The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

We got him, Jackson.

  Journey

  Bex

  Greg leads us to a lounge area with sofas, and a line of windows looking out at the rig. There are cans of drink and bottles of water, and someone brings us sandwiches and hot soup. I sit on the sofa, hands wrapped round my mug, trying to understand where we are. This morning we had a home. We had food in the fridge and beds to sleep in. It was dangerous, but we knew where we were. We knew what Neesh and Caroline expected from us.

  And tonight? Tonight, we’re in the middle of the North Sea, half way through our evacuation. I should be asleep, but I can’t relax. I haven’t had time to process this sudden change.

  We’ve all peeled off our waterproofs, and we’re sitting in our hoodies and jeans. Jake is snoring, his hood over his face, curled up at the end of a sofa. The rest of us have our hoods down, and I’m fighting the feeling of exposure. The knowledge that showing my face could lead to arrest.

  I can’t shake the feeling of responsibility.

  I look around at my friends – the people I’ve cared for, and the people who’ve cared for me. I want to keep them safe. I want to show them that they’re not alone. I want to get us all through this.

  I take my empty mug to the table, and pick up my rucksack from the floor. Mum’s letters are still tucked into the top, and I pull one out of the bundle before putting the rucksack down. I push it into my pocket, and find my waterproofs in the pile by the door.

  “Bex?”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Dan nods, and leans back on the sofa.

  I ease my boots into the waterproof trousers, pull the coat on over my hoodie, and head out into the corridor, fishing my gloves from the pockets. I retrace my steps, down a set of stairs and along another corridor, until I can see the helipad. I zip up my waterproof and step out into the night.

  There’s a strong wind blowing across the platform, and I keep my hand on the handrail for balance. It’s cold, and the wind on my face is the only thing that feels real. Inside, it’s just another room. Just another place for us to hide. Out here, there’s freedom and danger and connection. The air rushes past me, blowing from the north. I walk to the edge of the platform, and in the distance I can pick out more platforms, more oil rigs. More lights in the dark sea. The deck is brightly lit and the machinery around me is humming, the night shift working the rig. Out there, other night shifts are working other rigs. There’s a buzz, and an energy that I haven’t felt in months. People, working together. Working with us. Keeping us safe.

  I pull Mum’s letter from my pocket, keeping a tight hold on the paper as I lean against the railing. She wrote this just after we left school, before she knew we’d been recruited. She talks about Dad, and how he’s doing. She writes about a day trip she’s been on, to Manchester. How much she enjoyed the Science and Industry Museum, and the meal they all had before the minibus took them back to Orchard House.

  Mum, doing ordinary things. Making the most of the opportunities she had. Giving herself permission to live. I try not to think about Dad, lying in their room without her. Mum, locked up in London. Ketty, using Mum to get to me.

  And I smile when I realise that Mum can handle this. Mum can handle Ketty. She’s been in her wheelchair for as long as I can remember, and she’s never let it stop her. She fights for me, she fights for Dad, and she fights for herself. If Mum decides to do something, she makes it happen. She organised the nursing home, she got me into Rushmere. She knew when we couldn’t cope at home any more, and she made a plan. I’m laughing as I imagine Ketty trying to bully my Mum. Ketty’s used to intimidating her tiny fighters, not tough women, twice her age.

  I think about it. Ketty’s not going to hurt Mum while she’s trying to get to me. She’s not going to put Mum’s health at risk – she’s too valuable, as bait to manipulate my actions. To keep me in line.

  Mum’s going to be OK, and as long as she gets her medical care, she’s going to wipe the floor with Ketty Smith.

  There are tears in my eyes, but they’re tears of relief. There’s a feeling of elation. A feeling that I really did leave a weight behind on the beach. That I can get through this – that we all can. I shout into the wind and pump my fist in the air. Mum’s fighting for me, and she’s going to win.

