The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  Margie cut in, sounding angry. “They told us that all this was to protect us. And most people were grateful, handed over their rights, hugged their children, and carried on.”

  Dr Richards nodded.

  “Exactly. Take freedoms away slowly enough, and demonstrate the benefits of censorship, or a strong government, and people will queue up to give those rights away. If the reward is reassurance, or an easy life, or safety for their children, and the rights are taken away piece by piece, people let it happen.”

  “But what about all the TV channels that aren’t showing news? All the books and theatres and shows? How are they still allowed to run?” Dan was trying to find a hole in Dr Richards’ argument. Something he could use to demonstrate that her theory was wrong, and that the government was acting in our best interests.

  “They’re heavily censored. There are TV shows and films we used to take for granted, that no one is allowed to show now. Instead, you get plenty of big-budget entertainment. Plenty of escapism. Plenty of carefully edited ‘Reality TV’. Big concerts from approved bands with carefully curated playlists. Feel-good song-and-dance shows at the theatre. Plenty of pubs and clubs and decent beer. The government made sure the people were entertained, and most of them didn’t even notice the changes, until one day they woke up and they couldn’t vote.”

  Anger

  We’re rotated out of our patrol route for a lunch break, then we take someone else’s place patrolling the public car park. It’s quiet out here with our helmets on. We can hear the music, but the noise of the crowd is faint and distant.

  We walk up and down the rows of cars, keeping a look out for anyone who shouldn’t be here. There are security guards at the entrance, so this should be a zone for ticket-holders only, but we patrol anyway.

  “I meant to say, Bex … thank you … for what you did when Saunders fell.”

  She’s looking straight ahead, as if she’s concentrating on the cars in front of us, but I realise she’s been trying to say this for days. I try to hide my surprise.

  “I did what I could. I wasn’t going to leave him in the woods.”

  “But Ketty, and the guards …”

  I interrupt. This isn’t a conversation I want to have. What happened, happened. I can’t change anything by running through it again, and I don’t want to provoke the anger I’m still feeling. Not here.

  “It’s fine, Amy. It’s what happens if you break the rules. They don’t want us looking out for each other – they want us looking out for the public. The people in the arena. But we can’t do this alone, and I’m not going to let them tell me how to treat my friends.”

  She turns, quickly, to look at me, and turns back to focus on the ground ahead. I think the conversation is over, but then she whispers, barely loud enough for the radio to pick up.

  “I know what Ketty and Jackson did to you. I know Ketty hates you for helping the rest of us – you’ve got her into trouble because her recruits aren’t sticking to the rules. Thank you, Bex. Thank you for sticking up for us, even when they …”

  She sobs, once. I reach over and take her hand, and she gives my fingers a squeeze.

  *****

  Our first circuit of the car park takes us back to the arena entrance, and a group of event staff taking a break. We nod to them as we walk past, and a man steps forward, blocking our path. Amy brings up her gun, and I switch my radio to the general channel, trying to sound calm and brave.

  “HQ, please advise. This is Ellman and Brown in the car park. Member of staff is blocking our path.”

  The man looks at Amy, then raises his hands in the air to indicate that he isn’t threatening us. He turns to show us a professional-looking camera clipped to his belt, and points to it, and to us. I notice a ‘Press’ security pass hanging on a chain round his neck.

  “HQ, update. It’s a press photographer. He wants photos of us. Please advise.”

  “Ellman. Go ahead. Let’s make some beautiful publicity photos!” It’s Jackson, and I’m sure I can hear laughter in the background before he cuts his microphone. I can’t help rolling my eyes.

  I switch the radio back to the private channel, and tell Amy to stand down. She lowers her gun. The man looks relieved, and mimes removing a helmet. I clip my gun to my back, twist my helmet off, and tuck it under my arm. Amy watches, and then does the same, turning away briefly as she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Ladies!” says the photographer. “Mind if I catch a few shots of our brave RTS volunteers?”

  “HQ says that’s fine,” I answer, partly to him and partly to reassure Amy.

  He waves us over to stand in front of the security fence, then asks us to hold our guns in one hand and our helmets in the other. He takes a few photos, then takes our helmets from us and puts them down on the grass next to his feet. He asks us to hold our guns as if we are on patrol. More photos.

  Standing in the open without my helmet is making me nervous. I need to calm down and focus. This is what we’re here for – we’re on show. We’re here to convince the public that they’re safe. I’m armed, but without my helmet I’m an individual. I’m a target.

  I need to become anonymous again. I need to look like a trained soldier, not a pretty face in a uniform. He keeps taking photos, and I can feel my anger growing.

  I’m not a model. I’ve endured running and training and punishment – for what? This man doesn’t care that I can fire a gun and get through an assault course. He only cares if I look good in my armour. I want to walk away, but my orders are to pose for photos.

  I can’t let him see how angry I am. I stand up straight, stare past him, and wait.

  He takes his last photo, then crouches down and picks up our helmets. He steps forward and hands them back to us, a cheerful smile on his face. I force myself to focus on what he’s saying.

  “Thank you, ladies! Great photos. Thank you for your service!”

