Rise

by Victoria Powell

  It suddenly sunk in. She was volunteering to take part in an attack. She was going to kill someone. More likely she’d be shot or captured. They could keep her alive for months in slow, agonising torture. Steeling herself, she layered up her courage knowing one thing for certain - she had nobody left to lose.

  “I can do it. You need the help,” Emma said.

  “We don’t need a novice underfoot,” Howie said. “We need experience. I don’t have to worry that Paul or Ian might accidentally shoot me in the back. They don’t need me to rescue them. All you’ll be is a trip hazard.”

  Jack shot Howie a look. “Emma, Howie may sound a bit rough, but he’s right. You’ll slow us down.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m not a bad shot at the shooting range. I can drive the van when you steal it.”

  “You’ll get us killed,” Howie said.

  Ian patted Emma on the back. “Thanks Emma, but not this time.”

  “But you need men.”

  “Exactly,” Ian said.

  Paul stood up and tapped the kettle on. “We need a new plan,” he said.

  “And with only half an hour before we leave,” Ian said.

  Hacking coughing came from near the door. Elsie, who had perched herself on the kitchen countertop, slipped from the counter onto the floor, coughing uncontrollably. Emma was at her side instantly, rubbing her back and raising her up to clear her airways.

  Emma looked up at the watching men. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Ian walked over, helping Emma raise Elsie to her feet. “Let’s get her in the bedroom. She’s overexerted herself today.”

  They lowered Elsie down into an easy chair. Ian fetched a glass of foggy water while Emma stroked the skinny woman’s thinning hair. Elsie calmed to a wheezing semi-consciousness, leaning into Emma’s shoulder.

  Ian squeezed Emma’s hand. “Can you stay with her, Emma? Keep her calm?”

  “Until she’s asleep?” Emma asked.

  “No, while we’re away. She’ll need someone to look after her while we’re gone.” Ian’s eyes pleaded with her.

  Emma rested Elsie’s head on the back of the chair and made to stand up.

  “You can’t hear our plans, Emma. We’re all safer if you don’t know.” Ian let go of her hand. “Stay here. You know I’m right.”

  A faint tapping noise filtered through from the next room. A flash of panic glazed Ian’s eyes. Paul poked his head around the bedroom door.

  “Emma, guests?” Paul said.

  Emma shook her head, pacing to the door to see into the kitchenette.

  Paul pulled a shotgun out from its hideaway beneath the table. Howie and Jack squatted down behind units. Emma slipped back into the bedroom, watching the flat’s entrance through the crack between the door and wall.

  Ian held his pistol down by his hip as he twisted the latch and cracked the door open. His words were mumbled and low. Someone outside was talking. Ian fidgeted with his pistol.

  He looked back across the room to the bedroom door. “Emma?”

  Had someone followed her?

  Emma slowly approached the door and Ian cracked it open a little further. Four familiar faces stood outside.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Even in her shock she smiled broadly.

  “You know them?” Ian asked.

  Emma leant forward and gave Jen a long hug. “Can’t believe you guys came.”

  “Martyn heard where you’d gone,” Jen said, thumping Emma in the arm. “What were you thinking? Emma the fighter - I don’t think so.”

  Emma pulled Jen into the room, closely followed by three other scouts. Ian closed the door, watching the four scouts closely.

  Emma saw his look and cleared her throat. “Hey, these four are the best scouts in the Ackersons.”

  “Present company excluded?” Jack teased.

  “Ah, yeah ‘course.” She started again. “This is Jen Marley, Sam Davies, Pete Tailor and Steve Milton.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Ian said in welcome.

  “You wanted experience, you’ve got it,” Emma said.

  Pete raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Are you calling Steve and me old?”

  “No! I didn’t mean that,” Emma said, playfully batting his shoulder.

  Pete snorted a laugh.

  “We’ll have to sort this out on the road. You are here for the strike?” Ian said, hurriedly putting on his coat.

  Jen’s eyes flicked to Sam’s, who rolled his.

  “‘Course,” Jen said.

