helicopter, keeping pace on the other side of the motorway, taking potshots at my head.

Meanwhile, the old man strapped down in the back of the ambulance was laying down super-gabba beats through a heart monitor, while one of the guys from the grab team, kill squad, whoever they were, lolled forward in the passenger seat, long strands of gloopy blood dripping slowly from his mashed-in face.

I didn’t know who was after me or why they thought I was worth all this effort, other than I’d seen something I really shouldn’t.

It can’t have been because of anything I actually knew. Because I knew less than squat.

All I did know for sure was that if I slowed down and stopped, I was dead.

If the sniper got his aim together, I was dead.

And if the traffic got any thicker as we sped up the bridge running dangerously high over the deep and dirty Manchester ship canal … yup, I was pretty much worm food.

Sprinkle in a complete lack of driving lessons and my long, illustrious history of blacking out at all the wrong moments and you’ve got the perfect recipe for underpant brownies.

Of course, a few weeks ago, it was all so different.

Still shit. But a different kind.

Different shade. Different stink.

Rainbows and unicorns compared to this.

Then almost overnight, everything changed.

I changed.

Things got really weird and totally out of hand.

And now you’ve stepped right into the middle of my nightmare. And, like me, you’re probably wondering what in God’s gonads is going on.

So … how does a girl get herself in a pickle like this?

Well, before I catch a bullet, crash off the road or collapse at the wheel, let’s rewind a little.

It all started with a change of heart.

1

The Cut

First, I should really introduce myself.

My name is Lorna Walker and I had two choices.

a) Stick to the meds and die within the year.

b) Have the surgery and risk dying during the op.

If neither of those got me, the Death Squeeze 2000 (aka Auntie Claire) would surely hug the life out of me in the meantime.

I’d gone for Option B, of course. And there I lay on the operating table, trembling so much that the whole team had to hold me still while the anaesthetist stuck me with a needle. I stared at the circular bone saw, the bright theatre lights dancing off the blade.

Please don’t slip and chop my nipples off.

The head surgeon, a lanky grey-haired man with an accent posher than the queen’s asked his hairy-armed assistant how long the organ had been on ice.

Four hours, Arm Hair said. DOA came in carrying a bullet and a donor card.

The anaesthetist smiled down at me through pretty Indian eyes. Lucky you, she said, prepping me for the big sleep.

They usually didn’t give you the anaesthetic on the operating table, but they’d had to fly in the new heart against the clock, so there was no time to deliver it in another room – where I couldn’t see all those scary surgical tools.

My consultant, Dr Jennings, had already laid out the realities of the surgery, subtle as a double-D boob job.

You’ll have a scar. Quite a prominent one extending from the centre of your collarbone to the sternum … the bony bit between your breasts.

That’s assuming you survive the surgery, Dr J had said, and your body doesn’t reject the donor’s organ. You’ll be on immunosuppressants for the rest of your natural life.

Was there such a thing as an unnatural life? When this one was over, did they turn you into a robot sex dancer? This was the kind of pointless, random shit that ravaged my mind in the days and weeks I spent hanging around hospital wards with my life on hold.

In fact, I’d started writing it all down in a journal called Thoughts N Shit. Kind of a posthumous thing in case I didn’t make it. A sign I’d been here. That my sixteen years on Earth had counted for something. It would need a good safety edit of course; especially the bit about starting my own penis museum.

As the surgeons compared notes on golf swings, the anaesthetist gave me the gas. I felt the weak, jerky rhythm of my heart. Did it know what was in store? Was it saying one last goodbye? Suddenly I felt really sad for my heart. I didn’t want it to die.

Weird when you think about it. Imagine waiting two years for THE phone call, wondering if you’d ever get to use that transplant bag, packed and ready to rock in the bottom of the wardrobe. Then, when you finally get what you want, all you feel is sad. Someone had to die for me to live. And three people in the UK died every year waiting for an organ. Why couldn’t I just be happy and grateful? Before I could spin through it any more, the drugs kicked in and I felt light-headed, my vision beginning to split and blur.

Then I felt nothing at all.

2

Operations

Ilay belly down on a dune, overlooking a desert highway. Early morning, the sun rising, already oven-hot. What the hell was I doing here? Scanning the long, straight road through the crosshairs of a rifle, I guessed it wasn’t sightseeing.

Oh no, I thought. The operation had been a con all along. They’d turned me into a drone soldier instead. A drone soldier with big, dry man hands.

I certainly wasn’t the one in control of the decisions, but I’ll use the royal I and my, because every action felt like my own.

I ran the rifle sighting over to my far left, where a procession of liquid cars turned solid, breaking the heat haze. A black Merc limo rode in the centre, a pair of Range Rovers either side. The limo had a couple of small, red, green and white flags stuck on the front, flapping in the wind. The convoy moved fast and tight. Leaving a finger on the rifle trigger, I took out a push-button phone. Some ancient piece of crap. There was a number punched in ready to dial. I held a finger over the call button and tracked the movement of the cars again through the crosshairs.

The train of cars passed below my position. I pulled my head away from the rifle and hit call. Before you could say boomshakalaka, the road beneath the lead Range Rover erupted in an almighty crack and blast, shaking some of the sand loose on the dune, flipping the vehicle up and back onto the one behind.

A split second later, the same deal with the two at the rear. Big explosion. Giant flaming wreck.

Black smoke plumed into the air, the limo caught in a fireball sandwich. It tried pulling out around the blaze. I trained the rifle on the near side-front window and let off a single shot. It punched a hole in the tinted window and revealed a driver slumped over the steering wheel, brain-spat patterns all over the dash.

Oh. My. God.

I hated gory stuff.

I wanted to vom.

The limo rolled to a stop, burning bodies spilling out of the Range Rovers and collapsing on the road. I fixed the crosshairs on the rear of the limo and waited. I flexed a sun-cracked finger around the trigger and let out a deep breath. The rear door of the limo opened and an Arab bodyguard in a black suit stuck his head out, yelling into his phone. It only took a second to line up the shot. One tiny squeeze of the finger and his head popped right off.

