Double Cross

by Malorie Blackman

  I'm scared, Callie.

  There! I've admitted it. Just between you and me, I'm bloody terrified. But one thing keeps me going – you.

  Just you.

  Only you.

  I'll hang onto that and do what I have to do. Whatever it takes, eh, babe?

  So how am I doing? Well, the weekend was kinda strange. I met a girl. Her name is Rebecca, Rebecca Dowd. She's Vanessa Dowd's daughter. Yes, the Vanessa Dowd. I had to work on Sunday at TFTM. It was Rebecca's eighteenth birthday party. Private function. I got triple time plus tips so I made a whole heap of money. A few more weeks of this and I'll be able to buy you the birthday present I've been promising you for ages. Anyway, Rebecca gave me a lift home and we chatted and had a good laugh all the way back to my house. I think she likes me. I surprised her and that's a good thing. I don't know what she was expecting, but I kept up with her conversation and I even managed to tell her one or two things that she didn't know. And when she found out I was going to Heathcroft High . . . ? You should've seen the looks she kept giving me after that. My mum was right – that school is like a passport.

  When we arrived outside my house, we sat in her car for almost an hour, just talking. Reading between the lines, it sounds like she thinks most guys are more interested in getting to know her family's money than her. Of course I didn't ask for her phone number or for a date or anything. I think that surprised her too. I have to admit, though, Rebecca was all right. I think you'd like her. But enough of her. Besides, I'll probably never see her again.

  Callie, I'll come and see you as often as I can. It's tricky because I can't let anyone know that I'm here. And I sure as hell can't let your Aunt Minerva, or worse still, your mum, find me here. Your mum is waiting for me to man up and tell the police what I know. And with every day that passes with my silence, I know she despises me more. But this is something I have to sort out for myself.

  I'm going to make McAuley pay for what he did to you.

  I'll get him.

  Or die trying.

  The trouble is, I can't do it without help – Owen Dowd's help. He's the only one with the money and the resources and the will to help me. I just wish I could get over this feeling that I'm crawling into bed with the devil to catch a demon. Crawling into bed metaphorically speaking, of course. I tell myself that it's the end result that counts, nothing else. Oh, I know what the end result needs to be, has to be. But it's the getting there that's tricky. Isn't it always? I have a vague plan and the will to succeed, but that's it. It will have to be enough. Trouble is, I feel like I'm stumbling through some improvised dance that I'm kinda making up as I go along. But that's OK, I'll survive. I hope.

  Y-you have to live, you know that, don't you, Callie? I don't know what I'd do without you. I've . . . cared about you for so long, I don't know how to do anything else. I wouldn't tell this to anyone but you. Hell! I wouldn't even tell you if you were conscious enough to hear it and play it back to me.

  But I do . . . care about you. Very much.

  You force my heart to beat.

  So don't ever scare me like that again.

  When you got shot, it was as if . . . as if the bullet that got you had escaped your body to hit me right between the eyes. I survived, though, because you did. But when your heart stopped . . . When that happened, all hope inside me started to wind down like a broken toy. I guess everyone has their Achilles heel. Why should I be any different?

  Hang in there, Callie. Remember, it's you and me against the world. I'll deal with McAuley, and when you wake up we'll go away together. Somewhere far away where Jude McGregor will never find us. You just sleep, Callie Rose. Sleep until it's all over. And don't fret about what happened to you. Trust me, Callie. I'm taking care of that. Whatever it takes.

  And if it doesn't work, if I get jammed up, just know that it was worth it.

  You were worth it.

  thirty-seven

  Vanessa,

  I'm sure the last thing either of us wants or needs is a resumption of hostilities. The last turf war between us created casualties on both sides. But I will take out you and yours if your family try to muscle in on my patch.You need to rein in your sons. Once I have ALL my territory back, your manager will, I'm sure, find his way home.

  And not before.

