Rise

by Victoria Powell

  Zoe’s breath hitched.

  “She’s going to be the biggest martyr this city has ever seen. You did that.” Zoe slammed the receiver back down, checking the time on her watch.

  Rushing into the car, Zoe pulled the car away before the door had time to shut. A rough shove moved her passenger’s knee out of the way of the gear stick, allowing her free movement to rattle through the gears. They spun a corner and the chauffeur’s body slumped against the passenger door, out of the way.

  Rubbing her eyes, Zoe swerved onto the Central ring road away from Kettering. They had to get as much distance as possible between them and that call box. Then they’d drop into the cellar system.

  “How you doing back there, Debs?” Zoe called.

  In the rear-view mirror Zoe caught a glimpse of Debbie’s bloody hands. Her whimpering from the back seat was barely audible over the sound of the engine accelerating. The car wove between a cheap, blue compact and a green saloon. Speed was taking priority over caution now.

  “I don’t know if I’m making her better or worse,” Debbie said, leaning over a body on the back seat. “What if she’s cracked her skull and I’m pressing it into her brain?”

  Zoe sliced across the traffic and swung onto the off ramp. “We’re nearly there. Just keep holding down on the bleeding. Alex will be fine.”

  “She’s barely conscious now,” Debbie said. “Did we have to stop back there? We need to get her to Emma right now.”

  “We needed to throw the cops off the scent.” Zoe gripped the steering wheel as she spun the car around a roundabout. “It was worth the risk.”

  “What if Emma isn’t there? Are you listening to me?”

  Zoe pulled into an alley two streets back from a market street. The engine noise died and Zoe twisted across to check on the patient.

  “Debbie, get her out of the car,” Zoe commanded.

  “Are you going to help?” Debbie lifted a blood-soaked hand to show she was busy right now.

  Zoe jumped out, released the back door and then scrambled back into the front of the car. Grabbing the chauffeur’s jacket and pulling at him roughly, Zoe said, “I’ve got my own stiff to deal with.”

  Quickly stroking Alex’s hair, Debbie propped the girl up and wrapped an arm around her waist. She dropped the wadge of blood-soaked fabric for a moment, Debbie pulled Alex onto the street as Zoe pulled the chauffeur onto the backseat through the opposite door.

  “Get her away from the car,” Zoe shouted, sprinkling spirits from the mini bar onto the body of the chauffeur.

  Dragging Alex, Debbie stumbled back against a concrete wall. Her stomach lurched as Zoe threw a lighter through the open door. A flick of blue-yellow flashed through the rear window. Dazed, watching the flames lick at the corpse, Zoe barely heard Debbie shouting. The fire spread quickly, trailing up the curtains lining the car windows. The lithium batteries and back-up petrol tank could blow at any time. The cops would arrive to see a steaming wreck.

  Zoe shook herself, then she was at Debbie’s side heaving Alex’s arm over her own shoulder. They tripped into a litter-strewn alley. Zoe kicked at the remains of a decrepit maisonette’s door. It stood fast.

  “We’re too close to the car,” Debbie said, grabbing hold of Alex as Zoe kicked the plastic facia.

  Zoe scowled at her. “We need to get into the cellars now.” Her words were broken by the kicks at the door. “This street has cellars.”

  Finally, something snapped and the door flung against the inside wall with a shower of dust. Something mouldered on the kitchen top to their left. Flies flicked around them and the floor was slippery with mildew. The board creaked ominously as they dropped Alex against the far wall. After wedging the kitchen table against the outside door Zoe searched the kitchen and the small studio living room next door. The sofa was pulled out into a bed, dishes abandoned on its edge. The occupant must have left a long time ago and left in a hurry.

  “Here it is.” Zoe pulled up a rotting rug and the trap door was beneath it.

  The hinges were rusted and wood warped. Zoe reached down, twisted the handle and yanked at the trap door. With a crunch, the door swung open and rotten wood flaked off.

  Zoe had taken a big risk. “Debbie, take it slowly. We don’t know for sure this place is empty.”