Ugh, yuck. This was horrible. Seriously, make it stop.

Another bodyguard climbed out of the far side of the car, staying low. He unleashed a hell-storm of machine-gun fire in my direction, bullets pounding into the dune just a few feet below me.

The guy ducked back down behind the rear of the car, before rising to return fire again. I got him in the neck, the shot tearing his throat apart, blood spraying left and right.

I spotted an older man in military uniform running scared into the vast, flat desert over the opposite side of the road. I pulled the rifle apart and slid back down the dune to a beige four-by-four dusted in sand. I threw the rifle bag in the passenger seat and cranked up the engine. The air con kicked in, full blast. Ice-cool heaven.

I took off down the dune and across the road in front of the burning convoy. The man in uniform was old and covered in war medals, a trimmed white beard standing out against his dark skin. I cut in front of him and slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the four-by-four with a handgun by my side.

The old man stopped running. He knew the game was up.

Just do it, he said in Arabic.

So, what, I speak Arabic now?

I raised my gun and fired, but there was no bullet. Just a dart with a fluffy pink tail that stuck in his neck. He dropped to his knees, flopping mush first in the sand.

Time jumped ahead, the sun high in the sky cooking everything in sight. Uniform dude lay on his side in the back, hands tied with plastic cuffs and a black hood over his head. He groaned as he came to. The dash on the four-by-four rattled on the bumpy roads. The landscape was an endless yellow sea with a long stick of empty liquorice tarmac running through it. A far cry from the industrial wasteland I called home. Grotty grey council estates and boarded-up shops on the outskirts of Manchester, where regeneration didn’t stretch and people with money didn’t stray.

I rumbled along for a few minutes, alone, until I noticed a tiny speck in my side mirror, gaining fast. Now there were two of them, growing bigger and bigger until it was obvious they were chasing me down. One hand tightened around the wheel while the other reached in the rifle bag and pulled out a handgun. A real one this time. Heavier.

I steered with my knees while I locked and loaded. The two specks turned out to be a pair of shitty, dirty white Toyota pickups keeping pace either side of me, Arab guys inside signalling to pull over.

Army? Police? Worse?

We came to a stop just off the road. I tucked the gun in the waist of my combats. My drone body felt awfully calm, considering. There were five men in total. They held up scary-looking machine guns, screaming at me to put my hands up and get out slowly. I did as they screamed, walking forward a few metres and dropping to my knees. I tucked my hands behind my head, my phone concealed within them.

They trained their weapons on me while a man who appeared to be the leader performed a search. He relieved me of my weapon, asking me what I was doing and where I was going. Another guy wandered round to the back of the four-by-four, peering through the dirty windows.

He’s here! he said. Alive.

Who are you? the leader asked me.

I said nothing. He slammed the butt of his rifle in my stomach. Jesus, the pain.

Who do you work for?

He’s not going to talk. Let’s get rid of him, one of the men said.

Shouldn’t we take him back for interrogation? asked another.

What’s wrong? said the leader. Don’t you want to make Major?

The men hurried themselves into a line, clearly excited by the thought of a promotion. And I thought it was my heart condition that was going to be the death of me. After all this, it would be an AK-47 firing squad. I wanted to tell them it had all been a big misunderstanding. I’d been turned into a super-soldier by secret army surgeons. But drone-soldier Lorna didn’t like to talk. She preferred to text.

While my captors were busy preparing their weapons and I was busy pooping my mind pants, those clever man hands of mine were texting away on my push-button phone. I was so distracted by all the fear and facial hair that I hadn’t noticed until my right index finger pushed the last button. I expected another roadside bomb to go off somewhere, but nothing. Through squinting eyes, all I could see were the silhouette figures of the men; and, in the distance, a small black dot against a dazzling sky.

It’s the end of the road for you, friend, the leader said to me.

Rifles clicked. Fingers twitched. Eyes narrowed behind sights.

Ready, said the leader, aim …

I braced myself for an impact that never came. The instant the leader said fire, the entire firing squad was cut in half by a blink-and-miss rattle of bullets the size of Coke bottles, making Swiss cheese of their trucks in the process.

A grey-black drone flashed by low overhead, engines like thunder. It turned and performed a fly-by, before melting back into the sun, leaving nothing but the sound of the wind.

Five lives snuffed out faster than you can clap your hands. Vultures already circling high over the body parts and sand soaking up the blood. I got back to my feet and checked my phone. A text from me that said: Skybird. A text back saying: Skybird confirmed. I walked round to the back of the four-by-four, re-hooded my still-drowsy captive, climbed back behind the wheel and continued on my way.

3

Side Effects

Back in breezy old Manchester of England, I woke up sloooooowly in intensive care. My eyes sticky. The world just shapes and muffled sounds. Someone held my hand, talking. Wah, wah, wah.

When I eventually came round properly, the hospital room was dead except for my Darth Vader click ’n’ breathe ventilator and the gentle beep of the heart monitor.

Suddenly it hit me. That was my heartbeat and it was beeping steadily. I was alive. I felt like deep-fried shitballs, but I was alive!

Auntie Claire was snoozing in a chair by the bed. A nurse was checking my vitals. She smiled and nudged Auntie Claire awake.

Auntie Claire gasped in delight, seizing my hand. Hey, Lorny.

It was all too much. I couldn’t muster a single word, yet the rogue tear rolling down my left cheek said it all.

---

A few days later they took me off the ventilator and the head surgeon stopped by to debrief.

Your surgery went well, he said, with a big grin. No complications and, so far, zero signs of rejection.

Thank you, I said, for everything. You’ve no idea how—

He waved it away. All part of the service … Now, since you’re on the mend, there are a few things I need to run through with you. First, you’ve had major heart surgery. So you need to act appropriately. We’re going to keep you on fluids the next few days. Then we’ll start to get you back on your feet. The number-one rule is to take it slow. Your new heart has perfect function, but you could still suffer from blackouts if you overdo it. Some patients are too weak to walk at first. Some get frustrated because they’re not allowed to do more, but just do what the nurses tell you, okay? Donor organs like yours are precious, so take care of it.