  “Let’s get going then. Time is tight and we need to get there early,” Ian said.

  Jen gave Emma another hug. “Are you heading back to base?”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m going to stay here and watch over Elsie until they get back.”

  Jen followed Emma’s eyes to the bedroom. “Ok, they can probably do without you for a couple of hours.”

  The last to leave was her burly silver-haired mentor. Ian gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Look after Elsie for us.”

  “I will,” Emma smiled. “I’ll make sure she’s comfortable.”

  “And keep an eye on the news. If anything goes wrong you’ll know about it soon enough,” Ian said.

  “Be careful out there.” Emma felt tears prickling her eyes.

  “If we’re ambushed you need to get Elsie out of here. Take her back to your base and look after her,” Ian said. “Please, get her back to base.”

  “Good luck.”

  Then they were gone. Door shut and silence descending, Emma let her tears run down her cheeks. Wiping them clear, she dithered on the edge of the bedroom door.

  “Elsie, I’ll make a cuppa. Be with you in a minute,” Emma called.

  In an hour’s time it would all be over. Ian and the others would have the van and be on the way to a hideout somewhere. Maybe they’d get back here in two hours’ time. That wasn’t long a wait.

  Emma’s ears pricked up. The kettle had stopped boiling a while back. Muted coughing peppered the silence.

  “Elsie?” Emma ran into the room. “Oh hell.”

  Emma grabbed a tea towel off the back of a chair and rushed it over to Elsie. Blood covered her hands. Dribbles of it clung to her lips. Emma hugged her close, rubbing her back. Elsie gulped for air.

  “You’re worse than I thought. Oh, sweetie. They should’ve sent you to me before now.”

  Emma rocked her back and forth. The coughing eased to a heavy wheeze. Emma stroked her hair and looked into her eyes.

  “We can check you over properly back at base. It could be Tuberculosis or a bad stint of Pneumonia,” Emma said.

  Elsie shook her head and wheezed something incomprehensible.

  “Hush. Have you already seen a doctor?”

  Elsie nodded.

  Emma smiled. “You’re still living under the radar? Well done you.”

  Elsie gave a weak bloody smile.

  “So, what do you need? Do you have any medication here?” Emma asked.

  Elsie started coughing into the tea towel again, catching blood in the cloth. Emma rested her back on the chair and started searching for any antibiotic tablets or pain relief. The kitchen cupboards were bare, except for a pack of tea bags and half a loaf of bread. No medication was kept in the fridge either, only milk, butter and sliced ham. By the looks of it, this was a meeting place and nothing more.

  Back in the bedroom, Elsie drifted in and out of consciousness. Emma pulled a large brown leather handbag out from under the bed. It looked big enough to carry books back and forth to school in. Elsie did not look like an academic.

  Opening the bag, Emma cautiously felt around inside. A thin cardigan hid most of the contents. Underneath were the usuals: purse, deactivated phone with battery disconnected, keys, bits of makeup, perfume, spare tights, condoms in various flavours, spermicide. The tools of her trade optimistically always at Elsie’s side.

  The lining of the bag bulged on both sides. Emma felt the edge of the lining until she found the Velcr
o secured pocket. Seeing the contents, she pulled her hand back quickly. It was as she suspected. The pocket contained a packet of white powder, another of crushed leaves, coke pipe, a lighter, a spoon and a couple of needles. Elsie looked like she’d been taking something heavily for a long time. This stuff was not going to help her now.

  The second secret pocket concealed a crumpled photo of a smiling baby, maybe eight months old, in a chocolate-speckled white shirt and pale denim dungarees. A flick knife wrapped in tin foil, a handwritten map of the city and a notepad and pen lay underneath.

  Elsie pulled herself forward in the chair and took the photo out of Emma’s hand. She clutched it to her chest.

  “Let’s talk,” Emma said offering Elsie the notepad.

  Elsie nodded. She took the notepad and opened it to a page near the back. Both of them sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Emma pointed at the photo in Elsie’s hand. “Is that your baby boy? He’s gorgeous.

  Elsie’s shaking hand scribbled. “He died. Seven years ago.”

