Megacity: Operation Galton Book 3

by Terry Tyler

  Leah touches briefly on her first impressions of Clinton and Jerome Bettencourt and how excited she and her friends were about Rise, then moves on to the guests at the party, and finally to the nightmare of the hunt.

  Tears roll down her cheeks. "Meredith, Joel, Nadia … Clark. I saw them all murdered. If it hadn't been for a security guard who let me escape, I would be dead, too, and next month or the month after, there would be another group setting off to be hunted like wild animals at Clinton Bettencourt's country house. Please, please, tell everyone about this. I don't believe the staff at NPU Teens know—they need to be told, as do the people who work at the Rise Academy for real. The house is about twenty miles north-west of the Sunrise off-grid community—that's all we know. As you get nearer to it there are road blocks and signs saying private property, and it doesn't appear on Earth Maps—we've looked. The whole area is marked as no-access farmland."

  She stops, and wipes her eyes. "I want to honour the twenty-nine young people whose lives have been cancelled out by these monsters. I don't know all their names, I'm sorry. And I want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to the security guard who saved my life. I don't know if he has paid a price for this, and I don't suppose I will ever find out, but I just want to say thank you, wherever you are."

  Nick says, "Do you know his name?"

  Leah bites her lip. "I couldn't remember it at first—I knew it was something weird—it was so frustrating because I could remember the names of those vile hunters, but not his. It came to me this morning, though." She smiles. "It's Radar. If you see this, Radar, I can never thank you enough."

  My mouth drops open.

  Radar?

  It was Radar who saved her?

  Radar was working for those Bettencourt monsters?

  Aileen looks as surprised as I am.

  Radar?

  Has to be him. How many other people have that daft name?

  Leah finishes up, we clap and congratulate her, and I can't wait, I have to ask.

  "Leah—this Radar—what was he like? How old d'you think he was?"

  She frowns. "Hard to say—it was dark, and it's all a haze now."

  "Please try. I think I might know him."

  "Okay." She takes a deep breath, and shuts her eyes for a moment. "He was a big guy. Not fat, but big. White. Shaved head, I think."

  "What about colouring?"

  She looks at me hopelessly. "Tara, I don't know. It was dark."

  "Yes, of course, I'm sorry."

  "Let me think." She shuts her eyes. "Light. Fairish. I think, anyway."

  "I don't suppose you could take a guess at how old he was?"

  "I don't know. Thirty? Thirty-five?"

  It has to be him. Has to be.

  The others are interested, of course, so I tell them about Radar, but Xav says, "To be honest, I'd be surprised if he's still alive."

  I know. I know. And I can't explain why someone I haven't seen since I was a kid still matters to me. Suddenly I'm awash with remorse. Is it my fault? Did he go to the bad as soon as I left him alone?

  I wonder if he remembers me. I wish I could find out if he's still alive—and the remorse is replaced by anger at everything, this whole godawful world that allows people like Clinton Bettencourt to exist and prosper.

  The video is uploaded to Molenet, ready to go once we've left the UK.

  Xav hears from his mate King. The boat will be waiting for us at an old fishing village called Crastwick on the Northumberland coast; it was a wastelander settlement before the clearances last year. It remains as it was left, the rejuvenation of the wasteland hasn't got that far yet.

  Billy and his mate Archie arrive this morning from Sunrise, as they're driving us. If stopped, Billy will say he's going to Crastwick for the excellent cod and herring fishing at this time of year.

  "This is the time for a big catch, so we can smoke 'em, and have kippers right through the winter."

  I laugh. "You sound convincing – that's good."

  He looks a little bemused. "I ain't lying, petal. Soon as you lot have buggered off, that's exactly what I'll be doing; waste of fuel, otherwise. I've got a permit, 'cause I live in a gen-u-ine bona fid-ee approved private homestead, don't I. We used to trade with the community there, before it disappeared. Never had cod like it."

  We're travelling in the larger of his tin cans, with all the fishing gear. Xav, Archie and I are helping him to build wooden boxes, like seats, down either side of the back of the van, where we'll be hidden inside.

