“The Estate” was the residents name for the complex of eight tower blocks and the vast central concrete courtyard that the tower blocks looked down upon.

It had all been purpose built to house the vast number of resurrectees appearing in the city and the surrounding areas. The local council said it showed that they were providing for those coming back, to help ensure they could start afresh.

But in reality everything was drab and grey and seemed to be designed to crush the spirit out of you. Even the view from the window of my pokey room was depressing, and I was on the twenty-seventh floor.

Everything we would ever need was all on site, we’d been told. As well as the apartments themselves, each block contained shops selling everything residents needed, as well as a cinema, library, health centre, several restaurants, bars and a ‘social club’. As the new underclass our place was clearly on the estate and not beyond.

There was even a local currency of garish vouchers that was used by all the shops and facilities on the estate.

Of course as children we didn’t get a great deal of money, just a pitiful amount the support workers referred to as our pocket money.

Adults were given their own apartments, which were like normal flats with their own bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom and so on.

For orphaned kids like me it was different. We were housed together on single sex floors, away from the adult residents. We each had our room containing a bed, wardrobe and a desk, and that was it. We had a common room, we shared the toilets and showers, and there was a combined kitchen dining room.

There were a number of support workers who lived on the floor and were there to help us if we needed anything. They also kept an eye on us and told us off if we broke any one of the large number of stupid rules they’d created - no running, no gossiping, no whispering, no boyfriends, no leaving a mess, no not doing your chores, no not eating all of your disgustingly bland and overcooked food, no having fun or having a laugh. It was like being in prison.

***

I showed my pass to one of the guards at the security booth and they buzzed me through the gates and onto the estate.

I walked across the concrete courtyard, passing a group of older looking boys playing football. A couple of them wolf whistled. I gave them the finger and kept walking.

I used my pass to open the electronic door into building 3, and got the lift up to the twenty-seventh floor.

A few minutes later the lift doors opened and I got out, showing my pass to the two female guards stationed in the vestibule, who nodded and waved me through.

They both looked like wrestlers and they were there to make sure that no unauthorised people could get onto our floor. They were also there in case anything serious kicked off. A couple of months before I’d come back one of the girls had gone mental and broken the jaw of a support worker before the heavies ran in and took her out.

In the common room a few girls were watching the news on TV. The presenter was describing how a man in the USA had been released from death row after the woman he’d been found guilty of murdering had resurrected and identified someone else as her killer. The guy was suing state prosecutors for submitting false evidence against him.

I shook my head, still finding it hard to accept the new world in which I was now living. The miracle of resurrection was an everyday occurrence and yet there were still so many unanswered questions. Why had I resurrected? Were those of us who’d come back, as some religious groups claimed, chosen by God? Or were we, as others believed (including Mr Simpson, my Headmaster), fallen angels who’d been kicked out of Heaven? Maybe we’d never know.

***

Back in the relative safety and sanctity of my room I took my shoes off, dumped my things on the floor and collapsed onto the bed.

First day of school and already an outcast. How the hell could I go back tomorrow? Everyone thought I was a violent head-case, and I couldn’t imagine my second day being any better than the first.

Not only that but they all thought me and my family had died because Dad had been drink-driving. And Mr Simpson didn’t seem to care about that at all.

The more I replayed the events of the day through my mind, the more and more depressed I got. I wished I hadn’t come back and was still dead.

For the briefest moment I half-heartedly contemplated throwing myself out the window and ending it all. But of course the windows this high up didn’t open more than half an inch.

And more importantly, it had been drummed into us that, as resurrectees, if we did die another unnatural death we’d just come back again.

The first time Diane had told me that it sounded cool. Like I was immortal or something. At which point she told me the story of a kid who thought the same thing, jumped in front of a truck, and ended up paralysed from the neck down. Very much alive and stuck in his own personal hell. Maybe it wasn’t true, but it worked because I sure as heck wasn’t going to try anything that stupid.

And though suicide wasn’t something I was even remotely serious about, knowing it wasn’t even an option should things get really unbearable did make me feel well and truly trapped. Being resurrected felt like a curse.

I rolled myself up in my duvet and tried to pretend the world and everyone in it had gone away.

***

Sometime later I woke up in darkness to the sound of knocking on the door.

‘Katherine?’

I sighed to myself. Diane. I’d hoped she’d maybe have been too busy to see me. No such luck. And with no lock on the door, the knock was a mere courtesy. If I didn’t answer she’d open the door and check on me anyway.

‘Come in,’ I said, sitting up.

The door opened and I could see Diane’s silhouette outlined against the bright light of the corridor behind her.

She switched on the light, and saw that I was still dressed. ‘For goodness sake Katherine, what have I told you about sleeping with your clothes on? And look at this mess – you can’t just dump stuff on the floor like that.’

I shrugged. Another argument I knew I couldn’t win. Diane was six years older than me, and tried to act like she was an older sister. Instead, she came across like a nagging aunt.

She closed the door and sat down on the end of the bed. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail, and she was dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue blouse that didn’t look like they’d been bought on the estate.

‘You weren’t at dinner’, she said, ‘You not hungry?’

‘Not really.’

She looked at me for a moment, then said, ‘I suppose you know why I’m here. I had a call from your school today...’

I sighed.

‘You can’t go round hitting people just because they upset you. I’m really disappointed in you, Katherine.’

I was incensed. ‘Did Mr Simpson tell you what it was she said before I hit her? That Dad was drunk when we had the car accident? Was I just meant to let her lie like that in front of everyone?’

Now it was her turn to sigh. ‘She wasn’t lying, Katherine.’

My heart went cold. ‘What do you mean? Of course she was.’

Diane shook her head, ‘I’ve seen your file and the online news reports about the accident that killed you and your family. The car had no mechanical failures, and your father had a high blood alcohol level.’

‘No, that’s not true.’ I was almost shouting now.

‘I’m afraid it is Katherine,’ Diane replied in a sad voice, ‘Your memory of events is... confused.’

I shook my head frantically, ‘No, no, no....’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I was hoping that you’d either remember yourself, or that a situation like this would never occur.’ She grimaced, ‘I see now that I should’ve been honest with you...’

I was lost for words. I knew I was right. I’d been there. Dad hadn’t been drinking. The brakes had failed and he’d been unable to keep the car under control.

‘We can talk about this in more depth when we have our next one to one session. I’ll schedule one for tomorrow when you get back from school.’

‘What?’ I asked in panic, my mental replay of the crash interrupted, ‘Back from school? You said I wasn’t ready for school.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, you were right. Ok? I admit it. Well done. So having agreed on that fact, can we also agree that I don’t need to go back to school tomorrow?’

‘No, I think it would be best for you if you went back to school and continued to work through this.’

‘What?’

‘It’ll be good for you. Challenging, but rewarding.’

Again I was lost for words.

‘I need to go now, but I’ll see you in the morning.’

And with that she left.