  Emma’s stomach flipped. “Police?”

  Elsie nodded. “Fire at work. Cops clearing the whore houses.”

  “Elsie...”

  Elsie kept writing. “His name was Michael. Ian’s son.”

  “Ian? Ian Harper? I didn’t know you two were together. Or that he had a kid,” Emma said.

  “Not together now,” Elsie’s pen paused. “I left. Got high. Worked a lot.”

  Elsie’s letters were child-like, each separate, rounded and ending with weird curls. As she got further down the paper the letters changed, becoming more angular.

  Emma brushed back Elsie’s hair. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Throat cancer.” Elsie dropped the pen.

  Mentally switching on her protective skin that she used as a medic, she handed the pen back to Elsie and kept going. “Did they offer you chemo?”

  “No point. Spread to lungs. Spreading.” Elsie wrote.

  “How long?”

  Elsie’s hand shook. “No more time.”

  Emma nodded. Elsie was coughing up a lot of blood and was probably anaemic. She could be malnourished and dehydrated, not wanting to consume anything that would rub on her enflamed throat. The woman sat next to her may not last out the night.

  Emma took the notepad from Elsie. “Rest on the bed. Go rest.”

  She helped the woman lie down on her side, tea towel in hand. Watching the woman as her eyes close and her wheezing developed a rhythm. Emma slumped down in the armchair and turned on the TV, volume low.

  The news channel went around in circles, providing coverage of the surveys at Gateway and repeats of surveillance tapes. Emma got up and finished making a drink, leaving a glass of water on the bedside for Elsie.

  When Emma settled back in her chair she flicked the channels searching for the news broadcast again. This was wrong. Why was a football match playing on the news channel? Maybe some minor illegal group had hacked the station or the Monmouths had bombed the broadcasting house. Whatever the reason, Emma was now out of the loop.

  She settled in to watch the game. The Drayton Demons were playing the Central Centaurs. Her Dad was a Drayton Demons fan, so Emma knew that the Draytons were pretty good. She slurped her tea. Football was so boring! They hardly ever got near the goal. It was even worse with the sound turned down.

  The notepad was sitting on the arm of the chair. Elsie was sleeping... what if Emma took a peek? This notepad might hold all sorts of secrets. Secrets about today’s plan. It could tell her when they would be back. They had already been gone for over an hour. It should be over by now.

  Emma picked it up and started flicking. Yes, some pages were filled with text. She caught sight of a couple of names. This book was dangerous. Then a picture caught her eye and she paused on the page. Elsie was a good artist. The strokes and dots of the blue ballpoint pen formed the shadows of Ian’s face perfectly. This beautiful man on the page looked ten years younger than his real-life version. This dashing, edgy sketch made Emma’s heart tug like it had when he first recruited her.

  Flicking a glance, Elsie was still sleeping and the football had rolled into half time. The presenter was talking animatedly with three commentators. Emma flicked a few more pages in the book and stopped on a sketch of a young cat. The shape was perfect, catching the twist of the cat’s back around the edge of a door.

  A word from the television caught her attention - illegals. Why were they talking about illegals? Emma threw the book down and snatched at the remote control. The volume went up and Elsie wriggled on the bed. The medic listened to the commentators more closely. The one on the far right was wearing a police officer’s uniform.

  “It’s the Deputy Commander,” Emma said. Elsie twisted to see the television from the bed.

  The conversation continued on the screen. The presenter, a slim built balding man in his fifties, absorbed everything the policeman said.

  “So, Deputy Commander, you have a demonstration for us today,” the presenter said, offering Remea the floor.

  Remea smiled. “Yes. At the end of half time we are inviting eight special guests onto the pitch. Something that has never been done before.”

  The presenter covered his mouth with a clawed hand. “I take it these guests are not famous for their football skills.”

  Remea scowled at him. “These guests will be setting an example. This is something for the groups out there to really think about.”

  The presenter stepped in. “Let’s go back down to the pitch, where Terry Myers is now. Hi Terry.”

  The image changed, showing a windswept man in a waterproof mac.

