Blame

by Simon Mayo

  ‘Holloway’s finest,’ she muttered.

  Mattie jumped up, his arms clinging round Ant’s neck, his legs round her waist.

  ‘Lose the boy,’ called Chang.

  Ant hadn’t seen the woman with the crazy hair before, but she seemed to be in charge. Gang leader, she thought. I might as well go for it.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘This is my brother. This is Mattie. But then, Tess Clarke, you know all about him because he’s the boy you made up all that stuff about for the Correction film.’ Clarke shifted her weight awkwardly but still glared at Ant. Ant turned to Chang. ‘I was just standing up for family honour. I’m sure you understand. And when I was in the Village, I was looking for a scumbag called Pellow, who told lies like Clarke did. Instead, I found you two—’

  ‘Family honour?’ laughed Campbell. ‘You’re in Spike! You’re a strutter! We’ve seen your strap, remember? Your family has no honour. You’re leeches. You’re scum.’

  The women cons nodded.

  Mattie put his mouth to Ant’s ear. ‘Look at the cameras.’

  Ant flicked her eyes to the ceiling. The security cameras had moved. They were all pointing at her.

  ‘Lose the boy,’ said Chang again. ‘Last time.’

  Ant looked down. Shook her head.

  ‘At home,’ the woman went on, ‘we have a saying. Hum kah chan. It means “death to your family”. It is rarely invoked these days. We try to avoid it if we can. Many wars have started this way. But sometimes it is necessary . . .’ She stepped forward, knife raised; Campbell’s gun still pointed at Ant’s head.

  Mattie whispered again. ‘There are lights coming on in the pipes,’ he said.

  Another glance at the ceiling. Sure enough, a large triangle of blue and orange lights was flashing. It was about a metre long, and as Ant watched, the lights seemed to flash faster. It wasn’t the only triangle either – Ant could count three other sets, their coloured lights blinking.

  ‘Skyrocket?’ whispered Mattie.

  And suddenly Ant understood. Mattie was right. This is what Brian had told her about, so many conversations ago. The prison’s final line of defence.

  How long before it goes bang?

  Head pounding, heart hammering in her ribcage, Ant looked at her tormentors. Treves, Clarke and Chang had surrounded them, knives at the ready. Campbell faced the crowd, gun poised, daring anyone to challenge him. With Mattie clasped in her arms, Ant started to turn, trying to keep her eyes on the knives. She needed to act fast.

  ‘OK!’ she shouted. ‘You were right! I’ll lose the boy!’ She eased Mattie to the floor, whispered swift instructions in his ear, and he ran towards the crowd. None of the cons noticed or cared; it was Ant they wanted.

  ‘You should have stayed in Spike,’ said Chang.

  ‘You should have minded your own business,’ said Campbell.

  ‘You should never have broken into our room,’ added Clarke, and she lunged forward, slashing at Ant.

  The blade cut through her shirt, slicing a three-centimetre gash in her stomach. She pressed her hand hard against the wound, felt the blood seep through her fingers. If this was how they wanted to play it, she wouldn’t last long.

  Then the shouting began. From all over level eight voices were raised: support for Ant, abuse for the cons. Then one voice, higher and clearer than the others. It was Mattie. And only one other person understood him,

  ‘De triyang limyè, de flache!’

  Mattie, you’re a genius. Two triangles of light were solid, two flashing. Not long. Maybe seconds.

  As her attackers jabbed at her, Ant feinted and dodged. But when she avoided one attack, another found her. Most of the cuts weren’t deep, but Ant reckoned they were just warming up. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  Mattie’s voice again, high and shrill: ‘Twa triyang limyè!’

  Three triangles lit. When all four were on, would they fire immediately? Who was the operator? Why had they waited this long anyway?

  ‘Kat! Kat! Kat! Now, now, now!’

  As Ant spun round again, her eyes flashed to the roof. Four lit triangles; four primed skyrockets.

  Time to go.

  Tess Clarke lunged forward once more. Ant leaned left, then grabbed her knife arm in both hands, twisted and pushed up hard. Clarke howled as her shoulder dislocated, and dropped the knife. Ant had picked it up before any of the others could react. She wanted to stay and fight but knew she had to run.

