Balancing Act

by Rachel Churcher

  No one speaks. Lee waits for Smith to say something – to add to Bracken’s list of excuses – but she stares past him.

  “I think you should work a little harder. Don’t you, Corporal?” Lee shrugs, as if he hasn’t just threatened both of them.

  She takes a breath, but Bracken is talking again. Making noise to fill the silence. Lee looks amused.

  Bracken claims that his recruits will slip up sometime, and that he’ll be ready when they do.

  Lee smiles, and it’s the smile of a wolf anticipating a kill.

  “Don’t wait too long, will you?” He says, and Smith tightens her fists.

  It’s like a soap opera. So much drama, with Lee at the centre pulling the strings and writing the script. It’s all I can do not to laugh.

  *****

  I find Private Penny in the basement coffee room at lunchtime. She’s with Lydia and a couple of other girls, laughing at some piece of office gossip when she looks up and catches my eye. A smile flashes on her face before she controls it, but she can’t stop the colour rising on her cheeks. I stand back and watch. I’ll never get tired of having this much power over someone else.

  Lydia looks up and grins at me, nudging Penny with her elbow, and the other girls look round to see who she’s smiling at.

  “Corporal Conrad!” Lydia calls, still grinning. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Sergeant Lydia Wheelan is the oldest person here, her black curls styled in an elegant vintage roll at the back of her neck. She looks impossibly glamorous next to these eighteen-year-olds with their short haircuts and regulation off-the-collar ballerina buns, and she’s enjoying their attention. As a Sergeant, she’s my superior, but we’re not in the same department – and Lydia values gossip and scandal over rank. She’s a useful person to know.

  I lean against the door frame, my arms folded. “Looking for Penny,” I say, grinning back.

  The other girls gasp, and start whispering. Penny is staring at the table, her face burning. This power – this ability to disrupt conversations and distract these girls, just by showing my face – I’m never giving it up. I’m pulling the strings on my own private soap opera, and it is delicious.

  Lydia nudges Penny again, and she meets my gaze.

  “When do you finish?” I ask, checking my watch.

  She shakes her head, as if she’s shaking her thoughts. “Five,” she whispers, and the other girls giggle.

  “Pick you up at six?”

  “Sure,” she says, nodding.

  Lydia is trying not to laugh, and I have to look away before she breaks my concentration. I can’t have Private Penny thinking she’s the butt of a joke.

  “See you then.” I give her my best girl-charming smile, and head back into the corridor. The screams and laughter follow me all the way to the stairs.

  Poor Penny. Her secret is out, and now everyone she works with wants to know about me, and her, and what we’ve been up to together. I smile as I realise Lydia might get her details after all. I know she can persuade Penny to talk – she’ll make her the centre of attention for as long as it takes.

  Enjoy it while it lasts, Private.

  *****

  I meet Penny outside her shared flat at six. I’ve had time to work out, clean my flat, and take a shower, and I make sure I ring her doorbell a couple of minutes early. Nothing like a moment of panic to make her appreciate my calm confidence. To remind her who’s in charge.

  She’s lost the ballerina look, and pulled her hair into a low ponytail. She’s wearing lipstick and eyeliner, and tiny glittering skull-and-crossbone earrings. Her baggy fatigues have been replaced with leggings and an extremely short skirt, and she’s wearing a tight black T-shirt with some colourful cartoon character on the front. Her knee-high boots have zips running all the way to her ankles.

  She pulls on a black satin jacket embroidered with bright birds and flowers, and heads out to join me. As the door closes, I reach for her hand and place a kiss on her cheek, breathing in the strawberry scent of her hair. She blushes, but grips my fingers as we walk out to the street.

  “Pub? Or diner?” I ask as we walk towards the main road.

  “What do you want?” She sounds uncertain, as if there’s a wrong answer. As if a poor decision will leave her abandoned on the street.

  I shrug. “Lady’s choice,” I say, smiling.

  She tips her head from side to side, considering the options. “Diner,” she says, eventually.

