The Secret Life of Kitty Granger

by G. D. Falksen

  To her surprise, she was answered with a hearty laugh from Mr. Pryce, and a more genteel chuckle from Mrs. Singh.

  “I’m certain we can arrange that,” Mrs. Singh assured her, “provided that you continue to excel at your studies.”

  Chapter 12

  Combat training began with several weeks of exercise and not a single weapon in sight, which confused Kitty at first. But under Mrs. Singh’s tutelage, she soon understood the reason. Running laps, performing agonizing pushups, lifting herself on bars, and enduring countless other trials was transformative. By the time the martial arts training started, Kitty felt stronger and more energetic than she ever had in her life.

  She hadn’t been encouraged to exercise since she was a child. Even before the end of primary school, Kitty had been told to be demure, to walk and not run, to be quiet and not cause a fuss. Suddenly that was all gone. No restrictions.

  “Run as fast as you can, Kitty,” Mrs. Singh would say as she looked at a watch.

  “Run as long as you can, Kitty.”

  “Where do you get all that energy, Kitty?”

  And the more she exercised, the better she felt. It was like there was a coiled spring lurking inside her, tightening again and again with each moment of stress that she experienced. It had grown so tight by now that she’d often feared it might snap. As she ran in circles around the Orchestra’s gymnasium, Kitty felt the tightness lessen bit by bit. Each push-up, each sit-up, each pull-up exhausted her body but soothed her mind.

  At the same time, though, she was put through a rigorous course in unarmed combat, weapons training, and even what Mrs. Singh called “evasion.” This was a strange practice that paired blocks and dodges in combat with stealth training outside of it. It was all connected, Mrs. Singh explained. The same awareness of one’s surroundings and control of movement that aided in hiding and sneaking were invaluable once a fight started.

  “Know your ground,” Mrs. Singh would say. “Know it better than the enemy.”

  Kitty did her best to learn, but it was hard. She was used to seeing everything at once, but she wasn’t used to sorting out exactly what was important at any given moment. She’d fixate on Mrs. Singh’s footwork when she was supposed to be watching her hands. Or she’d focus her attention on the baton Mrs. Singh was swinging, when she was supposed to be tracking Mrs. Singh’s eyes, to see where they were looking. Each time Kitty got it wrong, she felt the spring inside her tighten.

  That tension only worsened during Kitty’s firearms training with Saul. The problem wasn’t Saul himself; the gruff armaments master gave her precise instructions that were easy to follow. Learning basic handling and maintenance—cleaning the weapons, disassembling them and putting them back together—that was all fine. Even pleasant, in fact: an interesting, detailed task with a clear procedure and a definite conclusion. She could have done it for hours, if Saul had allowed it.

  The problem was the shooting. It was loud, jolting, and intrusive. Even with protective earmuffs, the noise made Kitty wince, and she hated how the gun jerked in her hands when she fired.

  Gradually, she learned to steel herself against it, if only for a few moments at a time. She kept her focus on the target and tried to ignore the chaos that accompanied each shot. The noise and vibrations were just things that happened. She knew they were coming. They couldn’t hurt her.

  She was a lousy shot, though, and the pace of improvement was agonizingly slow. Still, with each day, each chorus of tiny explosions clutched in her hands, the wide scattering of bullet holes in the paper target got closer and closer together.

  “Excellent work, Miss Granger,” Saul told her as he examined the target one morning.

  Kitty looked at the target, very confused. Better than usual perhaps, but her shots were still all over place, and none of them had landed in the center.

  “But I missed, sir,” she protested.

  Saul chuckled. “You missed the bullseye, but all of your shots hit the target. I do believe that’s a first for you, and not something to be taken lightly.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Kitty replied, frowning. “Just feels like I won’t ever be any good at it. Not like you or Mrs. Singh. I ’spect you could hit it dead center every time you tried, sir.”

  “The only way to be good at a thing is by being bad at it over and over again until you improve,” Saul reminded her as he replaced the bullet-riddled paper with a fresh one and then pressed a button to send the target back to its place across the shooting range. “You don’t like guns, do you?”

  “No, sir,” Kitty admitted. It felt like the wrong thing to say to the person who was teaching her how to use them.

  “Are you afraid of them?”

