The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  We step outside. The service road is empty, so no one will notice if we’re not working. The sun is just rising, and the clouds are streaked in orange and pink, with deep, purple shadows. It’s beautiful, and it’s wonderful to be able to stand in the open air, just for a moment.

  *****

  I start climbing the stairs back to the flat. Dan cracks open the back door of the shop and gives Neesh a wave, keeping his face hidden, and she waves back. The delivery is stacked. The pallets are leaning against the wall, the hoodies are back on the hook, and we’ve closed the shutters on the loading bay. Time for breakfast.

  Charlie lets us in, toothbrush held between her teeth as she negotiates the locks on the door.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Good.”

  “You thirsty? Kettle’s on.” She grins, and waves a hand at the kitchen as she walks back to the bathroom. “Mine’s a tea, thanks!”

  I close the door and reset the locks, then follow Dan into the kitchen. He’s pulling mugs and teabags from the cupboard, so I lean into the fridge and pull out the milk. The fridge shakes as I push the door closed with my knee, and the biscuit tin on top rattles.

  The biscuit tin that holds two handguns and a pile of bullets. Our desperate attempt at buying ourselves a last stand, if the government tracks us down.

  I take the milk to Dan.

  Amy walks in, still in pyjamas, still yawning. She walks over to me and gives me a warm hug. When she pulls back, I see that her eyes are puffy and red.

  “Was it Joss? The dreams?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, closing my eyes. Amy’s the only one who knew Saunders’ first name. In all the time I knew him, I never thought to ask.

  She hugs me again, and this time I hug her back.

  “We’ll get through this, Bex,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault.”

  *****

  We didn’t talk about the night at the bunker. Not until we got here. Not until we felt safe again.

  On our long walk north, each of us lived with what had happened alone. We walked. We split up to walk through towns, we joined up again on quiet country roads. We slept under bridges and in disused buildings. We kept ourselves out of sight, and we kept walking, putting more miles between us and the farm. Between us and Saunders, who died protecting his friends. Protecting us.

  We didn’t have a destination in mind. We just wanted to get away. I thought we might cross the border into Scotland, but we realised it would be too dangerous to try. The guards on our side of the border would catch us, and we’d be handcuffed and sent to London for questioning. Used to get to the people who took us in.

  But someone was watching. Another resistance cell tracked our progress, and when they had the chance, they picked us up and brought us here. At first, we thought we’d been found, that the government had tracked us down. Two cars pulled up, blocking the country lane, and when we turned back, two more drove up and stopped behind us. We all reached for the guns, buried in our backpacks, but before we could get to them we were surrounded. The rebels searched our bags, and questioned us at gunpoint until they were happy with our story, then they bundled us into their cars and drove us to Newcastle. Not Scotland, but far enough away from Makepeace Farm to offer us some comfort.

  Neesh’s health food business is the front for their operation. The money they make subsidises their safe houses. Five of us share the top-floor flat above the shop. Neesh lives in the flat downstairs, and Jo and the others from the bunker are in other safe houses, elsewhere in the city. We work when we can, and we do what we can to help – but our faces are on the news, and on Wanted posters across the country, so we’re mostly stuck in the loading bay and the flat. The hoodies are useful, but we can only use them in the service road, out of sight of the street.

  So we learn to live together, in each other’s pockets. We learn to do what Neesh and Caroline ask us to do. And we try to ignore the locks on the door, and the handguns in the kitchen. I don’t want to think about what happens if we’re traced here. I think the nightmares will seem tame if we have to fight, trapped in our tiny safe house. And I don’t want to lose anyone else.

  *****

  “You know what we need?” Dan pushes away his empty cup, and stands up.

  Amy laughs. “You think you’re the king of this kitchen, don’t you?”

  “I am!” Dan puffs out his chest in mock offence.

  We’re crowded round the small table – two chairs, a kitchen stool and a couple of packing crates to sit on. Charlie’s come back to drink her tea, and Jake snuck in while no one was watching.

  Dan walks to the fridge and throws open the door, and looks upset when we drown out his announcement by shouting over him.

  “Sandwiches!”

  “Breakfast sandwiches,” he corrects us. “Bacon and sausages and eggs and … what else do we have?”

  He peers into the fridge, and starts pulling out packets and boxes, passing them behind him without looking. Amy and I jump up and ferry the ingredients to the worksurface, and then we’re all helping. Opening, chopping, mixing, frying, while Dan stands behind us, slicing bread at the table.

  I find I’m blinking back tears. I don’t know what I’d do without these people. They’re holding me together, after the camp and the bunker. After Ketty and Jackson and Bracken. They’re reminding me that I haven’t lost everyone. That I can still get up in the morning, eat sandwiches with Dan, be useful to the group, laugh, watch the sunrise.

  That this didn’t end with Saunders. That we’re still walking.

  Promotion

  Ketty

  Early meeting this morning, so I’m up and out of the tiny rooftop flat by seven, checking my khaki Service Uniform in the mirror by the door before I leave. After a week in the job, I still can’t resist a smile at the Corporal stripes – Brigadier Lee might want to leave me as an RTS Senior Recruit, but someone else in the Home Forces wants me and Bracken in London. No argument from me – I’m out of the Recruit Training Service, I’m out of Camp Bishop, and I’m not going to waste this promotion. I just need to keep Colonel Bracken sober enough to do his job.

