“I’m going to be sitting in the row ahead, okay? And I here and now swear on... on my life I will not let them take you again, okay? I will do whatever it takes to save you from them.”
I think I know what you mean by ‘whatever it takes’ and it’s not something I can condone... But my cowardly mouth stayed shut.
“Don’t you go overreacting to anything,” said Jon darkly from the other end of the seat.
“I’m not an idiot,” Bane retorted.
“No, just hot-headed, which in this case is almost worse.”
“Oh, shut up.”
They bickered – fairly good-naturedly – for a while...
...Huh? Father Mark stood in the back of the coach – we were stopped in a lay-by. Must’ve dozed off.
“Everyone back here had better get organized,” he was saying.
Bane moved to the row in front and several other girls joined me and Jon on the back row. As – arguably – the most recognizable, we sat in the two darkest corners – the coach had a solid back wall. During our brief visit to the school Bane and Jon had, with equal reluctance, allowed their hair to be cut very short, to make the distinctive coal black and autumny russet less noticeable. My own brown hair had been dyed blonde.
“It’ll start growing out quite quickly,” Bane had said, “but it’ll be so much less noticeable. You’ll just have to wear a hat.”
Now Rebecca peeled off the plasters on my forehead, Harriet carefully applied makeup over the cuts and Caroline arranged a bit of hair casually over that, spraying it with hair spray to try and make it stay – then Father Mark was calling for everyone to get in their positions...
Bane had a cap pulled over his face; he would also pretend to be asleep. With his hair covered, his skin would pass as tanned. Jon would be sleeping as well, with Emily dozing on his shoulder to keep male eyes away from his face. Speaking of...
Jane sat down beside me and crossed very long bare legs. She’d taken off her school socks and rolled up her skirt until it was little more than a belt. Her school blouse was unbuttoned to a dangerous depth, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders.
“Don’t you worry, Margo,” she told me rather smugly. “They won’t be looking at you.”
“No, they’ll be looking for an excuse to impound the coach for the day,” said Bane. “Don’t be too obvious, right?”
“I’m not going to throw myself on them,” sniffed Jane.
“Couldn’t imagine that.” Jon’s dry comment was almost, but not quite, inaudible. Jane shot him a scowl.
My body was beginning to shake. Oh no, I’d give myself away.
Father Mark bent to look me in the eye.
“Hey, Caroline and I are at the front with the two remaining nonLees, okay? Any trouble and we’ll shoot our way out. Just relax and enjoy the view.”
Lying through his teeth. Shoot our way across the Channel Bridge in a coach with two nonLees? The Resistance had allocated fast trucks, five bazookas and an arsenal of small arms along with a coordinated strike by the French Resistance on the Continental checkpoints.
But I smiled and nodded at Father Mark – he straightened and headed back up the coach, calling, “Places, everyone. If you’re supposed to be sleeping, start doing it now...”
Bane climbed half over the back of his seat, kissed me hard on the lips and got back down into his sleeping position as the coach moved off. I did the same, half concealed against the curtain. Jane adjusted the stiffened hair and laid a jacket over me, further shielding my face.
“Now, don’t move!”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Emily stop fussing with Jon and drape herself on his shoulder. Also showing a lot of leg. Was that a faint stab of... jealousy? Oh, for goodness’ sake, Margo! Be nice if he and Emily did get together.
Okay, keep breathing. Just say a rosary. Concentrate on that. Hail Mary... My fingers twitched slightly as I tried to keep count. Hail... hail... what came next?
The coach slowed down and drew gently to a halt. Father Mark wasn’t a bad coach driver. I tried to draw deep, steady breaths, keeping my eyes closed.
The door hissed open.
“Hello.” Marian Forbes’s bright voice. “D’you need to come on?”
“We need to see your travel documents. Are you a school group?”
“That’s right. Heading for Venice.”
“We need your group pass, then.”
“Of course. Here you are.”
A little beep as the guard scanned the group pass and the list of names appeared on his hand scanner. All real New Adults, safe in their beds somewhere in Yorkshire. The defection of most of the boys had called for some last minute amendments – Miss Forbes and Mrs. Clayton had taken care of that whilst I was being carted half-conscious through the Fellest.
“Forty-five students?”
“That’s right.”
“We must perform a headcount.”
“Of course. Come aboard.”
The heavy tread of someone mounting the stairs... I tried desperately not to tremble, not to gasp for breath, not to squeeze my eyes too tightly shut. Miss Forbes stayed silent until the footsteps were perhaps halfway up the bus, then began to talk again, presumably to a guard who still stood by the door. Hoping to distract them just that little bit more?
“Must say, I’ve been on quite a few school trips to the continent and this is the first time the barriers have been down on the bridge. Is it because of that escape? Looks like you’ve had some trouble.”
“Just a precaution,” was the noncommittal reply.
