Knife Edge

by Malorie Blackman

  'Chauffeur and secretary?' asked the Cross.

  'That OK with you, Chief?' Morgan asked me.

  Scrutinizing the Cross in the room with us, I nodded. So this Cross was here to help us, was he? I didn't know his name and I didn't want to know it – but it was just as well Morgan had set up a backup plan. Chauffeur and secretary was one of the standards. The only trouble was, with the hotel being surrounded, I wasn't sure if it'd even work.

  'I'm Dylan Hoyle,' said the Cross. He held out his hand. I didn't take it. Morgan started to until I glared at him, then his hand fell to his side. Dylan looked from Morgan to me and shrugged.

  'I just thought—' Dylan began.

  'You thought wrong,' I interrupted harshly.

  'Fair enough,' Dylan shrugged again. 'You've both worked for me for the last eighteen months. Your false papers are in my jacket pocket.' He took out the papers and handed them to us. 'You'd both better get a move on. We've got less than five minutes before they start checking every room in the hotel. Try to make yourselves look as much like the photos on the fake IDs as possible.'

  'Do we stand a chance?' asked Morgan.

  'Only if you do what I say,' said Dylan, adding as he turned to me, 'Exactly what I say. There are clothes in the wardrobe. You'd better get them on. Wigs and glasses are in the bathroom.'

  Morgan and I were in a Cross's hands. Not a place I wanted to be, but we had no choice. Dylan Hoyle was a Cross. I didn't trust him, or any of them. And if he so much as twitched out of place, he wouldn't get the chance to do it twice.

  two. Sephy

  I held you in my arms, waiting to feel something. Anything. And I waited. And I waited. And nothing came. No pleasure. No pain. No joy. No anguish. No love. No hate. Nothing. I looked down into your dark-blue eyes, blue as an evening ocean and your eyes swallowed me up, as if you were waiting for me to . . . recognize you. I can't explain it any other way. But I didn't know you. I looked at you and you were a stranger. And I felt so guilty, because I still felt the same way about you as I did when you were inside me. I'd still trade all my tomorrows with you for one slice of yesterday with Callum. And that's not the way I'm supposed to feel. So that's what I'm made of now. Regrets and pure, unadulterated guilt.

  'Why don't you see if she'll feed?' asked Nurse Fashoda with a smile.

  I didn't want to but she was watching me. And I didn't want her to guess what I was really feeling. New mothers aren't supposed to feel nothing.

  'Do you have any bottles?' I asked doubtfully.

  'That's not this hospital's policy. We don't provide bottles for babies unless there's a good medical reason and even then it has to be OK'd by a doctor,' Nurse Fashoda informed me, adding with slight disdain, 'Besides, bottles are for rich women so that they can hand their babies over to a nanny before they've had their first poo.'

  The nurse regarded me pointedly as she spoke. Well, apart from the bit about being a woman and being rich, she'd got it absolutely right. At eighteen I felt nothing like a woman. Just the opposite. I was a frightened girl running barefoot on a knife edge.

  'So how am I meant to feed her then?' I asked.

  'Use what women fed their babies with long before bottles were invented,' said Nurse Fashoda, pointing to my breasts.

  She wasn't joking either. I looked back down into your eyes, Callie, and you were still watching me. I wondered why you weren't crying. Babies cry all the time, don't they? So why didn't you? After a deep breath, I pulled down one side of my nightgown, too tired now to be embarrassed by Nurse Fashoda's presence and too heartsick to care anyway. I tried to raise you up in my arms so that you'd be at the right level to feed. But you wouldn't latch on. I tried to turn your head towards my breast. 'Sephy, you're not screwing in a light bulb,' admonished Nurse Fashoda. 'Don't swivel her head like that. She's not a plastic doll. Turn her gently.'

  'If I'm doing such a bad job, why don't you do it instead?' I said with belligerence.

  'Because it doesn't work that way,' the nurse answered.

  And as I looked at Nurse Fashoda, I realized in that moment just how much I didn't know about you, Callie, or any baby. You weren't some nameless, faceless abstract thing any more. You weren't a romantic ideal or some stick to beat my dad with. You're a real person. Someone who had to rely on me for everything.