  Down five flights of stairs, painkillers and the elastic support bandage on my knee controlling the limp in my stride, and out onto the street. It’s a short walk to the office at the Home Forces Building, and I want to be at my desk before Bracken gets in, ready with coffee and this morning’s briefing. There’s a chill in the air as I walk, and the thin slice of sky between the buildings is striped with orange clouds. It takes getting used to after life at camp, this feeling of being hemmed in by buildings. No training fields and woodland here. No one to train, and no one to discipline, either. No Lead Recruit job. I’m at the bottom of the ladder in London, and so is Bracken, but if we work together we can climb our way up.

  At the end of the street I wait for a bus to drive past, then cross the road to the HQ building. I flash my pass at the door, walk through the scanner, and wait while the guard checks my gun and searches my bag. The document case is hardly large enough to smuggle anything into the building, but it gives the guards something to do every morning. I push the gun back into the holster on my belt and pick up the bag.

  Past the lifts and up three flights of stairs, pushing my knee and building the strength back up. I will not be limping forever, and the more I use the muscles, the stronger they get. I push the pain to the back of my mind and keep climbing, one step after another.

  Bracken’s outer office has space for a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet on one side, and a leather-upholstered bench on the other. There’s a map hanging over the bench – strategic locations across England, Wales, and Northern Ireland; Scottish border posts; ports, roads, and rail links. Major towns are marked, and there’s a grey shaded area where Leominster used to be. Behind the chair, there’s a window that looks out onto a narrow light well, and a view of other office windows. Everything in here is old – the worn dark green carpet, the dark wood furniture, the vertical blinds at the window �
�� and there’s a dusty smell that never goes away.

  But it’s better than a hut in a field, and a flat of my own is better than the Senior Dorm and the Medical Centre. Lead Medic Webb isn’t here to hand me crutches every time I stand up, and I don’t need Woods’ permission to talk to Bracken. I’m Bracken’s assistant now, and I get to decide who comes in, and who gets sent away. It’s also up to me to keep him sober, brief him with what he needs to know, and get him to meetings on time.

  I drop the document case on the desk, and head out down the corridor to the coffee machine. I put two cups of coffee on a tray, and stop at the document drop on the way back to the office. The Private on duty hands me Bracken’s briefing folder, and I carry everything back to my desk.

  Before I check the documents, I pick up the phone and dial a number I know by heart.

  “Nevill Hall Hospital, High Dependency Ward.”

  “Corporal Ketty Smith, calling about Liam Jackson. Do you have an update for me?”

  There’s a pause while the nurse rustles some papers.

  Come on, Jackson. Pull out of this. Don’t let the terrorists beat you.

  “Sorry Corporal – no change. He’s stable, but there’s no improvement.”

  “You’ll call me if he wakes up?”

  “It’s on his file, Corporal. We’ll let you know.” She sounds impatient, like the nurses every morning.

  “Thank you,” I say, and hang up, as I do every morning.

  *****

  When Bracken arrives, the paperwork is ready and I’ve finished my coffee. Not long to go before his first meeting of the day, so I need to make sure he’s briefed and alert. I give him a few minutes to hide his whisky bottle in the filing cabinet, then let myself in and put his coffee down in front of him.

  “Thank you, Ketty. Have a seat. What’s waiting for us today?”

  He looks exhausted. With one elbow on the desk and his forehead resting on the fingers of his hand, he looks as if he’s shading his eyes from the light in the office.

  “Coffee, Sir,” I say, jokingly, indicating the cup with my pen. “And then a meeting with the big boss.”

  Sober up, Sir. I need you to do your job.

  He takes a sip of coffee and makes a face. “That’s today, is it?”

  I make a show of checking my watch. “In about ten minutes, Sir.”

  He sits upright in his chair. “Right. Right. So what do I need to know?”

  “The agenda says you’re talking about tracking the terrorists. Specifically Ellman and her friends from the bunker.” He nods, and drinks more coffee. “And then there’s the prisoners. Questioning of William Richards and some of his co-conspirators. And there’s still the mystery of the women from Makepeace Farm.” I look up. “Apparently they haven’t responded to interrogation yet.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Tough women,” he says, with a note of respect in his voice.

  Very.

  I remember the prisoner at Camp Bishop. How she sat in silence and looked right through me, even after Jackson and I had used our fists to persuade her to talk. If her friend is anything like as tolerant of persuasion, it could be a while before we learn who they are, and what they know.

  “What’s the latest on the bunker group?”

  “Still missing, Sir. No trace of them after we tracked them through Skipton.” I flick through the papers. “Some rumoured sightings of Ellman and Pearce, but none near their last known position, and none together. Ellman’s been reported in Kendal, Durham, and …” I look again at the report. “… Margate.”

  “That seems unlikely. They were heading north from Makepeace.”

  “Yes, Sir. And there are reported sightings of Pearce in Birmingham, and from agents in Edinburgh.”

