The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  He sits still, staring past me.

  “Twenty pounds says he’s not going to talk.” Conrad folds his arms and settles back into his chair.

  I shrug. “What can he say to that? Haven’t we got anything to threaten him with?”

  “Not that anyone’s thrown at him yet. He must know he’s on Death Row. What’s the point of telling us anything if we’re going to shoot him anyway?”

  Lee is talking again, but Richards sits, calm and still, ignoring him.

  Conrad shakes his head. “Lee’s not going to be happy.”

  Neither am I.

  Lee passes the folder to Bracken, who pulls out another sheet of paper.

  “Mr Richards. How about telling us about your contact with the Opposition In Exile?”

  No reaction.

  “Come on, Richards. We know they run the terrorist cells in the UK. We know they’re sitting in Edinburgh, laughing at us because we can’t get to them.” He leans forwards in his chair. “Well, here’s the bad news. We’re going to get to them. And we’re going to get to them through you.”

  Richards blinks, and looks down at the table. Conrad sits forward in his chair.

  “That’s got him uncomfortable. What do you think he’s hiding?”

  “I don’t know. What’s the Opposition In Exile?”

  He looks at me in surprise. “They think they’re the legitimate government of the UK. The Scottish government agrees, and they’re helping the OIE. Premises in Edinburgh. Armed guards. Government protection. Bodyguards, safe houses – the works. Lee thinks they’re running the terrorist cells, and from Richards’ reaction I’d say he could be right.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of them?”

  “You’re new here. Do you still get your news from the Public Information Network?” I nod, and he gives me an unkind smirk. “That’s why. You and everyone else out there. The government’s trying to keep them hidden. When they took away the civilian Internet and the mobile phone signals, the government controlled our access to information like this. If we don’t know about the OIE, they can’t influence us.” He waves at the room in front of us, his voice smug. “Top Secret, remember?”

  It’s a shock, to find myself being mocked. I try not to roll my eyes. I didn’t come here to be patronised by someone with the same rank as me.

  Back off, Conrad. And don’t underestimate me.

  Bracken is talking again. “Who’s your handler, Richards? Who do you speak to in Edinburgh?”

  Richards sags a little in his chair, but he doesn’t look up.

  “OK.” Lee puts his hands on the table. “Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about Leominster.”

  The prisoner’s head jerks up, and he looks right at Lee. Suddenly Conrad and I are on the edges of our seats, and Bracken is sitting up straight in his chair.

  “Oh – guilty conscience, Richards? Perhaps you’d like to tell us how you did it? Wiped out an entire town – buildings, people, roads?”

  I can feel the ice in my spine. I know Richards didn’t wipe out Leominster. I know he had nothing to do with it. I know that, because I was there.

  We did it. The army, the government. And we blamed the terrorists.

  So why are they asking Richards about it?

  “You bastard.” Richards’ voice is soft, with a lilting Welsh accent, but the hatred behind it is like a hammer. “You bastard,” he spits again.

  Lee leans forward. “Something you’d like to share with us?”

  “That atrocity was nothing to do with me. The blood of Leominster is on your hands, Brigadier.” He lifts his hands, palms outwards, the chain between the handcuffs taut. “Not mine.”

  Lee takes a moment to meet Richards’ angry stare. I’ve been on the receiving end of Lee’s gaze, and it’s not a comfortable place to be. The two men lock eyes, and there’s a smile in Lee’s voice when he responds. “We’ll see about that, Richards. We’ll see who believes you, and who believes me. PIN already has you tried and convicted, and I’ve got the job of hunting you down.” The prisoner breaks his gaze and bows his head. “I’d say those hands were looking pretty bloodstained right now. Wouldn’t you, Colonel?”

  “Public opinion would definitely send you to a firing squad for the attack on Leominster.” Bracken sounds smug. “Good luck washing your hands of this, Richards. We can put your people on the ground in Leominster three days before the attack. We know they were there. You know they were there. Might as well come clean and admit to it.”