  Alex was still unconscious when they reached the basement hatch.

  Zoe held her gun at her side as they entered the cellar. Water was running somewhere far away and there was a tangy metal taste on the air. They squeezed around a collapsed doorway, stepping out into the old underground street, taking care to avoid a leaking pipe containing who knew what. The long underground streets twisted wildly, hiding secrets around every corner.

  Something banged rhythmically behind a door. Debbie blocked out the grunts that rattled with every impact. The noise followed them down the street. Zoe picked up the pace.

  “Where we are going?” Debbie said.

  Zoe stumbled around a large tree root that delved through the ceiling into the path. “I’ll know our exit when we come to it. It’s not that far away.”

  Debbie stopped. “She’s too heavy.”

  “No.” Zoe tugged them on. “No, Debbie. You keep moving.”

  “What if Emma isn’t back yet? We could be taking Alex to the wrong place?” Debbie said.

  “What choice do we have?”

  Debbie said, “We could take her to a hospital.”

  “I’m not handing her back to the cops.”

  Debbie screamed as chippings fell down from the roof. “Please, Zoe. We need to get out of here.”

  “See that?” Zoe pointed at a rusted sign hanging loose above a sash window frame. “We’re closer than I thought.”

  “How close?”

  “Too close. We’re too close to where we left the car.” Zoe twisted to look back down the street.

  Debbie pulled them forwards again. “Don’t even think about detouring. There’s nobody following us and my back is giving out.

  “Down here.” Zoe pulled them to the right at the next junction.

  This street was narrower. The smell of excrement drifted from a rivulet running down the path. The floor was sticky where the sludge had dried. Lamplight was shining from somewhere up ahead.

  “That’s our base.”

  “Thank God!” Debbie gasped.

  “Why is it lit up? Is bloody Dobbin on guard again?” Zoe growled.

  36 - The Policeman

  “You little shit.”

  One sharp kick twisted the chair leg and crashed the prison guard to the floor. Flapping around like a fish, the guard struggled to focus his narcotic befuddled eyes on Defoe.

  “Sleepin’?” Defoe said.

  “You better have ciggies,” the guard said.

  “Get up!” Defoe hoisting the man by his arm.

  “Oi!” The guard stood and shoved Defoe off.

  “Not today, Gregg. Show me where they’re keeping her,” Defoe said, pushing the guard towards the cells.

  Gregg stepped back indignantly. “Who’s that, then?” He danced back from Defoe playfully. “We’ve got loadsa girls in here.”

  “You know who I mean - Alex Jenkins,” Defoe said. “It’s all over the news. I know she’s down here.”

  The guard shrugged. “You’re not authorised to see her. You’ve got to have a chit from Deputy Commander Remea to see her.”

  A chit from the Deputy? He was going out of his way to hide the girl. Did Remea suspect another cop was releasing prisoners? Sometimes cops would go down to the cells and take pictures while they beat people. She deserved a beating. Putting images like that in circulation might put down a few illegals. Why was she here anyway?

  Maybe she was strapped up to a drip with something special inside. If they were sapping information out of her bit by bit then they wouldn’t want the wrong person getting access to her when she was ready to spill her secrets. The Ambassador would not bring her here unless he was done with her. Nobody could torture informati
on out of someone that fast. Why was she here?

  He had to see her.

  He squared up to the guard. “How many times have I saved your arse?”

  The guy shook his head irritably. “What?”

  “We’re in a security crackdown. Every time I come down here you’re sleeping. Do you remember that time I caught a prisoner sneaking back up those stairs?”

  “I remember.” The guard folded his arms.

  Defoe stared the guy down. “Tell you what. Tell me where I can find her and nobody will be the wiser.”

  Gregg smoothly stepped aside. “Do you know me at all?” He slipped his hand in front of Defoe, palm resting casually open. “As if I care.”

  Cigarettes - always an easy bribe. Defoe slipped a pack into his hand.

  The guard sniggered hard as he slipped one into his mouth. Somehow he mumbled, “She’s downstairs, in the dark cells. Must be eight floors down and ten cells back.”