  *****

  Charlie finds me, just after dawn, still standing at the edge of the platform. I’ve watched the clouds lighten from black to grey, the rigs in the distance fading as the light spread across the sky. I’m freezing, and my hands are numb, but I‘m smiling.

  Charlie puts her hand on my shoulder, and looks out at the grey sea.

  “You’ve been out here all night?”

  I nod.

  “It’s beautiful.” I point out the rigs on the horizon. “All this activity, in the middle of the night. All these lights, where it should be dark.”

  She smiles, and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “People can do amazing things, when there’s nothing to stop them.”

  I look down at my hands on the railing.

  “Yeah. Yeah, they can.”

  “We’re past the darkest hour, Bex. Things will get better from here.”

  I give her a smile. I hope she’s right.

  “Come on. Come and grab your things. The helicopter will be here soon.”

  *****

  The lounge is busy when we get back. Jake is awake, and pulling on his waterproofs. Everyone else is dressed and ready to go. I open my rucksack and slide Mum’s letter back into the bundle, then close it up and shrug it onto my shoulders.

  Greg leads us back outside. Our helicopter is waiting on the pad, rotors still.

  “Best of luck,” Greg calls, over the sounds of the wind and the rig. “I know the OIE is waiting for you.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Dan says, shaking his hand.

  Greg smiles, and stands at the edge of the pad while we climb on board. I fasten my harness, pull my headset onto my head, and watch as the rotors start to turn. Greg waves as the pilot lifts us into the air over the grey sea.

  We’re running again, but this time we’re running towards something, not running away.

  And that feels better.

  Expendable

  Ketty

  Margaret is next. They bring her out of her cell when they’ve finished with William. Sheena Richards is safe for now, but William knows that her life is in his hands. If he goes back on his agreement to help, she’ll get the justice she deserves.

  Lee settles into his chair again, and watches as the guards lock Margaret’s handcuffs to the table. Conrad waits for the guards to leave, then starts the cameras.

  “I understand that you haven’t said anything to the people who’ve questioned you so far.” Margaret stares straight ahead, ignoring Lee and Bracken, just as she did at Camp Bishop. “We’ve asked for your name. We’ve asked what you were doing at Makepeace Farm. We’ve asked who you were with, and what you could tell us about the bunker in the woods. But you’ve chosen to keep your mouth shut.” Lee shrugs. “OK. You don’t want to talk to us.” He opens the folder in front of him, and looks up at her. “But here’s the problem, Margaret – we really want to talk to you.”

  When he uses her name, it’s like a body blow. She jolts backwards in her chair, and her head snaps round to look at him.

  Conrad laughs. Lee cocks his head to one side, and I know he’s smiling.

  Don’t be so surprised, kid. You weren’t that hard to track down.

  She closes her eyes, takes some deep breaths, and looks back at the mirror in front of her.

  Lee picks up his folder, and pulls out a series of images. He places them in a line across the table. From behind the window I recognise the wanted posters for the missing recruits. The prisoner stares straight ahead.

  “We’d like to ask you about your friends.” Lee sits back and crosses his arms. “Where you think they are. What they might be planning.” No reaction.

  “Margaret Watson! Look at the photos on the table. Answer the question.�
� Bracken smacks his fist into the tabletop, and Margaret turns to glare at him, before looking down at the images in front of her. She scans the photos, taking in the wording on the posters. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

  “You don’t have them. You don’t know where they are.” It’s the first thing she’s said since the night at the farm.

  We’re close, Margaret. We’re very close.

  She slumps back in her chair and looks up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “They got away.”

  She looks back down at the table, and reaches out with one cuffed hand. She rests her fingers on Dan’s poster, then looks up again, eyes on the mirror.

  “So you can place them at Makepeace Farm? You can confirm that they were there?”

  She closes her eyes, smiles, and shakes her head.

  Bracken leans his elbows on the table.

  “It’s very simple, Miss Watson. You can help us, and we can talk about your future. Or you can stay silent, and your future will end on an execution platform, on live TV. Your decision.”

