Nought Forever

by Malorie Blackman

  Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Dedication

  One. Dan

  Two. Eva

  Three. Dan

  Four. Eva

  Five. Dan

  Six. Eva

  Seven. Dan

  Eight. Eva

  Read More

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Malorie Blackman has written over 60 books for children and young adults, including the Noughts & Crosses series, Thief and most recently her science fiction thriller Chasing the Stars. Her work has also been adapted for TV with the 6-part adaptation of Pig-Heart Boy winning a BAFTA and Noughts & Crosses currently in production for the BBC, with Roc Nation (Jay-Z’s entertainment company) on board to curate and release the soundtrack as Executive Producer. A stage adaptation of the book, by Pilot Theatre, will run from February 2019, under the direction of Sabrina Mahfouz. In 2005, Malorie was honoured with the Eleanor Farjeon Award in recognition of her distinguished contribution to the world of children’s books, in 2008 she received an OBE for her services to children’s literature and, between 2013 and 2015, she was the Children’s Laureate. Malorie is currently writing for the new Doctor Who series on BBC One and the fifth novel in her Noughts & Crosses sequence, Crossfire, will be published by Penguin Random House Children’s in summer 2019.

  CELEBRATE STORIES. LOVE READING.

  This book has been specially written and published to celebrate World Book Day. We are a charity who offers every child and young person the opportunity to read and love books by giving you the chance to have a book of your own. To find out more, and get great recommendations on what to read next, visit worldbookday.com

  World Book Day in the UK and Ireland is made possible by generous sponsorship from National Book Tokens, participating publishers, booksellers, authors and illustrators. The £1fn1 book tokens are a gift from your local bookseller.

  World Book Day works in partnership with a number of charities, all of whom are working to encourage a love of reading for pleasure.

  The National Literacy Trust is an independent charity that encourages children and young people to enjoy reading. Just 10 minutes of reading every day can make a big difference to how well you do at school and to how successful you could be in life. literacytrust.org.uk

  The Reading Agency inspires people of all ages and backgrounds to read for pleasure and empowerment. They run the Summer Reading Challenge in partnership with libraries; they also support reading groups in schools and libraries all year round. Find out more and join your local library. summerreadingchallenge.org.uk

  World Book Day also facilitates fundraising for:

  Book Aid International, an international book donation and library development charity. Every year, they provide one million books to libraries and schools in communities where children would otherwise have little or no opportunity to read. bookaid.org

  Read for Good, who motivate children in schools to read for fun through its sponsored read, which thousands of schools run on World Book Day and throughout the year. The money raised provides new books and resident storytellers in all the children’s hospitals in the UK. readforgood.org

  Also available by Malorie Blackman

  for young adult readers

  The Noughts & Crosses sequence

  NOUGHTS & CROSSES

  KNIFE EDGE

  CHECKMATE

  DOUBLE CROSS

  CHASING THE STARS

  BOYS DON’T CRY

  NOBLE CONFLICT

  THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES

  Anthologies

  LOVE HURTS

  An anthology of love against the odds from the very best teen writers, edited by Malorie Blackman

  UNHEARD VOICES

  An anthology of stories and poems to commemorate the bicentennial anniversary of the abolition of the slave trade

  For a full list of Malorie’s books for readers of all ages visit malorieblackman.co.uk

  For Neil and Liz, with love

  One. Dan

  I’ve never been shot before. My shoulder hurts like a son of a bitch, as if someone is repeatedly sticking a red-hot barbed arrow into it. It’s dark but I keep seeing white flashes like spots of lightning jabbing at me. Am I going into shock? Must be. But I can’t pass out, not now. Then I’ll be dead for sure. Where can I go to escape the wrath of McAuley’s cronies? Those who are left will have regrouped by now and they’ll be after me to avenge their boss. Every last one of them. If I hand myself over to the cops, I’m dead. Even if I had a passport – which I don’t – if I try to escape the country, I’m dead. If I show my face in public, I’m dead. Basically, I’m roast chicken.