  And God, I've never felt so scared.

  I looked down at you again and it hit me. Hard. And kept coming. Into my heart and straight out the other side. Callie Rose. You were . . . you are my daughter. My own flesh and blood. Half me, half Callum and one hundred per cent yourself. Not a doll or a symbol or an idea, but a real, new person with a new life.

  And totally my responsibility.

  Tears trickled down my cheeks. I tentatively smiled at you and even though my vision was a bit blurred, I'd swear you smiled back at me. Just a little smile, but that was all it took. I tried again, turning you gently in my arms until your face was towards my breast. You latched on to me this time and immediately began to feed. It's just as well you knew what you were doing because I didn't have a clue. I watched you then because I couldn't tear my gaze away. I watched you feed with your eyes closed and one fist balled up and resting against my skin. I could smell you, smell us. I felt you take more from me than just milk. And with each breath we both took, the last nine months faded away into long ago and far away. But you didn't feed for very long. A couple of minutes, that's all.

  'Try switching her to your other breast,' said Nurse Fashoda.

  So I did, moving you round awkwardly like you were made of bone china. But you didn't want to feed any more. You lay on my chest, your eyes still closed, and just like that you went to sleep. And I closed my eyes and leaned back against the pillows behind me and tried to follow your lead. I felt rather than saw Nurse Fashoda try to pick you up. My eyes opened immediately, my arms wrapped around you instinctively.

  'What're you doing?'

  'I'm just going to put your baby in the cot at the foot of your bed. You've had a long labour and it's time for you to rest. You'll be no good to your daughter if you're dog-tired,' said Nurse Fashoda.

  'Can't she sleep on my chest?'

  'Our beds are too narrow. If she fell off, she'd hit the floor,' said Nurse Fashoda. 'You'll have to wait till you're at home in your emperor-sized bed before you can do that.'

  I studied Nurse Fashoda, wondering at the antagonism in her voice.

  'I wasn't criticizing,' I said.

  'Look around,' Nurse Fashoda said. 'This is meant to be a community hospital but we don't get half the equipment or staff that a Cross hospital gets. Not too many Cross patients want to set foot in Mercy Hospital.'

  'I'm here, aren't I?'

  'Yes, but you're the only Cross in the maternity ward. And when you leave, you'll move back into your fancy house in your fancy neighbourhood and after a long, hot shower we'll all be forgotten.'

  And just like that, I'd been assessed and judged. Nurse Fashoda didn't know the first thing about me but she'd taken one look at my face and now she reckoned she knew my whole life history – what had gone before and what was yet to come. I didn't tell her that the bed in my flat was narrower than the one I was now lying on. I didn't explain that my bedroom, bathroom and kitchen combined were about the size of this labour room I was in. No matter how much talking I did, Nurse Fashoda would never hear me. She'd only ever hear what she wanted to hear, what she already 'knew' to be true. I knew her type.

  Besides, I was too weary to argue with her. I watched her settle you down in your cot and the moment you were covered with the white, cotton blanket, I closed my eyes. But the instant Nurse Fashoda left the room, my eyes opened. I scrambled up onto my knees to look at you. I touched your cheek. I stroked your short, dark-brown hair. I couldn't take my eyes off you. Even when tears blurred my vision, I didn't take my eyes off you.

  three. Jude

  My wig "was blond and long, down past my shoulders. Morgan had on glasses with black frames. I took the sunglasses and
put them on, then pushed them up onto the top of my head until if and when needed. We changed out of our usual uniform of jeans and shirts and I now had on a cheap but effective dark-blue suit. Morgan wore dark grey trousers, a dark blue shirt and a long raincoat. Our old clothes were packed up in one of the medium-sized suitcases by the door. I didn't have time to check out the other suitcase.

  'Tie your hair back in a pony-tail,' Dylan told me, handing me an elastic band.

  Biting my tongue, I did as he said.

  'I'd better take back the IDs,' said Dylan.

  Morgan gave his back immediately. I was more reluctant.

  'Each of you take a suitcase and walk behind me. Neither of you is to speak without looking at me for permission first. Is that clear?' asked Dylan.

