Fighting Back (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 4)

by Rachel Churcher

  I tear holes in the figure in front of me. I concentrate on my aim, and on the rhythm of my bullets.

  I concentrate on being in control. On bringing my opponent down.

  When I check out, I leave a pile of shredded targets in the waste paper box. And I can’t help smiling as I climb the stairs back to Bracken.

  *****

  “Quit fussing, Ketty. I don’t need mothering.”

  “No, Sir.”

  I put the canteen sandwich down on Bracken’s desk with a mug of coffee and two painkillers.

  “I don’t need you fetching my meals. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own lunch.”

  Out of a bottle, Sir?

  I stare at the wall above Bracken’s head. “Yes, Sir. I just thought, what with the meeting this afternoon …”

  He waves his hand to stop me. “Fine. Fine. Thank you.” He pulls the plate towards him, and I notice the painkillers are the first things he swallows. His eyes are red and bloodshot, and I need to make sure he sobers up before his first Terrorism Committee meeting.

  “Are you our runner for this afternoon?”

  “I am, Sir.”

  Assistant to the lowest ranking person in the meeting? Of course I am.

  He nods, and unwraps his sandwich.

  “Are you going to stand there and watch me, Ketty?” He sounds angry.

  I would if I could, Sir. I know where you keep your whisky bottle.

  “No, Sir. I’m just wondering whether there’s anything I need to know before this afternoon.”

  He sighs, and waves his hand at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I sit and wait while he eats his lunch and washes it down with coffee.

  “Honestly, Ketty? I’m not sure what to expect.”

  “Oh?”

  He sits back in his chair, coffee mug in his hands. “It’s taken them this long to put me on the committee. I’m not sure what they wanted from me before they gave me a place at the table. And now I’m here?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know whether we’re chasing terrorists, or telling them what to do. Which places to bomb. Where our security will be lightest. Where we’ll turn a blind eye to their activities.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Like Leominster, Sir?”

  His shoulders slump, and he puts the mug down on the desk, still holding it with both hands. “Like Leominster.”

  I sit up. “Leominster was a weapons test, Sir. They blamed it on the terrorists, but Holden said they were testing a weapon.”

  On a town full of innocent people.

  “Holden is on the Terrorism Committee, Ketty. Holden, and Lee, and some of the others who planned the Leominster operation. Who’s to say they’re not running more weapons tests?”

  I shrug. “Sir. It’s a promotion. It’s what you came here to do. Track terrorists, monitor attacks, catch the bad guys.”

  He nods. “That’s true.”

  “This is how you do that. By being on their committee.”

  It’s how you keep your job, and mine.

  “You’re right.” He gives me a brief smile. “It’s what I’m here to do.”

  “And it beats babysitting recruits at Camp Bishop.”

  “All right, Ketty,” he snaps, anger on his face. “Enough.”

  He pushes his plate away, drains his coffee cup, and checks his watch.

  “Time to go, Sir?”

  “Time to go.”

  *****

  “So – any progress with catching your recruits?”

  Corporal David Conrad is perched on the front of the desk I’ve been given, outside the conference room, attempting to intimidate me. Posh-shabby-gorgeous with a gloating smile on his face. I try not to roll my eyes.

  Yes, David. I’ve got them right here in my pocket.

  “You mean apart from putting Elizabeth Ellman and Margaret Watson on PIN every night?”

  He smirks, picking up my pen from the desk and playing with it as he talks. “Apart from that.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You don’t think that will work?”

  “I think your recruits are on a jolly holiday in Scotland, and I think you can’t get to them. Plus PIN doesn’t air in Scotland.” He throws the pen in the air and catches it.

  “No,” I say, as patiently as I can, “but they have ways of reaching international audiences. If Bex Ellman and Dan Pearce can get to a PIN feed, they’ll be watching.”

  “The website? That’s hardly the same as watching the news. They get to pick and choose what they look at. You can’t force them to watch anything.”

