The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  Amy winces as we pass the bin behind the charity shop. “I don’t want to do a Dan!”

  There are still lines of polystyrene balls in the gutters, and along the edge of the pavement. Charlie laughs.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you if you need to stop. Go slowly, keep moving, and watch your road position.”

  Amy drives with exaggerated care, past the bins and down to the barrier that separates us from the main road. The road is wider here, so she can swing the car round and drive back without having to reverse.

  “OK, Amy. One more three-point turn, and we’ll give Bex a go in the driving seat.”

  Amy guides the car carefully past the obstacles and executes a neat turn, keeping away from the kerbs and the bins as she drives. Even in the dark, she’s figured out where to stop reversing, and how close she can get to the bins when she swings the front of the car round. I wish I could see how she’s doing it. What she’s seeing that I’m not.

  Charlie turns back to me.

  “Your turn, Bex.”

  Amy stops the car, pulls on the handbrake and turns the engine off. She sits back in her seat and taps the steering wheel with both hands, a satisfied smile on her face. I pull my hoodie forward over my face, open the door and step out.

  Time to be brave.

  *****

  “…and then she just kept reversing! Back and back until we’re crunching against the fence, and Charlie had to yell at her to stop!”

  Everyone’s laughing, sitting round the table over dinner. My driving skills are today’s distraction from our detention in this tiny flat. If that’s what it takes to keep us laughing, let them laugh. It’s frustrating, not being able to learn this skill. Watching everyone else get it before I do. But as Charlie said, we’ve got time. I just need to keep practising.

  “All three of us had to run up and down, pushing the bins back to the right shops. Bex rearranged them, all over the road!” Amy isn’t getting tired of this story.

  “Maybe Bex should drive the distraction vehicle. No one will be able to guess what she’ll do next! The rest of us will be miles away by the time they start looking for us.” Dan grins at me, and I make an effort to smile back.

  Charlie smiles, and puts her hand on mine for a moment while the others laugh.

  “Come on. Less of the teasing. You all had to start somewhere, and at least she’s taking it slowly.” Charlie glares at Dan. “No polystyrene snowstorms.”

  “Sorry, Bex.” Dan nods. “You’re doing OK. You haven’t killed a beanbag yet, so you’re doing better than me.” He bows his head, dramatically, and holds up his hands for silence. “Rest in peace, slaughtered beanbag.”

  And we’re all laughing again.

  I hate this mental block that hits me when I sit in the driving seat. I hate that I can’t think my way through it, and I can’t tell when I’m getting it wrong. But at least I have the chance to try. I have the chance to learn, and I’m doing it for everyone round this table. They’ve depended on me before, they’ve followed my lead, and they might depend on me again. Until then, one of them can take the wheel. This is one skill I’m not in a hurry to use.

  *****

  “I don’t think it’s like that, Jake. She’s not in this for the glory.”

  I’m standing in the corridor, outside the kitchen door. Jake and Dan are washing up, the sounds of water and clattering crockery punctuating their conversation. I’m not supposed to be hearing this. I came back for a glass of water, and now I can’t move. I need to hear what Jake has to say.

  “She still thinks she’s running everything.”

  “What makes you say that? She’s just trying to live with this – the same as the rest of us.”

  “She speaks for us. She tells other people what it’s like to be us, but she hasn’t bothered to ask if that’s OK.”

  “Jake …”

  “She hasn’t asked me what it’s like to live with all this. She just assumes …”

  “I don’t think that’s fair.”

  The washing-up noises have stopped.

  “Fair? What’s fair about Queen Bex getting her own room while the rest of us slum it out and share? What’s fair about all the sympathy she gets for her nightmares? What about mine?”

  Dan takes a breath, and speaks with exaggerated calm.

  “No one is saying you don’t have nightmares, Jake. We all do. But no one else is screaming in their sleep. No one else is beating themselves up the way she is.”

