The room is filled with cheering. People are banging cutlery on the tables, and stamping their feet. Amy nudges me again, and when I look up, Dan is staring at me. He’s not cheering. He reaches out and takes my hand, but I pull it away.
I never wanted this. I never wanted to be the Face of the Resistance. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop being the person who inspires bombers and soldiers and fighters. I can’t stop being the person who sends ordinary people to do extraordinary, terrible things.
The plan worked. The bombing got us our coalition. We killed innocent people, and now we get what we wanted.
We get to march on London.
But it’s my face on their video. My face on their posters.
It’s my voice, telling them to have courage and determination. My voice telling them they have our support.
I make it outside before I throw up, kneeling on the cold concrete and gasping for breath. My chest feels tight, as if someone’s squeezing my rib cage, and every breath burns in my throat.
The door opens behind me, and Charlie’s there, crouching next to me, her hand on my shoulder.
“Bex?” She rubs my back, and holds my hair when I vomit again.
“Thanks.” My voice is a croak, and my face is wet.
She kneels with me, her arm round my shoulder.
“It’s not your fault, Bex. You didn’t plant the bombs.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. That’s not you. That’s not who you are.”
“But I’m helping them. I’m the public face of their movement. People signed up for this because of me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. And not just these bombers, but other people. People who’ve planted other bombs. People who think they’re the good guys. And now they want me to inspire more people. They want me to inspire armies.”
“I know how much you hate being their front-line doll, Bex. You didn’t ask for this.”
I can feel my anger growing. “I didn’t ask for any of this!” I turn to look at Charlie, and I’m shouting at her. “I didn’t ask for Camp Bishop. I didn’t ask for Makepeace. I didn’t ask for Newcastle, or Edinburgh. I didn’t ask to have my photo plastered everywhere, and I didn’t ask to be the symbol of this army, or this atrocity.” I shake my head, and take a deep breath. “Everything I’ve done was because of their atrocity. Everything I’ve done started with Leominster. That’s where I made my stand, and that’s where all this started.” I’m sobbing as I reach out my hands. “How did we get here? How did we become the bad guys?”
She pulls me into a hug, and holds me as sobs shake my shoulders.
And she doesn’t have anything to say.
London
KETTY
I’m working for the bad guys.
There’s no way to pretend, any more.
I’m not chasing my recruits – they’re out of reach. I can make trouble for them on PIN, but I can’t bring them home. I’m not running Margie’s trial. I’ve got nothing else to keep me busy. All I’m here to do is keep Bracken in his job.
I don’t want to go back to my flat. I can’t spend another night dreaming of fire and rubble. After work, I walk to Trafalgar Square. Past the cordon of soldiers. Past the incident tents and Home Forces vehicles.
And I keep walking.
I walk for hours, through Covent Garden and Leicester Square. Past crowded bars and restaurants. There are people on the streets, living their ordinary lives. Being brave, in the face of the attack. No one knows how to treat me, in my uniform. Some people thank me. Some people give mock salutes, or hold up their hands as if I might shoot them. Most people ignore me – there are enough soldiers patrolling the streets tonight that the uniform makes me invisible.
I look around at the lives I’m trying to protect.
I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t ask to be the bad guy. I saw a chance to get away from home, away from Dad, and I took it. I kept myself going. I pushed myself, and I earned my promotions. I earned my place in London. I didn’t let myself give up – not when Dan put a bullet in my knee, not when Bracken joined the Terrorism Committee, and not when I lost Jackson.
I’m good at what I do. I know how to deal with terrorists. I know how to intimidate people and how to push them to their limits. I know how to use their weaknesses against them.
I thought I was using my skills to protect people. To defend my country.
But now I know. Now I’m sure. The Terrorism Committee is recruiting resistance cells, and giving them the weapons they need to attack civilian targets.
The committee is running the bombings, and Bracken is here to rubber-stamp their decisions. To add his name to their documents. To take responsibility.
And my job depends on his.
I’m here to prop up their false-flag campaign. It’s not enough that they’ve already used me in Leominster. Used me and Jackson and our recruits to trap William Richards, and his daughter. Framed them, and forced them to give up their contacts.
I could have been killed, yesterday, by bombs that Conrad handed out to the resistance.
And my job is to make sure this continues.
The resistance has figured out what we’re doing, and this time, they fought back. They took our weapons, but they pointed them back at us.
This isn’t safe any more, and I can’t ignore it. Things are going to get worse.
Can you keep Bracken working? Can you keep the bombings coming?
Can you be the bad guy, Ketty?
*****
I walk through Soho, watching the civilians crowding the streets and bars. I signed up to fight, and I signed up to protect these people. I came here to work for the Home Forces. To break the resistance. To bring terrorists to justice.
I didn’t sign up to plant bombs.
The thought makes me stumble. A man in a football shirt grabs my elbow and stops me from falling.
“OK, Love?”
“Fine, thanks.” I give him a brief smile and keep walking.
There’s a sick feeling in my stomach.