  “Good decision,” I whisper into her ear, and I feel her shiver when my lips touch her skin.

  The diner serves beer, so I order two large drinks, and she laughs when they turn up at the table in giant novelty mugs.

  Good. She’s relaxing.

  Over burgers and fries, we talk about work. How long she’s been in London, why she joined the Home Forces, what she wants to do here. I pick up some gossip, and order more beer. Anything to keep her talking.

  She asks about me, and I give her the usual story, deliberately short on details. London born and bred. Posh school, south of the river. Recruited into the Home Forces by a teacher who knew someone in the Major General’s office. Proud parents, younger brother in the RTS hoping to follow in my footsteps. Keeping it bland and relatable.

  She nods, watching me. Her parents are proud, too, she tells me. And her younger brother is as annoying as mine.

  I’ve made a connection. We spend the next half hour exchanging younger brother stories, laughing at each other’s misfortunes. She’s softening. Losing her nervous edge. Holding my gaze for longer each time our eyes meet.

  She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and her earring catches the light. Our drinks are empty. It’s time to move the evening on.

  I pay the bill, and we stand outside in the cold air. I wrap my arm round her shoulder, and she leans against me, shivering.

  “So,” I say, holding her close. “Your place or mine?”

  She laughs, once, then snakes a hand round my waist.

  “My place is a little … crowded,” she says, looking at me and biting her lip.

  “Well then, Private Penny. I guess we’ll have to brave the delights of my humble abode.”

  It’s cheesy, but it works. She laughs, and tightens her grip, slipping her thumb into the waistband of my jeans.

  Back at my flat I hang up our coats, and pull a pack of cards from the cupboard. Time for a gamble.

  I flash her a wicked smile and suggest a game of strip poker, but Penny makes a face.

  “That’s such a creepy old-man move, David,” she says, and shakes her head.

  I reach out and take her hand, pulling her to me and circling my arms round her waist.

  “What if I let you keep your clothes, if you agree to tell me secrets instead?”

  I whisper the question into her ear, my breath hot on her neck, the scent of her shampoo making my head spin.

  She pulls back, one eyebrow raised.

  “And what about you?” She asks, pointing at my chest. “Do you get to keep your clothes?”

  I smile, and shake my head. “No get-out for me. I’m all yours.”

  That convinces her.

  We play, sitting on the floor with the glass coffee table between us. I let her win a couple of rounds before I start trying. I lie back on the rug as she unties my boots, smiling at her winnings.

  I fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses, and we keep playing. I don’t think she notices how many of my questions are about her work in the mail room, and I’m collecting useful information to pass on to Lee tomorrow. I let her win again, just to see the victory in her eyes, and she goes on to win a couple of times on her own. My watch she takes gently, her fingers trailing my wrist as she flicks back the clasp. She rolls my socks carefully, and tucks one neatly into the top of my boot. By the time she takes the second there’s a mischievous look in her eyes, and she throws it over her shoulder, laughing.

  I pour more wine into her glass, and deal the cards again.

 
We don’t make it to the end of the game. I talk her into giving me her boots for two of her losing hands, and she stretches each leg towards me, watching as I pull slowly on the zip, her eyes meeting mine as I tug them smoothly from her feet.

  When I pull my shirt over my head, she’s biting her lip, and the game is forgotten. I’ve taken what I need, and I might as well enjoy the rest of the night. But when our clothes are abandoned on the floor, and her milk-smooth skin is draped over mine, I feel empty.

  This isn’t what I want. This isn’t what I need. An eighteen-year-old Private who doesn’t know any better? Where’s the challenge? Where’s the satisfaction?

  Even as she calls out my name, I know it’s not Private Penny – or Jules, or Rosalind – I want in my bed.

  It’s Katrina Smith. Scars, freckles, and the guts to stand tall while Lee mocks everything she’s working for.

  That would be a victory worth winning.

  Beauty

  When I wake, Penny is in my arms, her head heavy on my chest. I lift my head, but she doesn’t respond.