  She heard a whine start in the pipes above her – loud enough for the others to glance up – and that was her cue. Ducking behind Treves and Chang, she headed for the crowd. Campbell, tracking her, was lining up his shot when the ceiling exploded.

  Night coach between Bristol and Bath

  Only one passenger on the night coach was awake, his face lit by a small screen. Max’s new phone was better than his old one; the images were sharper and the wifi pickup was instant. He had been staring in horror at the live stream from Spike; the picture was shaky, the camera lurching all over the place, but he had spotted Ant and Mattie as soon as they stepped out of the crowd. Max had cried out when Ant was attacked, then again as he watched her run.

  The woman in the next seat woke up and peered blearily at him, then at his screen.

  ‘Can’t you watch something else?’ she said, and shut her eyes again. ‘Something less scary maybe . . .’

  By the time he looked back, the screen was blank, the picture lost. Frantically he tried some news sites, but they had lost the signal too. He killed the screen and sat staring through the window. The woman sat up and sighed heavily.

  ‘Well, that’s me awake,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Max, and she looked at his reflection in the glass.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You said fine like my kids say fine. Usually means anything but fine.’

  ‘I said I was sorry . . .’

  The woman smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it. Never sleep much on coaches anyway. Was it a film?’

  ‘Was what a film?’

  ‘The thing that scared you.’

  ‘No, it was . . . the news.’

  ‘Oh, that. Was it bad?’

  A pause, then Max said, ‘Just some riot. Looked bad, that’s all. Probably nothing.’ He carried on staring at the darkness outside, his body language suggesting he hoped she’d fall asleep again soon.

  ‘What was it about?’ the woman persisted.

  Max shrugged. ‘What are they ever about?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Well. Usually some people think that something bad has happened. So they go on a march and wave banners.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t really like that.’

  ‘Do you know anyone . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ said Max, more loudly than he had intended. ‘I don’t know anyone involved.’

  She got the message. After a few seconds she closed her eyes again.

  ‘Gas! Gas! Gas!’ screamed Ant. She flew across the level as first glass and metal fragments, then great clouds of tear gas, were blasted from the roof. She had a few seconds’ advantage at most. She ignored the pain from her wound. She didn’t look up. She didn’t look back. Ant leaped through crowds of bewildered strutters, all staring at the rapidly expanding shroud of gas.

  ‘Inside!’ she shouted as she passed, but no one was moving. She took a sharp left past the middle cells and glanced over her shoulder. The spot where she had been standing was enveloped in a thick, white, churning pall of gas. Expanding rapidly but forced into the narrow space between level eight and the ceiling, it was moving fast. Ahead she saw Mattie in the doorway of cell 87, his eyes flicking between her and the cloud.

  ‘Run, Abi, run!’ he yelled.

  Suddenly everyone was running for the smashed-up cells, criss-crossing in front of her, slowing her down. She hurdled a man who had fallen, and felt a rush of blood from her wound. A column of gas tumbled between the middle cells, coming straight for her. Ant had no opt
ion. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and ran faster. A few steps, Mattie’s call of, ‘Abi, here!’ and she was through.

  She vaulted into the cell and collapsed on the floor as Mattie and Jimmy Noon slammed the door shut.

  ‘Barricade!’ she shouted. ‘No one gets in now! No one!’ She turned to see who else Mattie had persuaded to take cover – it wasn’t many. Daisy was there, Jeffrey Blakely, Amos Shah and the three Durrows, Lena, Tilly and Sam.

  ‘No one else would come . . .’ began Mattie.

  ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ Ant said, embracing him. ‘Nice work anyway.’

  ‘That’s a bad cut, Ant.’ Jimmy was staring at the blood seeping through her shirt.

  Lena Durrow passed over a strip of bed sheet. ‘We have a few left . . .’ she said, and Jimmy folded it in four. Ant peeled her shirt away from the wound.

  ‘I should clean it—’ began Jimmy.

  ‘Just stop the bleeding!’ snapped Ant. He nodded and gently placed the makeshift gauze on her stomach. ‘Push harder,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you if it’s too much.’ He pressed until she winced, then eased off. ‘Fine.’ Ant replaced his hand with hers and breathed deeply. ‘And thanks.’ He nodded, wiping Ant’s blood off his hands onto his trousers.