  This is all Tobey’s fault. My so-called ‘best friend’ – Tobey Durbridge. He’s the one who messed up, thinking he could take on a headcase like Alex McAuley on his own. I had no choice but to step in and bail him out. Trouble is, by cleaning up Tobey’s mess, I’m now on the hook for it. I’ve got cops to the left of me, McAuley’s minions to the right, all hunting me down like it’s open season. That puts me right at the top of the endangered species list. Thanks, Tobey! Why should I feel a way about what happened to him? Should I beat myself up because it’s my fault his life fell apart?

  Not gonna happen.

  Yet here I am, on the run and fighting to stay alive. My only hope is to hide until I figure out a way to disappear for good on my own terms. I’ll need to change my appearance, my height, my weight. First things first. The wound in my right shoulder is bleeding like a water feature. My side is on fire – and I have no idea why. I’ve just had the fight of my life with McAuley and some of his allies. I didn’t emerge unscathed.

  Now I need to lie low.

  Lightning flashes – brighter, faster, all around me. Beyond them, the darkness deepens.

  Don’t drop, Dan.

  I fall to my knees, no longer able to stay upright. I pitch forward, hit the ground and carry on down till it feels like I must be falling right through the earth.

  Two. Eva

  It’s one of those nights. One of those nights when I sit alone in the dark at the living-room window and watch the world go by. One of those nights when, if my hatred were fuel, I would happily light a match and watch the whole world burn. I hate this date – the third-year anniversary. If it was a wedding anniversary, what would that be? Cotton? No, leather. A third birthday should bring cake and candles, books and toys. What does a third-year death anniversary bring? Memories and regrets and pain.

  Three years.

  Three long years.

  Time moves forward, the world keeps turning. But not for me. Not since my Avalon died. She was so young, her whole life ahead of her, but she thought she knew it all. The occupational hazard of youth. If only I could’ve kept my daughter safe forever, a baby in my arms where I could protect her from the world. But parenthood is a never-ending sequence of letting go, however much you might fight against it.

  And now my Ava is dead.

  And those responsible are still out there, enjoying life.

  And what can I do about it? Nothing. Yet another addition to my long list of failures.

  Wait …

  Who’s that hanging around on the opposite side of the street?

  A Nought guy wearing a woolly hat, leather jacket and jeans. He’s standing beneath a streetlamp, the light reflecting off his pale skin, giving it an unhealthy sallow glow. I frown as I watch him, confident that with the living-room light off he can’t see me. He’s looking up and down the street like he’s casually observing things, but he’s acting – and badly at that. He’s searching for someone specific and trying to hide that fact. I watch as he shakes his head at a figure I can only just see further along the r
oad. Without warning, he looks in my direction. Straight at me. I draw back in my chair. He can’t see me, so why do I feel the guy’s eyes burning through me?

  Well, he can go to hell.

  And when he does, he’ll find me there ahead of him.

  Standing, I head for my front door and bolt it, top and bottom. This is Meadowview. Can’t be too careful. Then I head for the kitchen. When I switch on the light, the sudden brightness momentarily hurts my eyes. I sigh, seeing more clearly now. My imagination is working overtime tonight. That guy opposite my house is probably just searching for his cat or something. I put on the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, I look out of the kitchen window. It’s cold out there. Dark and miserable. My favourite echo. Reining in my gaze, I focus on my reflection in the window. With the kitchen lights on, I can’t see much beyond it anyway. Now that my front door is locked and bolted, there’s nothing outside these walls and windows but my reflection. I don’t recognize the woman who always stares back at me, the creases reaching from the corners of her downturned lips to her chin, making her mouth resemble that of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Frown lines plough her forehead; her cold brown eyes are like chips of ice. This reflection rarely laughs, never smiles. Life sits around her shoulders like a cloak of nettles and thorns.

