by Angie Sage
It takes hours, but at last I am free. Now all I have to do is get out of this vile pantry. And then that killer Roach will regret it ever existed.
Chapter 10
Free
K
The early morning light filtering through the flimsy curtains wakes me. I’ve not seen daylight for over six months now and it feels so good. The SilverSeed crew quarters are beneath the ground with twenty-four-hour artificial light—unless you get put in Time-Out, when it is twenty-four hours of the deepest darkness you can ever imagine. I was in there once, and when I came out the light felt so harsh. But this light is gentle and soft. It makes me feel alive, not dead.
I sit in my nest of blankets, listening to Jonno’s calm, regular breathing. I feel bad about Jonno. He truly believed what we were told—that the SilverShip would take us to a wonderful place free of the Contagion where all the kids who had gone before were now living an amazing life: camping out, fishing and having fun. So he hates me for taking him away.
Thinking of the SilverShip reminds me it is time to let the DisK go. I’ve held it close all night and now I unfurl my fingers and take one last look. I whisper, “Goodbye, stay safe,” and then I push it into a crack I’ve spotted in the oak beam I slept beneath. It slips in easily and all I can now see is the shimmer of its edge. I rub some plaster dust onto it and it disappears from view. There is no way anyone will find it now. And so there is no way they can open the Orb. And no way the SilverShip is going anywhere.
I crawl out of my nest, stand up and stretch. The house is very quiet. I wonder if Maximillian is still sleeping? I go to the window and look out—it’s been a long time since I was able to do that. The street below is deserted and deep in shadow. The only activity is two little brown birds hopping along the low parapet in front of my window, tweeting loudly to one another. I watch them, enchanted, until they fly away and then I pad around the room looking for a book to read or something to do, but there is nothing but rugs, blankets and cushions.
I am so used to being confined that it takes a while for me to realize that I don’t have to stay in this room—there is a whole house to explore. I pull on my deck shoes, tiptoe over to the door and tentatively turn the doorknob, which comes off in my hand. I smile. I’m used to door handles falling off. Dad was no good at house maintenance either. I put it back on its spindle, turn it carefully and the door opens.
The landing is wide and bright, with a high balustrade and stairs leading down to the shadowy floors below. I pad across the smooth boards to the long rectangle of light filtering in from the huge skylight, and I stand there in the glow, breathing in the soft quietness of the house. I find I can’t stop smiling. I am free.
There are two other closed doors leading off the landing and I wonder if one of them is the bathroom. My mouth is dry and I really want to pee. I am not sure what Roaches do about that kind of stuff, but I’m hoping there’s still a bathroom here.
But which door to try first? I really don’t want to go into Maximillian’s room. He is such a private person and I also get the feeling he needs a break from Jonno and me. I wonder if he sleeps in a bed? Or some kind of weird nest? Anyway, wherever he is, I really do not want to see him sleeping; it feels wrong. So I stand on the landing, hoping for some kind of clue as to where the bathroom is, and I hear a sudden snore behind the door opposite me. I find I’m smiling again—who knew that Roaches snored? I tiptoe along the landing to the other door and very slowly push it open. A bathroom. There is a massive low, wide metal bathtub half-full of sand, but apart from that everything else seems just like normal. What a relief. I really do need to pee.
Back on the landing, I listen to the stillness. It’s weird being in a strange house when everyone else is asleep. I rather like it. I lean over the banister and look down at the coils of the stairs snaking down through the house, descending into the gloom. It’s like looking over a cliff: I feel quite giddy.
I decide to explore. I pad quietly down the stairs and one of the treads creaks. I stop and listen but all is still, so I carry on down to the next landing. There are three doors here and they are all locked. This is a bit creepy but I try not to be spooked by it and I head on down the stairs to the next floor. Here one of the doors is open and I go into the room. Like our attic room it has layers of rugs but it also has a collection of sturdy-looking stools and cushions placed neatly along the walls. It looks to me like a place for meetings. Or parties. I wonder if Maximillian likes parties? Somehow I don’t think so.