  Daisy came next. ‘Thanks, Ant,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘Sorry he got me like that . . .’

  Ant shook her head. ‘Daisy, he’d have killed you,’ she said. ‘Then he’d have killed someone else.’ She shrugged. ‘He’d have seen me sooner or later.’ She changed the subject. ‘We need the cell to be as secure as possible. Whatever is left in here – which isn’t much – we need against the door.’

  ‘Are the walls damaged?’ wondered Jimmy. ‘We don’t want that stuff to get in.’ Outside, the gas cloud had enveloped the cell; visibility was reduced to just a few metres.

  Everyone inspected the patch of cell 87 that was nearest to them, looking for any crack or hole. Cries of, ‘OK here!’ ‘All fine,’ and ‘Think we’re OK,’ eased the tension.

  ‘Everyone look out,’ Jimmy ordered. ‘We need to know if anyone is coming.’

  ‘Can we let in friends?’ The tiny voice belonged to Sam Durrow, and Lena hugged him closer.

  ‘We’d be letting the gas in—’

  ‘What does the gas do?’ interrupted Tilly.

  ‘It makes you cough and cry. A lot,’ said Lena.

  ‘It makes you blind, makes you vomit,’ interrupted Ant. ‘We need to keep the door shut.’

  ‘Too harsh,’ whispered Mattie.

  ‘They need to know . . .’

  ‘Too harsh,’ he repeated.

  Ant turned and eased herself down onto the floor, kneeling next to the Durrows. ‘We need to stay well,’ she said. ‘If we open the door, we’ll get sick. Very sick. OK?’ Sam and Tilly nodded, their eyes wide.

  ‘You think the rioters will still come for us?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘If the gas is everywhere,’ said Jimmy, ‘maybe we’ll be OK for a while . . .’

  ‘Did you know about the gas, Ant?’ asked Lena, arms tightly wrapped around her children.

  Ant considered her answer. ‘Well, Brian MacMillan told me that Spike had a final line of defence against “the mob”, as he called it.’

  ‘Mob is exactly right,’ muttered Blakely.

  Ant ignored him. ‘And he mentioned “skyrockets”, and I think – if I thought about it at all – I assumed they’d be fired from the ground. Like that useless water cannon they tried. He said something about it being a “showstopper”, so my guess is the whole of Spike is gassed up.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ said Daisy, linking arms with her.

  ‘It’s better than being killed by Villagers and Ladies high on whatever they’ve stolen, yeah,’ said Ant. ‘But it was Mattie who saw the lights in the ceiling. He said “skyrocket”. Suddenly it made sense.’

  ‘Why didn’t they use it sooner?’ growled Blakely. ‘How many had to die before they decided to take pity on us?’ There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Lena. ‘Maybe poor Neil was the last straw . . .’ Her words tailed away and they worked in silence as they remembered seeing Osbourne being executed. Most of them had jumped over his body to get to the cell.

  ‘Well, everyone will know what’s happened,’ said Jimmy eventually. ‘Loads of cons had phones. I saw one stuck in a headband. If they were streaming pictures, then the whole world knows about the riot. And if that Scottish guy’s phone was working, they’ll have seen the attack on Ant. And the gas.’

  ‘Good,’ said Daisy. ‘Maybe they’ll be on our side for once.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Amos. ‘They wouldn’t care if we all burned to death. If anything, they’d have been on the side of the fire.’

  When the cell had been stripped for the barricade, the door still looked far from secure. Jimmy took half a space back and pulled a face. Four bent table legs, some beaten-up drawers and two mattresses were rammed against the door; it wasn’t enough.

  ‘I’m staying here in case,’ he said, finding a space where he could lean against the door. ‘We’ll need some more muscle if it comes to a contest.’ He slid down till he hit the floor, then rearranged the drawers and table legs behind him.

  Daisy shouted, ‘There’s someone coming! Straight ahead!’

  Everyone but the Durrows and Jimmy ran to the main window. Through the billowing clouds of gas, four figures were staggering towards cell 87.

  One of the approaching men collapsed on the floor; the other three carried on, not bothering to help him up.

  ‘More on the door now!’ shouted Jimmy. Amos joined him, throwing himself against the barricade as though they were already under siege.