I nodded and smiled. Then asked how long I’d be in there.

Two to three weeks, depending … But you’re doing really well. And you’ve got a strong, healthy heart in you. I held it in my hands. It’s one of the best I’ve seen.

He checked his watch and said he’d see me before I left the ward.

What’s the number-one rule? he asked on his way out.

Take it slow, I said.

I looked over to the bedside table, where a leaflet chirped: Hey, I’ve had a heart transplant! What next?

The first time I found out I’d made the waiting list for an op, Dr J had warned me about the rehab and medication.

They’ll decrease the likelihood that your body will reject the foreign tissue, but, obviously, there are some risks, he’d said. Infections, illness, fatigue, cancer …

Oh fab, I thought, the C word. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and sing la-la-la! But the hard facts kept coming like spots and tsunamis.

Don’t worry, he’d said, creaking forward and touching me awkwardly on the arm. Donors can be difficult to find, so you don’t have to think about any of that yet.

Yeah, he’d not quite got the hang of this bedside manner thing, had he? Made me wonder what he was like with Mrs J. "You’re sagging horribly, dear, but so are most women your age. Don’t be unduly alarmed."

I looked down at the mega-dressing running down the centre of my chest. I was definitely in the wanting-to-go-fast camp. I wanted to run and jump and dance and roller disco, but that would have to wait. First, I had to contend with the warm plate of pig slop being plonked in front of me for dinner. You think the chicken surprise is bad in hospital? Try being a veggie. There’s bogie risotto, cardboard tofu, burnt twig stir-fry, or my personal fave, sick on a plate. I know I was an ungrateful bitch. I was lucky to still be alive and gagging. And there were millions of starving children who’d gladly scrap over the cabbage medley. But, really, would it have killed them to cut the roots off the carrots?

Oh, what I would’ve given for one of Auntie Claire’s volcanic cheese toasties.

She’d make them for me every time I was put on standby for an organ, only to be let down. I’d sit there in the small, dated kitchen you found in two-bed terraces like ours, burning my chin on the melted cheddar oozing out of the toastie, a small plastic Jesus hanging off a cross on the wall in a white pair of budgie smugglers. Like always, he seemed to carry a smug look that said, Ha ha, stupid cow. Plastic Jesus loved that shit.

Don’t worry love, Auntie Claire always said in her harmless, religious-nut way. God has a plan for us all.

Yeah, that’s what I was worried about. His plan for me was a dodgy ticker and an early bath.

The problem with my old heart had been valvular. It meant I had a bad flap, as Auntie Claire called it. The flap didn’t open and close like everyone else’s. My heart struggled to pump blood around my body properly, which meant I got tired easily. I found it tough to concentrate. And Zumba was a big fat nada.

I was also prone to blackouts. My body loved nothing more than a good faint. In the middle of class, the shopping mall, on the bus, at the dinner table, the hairdressers. You name the floor. I’ve woken up on it.

It’s the Circle of Concern I dreaded the most, especially if there was a hot boy on the scene. Nothing said pathetic like losing your shit in the middle of Subway. There’s a video of that one on YouTube. Three minutes of me flat on my back, covered in shame and shredded lettuce.

Worst of all, the shitty blood flow gave me cankles and a little pot-belly, despite what people said.

"Oh no, Lorna, you’ve just got big ankle bones."

See: Bits I Hate Most About Me in Thoughts N Shit.

I wasn’t born with the bad flap. It sort of just arrived out of the blue about four years ago. The doctors ran all kinds of tests and turned me into a walking voodoo doll before they finally put two and two together and came up with nightmare.

Auntie Claire said I was dying of a broken heart, ever since Dad ate that darn pesky shotgun and Mum skipped off to a religious supercult in Texas. (File under: Things We Don’t Talk About At The Dinner Table.)

Now, with a new heart in my chest, I couldn’t wait to start living. Okay, so I felt like death on toast, the dressing on my chest was worryingly huge, and every cell of my body hurt like I’d been stomped on by a T-rex. Yet, somehow, I felt better than ever. My heart was beating strong and steady, with no more skipping or buffering. My lungs were sucking in more life, with no more shortness of breath. I was even able to hold my concentration beyond a couple of minutes.

All flaps were go. By day five, it was time to put feet to floor and take a walk to the bathroom. I wiggled my toes inside my favourite dogface slippers, fluffy, warm and familiar. Jocelyn, the short, mumsy nurse who was my designated pee facilitator, steadied me as I rose gingerly. After a bit of swaying, I was baby-stepping it down the corridor. By Jove, I was walking. In my head I sang to the tune of Let It Go from Frozen.

I can waaaaallllk! I can waaaalllllk! I can walk, I can walk, I can walll-a-allllk!

Suddenly, I was cut off mid-song. Who the fuck was that red moon marshmallow face staring back at me in the mirror? It was the anti-rejection drugs they’d pumped into me like petrol into a car. I’d been warned about it, but it was still a shock.

Jocelyn stroked my back. Your face will go down, sweetie.

My mind raced through the side effects of the immunosuppressants, like a game-show voiceover reeling off a conveyer belt of booby prizes:

Decrease in muscle function!

Weak bones!

Weight gain!

Crohn’s disease!

Flaky skin!

Acne!

Facial hair!

Going bald!

Was greasy tramp hair that sticks to your forehead part of the deal?

Let’s get you a nice hot shower, said Jocelyn, as if reading my horrified little mind.

At least if my hair was shiny and clean, I could cover part of my face and make it look thinner.

I tried to block out the image of my future self: a beard, a broken arm, bingo wings, puff-pastry pizza face, a shiny bald head, a gam hand and a crooked walk. These were just potentials after all. They weren’t necessarily going to happen.