  M.

  thirty-eight

  I arrived for my job at TFTM at least fifteen minutes too early, waiting for the opportune time to put my plan into action. Inside the restaurant, I saw a few very late-lunch diners with only a couple of staff visible through the tinted windows, but they were at the back of the restaurant and hadn't even noticed me – which was just the way I wanted it. I stood outside, glancing at my watch, tapping it periodically and holding it to my ear, strictly for the benefit of the person who was watching me. 'Cause I was now in no doubt that I was being followed. And I had a good idea who was acting as my shadow.

  I looked up and down the street, waiting for the right moment. And I didn't have long to wait. A middle-aged Cross woman who reminded me a bit of Callie's aunt Minerva was walking towards me. The woman wore a dark-grey suit and a mustard-yellow blouse and she carried a laptop briefcase. Her braids were pulled back and styled elegantly on top of her head.

  'Excuse me,' I asked, stepping in front of her.

  'Yes,' asked the woman, slight suspicion in her voice. But at least she had stopped.

  I took another small step towards her. 'I'm sorry, but my contact lenses are playing up,' I smiled. 'Could you tell me what address is on this letter please?'

  With my back half towards the restaurant window, I pulled the envelope for Vanessa Dowd out of my inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. Sidestepping slowly, I watched as the woman looked down at the envelope. I had to make sure that she was seen with the letter first rather than me. She looked at the front of the envelope, then turned it over in her hand.

  'There's no address on this letter.' The woman frowned.

  'That explains why I can't read it then.' I grinned apologetically. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you.'

  'That's OK.' She handed back the envelope, looking at me like my deck was short of more than a couple of playing cards.

  'Thanks anyway,' I said.

  The woman hurried on without another word. I looked down at the envelope and turned it over as the woman had done. Painting a frown on my face, I looked up, just as Michelle and Angelo arrived for work. The letter charade with the suited Cross woman had been for their benefit alone. I could only hope it'd worked.

  'Oh, hi,' I said.

  'You're early,' said Michelle.

  'My watch is running fast.' I showed it to them so they could see for themselves, the letter still in my hand.

  'Then for goodness' sake buy yourself a new watch,' Michelle snapped.

  'What's that?' asked Angelo, nodding at the letter I was waving about.

  'Oh, this. A woman just asked me to give it to Vanessa Dowd.' I pointed up the street in the direction of the woman who'd just left. 'I told her she doesn't work here, but she insisted that Mrs Dowd's son Gideon did. She wouldn't take no for an answer.'

  'What is it?' asked Michelle.

  I shrugged. 'Haven't a clue. Does Gideon Dowd work here then? Is there any way I can get this to Mr Dowd to give to his mum?'

  Angelo held out his hand. I eagerly handed over the envelope. Fingerprints. I wanted the envelope to be covered in a whole database full of fingerprints. That way I could hide mine amongst many – just in case the Dowds had the means to check them out.

  'I wonder what it is,' Angelo mused aloud before handing it back.

  'So is Gideon Dowd coming here today?' I asked.

  'As a matter of fact Gideon will be in later,' said Michelle cagily. 'He sometimes comes in to do business with Mr Thomas.'

  'Oh, I see.'

  'But how did that woman know?' Michelle looked worried.

  I shrugged. 'Michelle, can I give this to you to pass on to Mr Dowd so he can give it to his mum?'

&nb
sp; Michelle wasn't happy, but what could she say? She reluctantly took the letter from me. From what I'd heard, Gideon and Owen Dowd both kept small offices somewhere upstairs in the Club where I wasn't supposed to go without an explicit invitation or reason. I'd already seen Owen's office and I was in no hurry to see his brother's. Evidently Michelle wasn't happy about me delivering the letter to Gideon in person either. Rather her than me.

  I left TFTM, shift over, in the early hours of Wednesday morning. At least, because it was a week day, the night buses were running so I could get fairly close to home. The bus would drop me about a fifteen-minute walk from my house, but that was better than having to walk the whole way. I was grateful for small mercies. The night was warm like a blanket around me. I looked up. The moon was a crescent and I could make out the odd star plus the lights of a plane flying high overhead. But there was too much city light pollution to see much more than that.

  With a sigh, I started on my way. I'd taken five or six steps when I heard, 'Get your filthy blanker hands off me.'