  Kitty hesitated but finally confessed, “Yes, sir, I’m dead scared of ’em.”

  Saul nodded. “Sensible. Firearms are dangerous. I’d rather train someone with a healthy fear of them than some damn fool with more confidence than brains.”

  “Every time I pick one up, I’m afraid it’ll explode in me hand,” Kitty admitted.

  “Well, you needn’t fear that, as long as you remember your training, act responsibly, and keep your weapon properly maintained.”

  “I’ll do me best, sir,” Kitty assured him.

  “Also remember that any time you carry a gun, you are responsible for what it does,” Saul added sternly. “Don’t aim it unless you’re prepared to shoot, don’t shoot at anything but your target, and don’t pull the trigger unless you have to. A weapon is a responsibility. Treat it as such.”

  Kitty nodded. “I imagine you’ve got loads of experience with guns.”

  “More than my fair share,” Saul agreed.

  “You fought in the war?”

  “I did. I was in France in 1940, then North Africa, then Sicily.” For a moment, Saul’s expression darkened. “Wish it had been Czechoslovakia in ’38, though—show Hitler we were willing to stand by the Czechs. Or Abyssinia in ’35, to put an end to Mussolini’s empire-building. But that didn’t happen. No one wanted a war, and we thought we could buy peace with other people’s freedom.”

  Kitty was astonished. “You think we shoulda gone to war sooner? But me da says the war were ’orrible!”

  “Horrible beyond imagining,” Saul replied, with a distant look in his eyes. “And maybe it could’ve been stopped if someone had stood up to Hitler sooner. See, Miss Granger, dictators are just schoolyard bullies at heart. You can’t buy them off by giving in to their demands, that only encourages them.”

  “What do you do, then?” Kitty asked. “Punch ’em in the nose?”

  She’d done that once as a child, to a boy who’d pulled her hair and called her names. Well, and a few times after that, when other bullies had mistaken her meekness for weakness. For some reason she was always the one who got into trouble, though, so eventually she resorted to running away instead of standing up for herself. Never seemed fair, but there it was.

  Saul chuckled. “Dictators, like bullies, have a kind of low cunning. They start with the easiest targets, and work their way up. The way to stop them is when you see one picking on a little fella, you get your mates together, march straight up to them, and say ‘You leave him alone, or you’ll have to deal with the rest of us.’ Nine times out of ten, the bully will back down, and he’ll think twice about picking on someone again.”

  “What if ’e don’t back down?” Kitty asked, already guessing the answer. Saul seemed the kind of man who didn’t mind a bit of fisticuffs if it was in a good cause.

  “Well . . .” Saul grinned and folded his arms. “Then you’ve got your mates with you, so you’ll probably win. But whether you win or lose, better to take a stand than do nothing.”

  Kitty nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

  One day, during her lunch hour, Kitty stole away to the garage where the mechanics maintained the Orchestra’s cars and equipment. It was a large concrete room that smelled strongly of petrol and motor oil, and at first Kitty had been intimida
ted by it. The smell reminded her of Ivan’s hideout, and it was full of sudden loud noises.

  But lunchtime was better, quieter. Most of the mechanics were out. Today, Kitty arrived with a thermos of hot tea, two cups, and a plan. She hovered just inside the doorway, looking for Tommy. She’d rather not speak to anyone else at the moment. A couple of other mechanics were still working on a bullet-riddled truck, and if they saw her alone they might ask questions.

  After a few seconds, Kitty saw Tommy slide out from underneath a light blue Austin Mini that was missing both of its doors as well as its engine. The doors were nowhere to be seen, but the engine was waiting on a nearby table.

  “Tommy!” Kitty called, holding up the thermos for him to see. It felt like a silly thing to do once she’d done it, but Tommy answered with a wave and a smile.

  “’Ello Kitty,” Tommy said as Kitty approached. “Not waitin’ on a car, are ya? Don’t recall seein’ your name on the list.”

  “Oh, no, nothin’ like that,” Kitty assured him. She held up the thermos. “I just thought you might like a cuppa is all.”

  “Wouldn’t say no,” Tommy said happily. He wiped his hands on an oily rag as Kitty opened the thermos and filled the two cups with tea. “Very decent of ya.”

