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

by Rachel Churcher

  “Good afternoon, Elizabeth.” I give her a broad smile. “How are you today?”

  She looks at me, and the steel is back behind her eyes.

  “I’ve been better, Corporal. How are you?”

  “I’m well.” I take a moment to look her over. “Perhaps the carers here aren’t up to your usual high standards?”

  She laughs. “Corporal. I’ve told you before. My carers are 200 miles away. These people?” She points at the door with her uninjured arm. “These people are prison guards. They don’t know how to push a wheelchair safely, and they certainly don’t care.”

  But they do know how to follow instructions.

  “Well. I wish you a speedy recovery. That looks nasty.” I point at the side of my face, and at hers.

  She sits up straight. “What are you here for, Corporal? Perhaps we can get on with it?”

  I watch her for a moment. She’s clearly uncomfortable. The handcuff is tight around her plaster cast, and the side of her face is swollen.

  And this is all on film. Take a good look, Conrad. Give Bex a chance to see what’s happening to her mother.

  I open the folder on the table in front of me.

  “Certainly, Elizabeth. Perhaps you’d like to answer some of the questions I asked yesterday?”

  “About my daughter and her violent tendencies?”

  I nod. “If you have anything you’d like to tell me.”

  She leans towards me. “Corporal. Nothing has changed since yesterday. I fell out of my wheelchair. So what? I’m not going to start telling you my daughter’s secrets.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “So there are secrets to tell? Things you’d rather we didn’t have on record?”

  “Of course there are. But nothing you’ll find useful.”

  “How about you tell me some secrets, and I decide whether they are useful?”

  She smiles, sitting straighter in her wheelchair, and thinks for a moment. “OK. How about her favourite food? Or her favourite colour? Her favourite T-shirt, when she was six?”

  “I’m sure a psychologist could tell us a lot about Bex with information like that.”

  She waits, watching me, then shrugs.

  “Fish and chips, from the shop down the road. Green, but a very particular shade of green. And a T-shirt with a sailing boat on the front.” She sits up straight. “Satisfied? Or were you hoping for something more violent?

  “What else have you got?”

  “Favourite toy? A doctor’s kit.” She nods, and continues. “Favourite music? Anything she could dance to, with her Dad. Favourite treat? Ice cream – the kind you get from a van. How’s this for your terrorist profile?”

  I nod, considering the things she’s said. “This is all very interesting, but what about her behaviour? What about the early signs of Bex, the terrorist?”

  She looks at me for a long moment, a faint smile on her face.

  “There was a day – she hadn’t been at school for long, so maybe five or six years old? Another girl fell in the playground. Broke her arm, I think.” She twists her cast in the handcuff to illustrate her story. “Well, breaktime ended, and all the other children went back to class, but Bex stayed outside with her friend. No one noticed they were missing – not for ages. When a teacher finally came out to find them, she was sitting on the floor with the other girl’s head on her knee, stroking her hair and telling her she was going to be alright.”

  I can’t help smirking. That’s the Bex I know from Camp Bishop. The girl who helped the losers over the assault course. Who helped her injured friend back from the run, and sat outside with him in the rain until Bracken let them in.

  She leans forward again. “That’s my daughter. That’s who we’re talking about here. She takes care of people and she stands up for them. If you think that’s the profile of a terrorist, then I think that says more about you, and this place, than it does about her.”

  I shrug. “And yet, that’s who she’s mixing with, Elizabeth. Terrorists and fighters. That’s who she’s helping.”

  “I think she’s helping her friends. I think she’s standing up for them. And it might be dangerous, and she might not be on your side, but I think she’s doing what’s right.”

  Aiding and abetting. Confirming that Bex is fighting against the government. I have my soundbite for PIN.

  I smile. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I think that’s everything I needed.”

  *****

  I catch Bracken between phone calls.

  “Any news, Sir?”

  He shakes his head. “We’re still working on it, Ketty. Have some patience.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Did you get your footage for PIN?”