  I spun round. Charles, a barman who worked up in the Club, was the one doing the shouting. The object of his wrath was a middle-aged Nought guy who sat cross-legged on the ground, a cup in his hand to collect the spare change of passers-by. On a piece of card in front of him, were the words: HOMELESS AND HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP. The homeless guy obviously wasn't doing very well if he was still asking for change at this time of night. But catching late-night revellers and staff heading for home must've seemed like a good ploy. The seated guy wore a woolly hat, despite the warm weather, with a plaid shirt and jeans, all assorted shades of grubby and dark.

  'Sorry. I'm sorry.' The guy with the cup raised a placating hand.

  What was he apologizing for? What had he done?

  'Don't ever touch me again.' Charles carried on mouthing off, whilst brushing down the lower leg of his trousers. I couldn't see anything on them. Maybe he was trying to wipe off fingerprints. A number of TFTM employees had gathered around by now, wondering what all the commotion was about.

  'Look at you,' Charles said scathingly. 'You're an embarrassment. Get off your arse and get a job, you worthless blanker.'

  There were some gasps, but no one spoke.

  'And what are you?' asked the homeless man, his gaze never leaving Charles.

  I'd been wondering the same thing myself. Charles was as white as the homeless guy. As white as me.

  'I'm not a blanker, I'm a Nought,' Charles announced.

  Behind him, some of Charles's Cross colleagues started to snigger, a couple of them pressing their lips together real tight to stop themselves from laughing out loud. The seated guy stood up slowly, his cup still in his hand. He and Charles never took their eyes off each other. The homeless man slowly shook his head. Charles's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward. So did I.

  'Here you are,' I said, handing the homeless guy a couple of notes from my trouser pocket. 'Go and get yourself a warm meal.'

  The man took my money without a smile. I didn't expect anything else. Charles couldn't get to him without shoving me out of the way first, which he was probably prepared to do. And he had ten years and quite a number of kilos on me, but I wasn't going to budge – well, not without him body-charging me first. The homeless man ambled off like nothing was bothering him, which it most likely wasn't. I went to follow in his direction, but Charles grabbed my arm and spun me round to face him. He glared at me. I said nothing.

  'Takes a blanker to know a blanker,' he said softly.

  He let go of my arm and marched off. All the TFTM people who'd been watching the show faded away like a sigh. In mere moments, I was alone.

  Noughts and daggers. Crosses and blankers. Noughts and blankers. Crosses and daggers. Circles within circles. Divisions and yet more divisions. No black. No white. Just myriad shades of grey, one shade for every person on the planet. I didn't like where my thoughts were leading me, but my mind was full of sharp things. Sharp words like blanker, sharp sounds like the Crosses laughing at Charles, sharp sights of Charles and the homeless guy regarding each other, and homeless smells and textures like needle points. Only with Callie could I be comfortable. I shook my head. Something about the encounter between Charles and the homeless guy had left me feeling . . . hollow. I needed Callie to fill all the empty spaces inside of me. But she wasn't here. At that moment, I felt incredibly lonely. I hadn't realized until this moment how loneliness could eat away at you so much that it actually hurt. I needed to get home. I'd barely taken ten steps away from the place when an unfamiliar silver sports car pulled up beside me.

  'Fancy a lift?' Rebecca's voice reached me before the passenger window was even halfway down.

  Poking my head through the open window, I grinned at her. 'Love one. Whose car is this?'

  'Mine.' Rebecca smiled. 'An eighteenth birthday present. Check out the licence plate.'

  I took a couple of steps back to do just that. The registration read BECKS 1.

  'Very nice,' I said, wryly wondering what Mum would get me for my eighteenth birthday in a couple of weeks' time.

  'Hop in then,' said Rebecca.

  I did just that, grateful for the car and the company.

  Once we were on our way, I asked, 'Not that I'm not grateful, but how come you're driving when you've only just had your eighteenth birthday?'

  The government had recently changed the law so that you couldn't even take driving lessons until you were eighteen minimum. Yet Rebecca had been given a car for her eighteenth birthday and was happily driving around.

  'Private lessons on private roads for the last year,' she said. 'I took my test on my birthday and passed. Mum said if I passed first time I could have a car, I just didn't expect to get one quite so quickly.'

