The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  Except this.

  “I know,” Bracken says, gently. And I know he does. He knew us both, and he knows what we did for him. I nod, and take another sip of coffee.

  *****

  I’m back at my desk. Bracken is covering for me, taking himself to meetings and making excuses while I stare at his paperwork and force myself to think about my job.

  You can do this, Ketty. You don’t need Jackson.

  But I do. I need to talk to him. I need him to poke fun at me, sitting in this dusty office. I need him to make fun of Conrad. I need him to brag about running the assault course. Demand to know what I’ve been doing to stay tough and fit and better than everyone else. I’m too comfortable here, with my own flat and my Corporal stripes – I need his iron fists and steel toe caps. I need him to show me what I could be, and to mock what this job is doing to me. I’ve gone from babysitting a camp full of recruits to babysitting Bracken.

  Jackson would be laughing at me.

  And that’s when it hits me that I’ll never hear his voice again. I’m sitting at my desk, my head in my hands, and I’m trying to remember the last thing he said to me, on the coach. The last thing I said to him.

  “We’re good, Ketty. We’re good.”

  And me, shouting his name.

  And that’s it. No more words between us.

  I close my eyes. I can see him on that first night at Camp Bishop, all attitude and danger. His hand slamming my shoulder into the wall, and my fists drawing the battle lines for our relationship. His respectful handshake a day later.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  How have I lost him? How did two bullets, and the space of two heartbeats, take him away from me?

  I smash my fists into the desktop. It’s as if a door has opened, and I can feel again. Anger, and pain. Loss. I stifle a scream, biting my knuckles until I draw blood.

  Come on, Ketty. Get yourself together. There’ll be time enough to fight this. Focus. Do your job.

  *****

  Bracken finds me staring at the same report I’ve been reading all afternoon. There’s a pen in my hand, and I’ve made a few notes, but I’ve read the same section over and over and nothing makes sense. I have no idea what the words mean.

  I’m amazed to find that it’s the end of the day.

  “Go home, Ketty. Get out of here.”

  I put the pen down, pick up the report and tuck it into the folder it came from.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” My voice is flat.

  But I can’t move. I can’t make myself stand up. I can’t face going back to my tiny flat, alone.

  “Ketty?”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, willing myself to focus. To stand up, to walk out of the office. But I can’t.

  Bracken puts his hand on my desk.

  “Tell me about it.” And he walks away into his office, waving for me to follow.

  I force myself to stand up and walk in after him. He points me to the chair in front of his desk, and I sit down. He pulls the whisky bottle from the filing cabinet along with two glasses, and puts them down in the middle of his desk.

  Like a challenge.

  Are you asking my permission, Sir?

  I nod, and he pours two large drinks, handing one to me across the desk before sitting down.

  “Tell me,” he says again, and takes a sip from his glass.

  “About Jackson?”

  He nods. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Losing someone like that?”

  “It does.”

  He watches me. I’m trying to find something to say, but there’s nothing I can put into words.

  “You two were an unstoppable team,” he says, eventually. “It’s like you both knew what the other one was thinking.”

  I laugh, and nod. “We did, Sir.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I mean, not really, but we both knew what the other one would do. I could guess what he would do next, and he could second-guess me, too.”

  He takes another sip. “That’s rare. That’s what we want to see in a team, but it’s almost impossible to train into people. Either you can see it, or you can’t.” He raises his glass. “You two could see it.”

  I cradle my whisky, and suddenly I’m talking. I’m talking about working with Jackson. About being Bracken’s fists when he needed answers. About the feeling of power and the sense of coordination as Jackson and I moved in on Margaret Watson. On Jake Taylor.

  And Bracken is talking, too. About the discipline he was planning to land on Jackson, that first night, and how he realised that I’d handled his behaviour more effectively than a commanding officer could. About watching us running training sessions together. About sending us to question his prisoners.

  I start to tell him about the night we dragged Ellman outside the fence, but he holds up his hand.

  “I know about that. I know what you two did.”

  I’m amazed. Bracken’s affection for the tiny fighters is what got me busted from the Lead Recruit job. How is he OK with us using our fists on one of them?

  “But …”

  “You kept it off my desk, and you calmed Ellman down. Win-win.” He finishes his drink, pours another, and waves the bottle at me. I shrug, and lean forward to hand him my glass. He pours me another generous measure.

  “So why was that OK, but the stunt with Saunders cost me my job?”

  “Locking him out in the rain?” He leans on the desk, and puts his glass down in front of him. “That was public, Ketty. That wasn’t keeping anything off my desk. It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t helpful.”

  “You called it cruel, Sir.” I shouldn’t push this, but the whisky is making me brave.

  “And so it was,” he says, picking up his drink again.

  “But so was …”

  “… so was what you did to Ellman, and Taylor, and the prisoner?” I nod. “Absolutely. But those incidents happened out of sight. Behind closed doors and fences. Not outside my front gate, in daylight, in front of the entire camp.”

  I nod, slowly. “So if we’d been a bit more subtle, we could have got away with …”

  “… with a whole lot more. Yes. As long as you were keeping things off my desk, I was happy to give you two a long leash.”