  Amy thanks him, but I can only nod as I lift my helmet back over my head and lock it in place. I reactivate the radio, and try to keep the anger out of my voice.

  “Come on, Amy. We need to keep moving.”

  *****

  We patrol the car park for an hour or two before we’re rotated out again for a break. Helmets off, we walk back to the staging area. Jackson greets us at the door of the marquee, loud enough for everyone inside to hear.

  “Is it? Can it be? Let me fetch my camera – it’s Soldier Barbie and her bestie!”

  There’s a wave of laughter from inside the marquee, and Jackson watches us as we walk past.

  “Work it, Barbie! Work it!”

  Amy laughs, but I focus on getting away from Jackson. I know we’re only here to give TV shows and newspapers something positive to report, but I’m really angry now. We’ve done as we were told. We’ve patrolled and accepted thanks from the crowds. We’ve posed for photos, and we’ve behaved perfectly for the TV cameras. I know we’re fake soldiers. I know we’re not here to fight, but suddenly this all seems so pointless. I was kidnapped from school for this, and so far I’ve done what they’ve asked me to do. I’m being laughed at for playing along, and I’ve been beaten up for showing compassion to the recruits around me.

  We’re all just trying to get through this. We’re all waiting for the situation to improve, for the terrorists to stop their attacks. Waiting to go home, to go back to school, to have our normal, teenage lives back. And Jackson is mocking us.

  I want to fight. I want to break something. I want to shout and scream and tell the cameras outside that this is insane. That I want my life back.

  I take myself to the far corner of the tent and pull a bench up to one of the folding tables. I put my helmet down next to me, and unclip the gun from my back. I take several deep breaths, then start taking the gun apart. This is a task I can focus on. I need to move slowly and carefully, and I need to ignore everyone else in the marquee.

  Safety on. Unclip the magazine, lay it neatly on the table. Unclip the pistol grip.
Slide the handguard off the barrel, unscrew the barrel from the gun. Slide the stock up and away from the central section. Slide and unclip the elements of the central section, lay them out neatly on the table.

  This is calming. This is helping. I lay my hands, palms down, flat against the table; close my eyes, and take some more slow, deep breaths. Then I pick up the last pieces I dismantled, and start to attach them together again, checking each piece for dirt and damage as I go. Slowly, carefully, I rebuild my gun, pick it up, and sight down the barrel at the wall next to me. And then I take it apart again.

  I don’t know how long I spend, disassembling and rebuilding my gun, but when I clip it onto my back and turn around, Amy has gone. The tables and benches are mostly empty, but Jackson and Saunders are still at the radio table. Jackson is talking and listening on his headset, but Saunders is watching me, his face serious. He gives me a thumbs-up/thumbs-down signal, and waits for me to answer. I wobble my hand, and I’m about to head over to talk to him when Commander Bracken stands up from a table across the marquee and walks over to where I’m sitting. I realise he’s been watching me.

  “Ellman!”

  “Sir!” I shout, standing up.

  “Back with us now, are you?”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Something bothering you?”

  I risk a quick glance at Jackson, who is looking very busy with the radio.

  “No, Sir.”

  “Doesn’t look that way to me, recruit.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you finished taking it out on your gun?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Go and get changed, Ellman. You’re done with patrols for today. Report to me when you’re dressed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  I take the security pass off my arm, and hand it to the Commander. I pick up my helmet, and walk as fast as I can to the changing area. I pull my crate out from the stack, and make no effort to be quiet as I pull out my fatigues and pack my armour, helmet, and gun away. When I’m dressed, with my bootlaces tied, I sit for a moment with my head in my hands. I’m still angry, but the fight has gone out of me. I want to curl up in a corner and close my eyes. I want to talk to Charlie.

  The Commander gives me the torturous task of tidying the marquee, cleaning the tables, and sweeping the floor. I stay as far away from Jackson as I can, and every time I look up I see Saunders watching me. He looks ready to burst into tears, and the only thing I can do is ignore him in case the same thing happens to me.

  When the cleaning is done, the Commander sends me to the security gate to pick up trays, bowls, cups, and spoons for the evening meal. I push them to the marquee on a trolley and lay them out on the serving table, ready for the caterers to set up their food.

  The music and cheering reach a peak of volume, and then the sound drops away. The concert is over, and the crowd will be filing out of the arena and heading for home. The catering staff arrive and I help them to move their equipment to the table. Jackson is directing the recruits to their new patrol areas.

  The first of the arena patrols arrives back in the marquee, high-fiving each other and celebrating the end of their first assignment. It takes another hour for the last of the car park and street patrols to gather, but eventually we’re all here, and the food is ready to be served. The Commander puts me on the catering team, and I’m handing out bread rolls and chocolate bars as the rest of the recruits pick up their food and sit down to eat. Dan gives me a confused look as I put food on his tray – I’m the only person in uniform behind the catering table. He starts to ask me something, but I cut him off with a shake of my head and offer bread and chocolate to the next recruit in line. I don’t trust myself to speak without making a scene.

