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

by Rachel Churcher

  I can’t help smiling.

  We’re in London.

  The landing shakes and creaks as someone else climbs the stairs.

  “Bex?” It’s an urgent whisper, one floor down in the dark.

  “Charlie! Up here!” I keep my voice as quiet as I can.

  The landing shakes again, and Charlie leans against the railings, looking up at us.

  “Fiona’s looking for you. She’s got a briefing to give, and she’s waiting for you lot.” She looks around, at the dark roof of the empty hotel. “And keep your heads down. You know she doesn’t like you coming up here.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. Tell her we’re on our way.”

  She smiles, and gives me a mock salute. “Yes, Miss Committee Member!” The landing shudders as she heads back down the stairs.

  Amy pushes the remains of the chocolate bar into her pocket, and takes a last look out at the sunset.

  “We’re here, Bex. We’re really here.” She takes my hand, and squeezes it.

  I give her a smile. “We’re really here.”

  Dan stares at the skyline, the golden sky reflected in his eyes. His voice is barely a whisper.

  “I wish I knew where she is.”

  “Margie?” He nods. “Close, Dan. She’s close. Margie, and Mum, and Dr Richards.”

  He nods again, and pulls himself up on the handrail, bent double to keep his head below the level of the parapet.

  “Coming?”

  “Wouldn’t want to keep Chairman Fiona waiting.”

  We walk together down the rattling stairs in the dark.

  *****

  The safe house is an old hotel. The windows are boarded up, but the electricity works, and there’s running water. We’re hidden, as long as we stay out of sight, stay quiet, and keep the lights off as much as we can. There’s a service yard between the reception building and most of the rooms, and the OIE smuggled us in through the service entrances, out of sight of the road.

  We’re working with local resistance cells, who brought us here in private cars and delivery vans. Most of us crossed to the UK from northern France, hidden in fishing boats and dropped off at lonely points along the coast in the middle of the night. Dan and I came in from Ireland, the boat leaving us on a tiny, cliff-backed beach in Wales. We climbed the cliff path by torchlight, and the resistance met us on the road at the top.

  We stopped twice on our journey to London. Once, in a farmhouse near Bridgend, and again near Farnham. We changed vehicles, and slept on sofas and spare beds while we waited for the next drivers to arrive. We travelled at night. People were kind, and thanked us for fighting back. More than once, I saw my photo on an OIE poster, encouraging people to resist, flashing past in the dark as we drove. More than once, I saw the same photo on my Wanted poster. I pulled my hood up, and slumped down in my seat.

  It’s strange, being back in the UK. Having to hide my face, in case the government catches me. Exchanging the safety of Scotland for the danger of London.

  If we get this wrong, if the government finds us, we’ll be executed. The country will watch, live on TV, as the Home Forces put bullets in us all. As they wipe out the Face of the Resistance and the Opposition In Exile. As they wipe out hope. We’re all targets, and we’re all here to lead the invasion.

  The Home Forces are afraid of us, and they should be. We’ve got twenty armies behind us – a coalition of governments, heading for the ports and airports. If we’re lucky, no one knows they’re coming. If we’re lucky, no one knows we’re here.

  I’m the Face of the Resistance, and I’m here to inspire an uprising.

  I open the door to the hotel ballroom, and my friends follow me inside.

  *****

  Fiona holds up her hands for quiet, and the room falls silent.

  “Congratulations,” she says, smiling. “Stage one of the liberation is complete. Everyone we’re expecting is here. You’ve all arrived safely, and we’ve had no surprises on our way in. A special welcome to our local resistance supporters – thank you for joining us. We couldn’t do this without you.” There are some quiet cheers, and a few people clap. Fiona holds her hands up again.

  “New arrivals – you’ve all found your rooms?” She looks around at the people in front of her. “Any problems?” No one speaks up.

  “You know the rules. No going outside. Make sure you’re not visible from the street. No excess noise. Keep the lights off unless you really need them. Use table lamps and torches if you can. Charlie and Maz,” she waves a hand in our direction, “have set up the kitchen, and they’ll be providing us with meals. No more ration bars – I’m sure we’re all looking forward to some real food. They’re operating under challenging conditions, so no complaining, please!” There’s some quiet laughter, and someone pats Maz on the back. “There will be an OIE committee member on duty in the dining room at all times – go to them with any problems. We will do our best to keep things safe and working.

  “Please remember – one mistake is all it would take for the government to find us and arrest us. Under this roof,” she points up at the ceiling, “are all their most wanted resistance fighters. That’s you, and me. We are all responsible for the safety of everyone here. Stay quiet, and stay out of sight. And be ready. When the signal comes to make our move, we might have minutes to act. Keep your armour ready, and your guns loaded. Be organised, and be prepared to move out at any time.

  “For now, get some sleep. We don’t know how long we’ll be here, so make the most of the quiet while you can. We’ll have a full briefing after breakfast in the morning.”