  “But … if we’d known …”

  “You were learning. You were discovering the limits. You’d have figured it out.”

  If we hadn’t been sent out as terrorist bait. If my partner in discipline hadn’t been gunned down in the road.

  “Invisible rules?” I ask. He nods.

  I drain my glass and place it carefully on the desk.

  “So what are the invisible rules here, Sir? What do we need to learn to survive in London?”

  He stares thoughtfully into his drink and shakes his head. “I’m not sure Ketty. I’m not sure about any of it.” He props his head on one hand, his fingers hiding his eyes. “I’m not sure what we’re doing here.”

  I can’t think of anything to say.

  “I thought we were here to track down the terrorists, Sir. Major General Franks said …”

  “Major General Franks has her own agenda. As does Brigadier Lee.” He rests both elbows on the desk and leans forward, eyes on the drink in his hands. “They’re putting me on the Terrorism Committee, Ketty.”

  “That’s good, Sir. That’s what we’re here to do.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. There’s more going on here than we know about.”

  I think about what David said, in the bar.

  “He won’t handle what’s coming.”

  I wait for him to explain, but he stares into his glass.

  “Invisible rules?”

  He nods. “But it’s more than that.” He looks up at me. “The people on the Terrorism Committee – they’re the same people who ran the weapons test on Leominster. Lee, Holden, some of the support crew.”

  “The people who ran the false flag attack?” He nods again.

  I think this through. Are they chasing terroris
ts? Tracking them down and bringing them to London for the firing squads? Or are they the ones planning the attacks?

  Is the Terrorism Committee tasked with catching criminals, or are they there to keep the attacks coming? To keep people afraid?

  I shake my head. This has to be the whisky, clouding my judgement. This is a conspiracy theory.

  Wake up, Ketty. Keep it real.

  And then Bracken rests his head on his hand again, the colour draining out of his face. “Ketty, I think we might be working for the bad guys.”

  Grief

  Bex

  We wake to good news. The committee has decided to let us out of our rooms. We can leave our building, and eat our meals with the rest of the staff. We all hurry to get dressed, and head over to the canteen for breakfast.

  It’s strange to be eating here without Jake. He’s not even at another table, doing his best to ignore us. He’s not here at all.

  We eat together, the four of us, and after breakfast Gail comes over to explain their decision.

  “We know you haven’t done anything to deserve this,” she looks around the table, “so thank you for your patience. We’re holding Jake on site while we figure out what to do next. As for all of you – no more computer access. Your logins have been removed from the system, so the computers won’t work for you, even if you try to use them.”

  Dan protests, but Gail holds up her hands. “As I said, you don’t deserve this, but we can’t risk any of you getting involved with Jake’s comments and the follow-up. There’s some nasty stuff on those threads, and we don’t want any of you taking it personally.”

  I nod. “That’s fine. There’s nothing I need to search for.”

  Amy shrugs, and Dan looks upset.

  “We were going to start your training today, but for now we’re going to have to ask you to wait. We’ll need some time to sort out what happens to Jake. So – use the gym, use the sports hall. Get yourselves some exercise. Keep yourselves busy. I’ll meet you here after dinner with the laptop for your PIN update.”

  She’s about to stand up, when Amy puts her hand on Gail’s arm.

  “Don’t hurt Jake, will you?” Gail looks surprised. “He’s done some horrible things, but it’s only because he’s hurting. Some really bad things happened to him, and he’s still angry. Promise you won’t hurt him?”

  I think about Ketty, whispering in my ear on the assault course.

  “Save your effort for where it matters. Leave the losers to lose.”

  And I shake my head. “Amy’s right, Gail. He’s not a bad person.” I look down at the table. “Give him a chance. Ask him what happened. Ask him what he’s angry about. Get him some help. But don’t hurt him. He doesn’t deserve that.”

  Gail raises her eyebrows. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  *****

  Dan and I head to the gym after breakfast. It’s ages since we’ve been out for a run, and a running machine is better than nothing. I pull on my new trainers and set the machine for a steady jog. We run for miles, talking occasionally, cheering each other on. It feels good.

  I’m on my cool down walk when Gail comes in.

  “Bex?”

  I switch off the machine, grab my towel and head over to the door.

  “Bex. I’m so sorry.” I look at her, my mind running through everything she might be sorry for. “It’s your father. I’m afraid we’ve just heard …”

  I nod. “He died.”

  She’s touching my elbow. Telling me how sorry she is.

  I shrug her hand away. I sit down on the weightlifting bench and put my head in my hands.

  Dan’s running machine slows and stops, and he’s next to me, his hand on my shoulder.

  “Thank you, Gail. You can go.”

  “But Bex …”

  “You can leave now.” Dan doesn’t raise his voice, but his tone is enough to send Gail away. The door closes quietly behind her.

  Dan sits down next to me, his hand still on my shoulder. And he waits. He lets me sit.

  “This isn’t what I expected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath. “I should be feeling more. I should be feeling sad. But I feel as if I’ve put down a heavy bag. As if I’ve been carrying it for years, and suddenly the weight is gone.”

