The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  “OK,” she says, eventually. “Through those doors, and on the right.” She reaches for the button to override the locks. I pick up the parcel, and she gives me a surprised glance. “You can leave that with me,” she says.

  “I need to keep it with me.” I’m fighting to keep my voice steady. If she makes a fuss, the guards will come in. I force another smile. “My boss would kill me if I let it out of my sight.” She looks uncertain, and reaches for the phone again. “Tell you what – I’ll leave the clipboard with you. That way I’ve got to come back.” I manage a grin, and she smiles back and nods. “Thank you so much!” I call, as I walk towards the doors. “I appreciate it!”

  The doors are unlocked when I reach them, and I push through and turn into the Ladies’ toilets. I make for the end cubicle and lock myself in, fingers already pulling at the tape on the parcel.

  I can’t believe this is working. And I can’t afford to stop and think about it now. I’ve got maybe two minutes to change and walk out of here before the receptionist is watching through the doors.

  I tear open the parcel, pulling off my hat, wig and glasses, and fishing the ID badge from my pocket. My hands are shaking again, and I keep fumbling as I peel off my jeans and sweatshirt. I can’t afford to screw this up. Not now that I’m so close.

  I pull out the nursing home uniform from the parcel. Pale green scrubs and a pink tabard. I put them on as quickly as I can, then run my fingers through my hair and catch the ponytail in a hair elastic. I wince as I pull my eyelids up and take out the contact lenses, dropping them into the sanitary products disposal bin. Finally, I pull out the bundle from the bottom of the parcel, and unwrap the handgun. I slip it into the back of my waistband, and stuff everything else back into the box, pressing the tape down as I go. I step out of the cubicle and check my reflection in the mirror, combing out the ridges in my hair with my fingers before turning to the door. Brown hair back in a ponytail, blue eyes, nursing home uniform. I hope it’s enough to avoid detection for now.

  I pause by the door, listening for noises in the corridor outside. I can’t hear anything, and as much as I’d like to stay here, leaning against the door, paused between the dangerous parts of the plan, I have to move. Every second makes the difference between success and failure. Every second is another second I could spend with Dad before I have to run again.

  I push open the door.

  *****

  The corridors are clear as I make my way to Mum’s room. I’m shaking. I need to breathe, and I need to walk. One foot in front of the other. Calm and confident. My fingers are crushing the cardboard parcel.

  And here it is. Room 50. Ellman, Liz and Peter. A wave of relief crashes over me. There are tears in my eyes, and I’m sobbing before I can stop myself.

  Deep breath. I brush the tears away with my sleeve and step forward to knock on the door.

  Someone calls out from inside the room, and I grip the door handle. Another failure point. If there are guards inside, I’m cornered. But at least I’m armed.

  I push the door open.

  And there’s my mother in her wheelchair, turning herself to look at me. There’s their sideboard, framed photos of the three of us crowding the top surface. And there’s my father in a hospital bed in the living room, plugged into tubes and wires and machines.

  Mum turns and looks at me, and first she sees the uniform, but then the polite smile on her face turns into a look of astonishment, and it’s as if the sun has come out from behind a cloud. She gives me a huge, warm smile, and opens her mouth to say something, but I raise my finger to my lips, and close the door gently behind me. I glance around the room, but there are no soldiers waiting. No trap ready to be sprung. For a few moments, I really am safe, and I really am home.

  I drop the parcel. I walk over to Mum, hardly believing that this is real. I kneel down, and reach out to her. She leans forward in her chair and wraps me in her arms. I hold her as tightly as I can.

  I could stay here forever, but I need to move. I don’t have a lot of time. Gently, I break free, holding myself up on the armrest of her chair, my whole body shaking.

  “Bex!” She says, taking my face in her hands. “My beautiful girl. What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  There are tears on her cheeks, and mine.

  “They said …” I take a ragged breath, and fight to keep my voice above a whisper. “Dad. They said I should come.”

  She raises her head and looks across the room at my father in his bed, and she nods.