  *****

  The hotel rooms are empty – stripped back to bare floorboards and peeling walls. The bathrooms still work, and someone’s put camp beds and sleeping bags out for us to use. Amy’s sharing with me, and Dan’s next door. Charlie and Maz are on the other side. I’m glad I’m not in a room by myself – the floorboards creak, the boarded-up windows cut off any escape, and navigating the pitch-black room by torchlight throws up creepy shadows against the walls. With two of us, it’s easier to laugh at the shapes in the corners of the room.

  Our crates of armour sit just inside the door, and we’ve pushed our guns under our beds. I didn’t think the Scottish government would let us take them when we left, but they’ve told Fiona that they’re backing the invasion, and they’ve sent guns and armour for all of us. We’ll need them when the invasion begins. I know we won’t stand a chance if the government raids the hotel, but it’s comforting to know that we could do some damage. I feel better, knowing the rifle is within reach.

  “It’s going to be OK, isn’t it, Bex?” Amy sounds sleepy, curled up on her camp bed. “We got here, and we’re safe, and we’re going to rescue your Mum.”

  I smile in the darkness. We’re still in danger. The government could find us, and take us all to the cells. Fiona’s plan could fall apart.

  But this feels better than lying in my safe, comfortable bed in Scotland.

  I’m here, and I’m doing something. We’re standing up to the Home Forces, and we’re bringing the coalition together.

  “We’re going to make it OK, Amy. You, me, and the resistance. We’re ready.”

  Chapter 2 - Silent

  KETTY

  “Miss Watson. Ready for your big day?”

  Brigadier Lee lounges in the interrogation room chair, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. Margaret looks ahead, at the one-way mirror. She sits up straight, as usual, and there’s a defiant look in her eyes. As usual, she’s refusing to speak.

  Lee has two weeks to get a soundbite we can use at the trial. Like all terrorist suspects, Margaret Watson is guaranteed a guilty verdict and a public firing squad. Hers is scheduled for two weeks from today. The Public Information Network has been running trailers for the event for weeks – we need her friends to be watching. We need the country to be watching. She was caught at Makepeace Farm, and she’s a friend of the Face of the Resistance. Executing her sends a message to Bex Ellman, and the
Opposition In Exile. It shows them what we can do, and it shows them what to expect, when we bring them back to London.

  Conrad is busy with final arrangements for the trial, so I’m running the cameras and the recording equipment today. The bruises I gave Margaret last time we met have mostly healed, and Lee doesn’t trust me to question her again, so I’m behind the one-way mirror, waiting for her to speak.

  “It must be hard, knowing your life will be over before you’re eighteen. Any regrets, Miss Watson? Any unfulfilled ambitions you’d like to share with our audience?” Lee tilts his head, and I know he’s still smirking.

  Margaret closes her eyes for a moment, then lifts her chin and fixes her gaze on the mirror.

  Tough kid. That’s what Conrad called her. And he’s right.

  “You have parents, don’t you?” Margaret blinks, but keeps her eyes on the mirror. “And a little sister, if I’m not mistaken.” Her gaze shifts, and she’s looking at the ceiling, her eyes filling with tears.

  Getting to you, is he?

  “Nothing you want to say to them?”

  She shakes her head, slowly. Her hands are shaking, and she pushes them flat against the table, her handcuffs digging into her wrists.

  “And what about Bex Ellman? Anything to say to her?”

  She glances at Lee, almost too quickly to notice, and then stares straight ahead, tears spilling onto her face.

  Come on, Margaret. Give us something to use on PIN.

  Lee leans forward in his chair. “And Dan Pearce. I’m sure he’s watching. I think he’d want to hear from you. What would you like to say to him?”

  I think of the look on Margaret’s face when she saw the photo of Dan. The brief smile she couldn’t hide when she realised he was free – that we hadn’t found him.

  She closes her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks, and her shoulders shake. She sobs, twice, then takes a deep breath and shakes her head again, eyes closed.

  When she opens her eyes, she’s looking at me through the mirror.

  She’s looking through me.

  And I think of Camp Bishop, after Jackson threw his punches. The Enhanced Interrogation room, throwing punches of my own. Margaret Watson looking through me, as if nothing, and no one, could touch her.

  *****

  Lee slams open the door to the observation room as the prison guards arrive to take Margaret back to her cell.

  “Show me,” he says, sitting down next to me in the cramped space.

  I play back the interview, and he shakes his head.

  “Too sympathetic. We can’t risk public opinion shifting in her favour.” He looks through the mirror at the empty room. “Do you have anything else?”

  “Nothing where she speaks. We’ve already used that.”

  “PIN needs footage for tonight, Corporal. What else have you got?”

  “There’s an interview from last month, with Bracken.”

  “Does she have anything to say?”

  “No …”

  He cuts me off, standing up from his chair. “Find something, Corporal.”

  I nod. “ … but everyone will see the bruises.”