Sure, Lorna, keep telling yourself that, my inner devil kept saying in her bored, sarcastic drawl. Everyone’s gonna puke through their eyeballs when they get a load of you. You’ll never get a boyfriend. And even if you do, it’s doubtful he’ll love you. He’ll probably think of one of your friends while he’s doing you.

Jocelyn helped me take a shower without getting the dressing wet. I lingered in the warm water, letting it reinvigorate my aching bones. She stood with her back to me while I towelled off. I asked her about the donor.

Obviously, I can’t thank him or anything, I said. But I’d like to thank his family and send them my sympathy.

I’m sorry, sweetie, she said, I’m afraid we couldn’t track down his family. No one knows who he was except for the name on the donor card. It’s all he had in his wallet. All I know is, he arrived in a London A&E. They put the heart on ice and flew it up.

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. The odd thing is, his body went missing immediately after the organ was removed. They didn’t have time to remove the other donated parts. Then again, hospitals are big places. Things go missing all the time.

When I told Auntie Claire that night, she put it down to a miracle. A gift from God.

See? she said. "I told you he was watching."

What? An immaculate corpse? Unless God had a hitman in the sky, taking out random strangers and dumping them outside A&E, I doubted it.

Maybe Plastic Jesus had connections, I thought, as I drifted off, hair carefully and futilely arranged over my planet-sized face.

4

Cleaver

Isurveyed the scene.

A dim, unwelcoming place. An uneven dirt floor, lumpy stone walls and a wonky, low-hanging ceiling. The military man in uniform sat on a thin metal chair in the middle of the empty room, head lolling forward under the hood. I walked out of the cool of the abandoned house and into the blazing white heat of the desert. A couple of mean-looking guys with sun-ruddied faces stood guard in wrap shades either side of the front door. Dressed like locals, but not fooling anyone. A long snake of dust made its way towards us across the cracked, sun-bleached road, growing into a pair of white SUVs. A team of heavies piled out looking like special forces in desert fatigues. They marched forward in tandem, armed to the eyeballs. One guy walked out in front. A short, wiry man with close black hair and velociraptor features. He wore everyday clothes – khaki chinos, a pale blue shirt and some naff brown leisure trainers.

Morning, morning! he chirped in a placeless British accent – a takeaway coffee in one hand, a pastry in the other.

We all filed back into the house. While the boss sipped on his coffee and munched loudly on his pastry, one of the heavies scraped another chair across the concrete floor until it faced my abductee. One of his team mates placed a military-issue laptop on the chair and opened it up. The green webcam light was on. Coffee-and-Danish finished his breakfast and pulled the hood off the captive man.

Good morning, Sultan. Nathan. Nathan Moore. Pleasant journey? he asked in English.

What is the meaning of this? the sultan replied, drowsiness replaced by anger.

I will have all your heads, he continued, eyes around the room. All of you.

Nathan laughed, patted him on the shoulder and hit a key on the laptop. The silhouette of a thickset man appeared on the other end of a video call.

Sultan, he said in a deep, distorted voice, my apologies for interrupting your day.

Not even man enough to show your face, said the sultan.

Oh, come now. Don’t look so surprised, Shadow Man said. Y’all know the importance of anonymity in our organisation.

What do you want? asked the sultan.

What I want is for you to honour our agreement, Shadow Man said. "You do remember promising to sign on that little dotted line. The one that said signature?"

The treaty, yes, the sultan said. I’ve decided to abstain.

Why ever so? asked Shadow Man.

The sultan gestured as if holding the universe in his hands. God created this, he said. Everything. Everyone. Who are we to undo his work?

Well, that is disappointing, said Shadow Man. I wish you would reconsider.

Think of your wives and all those children, said Nathan.

I am thinking of them. I will not dishonour my faith, my country or my family. Not any more than I already have.

He held his head up straight and proud. Do as you will.

Very well, Sultan, Shadow Man said. There’s always another willing committee member … Mr Moore …

Nathan closed the laptop and signalled his henchmen. They got busy setting up a video camera on a tripod.

Look, Sultan, Nathan said, bending over him with his hands on his knees. I’m a nice guy. So I’ll give you one last chance. Please sign the agreement. If you don’t, someone else will.

The sultan looked dead ahead at the wall, refusing Nathan the courtesy of eye contact.

I know where I’m going, he said. And I know where you’re all going too. Judgement awaits us all.

Ooh, Nathan said, mock shivering, his team laughing. You’re up, he said to me with a slap on the arm.

The sultan was hoisted out of the chair and dragged by the armpits in front of the camera. Faces were concealed beneath headscarves and shades. I hung mine around my face too, itchy and musty. One of the men brought out something long and flat wrapped in a white cloth. He held it on flat palms while another one unwrapped the object inside and offered it to me.

Holy shit! A huge, brutal meat cleaver.

My eyes lingered on the sultan, already deep in prayer.

Well, come on then, Nathan said to me. Chop, chop!

I took hold of the cleaver, heavy and razor sharp.

Okay, wake up, Lorna! Wake up now!

I sighed in resignation and stepped into position behind the sultan, who was forced to kneel on the floor and injected with a sedative. His head hung low, exposing his deep brown, perspiring neck.

Nathan stood beside me and addressed the camera in fluent Arabic. He talked about striking at the heart of capitalism. How the sultan, like so many Middle Eastern leaders, had colluded with Western enemies, sold the soul of his nation and brought disgrace on his people. How an example must be made.

Judgement awaits us all, he said, stealing the sultan’s line.

He nodded at me and stepped aside. I lined the blade up over the sultan’s neck. I wanted to stop my right hand. I wanted to scream. But I had zero control. Again, I was just a passenger in a sick nightmare that my eyes were glued open to.

I raised the cleaver and, in one swift, smooth arc, brought it down towards the top of the sultan’s neck. It sliced through clean, like chopping through a large ham. His head rolled clean off his shoulders onto the floor with a wet thud, blood gushing out through the base of the skull.