  “He won’t … he doesn’t respond to much any more. Don’t get your hopes up.” She takes my shoulders. “Go on. I know he’s been waiting for you to visit.”

  I nod, and brush away the tears again. I stand up, and walk slowly over to the bed.

  Among the tubes and wires and drips, my Dad is lying, utterly still save for his shallow breathing. I perch on the edge of the bed, and reach over to take his hand. He looks so small and fragile against the pillows. His face is pale and thin, and I can see the shapes of the bones under his skin.

  “Talk to him,” says Mum. “Tell him what’s been happening.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. I’ve been away. I’ve been busy.” He doesn’t move. “I’m not at school any more. The army came and took us away. We’ve been training and fighting and patrolling. You might have seen us on TV, keeping people safe from the terrorists.” I can’t help laughing at that. Dad clearly hasn’t watched TV in ages, and the last thing I’ve been doing is keeping people safe.

  There are tears on my face again as I speak. “Actually, Dad, I ran away. I’m not with the army any more.” I glace up at Mum. “I’m working with some people who want to get our democracy back. I’m kind of a fugitive right now.

  “I can’t stay long. I don’t want to put you two in danger. But I wanted to come and see you.” I squeeze his hand, and for a brief moment, I’m sure he squeezes back. I laugh, and lift his hand, and he squeezes it again. It’s not much more than a twitch, but I’m sure it’s there.

  And then I’m holding him, carefully, around the wires and the tubes, and I’m sobbing. Tears are running down my face and neck, and soaking into his pillow. Mum comes up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder, and there I am, for the last time, in the safety of my parents’ arms.

  When I sit up, there are tears on Dad’s face as well. He knows I’m here.

  I reach out to stroke his cheek. And I know that this is goodbye.

  I’ve been here too long.

  I tear myself away, and stand up. “I need to go.” Mum starts to protest, but I cut her off. “I need to get out of here. There are guards outside, and they’re looking for me. When they work out I’m here, they’ll come after you.” My voice starts to crack. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

  She shakes her head. “When we saw you on TV, we thought it was a mistake. We thought you were at school. But then we heard what the government was saying, about their young recruits, and we realised they’d taken you. And then you were on a wanted poster, with that horrible gun.”

  She points at the TV. “Then they showed that nasty appeal, asking you to come here. Asking you to visit your father. And we knew it was a trap.

  “It wasn’t us, Bex. We didn’t ask you to come. We didn’t give them permission to take those awful photos. If there are guards out there, they’re not going to let you walk away.”

  “It’s OK, Mum. If I go now, I might make it out before they realise I’m here.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “If I can’t get out, I’ll set off the fire alarm. I’ll make sure I’m near an exit and I’ll get away. I promise.”

  “When we saw you with that gun and that armour …”

  “Mum, I …”

  She holds up a hand.

  “I don’t care what you’ve done, Bex. I know you’ll do what you need to do.” I nod, and my face is wet with tears again. “You got away from the army?” I nod. “Good. They had no right to take you from
school. It makes me sick, what they’ve done.” She takes my hands in hers. “You’re worth more than that. You want to fight for us? For yourself?” I’m sobbing, loudly now, and all I can do is nod in agreement. “Then you do what you have to do. Look after yourself, Bex. Be careful. But if it takes a gun, if it takes everything you have to protect yourself from the people ruining this country, then you do it. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Mum.” My voice is a rough whisper.

  “And don’t think about us. We’re the past. You’re the future. Fight for yourself, and make a future worth living in. Don’t give up.” She grips my hands tightly as she speaks.

  “I’ll try.”

  “And you have friends?” I nod. “Good friends? Then look after them, too. And never give up on them.” She looks down at her wheelchair. “Find happiness where you can, Bex, even in the middle of the fight. Don’t wait for this to end before you give yourself permission to live.”

  She pulls me into another embrace.

  “You’re a hero, Bex. You always have been. Don’t give up.”

  I hold tight, my arms round her shoulders.

