Half Bad

by Sally Green

  The Hunter speaks to Celia. She nods and walks over to the area where we practice self-defense.

  “Show me what he can do,” the Hunter says.

  Celia and I do a bit of sparring.

  The Hunter says to stop and calls Celia over to him for a quiet word in her ear.

  Celia comes back to me and I can see she’s serious. We fight. She beats me; I let her get too close. I’ve got a bloody nose and a swollen eye.

  Now I am summoned over. The dark-haired man wants to see me heal. I do it, slowly.

  I think that’s going to be it, but the Hunter speaks with Celia and then turns to me and says, “Do the outer circuit.”

  I do a fair pace. No point in killing myself.

  When I get back the Hunter makes Celia and me fight again. But Celia is armed with a knife this time. She wins again. I have a cut on my arm. I have to heal that for the dark-haired man.

  “Do the outer circuit again.” The dark-haired man says it this time.

  I do as I’m told. I don’t push too hard, because I’m fairly sure I’ll be beaten up again at the end of it.

  Correct. And Celia wins again. She’s obviously been told not to hold back. I get stabbed in the thigh. Deep. I’m pissed off now. I heal and . . .

  “Do the outer circuit again.”

  I do it but I’m not thinking about the run, just thinking about that little dark-haired man standing there, smiling.

  This time when I get back the Hunter is smiling too.

  I have a bad feeling.

  I have to fight Celia again. I’ve just done the circuit three times and been beaten up three times already today. I do my best to keep out of Celia’s reach, and I even land a kick, but when I’m backed up near the Hunter he pushes me into Celia and it’s all over. I’m on the ground. The Hunter comes over and kicks me hard in the ribs. And again. His boots are like breeze blocks.

  “Get up. Do the outer circuit.”

  I know that a few ribs are broken. He does too, I suppose.

  I heal them and get up slowly.

  Then he hits me and knocks me to the ground again. More kicks. More broken ribs. I stay down.

  “I said, get up and do the outer circuit.”

  I can heal but it’s not as strong. My ability is being used up. I get to my feet slowly. Then I set off, slowly again.

  I tell myself to relax on the run. Forget about them. Pretend they don’t exist. I do the circuit, but my ribs are only just healed by the time I get back.

  The dark-haired man comes over and looks at my chest. The bruising has gone.

  Then the Hunter comes over, carrying a sort of truncheon. I look at Celia, but she is looking down.

  When he’s finished I’m just left there on the ground. The truncheon was strange. I don’t think anything’s broken, but I’m feeling odd.

  The dark-haired man stands over me. “Can you heal?” he asks me. “Can you get up?”

  Yeah, I can get up. I get to my knees but then everything swirls around and it’s nice to lie down.

  When I open my eyes again Celia is crouched beside me.

  I ask her, “Have they gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll just rest here.”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Early evening and I’m fully healed. I’m having extra helpings of stew and bread. Celia is quiet, watching me eat.

  I say, “Typical White Witches, that lot. Kind, gentle, healing natures.”

  Celia doesn’t reply.

  “I wouldn’t have minded, but I didn’t even spit at them.”

  Celia still doesn’t reply so I try a different approach. “I can’t be that important; the Council Leader didn’t bother to come.”

  “Do you know who the blond man is?”

  I shrug.

  “He’s Soul O’Brien. He’s recently been appointed as the deputy Council Leader.”

  I nod. Interesting, Annalise’s uncle is moving up in the world. “Who was the Hunter?”

  Celia gives a short laugh. And I stop eating to look up at her.

  “I thought you knew. That was Clay.”

  “Oh!” The leader of the Hunters came to check me out. “And the dark-haired guy? Who’s he?”

  “He said his name was Mr. Wallend. I’ve never seen him before.”

  I finish my stew and wipe the bowl out with the last of the bread. Then I push my bowl away, saying, “I thought I’d let you win all the fights, so you didn’t look too bad in front of them.”

  “Very considerate.”

  “They can’t have been too impressed, though. With me, I mean. If I can’t even beat you I’m not going to match up to Marcus.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And I didn’t even try to hit Clay.”

  “A wise decision.”

  I think so too, but still if I’d known it was him . . .

  “What?” Celia asks.

  I don’t know . . . I don’t know how I feel about Clay except to say, “He killed Saba—Marcus’s mother, my grandmother.”

  Celia nods. “Yes, and Saba killed Clay’s mother.”

  I nod.

  “Your mother . . .” Celia says this and hesitates. I don’t look at her, can’t risk breaking whatever tightrope of confession she is balanced on. “Your mother saved Clay’s life once. He was badly hurt by a Black Witch, his shoulder was being eaten by poison. Your mother was the only person able to heal him. He would have died without her help.”

  I still don’t look at Celia. There’s nothing to say to that.

  “Your mother had an exceptional Gift for healing. Truly exceptional.”

  “My gran told me.” Though she never told me that story.

  “They are interested in your ability to heal yourself.”

  “And?” I look at Celia now.

  “I think you’re healed enough to do the washing up now.”