  But Richards sits still, eyes on the tabletop. He’s silent, but his hands are shaking.

  He says nothing for the rest of the interview.

  *****

  It’s mid-afternoon by the time we get back to the office, and the telephone. I call the hospital, but there’s no change.

  I’m sorry, Jackson. We’ll get him. He has to talk sometime.

  When I get back to the flat, I change the bandage on my knee, pull on leggings and a T-shirt, and run. I have a route that follows the river up to Waterloo Bridge, along the South Bank, then back over Westminster Bridge, past the mothballed Palace of Westminster. Lead Medic Webb would be shouting at me, but I’m stuck in an office all day and I need to run.

  I try not to think as my feet pound the pavement, but in the evening light the image of Jackson is always there. Wasting away. Losing himself.

  And Conrad’s eyes, when he smiled at me. His unkind smirk when he realised he knew more than I did. When he tried to make me feel small.

  The painkillers are waiting when I get home. I will not waste away. I will not forget who I am. I will not lose myself in Bracken’s weakness, or Conrad’s smile. I will not lose myself in this overwhelming city.

  Photos

  Bex

  Another day, another delivery. I’m on shift with Amy today, unpacking and stacking the boxes and bottles on the store room shelves. We’ve just brought the pallets in and hung up our hoodies when Caroline drives up outside. I take my hand away from the shutter controls and wait for her to duck underneath before I finish closing it.

  “Morning, you two.” Caroline walks past us and calls back over her shoulder. “Is everyone upstairs?”

  I shrug. “As always.”

  “I’ll grab Neesh and meet you up there.”

  I resist the temptation to salute, and Amy mimes aiming a rifle at her retreating back. She’s smartly dressed, as usual, and coldly efficient. None of us enjoys being told what to do by Caroline, but she’s the one with the direct line to Edinburgh, so we keep our heads down and listen to what she has to say.

  “Come on.” I start walking towards the stairs. “Let’s get the kettle on.”

  *****

  Charlie lets us in, and I send Amy to knock on the living room door. Dan and Jake will still be asleep, but if Caroline’s coming up, she’s going to expect everyone to be awake and waiting for her. Amy bangs on the door until Dan opens it, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his T-shirt crumpled.

  “We’ve got company,” I call down the hallway. “Get Jake up, and get in here. Caroline’s coming.”

  Dan waves acknowledgement and closes the door.

  In the kitchen, Charlie is already making tea. I pull the mugs from the cupboard and line them up on the work surface.

  “Do you think they’ve thought about what we said? About not being their front-line dolls?”

  Charlie shrugs. “I guess we’ll see.”

  The alarm sounds – someone’s coming up the stairs. Amy checks the grainy black-and-white image on the monitor in the hall, then starts working on the locks.

  Neesh and Caroline are waiting when the door opens. Neesh gives us a smile and hugs Amy on her way through the door. Caroline walks straight to the kitchen and takes a seat at the table. Amy checks the monitor, resets the locks, and follows Neesh into the kitchen.

  Caroline looks around. “Will the boys be joining us?” Her Edinburgh accent is clipped and formal, and it’s clear she thinks Dan and Jake are wasting her time.r />
  The living room door slams shut, and Dan marches into the kitchen. He’s brushed his hair, and pulled on dark jeans and a smart shirt. He’s rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he strides through the door.

  “Caroline! Neesh! What a nice surprise.”

  I try not to laugh at his obvious sarcasm, and I notice Neesh doing the same. Jake follows him in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair still tangled and hanging over his eyes. Caroline puts on a tight smile.

  “Right. Well. Now that you’re all here. I have a message from the OIE. Pull up a chair.”

  *****

  “As you know, our superiors in Edinburgh consider themselves to be the legitimate government of the United Kingdom.” We all nod. We learnt about the Opposition In Exile when we first arrived, and they’ve been trying to decide what to do with us ever since. The driving training is their idea, as is the safe house system the Newcastle cell is using. “They need to get their message into the UK. They need to make sure that people know who they are.” She looks around at us, not hiding the disappointment on her face. She must have liked their heroic stories idea.

