And then I see my face on a poster at a bus stop. We’re only a street away from home, and there’s my face on a wanted poster, life-sized. Everyone we’ve driven past tonight knows that poster. Everyone knows my face. And everyone thinks I’m a terrorist. I push myself down in my seat again, pulling my hood forward and shielding my face from the streetlights.
We’re not free. We’re not safe. And whatever we do, we’re not in control.
*****
The others have eaten by the time we get back, and Dan sets himself up as our waiter as Neesh and I sit down at the table. He drapes a tea towel over one arm and affects a ridiculous French accent, offering us fine wines and exotic cuisine, then serving our reheated baked potatoes and cans of lemonade with flamboyant pride. We’re all laughing as he pulls up a chair to sit with us.
“So? How was it? How’s the outside world?”
“Good.” I nod, eating my potato.
“Do they still have buses out there? Streetlights? Trainers?”
“Of course!” Neesh laughs, and rolls her eyes.
“Any new fashions I should be aware of? Green hair? Viking beards?” He scratches his chin, thoughtfully.
“Dan! It’s been two months. No, no one’s wearing green hair or weird beards.”
“Do they still know who we are?” He’s serious, suddenly.
“Yeah. Yeah – they still know that. We’re still on the posters.”
“Not just PIN, then. We’re properly famous. Faces on every street.”
He smiles, but he’s not joking any more.
“Come on,” he stands up when we’ve finished eating. “Time for Spot the Prisoner. Leave the washing up – I’ll do that later.”
We follow him into the living room. Everyone else is waiting for us – the TV is on, and it’s coming up to the hour. The PIN bulletin will be on shortly. Neesh sits on the end of Jake’s bed and I choose a spot on the floor next to the sofa.
“How was it?” Charlie whispers.
“OK,” I say, smiling. Across the room, Neesh gives Charlie a thumbs-up. Charlie gives my shoulder a squeeze as the PIN news begins.
We watch the headlines. A bombing in Bournemouth. A food poisoning outbreak. Football results.
And a new prisoner.
We’re watching the footage from an interrogation room. Plain white walls and floor. A man in an orange jumpsuit, handcuffed to a table. Someone in uniform asking him questions. The newsreader is talking over the footage, but we can all see the prisoner’s face.
It’s Charlie who shouts first, but then we’re all shouting and pointing at the screen. Neesh looks confused.
“Who is it?”
“It’s the guard. The guard from the gatehouse!”
“The one you carried out of Makepeace Farm?”
“That’s him,” says Charlie, shaking her head. “They’ve tracked him down.”
There’s a ice-cold feeling on the back of my neck. If they’ve found him, how long will it be until they find us?
“But we called the ambulance for him.” Amy sounds indignant. “We made sure he got to hospital!”
“We made sure the ambulance came,” says Dan. “That’s not the same. And he couldn’t exactly hide three bullet wounds, could he?”
Neesh holds up her hands. “Wait – so you called an ambulance?”
“At the first payphone we found.”
“We called the ambulance and left him there.”
“We kept walking. Charlie stayed close, and made sure the ambulance stopped for him.”
Neesh nods. “OK. So you don’t know what happened to him after that?”
Charlie shakes her head. “It’s the best we could do. We had to get away, and he was badly hurt. It was his idea.” She waves her hand at the screen, where the guard is shaking his head at the person sitting opposite him at the table. “And he’s alive, so someone treated his injuries.”
“So either the ambulance crew figured out that he was from the farm, or the hospital had to report the gunshot wounds.” Neesh looks around at all of us. “What does he know? Can he tell them anything that could lead them to you?”
Dan slumps back against the wall. “I don’t think so. We didn’t know where we were going, so he can’t tell them where we are.”
“And they already know who we are. They’ve got our photos. He can’t tell them anything they don’t already know about us.”
I think about the time we spent at Makepeace Farm. The guard was part of Will’s group, but we didn’t spend much time with him.
“Amy’s right. There’s nothing useful he can add to what they already know.”
I feel cruel, assessing this man’s interrogation in terms of what it means for us, but this is all we can do here, in hiding. Watch PIN and calculate the risks. It’s frustrating that we can’t help. We can’t step in, and we can’t rescue anyone. We’re powerless, sitting in our top-floor flat.
And I can’t shake the feeling that they’re closing in. Tightening the noose around our hiding place.
Connections
Ketty
I start with Ellman and Pearce.
Posh boarding school just outside Macclesfield. They were the first to be picked up on their march, and the information the recruiters took from the school is limited. I book a car from the vehicle pool for tomorrow, and catch up with the commander’s paperwork for the rest of the day, clearing his office of bottles as usual before I leave for the night.
In the morning, I’m out at seven, driving out of London before rush hour kicks in. It’s a three-hour drive to the school, using the military priority lanes on main roads to avoid the traffic and the speed limits, and I’m pulling up outside as the kids are heading back to classes after a morning break. I’m wearing my service uniform, Corporal stripes on the shoulders. Smart, efficient, and instantly respected.
