by Simon Mayo
Ant ran to the lectern, picked up Grey’s pledge card and held it high. ‘So! Freedom Question number one! What have you done today?’ she shouted, to huge cheers from the stands. ‘What!’ she yelled, stepping towards him, her voice bouncing off the old prison walls.
‘What!’ replied the crowd.
‘Have!’ she cried, stepping closer.
‘Have!’ came the chorus.
‘You! Done! Today!’
Each word was echoed back by a dangerously expectant crowd. The last word had taken her to within a few centimetres of Grey’s puffy, drawn face.
Ant put her head as close to his as she dared, and quietly, as though in a private conversation, said, ‘Wrong goose, by the way. This’ – she tapped her neck – ‘is a fighting goose.’ Then, louder, ‘So Freedom Answer number one,’ she said. ‘You lost. John Grey, son of a criminal, lost. That’s what you did today.’
It was a dangerous moment. Ant sensed it; so did Denholm.
‘This isn’t a revolution!’ he shouted to Ant, using his own cuffs to apprehend Grey.
‘Sure feels like it,’ she said as enormous cheers and wild stamping thundered in from the stands. Those in the front rows took this as their cue to charge forward, overpowering the guards. Everywhere fights broke out and batons started to fly.
‘You better say something!’ shouted Denholm, pointing at the podium microphone. ‘Or it’ll be London all over again.’
Suddenly Ant had Mattie at her side, closely followed by Max and Jimmy. They all grinned at each other, embraced briefly, then climbed onto the podium.
Ant grabbed the mic with both hands. ‘Hey!’ she said, recoiling briefly at the sound of her amplified voice. ‘Friends! No rioting! No violence! We all lost people in London . . .’ The charging strutters pulled up, the scuffles halted.
‘Here’s your moment,’ said Max behind her. ‘Do it! Make it good!’
She wiped her face with her T-shirt and smiled at him. ‘Right,’ she said, and took a deep breath. ‘This here is Max Norton. In the riot he lost his parents – Gina and Dan. They were me and my brother’s foster parents too . . . and better to us than our parents ever were. You all know people who died last week – and POs, I’m talking to you too. So let’s get this clear. This man’ – she pointed at the crumpled figure of Grey – ‘is a crook. Not because of what his father did, but because of what he’s done. He caused the riot; he is responsible for the deaths of our friends and families.’
A voice from the stands: ‘Strap him!’ Then many more. ‘Strap him! Do it now!’ Some of the strutters who had been advancing on the podium edged closer.
Denholm and another PO were holding onto the now-terrified Grey, part captors, part protectors. Ant sensed Mattie looking at her, but this time she didn’t need his counsel.
‘It’s tempting!’ she shouted. ‘He has caused so much pain and misery for us . . . how sweet it would be see him strapped.’
‘Do it then!’ bellowed a voice. ‘I’ll do it!’ cried another, then more voices: ‘Me too!’
But Ant had the mic and she used the amplification to talk over the shouters. ‘Honestly, I’d love to. I’d love to make Grey feel a strap on his back; know what it feels like to wake up feeling violated and in pain. It would be sweet. But it would be wrong. Is Grey guilty of all the crimes committed by his father? No. No, he isn’t to blame. He shouldn’t become a strutter because there shouldn’t be any strutters! He can go to prison for murder, corruption and torture, but not for what his father did, and not with a torture-strap on his back.’ There was a scattering of applause, but Ant didn’t miss a beat. ‘But if he’s not to blame, I am not to blame. My brother isn’t to blame. My friends aren’t to blame. None of us are to blame. None of you are to blame!’
The cheers and stamping started again.
‘Give us a way out then,’ prompted Jimmy.
She gave him a thumbs-up. ‘So if we aren’t to blame, we shouldn’t be here. There doesn’t need to be trouble because Mr Denholm here will be using the prison strap-keys to release you all. Every one of you.’
All heads whipped round to Denholm; he had clearly reached the same conclusion because he was barking some instructions into his radio. There were more ear-splitting cheers, but Ant held up her hands.
‘But the law hasn’t changed. Not yet. That’s a longer battle. There are many more like Grey out there. So they’ll come for you if you run, but you won’t have that vile piece of poison sticking to your back if you do!’ More stamping, more whooping. She was smiling broadly now. ‘And in the place where your strap was, once you’re healed up, get someone to write Not to Blame in beautiful, neat handwriting.’ There was laughter at this, and Ant lifted Mattie’s hand up, like a winning boxer.
Applause came next, and Ant saw Denholm’s shoulders relax slightly.
‘You agree to the de-strapping?’ she called, incredulous.
‘If that’s what it takes to keep my staff safe, sure. Let the politicians sort it out. I’m leaving the service anyway. Most of us are. If people like that can be governors’ – he stabbed his baton in the direction of departing, manacled Grey – ‘we’re all better off out.’
