by Jo Zebedee
“Carter.” John’s voice was louder than he’d meant it to be and the colonel, standing with his soldiers, glanced round.
“Yes?” asked Carter.
Were you really on the aliens’ side? John grimaced; there were more important questions, ones he had to ask no matter how much he dreaded the answer. “What about our families?”
Carter paused for a moment too long. John’s stomach dropped. Taz tensed beside him.
“I’m taking care of it,” said the policeman, finally. “I’ll let you know.”
“They’ll be all right?” Taz’s voice shook and John looked at him, surprised. Taz would rather die than let anyone see weakness.
“I’ll do my best to make sure they are,” said Carter.
No promise, this time. Taz half-stood, but one of the soldiers brought his rifle round. Taz sat down again.
“My mother, she’s all that I have,” he said. “And wee Josey...” He glanced at John, and then lowered his gaze. Josey shouldn't be in this mess.
Carter nodded. “I understand.” He looked at John and seemed to think for a moment, before saying, “I can tell you Sophie and Stuart are being placed somewhere no one is going to find them.” He nodded at the colonel. “We’re just arranging it now.”
“But you don’t know about Josey?” Everything was far away, as if John’s mind was keeping things at bay until he was able to deal with them.
“No,” said Carter. “I don’t." He swallowed, throat rippling. "I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”
John glared at him. Not enough. Not nearly enough. John thought of Gary McDowell’s dark eyes and smirk, his way of knowing what you were ashamed of and using it against you. He’d keep Josey as long as he needed to, and then he’d discard her. He cleared his throat.
“Carter?” He’d have to tell Carter who had Josey. He had no choice; not to would only delay McDowell’s plans. He cleared his throat. “It’s McDowell. He set us up.”
The cop breathed out, a breath of relief. “Thank you.” He straightened. “I’ll get onto it.”
CHAPTER NINE
Taz nudged John and pointed at Carter coming through the door of their shared cell. “What the fuck has he got there?”
John grinned; it was good to see Taz getting back to his old self. The grin fell when he saw what appeared to be two walking kettles on either side of the officer.
“I have not a fucking notion,” he said. “But it doesn’t look good.”
Carter dropped into one of two seats opposite them. “I’ve brought you something,” he said. "They're bots. They’re to provide access to the curriculum for you."
John exchanged a look with Taz, who didn’t even try to keep his face straight. He found his own smile threatening and had to look away from his friend and back to Carter who was waiting, patiently, obviously expecting some kind of response.
“What, does it make tea in the morning?” asked John.
“A sauna: it’ll give off steam and fill the room,” said Taz, his voice shaking with laughter. John stifled a snort.
Carter didn’t look amused. “These are your personal bots,” he said, “and they cost a bloody fortune, so stop smirking.”
John managed to pull his face straight, but he didn’t dare glance at Taz.
“Do we need bots?" he asked.
“Yes. One day, we will get you out. When we do, you need some sort of education behind you.” Carter leaned forward. “You’re smart lads; there’s going to be bugger all else to do wherever they send you.” He paused, and went slightly red. “They might be good company."
That did it. John collapsed with laughter. Taz was already almost on the floor. John tried to speak, couldn’t, and had to give it a moment. Finally, he squeezed out, “You don’t think having a walking teapot for company might give us some trouble?”
He looked down at the bots. One seemed to be watching him. He frowned, and shifted away. It turned very slightly. The other waddled – it had legs, little dinky legs, like Stuart’s Fisher-Price dog he’d had as a kid – to Taz, taking up position beside him. They were obviously crafted from the same sort of domestic appliance. John’s – well, he thought it might be his, since it still seemed to be watching him – was slightly smaller, a tiny antenna where the nose might be on a real face. It had three arms, each seeming to have a different function, though he had no idea what. A circle of lights about two-thirds up looked like a hairline and flashed in what appeared to be a friendly fashion. He glanced at Taz’s; it had a slower light pattern, making it seem ever so slightly grumpy.