The footsteps reached the back of the bus – a slight pause about the length of two long pairs of legs and they retreated again.
“Forty-five,” confirmed the guard.
“Glad to hear it!” laughed Miss Forbes.
“I’m sure you are,” said the voice, tolerant but rather bored. “On you go, have a nice trip.”
“Thanks. Have a good afternoon.”
The door hissed closed. The coach eased forward.
“I don’t know about joining the Sisters of Revelation, you should go to Hollywood,” said Father Mark. Miss Forbes laughed rather hysterically.
Easing my eyes open a crack, I looked out the window as the barrier slid past. Rows of holes scored the concrete walls of the checkpoint booth and over by the side of the bridge a patch of freshly scorched and bubbled tarmac suggested something large had been blown up. An armored vehicle?
The Resistance were supposed to have gone through here three or four hours ago, about the time we’d left York, making very sure to be noticed. They’d done that, all right. Luckily for us. Knowing – or so they thought – exactly where their quarry now weren’t, the EuroGov had promptly relaxed the checks on those travelling through and exiting the British Department.
The coach sped sedately on – sitting up and opening my eyes properly, I stared out at the channel. Grey blue, stretching away to the horizon. The mighty supporting arches of the bridge towered above us.
Bane took Jane’s place and slipped his arms around me.
“There, we did it,” he said, feeling me trembling. “And getting off the island was always going to be the hardest bit, wasn’t it?” He put on a confident voice – I rested my head on his shoulder and didn’t mention one and a half thousand kilometers still to go.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” I said instead.
“Is it just. One sec...” Gently detaching me, he moved along the aisle, opening all the roof windows. “Smell the sea, Jon?”
Jon stared into space with an intent, entranced look on his face.
“Thanks, Bane. I’ve never been to the sea.”
“Well, you’re over it, now.”
The Resistance had gone to town on the French checkpoints. Only one booth left standing, bullet holes and blistered tarmac everywhere, and a group of engineers were still trying to winch in a tank which had smashed through the thick bridge wall and dangled precariously over the channel. No barriers left to pu
t down – the lights were green anyway. The horse was gone, why cause tailbacks by shutting the stable door now?
I peered grimly at it all from behind the curtain.
“I wonder how many guards they killed.”
Bane said nothing.
“Perhaps they ran for it,” said Jon.
“There’s nowhere to run,” said Bane.
“Did you know about this?” I asked him.
“They said the Frogs would distract the checkpoints when they reached the other side, that’s all.”
“You knew what they were packing, though.”
“Yeah, but if you’re going to try and run the Channel Bridge by force, you don’t leave the bazookas at home, do you? They weren’t going to use more than they had to. Didn’t look like they had, at the other end. But I didn’t speak to the Frenchies.”
“S’pose not.” He’d a point. From the look of the crumbled remains of the booths, most of the bazookas had come from the landward side.
Bane’s face lightened slightly.
“I’d love to hear the story behind that tank, though!”
“What tank?” asked Jon.
A massive gantry screen hung over the traffic on the main autoroute out of Calais. My breath caught in my throat – three photos displayed there, six meters high. Me. Bane. Jon. Beneath, it simply said ‘Wanted: call 112 immediately’.
“How’d I make the three most wanted?” muttered Jon, after Bane filled him in.
“You’re too easy to spot,” Bane muttered back. “They figure if they find one of us three, they find us all.”
Everyone’s eyeballs pretty much rolled up in their heads as the sign went over us.
“Margo,” demanded Rebecca, “why do they want you? They were after you back at the Facility, weren’t they?”
“What did you do to piss them off so badly?” asked Jane, eyes narrowed.
“Look in that bag, Marian...” Father Mark’s voice came quietly to us, “that’s right. Pass that book back to Jane and Rebecca.”
A shiny new copy of ‘I Am Margaret’ arrived in Jane’s hands – she stared at it uncomprehendingly.
“You wanted to know where the stories went. There they are,” I told her.
“The winning postSort novel,” said Bane proudly. “Ignore the name on the front, that’s just some treacherous tart back in Salperton – Margo wrote that book.”
“It’s all about Sorting,” said Jon, equally proudly. “They published it ‘cause they thought it was fiction, then Margo told the world she wrote it and it’s all true and now the EuroGov have developed this terrible thirst for her blood.”
Jane opened it wonderingly, her brows drawing together as she skimmed lines here and there. She looked up at me at last with a troubled gaze.
“Margo... what exactly did they do to you in there?”
My insides dissolved as the memories flooded me – the pain, the terror, the helpless hopeless helplessness...
“Nothing.” I grabbed Bane, burying my face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around me – I could feel him shaking his head at Jane and no doubt glaring at her.