  It’s not just life weighing me down, it’s the silence around me. I head for the small TV that sits self-consciously in a corner of the work surface. Switching it on, I mute the volume. It’s the only company I want or need. Then it’s back to my kettle, still waiting for it to boil.

  What was that?

  Something … someone moving – in my back garden?

  A trick of the light?

  There it is again, illuminated in part by the upstairs lights of the house next door.

  There is definitely someone out there, creeping around. The guy in the woolly hat?

  How dare he!

  This is my home, damn it! No one has the right to be in my back garden without my say so. If it’s not him, it’s probably another couple who think they can get busy beneath my shrubs. The perils of living next to a park. Everyone treats my garden like an extension of the public space. I’m going to douse someone’s backside with freezing cold water from my garden hose if it’s yet another frisky duo making out.

  Then I see that it’s definitely only one person – struggling to stay on their feet. A man. At least, I think so. He takes a step and stumbles. He stumbles again.

  The man falls to his knees, then drops like a stone.

  Not giving myself a chance to think, I grab my torch, unlock the back door and head outside. It’s dark but it doesn’t take me long to find him. A face I’ve never seen before. A Nought boy, lean and long, lying still on the grass. He groans and shifts slightly, then is still again. In the torchlight I see that he has a dark patch on his forehead and a darker patch around his stomach staining his pale shirt, exposed by his unbuttoned jacket. There’s yet another stain across his right shoulder and down his right arm. Blood. I don’t need my years of medical training to see that this boy is in a bad way. I have to get him inside, then I can phone for an ambulance.

  ‘Hey. Are you all right?’ Stupid question. ‘Can you stand? What’s your name?’

  I pull at his hand. He’s a dead weight and isn’t shifting.

  ‘Can. You. Stand?’ I crouch down, placing my hands under and over his uninjured left arm, trying to drag him up while still holding onto the torch. The torchlight is bouncing all over the garden. I place the torch on the ground pointing straight at us and try again.

  Oh great! Now it’s beginning to rain. Just what I need.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull at the boy. ‘Stand up, damn it!’ He tries to sit up, only to fall back onto the ground and roll sideways. That’s when I see it – a BFG. A big freakin’ gun. I have no idea what type it is, which country made it, what calibre of bullets it takes, but one thing I do know. It’s the real deal. A real gun that shoots real bullets.

  Horrified, I reach out for it.

  The boy gets there first.

  His left hand snatches it up. He immediately turns the gun on me, his breath wheezy and pained each time he exhales. Terrified, I cross my hands in front of my face, my blood running like ice water in my veins. I focus on the gun in his hand. The whole world is now the gun in his hand.

  My ass is going to get shot, sure as the earth orbits the sun.

  Serve me right for trying to help this little scrotum in the first place.

  ‘You’re hurt.’ I speak quietly. ‘I’m a nurse. I can help.’

  Or, rather, I used to be, but now’s not the time for details.

  ‘Get—’ Cough. ‘Get me up.’ OK, not entirely a boy then. Not with that gravelly voice.

  And what does he think I’ve been trying to do for the last five minutes? Grabbing the torch, I move to his side and slip my hand under his uninjured arm.

  ‘I can’t lift you on my own. You’ve got to put some effort in too,’ I puff.

  Tucking his gun into the waistband of his trousers, he uses his now free hand to get some leverage to push himself upright. The moment his hand hits the ground, he gasps in agony. So much for that idea. He tucks his legs beneath his torso and pushes upward. I can’t take my eyes off that gun of his. I hope the safety is on. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t. Someone should’ve told him that putting a gun down your trousers is a sure-fire way to get your backside or tenders shot clean off. That’s a manoeuvre only used in badly researched films, not real life.

