He was AngelOfFire.
I scrolled back, looking for other entries under the same name. There were several, all filled with ugly, mindless, hate-filled rants. A couple mentioned the Canal Street market bomb specifically, while one from a week or so ago actually said the country needed “bombs not talk.”
Footsteps sounded on the landing. Jas must have come upstairs without me hearing. Palms sweating, I quickly closed the page and turned away. As I crossed the room, Jas called out my name.
“I’m here,” I said, stepping out of Nat’s room and onto the landing. No way could I tell poor Jas what I’d found. I needed time to think about it. “Just being nosy.”
“It’s fine.” Jas smiled. “Nat won’t mind.”
Right.
“I just wanted to see what his room looked like,” I went on, following Jas back into her room.
I left soon after, saying that I had to get home or Gail and Brian would worry. Jas frowned when I said this. It flashed through my head for a second that no one was worrying about her, then I set off on the ten-minute walk home. My head spun as I tried to make sense of what I’d seen on Nat’s computer.
There was no escape from what it meant: Nat was secretly a racist thug who believed in violence, in hurting people.
And then it hit me.
Nat had been there when the Canal Street market bomb went off. His brother had been caught in the blast but Nat hadn’t. He’d been safely out of the way in another part of the market, arriving immediately after the explosion.
Surely that was all too big a coincidence?
I stopped in the middle of the pavement, the chill October wind whipping at my face.
Why had Nat been in the market at all?
Had he planted the bomb?
That would certainly explain why he acted so weirdly around me. But what about his brother? I thought it through. Maybe Nat hadn’t realized his brother was there until it was too late.
Maybe he didn’t care.
The world spun inside my head. What had he written on the forum? Something about bombing ordinary people to create panic “like in the Canal Street market bomb.”
I didn’t understand how but I was sure that aloof, good-looking Nat, my new best friend’s brother, had been involved with the bomb that killed my mother.
As confusion settled into certainty, all I could think about was how I could prove it—and how I could make Nat pay.
NAT
I gazed around the storeroom. The light was dim, flickering across the crowd, highlighting the sheen of their black T-shirts and the glint in their angry eyes.
This was my chance to find out how Lucas had gotten involved with the League of Iron. I looked straight at Saxon66.
“I support everything you say,” I said, my heart beating fast at the lie. “But you promised tonight you’d talk to anyone seeking answers. And . . . and I want to know about the Canal Street market bombing.”
A series of shocked gasps rippled around the room.
Saxon66 let a thin smile play across his lips. “We’re not here to talk about the past. We’re here for the future.”
“Yeah.” The guy from the front row, Inquisitor, pushed his way closer toward me. He was thin, but wiry-looking. There was a terrifying tension about his whole body, as if he were coiled, ready to spring. “We’re talking about the future. We’re making plans.” He turned to the crowd and punched the air. “Iron Will!”
The crowd roared approval.
“I can do that too,” I said desperately. “But first I want to know—”
“You’ve got a plan?” Saxon66 interrupted.
“Come off it, he looks about twelve,” Inquisitor said.
Everyone laughed.
“Go on then, boy,” the Goth woman sneered. “What’s your plan?”
Blood thundered in my ears. My hands were still shaking so I shoved them back into my pockets. An image from years back of Lucas laughing at me as I played soccer flashed into my mind. Back then, I would have given anything for his approval: Lucas the brave, who had point-blank refused to take entrance exams to private school and so had ended up at the local high school. I had badly wanted to follow him there, but Mum and Dad had overruled me, insisting I took up my free place at Newbury Park.
“Okay,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Firstly I don’t get why all your bombs and death camps, whatever, have to be aimed at immigrants—or at poor people in food lines. Bombing people just makes everyone hate you. It’s pointless.”
Inquisitor narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Killing blacks is pointless?” The Goth woman raised her eyebrows.
“Listen.” I took a deep breath. “There has to be a system—specific goals for specific reasons.”
“You mean like gas chambers?” Inquisitor’s eyes lit up. “Gassing the freaks until their eyes pop?”
I shook my head, trying not to show how sick his words made me feel. “No,” I said. “There has to be a big picture. A real plan to put the country back on its feet.”
“He sounds like a politician,” Inquisitor jeered.
“No, it’s . . . I . . .” I trailed off.
“Go on.” Saxon66 folded his arms. “Explain.”
I held his gaze and thought fast. Saxon66 seemed to be the leader here. Surely he must have known my brother. If I could impress him, maybe he would open up and talk about Lucas.
I tried to gather my thoughts. “Okay,” I went on. “You need a vision, a clear, strong vision of how you want the country to be. Then all you have to do is make people believe in that vision.”
“That sounds a lot more vague than a freaking bomb,” Inquisitor snapped.
The crowd laughed.
“Bombs aren’t the answer,” I persisted. “And massacres and death camps aren’t either. There doesn’t always need to be a big show of violence. It’s about being focused—prepared to do anything and risk everything to get what you believe in. Like a family would.”
It struck me that our entire family life had revolved around Lucas: Mum and Dad had indulged him; Jas and I had adored him. And yet somehow Jas had also found her own way with her music and, later, by making clothes. Whereas I, though I’d gotten better marks at school than either of them, had always lived in Lucas’s shadow.