I didn’t sign up for this.
And a new thought occurs to me.
I could leave. I could empty my bank account, and run.
I shake my head. I’d lose everything I’ve worked for. They’d lock me up.
They’d execute me.
I push through crowds in Piccadilly Circus and walk down to St James’s Park.
I want to drink. I want to join these people, enjoying their night out, defying the bombers. I want to get drunk, and dance on tables, and forget what’s happened, but I know that won’t help. It won’t change anything.
If I drink this away, I’m as weak as Bracken. I’m as weak as Dad.
And I’m handing more power to Franks and Lee.
I keep walking.
How do I feel about this? About supporting Bracken and Lee and Conrad?
Is it so important to keep my job, at any cost?
And what are the consequences? Will they let me walk away, knowing what I know? Or am I stuck here, bombing my own country to keep my commanders in power?
This isn’t about right and wrong, Ketty. This is about using your skills to survive.
I know how to survive. I know how to work hard, and be the best. Earn promotions. Show people what I can do.
And if that means faking terrorist attacks and targeting civilians?
Bad situations don’t have to end badly. Make this work for you.
But how? Are we safe any more? Or are the terrorists organising against us?
And something else I hadn’t thought about jumps into my head.
How would it feel to be on the losing side?
How would it feel to be on the other side of the table in the interrogation room? To stand between the men in black jumpsuits?
The sick feeling is back in my stomach.
For the first time, I feel vulnerable. Unprotected. Bracken said there would be more bo
mbings. That things would get worse before they get better.
We’re targets now. All of us. Now that the resistance has turned our weapons against us.
I’m trapped again, and I can’t see a way out.
Stand in the line of fire for the bad guys, or risk everything to get away.
I didn’t sign up for any of this. I signed up to be a soldier, and today that makes me a target.
I’m suddenly aware of my uniform. Of standing alone on the street in the dark. Every face could be a bomber. Every person who walks past me could be working for the resistance. I put my hand to my belt, and feel the reassuring shape of the gun in my holster.
At midnight, I find myself on Westminster Bridge, watching the twisted metal of the London Eye under the rescuers’ spotlights. My knee aches, and my mind flashes back to the explosions. To the people, caught in the flames. To my nightmares. I look across to the Jubilee Gardens, and beyond, to the place where I stood with Conrad.
At midnight. Next to the river.
I can feel his fingers in my hair, his hand on my neck.
My skin crawls.
I stand in the middle of the bridge, looking down into the water. I’m alone again, in this overwhelming city. Bracken needs me, but he can’t protect me. I can’t trust Conrad. Lee and Franks could lock me up or send me home – or keep me here, supporting their attacks.
And I’m not sure which would be worse.
I miss you, Jackson. I need you. Mock me and challenge me, and tell me I can do this.
But Jackson’s gone. I can’t see a way out.
I lean over the parapet, pushing away thoughts of the bombing. Pushing away visions of falling as the pavement breaks up around my feet.
And for a moment, I think I could jump.
I could jump, and fall, and let the river carry me away. I could surrender to the nightmares.
And if I leave? If I jump? I realise the truth, and it feels like a kick to my stomach.
Leaving? Giving up?
That would make me as bad as Mum.
*****
My knee buckles, and I catch my weight on the stonework at the edge of the bridge. I feel winded, and I’m struggling to breathe.
You’re better than that, Ketty. You’re better than Mum, and Dad, and Bracken.
You’re strong.
Discipline. Determination. Backbone. That’s what’s got you this far. That’s what’s going to keep you going.
This is a bad situation. But there is a way out.
Find it.
Push on through. Do what they ask of you.
And keep your eyes open.
Ready
BEX
Can I do this? Can I march on London, knowing that it was my face, and my message, that inspired the South Bank bomb?
I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to get to Mum, and Margie. I’m trying to fight back.
But I didn’t sign up to kill innocent people. I didn’t sign up to plant bombs.
I didn’t sign up to be the Face of the Resistance.
I make myself get out of bed and get dressed. I’ve been lying here all day, and I refuse to stay here, feeling sorry for myself.
I put on my boots, and drag my winter coat out of the wardrobe. I’m not supposed to walk around outside, and I can’t leave the compound, but I need to go somewhere. I need to see the sky.
Outside, it’s cold, and the wind burns my skin. I pull my hood up, tugging it forwards over my face. I push my hands into my coat pockets, and start walking.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I’m the bargaining chip that makes the liberation possible. Me, and the South Bank bomb.
I thought I was OK with this. Talking to Dan, he made me feel as if I’m doing the right thing.
But they’ve turned me into a story. After we told Caroline that we wouldn’t let the OIE take our stories, they’ve taken mine, and they’ve used it to inspire violence and killing and destruction.
Dan’s right. It doesn’t feel real, until it’s real. After yesterday, after watching the ruins of the South Bank on TV, this is too real. This is not who I want to be.
Somehow, in all this – in fighting for freedom and resisting the violence – somehow, we’ve turned into the bad guys. We’ve become the people who use government weapons on innocent civilians. We’ve become the terrorists they made us out to be.