Grumpy? He shook his head; he was mad, a bot couldn’t be grumpy. Well, not one like this.
“If we don’t want them?” he said. His bot’s lights flashed, almost as if accusing him.
Carter shrugged. “I can’t take them back, and they’re programmed to you. Keep them – you might be glad of them. I do think you should do some courses, really I do.” He made a face. “If you absolutely can’t stand them, you can shove them in a cupboard somewhere.”
Both bots swivelled to face the policeman. They had a range of metal panels across the rear of them, but none of the character of the front.
Carter put his hands up, as if in surrender. “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “Of course they won’t stick you in a cupboard.”
The bots swung back to their masters and seemed to be waiting. John glanced at Taz, who shrugged slightly.
“ ’Course we won’t,” Taz muttered, and John found himself agreeing. He glared at the policeman. Bots? In a prison? What they needed was a set of master keys. Still… he glanced down; it was kind of cute. He’d have to find a name for it. He barely resisted the urge to pat the bot.
“Lads?”
John looked up at Carter’s quiet voice. “What?”
Taz leaned forward, his hands clasped together, tight enough that his knuckles were white.
“The trial has been set.”
John’s stomach fell, right to the floor. He looked over at Taz, who had paled, and tried to find his voice to ask when, but it came out as a strangled choke instead.
“When?” asked Taz, keeping his voice steady. John nodded his thanks and looked back at the policeman.
“Soon; they’re rushing it through.” Carter looked at his hands, and then glanced up. “They have somewhere to send you. It’s a new prison called Inish Carraig, run by the GC.”
“Is it all right?” asked Taz. “I mean, if it’s new, it can’t be too bad, can it?”
Carter nodded. “I’m sure you’re right, Taz.”
John stared at the inspector, who met John’s eyes, then Taz’s, and looked away, a muscle in his cheek twitching. Christ, he was lying. John’s stomach churned, loud in the empty room, and Taz didn’t even take the piss out of him for it. Carter would only lie if it was bad news.
Bollocks; they were in trouble.
CHAPTER TEN
Josey looked through the window at the now-familiar view: a hill, lots of grass, and sheep that looked like chalkmarks on the board at school. During the past week or two – she’d lost count – there had been no signs of life. No tractors, or farmers tending sheep, no houses lit up to break the darkness at night. It seemed like there was no one left in the world other than her, Liz, and Gary’s gang.
She tried to move her wrists, but hissed as the thick rope chafed her skin. Gary glanced over from the rocking chair, his eyes dark pools in the dim room, his mouth curled into a sneer. “Sit at peace.”
She settled for watching the fire in the open hearth, glad of the heat. Her arm ached from where he’d twisted it earlier when she’d asked to go to the toilet. She’d never known, when John and Taz played mercy, how sore it could be. Just like she hadn’t known how a slap over the ears could hurt, or a well-placed elbow in her stomach.
The flames flickered, dancing. It reminded her of Belfast when the Zelo had first come and the city had burst into flames. John said it was the bombs he remembered from the attack; for her it was the stench o
f fires, oily and thick in her throat, like tyres on bonfire night, only worse. This fire didn’t smell like that, but caught in the back of her throat and gave her a cough that wouldn’t go away. Liz had told her it was peat. All Josey knew was that it turned her stomach.
She glanced at Liz in the next seat and was glad to see she was asleep. Her wrists and ankles were tied, just like Josey’s, and she looked much thinner than when they’d been taken.
She curled up and closed her own eyes. Sometimes, if the men didn’t think she was listening, they got a little careless, and whilst she hadn’t learned anything useful – she didn’t actually know what she might find out – it seemed a good idea to try. And it took her mind off things.
“Carter, the turncoat, is running the lads.” Ray, full of endless energy, his voice tight and hard. Demos had left the day before, sent back to Belfast to find the older McDowell. “He has that fucking bulldog Peters as their gatekeeper. They’ll be looking for us.”