  Deep. Defoe bumped passed Gregg, who called out, “One last thing boss. Remea has the only key.”

  “I don’t need to go inside. I just want to see her,” Defoe replied.

  Defoe took his time on the stairs, ignoring the shouts coming from the spiralling web of corridors.

  The cell had three stone walls and a steel door. They were so far down here that no guards were within sight or sound. Defoe looked through a narrow grate in the door. There was definitely a girl in there. He could just make out her matted brown hair and scuffed up clothes lying on a bed facing away from him. It was difficult to tell, but she looked like Alex from where he was standing. Caught so easily.

  He banged on the door and called, “Alex Jenkins.” She moved. She was alive and responsive. There weren’t any machines strapped to her. He jibed at her, “At least you’re alive.”

  She was wearing a shift dress, exposing her lower legs. In the Ambassador’s study she had worn a traditional maid’s uniform, but Defoe had never seen her wear a skirt for fun. This skirt was almost fashionable. Alex was not fashionable. She was functional. His little activist was a jeans and hoodie girl, not a cute plaid dress with a lace frill.

  He knocked on the door again. “I didn’t come to taunt you.”

  The girl curled up on her bed and didn’t speak.

  Defoe rattled the door, irritated. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you to be here. I thought the Ambassador had you.”

  The girl croaked, like she had cried herself hoarse. “Why?”

  Defoe paused. She sounded stretched. She must have been beaten. “You tell me. I’m not here for a fight,” Defoe said. “I need answers.”

  The girl stayed silent.

  Defoe turned and kicked the wall. She had no motivation to speak to him. He wouldn’t release her. He couldn’t if he wanted to. She was the Ambassador’s toy.

  “Hey, fuck this! Why did I come down here?” He shouted through the bars. “You must have really pissed the Ambassador off if he’s left you here.”

  She pulled a blanket over her head.

  “Hey. Hey!” He yelled.

  “Leave me alone!” She shouted.

  He hit the door again. “No.” He took a breath and tried to push down his anger. “No. I hunted you for years. You’re going to listen to me now.”

  The girl didn’t move.

  He leant close to the door. “You’re going to answer my question.” No response. “Listen to me.”

  “No, you listen to me.” The girl ripped off the blanket and spun around on the bed. “I have no idea who you are.”

  Through the bruises Defoe saw a girl with a sculpted face splattered with the remains of mascara. She was nothing like Alex. She was too young, too mollycoddled and too scared. She was terrified.

  Defoe let his hand fall from the grate. “The guard told me ... it’s the wrong bloody cell.” He stepped back.

  “He said I was Alex Jenkins,” she said.

  Standing back up to the grate, Defoe asked, “Is she in there too?”

  The girl shook her head. “I am Alex Jenkins.”

  Defoe chortled. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know what she looks like.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I look like,” The girl giggled. “They told me that. They’re going to hang me and pretend I’m her.”

  “Who? Who’s told you?” He asked.

  The girl shrugged. “The Deputy? I don’t know.”

  “And where’s Alex?”

  “How do I know? I’m locked in a cell!” She shouted.

  Defoe thumped the door one last time and turned back towards the stairs.

  “Wait! You know I’m not her. Get me out!” She called.

  Defoe looked back over his shoulder, but kept his pace. “Good luck with that.”

  The girl was not his concern. Back in the main foyer of the station Defoe headed towards technological forensics. Someone was going to give him answers.

  “Constable Travis,” He barked as he walked into the hot and musty computer lab.

  The junior cop jumped off a computer chair in front of the mainframe display screen. “Sir.”

  “So,” Defoe said, straight to business, “has my mark reappeared?”

  Travis shook his head nervously. “No, not yet. We’ll restart the satellite again. I can’t figure out why the tracker failed.”

  Defoe traced a figure of eight in the dust on the tabletop. “We’ve been through this. I can’t tell you who I’m tracking.”

  “Ok,” Travis said sarcastically. “I get it. I figured out enough to know that she was at a VIPs house before she went missing.”

