by Jo Zebedee
The door to the bedroom closed and she waited for the footsteps to carry on down the corridor. She swung her legs out of bed. The room swam for a moment but it wasn’t as bad as yesterday, and she waited for it to pass. When it did she tiptoed to the wardrobe and pushed the doors open: tops, trousers... finally, a coat.
A couple of minutes later she looked at herself in the mirror and had to force back a giggle. As well as the shorts and t-shirt, the coat she’d pulled on drowned her. She remembered Stuart using Da’s as a blanket…. Her lip quivered at the memory of him curled up, thumb in his mouth, and she had to force herself not to think about it.
Food? That was a problem; she didn’t want to go downstairs. She glanced at the bedside table, saw the lunch Paula had left earlier, and picked up the bread, squashing it into her pocket. She took the cup of soup and, even though it was cold, drank it; that would keep her going. She had a look in the drawers of the little unit and was rewarded with a bar of chocolate. Finally she drank all of the glass of water, not knowing how to carry it with her.
Last thing, then: shoes. She looked at Sean’s sturdy boots lined up along the bottom of the wardrobe and wanted them so badly it made her tummy feel funny, but they’d never fit. Instead, she pulled on her mud-caked sneakers. When she’d got them, she’d been dead pleased; they’d had glitter sides and lit up when she walked. Ma had said they were twice as expensive as normal trainers, and she’d better wear them enough to get their money’s worth. Now the lights were long gone, the glitter obliterated by months of trekking the streets of Belfast, and the soles had started to come away from the uppers.
She stood, listening. The upstairs was quiet. Had Sean already gone? She crossed to the window and looked out, as if expecting the miracle of a railway line running through the farm, and saw a double gate in the distance, like the one where the girl in the news had crossed listening to her iPod and got hit by a train. Josey wished she had an iPod.
She lifted the window frame and squirmed out. Below was a flat roof, part of an extension. The drop was no further than theirs had been in Belfast. But if she jumped and there was anyone in the kitchen… she looked to the side, saw the drainpipe, and decided that was much more sensible. She edged towards it, glad of all the times she’d scurried across the estate, into empty houses whatever way possible, and half-jumped, half-stepped onto it. From there, she slipped down, using the sneakers’ rubber soles to slow her. No wonder her shoes were ruined. She landed with a jar that went through her ankles right up to her knees, and stopped, listening. Nothing.
She took a last glance at the house and its little kitchen, not wanting to go. She’d felt safe there. It was hard to take the first step, easier to take the next. This wasn’t her place. She ran across the farmyard, keeping to the shadows, and reached the double gates, but they were only a farm gate.
She bit her lip. Which way? In the distance, a small footbridge took her attention and she smiled, setting off for it. Finding her way back: no trouble, no trouble at all. Not for Josey Dray, who’d managed to get away from Gary, who was smart enough to know who she needed to ask for, and who’d climbed down a drainpipe. She strode, confident, and even found herself singing. She saw the glint of the track ahead and ran to it. This time, not like in Carrick, she made it down the embankment without a hand stopping her. She paused. Right or left? Each had to go somewhere. Left, she decided; John was left-handed. It was as good as anything. She started to walk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
John had no idea how long he stood. Most of the morning, anyway, long enough that all he wanted was to curl on his bunk and lick his wounds. His eyes drooped and the wall around him loosened. He hadn’t been imagining it, then; when he was fighting it, the wall held him tighter.
He tried to think pleasant thoughts. Blue skies, sand... a day out with his parents and siblings... picking raspberries from the allotments and eating so many he puked pink juice. His line stayed stubbornly amber. He wasn’t made for calm. He never had been – his da used to say he was only quiet when he was asleep.
The sea, the quiet sound of the sea.
Amber. Fuck. Breathe in, out, in, out, in, out. Amber. Change, you bastard.