I park the car close to the public entrance. It’s a marked military vehicle, so no one can complain if I park it outside the official spaces. It feels good to disrupt their perfect driveway, and the perfect, imposing main entrance. I pick up my document case, lock the car, and walk up the stone steps to an arched wooden door, doing my best to hide my limp.
The receptionist buzzes me in before I’ve pressed the bell.
The uniform got your attention, then?
I push open the heavy door, and walk into a wood-panelled hallway, a matching wooden reception desk to one side.
“Welcome to Rushmere,” says a woman who looks as if she’s just stepped out of a professional photoshoot. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, just the right balance of assertive and helpful. I walk up to the desk, give her a tight smile, and flash my ID card.
“Corporal Smith. I’m here to track down some student records.”
“This is for our RTS students, I assume?”
I nod. The woman’s cheerful mask slips for a moment, and I notice the disapproval in her eyes. She recovers quickly, smiles at me, and stands up.
“This way, please.”
She leads me through a door in the wood-panelled wall, and into a room lined with filing cabinets. There are two desks in the centre of the room, one of them occupied by a young woman in a smart suit.
“Lesley,” says the receptionist, “the Corporal is here about some RTS records.”
Lesley stands, and offers her hand. I cross the room and greet her with a firm handshake.
“I’ll leave you to it?”
Lesley nods, and the receptionist leaves us alone.
“So. Whose records are you looking for?”
“Rebecca Ellman and Daniel Pearce, and anyone else in their recruitment group.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Are you from Camp Bishop?”
I nod. “I was one of the instructors there.”
“Can I ask what happened? We heard rumours, but …”
I wave a hand to stop her. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss RTS affairs.”
Or any mistakes we may or may not have made,
or any recruits we may or may not have lost.
She nods, and points to the empty desk.
“You’ll want to work here. I’ll fetch the records for you.”
I sit down, and watch as she pulls hanging files from one of the cabinets. By the time she’s finished, there are twenty-three beige folders stacked on the end of my desk.
“Thank you,” I say, as I pull the first folder towards me. Lesley watches me for a moment, then sits down at her desk, facing me across the middle of the room.
I work my way through the records. The first few are all quiet, obedient recruits I remember from Camp Bishop. Nothing of interest in those, so I stack them at the other end of the desk.
And then I find Ellman. Mousy photo a few years out of date. Dull brown hair and an expression of vague surprise on her face, as if she wasn’t expecting her photo to be taken. I think of Jackson, taunting her over the photo that’s become her public image. She looks different, but there’s a determination behind her eyes in both photos.
I look through her paperwork. Parental address in Stockport, both parents listed. Orchard House, which sounds posh until I realise it’s a nursing home.
Really, Ellman? Who’s looking after you if your parents are in there?
I check through the notes, and notice that she spent all her time at school. From the age of fourteen she lived here during the holidays, and apart from day trips to Stockport, she didn’t spend any time with her family.
That is interesting. Your mother sent you away, and your response was to mother everyone around you. Filling a gap, were you?
I skim the rest of her file. Mother uses a wheelchair, father terminally ill. Only child. Middling grades, no outstanding achievements. A page in her handwriting where she manages not to commit to any particular plan for her education. She lists several career ideas, the first of which is ‘teacher’. No surprises here. There’s a note about a study group – her name is listed, along with Pearce, and someone called Margaret Watson. I scribble the name in my notes and move on.
Pearce’s file is next. His parents are listed at a very expensive address in London. Only child, high-flyer, good grades, sporting success. A few minor disciplinary notes, but nothing worth calling daddy over. His career essay spans doctor, surgeon, lawyer, and politician. I’m sure daddy approved. His study group is listed, too. Rebecca Ellman, Margaret Watson. I underline her name on my notes.
I give the other files a quick read through, but there’s nothing connecting our well-behaved recruits to any of the terrorists.
I check the notes I’ve made. Contact details for both families. Details of their subjects and grades. And the study group.
I look at Lesley.
“Do you have a file on Margaret Watson?”
She looks up suddenly, trying to hide the surprise on her face.
“We do,” she says, but her voice is guarded.
“What’s the story? Did she avoid conscription?” I indicate the files in front of me. “She seems to have been studying with my recruits before they came to Camp Bishop.”
She thinks for a moment, as if she’s trying to decide what to tell me. “It’s complicated.”
Sheltering deserters, are we? Hiding students from the RTS?
“Can I see her file?”
Lesley nods, and jumps to her feet. “Of course. Just … let me find it.”
She searches in her desk drawer and pulls out a set of keys. She heads to the far corner of the room, and unlocks the bottom drawer in one of the filing cabinets. She flicks through, and pulls out another, bulging beige file, and hesitates before she brings it to my desk.
“We don’t really know what happened,” she begins. “We’re not sure why she left.” She puts the records down in front of me. “Maybe it will make sense to you.”
