Split Second

by Sophie McKenzie

  For Joe. And the time that is given.

  LONDON,

  THE NEAR FUTURE

  NAT

  I glanced at my phone. It was almost 3 p.m.

  Three p.m. was when the bomb would go off.

  I raced along the street, my heart banging against my ribs. I had to find Lucas. Canal Street market. That’s what the text had said. That was where Lucas would be. My lungs burned as I gasped at the cold air. I ran faster, pushing through the crowds.

  The covered market was packed with shoppers, most of whom were heading for the food stall run by the Future Party. Since the cutbacks had really set in last year, unemployment had risen fast. Now people who would once never have dreamed of taking a handout lined up for free food from the only political party in the country that seemed to care. I hurtled past the line. Most people were staring at the ground as they shuffled along, avoiding eye contact.

  There was no sign of Lucas.

  I kept running. The bomb wouldn’t be here, anyway. Why would anyone want to bomb people so poor they had to line up for food? The next few stalls all sold ethnic clothes—a mix of bold African prints and soft Thai silks. I turned the corner, past the section of the market specializing in baby stuff. No. No way. Neither Lucas nor the bomb would be here. Not where there were babies, for goodness’ sake. I ran on, panting, past the market clock. It was just four minutes to three. There was hardly any time left. I looked up. The market had a second floor full of cheap toiletries and household goods. Should I go up there or check more of the ground floor?

  A security guard strode past. I stared at the radio that hung from his belt. I’d been so focused on finding Lucas I hadn’t thought about everyone else in the market. There were lots of people milling about. Lots of children with their mums and dads.

  I chased after the security guard. Grabbed his arm. “Listen,” I said. “You need to clear the market. Get everyone out.”

  The man turned. His face filled with suspicion. “What did you say?”

  “There’s a bomb,” I said. “I don’t know exactly where, but it’s in the market and it’s going to go off in a few minutes.”

  The security guard frowned, a look of disbelief on his face. “What makes you think that, kid?” he said.

  “I just do. You have to believe me. Please.” Heart pounding, I caught sight of my reflection in the shiny Future Party sign that pointed the way to their free food stall. My hair was messed up, my eyes wild and staring. No wonder the security guard was looking at me like I was crazy. “You have to clear the whole place.”

  “Wait here,” the guard said with a sigh. “I’ll go and get the site manager.”

  “No, there’s no time.”

  But the security guard was already striding away, heading toward the stalls I had just passed. As I turned to the next aisle, intending to run on, I caught a glimpse of a black leather jacket on the stairs up to the second floor. Was that Lucas? I strained my eyes, but the jacket had disappeared, lost in the crowds.

  I swerved to the left and raced toward the stairs. I sped past a stall promising fifty percent off piercings and tattoos. A girl about my age stood in front, arguing with a woman. She was gesticulating wildly, her face flushed.

  “Why not, Mum?” she was shouting.

  Even racing past at top speed I could see the girl was pretty, with a mass of wild, honey-colored curls cascading over her shoulders. But there wasn’t time to take a second look. I took the stairs up to the second floor, two steps at a time. It was two minutes to three. And I still hadn’t found Lucas.

  CHARLIE

  Mum shook her head. She reached out to smooth a curl off my face. I backed away, furious.

  “Come on, sweetheart. We’ve been over the reasons,” she said, lowering her voice.

  “It’s just a tattoo,” I insisted. “I’m not going to get anything outrageous. Or big. Maybe a butterfly, or that yin-yang symbol thing.”

  Mum pursed her lips and shook her head again. “You don’t even know what that symbol means, Lottie.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snapped. “You said I could choose what I did with my money. I’ve been saving forever.”

  Mum sighed. I turned away, so angry I wanted to scream.

  It wasn’t just the tattoo or Mum using her old name for me. It was everything: all the ways that Mum tried to stop me growing up. Dad died when I was very small and Mum and I had been on our own for years. This was great when I was little and had all her attention. But I would be sixteen in a few months and she needed to let me make my own decisions.