  Morgan nodded, already acquiescent. Subservience didn't come so easily to me. I was used to giving orders, not taking them. And as for doing what a dagger told me to, that stuck in my craw.

  'You want to live, you'll do what 1 say,' Dylan said directly to me. 'You lose sight of the fact that I'm here to help you and we're all dead.'

  'OK. Fine,' I spat out. 'Let's do this. But Dylan, you try to betray us, and you won't live to regret it.'

  'Why would I betray you?' Dylan asked.

  I didn't answer.

  'Oh, I see. If I could work against my own kind then I can't be trusted by anyone – is that it?'

  Jude's rule number two: Never trust a Cross. Ever.

  'I suppose it doesn't occur to you that I can think the system just as unjust as you do,' Dylan continued.

  'Is the system a bit unfair?' I mocked. 'You see that then, do you? How's the view from your warm, comfortable position on the inside?'

  'I hate to interrupt the philosophical debate, but can we get the hell out of here?' Morgan hissed.

  Dylan and I glared at each other. But each of us backed off – for now. Dylan looked at each of us critically.

  'Morgan, take that suitcase. Jude, take the other one. We've got one shot at this, so no foul-ups.'

  Dylan went to the door first. He took a deep breath, then opened it. He sauntered out of the room and headed for the one lift in the middle of the corridor, with Morgan and me only a couple of steps behind him. As he pressed the button to call the lift, he began to whistle tunelessly to himself. I'll say one thing for him, he faked nonchalance really well. The lift arrived after a few seconds. We all stepped in. Dylan pressed the button for the basement, which led straight out to the small car park at the back of the hotel.

  As the lift sped downwards, my heart began to beat a little louder, a little faster. My free hand snaked into my jacket pocket, reassured by the feel of my automatic gun inside. My gun had fourteen bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber and I had four loaded clips on me, one in each sock, one in my other jacket pocket and one tucked into my belt at the back. Meggie McGregor didn't raise any stupid children – just damned unlucky ones.

  'Take your hands out of your pockets,' Dylan told me without turning his head.

  I reluctantly did as I was told. The lift opened. We walked through the hotel delivery and storage area. On one side of us were metal and wooden crates and boxes, some stacked on top of each other. On the other side were laundry bins full of dirty sheets and towels and wooden boxes, some filled with eggs and others with row upon row of sausages, covered only with cellophane. A mixture of smells assaulted my nose, most of them unpleasant. We made our way across the room to the double doors on the other side. Dylan pushed against one of the doors which led out to the car park. We walked out after Dylan, with no idea what we were getting ourselves into. A familiar feeling crept over me. A sense of suppressed panic and misplaced excitement. My adrenaline was definitely pumping. I decided that now was a good time to don my sunglasses. I pushed them down from the top of my head to cover my eyes.

  'Excuse me, sir.' An armed dagger cop immediately came running up to us. Another one stood his ground, just a few metres behind him, his gun already in his hand.

  Only by a supreme act of will did I stop my hand from flying into my jacket pocket.

  'Yes, officer?' Dylan stepped in front of me and Morgan. 'Can I help you?'

  'We're looking for two nought terrorists who're believed to be staying at this hotel,' said the officer. 'Have you seen anyone suspicious in the hotel?'

  'Good God – no!' Dylan replied, shocked.

  What acting! Next stop – the Academy awards.

  The officer side-stepped Dylan to look directly at Morgan and me, then down at the sheet he had in his hand. Even from where I was standing, I could see a photo of both Morgan and myself. Suddenly our disguises seemed anorexic to say the least. There was no doubt about it – Morgan and I had been set up. I'd thought we were being let back into the Liberation Militia. Big mistake. Andrew Dorn was just letting the Cross authorities do his dirty work for him.

  Dylan looked around, alarmed. 'You don't think the terrorists are in this car park, do you?'

  'No sir, at least. . .' The officer scrutinized us like we'd just run over his dog or something.

  'And you are . . ?' he asked me directly.

  I remembered my part and looked at Dylan as if for guidance.

  'This is Ben, my chauffeur, and that's John Halliwell, my secretary,' Dylan said. 'These two I can vouch for.'