The room is at the back of the house and two tall windows face out over a long, narrow yard. It’s a shadowy place backing onto other yards, beyond which I see the backs of more tall houses rising up. There is long grass near the house and beyond are lines of well-tended vegetables, and at the far end two old apple trees lean together for support. I turn away from the window. Apple trees always make me sad.
Suddenly I am aware of a new sound. Footsteps. I can hear footsteps inside the house, way down in the basement. And now . . . and now the footsteps are on the stairs. I can hear the creak of the wood. They climb steadily, slowly making their way up. I hear them walk across the hall, and then stop, as though the person they belong to is listening. I’m listening too, to the person one floor below who is, I am convinced, listening to me. And now they set off again, heavy and ponderous, creaking their way up this flight of stairs and I know that any moment now they will pass the open door and whoever they belong to will see me.
I must hide. But where?
Keeping my own steps in time with the creaks I tiptoe across the rugs and flatten myself against the wall behind the open door, so that anyone glancing through the doorway won’t see me. The steps are outside on the landing now. I hear them heading this way, slowly, stealthily, as though they are looking for something. I decide that when they come into the room I will run at the person. I will knock them to the floor and get out of the house as fast as possible. But then I think about Jonno up there, sleeping peacefully and I dither. I can’t leave him here, alone. Oh, what should I do?
Suddenly, I don’t have to decide. The footsteps creak past the door and now they are going up the next flight of stairs. I wonder if I should chase after them and rescue Jonno, but I know there is no way Jonno will go anywhere with me ever again. I listen to them reaching the attic and I wait, holding my breath, wondering if Jonno will yell out. I hear a door open and it creaks—it’s the door to Maximillian’s room. I heard it creak last night when he went out. Relief sweeps over me that it’s not our room and I’m off. Down the stairs, quiet and fast, because right now all I want to do is get as far away from the creepy footsteps as possible.
T
I heard footsteps a few minutes ago. Heavy and slow. They walked up to the door, they stopped right outside and I’ll swear that the person was listening. I did not give them the pleasure of hearing anything. I held my breath until they went away and it was only then that I began to think straight. What if my second-in-command has survived too? What if it was her coming back for me? I wouldn’t have thought it was the kind of thing she would do, but who knows? The footsteps went farther into the house, so if it is her looking for me, she will come back the same way. And this time I must make sure she knows I am here.
A note. I’ll write a note. My fingers are clumsy and my shoulders so stiff that my arms can hardly move, but I manage to pull out a paper strip and a pencil from the pocket beneath my arm. I write my crew ID and then: Help. In here. My hands are so shaky it looks like my kid brother’s writing but it will have to do. I shove it underneath the door and lean back; I feel sweaty with the effort. I imagine the message lying in the nasty little dark passageway among the blood and the smashed pots and I just hope she sees it—if it is her. And if it’s not her and the Roach finds it, well, what does that matter? We all know Roaches can’t read. It will probably stuff it into its nasty little mandibles and have it for breakfast. I hope it chokes on it.
K
I’m in the basement now.
I’m spooked by those footsteps and I want to be as far away from them as possible. It’s full of shadows down here, but even so I can see shards of broken china swept aside by a long, thick streak of blood. I know it’s from the fight that Maximillian had with the Enforcers, but I didn’t realize how nasty it must have been. Or what Maximillian must have done . . .
I walk along the path made by the dried blood but when I get to the Roach pantry I see something sticking out from underneath the door. It’s pencil on blue paper, the Silver Seed stuff we keep in our waist belts. I crouch down to look at it and my heart does a flip. It is Jonno’s writing.
It says: KT. Help. In here. This is how Jonno writes my name: KT instead of Katie. I stare at the writing and all I can think is, How come Jonno is in the Roach pantry? My mind is racing. I know I’m not thinking straight, but I think something must have happened to Jonno when I was in the bathroom. It must be to do with those creepy footsteps, the ones that went into Maximillian’s room. And then it hits me. This means that Maximillian must be in on this. I feel like someone has punched me in the stomach. I can’t believe it; I just can’t. I liked Maximillian so much. And I totally trusted him, I really did. And now he’s betrayed us.