  “But we’ve killed people! We’ve shot people. We have to live with that.”

  “And we’d do it again, to protect our friends.”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause. I want to walk away. I don’t want to be eavesdropping like this, but I want to know what’s bothering Jake. I know he blames me for leaving him at Camp Bishop, and I know he hasn’t forgiven me for handing him back to Ketty when we drove away. I can also see him, stepping up beside me in the gatehouse at the bunker, gun raised, standing with me in case the next person to come in wasn’t Dan. I thought he was forgiving me. I thought he understood that we had no choice.

  “There’s a difference, Jake. We killed strangers. We killed people we’d never met, and we killed them to protect our friends. What Bex did – what she blames herself for – is losing people she was trying to protect. She feels responsible for Saunders. She thinks she should have rescued Margie and Dr Richards. She hates the idea of losing someone else that she cares about. The people she’s failed to rescue – they’re still alive. Because she let them go, they’re wearing orange jumpsuits and waiting for the firing squad. Every night she gets to look for them on the news. Every night, they could be the headline. And to her, they’re there because she failed.”

  “She failed me, too.”

  “And she knows that. She has nightmares about you, Jake. Leaving you at the gate with a gun to your head? How could you think that she was OK with that?”

  “Didn’t stop her.”

  “It didn’t stop any of us! I was in the truck. Charlie was driving. Why is this her fault?”

  “It was all her idea. And I was stupid enough to do what she asked me to do. She didn’t have a plan. She wasn’t going to take us with her …”

  “Of course she was! But plans don’t always work out, do they?”

  Silently, I turn and walk away, treading softly on the wooden floor. This conversation can carry on without me. Jake hasn’t forgiven me. I’ve lost him, as surely as I’ve lost Margie. But he’s here, with me, hating me. A constant reminder of everything I’ve done wrong. All my worst decisions, reflected back at me day after day.

  He’s right. I’m not special. I’m not the only one in pain. But I won’t stop speaking up for us when Caroline and Neesh ask for too much. I won’t stop defending him when they try to use his story for themselves. And I know I won’t stop dreaming about leaving him behind. His face as we drove away, the gun held to his head, Commander Bracken shouting for us to stop – that’s an image I’ll never forget.

  And I shouldn’t, because it reminds me that my actions have consequences, and my failures don’t just affect me.

  Questioning

  Ketty

  We’re off site this morning. A car picks me up at eight, stops to pick up Bracken, and takes us on the 30-minute drive to Belmarsh prison. We’re using dedicated military lanes where we can, so we avoid the traffic and arrive ahead of time.

  “Worst of the worst in there,” the driver says as we open the doors. “That’s where they’re holding the terrorists, isn’t it?”

  Bracken gets out, leaving me to mumble something about Top Secret information before I follow him into the car park. He’s said nothing for most of the journey, and my first priority is getting him some coffee. He needs to be awake and on the ball for this.

  I follow him through the entrance, and through security. We show our ID badges, walk through metal detectors, and hand over our bags to be searched before we’re waved through. There’s a prison officer wai
ting on the other side.

  “Colonel Bracken? Corporal Smith? Follow me, please.”

  We follow her along a concrete corridor, through a door that she unlocks with a card and PIN pad, and down a set of metal stairs.

  “Colonel, Corporal – I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that the existence of this area is Top Secret, and that anything you see or hear down here is not to be discussed with anyone without the correct authorisations.”

  “Understood.” Bracken sounds tired.

  Wake up, Sir. This is where you show them what we can do.

  At the end of another bare corridor the officer shows us into a waiting room. It’s surprisingly comfortable for a concrete box with no windows – arm chairs, tables, refreshments. A row of doors on the far wall.

  “Make yourselves comfortable. Help yourselves to drinks. The brigadier will be here shortly.”

  She leaves us alone, closing the door behind her. I hurry to the refreshment table and track down the coffee, pouring two cups and taking one to Bracken.