  Outside, the three floundered through the gas like zombies through fog, rags tied around their mouths and noses. They tottered closer, makeshift masks slipping. Cell 87 filled with cries of alarm and revulsion. Daisy stifled a scream as three faces pressed up against the glass, swollen red eyes trying to focus. Streams of mucus flowed from their noses, smearing across the window as they moved. One of them mouthed some words, a long stream of phlegm falling from his mouth.

  ‘What’s happening?’ called Jimmy.

  ‘They want to be let in,’ said Daisy quietly. ‘They’re saying, “Help us”.’

  ‘Look away,’ said Ant. ‘It’ll pass. It won’t kill them.’

  There were a few feeble bangs on the door.

  ‘Loads more coming now!’ said Amos. Through the window they could see scores of figures, some on their knees, others lurching and vomiting.

  ‘How long do the effects last?’ asked Lena, suddenly nervous again. ‘Anyone know?’

  ‘It’s a riot-control weapon,’ said Jimmy. ‘Maybe twenty minutes?’

  ‘Is that all?’ wondered Amos.

  A brief silence, then from somewhere in Spike – it was impossible to tell where – the sound of shouting. Not the yells of rioting prisoners, but the disciplined, staccato orders of a military operation.

  ‘There’s your answer, Amos,’ said Blakely. ‘The riot’s over. We should lie low. This could get nasty.’

  On level eight the prisoners lay waiting for rescue and medical help. In cell 87 Amos was at one window, Daisy at the other, with Ant and Mattie at her feet.

  ‘They’re here!’ cried Daisy and Amos at the same time. Everyone crowded round the windows. From both sides, gas-masked soldiers appeared, medics following close behind. One by one the sick were treated as the army searched for rioters. A masked face suddenly appeared at Daisy’s window; she recoiled as the soldier counted the faces staring back at him.

  ‘Show him straps!’ said Ant. ‘Just so he knows!’

  Shirts were raised; then the soldier nodded and headed back into the haze. The sick had been taken away on stretchers; now fire crew, army, police and POs were all rushing to finish the evacuation.

  ‘They’re moving fast,’ said Ant. ‘I reckon that’s smoke, not gas. The place must still b
e burning.’

  Jimmy tugged at her arm. ‘Watch that PO by cell eighty-four – the one talking to the army guys.’

  They stared through the glass at an animated conversation between three people, two in combat fatigues, one in prison riot gear. Suddenly the PO took off his gas mask, wiped his face with his sleeve, said a few more words, then replaced it.

  ‘He’s done that three times now,’ said Jimmy. ‘The air might still be bad, but it’s not so bad you can’t survive without a mask for a short time.’

  ‘Want to test your theory?’

  Without a word, Jimmy began removing the barricade from the cell door. Amos and Daisy joined in and Jimmy explained to the others what he was doing. When the door was clear, Daisy checked the windows.

  ‘Quickly,’ she said. ‘Try now.’

  Everyone involuntarily held their breath. Jimmy had the door open and closed in under a second. Daisy gave a commentary for those who weren’t at the window.

  ‘He’s opened his eyes. He’s breathing a bit. Blinking a lot. Bigger breaths . . .’

  The door quickly opened and closed again. Jimmy’s eyes were watering but he smiled, excited. ‘We can breathe out there. The gas is clearing all the time. But the smoke smells bad.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’ said Blakely. ‘We’re waiting till they come for us. Aren’t we?’

  Jimmy turned to Ant. ‘Tell them, Ant,’ he said. ‘Tell them now.’

  ‘Tell them what?’ she asked.

  ‘About the key.’

  Ant’s eyes were wide. She was also furious. ‘You knew . . . ?’

  He nodded. ‘I guessed. Tell them.’

  She looked at Mattie.

  ‘Go for it,’ he said.

  Ant reached deep into her pocket. ‘I have a strap-key,’ she said, opening the case and holding it in front of them. There were cries of astonishment, but she continued, knowing she didn’t have long. ‘Which means I can take off your strap. If we can get out of Spike, we could disappear. There was no point in telling anyone before, because what’s the point of losing your strap if you can’t escape? And what’s the point of escaping if your strap gives you away? It is just possible that we could make a run for it. Most of us have family we’ll be leaving behind but this is our best chance. It’s our only chance. But you have to decide now.’