  “That’s OK. If that’s how you feel, that’s how you feel.”

  I think about it. About the nursing home. About Dad squeezing my hand.

  “I think I said goodbye in the car park, at Orchard House. I think that was when he went away, for me. Everything since – that’s just been waiting.”

  Dan puts his arm round my shoulders. “That’s OK, Bex. That’s how you’ve dealt with losing him. You’ve cried for him already.”

  I laugh. “And how.” Dan laughs, too. He saw my face when we came back from Stockport. I didn’t know one person could have that many tears in them.

  I sit up, and Dan takes his arm away.

  “You OK, Bex?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah. Yeah, thanks. I think I am.”

  “There’s some birthday cake left.” He makes a thinking face. “Aren’t you supposed to bring cake to sad people? Cheer them up?”

  I laugh. “I thought that was sandwiches, Dan.”

  And we’re both laughing. I reach round his shoulders and give him a hug, and he hugs me back, tightly.

  “Cake?”

  “Cake.”

  We head back upstairs.

  *****

  The day passes in a blur. Charlie and Amy are lovely, bringing me tea and coffee and cake until I can’t eat or drink any more. Charlie sits and listens when I talk about my Dad. About how we worked as a team to look after Mum, and all the things I remember doing with him before he got sick.

  It’s mostly a day of happy memories. Of reliving wonderful days with Dad. I’m sad, but I’m not crying. I’m not struck down by grief. Dan’s right – I’ve done my crying already. I’ve been waiting for this.

  At dinner, the other liaisons come over and tell me how sorry they are. The committee members come to shake my hand, and I’m feeling overwhelmed by the end of the meal. I’ve forgotten that people can be this kind.

  Gail brings the laptop and sets it up while we clear the plates away. We gather round and watch as she pulls up the PIN site. I run my eyes down the list.

  There’s more film of Ketty talking to Mum. It looks like the same interview – Mum’s eye is still bruised and black. When she speaks, she says amazing things about my friends. She calls us a team, and a tribe, and even though I know she’s making things worse, I can’t hide my smile. I catch my breath for a moment when I wonder whether anyone’s told her about Dad. Whether she’s OK. It hurts, knowing that there’s nothing I can do.

  The video ends, and I look back at the list. Prisoners we’ve never heard of. Sports stories. Human interest.

  We’re about to give up, when a breaking news story loads onto the screen. Gail clicks on the logo, and I reach for Dan’s hand to stop me from falling.

  It’s Margie. Margie in an orange jumpsuit. Margie in handcuffs.

  And they’re announcing her trial.

  Dan groans. He puts his hands on the table, and lowers his head. I think he’s going to cry, or shout, or something, but he just stays like that – shirt sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, his forehead resting on the table.

  Amy looks at us, and Charlie closes her eyes.

  “Who …?” Gail points at the screen.

  I force myself to speak. I don’t think Dan can hear us.

  “Our school friend. Margie.” I look up at Gail. “The person we took from Camp Bishop. The person we rescued.”

  “She’s the one they’ve got in London?”

  I nod. “And our teacher. They were both in the wrong place at the wrong time. I couldn’t save them.”

  All the warmth is rushing out of my body. I’m starting to shiver. Everything hits me at once.

  Dad’s gone. Really gone.

>   Margie’s on trial. And no one ever gets a not-guilty verdict. They’re lining our friend up for a firing squad.

  They’ve got more of our friends. And they’ve got Mum. How many people will they hurt before we’re ready to fight back?

  And Dan’s in pain.

  I put my hand on his back, but he doesn’t respond. This isn’t like Dan. I shake his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. Amy sits down next to me, her hand on my arm. I give her a grateful smile, then lean over to whisper in his ear.

  “I’m here, Dan. I’m here. You’re OK.” And I keep talking, but he doesn’t answer.

  Absence

  Ketty

  I’m lost. I’m falling and I’m hurting, and there’s no one to show me who I am.

  Jackson was my anchor. He kept me in line. He challenged me every day to be better, to be more. I need him more than ever.

  And I’ll never see him again.

  Bracken is drowning. The drink gets him through, but what will the Terrorism Committee do to him? If he’s right, if we’re working for the bad guys, then maybe David was telling the truth. Maybe he can’t handle the promotion.

  And if Bracken falls, I fall.

  I drag myself up the stairs to my flat, Bracken’s empty whisky bottle in my bag. I’m covering for him again, but I helped him drink this bottle. It’s too easy to be overwhelmed by Bracken’s weakness.

  Keep it together, Ketty. Stay on top of this. Stay in control.

  My knee burns with every step, but I force myself to keep going.

  I’m undoing the buttons of my uniform as I reach the door and let myself in. It’s cold and dark, and there’s nothing I want more than to give up. To drink myself into a coma. To stop this empty, cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. To forget the pain in my knee. To pretend that Jackson will come back.

  I can’t sleep. I take off my jacket and loosen the neck of my shirt. I untie my boots and leave them in the middle of the floor.

  I pull back the curtain from my window, and look out over the rooftops of London. The glass is cold, but I stand and watch the lights against the dark sky.