Inish Carraig

by Jo Zebedee

  “When, not if – you never were stupid, John.” She jerked her head back at the prison. “Did you notice the third floor in the prison?”

  “The private one?”

  “Yeah.” She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you?”

  He took the praise, but didn’t tell her about Jimmy and his magic wall. Just because she said there was no monitoring didn’t mean it was true, and he was damned if he was going to get caught out by her carelessness. “So, what about the third floor?”

  “It’s a medical wing.” She looked towards the guards and then back. “Nobody who has ever gone there has come back.” He had to lean in to hear her. “The Barath’na are doing something secret.”

  She crossed her arms, closing herself off from him, the way she used to in class when the whispers of Paki, or jibes about dirty skin, started up. He used to feel sorry for her; now he wished he’d been brave enough to tell his classmates to shut up.

  “I don’t get any visitors,” she said. “Even if my family had survived the war, they’d have disowned me for running a gang, no matter how bad things were.”

  “Why did you do it? What did you get from running a crew of kids?”

  She frowned. “I don’t have time for history.” But she stopped, swallowed, and then said, her voice proud, “No one else took any notice of the kids. They were going to be alien fodder if someone didn’t look out for them. And I wasn’t doing so good on my own – I needed a gang to make me harder to bring down.”

  It made sense, in a way. Belfast had been harsh; it had only been McDowell’s food payments and clothing for the kids that had kept John going as long as he did. “But you were brought down anyway?”

  “Yeah. Just before you did the job on the Zelo, I got caught nicking food from one of the banks.” She shrugged, and made a throw-away gesture. “But that’s history. What you need to know is that I don’t get visitors. No one does. Most of us don’t have family anymore, and those that do, don’t have families in the position to get passes into a GC-secured prison. That sort of thing takes people to fight for you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I bet you had a solicitor in court.”

  He thought of Catherine and how hard she’d worked for him and Taz even though they wouldn’t help her. “Yeah.”

  “I got pulled in front of a juvenile judge on the Monday and sentenced on the Tuesday,” she said. “Kicked my heels in a cop-cell until they transferred me up here. That’s what happened to most of us.” She gave a savage smile. “Your cop is the only official visitor I've heard of.”

  “So?”

  “So, you have to tell him that two thirds of the prisoners sent down aren’t here anymore.”

  It tallied with his own count. The confirmation only made things worse. He had to bite his lips from asking what lay ahead. There was no way he’d keep his line down if he let his fears take hold.

  “What about the Barath’na?” Information, hard facts, that was what he could deal with. “What do you know of them?” He kept his voice steady and managed not to look down at the island-nest below. “How many are there?”

  She shrugged. “Hard to tell. Plenty; they patrol all the time.”

  Should he tell her what Jimmy had shown him? But how would he make it sound like it was even possible? ‘I have a kettle-bot in my room who showed me the Barath’na overrunning the prison. There are more of them below it, and I think they might be planning to take over Earth.’ He shook his head; she’d never believe him. Hell, he barely believed it.

  “So, will you do it?” she asked, her voice edged, not quite pleading. He doubted if she knew how to. “Tell the cop if he makes it tomorrow?”

  John started. “What do you mean, if he makes it?”

  She leaned her head back and swallowed, hard. “I know the pattern. A month, maybe a little more, and then it’s the third floor for you. Quicker if you’re like your mate and already sick. I’ll be in the next selection. And you?” She met his eyes. “They don’t like troublemakers. As soon as the Barath’na work out a way to get your policeman off-side – and they will – they’ll take you, too. I’d be surprised if he even makes it tomorrow.”

  “Of course he’ll be here.” He took her arm, pulling her closer. “Inish Carraig is an audited facility. There could be – hell, there must be – other reasons for the prisoners being taken. What if they’re just moved to another part of the prison?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Hundreds of them? I’ve seen it, John.”

  She looked so sincere. He let go of her arm and stepped back. Could it be true? What Jimmy was showing him, what Neeta was saying, Catherine’s numbers.