I thank her, and open the file.
The first item is a copy of an official letter, addressed to the Recruit Training Service. It explains that while Margaret is still registered as a student at Rushmere, her whereabouts are currently unknown. It goes on to explain that, while she is eligible for conscription, this will not be possible as requested, as she is no longer in residence at the school.
A deserter before she even joined up. And a friend of Ellman and Pearce. This is interesting.
There follows a series of letters confirming her absence, and requiring the school to inform the RTS if Miss Watson returns, and another series of letters between the school and Margaret’s parents. I check their address, and I’m surprised to find a PO Box in Kenya. I flick through the rest of her file. Younger sister, living in Kenya. Good grades, no misdemeanours. Her career essay is hopelessly idealistic, and apparently she wants to run a development charity or go into politics. I check the parental information page, and it seems that she’s following in their footsteps. Their charity is listed, with a brief outline of its activities. Education, training, political activism.
The final letter is a formal submission to the school inspector, refuting the claim that Margaret absconded from school with one of her teachers, and claiming that there is no evidence to support this theory. I turn back through the letters, and there’s one accusing the school of allowing an inappropriate relationship between a teacher and a student, which led to both of them leaving without notice or permission. They left on the same day, and the suspicion is that they left together. I’m trying to hide a smirk at the idea of Ellman’s friend running away with her favourite teacher, when I find Margaret’s photo.
Slim face. Dark eyes. Long dark hair.
It’s our prisoner. This is the girl who walked into Camp Bishop, and the girl we took from Makepeace Farm.
Margaret Watson, who hasn’t given us her name. Who hasn’t said anything since the night in the farmyard.
Who went to school with Ellman and Pearce, and ran away to join the terrorists.
I turn back to the inspector’s letter, searching for the name of the teacher.
Dr Richards.
Richards. There’s a connection here, somewhere. I can’t see it yet, but it’s here.
“Lesley,” she jumps at the sound of my voice. “Do you have a file on Dr Richards? A photo? Anything?”
She nods, and returns to the same locked drawer. She pulls out a blue file, ‘Staff’ stamped on it in large letters, and brings it to me.
“We really don’t think there’s a connection …”
I wave her away.
And open the file.
Doctor Sheena Richards smiles out at me from a full-page photo.
The woman from the farmhouse. The other prisoner from the raid on the terrorist base.
And the pieces fall into place. William Richards, owner of Makepeace Farm, currently sitting on one of our cells. Sheena Richards, possible relative, apprehended at Makepeace Farm, in the company of Margaret Watson. Margaret, the activist, who ran away from her school friends before the recruiters arrived – not because of any inappropriate relationship, but because she wanted to join William’s terrorist gang. And the school friends, Ellman and Pearce, next on our terrorist Wanted list.
Gotcha.
*****
“I think we can do it, Sir. PIN puts out a recurring appeal for Ellman to come and see her dying father before it’s too late. We’ll get someone from the nursing home to take pictures of Mr Ellman. We’ll show them on TV, stake out the nursing home and wait for her to arrive.”
Bracken regards me over his steeped fingers. “What makes you think she’ll come?”
“I can’t see Ellman resisting, Sir. She didn’t get to see her parents much before she joined the RTS, and I think she misses them. She won’t leave him to die without saying goodbye, and then we’ve got her.”
“But she’ll know it’s a trap, if we put it out on the news.”
“She will, but I think she’ll come anyway. The way she stormed the coach? The way she got the prisoner out of Camp Bishop? I think she does the obvious thing, and counts on us not expecting it. She’ll walk in throug
h the front door, and she’ll expect to get away with it.”
“And she might, if she’s clever. If she catches us off guard again.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, Sir. Give me enough soldiers, and I can secure the home. Even if she gets in, there’ll be no way out.”
Bracken thinks for a moment. “So you want me to go to the Public Information Network, the only source of news and information in the country, and you want me to tell them to run a repeating segment on getting one girl to come home and see her father?”
I smile, thinking about the look on Conrad’s face if I can make this happen. “I do. The terrorists are already putting her image on their posters. Why don’t we offer a compassionate service to someone they’ve already claimed as their own?”
A smile spreads across his face. “That might just work. We get to look good and set a trap at the same time. And when we catch her …”
“When we catch her, PIN can report that she handed herself in, and offered to cooperate fully with the government. That will frighten the rest of her cell, maybe even push them into moving, coming out in the open. And then we’ve got them all.”
Family
Bex
“It’s horrible. It’s horrible and it’s on the news, every hour.”
I’m shouting. I’m shouting at Charlie, who doesn’t deserve it, but she’s the one who’s come to talk to me. We’d been out for more driving practice, eaten dinner together, and gathered in the living room to watch the news. We were expecting more footage of the guard, or maybe someone else from the bunker.
I wasn’t expecting this.
“Bex. Bex. Sit down.”
The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3 Page 46