We drove on until we began to see signs for the town of Omer, by which time I’d stopped shaking and disentangled myself from Bane enough to look out the window again. Father Mark left the main autoroute and drove into the forest. All very flat forest, here, nothing rising on the horizon. Fields, once?
Soon we came to a halt in a lay-by.
Bane looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
I swallowed and Jane said, “You’d be better off with us, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” I said quietly. “The Resistance have now done their level best to disappear. They’re heading for the Spanish department by back roads and the EuroGov will probably be vaguely on their tail. But because they can’t be quite sure where they are, there’ll be checkpoints at every major town on the continent. And though they’re unlikely to demand individual ID cards from a coach with a proper group travel pass,” please, Lord? “they will almost certainly take a look at each and every person on board. You see why we have to get off?”
“Can’t we just drive along back roads like this?” suggested Rebecca.
“A coach off the main autoroute will attract attention,” said Father Mark quietly. He’d come up the aisle unnoticed. “Especially one supposed to be driving straight to Venice. When we get to the Italian department we’ll just have to make a break for it, but until then we can’t afford to attract any attention at all. All it takes is for them to demand our actual ID cards and... Well. Enough said.”
The only person on board with a safe ID was Marian Forbes.
I looked at Bane, trying to ignore the pleading in his eyes and the terror writhing inside me. Don’t be silly, Margo. It may even be safer to leave the coach.
“We’d better get changed.”
Wordlessly, he lifted a hold-all from the luggage rack and began to empty it. My jeans and tunic, Jon’s clothes and his own. Time to part company with my plastic sheet. I let Bane help me on with the jeans – still too painful to do by myself and there wasn’t going to be anyone else to do it. His anxious gaze was riveted to my cling-filmy dressings, anyway.
I wobbled and winced my way down the aisle straddle-legged like a cowboy, then Bane scooped me up, carried me down the steps and stood me on my feet again. Jane and Sarah managed to trail us off the coach before Father Mark made everyone else stay in their seats.
Sarah clung to me, crying, while Bane and Father Mark pulled three hiking rucksacks from the coach’s hold and began attaching two of them together. Jane hovered – undecided whether to carry on urging me to stick with them or not?
“Bane,” I objected, “Jon can’t carry both of those!”
“Well, I’m going to be carrying you, so you can’t carry yours.”
True, but... “It’s such a lot for Jon to carry.”
“Bane’ll be carry a rucksack and you. That’ll weigh more,” said Jon stiffly.
“I know, but no offence, Bane doesn’t need to concentrate so hard on where he’s going.”
“He brought me a stick.” Jon held up a long, thin, telescopic hiking stick. He’d left his old garden cane in the hold – too noticeable.
“We’ve no choice, Margo,” said Bane. “The only stuff we could throw out is food and it won’t get us far as it is.”
A shiver ran down my spine at this reminder of the difficulties ahead.
“Well – I s’pose we can always dump some if it is too much.”
“I’ll be fine.” Jon hefted the combined pack up onto his back and staggered slightly. “Phew. Not that I’ll be sorry when you’re walking again!”
“Okay, we’d better move.” Father Mark slammed the luggage holds. “Back aboard, you two.”
“I’ll see you soon, Sarah,” I assured her, a slight exaggeration even if everything went exactly according to plan for both groups. “You’ve got to go back on the coach now. Don’t be upset, Mark will look after you, and Rebecca and Caroline and Harriet will too.”
“And me.” Jane gave Sarah a little pat on the shoulder and pushed her towards the coach. “Go on.”
Jane hovered for a moment more before finally giving me a quick, awkward hug and chasing Sarah up the steps. Father Mark hugged me too and clasped hands with Jon and Bane – blessed us each in turn.
“Good luck. May the Lord be with you.”
“And with you,” we said pretty much in unison, our eyes flicking to the crowded coach behind him.
He climbed back on board, the doors hissed closed, the engine started and the coach began to move, roaring away down the road. We stood and waved until it disappeared among the trees – then stood together in a long silence.
###
Boring Legal Bit
Copyright © 2014 Corinna Turner
First published in the UK by Unseen Books* in 2014
This US edition published in the UK by Unseen Books in 2015
The rig
ht of Corinna Turner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner or, in the case of reprographic production, only in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, and may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All scripture quotations are from the Knox Bible Copyright © 1945 Diocese of Westminster. Used by permission.
Except p. 53, ll. 36-37, and p. 62, ll. 32-33, which are from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible—Second Catholic Edition (Ignatius Edition) Copyright © 2006 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
And p. 62, ll. 24-25, which are from The Psalms: A New Translation Copyright © 1963 The Grail (England) published by HarperCollins. Used by permission.
Cover design by Corinna Turner and Regina Doman.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-910806-06-7 (paperback)
Also available as an eBook
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* An imprint of Zephyr Publishing, UK—Corinna Turner, T/A
I Am Margaret Page 33