  Bracken shrugs. “So we haven’t found them yet.”

  “No, Sir. But we’ve got units on alert all over the country. It’s only a matter of time.”

  He drinks the last of his coffee. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “It says here that the interrogation of William Richards is scheduled for this week.” He nods. “Can I assume that we’ll have access to the recordings?”

  “I’m going to push for access to the interrogation, live. I want to see what he’s hiding.”

  “Very good, Sir.” I can’t keep the smile from my face. “That would be useful to know.”

  Bracken pulls a notepad from his desk drawer and pushes a pen into his breast pocket. He looks up at me again.

  “And Jackson?”

  I shake my head. “No change, Sir. Thank you for asking.”

  *****

  We make it to the meeting on time. Major-General Franks’ meeting room has a large table, and a view of the London Eye across the Thames. It’s a reminder of her place at the head of the Home Forces, and ours as new arrivals. I send Bracken in with his paperwork, and take a seat in the corridor outside. As the assistant of the lowest-ranking officer present, I’m the runner for this meeting. Runner, guard, message carrier. Whatever they need.

  I’m making myself comfortable when Franks marches out of the room. I jump to my feet and salute.

  “Corporal Smith. At ease.”

  “Sir.”

  She holds out her hand for me to shake. Her grip is firm and confident, and she’s smiling. She’s an older woman, slim and athletic, with short-cropped silver hair and an air of relaxed authority.

  “Welcome to London,” she says. “We’re very pleased to have you and the Colonel working for us. I’ve pushed to bring you here – I think you can offer us some unique insights into our missing terrorists. Help us track them down. I gather you knew some of them personally, at Camp Bishop?”

  “Yes, Sir. I was the Lead Recruit.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “So you taught them everything they know?” She laughs. “I’m sure your insights will be invaluable to our investigation. You’ve briefed Colonel Bracken?”

  I nod. “I have, Sir.”

  She lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “And does he need coffee this morning, Corporal?”

  I keep my face neutral. “Another cup wouldn’t hurt, Sir.”

  She smiles again, and winks at me. “Keep him on his feet for us, Corporal Smith. We’re going to need you both if we’re going to find your missing recruits. There’s a place on the Terrorism Committee for him if he can show some progress.”

  And she turns and walks back into the meeting room.

  So that’s my job here. Keep Bracken sober, and give you profiles of the kids we lost.

  Consider it done.

  Learning

  Bex

  “Watch out!”

  “Brakes! Brakes!”

  I slam my foot down on what I hope is the right pedal, and the car stops dead, and stalls.

  “And the clutch, Bex. Don’t forget the clutch.”

  Neesh pulls on the handbrake as I slam my palm into the steering wheel in frustration, looking out at the empty service road, and the wooden fence panel in front of my bumper.

  “I’m never going to get this, Neesh.” I lean back and stretch my arms.

  “Don’t be so negative.” Dan leans through the gap in the seats. “You learnt to run the assault course. You learnt to clip the stupid guns into the armour. You can learn to do this.” He squeezes my shoulder and sits back in his seat. “Might want to think about reversing now, though. We’re a bit close to that fence.”

  I don’t need this. I take hold of the steering wheel, and grip it until my knuckles turn white. Neesh gets the message.

  “Dan – why don’t you go inside and wait for us. I’ll give you a shout when it’s your turn, yeah?”

  He shrugs, pulls his hood forward to cover his face, gives my shoulder a final squeeze, and gets out of the car. He hunches his shoulders and pushes his hands into his pockets as he walks back to the loading bay.

  “Ready to try again?”

  I nod, and try to remember everything I need to do before I start the engine.

  *****
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  “So? How did you do?”

  “Disastrous. Again.”

  Charlie puts her hand on my shoulder as she crosses the kitchen to pick up a bowl of chopped vegetables from the table.

  “Don’t stress about it, Bex. You’ll get there.”

  “I thought the point was for me to drive a getaway car if we need to run.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ve only ever driven in the service road, in the dark, and I can’t even stop without stalling. We’re not going to get very far if it’s me in the driving seat, are we?”

  “Not if we need to get away tonight.” She turns to face me. “If we need to get out of here tonight, you’ve got me. And Neesh. And Dan, if you’re feeling brave.” We both laugh. Dan’s driving is enthusiastic, and we’ve all had white knuckles, sitting in the back seat. “The point isn’t to get you ready now. The point is to start training you now, so you have time to learn.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And we’re not going to be here forever,” she waves a hand at the kitchen. “We might move on. We might be stuck somewhere where we don’t have people looking out for us. The point is for you to be ready when we need it.”

  “Yeah. OK. It just feels like I’ll never be any good.”

  “So what? If you can get yourself where you need to be, and do it safely, who’s judging? It’s not as if you’ll be taking a test – not with your face all over the news. Stop being so hard on yourself.” She pours the vegetables into a saucepan and starts to stir them. “Pass me the tomatoes?” She holds out her hand, and I pass her the tins from the table, opening them as I hand them over.

  She’s right. I’m not learning to drive so I can have a job and visit my friends. I’m learning to drive so I can get us away from soldiers with guns. I don’t need to be perfect. I need to be good enough.