  Gran

  The months after my assessment pass; the routine is the same as ever. Autumn comes, the nights get longer and it’s good. Winter. Snow. Winds. I’m stronger than ever. I don’t mind the rain. The frost is beautiful. My feet are tough as hide.

  The snow melts, though a few pockets remain in a few hollows. The sun has some warmth in it, but I have to really stay still to soak it into my skin.

  My seventeenth birthday is months away, not years.

  Celia never talks about my birthday. I ask her often, but she doesn’t tell me anything.

  I’m inside one day, making bread. Celia is writing at the kitchen table.

  I try again, with a well-worn question. “On my birthday, will I be given three gifts?”

  Celia doesn’t answer.

  “If you want me to kill Marcus I’ll need my Gift.”

  She carries on writing.

  “Will my gran give me three gifts?”

  I know they wouldn’t let me near her, not in a million years.

  Celia looks up, opens her mouth as if to answer but closes it again.

  “What?”

  She puts the pen down. “Your gran.”

  “What?”

  “She died a month ago.”

  What? A month ago! “And you forgot to mention it until now?”

  They can tell me nothing or anything, and how do I know if any of it is true?

  I throw the dough on the floor.

  “I’m not supposed to mention it at all.”

  So Celia’s being considerate, and for all I know that is another lie. And Gran is dead. That’s true for sure. They will have killed her or made her commit suicide, and everyone else can be killed as well if they want.

  “And Arran?”

  She blanks me.

  I kick the chair over, pick it up, and slam it down.

  And they’l
l do just what they want and kill everyone and I hate them, hate them, hate them. And I’m slamming the chair down again.

  “I’m going to have to put you in the cage if you carry on like that.”

  I throw the chair and leap at Celia, shouting.

  * * *

  I wake in the cage, shackles on.

  Visitors

  A few weeks after Celia tells me about Gran, I’m collecting eggs. I’m thinking about Gran and her hens and how they tried to get into the house, and Gran with her beekeeper’s hat on, lifting the honeycombs . . .

  I put the egg basket on the ground and listen.

  Listen hard.

  A faint, not-quite-there sound; distant, but somewhere in the hills.

  And a clatter from the kitchen.

  I run on to the wall and from there leap onto the cage to look toward the southwest, where Marcus will come from in my fantasy.

  The hills sit there quietly, giving nothing away. I swivel around, looking and listening, holding my breath.

  That is not the wind.

  It’s a growling, a distant growling.

  Celia is at the kitchen window staring at me. She hasn’t heard it but knows something is up ’cause I’m on the cage. She disappears then reappears at the front door. And now it’s there, the unmistakable sound.

  Not my father. A vehicle.

  “Get in the cottage!” Celia shouts at me.

  A 4x4 appears as a distant black cube moving along the track.

  “Get off the cage!”

  But if these are people, real people—fains, walkers, holidaymakers—then I must be able to do something. I’ll tell them I’ve been kept in the cage. The choker—they might be able to get it off. Maybe I should wait until she gets rid of them and . . . club her with something . . .

  But then she changes. Her body slumps a fraction. She says, “Get in the cage, Nathan.” Her voice is flat now. She knows who it is.

  I watch the jeep for a couple of seconds more before jumping down and going into the cage.

  “Padlock it.”

  She walks toward the track.

  I pull the door shut but don’t lock it. I go to the back of the cage and find my nail in the soil. I put it in my mouth, digging it into my cheek and healing it over.

  The jeep revs and churns louder. It stops at the far side of the cottage. Celia walks over to it.

  She’s talking through the driver’s window. Waving her hands around, in frustration it looks like. Unusually dramatic for her.

  I can’t see the driver.

  The jeep doors open and Celia is holding her arms wide as if she can stop them. They are almost as big as her. All in black, of course. I don’t see the driver’s face until Celia moves to the side, but I know who it is.

  Have they come to kill me? What other reason? To give Celia instructions to do it? Do I padlock the cage now? It seems pretty pointless.

  Clay is walking toward me.

  Celia is a step behind him, and behind her are two female Hunters.

  Celia says, “But I’ve not been informed about this.”

  “You’re being informed now. Get him out of the cage.”

  Celia doesn’t hesitate for more than a second before she swings the door open.

  They can only be here to kill me. Maybe they’ll walk me to the end of the field and do it there, or not even go to the trouble of that, just do it by the cage. I’ll be buried with the potatoes. And this must mean that they’ve killed Marcus. They don’t need me any more. My father is dead.

  “Come out.” Clay’s voice is casual.

  I back up and shake my head. They’ll have to kill me here. And I can’t believe my father is dead.

  Then I hear a buzzing in my head—not Celia, a phone. And it’s not coming from the Hunters behind Celia; it’s closer. I feel something grab my right arm and go around my wrist, and the fourth Hunter materializes beside me. He’s as big and as ugly as I remembered. Kieran is holding my arm, the handcuff now visible. I try to strike his face with my free hand but he drops down, pulling me by the handcuff, and another of the Hunters has run into the cage and grabbed my left arm. I get a kick in to a female Hunter, but then I’m slammed into the bars, my arms are cuffed tightly behind me, and I’m slammed into the bars twice more.