And now they want me to be the inspiration for twenty armies.
I’m the Face of the Resistance, and the fighters planted their bombs in my name. Innocent people are dead, because of my face on a poster. My voice on a video. My suggestion, to plant the bombs in London.
I can’t forget the pictures from the news. The London Eye, falling, caught on CCTV. The buildings – walls and roofs collapsing and falling.
The people, trapped in the rubble.
I shake my head and push the tears from my face. This is not what I asked for. This is not what I want.
And yet …
And yet we’re going to London. Twenty countries have lined up behind us – behind me – to march on the UK.
To rescue Mum, and Margie, and everyone else sitting in their cells.
And the people who died yesterday? Just a few more names on the list of people I’ve lost.
I stumble, and I’m on my knees in the car park.
I don’t know their names. I don’t know who they were.
They’re dead, because of me, and I don’t even know their names.
I wrap my arms round myself and I curl up. I want to stay here. I want to disappear. I want the cold to take me away.
But I can’t give up now.
I think of Mum, and Margie. Sitting in their cells, waiting for us. Waiting for rescue. And I know I have to keep going.
I put my hands down on the cold ground and push myself up. I push myself to my feet, and I start walking again.
I have to keep going. I have to lead the armies to London.
I have to believe we can win.
There are footsteps, behind me on the tarmac. I keep walking.
Someone’s shouting, behind me. I walk faster.
There’s a hand on my shoulder, and when I look round, there’s Dan.
“Where are we going, Bex?”
I can’t help smiling. I reach out, and take his hand.
And then Charlie’s here, walking with me. And Amy, and Maz.
I stop. We’re nearly at the gate. The guard watches me, his hand on his gun.
I’ve walked as far as I can.
I step forward and put my hand out, grasping the wire mesh of the gate, my knuckles turning white. My knees give way, and I sink to the ground, turning to lean back against the barrier. I draw my knees up in front of me, and wrap my arms round my legs.
Everything is wrong. Everything hurts and everything is twisted. I’m the rallying cry for bomb-makers and terrorists. I’m the inspiration that makes people want to fight. I’m the figurehead and the front-line doll.
And I’m the reason we’re going to London.
Charlie kneels down next to me, and puts her hand on my knee. I rest my head in my hands.
There are running footsteps, and there’s shouting. More guards are hurrying to the gate. I want to say something. I want to tell everyone to go, to get out of danger, but I can’t move.
I hear Dan, shouting at the guards. Charlie, asking them to give me a moment. Maz, swearing loudly.
The guards back away.
“I thought we decided this was OK.” It’s Dan, kneeling down next to me. “What’s wrong, Bex?”
My face is wet with tears when I lift my head to look at him.
“Everything. Everything’s wrong.” Dan glances at Charlie, who shrugs, and squeezes my knee.
I’m trapped here with an impossible set of expectations. I’m being used to justify murder and violence. They’ve stolen my story, and they’ve reduced me to an image on a poster – an image I’ve always hated.
And yet. And yet,
in spite of all of this, I’m getting what I wanted.
I look at Dan, and I can’t stop a smile breaking through my tears.
“We did it. We’re going to London.”
He looks at me for a moment, and then breaks into a grin.
“Yeah. We are.”
He leans over, and gives me a huge hug.
“We’ll save them, Bex. Margie and your Mum. We’ll get them out.”
There are tears on his face as he pulls away, and he brushes them off with his sleeve.
Everything is wrong. Everything that’s happened – to all of us, to Saunders, to Mum, to Margie. Everything.
But here we are. And maybe we can make it right.
Maybe we can make a difference. Maybe we can fight back.
And maybe, we can win.
NOTES
Alcoholism is not a weakness – these are Ketty’s words, not mine, and they come from her unique understanding of her childhood experiences. Addiction in any form is acknowledged to be an illness, not a choice. I do not advocate treating alcoholism as a weakness, any more than I intend to present Ketty as a perfect role model.
*****
Bex’s comments about looking for the helpers in a disaster are inspired by American children’s TV presenter, Fred Rogers.
VICTORY DAY
(Battle Ground #5)
will be published on Amazon
in January.
Keep reading for a preview!
Chapter 1 - Waiting
BEX
The metal stairs creak as I climb the fire escape to the roof. The last of the light is fading from the sky, and I wrap my winter coat around me, pulling the sleeve down to protect my hand from the cold banister rail.
Dan is waiting at the top, and Amy follows behind me. We sit on the roof-level landing, our backs against the cold brick parapet, and look out at the rooftops around us. Amy pulls a slab of chocolate from her pocket, breaks off a square and hands the rest to me. I take some, and pass it to Dan. We sit for a while, eating chocolate and passing the bar between us. The sky glows orange and pink, then gold, and the buildings look like black shapes pasted onto a mural. There are church spires and square blocks of flats, and in the distance we can see skyscrapers, clustered together.
Fighting Back (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 4) Page 25