  And my whole body tenses as we hear noises in the corridor outside. Shouting. Someone barking orders.

  I freeze. I’ve been here too long. I stand up, and look around the room. There are net curtains at the window, but outside I can see the shapes of two guards in black armour, blocking my only escape.

  There’s a cold feeling in my stomach as the panic hits. I’m trapped. Mum grabs my hand again.

  “In there!” She hisses, pointing at the door to her bedroom. “Get under the bed. There are boxes under there – get behind them. Take your parcel with you.”

  It’s my only option. The noise in the corridor is getting closer. They’ve figured out that I’m here.

  “And Bex? Don’t move. No heroics. I’ll make sure you get out. I can trigger the fire alarm from here.” She points at a red box on the wall – the kind where you break the glass to set off the alarm.

  “But …”

  “I couldn’t protect you at school. Let me protect you now. Don’t try to help me – you’ll only get yourself caught.” She shakes her head over my objections. “You’re getting out of here today – back to your friends. Back to your fight. This is my fight. Let me make a difference. Let me look after you.”

  I’m shaking my head, tears on my cheeks. I hadn’t meant to put her in danger.

  “Promise me. Promise me that what I do here will make a difference.”

  “Mum …”

  “Promise me.”

  I nod, through tears. I step away, dropping Mum’s hands, and pick up my box. I run through to the tiny bedroom, leaving the door ajar, and crawl under the bed. I pull myself up from the end, the action I learnt under barbed wire on the assault course. I hide against the wall behind the boxes, pulling the valance down behind me and kicking my parcel into place against my feet. I pull the gun from my waistband, push myself onto my side, and take aim at the door.

  Conversation

  Ketty

  We pull into the car park, and I’m amazed to see that Ellman’s registered address really is an ordinary nursing home. A long, two-storey building set back from the road, a tree-lined car park in front. Nothing special. Nothing posh. We drive past a line of parked cars, and pull up behind the troop carrier at the entrance.

  I step down from the passenger seat and walk up to the guards at the door. I wait for them to salute me first, then I return the gesture.

  “Any trouble?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Patrols in the gardens?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And no sign of our recruit?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Good work.”

  I reach out for the door, and one of the guards sweeps in and opens it for me.

  “Sir!”

  I walk into a glazed entrance porch. The double doors ahead of me are locked, and I knock on the window to attract the attention of whoever is manning the desk. I shield my eyes with one hand and look through into the hallway. There’s a group of people in pale green uniforms at the desk, huddled together in conversation. I knock on the window again.

  One of them looks up, gives me a wave, and presses the button to unlock the door. I push it open, and walk across the hallway towards them. The conversation falls silent.

  “Can I help you?”

  The receptionist eyes my fatigues and tries to hide the look of concern on her face.

  “Here to see Mrs Ellman. Government business.” She nods. I look around at the staff, sensing the guilty silence in the air. “Something wrong?”

  “We’ve had a small problem. Nothing to worry about.” She flashes me a nervous grin. I fix her with a recruit-scaring look, and raise an eyebrow. “We … err … we’ve lost a delivery driver. They came in, asked to use the toilet, and now we can’t find them.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure it’s nothing. We’ll sort it out. No one’s raised an alarm.”

  I can’t hide my smile.

  Ellman. Here already? Couldn’t resist the Daddy bait?

  I pull the radio from my belt and activate it.

  “Francis.”

  “Sir.”

  “I want patrols around the building. Take a member of staff and put guards outside the Ellmans’ windows, and next to all the exit doors. Now.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I look up at the group, watching me in silence. I pick a young woman with streaks of pink in her hair.

  “You. Can you find their room from the outside?”

  “Yes.” She sounds nervous.

  “Go outside to the soldiers, and show them where to go. Quietly. Don’t let anyone inside the building know you’re there.”

  “Yes,” she says, and hurries off. The receptionist lets her out of the doors.

  I lift the radio again.