  "Shitcha not, it's going to be a blighter of a journey!" Billy says, with inappropriate cheer. "You'll have hardly any room to move, for about two and a half hours. Reckon you can handle it?"

  I can handle anything, if it means getting away. Anything is better than being in prison, or dead.

  This evening, as we discuss the release of the video and our escape, Nick says, "And so history repeats itself—thirty-one years ago, Lita Stone made her whistleblower video about the sterilisation procedures in Hope Villages, right here, in our attic. Now you're doing the same, but something much bigger. However small our army is, we've got to keep fighting."

  "We have," says Xav, "though I've mellowed a bit, in my old age. Before they cleared the wasteland I really thought the uprising would happen, but I was kidding myself. That David and Goliath shit only happens in fiction. Now I think the best protest of all is to refuse to live as they want us to. Everyone who does is one less person cowed and obedient, scared to speak their mind. All we can do is be brave, expose atrocities, and keep reminding ourselves what's important. Family, friends, freedom. As long as some of us are still living free, they have not yet won. Anyone who manages to get out has beaten them. That's how we do it. That's how we win."

  Chapter 42

  Aileen

  25th ~ 26th October, 2062

  Moving Day. We're setting off at midnight; King will be at the tiny harbour at Crastwick at three a.m.

  Xav tells us not to drink anything after ten p.m., because once we're shut in we're not coming out until we get there.

  We have a delightful yet solemn last dinner, sitting round the table in the kitchen. Wish, wish, wish we could stay.

  Being hidden under this seat is worse than I imagined. Far worse than the priest hole. Not as bad as the freezer. There's that, at least.

  Dear Billy, the wonderful man who saved my daughter, volunteered to test run it yesterday, to make sure the air holes were sufficient and he didn't die. I'm not joking, it's hellishly stuffy. We can shift from lying on our backs to lying on our sides, just, but being boxed in like this—it feels like being buried alive. Leah's coping just fine; she said that after what she went through on that awful night, nothing else matters.

  Xav suggested that if we can't sleep we try counting, to get some idea of how much time has passed. Leah's doing it at the moment; we're taking it in turns every fifteen minutes.

  I worry when the vehicle slows down. Most of the route is yet-to-be-repurposed wasteland, but we have to drive under ziprails, pass close to Hope Villages, and skirt MC9.

  I'm in that half awake, half asleep state where your thoughts go all crazy; Leah nudges me, because it's my turn to count. My third time. At the end of my session, we will have been travelling for one and a half hours, give or take.

  I've just started, when the van stops.

  Leah clutches my hand.

  "It's probably just the boys getting out to take a leak," I say. Hope so.

  I count.

  If that's what they're doing, they're taking a hell of a long time about it.

  I count some more.

  Still no movement.

  Footsteps. Voices.

  The back doors open. I daren't breathe.

  "Hey." A gentle knock. "It's me, Archie. You're okay, we've just got some motor trouble. Keeps overheating. Don't worry. We'll be on our way 'fore you know it."

  Christ. Our departure time was worked out according to tide tables and the safest time of the n
ight to be on the move. Billy timed our departure so we'd arrive at Crastwick at roughly the same time as the boat, and it's going to wait for one hour.

  Which means that if we have to stop for more than an hour, it's all over.

  I remember something Eric used to say, if I was panicking about getting somewhere on time, due to some unforeseen delay or heavy traffic.

  He'd say, "We'll get there when we get there. Sighing and looking at the time every ten seconds isn't going to alter that, so you might as well just relax."

  He was right, of course, though it wasn't easy to take on board then, and it's certainly not now. Especially as there's a bit more at stake than missing a train.

  I go back to the count. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. Leah's turn. Nine minutes in, the van starts up again. Oh, thank goodness. Leah clutches my hand.

  "It's okay, Mum. It's going to be okay—ten, eleven, twelve …"

  Approximately two hours into the journey, we once again come to a halt.

  This time, Archie tells us what's going on straight away. The engine has overheated again.