  I smile. “Yes, Sir. I think Bex will get the message.” He nods. “And Sir – if you want to put some pressure on the Scottish government? What about telling PIN that Bex and her friends are the ones behind the bombings?”

  “Aren’t we already blaming them for some of the attacks?”

  “Blame them for all of them, Sir. Set them up as the masterminds behind the terrorist network.”

  He looks confused. “What would that do for us?”

  “Nothing. But it would put the Scottish government in an impossible position. They’re harbouring known terrorists – and terrorists who are still coordinating attacks.”

  “… which might make them more likely to send Jake back. And maybe the others as well.”

  I nod. “Maybe. It certainly makes it harder for them to protect the OIE. They start to look like terrorists themselves.”

  “I’ll think about it, Ketty. I’ll give it some thought.”

  Idea

  BEX

  I can’t be out of options. There has to be a way to help Jake.

  We watch the evening bulletins from PIN, Gail overseeing the use of the laptop. More footage of Mum and Ketty, more footage of Margie. It’s footage from interviews we’ve seen before, and no one says anything unexpected, or incriminating. Not that it matters.

  I’m trying to save Mum. I’m trying to save Margie, and I’m trying to save Jake, but nothing I do makes a difference.

  In my room, I pull on pyjamas and get into bed, but I can’t sleep. There has to be a way to save Jake. He’s still here, in Edinburgh. He’s safe for now – all we have to do is figure out how to keep him that way.

  I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, the faint glow of a security light filtering through my curtains. I think of Jake, in his police cell. Mum, in her cell in London. And I wonder whether they’re sleeping now.

  I think about the rest of us, safe inside the OIE compound. We have a home, we have food, we have people looking out for us and helping us. We’re not being interrogated, or put on TV. We’re valuable, and we’re protected. But we have to follow the rules. One step over the line, and we lose all of this.

  I could find myself in a cell like Jake.

  Like Mum.

  It seems so fragile, this safety. As if one mistake could take it away.

  And then there’s Neesh, and her army. Enough people to make a difference. People who could fight back, who could rescue Mum and Margie and Dr Richards. Who could stop the government committing atrocities and blaming them on us.

  An army we can’t join.

  My thoughts are running in circles. Save Jake. Join Neesh. Help Mum. And every thought comes back to the fact that my hands are tied. I’m a guest here in Scotland, and if I take a stand – if I push to free Jake, or try to get to the Netherlands – they can take all this away.

  I sit up, and punch my pillow in frustration.

  I reach over and switch on the light next to my bed. There has to be a solution. There has to be a way to help.

  I get out of bed, and sit down at my desk. Saunders’ drawing of the five of us is pinned to the board in front of me, and I take it down and lay it on the desk. I stare at it, my head in my hands.

  Five of us, in armour, training at Camp Bishop. Between us, we broke out of Camp. We saved Margie. W
e joined the rebels at the bunker and we rescued Jake and Amy. And when they came for us, we were ready. We couldn’t save Saunders, but we got ourselves away. We crossed the country together, on foot, with nowhere to go.

  I trace Saunders’ face with the tips of my fingers. His self portrait is all I have left of him – of the person who saved our lives, and gave up his own to be our guard.

  I can’t lose anyone else.

  The portrait of Jake makes me smile. Saunders drew his hair, flopping over his face, a slight smile half-hidden behind. It’s such a Jake pose. Even after everything he’s done, and everything he’s said about me, I can’t leave him to be deported. He’s right to be angry. He’s made some stupid decisions, but his pain and his anger are real. And it’s not fair to punish him for them.

  Jake. Neesh. Mum. There has to be an answer.

  I think it through again.

  *****

  “Why can’t we send Jake?”

  Gail looks up at me, a spoonful of cereal in her hand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the Netherlands.”

  She raises her eyebrows and puts the spoon down in her bowl. The other Liaison Officers are sitting with Gail, watching me.

  “What are you talking about, Bex?”

