‘Now,’ the Major General rubbed his hands, ‘who would like dessert?’
As the waiters cleared away the plates and handed out glass bowls of hot fudge sundae, Isabella asked Xavier, ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were leaving?’
‘I didn’t know how. The kids are so worried about us being separated, I couldn’t find the right time to tell them. And,’ he paused, his brow creased, ‘I don’t really want to leave. You’ve been more family to me than mine has ever been, but my mum’s on her own and she needs me.’
Isabella smiled. ‘You can act the hero all you like, Xavier Stone, but you’re really just a big softie.’
‘Don’t let it get out – it’ll ruin my tough-guy reputation.’
The Major General sat at the head of the table like a kindly grandfather who had just delivered a Santa sleigh of presents.
Isabella looked on as the others laughed and chatted. She’d taken care of these children for three years and now they were in New City, protected by the Garrison.
They were safe for the first time in years.
So why was her stomach tense with the feeling that everything she had was on the brink of being taken from her?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Terrible Cry
‘Please, sir,’ replied Oliver, ‘I want some more.’
The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle. The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said, ‘Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
‘For more!’ said Mr. Limbkins. ‘Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?’
‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.
‘That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy will be hung.’
from Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens (chapter 3)
‘Bea?’ Griffin sat in a bed with Raffy and Fly and felt a small quivering beside him. ‘Are you okay?’
‘What if we don’t recognise them?’ Bea whispered.
‘Recognise who?’
‘Our parents.’ Raffy knew exactly what Bea was thinking. ‘We were only five when we saw them last.’
‘Sometimes, no matter how hard I try, I can’t see them in my head.’ Bea had been trying to hold back her tears, but it was no good.
‘Oh, Bea,’ Isabella held her close. ‘There’ll always be some thing we recognise in the people we love.’
‘And what if they have a new life?’ Fly asked. ‘What if they have other kids and they don’t want us anymore?’
‘And how could they not want you?’ Griffin asked. ‘You’re talented and kind, and when they see you I bet they’ll scoop you up and wonder how they ever got by without you.’ He scowled and pointed at each one of them. ‘And, I won’t hear anything different.’
Fly smirked. ‘You’re no good at being bossy.’
‘Maybe,’ Griffin said. ‘But I am right.’
The bells of New City chimed.
‘It’s late,’ Griffin said. ‘We better get some sleep if we’re going to see Jeremiah’s house tomorrow.’
After the youngest were tucked in, Isabella and Griffin snuck into the main room.
‘He shouldn’t have built their hopes up like that,’ Isabella whispered.
‘It might be true.’
‘Maybe, but there’s something about the Major General I don’t trust.’
Griffin smirked. ‘Apart from Jeremiah, which adult do you trust?’
‘Do you trust him?’
‘He saved this city from ruin, built wind and solar farms and set up environmental research labs. Oh, and he also gave us this new temporary home. So far, that all adds up to him being a pretty good guy.’
‘Who keeps a panther,’ Isabella reminded him.
‘Okay, that’s a little odd, but he did save Xavier from being mauled to death.’
‘You always see the good side of people, don’t you?’
Griffin sighed. ‘I should be tougher, shouldn’t I?’
‘No,’ Isabella shook her head. ‘I like you just the way you are.’ Griffin could feel his cheeks turn bright red. ‘But I also don’t believe New City is as perfect as we’re being told.’ She moved to the computer and switched it on. ‘I bet what we find on the internet won’t be as glowing.’
She searched for ‘New City’ and found websites and images of rolling hills, clean streets and happy families. ‘All perfect. What if we search for “the Floods”?’
They watched news footage of submerged cities, of rivers rushing through the narrow streets of London, New York and Amsterdam. There were people trapped on roofs waving clothes to get the attention of rescuers. Then came the riots, fires, shop windows being smashed and people looting TVs and computers.
‘It’s a mess,’ Isabella said. ‘Just like Corporal Smith told us.’
Isabella searched for ‘Grimsdon’ and images of their former home appeared on the screen. The military swarmed through the city like ants. Army helicopters hovered over homes, winching people to safety from apartment windows and rooftops. Some fell back into the water and SAS teams scooped them inside inflatable boats.
She searched further and saw the city’s flood barrier – the place where her father worked and where he’d been when the Floods hit.
Water spilled over the top.
No one could have survived. Isabella kept repeating it over and over in her head. No one could have survived.
Not even her dad.
A single tear trickled down her cheek.
‘I can still see Dad’s face from the last time we saw him. Do you remember, Griffin? He waved goodbye to us from the front step like he always did.’
‘He’d made us chocolate muffins.’
Another tear fell. ‘They won’t find him, will they?’
Griffin wanted to tell her they would, but instead he gently dabbed away her tears with his pyjama sleeve.
‘What about the camps?’ Isabella asked. ‘Who is telling the truth about those?’
She began typing, but each time she searched, she found nothing. ‘Vijay’s right – it’s as if they don’t exist.’