  “Bear in mind, Margaret, that we can send you for Enhanced Interrogation. No tables and chairs and formalities, there. No cameras, either. What’s it to be?” Lee waits for her answer, but she sits up straight, fingertips touching Dan’s photo. She fixes her eyes on the mirror, and says nothing.

  Protecting Dan, are we? Interesting.

  She can’t keep the smile from her face.

  *****

  “What’s Enhanced Interrogation?”

  Conrad is switching off the recording boxes and uploading copies of the footage.

  “You really are fresh from the countryside, aren’t you?”

  Really, Corporal? Still messing with me?

  Still competing?

  I stare at him as if he’s an incompetent recruit. “I’m here to do a job, and I can’t do my job if I don’t have all the facts. Are you going to answer my question? Or do I have to wait until you feel like telling me?”

  He meets my gaze, and looks away, hands up. “OK.” He points through the window at the empty room. “That’s interrogation. Table, chairs, people asking questions.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Get on with it.

  “Out that way,” he points to the other side of the recording room, “there’s a room with no cameras. No table, no chairs. The people who ask the questions don’t sit down with the prisoners. They get to use their fists. They’re very good at making people decide that talking would be the best option.”

  I smile. “Iron fists and steel toe caps?”

  He gives me a puzzled look. “I guess. Why?”

  “It’s a technique I’m familiar with.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

  Don’t look so shocked. And don’t underestimate me.

  “You find difficult prisoners everywhere. Even in the countryside.”

  He stares at me for a moment. “Camp Bishop?” He sounds incredulous. “Wasn’t that kids?”

  I nod, smiling. He blinks, and looks away.

  Don’t ever underestimate me.

  *****

  “So. What do you think?” Lee and Bracken are sitting in the waiting area when we leave the recording room, cups of coffee in their hands. Lee looks up and waves us over. “Put Margaret on trial? Show William what we can do to his daughter if he doesn’t toe the line?”

  Conrad shrugs. “That could work. Put it on TV. Show him the footage.”

  Bracken steeples his fingers. “We’d have to follow through, though. We’d have to send her to the firing squad. Otherwise the message loses its power. Is she really expendable?”

  “Ketty.” Lee gives me a cold smile. “You did the research on our prisoners. What do you think. Can we do away with Margaret?”

  What do you want me to say, Sir? Is this a test, or a trap?

  I think it through. “Margaret is our link with the missing recruits, Sir, but there’s not much more she can tell us. We’ve already placed them somewhere in the North East – I’m confident that we’re close to tracking them down.” Lee smirks, and takes a sip of his drink. I have to force myself to stay calm. “She’s also a link to Sheena and William, but we’ve got both of them. She’s only a kid – she probably doesn’t know much about the operation at Makepeace. Plus if we put her on TV, Ellman and Pearce will have to take notice.” I shrug. “Maybe see what she’ll tell us under Enhanced Interrogation, and then use her to show William we’re serious. Giving her a few bruises and introducing her to the firing squad can only increase his motivation to behave.”

  Lee gives Bracken a look of approval. “Margaret’s days are numbered. Corporal Smith has spoken.”

  Bracken smiles. Conrad smothers a laugh.

  I think about the room at Camp Bishop. Margaret, trying to fight back. Jackson and me, working together to keep her on the ground, using our fists to persuade her to talk. And the way she looked through me, while Jackson threw his punches, as if the bruises were happening to someone else.

  Let’s see how you handle the real thing, when it’s not just five minutes alone with me and Jackson.

  *****

  “Do we have some footage of Mrs Ellman for tonight, Ketty?”

  We’re in the car, on the way back to the office. Bracken checks his notes and looks up at me.

  “I think so, Sir – enough for a couple of days. There’s still some footage left from the interrogation. I’ll send it over to PIN when we get back.”

  He nods. “Good.”

  “And Sir? I was thinking. Could we blame Bex and her friends for one of the bombings? Bournemouth, maybe?”