  Kitty took one of the cups, and raised it to Tommy’s in a silent toast. After they’d enjoyed a few sips, she coughed awkwardly and confessed, “Well, to be honest, I was wonderin’ if you might teach me a bit about car maintenance. I mean, it’s not part of me trainin’, but I’m curious to learn.”

  “You wanna learn how to fix cars?” Tommy asked, sounding bewildered.

  “Well . . . yeah.” Tommy’s confusion made Kitty confused in turn. “Would it be a problem?”

  Tommy shrugged. “No, it’s just, girls ain’t usually interested in cars, are they?”

  Kitty sipped her tea while she decided how to word her response. Then she replied, “I think you’ll find, Tommy, that girls can be interested in all sorts of things, only we don’t talk about ’em ’cause people keep tellin’ us we’re not s’posed to like ’em.”

  “Never thought about it that way,” Tommy said, nodding. “Makes sense, I s’pose.”

  “So you’ll teach me about cars an’ engines, then?”

  Tommy grinned. “Sure. It’ll be fun. Honestly, I wish more folks round here cared ’ow their cars actually work. Like Verity for instance. The girl treats everythin’ she drives like it’s a bloody sports car! I keep tellin’ ’er to respect the limitations of the vehicle. She don’t listen. No one does. All them agents think they can run their cars ragged, then bring ’em back ’ere an’ we’ll fix ’em up like it’s nothin’. I tell ya, Kitty, it’s a bloody nightmare, is what it is.”

  In a way, Kitty felt she knew what he meant. If something seemed simple on the outside, people took it for granted. All the complexity under the surface, all the work that went into making something behave properly, went unnoticed. “Well, if I ever end up drivin’ one of your cars, I promise to—um—respect it,” Kitty vowed. “An’ if I do break one, I’ll fix it meself!”

  Tommy laughed. “Just so long as it don’t become a trend. If all the agents started fixin’ their own cars, I’d be out of a job!”

  He motioned for her to join him next to the engine block. “For today, don’t touch anythin’ or you’ll get oil all over ya. I’ll see if I can find a spare coverall in your size by tomorrow.”

  “Sounds grand,” said Kitty, already feeling more at ease than she did during most of her training sessions.

  Tommy grabbed a wrench from his toolbox and motioned to the engine. “Now then, I’m gonna take this bloody thing apart. You just watch an’ learn, yeah?”

  Kitty grinned and gave Tommy a salute. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  It was barely eleven and Kitty was already short of breath and tense with frustration. She was training with Mrs. Singh using wooden batons, learning to block and swing in a rapidly changing sequence. Each time she got a maneuver wrong, she was rewarded with a smack to her arm. It didn’t hurt exactly, but it stung, and the impact of each blow compounded in her mind.

  Today was especially bad. The clicking in her head went round and round constantly, making her remember each failed move and each strike she received. She knew she was doing it wrong, and thinking about that soon demanded more of her attention that what she was doing. She wanted to scream and give up, and maybe to throw to baton at something, and just the effort of keeping all those impulses in check overwhelmed her ability to think.

  She was repaid for her distraction by a sharp tap to the ribs. Kitty winced and darted backward. She raised her baton defensively, trying not to twitch with the nervous energy coursing through her. Mrs. Singh slowly advanced, watching her carefully. Kitty shivered. What was going to come next? A swing from above? A punch from Mrs. Singh’s empty hand? A kick to the leg, to remind Kitty that her stance was bad?

  Kitty bared her teeth. It was all she could do not to snarl, which would have made her feel better but would have looked impossibly strange. She knew her stance was bad, but Mrs. Singh wasn’t giving her any time to adapt! And Kitty knew that was the point, but knowing and doing were two different things! She couldn’t think! How was she expected to learn if she couldn’t think?

  Can’t think! Can’t think! Can’t think!

  Mrs. Singh darted forward past Kitty’s clumsy defense and kicked Kitty’s foot out from under her. Kitty tumbled to the ground in a heap, trying not to lose her senses.

  Get up! Get up! Get up! Get up!

  “You were too slow that time,” Mrs. Singh said, her tone strict but not unkind. “Your instincts are good, but your form is sloppy.”

  You’re doing it wrong! You’re doing it wrong! You’re doing it wrong!