Two POs with boxes in their hands ran over. ‘These are the strap-keys,’ he said. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
Denholm glanced around, then came to stand next to Ant. ‘Look, who knows what happens next, but if I were you, I’d get out. The police will be here eventually. And the drone ops say you have friends outside. That’s where the goose came from.’
He turned to leave; then, suddenly awkward, his eyes on the ground, said, ‘Oh, and thank you for the small kindness you showed me in Spike. I probably didn’t deserve it. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ He nodded a salute and headed towards the queue that was forming in front of the key-holders.
Jimmy came scorching past. ‘Hey, Ant!’ His eyes were shining. ‘Ant, I’m staying. I’m staying with Daisy. She’s in a bad way and . . . We’ve . . . I’d like to . . . be with her.’
Ant grabbed him and hugged him close. ‘Get her strong, Jimmy. Then get her out. And maybe Amos too, depending on how he is. We’ll be together again soon.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
Jimmy grinned. ‘We were brilliant, weren’t we?’ he said and, before she could reply, ran towards the hospital wing.
Mattie tugged at Ant’s arm. ‘The POs say the gates will open when we get there. And we need to get there now.’
She grabbed his hand. ‘Got it,’ she said.
‘And we should take Max too.’
‘Why are you grinning?’
‘No reason.’
‘OK. I was thinking the same thing anyway.’ She turned to where Max was talking to queuing strutters. ‘Hey, Max Norton!’ she called. ‘You’re wanted.’
The three of them ran for the gates. Across the courtyard, the strutters clapped, cheered, then parted to let them through. A small insignificant-looking blue door opened as they approached; it led through the walls of the old prison, past a raised steel barricade. Suddenly they found themselves on a tree-lined service road – facing a surprising welcoming party.
Ant saw Henry with what looked some old-timer friends. A few trees along three partially obscured figures showed themselves to be a radiant Lena Durrow with Sam and Tilly. Other figures she’d never seen before emerged from behind foliage, all clapping and waving. She recognized the father and daughter from the Hampstead Heath coach rescue. There followed many tears and hurried, snatched conversations.
‘That was my mate’s goose!’ called Henry. ‘Nice touch, eh? Thought you might need some encouragement! These are my on-the-run friends.’ He indicated his smiling, applauding colleagues. ‘They wanted to see what you were up to! You done OK, kid.’
Lena was grinning. ‘After you got us out of Spike, we couldn’t be anywhere else,’ she said. ‘We heard what was happening and we all wanted to be here.’ The children came and hugged Ant hard.
‘Who are all these other people?�
�� she asked, bewildered.
‘Supporters,’ said Lena. ‘From local Bug sites. We’ve all been following you.’
They all wanted a hug, but eventually Max pulled her free. There was someone else to meet. A smiling woman in a fitted steel-grey dress stepped forward. ‘Ant, this is Sara Hussain.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘From Bristol Uni. She got me out. She knows about the Bug groups everywhere. Taught me about the dark web . . .’ He ran out of words and the two women embraced.
‘You are extraordinary, Ant,’ said Sara, laughing. ‘I’ve followed you and Max as much as I could and wondered if I’d ever get to meet you. So I am thrilled. You have done so much, but now you must go. We’ve arranged everything.’ She pointed at a small car parked in a lay-by. ‘The driver will take you to a small airstrip we can use.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Max.
‘You have to go to Germany,’ said Sara. ‘It’s the only country where you can operate. Your contacts there are waiting, Max.’
The sound of distant sirens sent Henry and his friends scurrying away; Lena, Sam and Tilly had already vanished into the woods. Behind Ant a steady stream of strutters were running for freedom.
‘Go. Now,’ said Sara. ‘We’ll talk on the safe sites.’
They ran towards the car; Ant, Mattie and Max all piled into the back.
As they drove towards the airstrip, Mattie took Ant’s hand. ‘Germany?’ he said.
She looked at her brother, smoothed his hair and smiled. ‘Germany,’ she said. ‘Remember all those German lessons Dan gave us? Maybe he guessed what might happen. Seems like time well spent after all.’
‘Dad gave you German lessons in Spike?’ said Max. ‘More than I ever got.’
‘Well, you’ll have to let me do the talking then,’ said Ant.
‘Seems to work out like that anyway,’ he said, and they all laughed.
In the silence that followed, Max shifted uncomfortably.
‘Look. Thanks for mentioning Mum and Dad up there. And . . . I am so sorry that I even suggested you were responsible for their deaths.’
‘Max, don’t—’ Ant began.
‘No, listen, Ant. You and Mattie lost them too, and I basically accused you of killing them. Which was how it seemed to me then. But I was so wrong.’
Mattie scrambled over Ant and threw his arms around Max and started to cry. They held each other for a few seconds before Mattie whispered, ‘I wish they could see us now.’
‘Me too,’ said Max, his voice breaking. ‘I owe you both, big time.’