  I reach for my watch, but the bedside table is empty. I remember her fingers, tracing the skin of my wrist, and my breath catches.

  The watch is in the living room, on the coffee table.

  I need to check the time.

  I roll carefully away from Penny, sliding a pillow under her head and pulling the duvet over her pale shoulders. She stirs, but doesn’t wake as I pull on yesterday’s underwear and jeans, and step out of the bedroom.

  The watch is where she left it, and I’m fastening the clasp as I check the time. Six-fifteen. I pick up the remote from the shelf under the TV, and switch it to PIN, muting the sound. There’s a reporter, standing in a field in the dark, floodlights picking out a tractor behind her.

  Nothing yet.

  I head to the kitchen and fill the coffee maker, picking two mugs from the cupboard and lining them up on the worksurface. When I glance at the TV, the reporter is still on the farm. I check my watch again. Six-twenty. The coffee maker is gurgling as I nudge the sound up and sit on the sofa to watch the news.

  It takes until six-thirty to appear on my screen, but in the half-hour bulletin it’s the first headline.

  I stare at the remains of the amusement arcade on the seafront in Bournemouth, the building half-rubble, spilling onto the beach. The power is out – the streetlights are dark – but the ruins are lit by the headlights of Home Forces troop carriers. The bright lights catch on splintered glass and twisted metal. The camera crew is behind a barrier, but the damage is clear.

  Cora’s done it. She’s done exactly what I asked her to do, and it’s perfect. I can almost taste the outrage – Bournemouth is a popular holiday destination, now that most civilians don’t get to travel abroad. People from all over the UK will recognise this building, and feel a little less safe when they wake up and watch the news.

  Mission accomplished for Cora and her team – and for me. Our citizens will be demanding more controls on their freedom. More rules to keep them safe.

  The Home Forces will be only too happy to oblige.

  No news of casualties yet. The chances are low at this time in the morning, but you can’t rule out someone jogging before work, or an early-morning delivery to one of the seafront businesses.

  No news of arrests, or bomb warnings. I have a few hours to decide whether to tip off the local chain of command. To decide whether Cora and her friends get to live, or face a firing squad on national TV.

  I’ll monitor the news and see what comes up.

  “David?”

  I wipe the smile from my face and turn to the bedroom door. Penny is wrapped in my bathrobe, staring at the screen. “What happened?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, stifling a yawn. “I couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you?”

  “That did.” She shakes her head and points at the TV. “What happened?”

  “Oh.” I look back at the pictures of the bomb site. “Attack in Bournemouth. Another bloody resistance cell.”

  She puts a hand to her mouth.

  “Come on,” I say, shifting along the sofa. “Sit down.”

  She steps across the room, watching the images, and sits down beside me. Her hands grip the collar of the robe, arms crossed over her chest. I shuffle closer and put my arm round her shoulders, and she leans against me, shaking.

  “Why do they do it?” She asks, quietly, and I have to bite back a laugh.

  They do it because I tell them to. Because the Terrorism Committee orders them to – but I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell her anything.

  “Same as always.” I shrug. “Some people think they can change the world with violence.”

  People like me.

  “It’s horrible,” she whispers.

  She’s wrong. It’s beautiful. But I nod, and agree with her. I rest my chin gently on her head and she snuggles closer, one hand trailing over the skin of my chest.

  I live for these moments. I feel ten feet tall. I feel unstoppable. I’m shaping the world, and the power in my hands is immeasurable.

  Power over Cora. Power over Penny. Power over everyone who watches PIN today, and sees what we’ve done.

  I worked hard for this, and Cora repaid me. She risked her life to bring me my news story, and I feel like celebrating.

  “Look at me,” I whisper, and Penny tilts her head. I lean down and kiss her, and she kisses me back. When I break away to switch off the TV, she stands up and takes my hands, tugging me to my feet and pulling me back to the bedroom. We step through the remains of last night’s game – boots and clothes on the floor, cards scattered across the table – and through the door.