  “As I’ve already explained . . . ,” Mum said with another sigh. “You can’t have a tattoo because it’s permanent—you’re basically mutilating yourself for life. And it’s a waste of money we don’t have.”

  “It’s half price here,” I hissed. I know I sounded like a spoiled brat, but I was so fed up with us having to count every penny, every day. On my last birthday we hadn’t even had a cake. “And it’s just a fashion thing. I’m not going to have one anywhere obvious. Maybe on my shoulder or—”

  “And it’s painful,” Mum added. “It will really hurt.”

  “So what?” I said. “Childbirth’s painful. That’s what you always say. But you put up with that. I can—”

  “Childbirth was worth it,” Mum said. “A tattoo isn’t. Come on, sweetheart. There are lots of better things you could do with that money. A tattoo isn’t exactly a practical choice.”

  “Please, Mum?” Tears sprang into my eyes. Just a few years ago, when Mum still had a job, before her benefit payments were stopped in the Government cuts, there had been plenty of money for impractical things. Mum reached for my arm. Her hands were red and rough from her part-time work at the factory. She worked nights but had gotten up this morning to come to the market for the free food bags. Her face was lined and worn. Once she had used eye makeup and nail polish. Now she looked old and dowdy.

  Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the Asian woman running the tattoo stall watching us. She saw me looking and turned back to the TV, on which the mayor of London was speaking directly to camera—another appeal for support for the austerity cuts. I was filled with loathing at the sight of his fat face and sleek, dark hair. He looked like an overfed rat. Just like the last mayor—and the past two prime ministers—he kept telling the country that we were “all in it together,” that more cuts were necessary.

  I turned back to Mum. It was obvious from her expression that she wasn’t going to change her mind.

  “I hate you.” The words shot out of me. I wish I could say that I didn’t really mean them, but in that moment I did.

  Mum fixed me with an unhappy look. I’ve often thought back to that moment, the last time I saw her for real. In my memory I can still hear the drone of the mayor of London’s voice behind us, but what I remember most is Mum’s expression: part disappointment, part hurt, part weariness.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she said, her voice low and even. “You can have a tattoo when you’re eighteen, when you’re free to make your own decisions. But as long as I’m responsible for you it’s not going to happen.” She paused. We were still looking at each other. I remember the slant of her eyes, just like my own; the curve of her lips, pressed together. “Now, let’s go down to the free food stall. There’s already a line and the meat always runs out fast. I was hoping they might have some lamb. We haven’t had that for ages.”

  “We haven’t had anything for ages.”

  Mum bit her lip. “I know, but—”

  “I’m not coming.” I folded my arms. I knew I was being childish but I couldn’t stop myself. I was too hurt, too angry. “I’m going to look at the clothes stalls.”

  “Okay,” Mum said. “I’ll come and find you when I’m done. Don�
��t go far. And don’t buy anything until I get back.”

  She walked away. Her coat—long and leaf green—swung around her as she headed to the Future Party’s stall where a large crowd of people was already lining up for the free food bags that were handed out every Saturday. A second later Mum disappeared into the crowd.

  I glanced over at the tattoo woman. She was still watching the TV. The Future Party’s leader, Roman Riley, was speaking now, his handsome face alive with conviction.

  “Youth unemployment is now running at sixty percent and the government has the audacity to—”

  I moved away. I wasn’t interested in politicians and their talk, though at least Roman Riley’s party organized handouts. The Government only ever took things away.

  Still furious with Mum, I wandered to the far corner of the market, idly looking at a rack of cheap sweaters, then a big display of discounted jackets. They were all hideous. I sighed. Mum wanted me to wait nearby. Well, tough. I headed toward the exit, passing a stall selling African-print T-shirts, then another steaming with the scent of coconut curry. I stopped at a sign advertising free noodle soup—ONE PERSON, ONE CUP—hesitating as I wondered whether to get some.