When she typed the word ‘refugees’, that was different. They read stories about ‘thieves’, ‘looters’ and ‘moochers’.
‘Is there anything good written about them?’ Griffin asked.
‘If there is, I can’t find it.’
‘Maybe Vijay wasn’t telling us the truth,’ Griffin said. ‘Maybe they are thieves. He did steal your knife …’
‘Or maybe someone doesn’t want us to know the truth. Maybe they –’
Isabella was interrupted by a terrible cry. ‘Raffy.’
They rushed to the room to see Bea rocking him back and forth in her arms.
‘It felt so real,’ Raffy sobbed.
‘What happened?’ Xavier appeared at the door followed by Jeremiah and Snowy.
‘Is everyone okay?’
‘Raffy had a bad dream,’ Bea said.
Isabella sat on the bed beside them. ‘What was it about?’
‘There were these two guys who put me in the back of a truck and drove me away. I screamed and bashed the walls, but they wouldn’t stop.’
Raffy cried into his sister’s hug.
‘It felt just like last time, Bea, when they separated us and told us we couldn’t live together.’ His body shook. ‘Can you stay with me?’
‘Of course.’ Bea held him tighter.
‘We all will,’ Isabella said. ‘What do you say we have a sleepover in your room?’
Raffy nodded, his face wet with tears.
Bea snuggled beside him while the others carried mattresses and blankets and made a giant bed on the flo
or.
‘We’ll be your personal guards,’ Isabella said as she and Xavier lined up the last mattress. Fly laid out the pillows. ‘I’d like to see anyone try to get past us.’
‘We’ll be right here, Raffy.’ Griffin spread the blankets and they all nestled underneath.
Raffy cuddled even closer to his sister. ‘Promise you’ll never leave me, Bea?’
‘Never. You’re stuck with me for life.’
Hours had passed since Raffy’s dream and all the others had fallen into a deep, slow-breathing slumber, but as hard as she tried Isabella couldn’t sleep.
So many things kept her awake: the look of fear on Raffy’s face, Vijay and his stories of the camp, the images of the Chaos.
And the barriers drowning under a sea of water.
The government was warned that one day they wouldn’t be enough to protect Grimsdon. People like Jeremiah and her father tried to make the politicians listen, but they wouldn’t.
And now he was gone.
No one could have survived.
Not even her dad.
But what if he had. What if the Major General could find him? Could he really be alive?
Isabella sat up and buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t lie there any longer. She had to do something to push the thoughts from her mind. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and crept out of the room.
The building was quiet. A few dim lights lit the hallway, throwing out a faint glow.
It felt better to be up and moving and somehow made her thoughts less frightening.
She stopped at a bay window, climbed onto a cushion and opened the latch. She saw the twinkling lights of the city centre, and for a brief moment she could almost pretend everything was the way it used to be.
An Armavan slowly patrolled the streets. It rattled over the cobblestones and lumbered out of sight.
Then there was nothing. Just the quiet of a still night.
She was about to pull the window closed when she heard a dull thud. A small parcel bounced into view. A lone figure appeared and scooped it up.
Isabella leant out to get a better look.
It was a woman. She handed the parcel to someone else before wiping her hands on her apron and scurrying inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Late-Night Rendezvous
When Isabella opened the kitchen door, the smell of freshly baked bread made her toes tingle. She closed her eyes and was instantly taken back to her childhood and Mrs Gray’s Bakery – her cherry pies, custard tarts and chocolate eclairs.
Every Saturday morning, she’d go with her mother and father to buy treats for breakfast and fill the table with pastries and honey tea. They’d eat and talk and plan their day.
And they’d laugh – that’s what Isabella remembered most.
Before her mother disappeared, without a note or a goodbye.
Sometimes it felt as if Isabella had made her up.
The faint sound of footsteps snatched her from her thoughts. She tiptoed past a table covered in flour and empty bread tins. She kept close to the wall and peeked into the courtyard.
In the dim glow of the moonlight, Mrs Gooding was handing parcels to a plump man, who stacked them in the back of a truck.
They worked quickly and neither of them spoke.
After the last parcel was loaded, Mrs Gooding shook the man’s hand before he hoisted himself into the cabin and drove out a small side entrance. She closed the gates, slid a bolt into place and stepped into the kitchen.
‘Oh!’ She jumped back on seeing Isabella. ‘You really have a knack of scaring the living daylights out of me.’ She tried to catch her breath. ‘Is this going to happen every time we meet?’
Isabella didn’t answer. Mrs Gooding only then noticed the strained look on her face.
‘Can’t sleep?’ she asked gently.
Isabella nodded.
‘I have the perfect thing. Pull up a chair.’
Mrs Gooding put a pot of milk on the stove. She added a heaped spoonful of chocolate and a dash of vanilla and took the plumpest fruit bun from an oven tray that was cooling on a bench.
‘Try that.’
Isabella took a bite. ‘Mmmm.’