  Kitty didn’t want to have a fit in front of Mrs. Singh. She’d worked so hard to keep herself in check these past months, but the turmoil inside her was finally getting out of control.

  “I know, missis, I know,” Kitty grumbled.

  “Let’s try again. On your feet.”

  Kitty pulled herself into a crouch, hunched over as she struggled to keep her thoughts coherent. “Just a moment. Please. I just need a moment to catch me breath.”

  Mrs. Singh raised her baton and advanced again. “Out there you won’t get a moment, Kitty! Out there you won’t have time to catch your breath!”

  It was the last straw. It was like a latch was thrown inside Kitty’s head, and the stress flooded out into her. She bounded to her feet, snarling and baring her teeth. She couldn’t have a moment of peace? Fine! Who needed peace? Peace was overrated. It was better just to be wild, just to be loud, just to let it all go and—

  “I KNOW!” Kitty screamed as she lunged at Mrs. Singh, swinging her baton with all her might.

  Suddenly she found herself stopped mid-strike, with Mrs. Singh’s baton braced against her shoulder to hold her in place. It was confusing, but in that moment Kitty managed to snatch control of herself again. Her body went rigid and numb, and she saw her baton extended over Mrs. Singh’s head, caught effortlessly in Mrs. Singh’s empty hand. The blow had been intercepted almost as soon as it had been swung.

  Kitty was enveloped in a haze of fear. She’d bloody well lost her mind for a moment. Mrs. Singh would be furious, surely. Just like Kitty’s father had been when Kitty had her fits as a child.

  But Mrs. Singh gave Kitty a sympathetic look and released her. “In the field you won’t get a moment to catch your breath,” Mrs. Singh repeated, “which is why you can take one now.”

  Kitty exhaled, and with it her body collapsed. She sat on the training mat and held her head in her hands.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Singh,” she moaned. “I didn’t mean to go mad like that, honest. I just . . .”

  Mrs. Singh sat next to her. “You were hurt and you got angry.”

  “Somethin’ like that, yeah,” Kitty said.

  “You get angry sometimes, don’t you?”

  The question m
ade Kitty frown. Angry wasn’t quite right. More like . . . overwhelmed. Sometimes things got too loud. The world started looming over her, and when it did she just had an urge to lose herself. She wanted to shout, or throw things, or hit something, even herself. Anything to make the noise go away and make the record in her head stop skipping.

  Well, Mrs. Singh would expect an answer, and Kitty couldn’t very well start explaining about the world being loud and confusing. Getting angry in a fight was something other people could understand, so she might as well go along with that.

  “Sometimes, yes,” she replied, her voice soft and hesitant. “Don’t think ill of me for it, I beg you! I don’t often lose me temper, honest!”

  Mrs. Singh raised an eyebrow. “Kitty, what’s the matter?”

  “I’ll keep me wits out in the field, I promise,” Kitty insisted. “It won’t ’appen again! Please don’t dismiss me!”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Singh nodded. “No, Kitty, I’m not going to stop your training just because of one angry outburst during a sparring lesson. But it is good that I know about this. You will need to learn to keep your anger under control when you’re out on a mission. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, missis. It won’t be no problem.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Singh looked Kitty in the eyes. Her expression was very stern, but there was a hint of worry there too. “I suppose this is a lesson in itself. I know it’s easy to lose your temper in a fight, especially if you’re afraid or things are going badly.”

  “Maybe a little,” Kitty agreed.

  “You cannot let that happen,” Mrs. Singh replied. “Never. In a fight, you must always keep your head, do you understand? You must always be aware of your surroundings, and you must be able to act on what you see, not simply react to what is happening around you.”

  “I . . . I’m not sure if I understand, missis.”

  “Kitty, do you remember when you were grabbed by Ivan’s men?”

  Kitty shivered at the memory and hugged herself. “I’ll never forget that.”

  “If you are ever attacked by enemy agents while on a mission, it will be like that,” Mrs. Singh said. “I am teaching you the skills to protect yourself and escape, but you will have to keep a clear head in order to use them. Let me be very serious about this, Kitty. Out in the field, nine times out of ten if you have to fight someone, it’ll be a man who is bigger and stronger than you and who will not think twice about killing you.”