  Come on, David. Think about it.

  “You think we’d have to force them to watch coverage of their own families? Their friends?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe the OIE is blocking it. Maybe they don’t have access.”

  “And maybe they’re watching every night in case we decide to give one of our prisoners some new bruises.”

  “Maybe.” He puts the pen down. “And I understand using Elizabeth Ellman. Bex must be going crazy, wondering what you’re going to do to her next.”

  I smile. “That’s the point, Corporal. Keep them wondering. Keep them frightened.”

  “But Margaret? What’s she adding to the equation?”

  “School friend of Bex and Dan? Best buddies, right until the RTS recruiters showed up? Come on. Wouldn’t you be watching?”

  He shrugs again. “I guess.”

  You’re underestimating me again.

  I sit back in my chair. “Margaret adds several things. We show Bex and Dan what we can do to them. We don’t let them forget who holds the power here. And we make them think twice before they do anything to act against us.”

  “OK, but you can do that with Elizabeth.”

  “True. But that’s mainly for Bex. What Margaret gives us is Dan.”

  Conrad raises his eyebrows. “How do you figure that?”

  I smile at him, and fold my arms. “Haven’t you watched her interrogation footage?”

  “Yes, but …”

  My smile is growing. “Watch it again. When she’s looking at the wanted posters? Take a look at which poster she’s most interested in.”

  He looks at me for a moment. “So you think – Margaret and Dan?”

  “I do.”

  “So we’ve got Bex’s mother and Dan’s girlfriend?” I nod, grinning. “And we’re putting them both on TV?” He’s smiling now – a gorgeous smile that puts butterflies in my stomach.

  Focus, Ketty. He’s not on your side. Show him what you can do.

  “I think that’s a useful connection. Don’t you?”

  He shrugs, smiling. “Can’t hurt.”

  No, it can’t.

  *****

  “How was it, Sir?”

  Bracken’s hands are shaking as he sits down behind his desk.

  “Fine, Ketty. Fine.” He won’t meet my eyes.

  “Is it what you were expecting?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I can’t discuss it with you, Corporal. You need Top Secret clearance for the committee, and while they have seen fit to give that clearance to me, to the best of my knowledge they have not decided to elevate you to those heights.”

  Watch the sarcasm, Sir. I’m trying to keep us in our jobs.

  “No, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

  “Was there something else?” He looks up at me, his eyes still bloodshot.

  “No, Sir.”

  I’ll leave you to your whisky.

  I leave the room, and head out to find two cups of coffee. When I bring them back, Bracken has his head in his hands. I leave his coffee, and two more painkillers, in the middle of his desk, but he doesn’t respond.

  *****

  I have to take two empty bottles from Bracken’s office this evening. I try not to leave them for the cleaner to find, and while everyone here seems to know that he’s drunk at work, I don’t think they need to know how much he’s drinking.

  My job
depends on Bracken. If I can keep him working, then I can stay in London. If he can’t do his job, I’ll find myself back in the Recruit Training Service, dragging clueless sixteen-year-olds through assault courses and weapons training and cross-country runs.

  I’d rather be here. I’d rather be doing a job that matters.

  And I don’t need to be reminded of Jackson.

  It’s been a month since I lost my friend. Four weeks where I’ve caught myself thinking about what I’ll say to him, when he wakes up. When I’ve reached for the phone to call the hospital. When I’ve pictured him, hooked up to his machines, wrapped in a hospital gown.

  But he won’t wake up. I’ll never see him again.

  There was a funeral, but I didn’t go. Jackson was energy and attitude and mocking and action. He was the opposite of stillness and peace. I couldn’t sit with his family while they said goodbye to him.

  I said goodbye when I left the hospital. The person in the bed – that wasn’t Jackson. Jackson died on the road outside the coach. They kept him breathing for months, but he never came back. Dan Pearce took away his action and his attitude with two bullets, and left him – left me – wounded and broken.