A silence fell across the room.
“Nothing else to say, boy?” Goth woman said nastily.
“Bombs just make people hate you,” I said. “And you need people on your side. You have to do what it takes. You might think that a big explosion makes a powerful point but it creates so many enemies that—”
“You mean like with 9/11 and the Twin Towers?” Someone across the room I couldn’t see interrupted.
“Yes,” I said. “Al Qaeda must have—”
“How dare you talk about Al Qaeda in here,” Inquisitor snarled. “We’re not going to take any lessons from a bunch of Muslims.”
I frowned. “No, I’m saying that—”
“Enough.” Saxon66 motioned me to be quiet. “Who put all these ideas in your head, lad?” he asked.
I drew myself up. This might be my only chance. “My brother,” I said. “His name is Lucas Holloway. He—”
“Never heard of him.” Saxon66’s voice cut over mine. Our eyes met. Despite his flat denial, I was sure he had recognized Lucas’s name. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Let’s move on.”
My heart sank. Clearly Saxon66 wasn’t going to admit he knew Lucas, though I was sure that he did. It hit me suddenly that coming here had been a total waste of time. Lucas, carrying a bomb into a market, had been a mindless idiot, lashing out to make some point I still didn’t even really understand.
And I wasn’t going to understand it any better by staying here a minute longer.
I stood up and walked to the door. Inquisitor and another man blocked my way. For a second I thought they were going to hit me but then Saxon66 called out:
“Let him go, he’s just a kid.”
; Sarcastic shouts rose up behind me as I stumbled out of the storeroom. I bolted for the shop exit, abuse echoing after me. Out on the pavement I raced along the dimly lit street, desperate to get away.
Bound up in my own, dark thoughts, I was so intent on getting home that I barely noticed the rain that had just begun to fall. Once or twice I thought I glimpsed someone following me—just the merest hint of a shadow moving in the corner of my eye. But when I turned around, no one was there.
CHARLIE
The next few days were hell. I didn’t know what to do. Nat was obviously involved with the League of Iron and, though his angry post stopped short of actually saying so, it was clear to me that he’d helped set off the Canal Street market bomb: As AngelOfFire he supported the League’s views and the League had claimed responsibility for the bombing. On top of which, he had actually been there during the explosion.
It was sickening, especially considering what happened to his own brother. But, before I could go to the police, I needed proof that Nat was AngelOfFire. Simply explaining what I’d seen on his computer wasn’t good enough.
I would have liked to talk to Jas, but telling her I was sure that one of her brothers was a murderer who had left the other in a coma was impossible. So I kept my mouth shut, though finding some way to expose Nat was all I could think about.
I woke early on Saturday morning. Gail and Brian were talking in low, serious tones as I walked into the kitchen.
“Hi,” I said, drifting over to the kettle, my angry thoughts still all on Nat.
“Morning, Charlie,” Brian said.
Gail gave a nervous cough. “I’m glad you’re up,” she said. “We want to talk to you.”
I turned, focusing on them at last. “What is it?”
Gail wouldn’t meet my eyes. Suddenly filled with foreboding, I looked at Brian.
“We need to talk about the future,” he said. “It’s almost two weeks since you came here and we’d like to know how you feel . . . how you’re thinking . . . about moving in permanently.”
“Oh.” I looked at them both. I’d been so caught up thinking about Nat and what to do that I had forgotten our two-week deadline.
“Do you like being here, Charlie?” Gail asked nervously.
“Er, yes,” I said.
“It’s just we’ve noticed you spend a lot of time on your own in your room,” she went on. “I mean Rosa does too, it’s the age you’re both at, but . . .” she trailed off.
“Do you need more time to work things through?” Brian asked. “We don’t want to put you under any pressure. The school says you’ve settled in well, no problems with any of the classes or staff.”
I nodded. The three of us stood in an awkward silence.
“It’s just we were wondering if you wanted to do anything to your room?” Gail went on. “It’s a bit bleak at the moment because we’ve had it as a spare, but it might help you feel more at home if you decorated.”
“I like it bare,” I said truthfully.
“Is there anything you’d like from your Aunt Karen’s?” Brian asked. “Or anything from your mum’s old apartment? We’ve got the space here for furniture or whatever.”
I thought it over. The only possessions I had that were truly important to me, apart from a few photos, were all those kids’ books that Mum had bought me.
“I’d like to put up some bookshelves,” I said. “Get my old books from my aunt’s.”
Gail nodded eagerly. “Sure, we’ll send Karen the money so she can pack them up and send them to us.”
“Thanks.” Gail and Brian were being so nice. This place would never be home, but I appreciated them trying so hard to make me feel welcome.
“There’s just one thing, Charlie,” Gail said, twisting her fingers together.
I stared at her. “What’s that?”
“It’s Rosa.” Brian and Gail exchanged a swift glance. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we’re not sure you and Rosa have really hit it off like we’d hoped.”
I shrugged, feeling embarrassed.