  At last the boy is on his feet, with most of his weight on my shoulders. He pulls the gun out of his waistband and waves it towards my back door. That isn’t rain on my forehead but sweat. Like I don’t have enough to contend with already. I glance up. A face is watching from the bedroom window of the house next door. Mr Schubaker. My eyes widen at the sight of him, sending a silent message.

  Call the police.

  Call for help. Do something—

  I drop my gaze before the boy leaning on me realizes that I’m staring up at next door’s window. I don’t want him to panic and start shooting. What will my neighbour do? Mr Schubaker and I are not exactly friends – or even on speaking terms. He was always having a go about Treble, my cat, doing her business in his veg patch. The first umpteen times I tried to explain to him that cats go where they want and, short of keeping her locked in the house, there wasn’t a lot I could do. He wasn’t happy with that explanation, to say the least. Then Treble disappeared. I let her out one night and never saw her again. And I know Schubaker had something to do with her disappearance. He and I ended up having a shouting match out in the street and we haven’t spoken since. Now I’m praying he’ll set aside our differences – at least to call the police. Will he see this boy and his BFG and immediately dial for help or will he decide not to get involved, especially when it comes to the authorities? Too many times we Noughts ask the police, who are mostly Cross, for help and, the next thing you know, they’re tearing through our possessions demanding to see receipts for everything we own or proof of our citizenship. Can Schubaker even see us out here in my back garden?

  ‘Move,’ the boy orders. He waves his gun towards the door again, just in case I’d forgotten he had it.

  We make our way into the house. I take him to one of the three chairs around my small kitchen table. The boy doesn’t so much sit as collapse onto a seat. His face has a waxy sheen – it’s the colour of semi-skimmed milk. Blood loss. His head slumps onto the table. Should I use the opportunity to make a grab for the gun?

  Only if I want to get my fool head shot off.

  Pursing my lips, I head for the sink, soak a tea towel and wring it out before returning to the intruder in my kitchen.

  ‘I’m Eva. What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Dan,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Dan what?’

  He raises his head to glare at me, obviously annoyed that he’s volunteered even that much information. ‘Dan You-don’t-need-to-know-any-more,�
�� he snaps.

  ‘Well, Dan You-don’t-need-to-know-any-more, you have to take off your hoodie and your shirt so I can clean your wounds.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ says Dan with entirely too much bass in his voice.

  I shrug. ‘Fine. Die in agony of blood loss and infection then. No skin off my nose.’

  Dropping the tea towel in the sink, I reach for the kettle and flick the switch to reheat the water. Am I about to feel a bullet rip through me? It isn’t wise to turn my back on the pimple in my kitchen, but he’s giving me attitude when all I want to do is clean him up. So he can go to hell too. More than ever I need a cup of strong black coffee. Maybe I’ll get a sip or two down my throat before this boy decides I’m not worth the aggravation and pulls the trigger. I get myself a mug and ladle in a dessertspoon of instant coffee. Well, it’s not the caffeine that’s going to kill me. Not tonight at any rate.

  ‘I’ll have a cup of coffee,’ says the gravelly voice behind me.

  ‘Not without a “please” you won’t,’ I tell him without turning round.

  ‘I’m the one with the gun. Remember?’ God, could he sound any more pissed? I seem to have that effect on people.

  ‘Shoot me’ – I turn my head to level my gaze at him – ‘and you’ll have to make your own damned coffee. By the way, there are at least two men outside on the street who I’ve never seen before. They’re probably looking for you. Go ahead and shoot me if you want them to know exactly where you are.’

  Dan’s eyes widen at the information. He looks like a rabbit in headlights.

  ‘So you see,’ I tell him, ‘a “please” is a lot less noise and effort.’

  Three. Dan

  Who the hell does this woman think she’s talking to? Does she think this gun in my hand is made of decorated sponge cake? ’Cause I can correct that idea quick. I try to stand up, but the bones in my legs have disappeared. With every beat of my heart it feels like my lifeblood is gushing out of the bullet hole in my shoulder.