  “Move again and I’ll rip your arms out,” Kieran growls in my ear.

  The great thing about hate is that it takes away everything else so that nothing else matters. So then the old trick is easy. I don’t mind about having my arms ripped off, about pain, about anything. I whip my head back and catch Kieran in the face, a cushioned scrunch of his nose on the back of my skull.

  He squeals but doesn’t loosen his grip.

  My arms get pulled up so I can’t move, but they don’t get ripped off, so I’ve got to wonder how serious Kieran really is.

  Kieran drags me out of the cage and pushes me to the ground, but I roll and kick up so my boot makes contact with the side of his face. Roll again and get to my feet, but the two female Hunters are on me then and the punch to my kidneys is explosive.

  I’m on my knees, my face on the path.

  Celia is shouting at Clay, “This is unacceptable! I’m his guardian.”

  Clay’s voice is calm. He says, “The orders are for us to take him.”

  There’s a boot on my head keeping my face crushed against the ground.

  Celia complains, argues, says she has to come, says she’s going to come, but Clay is good. He just says no.

  In the end Celia says she has to take the choker off me. She asks permission.

  As she unlocks it her hands are gentle and she says, “I’m going to follow you down.”

  Clay says, “No. We’re going to have to borrow your van. He’s too dangerous to risk putting in the jeep.”

  “Then I’ll drive your jeep.”

  “No, Megan’ll drive it. If you insist on coming I suppose you could ride with her.”

  There’s a threat in his voice; Celia must hear it. Megan couldn’t hurt Celia, but she’ll go the wrong way, get lost, run out of petrol. Celia won’t risk falling out with the Hunters; she’ll stay here. She’ll do what they want.

  “Oh yes, I was supposed to give you this.” Clay’s voice is casual again now.

  “A notification! When did this happen?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “Two days ago? I should have been told. He’s my responsibility.”

  Clay still doesn’t reply.

  “It says that all Half Codes are to be ‘codified.’ What does that mean?” And I know Celia is saying all this for my benefit.

  “I’m just providing the transport, Celia.”

  “I’ll come down—”

  But Clay cuts in. “I’ve told you the situation, Celia. He’s ours.”

  “And when are you bringing him back?”

  “I haven’t got instructions about that.”

  Codified

  I’m in Celia’s van, face down on the metal floor. It’s nearly two years since I was last here, and yet the rusting paint seems familiar.

  Kieran has begun to heal his broken nose but it’s well mashed. He is holding a chain that is attached to my handcuffs and wrapped round my ankles, and he jerks on it to pass the time.

  Clay is sitting in the passenger seat at the front, Tamsin is driving, Megan is following in the 4x4, and I guess Celia is still at the cottage.

  The only thing to do is rest, but as soon as I doze Kieran yanks at my ankles or lashes my buttocks with the chain. When he’s fed up with that he shouts to the front of the van, “Hey, Tamsin, I’ve got another.”

  “Yeah?” she shouts back.

  “What’s the difference between a Half Code and a trampoline?”

  She doesn’t answer and I get a heavy stomp on my back as Kieran says, “You t
ake your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.”

  His next joke he says quietly, just sharing it with me. “What’s the difference between a Half Code and an onion?” He lifts my shirt up. I feel his fingers scratch over the lower part of my scars, his scars, as he says, “Cutting up an onion makes you cry.”

  * * *

  After four or five hours the van stops. From the few voices I hear it has to be a motorway service station. They fill up with petrol and then sit around eating burgers and chips and slurping drinks. The smell would be tempting, but I’m desperate for a piss and don’t want to think about food and drink.

  It probably isn’t going to be worth it, but I say it anyway. “I need to pee.”

  The chain whips across the top of my thighs. I have to clench my teeth and breathe through my nose.

  When the pain eases I say, “I still need to pee.”

  The chain hits my thighs again.

  The van sets off. Clay is giving mumbled instructions to the driver but I can’t hear them.

  Twenty minutes later the van stops. I’m dragged backward by the ankles and out of the back of the van, which is backed up into some bushes. There is little traffic noise. They’ve found a quiet spot.

  “Any trouble. Anything. And you’re dead.” Kieran says it so close to my ear I can feel the spray of spit.

  I don’t acknowledge him.

  He undoes my handcuffs and frees my right hand.

  I piss. A long, long wonderful piss.

  I’ve hardly zipped up and I’m back in the cuffs and shoved into the van again. I’m smiling inside at the relief, and because I’m thinking of Celia. She is tougher than these idiots.

  The journey just keeps joggling along. Kieran must be sleeping ’cause he’s not bothering me. The nail is still in my mouth, but there’s no chance of escape with three Hunters round me.

  * * *

  The rust of the van’s floor scratches across my cheek as I’m pulled out of the back end of the van once more.

  “On your knees.”

  I’m in the courtyard of the Council building, the place where I was taken from just before my fifteenth birthday.