  “Francis, get me four guards in here.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I put the radio back on my belt, look back at the receptionist, and give her an unfriendly smile. “I’m sure you’ll get it sorted.” I check my watch. “I’m sure it won’t take you very long. And if you find the driver, make sure you hand them over to the guards outside.”

  “OK, if you think that’s necessary.”

  “I do. And while you’re searching, would you direct me to Mrs Ellman’s room?”

  She nods, distracted. “Absolutely. Absolutely.” She looks at her colleagues. “Pat. Could you take the officer to Liz’s room?”

  Pat steps forward, a friendly smile on her face. “Come with me.”

  I follow her through a set of double doors. There’s a ladies’ toilet on the right. The door is open, and as we walk past I can see a caretaker on a ladder, pushing up sections of ceiling tile and shining a torch into the space above.

  Good luck finding her in there. That’s not what she’s here for.

  Something on the floor of the room catches my eye.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Pat, and step into the toilets.

  It’s an ID card, for a delivery company. The name is wrong, and she’s wearing glasses and a ridiculous wig, but the face is Ellman.

  Got you.

  I step into the corridor as the armoured guards arrive. Pat waves us on, and we follow her together. I turn to the guards on my left.

  “I want you two outside the door. No one comes out, unless they’re with me. Detain and restrain anyone else leaving the room. I don’t care if they’re 90 years old and they look like your granny. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you,” I wave at the guards on my right, and hand the ID card to the woman in armour walking next to me. “I want you two patrolling up and down this corridor. Anyone answering this description, I want them detained. Defend yourselves if you have to, but I want her alive.”

  The woman nods, showing the ID card to her partner. “Yes, Sir.”

  All four guards draw their guns.

  Pat looks
terrified as we walk up to room 50. “Here we are,” she chirps, trying to be cheerful.

  “Thank you, Pat. Now, get yourself back to reception and get rid of the crowd of people there. Get yourselves out of the way. All of you. Hide in the office or the dining room – I don’t care. Just leave the entrance hall empty.” She looks as if she’s going to protest. “It’s for your own safety.” She nods, and hurries away along the corridor.

  I pull the radio out again.

  “Francis? Take over at reception. And don’t let anyone in or out of the building. Wait for my clearance.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And if I’m not out of here in ten minutes, send someone in.”

  “Sir. Will do.”

  The guards position themselves, one on each side of the doorway. I clip the radio to my belt, and step between them to the door.

  *****

  “Mrs Ellman?” I put on my best commander-charming smile. “Pleased to meet you.” I walk into the room and hold out my hand. She pushes her wheelchair towards me, and stops to shake my hand. I can’t help remembering the feeling of being trapped in a chair like hers. Of relying on other people to look after me. Of powerlessness. I force myself to keep smiling. The door closes behind me as I step inside.

  The room is small. There’s a chair for guests, a sideboard covered in framed photos, and a couple of bookshelves. Nowhere for a disguised delivery driver to hide. Two doors to other rooms, one slightly open. Across the room, under the window, is a hospital bed. The man lying in it is small and frail, and the monitoring wires and needles in his arms are uncomfortably familiar.

  Jackson. I’m so close to catching her.

  His eyes are closed, but his hollow cheeks are wet with tears. He doesn’t react as I walk towards him.

  “And this must be Mr Ellman.”

  I turn back. She’s watching me, arms folded. She’s smiling, but there’s steel behind that smile. She wants me to understand whose space I’m in.

  “Won’t you sit down?” She indicates the chair beside her.

  “Thank you.” I stand for a moment longer, looking around the room. The books on the shelves. The paintings on the wall. The photos in frames on the sideboard. I lean in to take a closer look. Every photo is of the Ellman family. Mum, Dad, Bex. Baby Bex, toddler Bex, Bex enjoying the beach, Bex sitting on a donkey, Bex holding a medal for some sporting achievement – all with mummy and daddy beside her. I feel an unexpected stab of jealousy for this impossibly happy family, until I remember the wheelchair, and the hospital bed. The feeling of power, when I pinned Bex against the mud with Jackson and gave her the bruises she deserved.