  Bracken and I drank a bottle of whisky and told Jackson stories instead. It was a coward’s way out, but it was better than hymns and flowers.

  And I know where Jackson would have wanted to be.

  Hurt

  BEX

  “You OK?”

  “Hmmm?” Dan looks at me as if he’s only just noticed I’m in the room.

  “Dan. Are you OK?” I sit down on the common room sofa next to him. “How are you doing?”

  I open a packet of brightly coloured sweets and offer it to him. He takes a handful and sits, staring at them in his hand.

  I tuck one leg under me and turn round to face him. “What can we do?”

  He sits, still and quiet, for a long time, then shakes his head. There are tears in his eyes when he speaks. “Nothing, Bex. Nothing. You’ve seen the footage. You’ve seen the reports. They’re going to turn her into an excuse for a show trial. They’re going to accuse her of everything – Leominster, bombings, anything they can think of. And then they’re going to execute her on live TV.” He shrugs. “Nothing. There’s nothing we can do.”

  He stares at his hands.

  “I’m really sorry.” I shake my head. I don’t know what else to say. I know what it was like to see Mum on TV at first. To feel powerless and hurt, as if someone had punched the air out of my lungs. “I’m really sorry.”

  He nods. And I know there’s nothing he can say, either. There’s no way to explain how he feels – how we both feel.

  And now Margie is on trial.

  When the trial begins, they’re going to take our friend out onto a public platform, convict her of anything they feel like pinning on her, and make her execution the TV event of the year.

  I put my hand on Dan’s shoulder.

  He glances at me, a faint smile on his face, then looks down again.

  “I thought we had a future.”

  I take my hand away. “You and Margie?”

  He nods. I put the sweet packet down on the coffee table.

  “Dan – are you and Margie …?”

  He closes his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “At the bunker.” He’s shaking his head, eyes closed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know …”

  “How I’d feel about you and Margie getting together?” He nods again.

  I want to punch him. I want to make him look at me.

  “Are you kidding?”

  A sob shakes his shoulders, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

  How do I feel? I sit still for a moment and try to figure it out. I feel angry, but not because my friends are together. I’m happy for them. The more I think about it, the happier I am. They’ve known each other for ages, and I’ve never had romantic feelings for Dan. He’s always been like a brother to me, and I love him, but not in that way. I think about the argument, the night Margie left school. How the last words they said to each other were shouted and angry.

  And they made up at the bunker. They found each other. They fixed what they’d broken, and they were there for each other when we were all scared and trying to survive.

  I’m not angry that they’re a couple.

  I’m angry that they didn’t tell me. That I get to find out now. Now that Dan’s in so much pain, and he hasn’t shared this with me.

  I punch him, gently, on the shoulder, his pinstriped shirt creasing under my fist.

  “You idiot.” He looks at me, a hurt expression on his face. “You idiot!” I can’t help smiling. “I’m so happy for you!” And I throw my arms round him and press my face into his shoulder. He leans his head against mine, and I can’t tell whether he’s crying or laughing.

  When I sit back, we’re both crying.

  “I’m happy, Dan. And I’m so, so sorry.” I punch his shoulder again. “But next time, tell me! Idiot!”

  He smiles, and nods, tears still flowing.

  “Thanks, Bex,” he whispers. “That’s … that means a lot.”

  I shake my head. “All this time, you’ve been looking after me. You’ve been carrying me through everything. Saunders. Mum. Margie! You were comforting me when I was beating myself up over Margie and Dr Richards!” I look him in the eye. “What were you thinking, Dan? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were hurting, Bex. You were hurting more than any of us, and you needed us to be there for you. You didn’t need this as well.”

  I let out a yell of frustration. He’s right, but I wish he’d told me. I wish he’d trusted me with this.

  “Is there anything else I need to know? Anything else you’ve decided not to tell me?”

  He shakes his head. I watch him for a moment, the tears drying on his face.

