“You’d get Christian off their backs. I’d say that was a pretty good start.”
Jess ground his feet on the tarmac in his agitation. “I’ve made the break,” he repeated. “They’re on their own. It’s up to Adam to look after them now.”
“Doesn’t sound as if he’s doing a very good job of it,” said Anna.
“He’s a selfish little —”
“He’s young,” she said.
Jess puffed furiously on his cigarette in agitation. So passionate, so clever, so committed. But there had to be time for yourself and those who mattered to you as well, or what was the point?
She glanced at the guard, who had relaxed back against the container, smoking a cigarette of his own. “We can get out of here if we want to,” she said. “They think we’re a pair of geeky kids. I’ve been keeping an eye out. No problem. You could go out and —”
“No! We have our orders.”
“Jess, who’s going to know?”
“I’d know.” He sank down on his haunches against the container, to make himself stay still. “They think I’m dead. That’s how it’s going to stay.”
Anna sank down next to him. For a while they smoked in silence.
“I had a message from Command,” she told him.
“Did we get a target?” he demanded eagerly.
“No. Just to stay here and make sure the production goes smoothly. They want as much drugs out on the streets as possible until Friday.”
“See?” Jess nodded. Point proven. Orders.
“Big day, Friday,” said Anna.
“Yeah. It’s still growing?”
“Oh yeah. Big rallies in all the major cities. Not just thousands — they reckon hundreds of thousands of people are turning up. They’ve called for a general strike. It’s incredible. And Manchester’s at the heart of it.” Anna shook her head. “Just a few miles away. And we’re stuck here missing it …”
Jess looked at her excitedly. “It’s started,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Maybe.”
“I think so. I really do,” he said.
Anna grinned. She licked her lips and said it: “Revolution.”
The magic word. What they’d been working for all their lives. What they believed in, what they hoped for, what they lived for. What, as Zealots, they were going to die for.
The Zealots were always asking for volunteers. Both Anna and Jess had made the offer, and the offer had been accepted. Self-immolation, maybe, although that was less likely now that things were moving. It was a great way to attract attention, but once you had the ear of the people, it was time to act. Most likely, they would be asked to be bombs. Organizations like the Zealots always had a need for people prepared to die, to take out difficult targets.
This mission ended Friday, on the one-week anniversary of Jimmy Earle’s death. The next mission: to die.
“Think of it,” she said. “It’s all happening just over there — and we’re stuck here. Don’t you think that’s just crazy?”
Jess scowled. “Orders,” he said.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jess. Tell you what — I’m not staying here.”
He looked at her, alarmed.
“Come on. A day or two. What difference is that going to make? We’re a part of it, Jess. We helped make it happen. If I’m going to die for the revolution, I want to see it. Every night there’s a protest, bigger than the night before. By Friday it could be millions. It’s the future and it’s happening right there.” She nodded across toward the railway line, where Manchester lay, the heart of the revolution. “We deserve it. We have a right to be there.”
Jess made a face.
“Aren’t you even curious, Jess?”
Jess shook his head slightly. Of course he was! But … orders.
“Get out there, Jess,” she urged. “You’ve earned it. Jimmy Earle set it all off, but it wouldn’t have spread like it has if you hadn’t worked out how to make the cheap stuff. It’s finally, finally dawning on people how bad things really are, that so many kids are prepared to kill themselves just so they can have one crazy week. That’s down to you. Don’t you think we deserve just one night out there with them? I’m telling you, I’m going. You should, too — you must. See your brother. Get the drugs back so Christian is off your family’s case. Spend a night out on Albert Square and get a taste of what you helped make happen. Then come back and no harm done. Why not? Just — do it.”
“No,” he said as she tried to interrupt, “I told my family I’m dead because I am, as far as they’re concerned. This is how I do things.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Things can go wrong,” he said. “Those orders are there for a reason. What if we got caught or shot? It would interrupt the supply line maybe. Anything could happen. If you’re going, that’s all the more reason for me to stay here to make sure the mission is carried out.”
“We could go together. Jess, it would be so good! Why not?”
He stood up. “If you go, that’s up to you. I’m staying here.”
He left, back to work. He made her want to scream sometimes. They were both going to be dead very soon. The world was full of things she wanted to do and never would. She was prepared to give them up — she would give them up. But meanwhile she was going to snatch her chances when she could.
Such a soldier, she thought. Such a monk, too. Pity. He was a good-looking guy. It was a pity all around.
“Time to go, miss.” The guard had stopped Jess from leaving, and was making him wait for her. She stubbed out her cigarette and followed them back toward the lab.
“THE COST OF CHAMPAGNE IS SHOCKING THESE DAYS,” joked Adam.
They were walking back from the shops. Lizzie looked sideways at him. Shocking was right. The really good stuff, Cristal or Dom Pérignon, cost over two hundred pounds a bottle. Two hundred pounds, for a bottle of wine! Even the usual posh stuff, Bollinger, cost over a hundred. But as Adam pointed out, what was the point if you weren’t going to go for it? What was he supposed to do? Save up for it?