No good. Woodland. Birdsong. Breathe. He closed his eyes, let the time go by. Easy, easy, easy…
Footsteps. He jerked awake, and in front of him stood Neeta. Her eyes were a glinting black, hard to read. Others streamed in from the yard, jostling for their place in the queue. Some looked over at him – a few smirked, one or two gave smiles that may have been sympathy. Neeta crossed her arms. “You spiked. You need to learn not to spike, or they target you quicker.” She gave a lazy smile. “You need to let it all wash over you and get someone else targeted that day.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?” he asked. “Before I do it, this time.”
“Ain’t no joke. I’ve been here five weeks, I’ve learned.”
“What are you in for?”
She puffed out her chest. She wasn’t a bad looking girl, never had been, but now she had a caged way about her, a wariness that was new. It suited her.
“They found out I led the York Street runners.”
“Your gang were good,” he said. She gave a hard smile. She already knew, he guessed. He shifted in his restraints; they were definitely loosening a bit. “You know, I’m kind of busy now. Catch up later?”
“Why? You’re going nowhere.” She leaned forward. “We’d have taken you into the Yorkers if you hadn’t been with McDowell. You did good work, keeping your family together, bringing in food. Not many made it through on their own. I was watching you.”
The last line, so sassy and proud, pronounced him as a Someone, if Mad Neeta had noticed. A part of John surged, enjoying the faint praise, and wanted more.
“I just did what I was told,” he said, modest-like.
“Yeah, and then you did for the Zelo. That’s what we needed: someone to show Earth wasn’t weak.”
“I – I...” He should tell her he’d been a dupe, but she was looking at him like he was something special. He couldn’t lose the feeling it gave him. “Well, like you say, someone had to.”
“Aye, well, it’ll be a mixed blessing in here,” she said. “There’s some that think you brought the Barath’na instead, and no one here is a fan of the bastards. We know the shit that’s going down here.”
He raised an eyebrow. She was likely to be behind the shit. “Want to share?”
She shook her head and stepped back. “If you get your line onto green, they’ll let you out. If not, they’ll come and force lunch down you.” She made a quote shape in the air. “Health must be maintained for all prisoners. No hunger strikes allowed here.”
“They can’t keep me here forever,” he said. “I have my liaison cop coming tomorrow and I doubt they’ll want him seeing me like this.”
Neeta’s eyes brightened. “You have a cop coming? Why?”
Because he has a guilt complex as big as a house. “He ran our case. It was high-profile, and the GC were all over it. He agreed to be our liaison officer.”
She licked her lips. She was pretty rattled, he realised, nowhere near as together as she looked.
“We have to talk.” Her voice was husky. “I’ll arrange it.” She leaned in, real close. “Stay alert.” Her voice was a whisper against the exposed part of his cheek.
“What for?” he croaked. He needed her to back away and give him some space. This close, she dominated his thoughts, his body, so he couldn’t think.
“Life, death and aliens,” she said. She put a finger on his lips. It was warm, alive. He wanted to kiss it, but she pulled away, tutting. She knew, damn her. “No more. Not inside.” A bell sounded. “Chow time. Good luck.”
John watched her go, trying to make sense of the conversation. She joined the queue of prisoners. Ahead of her, Taz waited, his fuck-you smile absent, and John's relief at seeing him was quickly doused by his vacant stare and pale face. It wasn’t fair. He’d been getting better
over the past few weeks; the decent food in the barracks and regular visits from doctors had helped.
John drew in a breath. Beyond the canteen area the room was dimly lit and cast into shadows. The devil hides in darkness, his da used to say. What was hidden in the corners of Inish Carraig?
With a quiet sucking the wall gave way, spilling him to his knees. He didn’t move for a moment, but waited for his legs to stop shaking. When they did, he got to his feet. He had to learn the steps of the dance of survival in here, just as he'd done in Belfast. Then he’d know what was happening here and deal with it. It was what he’d always done, after all.