  I gesture with my hands in frustration, trying to make her see. “The Scottish government doesn’t want Jake. They want to send him away. He doesn’t have asylum here any more.”

  I know I’m being rude, interrupting her breakfast, but she needs to understand.

  She nods. “Right, but …”

  “So why not send him to the Netherlands? He can claim asylum there, and he can join their army.”

  “I’m not sure that would work …”

  “Why not? It lets Scotland send him away – he gets punished for the stupid things he did – but they don’t have to send him home. They don’t want that on their hands, do they?”

  “Well, no …”

  “So why not? Give him another chance. Get him somewhere safe. And help them build their army.”

  Jake’s liaison puts his coffee down on the table. “Jake didn’t want to fight. You can’t assume he’ll want to join this army.”

  I give him a cold look. “When the alternative is an orange jumpsuit and fame on PIN? Give him a chance. Let him know that’s the choice he needs to make.”

  The liaisons look at each other. I realise I’m holding my breath.

  “At least give him the choice. Talk to the government. Talk to the Dutch government. See if it’s possible?”

  Gail thinks for a moment, and shrugs, looking round the table. “It’s worth a shot.” She looks up at me again. “Thank you, Bex. We’ll see what we can do.”

  *****

  “Did you get any sleep, Bex?” Dan sounds concerned.

  I shake my head, hugging my coffee mug in my hands.

  Amy looks over at the liaisons, deep in conversation at their table. “Did they like your idea?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. I think so.”

  Now that I’ve pitched it to them, my sleepless night is catching up with me. I’ve been running on adrenaline, but now I’ve done what I needed to do. I need coffee, and I need breakfast.

  Charlie comes back from the serving window with a plate of toast and jam. She puts it down in front of me.

  “Eat up. You’ve got driving training this morning, and we don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel.”

  I give her a grateful glance. “Thanks, Charlie.”

  She nods. “I hope it’s worth it. I hope they can help Jake.”

  *****

  The coffee and toast keep me awake through the driving lesson. We drive the OIE pool cars round the car park in the compound, and I’m starting to get the hang of it. They’ve brought in a proper driving instructor, and she’s started from the beginning with me. She’s patient, and she explains things clearly – and I have time to learn at my own pace. I’m not learning to drive myself to safety, or rescue my friends. This time I’m learning so I can move on to armoured cars and troop carriers. This isn’t an emergency – it’s a skill I can take my time to perfect.

  By lunchtime, I’m falling asleep. I sit at the table and rest my head on my arm while Dan fetches sandwiches for us both. He has to wake me when he gets back.

  He holds out two plates. “Disappointing chicken, or disappointing cheese?”

  “Cheese, I guess?”

  Dan puts a plate down in front of me and sits down in the seat opposite. I unwrap my sandwiches, yawning.

  “Is it so hard to put some lettuce in with the chicken? Some tomato? Mayonnaise instead of cheap margarine?” Dan is poking his sandwiches, lifting the bread to peer inside. I can’t help laughing.

  “You should give them a masterclass. Go into the kitchen in your rolled-up sleeves, and show them how it’s done.”

  Dan grins. “Roll up, roll up. Learn how to make a proper sandwich! Nourish your stomach and your soul! Use a variety of fillings! Use your imagination!”

  I take a bite of the sandwich. He’s right – it’s disappointing.

  “I miss peanut butter and banana,” I say, round a mouthful of cheese.

  Dan nods. “And breakfast sandwiches. Why can’t they do breakfast sandwiches here?”

  “Breakfast is better in a sandwich.”

  He gives me a proud look. “I knew I’d convert you, one day. The magic of the sandwich is a mystery to which few are called.”

  I hold up my limp lunch. “Evidently.”

  My eyes are closing. I’m so close to falling asleep, sitting at the table, but this is wonderful. Talking to Dan about nothing – about things that don’t matter. We’re not trying to save the world, for a moment. We’re not protecting anyone, or training, or worrying about things we can’t control. It’s like being back at school.