‘I know.’ Mrs Gooding dropped marshmallows into two cups of hot chocolate. ‘Delicious, isn’t it?’
Isabella went to answer but instead began to cry.
‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Gooding swept in and wrapped her arms around Isabella’s shoulders, but this just made her cry even more. Mrs Gooding let her sob into her shoulder.
When Isabella calmed herself, Mrs Gooding smiled. ‘I know my cooking is good, but it’s never made anyone cry before.’
Isabella laughed.
‘That’s better.’ Mrs Gooding offered her a hanky from her pocket. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No, it’s just …’ Isabella shrugged, not knowing where to begin.
‘You lost everything in the Floods, didn’t you?’
‘I have Griffin and the other kids, but everything else …’ she trailed off.
‘This new world of ours can be very hard.’ Mrs Gooding pushed Isabella’s curls from her eyes. ‘Once you’ve settled in your new home, everything will start to feel better. Now finish that bun while it’s still warm.’
Isabella took another bite. ‘Why are you up so late?’
‘A cook’s work is never done.’
‘What was in the parcels?’
‘Parcels?’ Her voice rose a little.
‘The ones you gave to the man in the truck.’
Mrs Gooding glanced at the clock. ‘Oh, look at the time. Finish your drink and we’ll get you back to bed.’
‘Where was he taking them?’
‘Dear me, I’ve made such a mess.’ Mrs Gooding began collecting the baking tins.
‘Fruit buns from those tins,’ Isabella guessed. ‘But where are you sending … oh.’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘Is it to the camp?’
‘No, I …’ Mrs Gooding seemed to lose her words. ‘You know about that?’
‘Only that it doesn’t sound very nice.’
The cook sat with a resigned sigh. ‘It isn’t. Especially the food. I can’t stand the thought of anyone going hungry when we have so much.’
‘Are you two the only ones helping?’
‘No, there are others,’ she said quietly. ‘We sneak in food, hidden in secret compartments in delivery trucks.’
‘What would happen if you were caught?’
‘There’s no point dwelling on that. We know the risks but we have to do something.’
‘Even though you might be punished?’
‘It’s nobody’s fault where they were born, and it’s not right that that should determine a person’s future.’ She looked carefully into Isabella’s eyes. ‘But it’s very important you say nothing. There are those who are very loyal to the Major General and won’t take kindly to what we’re doing.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’ Isabella looked into her hot chocolate. ‘I’m sorry about what happened when we first met.’
‘It was quite a shock,’ she laughed, ‘but I’m glad we can start again.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Mrs Gooding.’
‘And I’m Isabella Charm.’ They shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
They each sipped their drinks.
‘There’s something else I’d like to ask,’ Isabella said carefully.
‘Are you going to want all my secrets?’
‘We saw a man dragged off the street today and thrown into an Armavan. He said he’d done nothing wrong.’
Mrs Gooding frowned. ‘His name’s Frederick.’
‘You know him?’
‘He helped with a few deliveries.’
‘What did he do wrong?’
‘They say he tried to publish a blog about the camp and why he thought it was wrong, and the Garrison found out.’
‘You can be imprisoned for a blog?’
‘And much less.’
‘But that’s
not right.’
‘No, it isn’t, but because New City is safer than most cities, people do as they are told.’
‘Where will they take him?’
‘I don’t know.’
So Vijay’s right, Isabella thought. People do just disappear.
‘I want to help,’ Isabella decided.
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good –’
‘I’m very resourceful and can take care of myself.’
‘I’m sure you can, but you’re just a child and you shouldn’t have to –’
‘I’ve ridden a sea monster, flown in a flying machine and outsmarted a bounty hunter before throwing him out a window and into a river … actually, Xavier helped with that, but I’m a good fighter.’
‘All that is very impressive, but I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.’ Mrs Gooding drank the last of her hot chocolate. ‘Now we’d better get you to –’
Isabella jumped up and flicked the blanket from her shoulders. She whipped her knife from the waistband of her pyjamas and threw it across the kitchen, where it speared the middle of a hanging wheel of cheese.
Mrs Gooding was impressed. ‘You really are good with that thing.’
Isabella sat down with a pleading look. ‘So I can help?’
‘I appreciate the offer, but no.’
‘Then can I make a confession too?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Gooding said warily.
‘I met someone from the camp.’
‘You did? Where?’
‘In the library. He snuck in so he could read.’
‘Vijay,’ Mrs Gooding whispered.
‘Have you met him too?’
‘No, but the others have. Is he a small skinny Indian boy with an infectious smile?’
‘That’s him!’
‘He’s made it his job to look after the younger kids … Just like you do with your little ones.’
‘Have you seen the camp?’
‘Only the military are allowed inside. Even delivery trucks have to stop at the front gates.’
‘So no one else knows what it’s like inside?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Vijay says he can sneak me in.’
Mrs Gooding looked carefully into Isabella’s eyes. ‘You mustn’t get involved. Your life is just about to start over and I don’t want anything to jeopardise that.’
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