  “She?” Defoe smirked.

  “I’m hedging my bets,” Travis said.

  Defoe pointed at him in warning. “That’ll get you in trouble.”

  “Look, I can’t put all the pieces together with half the puzzle.” He waited for a confirmation smile from Defoe. “Ok, so she was at a VIP’s house. You told me you saw her get into a car just before the tracker cut out.”

  “That’s right.”

  Travis smiled curtly. “A black limo with silver trim. Not a stretched one, just standard with a heavy frame. Imported.”

  “Imported?” Defoe said with warning.

  “It’s important - not just me waggling out of you information about who she was with,” Travis said. “I helped design the car - it’s bug and tracker proof using the most modern blocking systems we have. If it was that car then the tracker would have shut down the moment she stepped inside.”

  Defoe nodded, finally understanding. “So, would it have powered up again when she got out of the car?”

  Travis shrugged. “The device has a low frequency emitter that’s pretty weak. It takes about ten minutes to recalibrate the device when it comes back into the open.”

  “So why hasn’t she reappeared?” Defoe poked at the desk irritably. “We found the car and she was not in it.”

  “Well, I have a theory about that. They could hide her underground.” Travis said with a flourish. “If they got her underground pretty quick then we wouldn’t receive an alert. She’s either underground now or she’s found a way to take out the tracker.”

  “She doesn’t know she has a tracker,” Defoe said.

  Travis nodded. “But if her pals are suspicious then they might scan her. Or there’s the possibility that she died and they buried her.”

  Defoe stood up. “Thanks. It’s an interesting theory,” he said, heading to the door. “Let me know when she reappears.”

  Travis stood to see him out. “Will do. I’ve set an alert, so I’ll know the moment her signal activates.”

  37 - The Leader

  The slippery sleeping bag rustled as Martyn kicked it off and urged his weary bones into vertical alignment. The pre-dawn light winked through basement’s ceiling windows, raindrops glistening in the autumn storm outside the new base. Dancing shadows caught his eye near the door. People were moving about in the hallway.

  The sleeping mat next to his was empty. It was a small room; the occupant wasn’
t hard to find. Sat at the side of an old oak wardrobe, Alex was watching a spider spinning a web. This week-long daydream was driving Martyn crazy. A week of brooding silence, a week of staring into space, a week of fitful sleep and drowning nightmares. His little wind up rebel had finally broken.

  Martyn took her hand, drawing her eyes away from the silken thread. “Time for breakfast, Alex.”

  Like a ghost, she floated out of the makeshift sickbay into the corridor of the drafty basement. Bending to the engrained routine, Martyn followed her past the foot of the stairs, looked up the four flights, and walked into the open kitchen-dining room. Orange strip lights warmed patches of the room, touching the kitchen surfaces, two of the four-seater tables and the edge of the TV-sofa area.

  Three men looked up from their toast and watched Alex slink into her usual shadow at the far end of the room. “Morning, Alex,” Marcus said.

  Martyn paused at Marcus’s table. “Good night watch?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I’m getting used to it. It was quiet. I need to find a thicker coat.”

  “We really appreciate the extra help.”

  “We’ve found a good street here,” Barney said, leaning around Marcus.

  Martyn smiled weakly. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Are the council meeting this morning?” Marcus asked. “We can’t keep running like this. We need a strike plan.”

  He licked his lips before responding. “We’ll meet after lunch... but there’ll be no talking about a strike. Food and supplies are top of the list.”

  “Then we should raid a depot,” Marcus said.

  “No,” Martyn said, waving Marcus into silence. “Not after what happened to Jen and the others.

  “Well, if Emma...” Marcus stopped, cut by Martyn’s glare.

  Barney slid from his seat. “I’ve gotta head for my run.”

  Martyn composed himself. “I’m checking on Emma.”

  “She should’ve known better.” Marcus’s whisper carried as Martyn approached the pantry door. Emma was ripping up sheets into bandages and folding them into emergency kits.

  Martyn picked up a sheet and started ripping it. Emma looked up. “Hi.”