Franks can change her mind. She can take all this away, and I won’t see it coming. Decisions I can’t control will be made in a closed room somewhere, and I’ll find myself on a bus back to Dad, or another dead-end town. No job, no career. Nothing to show for years of hard work.
Or worse. Lee said he could lock me up for the assault on Margaret.
When Conrad comes back, I’m sitting with my head in my hands. He takes the next set of files, and leaves without comment.
Good decision, David. Keep walking.
I think about Conrad, and what he does for Lee. He told me he felt lucky, working for the brigadier. Apart from the pass to Belmarsh, he has higher security clearances than I do. Access to foreign news channels. Interrogation training. Terrorism Committee activities.
And he claimed to have a role on the committee.
What do you do for them, Conrad?
I think about Lee, sending him to earn my trust. To spy on me. To find out about my relationship with Franks.
How much was Conrad supposed to manipulate me? To sidetrack me? How was that night supposed to end?
Are Conrad’s actions dictated by Lee? Everything he does? Everything he says? Is he following orders, even with me?
Is this Brigadier Lee, manipulating me again?
And all the clues Conrad’s dropped, about the committee. About Bracken, not being able to handle the responsibility.
Is he supposed to be leaking information? Is this all part of the plan?
Is that his job?
*****
When he comes back for the last files, I’m waiting for him. I close the door behind him and stand in front of it.
“What’s really going on, David?” He looks at me, his hands on the files in the drawer. “What’s your special job on the Terrorism Committee?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I look at him, and I wait.
He takes his hands out of the drawer and holds them up in front of him. “Really. I don’t know what you mean.”
I take a step towards him and speak very slowly and clearly.
“The other day, David, in the corridor, you said you had a role to play on the Terrorism Committee.” He watches me take another step. “What did you mean? What’s your role?”
He shakes his head again, looking at the floor. “Ketty …”
“Because I think I know what you do for them.”
He looks at me, a spark of fear in his beautiful, distracting eyes.
But I refuse to be distracted.
“I think you’re the one who makes friends with the terrorists.” His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. I take another step forward. “I think you’re the one they use to gain people’s trust. Resistance cells. Rebel groups. I think you’re the eye candy. Someone young and convincing to sweet-talk them into helping the committee.” I watch him for a moment. “Am I close? Ringing any bells?”
His hands are still up in front of him, as if I’m holding a weapon.
“So I started thinking, and there’s something I want to know. Was it you, telling William Richards where to find his convoy?” I raise my voice. “Where to find the coach I was travelling on? Where to find my recruits?” I slam the drawer shut in front of him, and he cowers back.
I’m enjoying this.
This is revenge for all the comments he’s made. All the clues he’s dangled in front of me. All the things he hasn’t explained.
And for the kiss, that felt so real. For distracting me, on Lee’s orders.
“Are you the leak, David? Are you the person who makes the bombings possible? Are you the soldier with the keys to the shiny government equipment?” I shake my head. “I bet they love it when you turn up. When you give them all the best toys. When you tell them which sites will be miraculously unguarded when they want to plant their bombs.” He takes a step back. “They must be very disappointed when the troops turn up to arrest them, afterwards. Do they figure it out? Or do you manage to convince them that they did something wrong. Something to deserve that firing squad?”
He steps back again, and collides with the edge of my desk.
I smile. “I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it? Someone’s handing them military-grade equipment. It might as well be you, right?”
I walk round the desk, and sit down in my chair, leaning back and watching him. He’s still staring at me. I let him stare, waiting for him to respond, but he says nothing.
I lean forward. “Except that it does matter, David. It matters, because my best friend was on that coach. You told William Richards, and all his resistance fighters, where to find us. And Dan, and Bex – they raided the coach. They killed my best friend. And for good measure, Dan put a bullet in my knee. My knee that, after the dancing that had us both sidetracked the other night, hurts as if it’s just been shot.
“I live with that every day, David. With the pain, and without my best friend. And I think that’s your job. Making friends with people, and using them to keep you in power. I think you did this – to William, to Jackson, and to me.”
I sit back. He looks down at the floor, and thinks for a moment. Then he steps round to the front of my desk, and starts clapping, slowly. There’s a sneer on his face as he watches my reaction. He mimes picking up a phone, and keeps his eyes fixed on mine.
“Hi Will. Yeah. It’s me. I’ve got a great prize for you this time. A coachload of recruits and all their armour and guns. Oh, yes – there will be staff on board, but don’t worry. They won’t be armed. Easy target. I’ll send you the schedule.” And he mimes putting the phone down, a cold smile on his face.
I feel as if my breath is freezing in my lungs. I feel as if I’m falling. I can see Dan, on the coach, raising his gun. I can see Jackson, the machines keeping him alive.
Conrad killed Jackson. Conrad put the bullet in my knee.
“Get out, David.” I say, clenching my fists.
He takes the last of the files from the drawer, and walks out, still smiling.