  “Well, we fed back to them what you all told Neesh, and they’ve come up with another plan.”

  She pulls a roll of paper from her smart handbag and flattens it out on the table.

  “They want to go head-to-head with the PIN TV appeals. They want to show that the resistance isn’t a terrorist movement. They want to rebrand you lot into brave resistance fighters.”

  I stare at the poster on the table, and it’s as if Caroline has punched me. It’s me. It’s the photo from Birmingham. The photo from the news. The photo on my wanted poster. This is the image that people in every town in the country see as they walk to work, or go shopping. Posters on bus shelters, advertising hoardings, community noticeboards. There’s a version with small photos, where we’re all lined up across the poster, and there are individual posters – one for each of us. My face, my image, being used to hunt me down.

  Except that this one’s different. Instead of a glossy black-and-white image, this one is screaming with colour. I’m shown in shades of grey, but the background behind me has been edited out, and in its place is a waving Union Jack in bright red, white, and blue. At the bottom, in bold red letters, is the word ‘Resist’, and in smaller letters underneath, “Support the Opposition in Exile”.

  My stomach drops. I can feel my knees giving way, my hands shaking. Charlie and I are standing – we don’t have enough seats for seven – and I step away from the table and lean against the kitchen cupboards, putting my tea down and gripping the edge of the work surface to keep myself on my feet.

  The others are talking, asking questions. I know I should hear Caroline out. See what the OIE are planning. I take some deep breaths, close my eyes, and try to follow the conversation.

  “What’s the point? What are they going to do with them?”

  “This is a new task for the active resistance cells. Our priority will be getting these up everywhere, over the top of the wanted posters. We need people to see that there is a resistance, and that we’re all over the country.”

  “Won’t that be dangerous?”

  “Very. But we all have to play our part.”

  “People could get shot for this.”

  “And you could get shot for walking out of the front door. We’ve got willing volunteers. We just need to give them something to do. Something that will make a difference.”

  “Is it all of us? Or is it just Bex who gets to be the face of the resistance?” That’s Jake, sounding bitter.

  “Just Bex for now. The OIE wants to see these going up, and they’ll decide what to do next when they see how people respond.”

  “Anyway, it’s better to have one face of the resistance. One person that everyone can relate to.” Neesh, trying to calm Jake down.

  “And Bex does have the best photo.” Amy.

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe that the OIE wants to use this image that I hate – use me – as the face of their resistance. And I can’t believe that my friends are calmly sitting around and discussing it, as if this is a good idea. As if this doesn’t mean anything.

  “It’s better than using our stories.” Dan, sounding thoughtful. “And it is a good photo.”

  “Just a moment.” Charlie. Footsteps on the kitchen floor, and then there’s a hand on my arm.

  I don’t need sympathy. I don’t need help from people who are seriously considering saying yes to this. I push myself up from the work surface, open my eyes, and brush Charlie’s hand away.

  I’m angry with the OIE for thinking of this. I’m angry with Caroline for suggesting it. And I’m livid with my friends for discussing it. I try to find something to say, something to make them all stop talking, but I can’t. I’m angry and I’m shaking and I can’t find the words to explain.

  “Bex …” Charlie puts her hand on my shoulder. I can’t handle this. I can’t stand here and be reasonable with that poster on the table. I twist away from her. I’m out of the kitchen and down the corridor before I can think. I want to get out, go outside and walk away, but I can’t leave the flat. I head to my room and slam the door behind me. I sit down on the bed, fists clenched, fingernails pushing into my palms. The pain helps me to focus.

  I’m the front-line doll, all over again. A pretty face for their campaign – that’s all I am to them.

  But that’s not who I am.

  *****

  Charlie knocks on the door, but I ignore her until she walks away. I don’t need company. I wish I could cry, or argue, or run. I want to act. I want to fight. But there’s nothing to act on and no one to fight with. Caroline isn’t going to listen, and whoever came up with this idea isn’t here to hear what I think.