Except it wasn’t actually his money. Adam didn’t want to wait until they’d sold the Death — that could take days. Lizzie had suggested nicking it — great idea! It was exactly in the Death spirit. Storm in and take what you want. Go for it!
But everyone knew what happened to Deathers if the police got their hands on them. They locked them up, refused bail, and waited for them to die. His last week, rotting in a police cell? Come on! He wasn’t going to risk his freedom every time they wanted to go shopping.
Save the robbery for the big time. There was another, safer solution. Lizzie just had to pop back to her house and pick up her savings book. Six bottles of Bolly — six hundred quid. She’d been saving that money for a holiday with her mates; now she was spending it on Adam. He was the one on Death — how come it was her acting like there was no tomorrow? It was typical Adam. She was doing her best to think what a privilege it was to be the One chosen by Him to spend His last week with. She just wished it wasn’t proving so expensive.
They were on their way back to her place. Her mum and dad were both at work; they’d have the house to themselves all day. The perfect place to get so drunk on champagne they couldn’t stand up. And, of course, to lose their virginity.
Nothing had been said, but Lizzie knew it was expected. In a way it was fair enough — they’d talked about it often enough. Even so, she was feeling resentful. Maybe she was being selfish. Adam had, let’s face it, cornered all the rights to be the unreasonable one here. Even so, having agreed to go on the ride, she was now realizing that somewhere down the line she had actually become the ride and it was making her feel sulky. At the same time she was feeling increasingly panicky at what she had agreed to.
This was all going straight over Adam’s head, of course. He was having a great time. Once they got to her house, he started showing her all the things he could suddenly do on Death — bouncing a ball off the wall with his head while he spun in circles, walking around the room
on his hands. He was hilarious and gorgeous, all at the same time, with his blond hair hanging off his head and his face turning red as he waltzed around on his hands in her bedroom.
Lizzie giggled, feeling hysterical by now. She put five of the bottles in the freezer to chill quickly, fetched a couple of glasses from the kitchen, and led the way up to her room, where she sat on the edge of the bed easing the cork out of the sixth bottle, while Adam cavorted around her.
Bang! Off went the cork. Adam cheered. Lizzie poured the wine and laughed at the bubbles frothing up out of the bottle, but inside she was horrified. What on earth was she doing, drinking champagne with a dead man? Because that’s what it amounted to. His brother had just died and here they were celebrating — it was mad! He hadn’t even mentioned Jess since he’d first told her what had happened. Where was the grief? When was it going to come out? What on earth was he going to do next?
Adam took his glass off her with a flourish. Celebration time! He knocked it back, then another, then another, all in about five minutes.
“Hold on. What about me? You’re drinking it all.”
“No, we’ve five more to get through.” Adam tipped his glass up and licked at the drips. He was in a hurry. Lizzie grabbed the bottle and poured herself another before it all disappeared.
She looked across to Adam, who was now doing a handstand in the middle of the floor and muttering, “I love you, Lizzie Hollier, I love you, Lizzie Hollier, I love you, Lizzie Hollier.”
It didn’t sound like love to her.
“How drunk are you?” she asked suspiciously.
He flipped over onto his feet and beamed at her. He had a think. “Not at all,” he admitted. He grabbed the bottle and looked at it. “How strong is this stuff?” he asked.
“Wine strength, I expect,” said Lizzie sarcastically, but Adam didn’t hear. He was rushing off downstairs to fetch another bottle. Lizzie sat on the bed and sighed. Death seemed to be working in waves. One minute he was relatively calm, the next he was like a Ping-Pong ball on speed. It was exhausting.
I must stop being irritable, she thought. It wasn’t fair on him. One week to live! It took her breath away. If only she’d known what was going on when they were at the party, she could have stopped him.
It was a thought that chilled her.
Adam came running back up the stairs with the bottle, popped the cork, and drank straight from the bottle. The wine fizzed down his chin onto the floor.
“I don’t feel anything yet,” he said. “Can you feel it?”
“Yeah.”
He looked curiously at the bottle.
“Hey — maybe it’s Death,” she said. “You know. It makes you super fit, right? Maybe it makes you immune to booze as well.”
“No!” Adam was genuinely shocked. Lizzie snorted in amusement.
“Your face,” she giggled.
It was hilarious. Death was supposed to help you have a good time. Instead, it made it harder. They both burst out laughing at the thought. Giggles. A sign of hysteria. That was even funnier and for several minutes they were both holding their sides, hurting with laughter. Gradually it subsided. Lizzie realized she was feeling very drunk already.
“Do you think that’s what it is?” asked Adam.
“Nah,” she said, although she did. “It’s because you’re so excited, that’s all. Sit down. You’ll get sick before anything happens.”
“Before what happens?” He grinned at her.
“Before anything happens. Sit down here.”
Adam sat next to her on the bed. He put his arm around her and went in for a kiss.
“I love you, Lizzie,” he said. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“Go on, let’s do it,” she said. Suddenly she wanted to get it over with. Adam was busy with her boobs, then moving on already to fiddle with her jeans. She stood up, took them off, pulled her top off, and got into bed with just her bra and underwear on.