Choices
BEX
Fiona’s given us a couple of days to think about the bombing. The next meeting is in four hours, and I haven’t slept.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I’m on the committee, and that makes me responsible for any decision the committee makes. If we give permission for the shopping centre bombing, we’ll have blood on our hands – but we get to stay out of sight. We get to keep our secret, and the government won’t find out what we know. But people will die, because of us.
If we ask them to change the target, we’ll still have blood on our hands. Other people will die, or the bombers will fail, and they’ll get caught. Without the inside information – CCTV switched off, guards on a break when they’re placing the bombs – they’re less likely to succeed, and more likely to be arrested. And the government will suspect that we’re involved. They won’t offer any more weapons to resistance groups. We’ll lose our ability to organise a trigger attack for the coalition.
If we tell the resistance cell to do nothing, the government will suspect that we know what’s going on. No casualties, but no trigger attack either.
And how many lives could we save in London if we have a coalition behind us? If we can march in before they execute Margie? If we do nothing, more prisoners will die.
I shake my head. I can’t base my decision on whether or not we can save my friend.
I want to. I want to move everything to make sure Margie is free. Margie, and Mum, and Dr Richards.
But that’s not why I’m on the committee. I can’t be childish about this. I need to think about what’s best for everyone.
My thoughts circle back to the options on the table, and I can’t see another path to follow. Accept the target, change the target, or do nothing. Blood on our hands, whatever we choose.
This is it. This is how it feels to fight back.
And it’s worse, because I’m not putting myself at
risk. I’m not doing anything brave, or stupid. I’m safe, here in Edinburgh. These bombs – these horrible, violent weapons – won’t touch me. But if we choose to accept the target, they’ll kill innocent people. People out shopping. Families. Children.
If we change the target – who knows who we’ll kill? Innocent people, probably. Families. Children.
But if we do nothing, the government gets to carry on arresting and torturing and executing people. People who were trying to do the right thing. And we lose our ability to help.
I curl up and pull the covers over my head.
Accept, change, or walk away.
Do as we’re told, do what we want, or do nothing.
I’m killing people, whatever I decide.
I asked for my place on the committee. I don’t want this responsibility, but I don’t want to walk away. This is my chance to make a difference.
And this is what it takes to run a resistance movement.
I feel sick. I feel dizzy. I don’t know which option to choose.
*****
“Have you all taken the time to think about this?” Fiona looks round the table. “Have you had the chance to come to a conclusion?”
The people round the table nod, most of them looking down at their notes.
“Miss Ellman?”
“I’ve thought about it.” I run a hand over my hair and stifle a yawn. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”
“And?”
My head aches. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open.
I think for a moment, and shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Fiona nods. “Thank you, Bex. It’s OK to sit this one out, if you’re not ready. I know it’s a big decision.”
“No.” I surprise myself with my answer. “No – I want to take part.”
She gives me an approving look. “OK. I’ll come back to you. Give you a chance to make up your mind.”
I nod, and try to hide another yawn.
Fiona works her way round the table. The committee members give their decisions and their reasons. After two or three people have spoken, it becomes clear what the decision will be.
And I realise it’s the choice I wanted to make.
They want to change the target. They want to do something to hurt the government. They want a trigger attack.
This is too good an opportunity to miss. We have the weapons, and we have the people willing to plant them. If we change the target to something more dramatic, more shocking, we can give the coalition armies the excuse they need to help us.
I hate this. I hate that whatever we do, we have blood on our hands. But this way, that counts for something. If we can make this work – if our bombers can make this work – we open the way for an invasion. For the liberation of the UK.
For breaking Mum and Margie out of their cells.
I close my eyes. I have to know, I have to be certain, that what I am about to say is for everyone – not just for Mum and Margie. I have to be sure that I’m not letting them make my decision for me. I listen to the next committee member, and the next, speak up in favour of changing the target.
I think about the RTS recruiters. I think about being marched from school to Camp Bishop. About not having a choice. About running and guns and armour. About Ketty and Jackson, and their violent discipline. About what I saw in Leominster.
I’m gripping the edge of the table and trying to clear my head when Fiona calls my name.
All I can see is the pink teddy bear, lying on the grass verge. The shoe, the handbag, the raincoat, the glove. The things people dropped as they tried to run from the government weapons. Ordinary people, on an ordinary day, in an ordinary town.
My throat is tight, and my pulse is hammering. I can’t believe I’m going to vote for another attack. That I’m going to vote for more civilians to die.
But the alternative could be another Leominster. And more arrests, more trials, more firing squads.
The alternative is standing by and watching as the Home Forces stay in power by any means necessary.
The alternative is letting them execute Mum and Margie.
I force myself to look at Fiona. Everyone is watching me. I don’t loosen my grip on the edge of the table.
I sit up straight in my chair, and hold my head high. My voice is strong and clear in the quiet room.