I have to get Jonno out of that disgusting Roach pantry fast. Right now in fact.
My hands are shaking as I do exactly what I saw Maximillian do last night: flip open the little panel in the wainscoting and pull on the lever. The door swings open and a gloved hand grabs me. Hard.
It’s not Jonno.
T
Sheesh. It’s my sister. It’s Kaitlin. She stares at me, shocked, her mouth open in a soundless O. If I know anything about my shouty little sister, it is that the silence is not going to last long. I’m out of that pantry in an instant and I shove my hand over her mouth. Too late she realizes she can’t yell. So she bites instead. I push harder against her mouth and I can tell she is struggling to breathe, but I can’t let go. I can’t let her shout out, the Roach will have us both. She struggles and I hiss, “It’s me. Tomas. Don’t scream, okay?”
She goes kind of limp and nods her head.
Oh my days, I know why she’s here. She’s our quarry from last night. They never tell you who you’re pursuing. No names, no numbers. We have the DNA profiles of course, but they are anonymous. But now I understand: they sent me after my own family. Again. And then it hits me. The blood. It was a male profile. It must have been Jonno’s blood. The Roach got Jonno. I feel sick. And so, so angry. Little Jonno is dead, and all because Kaitlin dragged him away with her. He didn’t want to go. I saw the footage; he was fighting her all the way. “We’re out of here,” I tell her. “Don’t you dare make a sound. Got it?”
She nods again. It’s like the stuffing has gone out of her.
K
It’s Tomas. I get it now. He was one of the crew after us last night. Of course he was. Just like before. I’m trying to work out how come he was in the Roach pantry and then I get it. Maximillian must have captured him and locked him up. Which means that, once again, I’ve misjudged Maximillian. At least this time he doesn’t know.
We’re outside the house now and Tomas is pushing me up the basement steps. “What happened to Jonno, Kait? Huh?” he growls in my ear.
What right has he has to be angry? “Mind your own business,” I tell him.
“I know what happened,” he snaps back. “You killed him.”
“I did not! In fact . . .” And then I stop just in time because I realize that I can at least save Jonno. Not that he’ll appreciate it, but that’s what I am going to do.
“In fact what?” Tomas asks impatiently as he frog-marches me along the path, heading for the gate.
“I didn’t kill Jonno. It wasn’t me,” I say, knowing what Tomas will assume. I think of Maximillian and all he did for us. Who’s the betrayer now? I think.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it was the Roach that actually did it. But Jonno wouldn’t have been anywhere near the filthy Roach if you hadn’t dragged him away on your crazy escape. So basically, Kaitlin, you killed him.” He tightens his grip on my arm. I hang back but he shoves me forward. “Move,” he says.
“Where are we going?” I whisper. As if I don’t know.
“Back to where you belong.”
I want to say to Tomas that this is where I belong—in this funny old house with Jonno and a Roach called Maximillian. But there is no point. I gaze up at the grimy windows, which look as though they have seen so many things, and I tell the house goodbye.
Chapter 11
Minna Simms
M
I am awoken by the ever-tedious Minna Simms.
I open my eyes and the first thing I see is her shining, chubby face staring down at me, wearing its usual oh-so-patronizing expression that she adopts when talking to us Roaches. The second thing I see is her large fleshy ankle overflowing from its sturdy brown boot no more than an inch away from the golden eagle teapot.
In a flash I reach out and grab Mama’s last remaining treasure and pull it into the safety of my nest. Minna looks down and gives me a weak smile full of condescension.
“I see I am superfluous,” she says. “You have found your own invalid feeding cup.” She sniffs. “A little ostentatious and personally I think you will experience an amount of leakage from the beak. It is not formed for the Roach mouth.”
“It is not an invalid feeding cup. It is a teapot,” I tell her. “Very valuable eighteenth-century Meissen if you must know.”