  “It starts like electric shocks,” Neeta whispered. She must know she had him, because her voice had become harder, more factual. “I heard Orla, one of my runners, screaming when her force field came down, and that’s what she said, that she was being shocked.” She leaned in, close enough that he could smell fresh soap, and a hint of musk below. “The Barath’na laughed. Said it was getting quicker every time, that they were nearly ready to increase the trial.”

  “Trial?”

  “I don’t know what happens up there.” Her voice shook a little. “I just know no one comes back, and that when they came into the prison they were as healthy as you and me.” She crossed her arms. “I heard Orla; it happened. You can believe me, or you can hide your head in the sand, but it’s true, and I need you to tell your cop.”

  Electric shocks. He remembered Taz a lifetime ago, on the Cave Hill, yelling that he was being shocked. The thought settled, taking shape. Taz, who’d taken the alien virus and never fully recovered, Taz who was covered in needle marks and a gauze bandage, like Ma’s after the biopsy of her mole. He knew the virus could hurt humans – how hard would it be to make it kill humans?

  “What is it?” asked Neeta. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “Nothing.” If the Barath’na were listening and knew he’d made the connection, he’d be on the third floor before he could blink, let alone see Carter. They’d kill him like a bug, helpless to tell what he knew. Like they’d killed his da and ma: falling, with a quick cry. His shoulder buzzed and his line went amber. ”You should go.”

  She glanced at the screen, but didn’t move. “Will you help?”

  Her question hung in the clear, sweet air. The Barath’na watched him, their eyes cruel, their vicious teeth exposed. Whatever they were, they weren’t the good guys they claimed to be. He thought of Taz’s sickness, of Josey, taken by McDowell’s odious son. It wasn’t fair, any of it.

  What would the lad before the war do? The lad who’d never stuck up for Neeta? He’d have been too scared to do anything. Slowly, he drew in a breath. That was before Belfast, when he’d learned that to survive you had to be brave. When he’d learned that what mattered was sticking together. Slowly, he nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and it made something deep in him move. She was the most alive thing in this place. Her eyes glittered and he thought she might be reading his thoughts, but she only gave another of her tight nods and walked away.

  The virus being given to prisoners. Why? The mainland was just a stretch of water away, the rest of the planet beyond it. A planet that sustained life, a gift so rare an alien race had searched the galaxy for it.

  Two alien races. Realisation hit him. The Zelo couldn’t breed on Earth or their own planet now. They were wiped out. He’d done that. Not knowing wasn’t an excuse; he’d known his actions were criminal. His head throbbed along with his shoulder, and he wished he could tell the Zelo he was sorry.

  The Barath’na wanted living space, like the Nazis and their lebensraum: three planets for a single race. No GC, no rules, no other nations, just Barath’nas, expanding, taking Earth and inheriting Deklon from the dead Zelo.

  He watched the grey shapes on the rocks below until he started to see the pattern in their movements, how they paraded in front of the prison, up and down, always safeguarding the harbour, keeping
close to it. He watched long enough for his shoulder to stop aching and the chill to reach his bones. Long enough to think over every option, to come up with a million ways of telling Carter what was happening. None of them was clever enough. Once he told the cop, he’d die. Maybe he deserved it.

  “All right, Dray?” He spun and saw the three men who’d been watching him earlier approaching. One angled in such a way as to block the Barath’na’s view of the corner.

  John folded his arms. Damn it, he’d been careless. “What do you want?”

  They were all bigger than him. Their t-shirts were tight over their chests, showing their build. The words brick and shithouse came to mind. A tattoo stood out on the leader’s bicep, and he recognized the red hand of Ulster and the letters U.D.A. below. McDowell must have decided to shut him up for good. His muscles bunched, ready; his blood started pumping, loud in his ears. He pushed away from the railings. He’d bloody known this would happen, that McDowell would shut him up. “You can’t touch me. The Barath’na will have you.”