  We're so hot in here. Sweating. We have a small bottle of water each, but daren't drink as much as we want. Though I suppose in an emergency, we'd just have to let it go.

  Ten minutes.

  Fifteen.

  Added to the twenty-five it took last time, we now only have twenty minutes' leeway.

  I try to blank my mind off. It doesn't work.

  Ten minutes later, we move again.

  "They won't just leave if we're a bit late, will they?" my daughter asks, and I so badly want to hug her to me and tell her that of course they won't and Mummy will make everything alright, but she's an adult now.

  "I hope not," I say. "Let's just hope not."

  Our counting's gone wonky with all the stopping and starting, but my heart starts to race when (I think) we've been shut into these boxes for three hours and twenty minutes.

  Leah says, "So we didn't get stopped and searched. Just think, we could have travelled normally after all."

  "We could, but it doesn't matter, because we're nearly there now."

  And we stop. This must be it. We must be here, at last.

  The carpet is pulled up, the lids of our boxes lifted, and Billy grins at us as the cold air rushes in. Oh, the smell of the sea. It smells of freedom. Childhood. Normality.

  We get out, groaning and stretching, and climb over Billy's fishing kit and boxes of ice and out onto a stony beach.

  The boat's there, down by the jetty. One light on, painted dark, but it's there. Our passage to safety. Our new life.

  Xav waves wildly, Archie runs down the beach towards the boat, and the rest of us laugh and hug each other.

  "We've done it," says Xav. "We're okay."

  We pull out our one small backpack each; I'm adjusting the straps on Leah's pack for her when I hear footsteps on the stones, and assume, subconsciously, that it's Archie, or Xav's friends from the boat. I don't think; I don't look.

  Everything is okay, because we've made it, we're here.

  Until I hear Tara say, "Uh-oh."

  Chapter 43

  Tara

  The early hours of 26th October, 2062

  They emerge out of the darkness. Three guys with fishing kit. Rods, fold-up chairs, torches, cold boxes. Waterproof coats and woolly hats. The nearest one is tall with a black beard, in his twenties I'd say, as far as I can see from the moonlight and Billy's lamp, currently placed on the top of the van. Another looks no more than seventeen or eighteen. The third hangs back, I can't see him so well, but they're civilians.

  Xav flicks on his torch, puts a hand on the small of my back and whispers, "Hang in there."

  He tells Aileen and Leah to get themselves down to the boat, Billy to start getting out the fishing kit, then he smiles and raises his hand. "Morning!"

  Shit and crap. They're coming closer.

  The first one calls out, "Not supposed to drive onto the beach, mate." He jerks his thumb towards the way we came. "Bit of waste ground back there on the right, for parking." He has an authoritative voice. Confident. No messing.

  "Oh—sorry, we didn't know." Xav raises his hand again, as if to suggest apology. "Billy, do you want to drive it up once we've got the kit out?"

  "Sure thing!"

  Black Beard steps closer. "Where you from, then?"

  "Off-grid in North Yorks, mate." Billy opens a little box of live crawly things, and holds it out to him. "Want one?"

  I laugh. Black Beard is not amused. "Long way from home, aren't you?"

  Billy grins. "Yeah, well, there's not much in the way of sea fishing in the middle of the North Yorks moors."

  "There's a lot of coastline much nearer than Northumberland, though."

  "Aye, but you get the biggest cod up here. And the herring is par-fucking-excellence, as I'm sure you know. This time of year, I can catch enough herring in a couple of sessions to keep us in kippers till Christmas."

  Black Beard appears unable to argue with that. He stands for a moment, just staring. Then he says, "You got a permit?"

  Billy frowns. "Not being funny, bro, but what's it to you?"

  The one who was hanging back in the shadows steps into the light. He's older; stocky bloke in a black thermal hat, same as his mate's. Pitbull type. "Just making sure we're all law-abiding citizens."

  "Fair dos. Okay; yes, I've got a permit, yes, you can see it if you want, even though you have no friggin' right to ask me for it."