  “What changed? What’s different, now? We knew she was a prisoner when we left the bunker.”

  His face crumples, and he sobs again. He closes his eyes, and brings himself back under control.

  “It wasn’t real, before. I could pretend nothing was wrong. We checked the prisoners on TV every night, and she wasn’t one of them, so I could go on pretending. I could go on being strong, and doing my best for the rest of you.”

  “Oh, Dan.” I put my hand on his shoulder again.

  “But then she was on TV. And there was no build-up. They just announced a trial, and we all know what that means. We’ve watched their trials every night on PIN. We know no one walks away from that.”

  I squeeze his shoulder.

  “And now they’re turning her trial into a spectacle. They’re making us watch while they question her and put her on TV and make everyone think she’s done these terrible things.” He turns to me again, and there is desperation on his face. “And there’s nothing I can do, Bex. There’s no way for me to help her. She knows I’m out here, and she knows I’m not helping.”

  “No, no, no. She knows you can’t help. She knows what they’re doing, and she knows that the most you could do would be to join her in the next-door cell.”

  He shrugs. “At least I’d be doing something.”

  “Shut up, Dan. Don’t even think that. You’re out here. You’re free, you’re safe, and you can fight back. That’s what she’d want.” I shake my head. “She wouldn’t want you getting caught as well. What good would that do?”

  He hangs his head. “I know, Bex. I know. But I feel so useless.”

  This time, I poke him.

  “You think I don’t understand that? You think I don’t feel the same way about Mum?”

  He looks up. “Yeah. Sorry, Bex. I know you do.”

  “Dan?” He looks at me. “Can we agree something?”

  “What?”

  “Can we agree that we’re both in this out of our depth?” He nods. “They’ve got us both. They’ve got the people we both care about most in their cells. They can do anything they want, and ther
e is nothing we can do to protect them. It’s horrible, and it’s cruel, and we’re both dealing with it.”

  He looks down. “Yeah. Yeah, we can agree that.”

  “OK. So let’s agree this.” I think about what to say. How to make sure he hears me. “We’re both in pain. We’re both hurting because of Ketty and Bracken and everyone they work for.” He nods. “So let’s agree to talk to each other. Let’s agree to share this. I’ll help you and you can help me. The others will listen, and they’ll support us, but we’re the only ones who really understand.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly.

  “OK.”

  “Any time, Dan. Any time this hurts too much, you tell me. And I’ll tell you. Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He reaches over and clasps my hand. “Thanks, Bex.”

  I grip his hand tightly in mine.

  “We’ve got something they’re not counting on. I’ve got you, and you’ve got me. And we’ve got Amy, and Charlie, and the OIE, and the Scottish Government behind us.” I smile. “I think we’re doing pretty well. They’re hoping to destroy us, and here we are. Looking after each other.”

  He smiles, and nods, and squeezes my hand before he lets go.

  I pick up the sweet packet again, and tip some into my hand. Dan picks one from his hand and examines it before putting it in his mouth.

  He screws up his face. “What are these?”

  I squint at the packet. “I don’t know. I think they’re Dutch. Gail gave them to me.” I tip some into my mouth.

  And I can’t help laughing.

  “They’re awful!”

  “They truly are. Really nasty.” Dan’s face is red, and tear-stained, and he’s laughing with me. “Oh, no. Nope. Not having these.”

  And that’s how Amy finds us. Tear-stained, and laughing, and throwing horrible Dutch sweets at each other on the common room sofa.

  *****

  “They won’t tell me where he is.”

  “Wait – he’s not in his room?”

  Amy shakes her head. She’s sitting on the sofa opposite us, staring at her hands in her lap.

  “Like – they won’t let you in, or he’s not there?”

  “He’s not there. I went down to chat to the guard and see if he’d let me in, but the door was open and the room was empty. I asked my liaison, but she won’t tell me anything. She told me to come back here, and she’d come and tell me more when she could.”