***
It was well into the afternoon and the trees were casting the tracks into dim light. The line hadn’t been used since the Zelo had invaded – none of them had. About an hour ago she’d come across one of the old trains, sitting empty like a ghost. She’d been tempted to try to break a window and spend the night there, but it had creeped her out to see the silent carriages. She’d wondered if the passengers had got home, or if they had died inside it, and hadn’t been able to bring herself to climb on and see. Now, she regretted the decision. She’d have to stop soon. She’d tripped twice already, and the last thing she needed was a broken ankle.
Six miles, that’s what Sean had said, and she must have walked that far already. Maybe she should have gone right. She tried to think of her limited geography, but all she knew was Coleraine was near Portrush. The summer scheme had gone to Portrush last year, and she and Sandra from down the street had shrieked when the roller coaster got to the very top. Taz, in the row behind, had tapped her shoulder and shouted, “I know the fella working the brakes. Christ, you wouldn’t let him drive your car.”
John had laughed, the roller coaster had dropped and all of them – even the boys – had shrieked even louder. She’d been sure they’d overshoot and die. After, she and Sandra had got off, clinging to each other, and went to the stand to get candy-floss.
Josey had to stop and wipe her eyes; Sandra had died on the first day of the invasion, trying to get home when school closed. About a week later, her mum had gone into the Waterworks and filled her coat pockets with stones. She’d climbed through one of the gaps in the railings and waded into the big pond. When Josey’s da and one of the other neighbours found her, swans were swimming around her body. Like they were looking after her, Da said. A week later, John had come home, really upset. All the swans had gone, except a few dead ones floating in the water after a Zelo bomb –
The sole of her shoe caught under one of the sleepers and Josey went flying forwards. She put her hands out and managed to catch her fall, skidding on the stones between the tracks. She sat up and brought her hands to her face. They were dark from the dirt. A moment later she felt a trickle running down her wrist and watched, fascinated in a weird way, as the blood ran down, separating into rivulets. Maybe she’d get blood poisoning and die. Or she might freeze to death. Or starve. And she was thirsty too.
She sat like that, she didn’t know how long, until something darted across the tracks ahead of her. A rat, it must be. She screamed and got to her feet, and then stood quietly. Her heart was beating too fast – she hated rats, filthy things – and her mouth was dry. She glanced to the side and the thick undergrowth. If she tried to sleep up there, the rats could be anywhere, but if she was here they’d run all over her. They’d run all over no matter where she was... she looked up, into the tree line, and wondered if it was possible to make a hammock out of the coat.
She took another moment, comparing the embankment and the railway line. She’d be better off the tracks, rats or not; she was too exposed.
Decided, she climbed the slope, into the undergrowth, and found a tree trunk that had some bare grass at its base. She leaned against the trunk; the undergrowth in front would hide her, and it felt high enough to be safe. She made sure Sean’s coat went beneath her bum. A year ago she wouldn’t have known heat was lost quicker to the ground than the air. It was amazing what an alien invasion could teach a person. She huddled into the coat.
She was so tired; she needed to sleep. She closed her eyes and dreamt of giant spiders coming down and eating the rats. Somehow, the spiders seemed cute, their little eyes twinkling at her, and she climbed on one, letting it carry her to its web in the trees, far away, where she couldn’t be found.
***
John sank onto his bed. He hadn’t believed he’d be glad to see the drab cell again when he’d left it that morning, but he was. He stared out the window at the darkening evening sky.
Taz hadn’t spoken to him over dinner, just looked on, his eyes glazed, and ate docilely when a Barath’na fed him. His right arm had needle marks tracking from his wrist to his elbow, and when his t-shirt had ridden up there’d been a gauze plaster, a big one, on his abdomen. John had pointed at it and asked what it was for but the Barath’na had ordered him to quiet, in the electronic voice underlain by growls that set John’s teeth on edge.
A reassuring thump on the bed announced the arrival of Jimmy. The bot waddled along the covers until it was right up beside John. They sat in silence. John found himself reaching down to pat the bot.