  Emma glanced over at Elsie. “They said eight guests. Elsie....”

  Terry started speaking. “Hello to you all in the studio. We are just in time to see the players come back onto the pitch.”

  Eight players, four in white and four in red, ran onto the pitch to the sound of cheers. Chants rang out in a cacophonous harmony as two songs from different stands mingled together in the centre of the pitch.

  “Four players from each team have re-entered. As part of your half time entertainment, we will now bring in eight special guests who we will match up with the players. Ready.... Bring on the balls!” Terry shouted.

  The noise of the crowd changed. There was an edge, a fear to the crumbling chants as eight men ran onto the pitch. Policemen. They each carried something cylindrical in their arms.

  “Oh shit.” Emma dove to the floor and retched. Elsie rolled off the bed, hiding from the screen and coughing hysterically.

  Emma couldn’t keep her masochistic eyes from looking up at the screen as a dripping head passed to the first footballer. Red lines appeared on his white shorts. Both sides would soon have matching kit. The footballer held the head by the hair to keep her pretty face far away from him. Jen’s pretty face.

  Terry held his microphone steady. “Now, the aim of the game is to kick the ball as hard as possible into the goal. Which team can clear the field first?”

  Emma retched again. Grabbing the remote control, she wrestled the television to turn off.

  Someone banged on the flat door.

  Emma scrambled to her feet. “They’ve come for us already?”

  The banging came again. Someone shouted through the door. She crept closer. The mailbox opened.

  “Emma, open the door.”

  “Barney?”

  Emma threw the door open and pulled Barney into a hug, ignoring the layer of sick down her trousers. Barney pushed her backwards and closed the door.

  “Emma, we have to go. The base has moved. Martyn is hurt,” Barney said.

  Emma hugged Barney again. “They’re all dead. Jen, Steve, Sam, Pete, Ian; all of them.”

  Barney reached for the door again. “All the more reason to get out of here. Come on.”

  “Help me with Elsie.”

  Emma ran back into the bedroom and grabbed the tea towel from the bed. She mopped the blood from Elsie’s mouth.
The woman was barely moving, barely breathing. Emma slipped her hands under Elsie’s shoulders to pull her upright, but Elsie fought her off.

  “We need to leave, Elsie,” Emma pleaded.

  Elsie swallowed before gasping. “Go.”

  Emma grabbed the notebook and pressed the pen into Elsie’s bloody hand. “Leave me. Dead soon. Go.”

  “I can help you back at base. Please,” Emma said.

  Elsie shook her head and scratched her words. “Go now.”

  “I won’t leave you here for the cops,” Emma said.

  Elsie looked around and locked her eyes on her bag, pointing weakly at it. Emma looked vacantly at her. Elsie wrote, “No more pain. There’s enough. Give it to me.”

  Emma remembered what was in the first secret pocket in the bag. She nodded. “Ok.”

  Elsie wrote one last message. “Burn the book.”

  35 - The Recruiter

  Street corner call boxes were making a comeback. Three new ones popped up in Falisans this year, making a total of fifteen across the city. This one, glass shattered and receiver cracked, stood alone on the edge of Kettering. Glancing back at the open car door, Zoe picked up the receiver and pressed the emergency call button.

  Each ring cut across her nerves, but this had to be done. The call clicked in and an automated male voice rasped in her ear.

  “Which emergency service do you require?”

  “Police.”

  The call clicked. Two seconds later a husky female voice said, “Police services. What is your emergency?”

  Zoe dithered. Back in the limousine was a broken kid she loved. She’d cared for that girl for over ten years, nurturing her into a strong young woman. They needed to understand the pain. She had to do this.

  “She’s dead.”

  Keeping to her robotic mantra, the call centre girl went on. “What is the name of the injured person? Where should I direct the ambulance?”

  “You can stop looking for her now.” Zoe remembered the blood on the back seat. “They hit her too hard with that brick.” Zoe cut across the babble on the other end. “We’re going to burn her body. You’ll never find her. You can’t dig her up and pretend to hang her, like the others.”