  'I see,' said the officer. He turned back to me. 'Can I see your ID card please? Yours as well,' he said to Morgan.

  'When they're with me, I keep their ID cards, officer,' said Dylan.

  'Why?' the cop asked, with a curiosity that verged on suspicion.

  I held my breath.

  'It's been my experience that if you grab a blanker by his ID card, his heart and mind will surely follow,' smiled Dylan. 'I'm not taking any chances on my nought staff skipping out on me with my car or my important documents. You understand?'

  'I see.' The officer returned the smile as Dylan dipped his hand into his jacket pocket for our cards.

  He handed them over to the cop, who looked at them, then handed them back.

  'OK, officer?' asked Dylan.

  'Yes. One last question. Why d'you have two suitcases?'

  Nosy bugger. This cop would find curiosity killed more than the cat if he didn't let up.

  'I've been away on business – at least that's what my wife thinks,' winked Dylan.

  'I see. And if I asked to look in your suitcases, you'd be fine with that?'

  'Of course – if you're really that keen to see my dirty laundry. John, open my suitcase please.'

  Morgan unzipped the suitcase and threw open the lid, all without saying a single word. It was full of socks, shirts, trousers and underpants. A couple of financial magazines sat in one corner and a fat crime thriller book sat in another.

  'Ben, open the other case.'

  I bent down and slowly began to unzip it. My suitcase contained Morgan's and my original clothes.

  'That's OK, sir,' said the cop. 'You can go.'

  I zipped up the case, just as slowly. No haste, no speed, no suspicion.

  'So you're on your way home, sir?' asked the cop.

  'Yes, officer. Arriving without my secretary and chauffeur might get me into trouble. And these blankers know how to keep their mouths shut.'

  'That makes a change.'

  Dylan laughed at the funny, funny joke and the dagger cop joined in.

  'Thank you, officer,' Dylan smiled, one Cross to another. Perfect understanding and, of course, much too subtle for us lowly blankers.

  Dylan made his unhurried way to the mid-sized, black luxury car closest to the road. He took out his car key and pressed the button on the key to open the doors. Then he threw the key at me and waited, looking pointedly at me.

  What the hell is he looking at me like that for? I wondered.

  And then it hit me. Biting down hard on the intense antagonism I felt, I opened the back door of the car for him. He slid in like it was only natural. Taking the suitcase from Morgan, I deposited the luggage in th
e boot. It took all my self-control not to turn round and look at the cops behind me. What were they doing? Watching me? Could they smell the adrenaline pumping through my body? Could they hear my heart thumping like a relentless boxer? Or had they already left to help their colleagues search the hotel? I got behind the wheel of the car. Morgan sat next to me. I started the engine and we were away.

  'Drive like you haven't got a damned place to go,' Dylan hissed at me.

  And that's what I did. I drove like I had nowhere else to go – which was easy, because it was true.

  four. Sephy

  Dear Callie,

  We've been together for a few hours now. I'm out of the labour room and back on the ward and it's just after dinner-time on the first day of the rest of your life. You're in a transparent, plastic cot at the bottom of my bed and I keep stealing glances at you 'cause I still can't quite believe you're mine. I'm writing this in between watching all the other mums on this ward welcome their loved ones – husbands, partners, other children, parents. Every bed has at least one visitor – except mine.

  I can't stop thinking about Callum – your dad – and wishing he was here to see us, to be with us. But at least I've got you, Callie. You and me against the world, eh? How do I feel? I'm not even sure. It feels like my mind is still numb – or maybe just stuck in neutral.

  But I take another glance at you and tell myself that we're still here. We're alive. We're together. Is this what Callum wanted? I think so. I hope so.

  You and me against the world, my darling.

  You and me against the world.

  five. Jude

  We drove past a number of police cars on either side of us. I kept my gaze on the road ahead. The last thing I wanted was to catch a dagger cop's eye. At the end of the road I turned left, heading into town. After I'd been driving for at least five minutes, Dylan piped up.

  'Take the next left,' he ordered.

  I turned into the indicated road and carried on driving at a steady speed, well within the limits.