‘Well, the trick with the drone was pretty neat.’ Ant smiled. ‘That’ll do for starters.’
They drove on in silence. Eventually she asked, ‘How did you do that? When you left Grey’s office, I thought I might never see you again.’
Mattie pointed at the MCTAVISH name tag on Max’s uniform. ‘That’s a clue,’ he said.
Max laughed. ‘McTavish got cocky,’ he said. ‘He got slack. Maybe he was thinking about Correction – who knows? We were alone for ten seconds just outside some office. I suddenly realized I could take him. Got in an elbow to his face. He was out cold – I pushed him into a cupboard and took his uniform. I realized I could go pretty much anywhere. So I went back to the TV truck, got that drone-cam working.’
‘The drone without a microphone,’ said Ant, grinning again. ‘No one heard a thing.’
‘Yup,’ said Max, ‘but that’s just another thing Grey didn’t know. But all I did was film. What you did was take on Grey. And win.’
‘We haven’t won though. Not yet. If they realize what we’re doing—’
He put a finger against her lips. ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘But we beat Grey. You beat Grey.’
‘What happened to Papa?’ asked Mattie.
‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ said Ant.
‘They were all in it together,’ said Max. ‘Grey. The Cloverwells. So he’s probably back with his gang. With a few questions to answer.’
Mattie leaned close to Ant’s ear. ‘And we don’t know about Mama. We don’t know anything,’ he said.
She turned to face him. ‘Well, now we’re out, maybe we can start looking?’
Mattie nodded enthusiastically. ‘From Germany?’ he said.
‘From Germany,’ she agreed, then laughed.
‘What?’
‘Kampfgänse.’ She ran her fingers over her tattoos. ‘The German fighting goose is going home.’
‘I think they’ll like you,’ said Max. ‘A lot.’
‘Will we like your German friends?’ asked Mattie.
Max smiled. ‘Mostly,’ he said.
‘Which reminds me,’ said Ant. ‘You said I beat Grey. Well, you know how I did it?’ She leaned towards him. ‘By being “mostly scary”. That’s what you called me.’
Max laughed, embarrassed. ‘I remember.’
‘If I’m mostly scary, what’s the rest of me?’
Max’s cheeks flushed scarlet, but he said nothing.
Mattie whispered in his ear.
Max nodded, then turned to Ant. ‘Sansasyonèl,’ he said slowly, checking the pronunciation with Mattie. ‘Does that sound OK?’
Ant beamed. ‘So I’m mostly scary,’ she said, ‘but also “sensational”?’
‘That’s about it,’ said Max.
From somewhere, Mattie had produced some paper and a pen and had started writing.
Ant and Max didn’t notice.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Personally, I blame Michael Morpurgo.
In 2014, I contributed to his anthology of memories of the First World War, Only Remembered. I wrote about my great uncle Stanley Killingback, a lieutenant in the Royal Engineers, killed in action in France, 1916. I knew very little about his life, but the image of my grandmother’s Remembrance Day poppy tucked into the frame of her lost brother’s portrait has always stayed with me. Honoured to be writing for one of our greatest authors, I fussed for quite a while to make sure that my few hundred words of text for the book weren’t too embarrassing. I found a photo and a song to go with them before emailing everything to Michael. And that was that.
Except that it wasn’t. That night I dreamed I was in a queue waiting for admission to prison. It had been discovered that my great uncle had been a deserter and as he hadn’t paid for his crime, I had to do so in his place. It was the same for everyone in the queue with me – they were paying the price for someone else’s misdemeanour. It was an image powerful enough to stick in my mind – and the idea of heritage crime was born.
So my heartfelt thanks to the Right Honourable Charlie Falconer, Baron Falconer of Thoroton, and the Right Honourable Douglas Alexander for putting me on a sound legal footing, to Isabelle Dupuy and Sybille Wunderlich for the Haitian and German translations, and the extravagantly gifted team at Penguin Random House led by my editor Kelly Hurst. Oh, and Sam Copeland at RCW, always the most stylish of literary agents.
There are many organisations around the world who work for those who are not to blame. Check out Reprieve, Amnesty, the Prison Reform Trust and the Howard League for Penal Reform to find out more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Simon Mayo is one of Britain’s best-loved and well-known radio presenters. He has worked on BBC radio since 1981 and is now the presenter of ‘Drivetime’ on BBC Radio 2, which features the regular ‘Book Club’ show. He is also the co-presenter of “Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review” on BBC Radio 5 Live. In 2008, Mayo was recognized as the “radio broadcaster of the year” at the 34th annual Broadcasting Press Guild Awards and the “Speech Broadcaster of the Year” at the Sony Radio Academy Awards. He is the author of the bestselling ITCH series and BLAME is his first book for young adults.
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First published Corgi Books, 2016
This ebook published 2016
Text copyright © Simon Mayo, 2016
Title lettering by Leo Nickolls
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–448–17304–4
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