Two birds. One head, Nathan said with a smirk, as soon as the camera was turned off.

The sultan’s face stared blankly up at me as I wiped off the end of the cleaver with the cloth it came in.

#horrific #mindpuke

5

Scar Tissue

Iwoke up gasping, sheets soaked in cold sweat. I’d never had dreams like these, even when I used to dream of my heart stopping. I wondered where the mind got all its information from. And why the two dreams in question seemed to stitch together. Eventually, I fell asleep again and let it slide from my mind.

It was my first week back at home. My bedroom dresser was full of cards, flowers and chocolates I wasn’t allowed to munch on. I had to eat healthily until I got back on my feet, which was slowly but surely happening. The immunosuppressants had seen an unseasonal late summer cold come and go, but at least my moon face had eased off back to normal. And as much as I scoured my chin, lip and cheeks in the mirror, I couldn’t find a single hair.

Rehab was painfully slow and boring. Endless stretching, bending, slow-walking and core exercises.

Once, just once, I wanted to do something stupid, like sky dive or bungee jump. Well, neither of those – I hated heights. Especially jumping off and out of things. Point is, I wanted to cut loose once in a while like normal folk did. Instead, life was a crushingly repetitive list of pre-planned dos and don’ts mapped out by time and date on a multicolour spreadsheet.

Diet.

Exercise.

Drugs.

Scans.

Biopsies.

Psychotherapy.

Physiotherapy.

I had a team of specialists watching me like hawks.

With Auntie Claire and Plastic Jesus watching over me too, they needn’t have worried. Even before Becki came round to visit, she was given a strict set of instructions over the phone. Don’t make me laugh too hard. No pillow fighting or choreographed dancing. Just like the doctors and nurses, I know she was only doing it because she cared. And I appreciated it, I really did. But choreographed dancing? What were we, ten?

So embarrassing.

I tried seven different outfits before Becki came round. I wanted to look like Lorna again. Not Frankenstein’s uglier sister. I stared at my scar in the mirror. Do I wear it loud and proud when I’m out in public or keep it covered up?

For the past couple of years, my heart hadn’t been the only thing on the fritz. My social life stunk like microwaved dog plop and the only selfies I could muster were of me in bed. Me having a scan. Me resting in a chair. Me hoisting up my medical smock. And, ooh, here’s me dancing round a drip-feeder pole.

When your friends are hanging out and you’re stuck at home, trying to catch up on all the schoolwork you’ve missed, it doesn’t feel great. Especially when you’ve watched your tomboy best friend, Becki, turn into the Hottest Girl in School™ overnight. So fit she bagged a Saturday job at Hollister.

I decided the best course of action was to spend the rest of my life covering up the scar. I plumped for a black polo neck and skinny blue jeans, a pointless choice on this occasion.

The second she breezed through the door, Becki said, Let’s see it then. Come on.

I sighed and lifted my top.

Ooh, it’s massive, she said. Can I touch it?

Yeah, if you like.

Becki teased a manicured finger down the thick, hardening scar between my tits. I felt a tingle. Still sensitive.

Just think, there’s a man’s organ in there, she said as I pulled my top down, pumping away inside you.

Becki burst out laughing. She loved a good innuendo. She was always on about sex. A lot of it was just talk. She was too beautiful to give it out that easy. Besides, I knew she was saving herself for Johnny, a uni student she worked with at Hollister. He was six-four with abs you could grate cheese on. He was also twenty-one with a boyfriend called Lars. Becki was convinced he’d turn.

He’s just confused, she said, breaking into my box of chocolates.

No one that fit can be gay, she said. I mean, properly gay.

Almost all the fittest guys are gay, Becks.

Fuck you, bitch. He’s just not met the twins yet, she said, pulling her white vest top down and jiggling her breathtaking cleavage.

Breathtaking? Yes, breathtaking. No sense in denying it.

So when are you allowed back into the land of the living? Becki asked.

About three weeks. I’ve got loads of physio and check-ups first. So fill me in, I said, putting on some indie music. What’s the latest goss?

Becki gave me the full run-down on all the goings-on over the summer between finishing our GCSEs and now, on the brink of returning to school to do our sixth-form A levels.

With my health deteriorating, I’d scraped through my finals at home. I’d then spent the holidays watching box sets and looking at other people’s beach snaps. So, I couldn’t wait to start sixth form and see my friends again. In the meantime, there was rehab and sleep.

6

Morning Jog

Ifound myself jogging on a sandy beach in black running Lycra, wearing some vom-inducing yellow trainers. Fashion-wise, I didn’t know what my subconscious dream generator was playing at, but it knew how to create a nice beach. It was quiet and overcast, the sea grey under the sky and waves crashing noisily just a few feet away. It was cool and fresh and it felt fab to be running where none of the paranoia hawks could hold me back. I hadn’t run in years, yet here I was, pounding along through the sand like a pro. Judging by the mini mansions that sat back off the beach beyond the long grass, this looked a lot like millionaire country. America? It definitely wasn’t Britain. A chunky blonde jogger-mom ran past in the opposite direction with a chocolate lab.

Good morning! she said in a New York accent.

Yep, I was in America. The Hamptons? I kept running, loving the freedom of movement in my body, the giant gulps of fresh air and the gentle spray of the sea on my face. Also loving the cry of the gulls in the air. Reminded me of an early family trip to the seaside, before Dad lost his job and went suicidal, and Mum went on permanent vacation as a result.

Everything was so vivid and linear. Not like the random dreams I was used to. You know, talking sandwiches and trampolining polar bears.

Had to be the drugs.

Jogger-mom aside, the beach was deserted. Save for a few small figures in the distance. They seemed to be running together. The more I gained on them, the easier I could make them out. A couple of moving tree trunks in shorts and blue cagoule jackets behind. A smaller, older man in a hi-vis yellow vest, out in front. Dream body got to within a hundred feet and kept pace. They headed off the beach and up a narrow wooden footbridge into the surrounding vegetation. Clearly I was following them. My feet drummed over the weather-beaten boards of the footbridge, then muffled out again on the narrow, sandy path that cut between two grassy dunes like the scar that ran between my boobs. The path led into an overgrown area of trees and bushes, crunching underfoot as the sand thinned out. A cool mist drifted in off the sea, spooking the place up. Anyone or anything could be in here. Murderers. Ghosts. Snakes. Or, even worse, murderer ghost snakes!