  Oh, the joys of having money. All together now. Everybody sing!

  'So were you at the Club again tonight?' I wondered.

  'Nope. I just happened to be driving past . . . Well, actually, that's a lie. I was waiting for you.'

  I stared, stunned. 'Why?'

  'I wanted to give you a lift home.'

  'Are you thinking of starting up your own taxi service?'

  Rebecca laughed. 'Not as such.'

  'Why did you want to give me a lift then?'

  'I wanted to talk to you again,' said Rebecca, looking straight ahead.

  'About what?'

  She shrugged. 'Whatever you like. I don't mind.'

  Huh?

  'Oh. I see,' I said embarrassed. Slow or what?

  We exchanged a brief smile before Rebecca turned her attention back to the road. I sat back into my seat and relaxed. Wow! She really did like me.

  'It's a shame you didn't come into the restaurant this evening,' I began. 'It must be International Have-A-Moan day 'cause we had them all in tonight. We had one guy who chose the woodland fruit strudel for dessert, then complained it was too dry. It came with a jug of apple and cognac custard and I came that close to pointing out that if he bothered to pour the custard on his strudel, it would be wet, so what was his problem?'

  'I can imagine how that would've gone down,' said Rebecca wryly.

  'Yeah, like a lead balloon,' I agreed. 'But it was so tempting!'

  I spent the next thirty minutes telling her about some of the other restaurant customers I'd come across so far. It was very indiscreet, but what the hell. I was very good at impersonations and voices, and let's face it, TFTM provided some great material. At one point Rebecca was laughing so hard, we started to drift across the road. An angry beep from an oncoming car persuaded me to tone it down a bit. Finally we pulled up outside my house.

  'Thanks for the lift, Rebecca. And the company. I appreciate it.'

  'You're welcome.' She smiled.

  I got out and headed for my front door. Giving her a wave, I went inside.

  The next night, Rebecca was once again waiting for me outside TFTM. This time I held her hand as a thank you before I got out the car. When she dropped me home the night after that, I thanked her by k
issing her cheek. The night after that she turned her head so that I ended up kissing her lips. It was brief, mainly because she surprised the hell out of me.

  'What was that about?' I couldn't help asking.

  'Tobey, for a bright guy you're surprisingly slow about some things,' Rebecca said, exasperated.

  'OK, what am I missing?' I frowned.

  She took a deep breath. 'Are you going to ask me out or not?'

  I stared at her. 'D'you want me to?'

  'Why don't you ask me and see?' Rebecca said patiently.

  'Becks, I don't suppose you'd like to see a film or something with me some time?' I asked doubtfully.

  'God! I thought you'd never ask.' She laughed. 'If the kiss hadn't worked, I was contemplating dancing naked on your doorstep tomorrow.'

  'Damn! Now she tells me.' I grinned – then my smile faded. 'What about your brothers?'

  'What about them? They're not invited,' Rebecca replied.

  'What're they going to say about the two of us going out together?'

  We both knew what I was asking.

  'It doesn't matter what my brothers think, because it's my life and I'm the one going out with you, not them,' Rebecca said.

  Question answered, but I decided to keep pushing.

  'What would your brothers say if they could see us now?' I asked.

  Rebecca took a deep breath. 'Quite frankly, it's none of Gideon's business and Owen couldn't care less if I dated the head of the Liberation Militia.'

  'I'm sure Owen does care about you, in his own way.' Even I winced at that platitude.

  Rebecca's brown eyes twinkled, though she did her best to hide the smile on her lips.

  'OK, work with me here. I wasn't sure what else to say,' I said dryly.

  Rebecca smiled. 'I appreciate the gesture. But Owen cares about Owen, no one else. He does love me and I love him; it's just that we don't like each other very much. Or at all. And as for Gideon, he's like Mum. He likes to run things, including my life.'

  I nodded, without saying anything else.

  'Tobey, you don't strike me as the kind of person who'd let anyone stop you from getting or doing what you really want. But if being with me is going to make you uncomfortable, just say and we'll forget all about it.'