  The Commander is the last person in the queue, and when I’ve served him, he tells me to fetch my own meal and sit with everyone else. I find a seat in the far corner of the marquee, and ignore everyone else at the table while I eat. Two or three people try to engage me in conversation, but they soon realise that I’m not going to join in, so they carry on without me.

  After dinner, the Commander stands up and congratulates us on a successful first patrol. He’s happy with how we’ve behaved and interacted with the public, and he passes on the thanks of the concert organisers.

  “You’ve done a good thing today, recruits. You’ve given people confidence to come out of their homes, to defy the rebels, and to enjoy themselves. You’ve been excellent ambassadors for your government, and you’ve given the TV stations some great footage to show off your service. Give yourselves a cheer!”

  The marquee erupts with cheering and whooping. Recruits are banging their fists on the tables and stamping their feet on the floor. The Commander holds up his hands for quiet.

  “Tomorrow, you’ll all have the day off. Breakfast is at eight, and the training run is cancelled. You’ll have the run of the base. Enjoy yourselves – you’ve earned it!”

  The next cheer is even louder.

  *****

  We collect our armour crates and load them back under the bus in the floodlit car park. We climb on board, and I’m hoping to sit alone, but Dan finds me, and takes the seat next to me.

  “You OK, Bex?”

  I shake my head. He makes a show of looking me up and down.

  “You seem OK. No limbs hanging off. No bleeding. Wait …” He makes me lean forward so he can pretend to inspect my back. “Nope. Nothing. You’re completely fine!”

  In spite of myself, he’s making me smile.

  “We’re OK, Bex,” he says, more seriously, “we got through it. They didn’t target us. We’re safe.”

  I nod. He puts his arm round me, and I fall asleep, my head against his shoulder.

  *****

  The day before Margie disappeared, we argued. She was so sure that the terrorists were right, and Dan was so sure that the government was protecting us. I think she had already decided to leave.

  We’d completed our homework tasks, and Dan pulled a pack of cards from his pocket, but it stayed, untouched on the table. The conversation was heated, and no one was in the mood for a game.

  “How can you write that? How can you scribble that down like a good, obedient child while the government is bulldozing our freedom?”

  Dan had written an essay on the state of emergency, and justified the government’s actions with a list of terrorist attacks and casualty numbers. Margie was furious, but so was Dan.

  “What’s the point of freedom if you’re too scared to use it?” Margie tried to respond, but Dan shouted over her. “What’s the point of freedom if you’re dead, Margie? What good is freedom to the people blown up in the Crossrail tunnel? We need to survive this, and we need to get out the other side, and enjoy our freedom again, without fear.”

  Margie sat up straight in her chair, trying to stay calm.

  “What’s the point of surviving if you don’t have the right to make your own decisions, Dan? What’s the point of sitting still and letting the government march all over us, if all we get at the end is institutionalised slavery?”

  Dan laughed. “You really do have an amazing imagination, don’t you? You really think that at the end of this the government won’t throw a big party and hold an election and give us back our votes? They’ll probably give us a new Bank Holiday and a set of commemorative stamps, too.” He holds up his fingers in air quotes. “‘Victory Day’. Fireworks. Street parties. Politicians kissing babies.”

  Margie let out a single, sharp laugh.

  “This is all for the good, Margie. They’re making sure that there is a country for us to wake up in, and go to work in, and go to school in when the terrorists are defeated. They’re keeping us safe. Short-term hardship for long-term gain.” He shrugged.

  “And what’s the end game? When will your benevolent government decide that the emergency is over? What has to happen to make them grant you your freedom again?”

  “Beat the terrorists.
Parade every last one of them on TV in chains. Lock them up. When we can go out without fear of another bombing, their job is done. I’ll have my vote back, thank you.”

  “And your fireworks”, I said, just to break the tension. I didn’t know who to side with, but I didn’t want to see my friends fighting like this.

  “And my fireworks!” Dan banged his fist on the table, laughing. “Exactly.”

  Margie pretended to think this over.

  “So … all the extra money going to the army, all the billions going to defence contractors for guns and equipment to fight these terrorists. The army and the owners of the defence companies – they’re just going to say ‘OK, have your cash back. I don’t need it any more.’ They won’t put up a fight if the government declares that the terrorists have been defeated?”

  “I’m sure the government will honour their contracts. I’m sure they won’t just switch off the money tap. The gun manufacturers know that the fight can’t go on forever. But while it does – yes, they should be paid, and they should employ people, and they should be proud to be protecting the rest of us.”

  “And you don’t think the weapons manufacturers might have friends in the government? Might have reasons to pay people off to keep the fight going, and the money rolling in?”

  Dan leaned back in his chair and waved his hand, dismissively. “Oh, come on. Now you’re just being paranoid. Bribing the government to keep fighting the baddies? That’s childish.”

  I listened to the two of them, to their wildly different points of view, and I couldn’t decide who was right. My own essay had weighed up the arguments, and pointed out the reasons for the attacks, but also the reasons for the state of emergency. I could see that we needed to defend ourselves, but I could also see that the government’s reaction could provoke more attacks.