  He gives me a long stare, then sits down. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  I find the drive from a month ago, and load the footage. Margaret and Colonel Bracken, facing each other in the interrogation room. Like Lee, Bracken sits to one side, asking his questions – and this time the camera picks up colourful week-old bruises all over Margaret’s exposed skin. On her face and neck, on her hands, on her arms as she shifts in her handcuffs. Her orange prison jumpsuit hides the rest of the bruising, but I know it’s there. The bruises came from my orders, and my fists.

  Lee nods. “And we haven’t shown this yet?”

  I shrug. “PIN’s been too busy with Craig Dewar and Elizabeth Ellman. And I wasn’t sure whether you’d approve it, Sir.”

  He looks at me again, holding his gaze for a moment too long.

  “I’ll approve it, Corporal. Things have changed. Get this to PIN.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  *****

  The car is supposed to drop me at Dover House, but the driver is happy to leave me on Westminster Bridge. It saves him dealing with the security checks on Whitehall, and keeps me away from Bracken for a few minutes longer.

  I walk to the edge of the bridge and look down at the river. It’s a cold, grey day, and the scar from the South Bank Bombing looks like the aftermath of an earthquake. Cranes and diggers shift the remains of the buildings, and there’s scaffolding along the edge of the water. Metal barriers keep the river from washing more of the broken bank away, and there are barges under what’s left of the London Eye, cutting crews crawling over the metal frame as it lies across the river.

  The Home Forces building is hidden behind scaffolding and plastic sheets. They’re replacing the windows, and fixing the bomb damage, and it’s going to take at least another month. Another month, working in a tiny office with Bracken. Collecting the whisky bottles every evening, and pretending I don’t see when he drinks his way through every day. Fetching coffee, and ignoring the bottles under his desk.

  You can do this, Ketty. Keep your head down and keep Bracken standing.

  The guard on duty at the end of Whitehall tells me off for walking in. We’re at high alert, and we’re supposed to be escorted during working hours. No one knows what else the resistance is planning – what else they can use to send us a message. There could be another bomb, or a personal attack, at any time.

  But I’ve seen how Londoners reacted to the South Bank attack. To devastation in the heart of their city – to the worst attack here since the Crossrail bombing. I’ve seen how they refused to show their fear. They went out. They carried on. They made sure their lives weren’t affected.

  I touch my gun in its holster, and smile at the guard.

  No point living in fear. If you change your behaviour, the terrorists have already won.

  *****

  The clouds have thinned by the time I climb the stairs to my flat. There’s an orange-pink glow coming through my windows, and I stand and watch the colours change before I go out for a run.

  There’s a moment when the sky looks as if it’s on fire, and I have to close my eyes. All I can see are the flames on the riverbank. People, injured and bleeding. For an instant I’m back on Hungerford Bridge, carrying stretchers and helping medics treat the wounded.

  I shake my head.

  It’s over, Ketty. You’re safe.

  But my hands are shaking as I close the curtains.

  This time, the bombers missed me by hours. If I’d been out running, I would have been in the middle of the attack. We didn’t see them coming, and they punched a hole in the city. Next time …

  I force myself not to think about it.

  Get out there. Run. Show them you’re not afraid.

  REVIEWS

  First, thank you so much for reading Fighting Back! I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you’d want to recommend it to other people. Please, please do!

  Here’s why this is important.

  I want to write more books, but I can only do that if there are people reading the Battle Ground series. How will readers find out about the Battle Ground books? I can buy all the adverts in the world, but the best way to reach new readers is through personal recommendations.

  If you enjoyed this book, you can help me to write more, just by telling your friends and followers about it.

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  Head over to Amazon (if you’re reading this on a Kindle, you’ll be asked for a review when you turn the very last page). Give the book a star rating, and tell other readers why they might want to pick it up and read it. Tell them what you liked about the story and the characters. Tell them about other books you think are similar to Fighting Back. Give them a reason to read this book instead of something else. Reviews don’t need to be long – Amazon reviews can be as short as 20 words.

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  THE BATTLE GROUND SERIES

  The Battle Ground series is set in a dystopian near-future UK, after Brexit and Scottish independence.

  Book 1: Battle Ground

  Sixteen-year-old Bex Ellman has been drafted into an army she doesn't support and a cause she doesn't believe in. Her plan is to keep her head down, and keep herself and her friends safe – until she witnesses an atrocity she can't ignore, and a government conspiracy that threatens lives all over the UK. With her loyalties challenged, Bex must decide who to fight for – and who to leave behind.

  Book 2: False Flag

  Ketty Smith is an instructor with the Recruit Training Service, turning sixteen-year-old conscripts into government fighters. She's determined to win the job of lead instructor at Camp Bishop, but the arrival of Bex and her friends brings challenges she's not ready to handle. Running from her own traumatic past, Ketty faces a choice: to make a stand, and expose a government conspiracy, or keep herself safe, and hope she's working for the winning side.