Adam got in with her and pulled his own clothes off under the covers. She did the same. Naked, he pressed himself right up against her, so she could feel him all along her body.
“That’s nice,” she said.
“Gosh,” said Adam. He shook his head and made his eyes go big and round. She laughed and kissed him.
He fumbled around for a bit, then, too soon, he climbed on top of her and began to push. It hurt.
“Ouch,” she said.
Adam stopped. “You OK?” he asked.
“It’s all right, go on.”
He pressed a bit more gently and got inside her. He began to move and suddenly, without any warning at all, Lizzie remembered that he was as good as dead. It was horrible. It just froze her blood. She turned her face away and tried not to cry, but the feeling was overwhelming.
“Why don’t you … just stop it,” she said.
Adam froze in surprise, then rolled off. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She turned her back to him. “Feeling sick,” she said. “Too much to drink.”
Adam paused, not sure what to do.
“Feeling really sick,” she said.
“Do you want a bowl?” he asked.
“Just let me lie here for a bit. Go downstairs. I’ll be all right. Urgh,” she added.
“OK. OK.” He got off the bed and put his jeans on. “It doesn’t matter, Lizzie. It’s all right, I don’t mind.”
“I just drank too much. I’ll be better in a bit.”
“Sure. It’s OK.” Quietly, he left the room.
Lizzie glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was gone. Then she let the tears come. One week. What on earth had she agreed to? It was going to be unbearable.
* * *
Down in the kitchen, Adam was seething. Did it count? He’d been there — but for less than a minute. What did that mean? Was he still a virgin or not? He was some sort of half virgin. It was so unfair.
“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered. He went to the freezer, popped the cork on another bottle, and took a hard swig. The wine fizzed up in his mouth and made him choke.
This wasn’t fun. Nothing was working.
He raised the bottle again and, as carefully as he could, drank the wine down. It fizzed and writhed in his throat, but he kept at it until he’d finished off the whole bottle, all hundred pounds’ worth. When he was done he stood there, feeling …
Still sober.
Lizzie was right. It was Death, making him stay sober. It was like some kind of trick. Would he have to spend four times the money to get drunk? Maybe six bottles weren’t even enough? This wasn’t right. He was supposed to be in the middle of having great sex and then passing out from alcohol poisoning, and instead, here he was, half-virgin and still sober, without enough champagne to drink, while a naked girl lay upstairs in bed feeling too sick to have sex with him. How did this happen?
There was a laptop on the kitchen table. He opened it up and got on the net, surfing around for some info on Death.
He wasn’t alone, that was one thing. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of people had taken the drug in Albert Square the other night. On Friday, there were going to be an awful lot of people dropping dead at the same time. And it was still going on. Death normally cost thousands of pounds per pill, but it looked as if someone had worked out how to make it cheaply. Overnight, cheap Death was flooding onto the streets. It had begun in Manchester, but it was getting everywhere — London, Birmingham, Leeds, all over the country.
Everyone wanted to die.
This was all interesting, but it wasn’t getting Adam a shag, was it? He found a Deather site he’d heard of before, regretit-forgetit.com. There was loads of stuff there — places to post your experiences, your thoughts, your requests, answers to your FAQs.
Requests. Yeah. He needed a backup plan.
“Deather teenager wants girls to sleep with. I’ll give you the time of your life, you give me the time of mine.”
It was kind of crap, but
it was also kind of true. Adam pressed “post.” It was the right thing to do. You couldn’t do half measures. You had to be sure. It was all about him. Me me me me me me. Lizzie would understand … but maybe not a good idea to tell her anyway …
He went on to the FAQs. There it was.
“Can I get drunk or high on Death? How much will I need?”
“Yes, you can!” the answer said. “But Death means you’ll have to drink more, faster. With drugs, quadruple your usual dose. With booze, same thing. Best thing — drink it down quick. Four bottles of wine will get you really drunk. Have fun!”
Four bottles to get drunk, eh? Adam wanted more than just drunk. He wanted paralytic. Four bottles = drunk. Six bottles might just = not able to walk.
Lizzie was out for the count upstairs. No point waking her up. Day 1 was already disappearing fast. He needed to get a move on.
Opening the freezer, Adam removed the remaining three bottles of champagne and lined them up on the work surface.
Number one. He popped the cork, lifted it to his lips, and drank carefully. The bubbles were a pain — they stopped you drinking the stuff! It was a pity he couldn’t make it flat. Wait — maybe he could. Digging about under the stairs he found what he was looking for — a bucket. He opened all three bottles and poured them one after the other into it. Yeah! A bucket of Bolly! Now you’re talking!
He stirred it to get rid of the bubbles, then, lifting the bucket to his lips, started to drink it down. Better. It was still fizzy, but much easier than straight out of the bottle. Now he just needed to get it down him as quick as he could to get the maximum benefit.
Fifteen minutes later, with much belching and glugging, the bucket was empty. Adam did an experimental stagger around the kitchen. Yeah! He was pissed. Pretty fucking pissed actually. But … he could still walk — just about. Goddamn Death! He’d have been dead by now otherwise. Heheheheheh, he thought. Heheheheheh.
The Hit Page 9