  And although I have safety and protection and security here, something is missing. I wish Margie was here, to share this with us.

  *****

  I spend the afternoon sleeping through a strategy lesson. Dan assures the tutor that he’ll fill me in later, and they let me sleep, my head resting on my arm on the table.

  After dinner, Gail brings the laptop to the common room, as usual. We scroll through the PIN headlines, searching for announcements and news. There’s been another bombing in Manchester, and one in Dover, at the port. PIN is quick to blame us, and our contacts. The new story is that we’re running the bombings from Scotland, coordinating the terrorist plot.

  I should be angry, but all I feel is exhaustion.

  Charlie frowns as our wanted posters fill the screen. “That’s very convenient for them. Don’t they have anyone local to blame?”

  Gail shakes her head. “We’re not sure. We don’t know who’s running the bombings. Someone must be providing the explosives and the technology they need, but we don’t know who they are.” She looks around at the four of us, huddled around the laptop. “I guess it’s easier to blame you lot.”

  Amy nods. “More evidence they can use against us.”

  There’s another clip of an interview with Mum, and Gail opens the report.

  It’s a new interview. I sit up in my seat and take a breath. Mum has bruises all down the side of her face – black and blue stains, from her hairline to her chin. The sleeve of her jumpsuit is rolled up, and there’s a plaster cast underneath.

  The room tips around me. I grip the sides of my chair.

  Mum’s been hurt.

  Her arm is broken. Ketty or Bracken or someone has broken her arm. They’ve attacked her and they’ve hurt her. And we’re doing nothing to stop them. Someone puts a hand on my elbow, but it’s not comforting. It’s one of my friends, trying to control my response.

  I’m exhausted, I’m frustrated, and I’m angry. I need to shout. I need to lash out. I need someone to understand how I feel. I’m tired of being strong for everyone else.

  I’m on my feet, and I’m shouting at Gail. I can feel the others pulling me back, gripp
ing my shoulders and my arms. Someone’s arm is round my waist. They’re pulling me into a chair, trying to make me sit down and give up, but I fight back. I’m shouting at my friends, pushing against them. Throwing their hands off me.

  I’m angry with Ketty, and I’m angry with the OIE. I will not sit down. I will not let Gail turn away from this.

  I struggle out of their grip, their fingers releasing, but their hands are still on my shoulders, gently keeping me back. Anger is boiling in my chest and I feel as if my skin is on fire.

  I want to hurt Gail. I want to make her understand.

  “How dare you stand by and do nothing while this is happening?” I point at the laptop, at the frozen image of Mum. At her bruises. “How dare you sit here, all safe and protected, while that is happening to my mother?”

  Gail looks shocked. She takes a step back, watching me. She holds out her hands in a shrug.

  “What do you want us to do, Bex?” She points at the screen. “Your mother’s in London. We’re in Edinburgh. We’re planning to fight back, but we’re not ready. What can we possibly …?”

  “Get ready! Be ready! Stop sitting here, enjoying your safety, and start fighting!”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not that simple, Bex.”

  “Of course it’s that simple!”

  “Bex …” Dan’s whispering in my ear, trying to calm me down. I twist away from him.

  They’re hurting Mum. They’re hurting Margie. And they’re getting away with it. We’re letting them get away with it. We’re living in our OIE rooms, eating the OIE’s food and taking their training, and congratulating ourselves on getting to safety. We’re too comfortable, here. We’ve forgotten to fight.

  I want to fight. I need to fight. There are people in London relying on us to save them, and we’re letting them down.

  But there is another option. I don’t have to stay here.

  I point a finger at Gail. “When you talk to the government about Jake? When you talk about sending him to the Netherlands? Please inform them, officially, that I’m asking to go, too.” I push Charlie’s hand from my shoulder, and take a step towards Gail, my hands balling into fists. “I am sick of waiting. I am sick of watching Ketty torture my mother. I’m sick of the government turning my friend’s trial into a circus.”