“Let them look,” said Gary. He stood and stretched, long and slow like a cat. His gaze strayed over Josey, taking his time, and she kept her eyes at a slit and her breathing steady. He glared across, making Josey’s heart quicken. Last night, he’d taken her up to the bare, cold toilet, and told her to sit on the edge of the bath. He’d pulled a knife from his pocket, a flick-type like John carried, but sharper and longer bladed. He’d spent ages – it had felt like an hour – telling her how he always kept it sharp because he never knew when he might need it. He’d put the blade against her cheek, letting her feel its edge, and waited until she’d nodded, careful not to cut herself, and agreed it was a fantastic knife. He’d only stopped when Ray had banged the door to get in.
The front door banged open, and Demos came in: pale, like he was sick, with flitting eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” demanded Gary, getting up from his seat.
“Your da.” Demos sank onto the ragged sofa, beside Ray. “He’s dead.”
“What are you on?” Gary shook his head. “He can’t be dead.”
“He is.” Demos ran his hands through his hair. “There wasn’t any doubt.”
“Who did it?” demanded Gary. He didn’t seem sad, but angry. “I’ll make sure they fucking pay.”
“No one knows.” Demos held his hands up, as if defending himself from Gary. “Or at least, no one was saying. But –”
“But, what?”
Demos licked his lips. “Look… by the time the cops found your da, there’d been animals at his body, and the forensics were bollixed. I wondered about… well, you know, the job. The employers....” He lowered his voice. “The Barath’na, I mean.”
Josey drew in a sharp breath. The Barath’na? They’d planted the virus? They were supposed to be the peaceful aliens, the ones who helped negotiate the Zelo ceasefire on Earth.
“Bullshit. It’ll have been one of the other gangs.” Gary swore, and kicked a can sitting in front of the fire. It hit the wall next to Josey, and she ducked her head, making herself smaller, before he could decide she was an easy target to take his anger out on.
“Did anyone know you were in town?” he asked Demos.
“Of course they did.” Demos gave a snort. “I didn’t know until I asked around what had happened – all the old gang have scattered. No one’s seen them since your da was killed.”
Gary’s eyes skittered from Demos, to Ray, to her, and back again, never settling, almost unhinged. There was a gleam in them, one that bore no resemblance to someone who’d just heard their da was dead. He almost looked pleased.
She pulled her ankles up onto the seat, scrunched as small as she could, and turned her head to the fire. It had died down, the embers shifting light and darkness, and the smell was sweet and fragrant now, settling her. She was getting used to it. That thought, more than any before, made the room blur around her; this was her life now and nothing, not the dancing fire, or Liz, or John, held any way to her freedom.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
John held the bar, his shoulders burning, and gritted his teeth. Another four. He tightened his grip, tensed his muscles, and pulled it down behind his neck. The repetition he’d known for the last couple of years, the concentration on building strength, kept his mind off what was going to happen next. For now, he could lose himself in the need to take a measured breath and count to five. Raise the bar, don’t think. Three more. Steel yourself.
“John.” Peters’ voice cut through his concentration.
He pulled the bar down, following the same pattern. After he’d brought it up, he squeezed out, “What?”
“The inspector’s here.”
John nodded. “Can I finish the set?”
“Go ahead,” said Peters, and John repeated the exercise. He finished the last but one, half wishing the sergeant had called a halt to it, and pulled once more, but when he let the bar up he was a little too quick and his shoulder gave a twinge of protest. He pushed his sweat-damp hair back and picked up his towel. It was nice to be back in the gym, even if Peters was always there too. The soldier had been good, though, giving John tips about his technique, and warning him off any equipment he didn’t think John was ready for. John looked at Peters’ muscled arms under his tight drill t-shirt, and it was impossible not to be jealous. One day, he’d be like that: too big to be knocked around or ignored. If he couldn’t use his strength for rugby, he’d use it to look after himself. They couldn’t take that away from him.
“Ready?” Taz was sitting on one of the exercise bikes, his brown eyes worried. “It’s time to see Carter.”
“Aye.”