  I’m lying on my bed, face to the wall, when Neesh walks in. I try to say something, to send her away, but my voice is cracked and broken. She closes the door, and sits down on the floor behind me. In the tiny room, her feet slide under my bed and she has to cross her legs to fit into the space. I stare at the wall.

  I’m expecting her to say something. I’m expecting her to sell me the idea, justify it, but she doesn’t. She just sits, quietly, alongside me while my pulse slows and my hands relax.

  This is what I need. Time to calm down, and someone on my side. Someone who isn’t pushing me.

  It’s a long time before I can speak.

  “Why do you work with these people, Neesh?” I’m still staring at the wall. I don’t trust myself to look at her.

  “Because they’re our best hope for getting our country back.”

  I laugh, once, my voice hoarse.

  “They think they’re the good guys, right?” Neesh starts to answer, but I cut her off. “They didn’t ask. They didn’t talk to us. They’ve never even met us.” I turn to face her. “We’re not real people to them.”

  She nods, meeting my eyes, letting me speak.

  “We’re wanted by the government, who think we’re traitors. And we’re being used by the resistance, who think we’re cardboard cut-outs. But we’re not. We’re real, and we’re in danger, and we’re hurting.”

  She waits for me to continue.

  “What gives them the right to use my face? What gives them the right to assume it’s theirs to use?” There are tears in my eyes now, and I blink them away.

  “Nothing, Bex. Nothing gives them the right. Nothing gave the government the right to recruit you, either. Or the right to plant bombs and blame them on us.”

  I shake my head and lower my voice. “I did everything they wanted. I wore their armour and I patrolled their events, and I wanted to make a difference. But the whole time, I was just a doll. I wasn’t protecting people. They were using me to put a pretty face on their war.

  “I put my life on hold for that. They took me out of school and they dressed me up, and they used me to cover for the horrible things they’ve done. They used all of us. Front-line dolls.” I remember Jackson, taunting me just after that
photo was taken. Calling me ‘Soldier Barbie’. I remember my fury, and my helplessness.

  “And now the resistance wants to do the same. To take my face, my photo, and use it as their pretty face.” Neesh nods. “They don’t know me. They haven’t bothered to meet me. They haven’t asked whether any of this is OK with me.”

  Neesh watches me for a moment.

  “I know, Bex. And I know who you are. You got your friends out of the bunker. You got them out of Camp Bishop before that. You’re loyal and you’re brave and you don’t give up.” I brush tears from my eyes and will myself to stop crying.

  Neesh leans forward and puts her hand on my elbow.

  “But you know what? That makes you everything the resistance stands for. That makes you the person who should be on their posters. You’re the recruit who witnessed Leominster. You’re the recruit who decided to walk away. You’re the recruit who saved everyone in this flat.

  “Who else’s face should we use?”

  I close my eyes. “They should have asked first.”

  “They should.” She squeezes my elbow and lets go. “You’re right.”

  Neesh sits quietly for a while, waiting. I force myself to stop crying, and push myself up on my elbows. I sit up and face her, leaning my back against the wall, legs crossed. I brush the tears away from my cheeks with the heels of my hands.

  “You asked why I work with them?” I nod, and she continues. “I’m everything the government hates. I’m everything they don’t want to see. I’m Neesha Hasan – the child of immigrants. I’m a successful, educated, political radical. I want better links with the rest of the world, more immigration, more travel, more trade – I don’t want to live in a fortress. I run a business in spite of their restrictions. I think for myself, and I notice what they’re doing, even when they want me to look the other way. I don’t believe what I hear on PIN, and I don’t believe what I read in the newspapers. And I refuse to be afraid. I’ve opposed everything they’ve done – all the anti-terrorism powers. Taking away our freedoms. Taking away our votes. I’ve marched and I’ve protested, and none of it made any difference.