  “Drink up, Sir.”

  He frowns at me, but takes a sip before sitting down in one of the armchairs.

  “What do I need to know, Ketty?”

  I stay standing, sipping my coffee. “William Richards. Owner of Makepeace Farm and the bunker in the woods. Known terrorist. Apprehended with a group of accomplices on the night of the bunker raid, thirty miles away, ambushing a supply convoy. The group was wearing the armour they stole from the Camp Bishop recruits, containing our hidden trackers. Richards is believed to have been working with our missing recruits, as well as with the two women arrested at the farm, identities unknown. We’re hoping he can tell us where our recruits ran to, after they escaped from the bunker.

  “But this is a preliminary interrogation. So far he’s given us nothing in basic questioning. We’re just hoping to break the ice today. See what he says, what he doesn’t say. Root out what he’s got to hide.”

  Bracken nods and drains his coffee. I’m at his side, passing him a fresh cup before he can put the first one down. He gives me a sour look, but takes the second cup and keeps drinking. I pull a plastic bottle of painkillers from my pocket and hold a couple out to him. He rolls his eyes, but swallows them anyway.

  “Better, Sir?”

  “I’m fine, Ketty. Stop fussing.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I’ll stop fussing when you stop coming to work drunk. I’m here thanks to your promotion, so looking out for you keeps us both in our jobs.

  The door opens, and Brigadier Lee walks in, followed by a distractingly good-looking man in fatigues, corporal stripes on his shoulders. I stand to attention and salute as Bracken gets to his feet, my attention split between Bracken’s attempt at sobriety, and the amused smile on the Corporal’s face.

  A smile that’s making my stomach turn somersaults.

  Concentrate, Ketty. Keep your attention on Bracken.

  “Colonel Bracken. Corporal Smith. At ease.”

  Lee walks to the table and pours himself a coffee.

  “This is Corporal Conrad, my assistant.” He waves a hand at the man standing by the door, and turns to Bracken. “So. Are you ready for your first terrorist interrogation?”

  Conrad’s green eyes meet mine, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

  This is pathetic, Ketty. Grow up.

  “Yes, Sir.” Bracken’s voice drags my attention back. At least he’s sounding more awake.

  “Finish your coffee, and we’ll go in. Conrad – can you handle the tech?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Lee waves Conrad away, and he crosses the room to one of the doors on the far side. I can’t help watching as he walks past. He reminds me of Dan Pearce – posh-shabby-gorgeous. He’s not as tall as Dan, and his hair is darker and regulation-short. His uniform is neat, and he has the same quiet confidence. The same sense that he fits, here. That he’s earned his place.

  I’m still watching as the door closes behind him.

  Get a grip, Ketty. You’re here for Bracken.

  “Corporal Smith,” says Lee, coldly, all the charm he once used on me vanished. “How’s the hunt for your recruits going?”

  I look back at him and force myself to smile. “It’s progressing, Sir.”

  He looks at me for a moment too long, and nods, slowly. “Of course it is.”

  You don’t think I deserve to be here. You don’t think I can find them.

  A hint of amusement on his face turns into a cold smile. “Would you like to observe the interrogation?”

  “Yes, Sir.” It takes all my effort to answer him politely.

  “Follow Conrad. He’ll get you settled in.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  I exchange a final glance with Bracken and follow Conrad through the door.

  *****

  The room is small and full of camera equipment and recording devices. I’m suddenly, awkwardly aware that we’re standing too close together in the cramped space. I step back, and make myself watch carefully as Conrad sets up the equipment.

  Come on, Ketty. Focus. Find out how this works.

  I look around, pushing my attention away from Conrad. There’s a large window in one wall, and on the other side is a room with a table and three chairs. Two chairs face away from us, but seated on the third chair, facing us across the table, hands in handcuffs, is the man from the raid on the coach. I catch my breath – this is the man who stood and watched me and Jackson and our recruits from the field as we drove past. This is the man who sent Ellman and Pearce onto my coach.