In the thick woodland mist, I lost sight of the three men, but I could hear them snapping their way through twigs and branches. I pulled a handgun from under the thin dark cagoule completing the gym-wanker look. It had a silencer on the end. Oh boy, here we went.

The path broke out of the trees, but stayed narrow and dicey. A high cliff face to my right. A sheer drop to the left, down to a swirling pool of slippery black rocks and crash-happy waves. The path ran on a curve, obscuring my view ahead. By the time I rounded the bend, the men had stopped in a natural resting area where the path briefly widened out. The burly bodyguards took a breather while their boss sucked in the view.

I tossed the gun over the cliff edge before anyone saw. The two big guys stepped out in front of me and flagged me down, both with hands on weapons holstered under their running jackets.

There was a totally bald guy and another with a shaved head. Both looked ex-military.

I’m sorry, sir, said Baldy in a deep American accent. We’re going to have to search you.

Sir? WTF?

Their boss glanced over his shoulder as if this kind of thing happened all the time.

Arms out, please, said Shaved Head, before padding me down.

Baldy spoke into a tiny mic on the inside of his collar. We’ve got an unfamiliar running the trail.

Shaved Head finished copping a feel. He’s clean, he said.

Okay, we’re clear, Baldy said into the mic. Sorry for the inconvenience, sir, he said to me. Have a nice day.

I nodded at them and lingered a moment, pulling my calf up against my thigh, a steadying hand against the cliff wall. The minders were losing patience.

Have a nice day, sir.

Time to go, sir.

All right. Get this clown outta here, said the boss.

Shaved Head approached me with his weapon out, the other backing him up.

Playtime’s over buddy, said Shaved Head. Final warning.

I let him get close, then, in a flash, I twisted and snapped his arm at the wrist, the gun spinning up into the air. Before Baldy could react, I caught the weapon in my spare hand and, phtum-phtum, put a couple of silencer rounds in his chest. He dropped dead on the floor. Shaven Head chopped the gun from my hand. He came at me with a kick and a punch with his good arm. I blocked both before driving the bottom of my left palm into his sternum. I kicked out the back of his knee and drove the point of my elbow into the base of his neck. He collapsed limp against the cliff wall.

I scooped up the gun, only to see the boss sprinting away. I put a bullet in Shaven Head’s back and took off after him along the coastal path.

We dropped down into a claustrophobic passage between rocks. I tried to line up a shot, but the world had gone all bouncy on the uneven rocky ground. Suddenly, I lost my footing and skidded on the shingle underfoot, grazing a hand as I reached out to steady myself, but I stayed upright and kept on going.

Running wasn’t fun anymore and my hand stung like hell. I broke out into a clearing, rubber soles squeaking on slippy dew grass, my breath blowing holes in the mist that sat like an eight-foot-deep white carpet. Visibility was next to zero, the only sound the crashing of waves.

I moved fast and light, gun down in two hands at the ready. It seemed a pointless, clueless task until I spotted him in his hi-vis vest. He was just standing there, twenty feet away, probably as disoriented as I was. I took aim and double-tapped him dead centre in his back.

But something was wrong.

The running vest hadn’t dropped.

He was still standing.

I approached slowly, silently through the mist until I was almost on him.

Close up, it became obvious. He’d removed the vest and used it as a decoy. It hung from a wooden post, the last remnant of a ripped-up fence. I poked my fingers through the bullet holes in the vest, then let it go. It caught on the wind and danced out to sea.

Just then, I realised how close I was to the edge of the cliff. Running footsteps came at me from behind. I half-turned in time to get hit in the head by a large, heavy fence post. It rocked me back on my heels.

I was in the Marine Corps, asshole, the boss said. I can do this all day long.

He spat out the words, saliva stringing in the wind. I was already off balance when he lunged forward with the post, jabbing it in my chest and pushing me back until I ran out of cliff.

As I fell back, I brought the gun up and popped off a shot. It punched a dark-red hole right between the man’s eyes. I twisted in the air so I was falling feet first, the water rushing at me faster than you can say brown trousers.

Ska-boom! I plunged in deep, the impact nothing compared to the shock of ice-cold sea water.

I kicked and dove deeper, but the current was boss. It pushed me back up and spat me out into the fresh air, just in time for a huge wave to crash over my head and push me down again. Beneath the surface, another body plunged into the water, missing me by a foot. It was Mr I’m-Angry-and-I’ve-Got-a-Fence-Post. He floated face down, dead in the eyes, blood clouding out pale from the bullet wound. The water carried us both towards the rocks at speed. I held on to the body and used it like a dead-guy airbag. We smashed against the rocks and got sucked back out. Then back again, and again.

I was running out of air fast. Come on, body. Think.

It did. My eyes lingered on a sharp, craggy bit on the rock wall, just above the surface. I stole a breath on the way back out. Then, as we went in for the next smash, I put both hands on the face of the corpse. As we hit the cliff, I drove the back of his skull onto the crag.

I heard a sickening crack. It stuck. And I stuck to the body, using the guy’s head and shoulders as impromptu steps. Before the next big wave hit, I made it onto a natural ledge running along the cliff.

Slowly but surely, I shuffled along, stopping and hanging on when the waves hit. Each one a freezing wall.

Finally, I made it to a tiny secluded cove. I flopped on my back in the wet sand, puffing out big breaths at the sky, coughing out salt water. After a few seconds’ rest, I got to my feet and jogged up a steep, winding set of steps to the top, thigh muscles on fire. Distant sirens wailed on the wind. Shivering, wet and tired, I slipped into the mist.