“This is a bloody mess of a place.” The bot’s antenna focused on him. “I’d give anything to know what lay beneath what I’m seeing. There’s so much not right.”
Jimmy gave a quiet beep, and projected a map onto the wall. John shook his head. “Not tonight, mate. I’m knackered.”
Jimmy gave another beep, insistent, and the projection flashed twice. Puzzled, John got up and went over to it – it was the same map of the prison from the night before, the same stark line of relief.
“You showed me this last night,” he said.
Another beep: exasperated. John put his hand on the wall, waiting as it became less solid. He should be used to it by now but when it began to move under him it was flowing, like mercury in the science class. He let out a yell and took his hand away.
“Jimmy, stop it,” he said. “That’s creepy.” The bot flashed, but the projection didn’t come down. The bot wanted John to touch it. He lifted his hand again. “All right, all right, this had better be good.”
He laid his palm on the wall, gritting his teeth, and the metal moved again, seething under him, shifting the way the Barath’na had last night over the rocks. He forced himself to track the movements as the map showed a series of tunnels and corridors, each filled with the seething bodies.
He’d asked to know what was under the prison. He took in the contours of tunnels, and tried to count the swarms filling them, but there was no way to keep up. Was this for real? Were there more Barath’na underneath?
“Oh, Jesus-fucking-H-Christ,” John muttered. “They’re everywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Another day, another bowl of porridge over and done with. John glanced up at the first floor. Taz wasn’t in the dining area and his force field was still up. John’s stomach knotted, all the worse for not having anything concrete to worry about, just what-ifs and maybes.
A girl elbowed him, her tired blonde hair pulled into a rubber band.
“Come with me,” she said. John frowned, not sure he should, but the prisoner tutted. “Stay chilled, keep your line down, and they won’t ask questions. Stay beside me, we’re on yard-time. Lady Neeta herself wants to see you.”
John followed her through the double doors to a small yard guarded by three Barath’na guards. He fought the urge to look down, imagining what lay beneath the prison, seething and shifting, growing in number all the time.
Neeta was already in the yard. She gave a sharp nod, but her eyes were wary and she made no attempt to come over to him. John took the hint and walked to the opposite side of the yard, if he could call it that: it was little more than a platform surrounded by low railings and – he stretched out his hand, jerking it back at the now-familiar crackle – yes, force fields behind the rails. No chance of hurtling over, then. Damn.
Across the yard
a group of four men had gathered. They glanced over at him from time to time, once with a sneer and a mumbled comment. The skin on the back of his neck tightened and his implant gave a fizz. He turned his attention to the land on the horizon, but watched them from the corner of his eye.
The air smelt of salt and seaweed and a sweet smell from the north, promising snow. In Belfast, he’d have struggled to keep the house warm. At least Stuart and Sophie were safe and might make it to a better year beyond. He thought back to Gary McDowell and his promise that John wouldn’t need to worry about the winter, and his mouth twisted. One way or another, it was true – here, there were more pressing things to worry about than a cold snap. On balance, he’d have preferred heating to be the issue.
The sound of footsteps behind him made him rise onto the balls of his feet. He spun and relaxed: it was Neeta.
“Keep your line down,” she said. “Out here, the only monitors are the lines, but the bastards move quickly if they’re raised. Inside, they hear everything. Understand?”
“Yeah.” He tried to be casual, but his heart was quickening. “You wanted to talk to me.”
“Your friend isn’t doing good.”
“How do you know? He wasn’t at breakfast this morning.”
“Exactly.”
He managed to keep his panic down, but it was crawling in his guts. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Maybe nothing. Some prisoners don’t last long; the Barath’na are quick to sort the weak from the strong.” She gave a short laugh. “Although even the healthy ones don’t last long.” Her voice dropped. “I’ve never seen them target anyone so quickly before, though.”
He paused, half of him wanting to stay in this moment of ignorance, the rest needing to know what lay ahead. “What happens when you’re targeted?”