“If you do want to stay,” Gail ventured, “we’d like you to make a bit more effort with her. You know, talk to her about school. Just . . . just . . .”
“Try and get to know her a bit,” Brian continued. “She’s a lovely girl and she says she’s always trying to involve you in things with her friends, chat about school . . . like girls do.”
I stared at the kitchen floor, a dull ache in my chest. So it was all about Rosa. For a moment I’d thought that Brian and Gail were offering me a real home. But a real home exists only when the people inside it truly love one another more than anyone else in the world. And Brian and Gail didn’t . . . couldn’t . . . love me like they did their own daughter. I couldn’t blame them. I loved Mum more than them. That’s how it’s supposed to be: parents and children on the inside together, with the rest of the world on the outside.
“We don’t want you to hear this as criticism,” Gail said softly. “We know this adjustment period is hard for you, but it’s a challenge for all of us, especially Rosa. You’re the same age, though I know she’s not quite sixteen yet and . . . Look, all we’re asking is that you give her a chance, maybe open up a bit.”
“I understand,” I said, looking up. “I’ll try.”
Well, what else could I say?
“Thank you, my love.” Gail crossed the kitchen and gave me a hug.
“Does this mean you want to make this your permanent home?” Brian asked.
I nodded. I knew now that I was staying for just one reason. I went over it in my head as Brian talked about dealing with Social Services. Thanks to the cuts he was sure it wouldn’t be hard to get the paperwork done, even if it meant slipping a social worker some extra money to move things along. He and Gail were smiling. So was I. But my smile was only for my lips.
In my heart was ice and fire.
Living here with Brian and Gail would never feel like my real home. I would never have a real home because I didn’t have Mum. And I didn’t have Mum because of the League of Iron.
And because of Nat.
NAT
I had to drag myself out of bed on Sunday morning. I had spent so much of the past six months trying to find out how on earth Lucas could have set off a bomb for the League and it all, now, felt like a gigantic waste of time. Even if Saxon66 had admitted Lucas’s involvement, I would still never understand it.
Everything was garbage, basically. Dad was exhausted from trying to hold things together at the garage, while Mum remained anxious and obsessed with Lucas in the hospital. Even in the wider world, the latest coalition Government was on the brink of collapse as the political parties failed, yet again, to agree on another round of austerity measures.
I’d caught Charlie staring at me a couple of times at school—a fierce look in her dark eyes I was certain hadn’t been there before—but we never spoke. I assumed she was annoyed because I’d made so little effort to get to know her. Well, I wasn’t going to let that bother me. I had enough to deal with.
The only person who noticed how bad I was feeling was Jas. She’d asked me what was wrong yesterday. I’d lied, telling her I had a stomachache from food poisoning. Jas had made me a hot-water bottle, just like Mum used to.
I felt guilty for lying, but there was no way I could have told her the truth about how I was feeling. To be honest, I didn’t really understand it myself.
It was almost noon by the time I got up and poured myself a bowl of cereal, then realized no one had remembered to buy any milk. Cursing my entire family, I scraped together some loose change and popped to the corner store. As I walked home again, a jogger barged past me, almost pushing me into the road. I swore at him, but he just ran off along the street. I got back home just as Dad—gray-faced and pink-eyed—was leaving.
“Gotta get to the garage,” he muttered, hurrying outside.
Feeling more disgruntled than ever, I retrieved my bowl of cereal, added milk, then trudged up the stairs back to
my room. Mum always used to insist that we sat down together for a roast lunch on Sunday. She would have the radio on in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables or made gravy with me and Jas. Sometimes Dad would wander in when a dance tune was playing and sweep her round the floor. Mum would laugh and scold him that we “wouldn’t be eating till five at this rate.” Jas and I would watch, rolling our eyes and giggling, before arguing over whose turn it was to peel the potatoes or set the table. Lucas—who inevitably stayed out on Saturday nights—would turn up just in time to eat, sometimes with a pretty girl on his arm and always with a little bunch of flowers for Mum.
It was obvious to me that Lucas had picked the flowers from passing gardens and window boxes and I was pretty sure Mum realized this too. But she was still delighted every time, her eyes shining as Lucas hugged her and told her she was the best mother in the world. On days like those, the house had been full of chatter and laughter: lots of happy noise. Now it was so quiet you could hear yourself breathe.
I chucked my jacket on the floor and took a big spoonful of cereal. As I sat down on my bed my phone rang. I registered the sound dully, not sure I could be bothered to answer. Except . . . wait. The sound wasn’t coming from my cell. The ringtone was slightly different.
I set down my cereal bowl and fished my handset out of my jeans. It definitely wasn’t ringing, yet the trill of a phone still filled the air. I looked across the room. The sound was coming from my jacket on the floor. I sped over and put my hand in the pocket. My fingers closed on another phone. Heart thumping, I pulled it out. It was a basic model, with “number withheld” flashing up on the screen.
The phone rang a third time. Where had it come from? It definitely hadn’t been in my pocket when I left to buy milk earlier. The only person I’d passed had been that jogger.
The cell rang again. There was nothing else to do but answer it.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, Nat.” It was a man’s voice: smooth and slightly amused.
In a Split Second Page 6