“I vote that we change the target. I vote that we give the coalition a trigger attack. Something to make them march with us to London. I vote that we end this, as soon as we can.”
*****
The committee decision is unanimous. We’ve all voted to find a new target.
And it’s a relief, making a decision as part of a group. I’ve voted to kill people, and that horrifies me, but it wasn’t my decision alone. Twelve other people supported me. Twelve other people came to the same conclusion, and twelve other people share the blame.
But I walk out of the room with a weight on my shoulders and an ache in my chest. I feel as if I’ve picked up a heavy bag that I can’t put down.
I’m doing this for Mum. I’m doing this for Margie. I’m doing this for Will, and Dr Richards, and Neesh’s workers from the shop.
I’m doing this for Saunders.
But that doesn’t stop my hands shaking and my eyes filling with tears as I walk away.
Responsibility
KETTY
I’m staring at the ceiling. I’ve been awake all night, thinking this through.
Conrad did this. Conrad did this to me, and he did it to Jackson. Without him, I’d be fit, and I wouldn’t be surviving on painkillers. Without him, Jackson would be alive.
The anger feels like an explosion.
Like lightning.
Conrad killed my best friend. Conrad, and Lee, and Dan, and William Richards.
And Bracken, who sent us out on the coach as bait.
And here I am, helping them all. Helping them send other people into danger. Helping them plant more bombs and stage more attacks.
I miss Jackson, every day. Every day I’m looking for answers.
I’m looking for revenge.
Big, ugly sobs shake my shoulders as I curl up, my arms round my knees.
Jackson is gone because of Conrad. But when Conrad kissed me? I can still feel the lightning on my skin. The electric charge between us.
I’m sorry, Jackson. I’m sorry.
It hurts, knowing what Conrad did. And it hurts, losing Jackson. Just like it hurts, knowing that Mum chose to leave, and Dad chose to drink.
I never let myself think like this. It’s too hard. Mum leaving, before I can remember. Dad, drinking himself through the years, barely noticing what happened to me. I didn’t matter – to Mum, or to Dad. All my life, I’ve been left behind by the people who were supposed to care about me.
But not Jackson.
Jackson came back, after I knocked him down in the corridor. I tried to teach him some respect, and he chose to respect me. He decided to be my friend, and he decided to stick by me.
No one else has ever done that.
No one.
Come on, Ketty. Figure out what you’re doing here.
Bracken needs me. Bracken relies on me, and he trusts me, but he doesn’t stand by me. I think about Lee’s face as he listed my failures, and took Margaret’s trial away from me. I think about Bracken, staring at his desk, silently letting it happen.
And I think about Jackson, sitting next to me on the coach. Watching the fields as I took a gun from the luggage hold. Having my back when I needed it. Defending the recruits.
Defending me.
Understanding me.
I realise something I couldn’t see at Camp Bishop. Not when he was with me, reading my mind and keeping the recruits in line.
Jackson was my family.
I’m sorry, Jackson. Did you know?
Did you feel the same?
My pillow is soaked with tears, and my throat is sore. I can’t stop. I haven’t cried like this for as long as I can remembe
r, and it’s as if everything that’s happened to me is exploding in my chest. Forcing me to feel. Forcing me to react.
The hurt, and the pain, is everywhere. I can’t tell where the pain from my knee begins, and the pain of losing Jackson, of losing Mum, of looking after Dad, ends.
I’m crying, and I don’t know how to stop.
I think about Conrad, making his call to William. Promising him guns and bullets and armour. Promising him an easy raid on an unarmed coach. Promising my compliance, and Jackson’s.
I think about Bracken, giving Jackson the gun. Arming us against the orders from HQ. Giving us a chance. Giving Jackson the task of defending the coach, and putting him in the path of Dan’s bullets.
Jackson in fatigues, armed with Bracken’s handgun, facing Dan in his armour, rifle loaded. I close my eyes. I didn’t see what happened in the road. I can only imagine what happened to Jackson.
What I saw was the look on the face of the recruit I sent to check on my friend.
“He’s breathing, and the driver says he’s got a pulse, but he says it’s bad.”
And Jackson in his hospital bed, tubes and wires keeping him alive.
But it wasn’t enough.
I throw my hands over my face, choking on my tears.
Jackson’s gone. Conrad took him from me.
Conrad is to blame.
And I won’t forget this.
*****
I force myself to sit up. My tears have dried, and the skin on my face feels raw and tight. I’ve been crying for hours, and I feel …
… what do I feel?
Hollow. Burnt out. Empty.
I feel closer to Jackson. I feel as if I finally understand who he was to me. What his loud, bickering friendship really meant.
And I feel as if I’m leaving Mum and Dad behind. The pain I’m feeling – of losing Mum, and living with Dad – that surprised me. I thought I was done with it. But I’m facing it, and I won’t let them hurt me any more. They can’t touch me now.
Fighting Back (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 4) Page 17