Minna’s smile broadens. “Ah, an old teapot. Well, well. I know you Roaches like your garish little baubles.”
I am so relieved that my first sight on waking was not the sight of Minna Simms’s hefty boot crushing Mama’s teapot that I do not react with my usual annoyance. Instead I sit up in my nest, pull out some polyester fluff that has stuck between the tiny plates of my mesothorax and say, “Well, Minna, how delightful it is to see you.”
You might find it strange that I wake up to find Minna Simms in my nest room and feel no more than a mild—well, to be truthful, as I am trying to be with you, fairly severe—annoyance. Unfortunately this is not my first experience of this. Recently Minna has acquired Andronicus’s key to my front door and extended her caregiving activities to me. I have protested, but to no avail. It is most annoying. However, the intrusion is moderated by the fact that every morning, Minna brings me a flask of extremely good coffee. I watch her pour it into a lidded cup from which a wide, flat sucking tube extrudes. “Maxie, dear,” she says as she offers it to me. “Darling Andy has asked me to . . .”
Oh, the loathing: Maxie and Andy. I let the prattle wash over me as I suck up the coffee—cooled to the perfect temperature—through the tube. Minna has developed an array of what she calls “Roach aids,” many of which are annoyingly useful but somehow undignified. She finishes talking and I ask, “How is Andronicus?”
“I should ask how you are, Maxie dear,” she reposts, almost flirtatiously. “You had a heavy fall last night. No damage I trust?”
At first I do not understand what she means, but then, with a sinking heart, I recall the events of the previous night and our struggle with the Vermin. “No damage whatsoever. Indeed, I am very well, thank you, Minna,” I reply primly.
“As is Andy, even after his late night. Here’s his message.” And she hands me a piece of hemp paper folded and sealed with a blob of green wax.
I smile. Notes from Andronicus are always so special. “Thank you, Minna,” I say, but I do not open it. She would be breathing down my neck trying to read it and I do not wish to give her the pleasure. Also I am not entirely sure what Andronicus will have written. I finish the coffee and hand the feeding cup back with my thanks.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asks, staring at the letter.
“I shall save that pleasure until later,” I say. I give her my most ghastly smile and drop my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Mama taught me all about deferred gratification.” I really do sound remarkably cree
py.
The color drains from Minna’s face. She takes a step away from my nest and I see her wonder if she is quite as safe here as she thought. “Well, Maxie,” she gabbles, “just in case you decide to defer your gratification until it is too late, I will tell you that it is an invitation from Andy asking you to lunch. Today. I told you earlier but I knew you weren’t listening.”
I smile at Minna in what I hope is a conciliatory way, for I must be careful not to make her hate me too much. Despite Andronicus’s protestations to the contrary, I am convinced that Minna is a dangerous woman. “How delightful,” I say. “Please tell him that I shall greatly look forward to it.” And I will. Any time spent with Andronicus is a pleasure.
Minna walks to the door and then, just as I think I am free, she stops and turns. She eyes me in a suspicious way that tells me I am right to be careful with her. “So what happened in the basement?” she asks abruptly.
“The basement?” I repeat stupidly. What was she doing in the basement? The front door is one floor up. But I know the answer: she was being Minna. Nosing around. “Ah, the basement. I had a break-in. Mama’s porcelain was smashed to pieces. All but this teapot . . .” My voice quite genuinely breaks. “I would rather not speak of it, Minna. It is very distressing to me.”
“I imagine it is,” she says dryly. “I will see you at lunch.”
“You will?” I ask, my spirits falling even further.
“Of course you will,” she says tartly. “Who do you think is cooking it?” And with that, she is gone.
Something is different about Minna and not in a good way. There is an edge of steel to her this morning and it unsettles me. I am wondering what the reason for this could be—and then I remember the blood in the basement corridor. I tell myself that I must not concern myself about Minna, for I have more important things to think about—three more things to be precise: my two young fugitives and that wretched Vermin. I sigh. I am facing another day of trial and tribulation.