  He looks at me, a smile spreading across his face. “I think we can. I think that’s a very good idea.”

  “Shall I prepare some wording for the news report?”

  “Write something down, and we’ll run it past the brigadier.” He nods again. “Good thinking, Ketty. Let’s build up some evidence against Ellman and her gang.”

  I sit back in my seat, and watch the traffic as we speed past in the military lane.

  Back in the office, I call the hospital, but the phone rings and rings. No one answers, so I hang up.

  I can’t tell whether I’m worried or relieved to have no news.

  I need you, Jackson. Keep fighting. I’ll call again tomorrow.

  DECEMBER

  Exile

  Bex

  We’re driven into the OIE compound at lunch time. Three cars with tinted windows were waiting for us at the airport, pulled up close to the helipad, and we’ve had a police escort of cars and motorbikes for the half-hour journey round the Edinburgh bypass. The traffic has stopped and waited for us to drive through every junction, and I’ve been pushing down a feeling of panic as we move through the streets, all eyes on our cars.

  We should have been interviewed at the airport, and assessed for refugee status, but the OIE has fast-tracked our applications. The immigration officers will be coming to us, behind our razor-wire fence and armed guards. For the next few days, everything we do is in someone else’s hands.

  Amy takes my hand as we drive through the gates of the compound, past soldiers with rifles and armour. I have to remind myself that these are Scottish troops, protecting the OIE. They’re on our side.

  “We’re here, Bex. We made it.” She rests her head on the back of her seat, staring at the ceiling. I watch from the car window as we’re driven behind the main building, out of sight of the road. The police cars wait on the road outside until the gates close, then drive away, blue lights flashing.

  I want to respond. I want to say something positive, but all I can think about is how far I am from home, and from Mum. The excitement of the journey is wearing off, and the exhaustion of the last few days is sinking through me. I rest my head against the seat and squeeze Amy’s hand.

  The door opens, and a woman in a smart suit is calling my name.

  I nod, and she holds out her hand, helping me from my seat. I climb out of the car, and she shakes my hand
, smiling.

  “Rebecca. Welcome to Edinburgh. My name is Gail, and I’m your liaison here at the Opposition In Exile. Come on inside. We’ve got some papers for you to sign, and then I’ll show you to your room.” She has a London accent, and her manner is kind, but efficient.

  I turn to look for my rucksack, but the driver is opening the boot and passing our bags to another member of staff to carry inside. I look around, at the other cars, and at my friends. We’ve each been met by a smartly dressed liaison officer, and everyone’s being brought inside the building. There are so many people in this small space around the cars, and I can’t stop myself from pulling my hood up over my face.

  Gail looks amused. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. Everyone here,” she waves her clipboard at the people around us, “they’re all OIE. We’re all here to look after you.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me towards the door. “Come inside, and let’s get you comfortable.”

  *****

  “Sign here … and here … and here.” Gail picks up the form, and puts another on the table in its place. “And on this one, it’s here,” she points with the end of her pen, “and here.”

  She checks my signatures, and replaces the form on her clipboard.

  I look around the room. We’re in a conference room, the tables laid out like a classroom. We’re all sitting at different tables, all signing declaration forms and immigration requests and asylum applications. We’ve each got our liaison officer, guiding us through the process. Someone brings two mugs of tea to our table, and I take a grateful sip as Gail explains the next form.

  “So this one’s up to you. Education up to 18 is compulsory in Scotland, but we’ll provide you with that education here, and you can choose to take a vocational route. This form is for you to make your wishes clear.

  “If you choose the academic route, we’ll provide a tutor, and six hours of tutoring every day. But the route we recommend is the vocational option. If you request that, we’ll continue your training from Camp Bishop, and we’ll take it further. We’ll train you in the use of weapons, communications, tactical scenarios, and military planning. We’ll turn you and your friends into a fighting team. And when you’re ready, you’ll have the chance to fight with us.