  “You reckon?” The first bloke launched himself at John, his line changing from green to flashing red in an instant, and landed a solid punch on John’s cheekbone. “They’ll have to be quick.”

  John pulled his fist back. “Guards!” he yelled. His arms were grabbed and pinned by his side. The first man brought his knee up, doubling John, sending sick pain through him. He pulled John upright by his hair, his fist back for another punch. The Barath’na started towards them, but were blocked by four prisoners appearing from the other side of the yard.

  Another punch snapped John’s head back. A flash of steel – not a knife, but something metal and sharp – caught the sunlight and a line of pain blossomed across John’s neck. Warm blood trickled down. He tried to pull away. The arms held him. He kicked out in desperation and the blade dug deeper –

  The man reeled back, shouting, blood pouring from his arm, turning the tattoo bloody, as if the Red Hand itself was bleeding. The others let John go and he doubled up on the ground. Something flashed past him, quick and mobile, and he saw it was Jimmy, hovering, aiming a thin laser beam at John’s attackers. What was the bot doing here? Blood trickled down John’s neck and he wiped it away; there seemed a lot.

  The first man came again, pulling his foot back to kick. John tried to roll out of the way of the heavy boots. Jimmy moved, so that he was between John and the attacker. The little bot extended a pincer and seized the attacker’s leg, toppling him. Another laser beam sliced across the attacker’s right leg. The bloke yelled, clutching his leg.

  The Barath’na reached the group, pulling his attackers away. John had managed to get onto his hands and knees when a soft mist hit his face, coming from the direction of the prison and filling the air. It smelt of peaches. He closed his eyes, but couldn’t stop himself inhaling.

  Peace came, the same peace as on the first day in the cubicle. He opened his eyes. Had the sea always been that colour of turquoise? This was the best place to be in the world. Without a doubt. He was lifted to his feet but didn’t care. He heard a whirring, saw Jimmy retract his arms, and giggled. Giggle? He’d never giggled in his life. He tried to touch Jimmy, but the bot was further away than he should be.

  “Nice bot,” John said, and he could tell his voice was slurred. Say what you liked about the aliens, they had some seriously good shit. “Good bot. I’ll have to thank ol’ Uncle Henry.” What? The stuff must be potent. He laughed and wiggled his fingers. Lovely, lovely fingers. He bet he could do magic with them….

  His vision went dark, and he let everything go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Josey paused and looked both ways up and down the track. Yesterday, she’d followed the tracks to her left but now she didn’t know which way she’d been facing when she’d chosen it. She bit her lip, looked up into the sky and tried to remember where the sun had been. Finally, she gave a nod. “Righto, can’t just stand here. Left it is.”

  She unbuttoned her heavy coat and trailed it along the tracks behind her. The morning air was losing its chill and it wouldn’t take long for her to get warm, especially if she kept up the pace. She hopped and skipped along the tracks, hurrying as much as she could. She’d already wasted precious moments feeding a robin that had looked as hungry as her. She’d scrabbled in her pocket where the bread had been and pulled out a few crumbs, sprinkling them for the bird.Her hand had hooked on something at the bottom of the pocket, something small and cold. When she’d pulled it out, it had taken her a minute to recognise it as a St. Christopher’s medal – Jordan at school used to have one, she said it brought her luck – and she’d clutched it in her hand, figuring she needed any luck she could get.

  That had been ages ago. She lifted her head and looked down the tracks, hoping to see a station. Ahead stood another abandoned train. She walked up to it, keeping to the side of the tracks, and then stopped. Why would there be two trains abandoned so close together?

  “No,” she groaned, and looked the other way. Then back again, but there was no mistaking the train. It was the same one as yesterday. She’d spent an hour at least, maybe more, walking the wrong way.

  She turned to face the other direction, but a bramble caught her ankle and she lurched forwards. Her yell was loud in the still morning air, startling birds and sending them squawking into the sky.