They followed Peters through the rec section and past two soldiers on the outer door, one of whom nudged the other and smirked. John clenched his fists. They were talking about him, he bet – the trial ahead, the possible Zelo revenge. He was sick of it; he couldn’t even go for a piss without someone knowing who he was. He stopped in front of them, squaring up to the taller of the two. “Looking at something?”
The soldiers exchanged a glance, but didn’t answer. Peters reached forward, opened the door to the main barracks, and pushed John through.
“Enough,” the sergeant said. His voice was exasperated at best, pissed off at worst. “Stop playing the big lad.”
“Get your fucking hands off me.” John wrenched out of Peters’ grasp. “I’ll do you for brutality.”
Peters growled under his breath. He led them to a small interview room, and John took the towel from his shoulders. He rubbed it through his hair and hunched forwards. It was cold, like the room hadn’t been used recently, and his t-shirt was sweaty and damp. “Can I get a shower?”
“Later.”
Peters left, and John glanced over at Taz. “He’s a twat. If I get hypothermia, d’you reckon I should sue?”
“Aye, you could spend it on a break-out fund.” Taz looked at the door. “He’s all right, you know. You shouldn’t wind him up.”
“How else am I going to pass the time?” John rubbed his arms; it was brass monkeys in here. “You should do a bit of working out, you know. Wherever we’re going, it mightn’t do any harm for you to be able to look after yourself.”
“If we’re going to the Zelo, no amount of working out is going to help.”
John’s stomach turned over – they’d have to be told soon, surely, what was to happen to them. “True.”
“Besides, if I lifted one of those weights, I’d end up squashed by it.” Taz stuck his tongue out, miming being caught under one, finishing up with an exaggerated choking noise. Briefly, he looked like his old self.
“I’m serious about the gym,” said John, laughing. “The doctors said it might make you feel better. Doing stuff.”
“The doctors don’t know shit. This isn’t in my head. My bones do hurt. Like little shocks, right to the centre of them.”
The door opened and Carter walked in, accompanied by a woman in a smart business suit. John’s mouth went dry. She was hot. Tall, with big doe eyes. After a month of not s
eeing any woman other than the occasional soldier – and they were hard to tell apart from the male soldiers, frankly – he found himself looking at her stupidly. Taz had his mouth open too. He wasn’t that sick, then.
“John, Taz, this is Ms Dean.” Carter needed a shave and his eyes were bagged and tired. He looked about ten years older than when John had first met him. “She’s a lawyer who specialises in youth cases. She’s going to outline the case against you and talk about your options.”
John stood, feeling self-conscious in his gym gear, and stretched out a hand. This was the promised counsel? Go, Carter.
“Hiya.” His heart jumped when she took it and met his eyes. Taz didn’t get up, and he nodded down at him. “This is Taz.”
Taz’s eyes widened, and John wanted to kick him, he looked so gormless. Then he realised he was still holding his hand out, and sat down. No point in both of them looking like idiots. Taz nodded, muttered hello, and the woman sat opposite.
“It’s nice to meet you both,” she said. “My name is Catherine Dean. You can call me Catherine, if you like. I’m here to talk about the trial, and how you intend to plead.” She nodded to the door, and pointedly back at Carter. “You can leave us, Inspector.”
The cop backed to the door. John exchanged a glance with Taz and got to his feet. “Wait a minute.”
The counsel leaned forward and he could see down her top. God, she was fit…. He sat down at a safer angle.
“John, Taz... may I call you that?” she asked. “The inspector can’t be with us when we talk. If you agree to me representing you, whatever we discuss is done privately.”
John looked at the table, swallowing panic. Taz’s leg jittered. Until Josey was standing in front of him, John couldn’t tell anyone anything. That was why they’d taken her – to buy his silence. And only in holding that silence could he give Carter time to find her.
“We’re guilty,” he said, taking his time over each word. “We took the virus onto the hill. We released it. We knew what it was, but we don’t know where it came from. We were promised food by a bloke we vaguely knew, but don’t have a name for, and we did it. On purpose. Knowing it would kill the Zelo.”