  There's something about the way Billy says all this, with a big grin on his face—a wise person would realise that he's taking the piss in a non-threatening manner whilst standing his ground, and let it go. A twat might see it as antagonistic. I've got a sinking feeling that these three are twats.

  "Seeing as we're exchanging information," says Xav, "where are you from?" He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Just checking we're all law-abiding citizens."

  Black Beard echoes Xav's 'hand up' gesture. "Me and the lad are in the employ of a certain government minister, who is a lord, and whose private estate is not ten miles from here. Our friend here runs a tackle and bait outlet in MC9, and also provides services for said lord. Is that enough information, or would you like more?"

  Xav's about to answer when Pitbull spots the boat. I can see Archie looking out, and two others: our saviours, King and Rae.

  He says, "Going somewhere?"

  "Nah," says Billy. "That's Archie's boat. My bro. Him and his mates have come up for the piscatorial activities 'n' all. Like."

  "Where from?"

  "Off-grid in Norfolk," Xav says.

  "What's it called?"

  "Not that it's any of your business, but it's called Sandilands."

  "They're even further from home, then," says Pitbull. "Norfolk to Crastwick, in the middle of the night?"

  Billy laughs. "Our Archie likes sailing, which isn't a crime, last time I looked."

  I don't know if there's an off-grid in Norfolk called Sandilands or not. The third one, the young lad, gets his com out, presumably to check up. If Xav's just made that up, this could get nasty.

  I step forward. "Well, anyway, nice to meet you, but we need to get on now. Billy and Archie are setting up here, and we're taking the boat just a little way down the coast—"

  "Hey! That's you!"

  It's the lad.

  He waves his com in the air then marches towards me, shoving it in my face. "That's you, isn't it? I remember you on the ads when I was a kid."

  Duh. Of course he wasn't checking off-grids. Like most teenagers, he was browsing Heart while the grown-ups talked.

  Yes, it's me. A picture taken recently. Oh shit, shit, fuck, bollocks and crap, why didn't I put my fucking hat on as soon as I crawled out of our hiding place?

  Because I thought I was safe.

  He comes closer.

  I read the text.

  Alas, it's not my muffin-flogging past that he's interested in.

  'Have you seen Tara Jackso
n? Former Nucrop influencer wanted for the attempted murder of care manager Dawn Whittle.'

  At least she's still alive (though she must know I didn't attempt to murder her, the lying bitch).

  Billy laughs. "What you been up to, girl?" He takes a look and says, "Nah, that's not Jane."

  "Eh?"

  "Her name's not Tara. It's Jane."

  Pitbull says, "Maybe that's what she told you," and peers over the lad's shoulder, up at me, and back to the screen. "Yeah, it's her alright."

  I fold my arms. "Prove it."

  Pitbull holds up his com to my face, but of course sees nothing.

  If they're allowed to face ID on their coms, this government minister-stroke-lord they work for must be a serious big cheese.

  "Taken your chip out, have you?" He grins at me. "Course you have. Come on love . If you're not this Tara Jackson, I'm shagging the PM." He swipes at the screen. "Look, here's a live bit." And I hear myself, talking to Karena. "You telling me that ain't your voice?"

  "Come on, let's just go," says Billy.

  I say, "Too right," and, taking Xav's arm, turn to walk off—but Pitbull isn't finished.

  "Don’t think so, love. You see, there's this." He holds out the com again.

  Underneath the headline is the promise of not only a large financial reward for information that leads to my capture, but thirty social credits. Untold riches, if you live in a megacity.

  I shrug. "Do your worst. Tell them you thought you saw this Tara Whatever on a beach in the middle of the night. I'm off."

  I sound calm, but my heart is thumping. I'm sweating, cold and sweating all at once, and my legs feel as though they're going to give way.

  "Let's go," says Billy. "They can't prove anything."

  But as I turn, I hear a click.

  Black Beard is pointing a gun at me. "You're not going anywhere."

  Xav steps forward. "Okay, hold up, this doesn't have to go bad, just think a minute—karma, right? Goes around comes around? Do you really want to be the arsehole who turns in an innocent woman?"