  “Josey!” The shout came from down the track. Sweat broke across her palms. She needed somewhere to hide. The old train loomed, daring her to approach it. She ran to the driver's carriage and pulled herself onto the little step, but the door was locked. She looked along the length of the train and saw that one of the doors about halfway along was open. That must have been how they got the passengers off. If they got off. Visions of skeletons swarmed up in her mind: some holding tickets; all grinning at her –

  “Josey!” The voice was muffled, impossible to make out, but whoever it was knew her. Gary. She jumped down, darted along the train, and climbed into the open carriage.

  What now? A little mew of panic escaped and she stuffed her hand into her mouth, biting down until she could feel teeth on her knuckles.

  The train shifted; someone else was in the carriage. She glanced out from the row of seats she was in. Whoever it was stood framed in the doorway. They were tall, definitely a bloke, and dark haired. It had to be Gary.

  Go the other way, she willed. He looked both ways. Please, go the other way. He started towards her, taking his time, checking every seat as he did. She remembered his whispered voice in her ear, telling her she’d have to do what he wanted; the cold, dead eyes of Liz. He’d done that – shot a disabled woman in a stable yard in cold blood.

  She pulled back into the shadows, clutching the medal to her, not sure what to do. Maybe if she ran she could get past him. The steps came closer and she held her breath. If she moved now, he’d find her for sure. She gripped the medal so tightly it hurt.

  “There you are.” He bent down, leaving her no way past. “Ma was worried.”

  “Sean?” It wasn’t Gary – he hadn’t found her. She realised she was shaking, and fought to stop it.

  “Who else? I told Ma you’d maybe gone down to the tracks, if you heard us talking. Come on out, I brought some food.”

  Food. “You came for me?”

  “Aye.” He stood and reached a hand down. She took it and let him pull her up. He didn’t sound angry. “You gave us a fright, walking off on your own. Anything could have happened to you.”

  “You were going to call the GC.”

  “We were going to talk to you about it when you woke up,” he said. “Let’s go outside – it’s rank in here.” They sat on the step, feet dangling. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small container. “Here. Sandwiches. They’re only jam, but they’ll do.”

  Jam sandwiches? It sounded like heaven. She set the medal beside her, and took one. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He glanced down at the little medallion. “Where’d you find that?”
r />   “In your coat.”

  “Don’t tell Ma, I’m supposed to wear it all the time.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “You can keep the medal, if you want. I reckon you need it more.”

  She nodded. The sandwich tasted really good. For a while they sat eating in the sunshine.

  “So, why did you run?” he asked. “We were only going to see if the GC could find your parents. They must be worried about you.”

  She swallowed the last bite of sandwich, and it seemed to stick in her throat. “Ma and Da died in the war.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and looked uncomfortable, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “So you do remember, then?”

  She nodded. “I’m from Belfast, and I lived with my brothers and sister. And then…” She looked down at the stones beside the tracks, and they were indistinct through her tears. She wanted to tell someone and let them take charge. Without stopping any longer, she opened her mouth and the whole story came out. The only thing she didn’t tell him was that the Barath’na had released the virus. It was bad enough that she knew, and was in danger. She wasn’t going to put him at the same risk. Sean listened, not interrupting, until she’d finished. She glanced at him and ducked her head; she’d said too much.

  “Jaysus, what a bastard.” He squinted into the sky. “So, what do we do with you, Josey? I don’t think you should go back to Belfast, not until you’re safe. If your man Gary is as determined as you say he is – and he must be a desperate man, losing you – he’ll be watching. I think you’re right. You need to find this Peters. I’ll take you into Coleraine, and then see about how to get you back to Belfast. You can’t walk – it’s fifty miles – and I can’t take you back to our house. The place is crawling with Barath’na. But if we get into town, I might be able to arrange something at the depot. Some of the farmers have started supplying the city again.”

  He jumped down. He reminded her a bit of Taz, the way he was always cheerful. "If we set off now, we’ll be in Coleraine in a couple of hours.” He held his hand out, smiling and handsome in his black sweater.