  WHAM! The blast knocked me off my feet. I slammed down hard on my back, onto the floor. Winded, I lay there, stunned. What was happening?

  Voices rose up around me, shouts and screams. An alarm. Footsteps pounded past me as I struggled up onto my elbows. An elderly woman had been knocked over too. We stared at each other, then turned to look across the market. Smoke was pouring up above the stalls two or three aisles away.

  “What was that?” I said.

  The elderly woman was struggling to her feet. I jumped up. Mum. I raced back through the market. People were staggering past, going in the opposite direction. Thick clouds of dust swirled around us. Jackets and sweaters from the stalls I’d passed before were scattered across the floor, blackened and ripped. I headed for the section of the market where the smoke was coming from. My head throbbed. Was the explosion gas? An accident? A bomb?

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “Call an ambulance!”

  “Help me!”

  People all around me were yelling. Screaming. I raced toward the smoke. I had to get back to the free food stall. Find Mum. Rubble was all around, counters from stalls splintered and on their sides, clothes and food strewn across the dirt-streaked floor. A man staggered out of the smoke, blood pouring from his face. Another man followed, holding a little boy in his arms, his jacket covered in dust, his eyes wide with shock. Two women held another up between them. More people, blocking my way. I pushed past them into the next aisle.

  Mum had been right there, exactly where the smoke was coming from. Terror tightened my throat. I had to find her. My eyes were watering from the thick air. It was hard to breathe. I pushed through the crowds. People were rushing past me, desperate to get out of the market. Injured people, terrified people.

  I forced my way past them. The smoke was even thicker as I passed the tattoo stall. The TV was smashed on the ground, the woman from the stall bent over, groaning. I held my hand over my mouth, choking on the dust. I stumbled, unable to see anything through the smoke. I stopped for a second, trying to make myself focus. The thin, piercing alarm stopped. An announcement sounded, telling everyone to leave the market.

  “Make your way to the nearest exit. Make your way to the nearest exit.”

  I headed left, toward the free food stall. A small fire was burning out of a pile of cables. Shards of plastic crunched under my feet. Everywhere was blood and dust and metal. Hell. A shoe on its side with a broken heel. A torn poster showing just one side of Roman Riley’s face above the words: FUTURE PA—

  The smoke cleared slightly. I saw the leaf green of Mum’s coat. Her arm flung out behind her head.

  And I knew.

  I knew but I couldn’t face it.

  “Mum!” I yelled, and time slowed down as I moved toward her. “Mum!”

  NAT

  I felt the bomb as much as I heard it, the ground shaking under my feet as I ran. I was on the second floor, at the far end of the market. The explosion had come from below. Two women on the other side of a trestle table stacked with bottles of half-price toilet cleaner looked up as I passed, their faces echoing my own shock and fear.

  Was I too late?

  “Lucas.” His name came out in a whisper as an alarm pierced the air. I raced to the stairs. A security guard—a different man from the one I spoke to before—was stopping people from going down. Everyone was shouting. It was pandemonium.

  “I think my brother’s down there,” I yelled, trying to shove the security guard out of the way.

  “It’s too dangerous,” he said, pushing me back.

  I swore, forcing my way past him and onto the stairs. I sped down the steps. Smoke rose up from the ground floor. Had Lucas been there when the bomb went off? Fear gripped me. It was impossible to think. All I knew was that I had to find him. I reached the ground floor. Smoke swirled everywhere. People staggered past, covered in dust. Screams echoed in the air, as the alarm switched to a P.A. system announcement urging everyone to leave the market.

  I ran past the clothing stalls on the ground floor. The smoke was coming up from the middle aisle near the tattoo stall where I’d seen the girl arguing with her mother. People were shrieking and moaning, rising like ghosts through the smoke. I elbowed my way through the crowds, past the tattoo stall and around the corner, past splintered wood and twisted metal. A bag of potatoes lay on its side, the food spilling out. Two middle-aged women were on their knees, scrabbling around in the dirt, picking up potatoes. I reached the Future Party’s food stall and stopped. A ripped poster of Roman Riley had fallen to the ground. Just beyond it the security guard I’d spoken to earlier lay spread-eagled, faceup. The man was motionless, his eyes open but unseeing. I shuddered.