7

Under Scrutiny

Tests, tests and more tests. Dr J leafed through the results of my scans, biopsies, bloods and EKGs as the rain fell outside the window … as it did almost every day in sunny Manchester. Except it wasn’t exciting rain. Monsoon rain. Spectacular power shower one minute, tropical sun the next. It was industrial northern city rain that wore you down 24/7, one drop at a time.

Still, Dr J had good news for once. I’m going to lower the dose of your immunosuppressants.

Yes! I said, doing a fist pump. Fewer drugs meant fewer nasty side effects.

Only by a little. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, he said, doing his best to kill my buzz. But the results look reasonably positive. The organ is strong and you’re displaying relatively few symptoms of immunodeficiency.

Compared to before the op, I felt as healthy as a racehorse. I often found myself holding a hand to my heart and feeling its beat, listening to it.

After you’ve had a transplant, your resting heart rate is naturally higher. Something to do with all the cutting of tubes and pipes. But it didn’t seem to race; it kept a nice, steady rhythm. I knew it could do more.

Don’t go running any marathons, Dr J reminded me. Stick to your rehabilitation and build up gradually. Light exercise only.

Before I left, I thought I might as well ask him about the dreams.

You know the side effects of the drugs?

Yes, Lorna?

Are, like, weird dreams on the list?

No, not usually, he said, tucking my notes away in a folder. Why? What have you been dreaming about?

Oh, nothing much. Just stuff.

Just being a murdering bitch. Being strangely tall. Using a dead man’s skull as a stepladder.

I must have given off a crazy-lady vibe because in my next (compulsory) shrink session with the hospital counsellor, she started asking me about the dreams. Her name was Lisa and she always wore grey trouser suits and her African-Caribbean hair ultra-short. She also had a habit of nodding along like one of those dogs you see on the parcel shelves of cars. I described the sniping, the head chopping, the shooting and the incident in the sea. To her credit, she didn’t smirk, flinch or raise an eyebrow.

What do you think they mean? she asked.

I shrugged. I thought it was the drugs.

Do you think there could be a part of you that you’d like to kill off?

Hmm. I’d never thought of that. Like belly fat? Look, I know I’m a chunker. It’s the pills. Got to be. I’m living on lettuce and broccoli.

Lisa chuckled. First of all, you’re not fat. Far from it.

She consulted her notes. As of this morning, you’re five feet seven and one hundred and eight pounds.

Really? Huh.

Secondly, I don’t believe it’s the immunosuppressants. Dreams of killing an animal or another person can often indicate a desire to kill off an old part of ourselves … a character trait … a habit …

She was going down the mummy and daddy route again, I could tell.

Perhaps a memory …

The one of Dad shooting himself or Mum losing it and joining New Horizon? I asked.

If you’ve not heard of it, it’s basically a bunch of stranded alien souls from the Planet Crazy, led by a reptile Jesus who’s gonna come back down in a big groovy flying saucer and save all New Horizon members before the apocalypse that God’s been planning for literally centuries. All they have to do is give their life savings to the cult leader and access the Higher Light Plane. I.e. drink a mixer of cyanide and Coke. The kids too. I’d Googled it.

Whether Mum was alive or not, we didn’t know. We’d never had a reply to the letters Auntie Claire had written, begging her to come back.

Lisa continued to probe. Is there a part of you that you’d like to kill off?

I’d said goodbye to Mum and Dad a long time ago. Had to. How else could I move on? No, it wasn’t that.

Do you think it’s like me saying goodbye to my old condition? I asked. "I mean, I know I’ve still got a condition. But could I be killing off the association to the old heart? Accepting the new one? Because Dr J – I mean Dr Jennings – says my heart is fitting in well with my body. Better than expected."

Only you can answer that, Lisa said. My job is to help you explore your own thoughts and feelings.

I caught her glancing at the clock on the wall. Time was up. Shrinks didn’t hang around. I left there with more questions than I went in with. Which was the point, I guess.

---

The next day, I was back in school. Morley High. The modern glass and red-brick sixth-form block was round the back of a century-old main building. I couldn’t wait. It meant normality. Beautiful, mundane normality. In the past, there’d been three of us. Me, Becki and Holly.

Holly was half Vietnamese and super-smart, destined for big things, but she acted dizzy so her intellect wouldn’t scare off boys. I loved her to bits. She was really sweet natured and never swore, ever. Now, though, there was a fourth girl in the group: Millie. I guess she’d seen a Lorna-shaped gap and stepped right in.

I’ll admit it. I was more than a smidge jel. She had a cruel sense of humour that seemed to crack Becki up, whether it was making fun of sad geeky boys or fashion-disaster girls. Nobody was safe, especially not me. Millie (aka Posh Slapper) was soon tearing me a new one with little offhand comments about my new line in polo necks and how they made me look like a man. She also made a comment about my scar and how I was in severe need of a tan. But to be honest, what did I care? I was alive, dammit. And big, pink sticky note to self, most transplanted hearts didn’t last you a lifetime. There was a fifty–fifty chance I’d bite the dust in the next five to ten years. I was damned if I was going to let the crap that came out of Millie Beauchamp’s kipper-lipped spunk-hole make my time on Earth any less fun than it could be.

But Millie wasn’t the only one getting on my tits. Dave Lee, our local walking ASBO, plonked himself next to me on one of the common-room sofas. Just as I was trying to get my head round the introduction to a mind-bending hieroglyphic riddle called Basic Physics Level 1. (Physics and French? What was I thinking?)

I looked up and Dave’s right-hand wanker, Ollie Croft, was leering at me on the opposite sofa.

All right Scar Tits? Dave Lee said in his overly nasal Mancunian accent.

Oh great. It’s University Challenged, I said, keeping my head down in the book.

No need to get arsey, Ollie said, a hand scratching down the front of his joggers. Only being friendly, innit?

Could have given you bigger jugs while they were doing the op, couldn’t they? Dave said, sizing up the curve of my boobs under my black polo neck. Ollie reached over and gave Dave a fist bump, then some weird palm-rub thing.