  He’s an older man, with grey hair and the lined face of someone used to spending time outside. He’s tall, and slightly hunched over in the chair. And he’s thin to the point of malnutrition. Thinner than he was when I saw him standing in the road, directing the raid on my recruits.

  Don’t do well in captivity, terrorist? Too bad.

  My mind jumps to Jackson in his hospital bed, anger tightening in my chest. This is the man who coordinated the raid. This is the man who sent me and Jackson to hospital, and drove away with two of the kids we were trying to protect.

  I’m staring through the window, and I realise my hands are clenched into fists at my sides. Conrad is watching me.

  “Personal, this one?”

  I take a deep breath and force myself to relax and smile.

  “You could say that.”

  He waits for me to explain, and when I say nothing he waves me to a chair. He sits down next to me, his elbow brushing mine.

  Concentrate.

  “So – have you been in an interrogation suite before?” I shake my head, trying to focus on what he’s telling me. “Basic one-way mirror setup. Of course the prisoner knows we’re here, but he can’t see us, so he doesn’t know who is here. That can be useful. We’re recording,” he waves his hand at the cameras and stacks of black boxes, “visual and sound. Date-stamped, time-stamped – and one feed that isn’t. Just in case we need to edit something. But officially that feed doesn’t exist. The officer told you that this is all Top Secret, right?” I nod, still watching Richards through the glass. “So all this doesn’t officially exist. But PIN needs footage of the terrorists, and we need our questions answered, so here we are.”

  I turn to look at him, his eyes meeting mine. He really is gorgeous.

  Come on, Ketty. Do your job. Figure out what happens here.

  “So what else is there down here that doesn’t exist?”

  “Another interrogation room. Holding cells. We can keep a whole team of terrorists down here, out of sight.” He sounds proud. “The cells are pretty full right now. Lots of people for us to question.”

  Interesting.

  “Where did they come from? Your other prisoners?”

  He shrugs. “Here and there. Top Secret.” He winks at me, and nods at the prisoner. “So what did he do to you?”

  Trained the tiny fighters who put a bullet in my knee. Nearly killed my best friend. Harboured my fugitive recruits.


  I take another breath.

  Keep it professional, Ketty. He doesn’t need to know.

  “I’d rather not discuss it. Let’s assume that I’d very much like to hear what he has to say.”

  “OK,” says Conrad, holding up his hands and turning to activate the recording equipment. “Just asking.”

  There are red lights blinking on the boxes on our side of the mirror when Bracken and Lee walk in and sit down opposite the prisoner. There’s a red light over the door in the interrogation room, too, so the questioners know that the cameras are running. At first, the two of them watch Richards without saying a word. Richards lifts his eyes to the window, and I can feel the icy sensation in my spine again as his eyes meet mine. I have to remind myself that he can’t see me, and I move to one side to avoid his gaze.

  There’s an uncomfortable pause, and then Lee puts a folder down on the table.

  “William Richards.”

  Richards ignores him, and stares at the window. Is he watching himself in the mirror, or does he know where the observers in here are sitting?

  Lee opens the folder and turns over a sheet of paper.

  “Former owner, Makepeace Farm. Forestry expert. Resistance Leader. Terrorist.”

  Lee and Bracken watch him again. He doesn’t move.

  “Nothing to say, Richards? No defence? No excuses?” Lee closes the folder again. “I suppose not, seeing as we caught you with stolen government property, raiding a government supply convoy. Not to mention the terrorist gang we found on your land, in your house, and in your secret nuclear bunker.

  “So. Where would you like to start? The armour you picked up in a raid on a coach full of children? The fact that you sent children onto the coach to do your front-line work for you? The underground fortress in your backyard? Or your arrest in the middle of the night, crouching in the bushes next to a motorway? Your choice. You tell me.”