  I can afford to be late this morning. Lee will understand. We have plenty of time.

  *****

  “David,” She says, twenty minutes later, stroking my hand where it rests on her waist. “Could they hit us here? In London?”

  I stare at the ceiling and try not to laugh.

  “Unlikely. We have better security than places like Bournemouth. We’re not going to let them blow up bits of the capital.”

  “But we’re a target. We have to be.” She pulls away from me and props herself up on her elbows. “We’re the ones they don’t like.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. But we have the headquarters of the Home Forces. We’re protecting the King, we’re keeping the Palace of Westminster in trust for the end of Martial Law. We’ve got the city sewn up tight. No bombers here.”

  Only because we’ll never give them targets in London. Too much of a symbol for the resistance. Let them play the game in seaside towns and smaller cities. Let them think they’re making a difference, while they give us excuse after excuse to maintain Martial Law. They’re launching false flag attacks on my orders, and they have no idea they’re doing it.

  I have to hide my smile.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I shrug. I can’t tell her, and I can’t let her guess. “I suppose I can’t be entirely sure.” I watch her, skin like milk against my darker tan, her glittering earrings the only things she’s wearing. She’s completely in my power. All I have to do is sound confident. “We’re as safe as we can be. We work in a building with guards outside. The security round Whitehall is the best we can provide. We’re not the first target on anyone’s list.”

  “I suppose,” she says, nodding. Convincing herself. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  I let my smile show, and she smiles back, content.

  But it’s not Penny I’m thinking about as I step into the shower.

  It’s Corporal Smith. And how it would feel to have her completely in my power.

  Or to be completely in hers, my future in her hands like the guard in the interrogation room.

  The thought takes my breath away, and I have to steady myself, one hand against the wall.

  Part of me is horrified. But part of me wants to find out.

  Orders

  I keep seeing Penny. Lee wants as much as I can get from her about t
he mailing habits of the rest of the Home Forces, and it’s easy. She’s there. She’s willing. I take her to the pub, to a karaoke bar, and to a very expensive restaurant, and we always end up in my bed, her strawberry-scented hair spilling across my pillows. She’s enjoying this, and she doesn’t need to know that it’s not her face I’m thinking about as I’m falling asleep beside her.

  Nothing comes out from the Bournemouth cell, but Lee wants some arrests to put on PIN. I phone in a tip-off, but by the time they raid Cora’s house, she’s gone. No forwarding address. They hold her housemates for a day, but there’s nothing to link them to the cell. We send them home with a strong warning to report Cora if she turns up, but I’m sure that’s the last we’ll hear from them. I wonder who tipped her off, or whether she couldn’t live with what she’d done.

  It doesn’t matter. She’s not useful any more.

  *****

  Lee is incandescent.

  As far as I can tell, Smith set a trap for one of her recruits. A TV slot showing Bex Ellman’s dying father, appealing for her to visit his nursing home while she still had time. Obvious, but it worked.

  Except that Corporal Smith failed to catch the girl they’re calling the Face of the Resistance. She was there. She came to see her father, and Smith let her slip away. Smith, and a small army of Home Forces soldiers, armed, trained, and apparently outwitted by a teenager.

  But that’s not what Lee is shouting about.

  Smith couldn’t catch her recruit, so she brought back Ellman’s mother instead. Elizabeth Ellman – an old lady in a wheelchair, which isn’t going to play well on PIN. She had the troop carrier deliver the prisoner to Belmarsh, and helped herself to one of the secure cells. Bracken had to pick up the pieces – book the prisoner in, call Lee and Franks and explain, and make sure the troop carrier’s journey didn’t appear in any official records.

  Smith could have blown the entire Belmarsh operation. She treated the Top Secret facility as her own personal prison, and dumped an unauthorised prisoner into a space reserved for a terrorist. She had no idea how to cover her tracks, or ask permission, but she walked in, took control, and drove a bulldozer through the rules.