Dave poked me hard on the arm. So, what are you reading?

Nothing. Just a textbook.

"What’s that, a sex book?" Ollie asked, cracking up with laughter.

You want me to explain it to you, babe? Dave said. Or you want the practical?

More fist bumps.

Dave had been in my year group after re-sitting twice, but he’d left school after flunking his final exams. Yet he was still hanging around, dealing drugs outside the school gates, seeing his lapdog Ollie and trying to cop off with sixth-form girls. Surely with a scar like mine, I wasn’t on his to-do list.

Look, can I help you with something? I asked, snapping the book shut.

All right Fault in Our Stars, Ollie said. Calm down.

Wrong disease, numb-nuts, I said, stuffing the book in my bag and getting to my feet. But points for trying.

Where you going? Dave Lee asked, blocking my path. Only want to talk to you.

About what? I said. What could we possibly have to talk about?

He gripped my wrist and spoke quietly in my ear, his hot, wet breath totally disgusting.

Why not give me and Ollie a go on you? It’s not like anyone else will.

Get off me, I said, trying to pull away and suddenly feeling short on oxygen.

Ollie pretended to struggle for breath. She’s having a heart attack, he laughed. Someone call an ambulance!

The more I wrestled, the tighter Dave’s grip became. I was getting worried. What if he didn’t let go? What if I fainted? Just in time, Becki showed up. She yanked Dave back by the collar of his jacket and broke his hand off my wrist.

Leave her alone, freak.

Okay, okay, Dave said.

He wasn’t about to argue with the fittest girl in the cosmos. Meanwhile, Ollie had flushed red and gone quiet as a mouse.

You’re not even supposed to be here, Becki said. Do one before I get the head.

Busy anyway, babe, Dave said, backing away out of the room. Deals to be done, he continued, toking on an imaginary joint. When you’re ready for a proper good rattling, give me a bell. You, Becks. Not Frankenstein.

In your dreams, Becki shouted after him.

Every night, babe, Dave shouted back as he swaggered out of the door.

My shoulders were hunched up tense as Becki rubbed a gentle, comforting hand on my back.

You okay, Lorn? she asked. You want me to report him?

No, I’m okay, I said, breathing a sigh of relief. Thanks for the intercept.

She waved away my gratitude. Listen, what are you doing tonight? Fancy roller disco? Are you allowed?

Wow, a real night out? Actual fun?

Of course I wasn’t allowed. Auntie Claire and Team Party Poop would go nuclear.

Sure, I lied. Who needs permission? Let’s do it.

8

Back To Life

Okay, so I was prepared for a little chop busting, but talk about drama.

You’re not going out like that, Auntie Claire said.

Like what?

"In that skirt and that skimpy top."

Don’t do this to me, I thought. The shiny white number in question was my social-circle comeback top. High enough to cover the scar. Tight enough to augment my boob line.

It’s bad enough you going out in the first place. Where’s your jacket? she asked, rooting through the coats hung up in the hallway.

It was mid-September and an Indian summer, worldwide. Not predicted to end any time soon. I don’t know what she was worried about.

I’ve got a heart condition not hypothermia.

You’ve also got a weak immune system.

She grabbed my leather jacket and a chiffon scarf. At least put these on.

I folded my arms and rolled my eyes.

You can just take them off when you get there, she said. Where are you going anyway?

I paused for a second. She’d never let me go if she knew.

The cinema.

Who with?

Becki.

How are you getting there and back?

Becki’s driving. She passed her test last week.

How exactly?

She’s seventeen. She’s a year older than the rest of us.

You never told me that.

"I told you ages ago. She had to repeat second year … God, you never listen."

"I never listen? You’re a fine one to talk, young lady."

Auntie Claire scoured every inch of my face for a lie.

I’ll wear the jacket, but not the scarf, I said, trying to put some points on the board.

Becki beeped outside. I got a begrudging I suppose.

Hoo-yah!

But I want you back here by half eleven, she said. Doctor’s orders. Not mine.

As soon as we were out of waving distance, I wrestled my way out of the jacket and tossed it in the back. Becki crunched through the gears and ran a couple of red lights, messing with her hair in the rear view.

Loving the top, she said. Is it new?

Watch the van, I warned her, squeezing the door handle.

What van? she said, looking over her shoulder.

The one behind the bus, I said, pointing in front of us.

What bus? Becki said.

Being a passenger in Becki’s yellow Mini should have been the standard test for a healthy heart. The bad flap would never have coped. The new one scraped through and we made it to the roller disco alive. Barely.

There were a few of us from my year. Holly and Millie met us there. Mill-bag with phoney mwah-mwah air kisses.

Becki checked her mobile and gave me a nudge. Hey, Ben Fielding’s coming tonight.

Yessssss!

Oh shit! Soz, Lor. He’s bringing his new girlfriend.

Nooooo!

As we laced up our boots and got ready to roll, Ben sat down next to us with a pretty brunette I’d never seen before.

Hi Becki. Hi Lorna, he said. How’s it going with your … He circled a finger around his chest.

Oh, fine. Thanks for asking.

Normally I’d be blushing right now. For some reason, I was popsicle-cool. Maybe it was the presence of his girlfriend. Double confirmation I was out of the game. I don’t know. In that moment, I just didn’t fancy him as much as usual. I didn’t care a great deal for his perfectly cropped blonde hair or his superhero jaw. I wasn’t much interested in his rather splendid derriere or dimply smile.

Huh, after all those years of pining.

Becki grabbed my arm and pulled me up onto the disco floor. I took it easy at first as the rest of the girls skated slightly ahead. I wanted to get into my stride gradually. I was eager to get back to normal but I wasn’t daft. I knew the replacement heart came with a speed limit. Yet the more I got into it, the more I forgot about the doctor’s voices in my head. I think my heart was getting into it too. The bass line of the music. The swirling lights. The rolling flow of the skates. Before I knew it, I was part