  Please let Lucas not be here.

  And then I saw him, just a few feet away. He was lying on his back, his legs twisted awkwardly under him. A woman was bent over his body. I ran over, choking on the acrid smoke that rose up around me, filling my lungs. The woman pressed her fingers against Lucas’s neck. She was feeling for a pulse.

  I dropped to my knees. Around me the PA announcement, the shouts, the screams, the smoke all faded away.

  “Lucas?” I leaned closer. There were no marks on Lucas’s face, but his eyes were shut. “Lucas?” I turned to the woman. “He’s my brother.”

  “He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive.” The woman looked at me. “I’m a nurse. He’s alive.”

  I nodded, trying to take it all in. It was like a scene from a film. Terror and noise everywhere. But Lucas was alive.

  A man in a suit was trying to usher people away through the smoke and the dust and the rubble. The nurse shook my arm. “I’m going to check on the others,” she said. “Stay with your brother.” She hurried away.

  An empty plastic bag lay on the ground beside Lucas. I stared down at its ripped handles. I hadn’t found Lucas in time. His eyes were still closed. Around us the dust swirled through the air. Across the market the girl with the wild, honey-colored hair was crouched over the woman she’d been arguing with just moments before. Her mouth was open in an agonizing scream.

  “Mum!” she was crying. “Mum!”

  I couldn’t bear to see her face.

  The nurse was with the girl’s mother now. She was shaking her head. I glanced at the girl again. Her hands were over her mouth.

  Firemen appeared. Paramedics. I had no idea how much time had passed since the bomb. My brain seemed to have stopped working.

  The shock settled with the dust. A paramedic knelt down beside Lucas and I leaned back to give him room.

  I looked around.

  Blood in the dust. The air full of death.

  And Lucas there, in the middle of it.

  Lucas. My brother. The terrorist.

  SIX MONTHS LATER . . .

  PART ONE

/>   INVESTIGATION

  (n. a searching inquiry for ascertaining facts)

  CHARLIE

  I slammed the door and stomped away, into my bedroom. Outside, I could hear Aunt Karen sobbing. I felt like crying myself. Just for a moment. Then I forced the impulse away. I never cried. Not anymore. After months when I did nothing but shed whole rivers of tears, I had finally realized that it made no difference.

  Mum was dead. She was never coming back.

  And no one was going to face justice for murdering her. A little-known far-right group—the League of Iron—had claimed responsibility but no one had been arrested for the crime. The police insisted that they were still investigating but Aunt Karen was certain the officers in charge had turned a blind eye because so many of them actually supported the League of Iron’s nasty, racist views. I thought it was more likely the police were just very busy. There were riots in the cities every few weeks and, since the latest round of cuts, fewer officers to deal with them. The bomb that killed Mum wasn’t even the only explosion in recent months—though it had been the worst, leaving four dead and seventeen seriously injured.

  Afterward, Aunt Karen had brought me to live with her despite the fact that she was even worse off than Mum had been. We survived on a series of tiny benefits and the kindness of our landlord.

  A timid tap on the door. I turned to face Karen as she peered into my bedroom. I hated that room. It was basically a storage area that I had to share with the landlord’s spare china and lots of Karen’s clothes. Racks of these filled the long wardrobe—ancient dresses and tops that she never wore but couldn’t bear to throw away.

  “What?” I said.

  Karen wiped her tear-stained face. “I can’t cope with you anymore, Charlie,” she said. “I’m at the end of my rope.”

  “What, because I ditched you and your stupid friends before?” I could hear how harsh my voice sounded and, inside, I felt bad for being mean. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself.