Shattered

by Teri Terry

  I lower the camera, look at him. ‘Where is your mother?’ He smiles back, says nothing, and I repeat the question.

  ‘I don’t know what that is,’ he says, and his smile is the same as on the train, but his look is blank. The giggles and mischief are gone; whatever it was that made him who he was…gone.

  Clang.

  A faint noise, through the trees in the distance. A door? Fear runs through me. Did resting my camera against the fence set off an alert inside? Stupid.

  ‘Put your hands down again,’ I say. ‘Walk! Catch up to the others!’

  They take off, more running than walking now, to try and catch up as instructed. I duck back down behind the fence.

  My stomach heaves; I want to be sick. Children, young children, Slated? No. It breaks every law. Four-year-olds like that boy from the train can’t be criminals, no matter what his mother may have done.

  Another distant sound intrudes. Is someone coming to investigate?

  Get out of here. I slip back the way I came using as much care as I can to stay down, out of sight. Once there is some distance between me and the fence, I stop behind some rocks. Peer back. The children have reached the house now; taller figures are there. I snap a hasty photograph, looking through the zoom. Half a dozen adults, and I don’t need to see their black clothes to know what they are: there is something about the way they move, how they stand, that leaves me in no doubt. Lorders.

  A few of them are speaking to the children, and others are scanning the hill, binoculars in hand. I pray Finley has kept out of sight where I left him.

  There is no chance I’ll get back to the path above without being seen if they’re watching properly.

  The only thing for it is speed, and misdirection. I race back up, taking a roundabout way to make it look as if I’m heading the other way, not looking back. Then shrink down again and out of sight, creeping along behind undergrowth, rocks, until finally I hit the path. I duck down and race along to where I left Finley behind the trees.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  I’m breathing hard. ‘We need to get out of here as fast as we can. Better if we’re out of sight and off the path.’

  He peers through the trees. ‘There are figures heading towards the gate below.’ My stomach twists. He holds out my jacket but I stuff it into my pack instead of putting it on. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Run now, talk later.’

  He gets the fear. ‘Okay. One sec,’ he says, and consults his map. ‘Can you rock-climb?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We take off at full speed back up the path, but then, once we’re over the peak and out of sight, go off the path to race across rock, dirt, on steep, windy, faint trails made for sheep, not people. But Finley is much like me: he moves like a mountain goat in high places. I can see where we’re heading: a steep scramble over a peak. If we make it there and over before anyone reaches the place we left the path, they’ll never see where we went.

  Unless they’ve got dogs. I stuff the thought down. Unless they’ve got them there already, they won’t have time to get them until we’re gone.

  We reach the climb, and straight away I can see a few places where just because of my height I’ll have problems. ‘I’ll need to traverse to get over,’ I say, and start up the rocks. Some echo inside tells me to always maintain three points of contact when climbing, but I’m going too fast to do that. One foot slips.

  Finley, just behind, grabs and steadies me. ‘No point in being quick if you’re dead,’ he says, and I glance down, and see with the traverse there is a steep drop below us now. That was too close.

  I slow down, listen to him this time about the best way to go, and at last we clear the top. A quick glance back shows heads just coming up the path in the distance and we duck down. ‘I’m pretty sure they didn’t see which way we went,’ I say, not sure if that is true, but we’re in trouble if it isn’t.

  ‘We’re on a part of the trail now I’d wanted to come back on anyhow. But not by climbing over the top without ropes.’ He laughs.

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘You’re crazier than me.’

  The wind is howling again now that we’re on the other side of the fell, and I put my blue coat back on. ‘Turn your coat inside out?’ I suggest. ‘So we look different.’

  Finley stares back, then takes his coat off, reverses it: swapping blue for grey. He takes another hat out of his bag and swaps his blue one for a red one. ‘All disguised?’

  ‘Yep. Now let’s get out of here. Fast.’

  We don’t run on the ridge – that would be suicidal – but keep the pace as fast as is reasonably safe. The temperature has dropped and clouds are pulling in.

  Another path joins to this one. ‘That’s where we would have joined to here if we’d done it the sane way,’ Finley says. We continue on, dropping down now and out of the wind. I’m breathing easier, and—

  ‘What was that?’ Finley says.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Then I do. Faint behind us. ‘Could they have gone the long way and caught up?’

  ‘No way. It’s miles longer, and we were going fast.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No.’

  We carry on, faster again; there are some rocks ahead, and we duck down behind them, out of sight and out of the wind. ‘I’ll take a look,’ I say, and get my camera out. I zoom it back down the path, and there. One figure; a walker, and he looks familiar. ‘It’s that guy; he was at the Moot Hall the other day.’

  ‘What guy?’

  I hand him the camera, and he looks through. ‘It’s Len,’ he says. ‘The fell checker.’

  ‘Should we take off?’

  ‘Len’s all right, and anyhow, there’s no point. Soon the way the path opens up he’ll see us no matter what. I vote we stay put and have some lunch.’

  Finley opens his pack, takes out sandwiches, a flask. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please! You think of everything.’

  ‘I try, but with you it is hard keeping up.’ He finds cups, pours tea for both of us, and I hug the heat of it in my cold hands.

  ‘So. Are you going to tell me what is really going on?’ Finley asks.

  ‘Sometimes it is better not to know,’ I say, and he stares back, nods after a while.

  He opens the sandwiches. ‘Cheese okay?’

  We’re well into them when Len rounds the path. ‘Hello there, young Finley,’ he says.

  Finley nods. ‘Hello there, old Len.’

  ‘Cheeky brat. Good place for a picnic on a cold day: okay if I join you?’ Lens says, and sits on a rock just above where he can see the path on both sides.

  Finley introduces us, and Len finds biscuits in his pack to share. Part of me doesn’t want to move, from the shock of the orphanage, the cold, the protesting muscles from the hasty run and climb. Part of me is screaming in fear at the delay and wants to run.

  Finley is asking Len about weather conditions and the path ahead, but as Lens answers some part of me is wondering if his eyes are on me too curiously.

  Len has stayed sitting on the rock above us despite the wind, now and then looking back down the path. ‘We’ll have company soon,’ he says, and there is something about how he says it that raises my alarm. He looks back at us. ‘Shall we get our stories straight?’

  Finley and I exchange a glance. The flight impulse is in my feet: I want to race down the path the other way.

  ‘No point in running, you’d be seen,’ Len says. ‘Besides, we’re just three walkers who had a nice time on yonder ridge today together, didn’t we, before stopping for lunch: we’ve got nothing to hide.’

  I can hear the approaching footsteps now; they’re moving fast. If they’ve come up from the orphanage they’ve moved much quicker than I’d have thought they could. Then two
faces appear: they must have split up where the paths diverge.

  Lens nods. ‘Hello,’ he says.

  The Lorder smiles; it’s unnatural. ‘Heh there. Good walking today?’

  ‘The wind cuts through you,’ Len answers. ‘Just the way I like it.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ the Lorder asks, and Len gives the cover story while Finley and I eat biscuits with concentration.

  The Lorder nods, thoughtful. ‘I see. Have you seen two other walkers, one a girl? We think they may be lost.’

  ‘There were two girls a while ago. They took the last branch I think, back the way you came.’

  They move off, talk a moment. Speak into a com, take one last look at us, then go back down the path.

  ‘Well then,’ Len says. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here before they realise they’ve been had.’

  We stuff things away hastily and set off in the other direction. Len sets a hard pace, and every time the path branches we go a different way, winding and twisting around in convolutions we’d never have worked out without him, until we’re heading back down again on the other side.

  Len gets Finley to lead, slows down in front of me so we drop back. ‘I think we need to talk,’ Len says, voice low. And yes he has helped us today, but what can I tell him?

  ‘Thanks for your help. But—’

  ‘I understand you’re looking for a chess partner. Anita, is it?’

  I almost stop dead in my tracks. Len? He is Aiden’s MIA contact? He winks. ‘You’ve been a hard girl to track down.’

  ‘Were you following us today?’

  ‘That was a bit of luck. Finley borrowed my car; I got out of him that you were going with him. The car keys have a tracker. So, what’s up?’

  First, a promise. I fish through my pockets for the photo of Madison I’ve been carrying about ever since I put that note up. ‘Can you put Madison on MIA?’

  He hesitates. ‘I can. But there’s little point,’ he says, his blunt words softened by the sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘Don’t know; guess. There’s a women’s working prison, out Honnister way. At the slate mine. She’s probably there, where most taken around here end up.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Prison: then she’s alive.’

  ‘Sometimes that isn’t best: no one ever leaves that place. But quick before we run out of time. What were you up to today that had Lorders so interested?’

  But before I have to decide what I should or shouldn’t say, hellos are called out as another group of walkers catch us up. They stay with us all the way to where our cars are parked.

  ‘Need a lift, old man?’ Finley asks.

  ‘Cheeky brat,’ Len says. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. And seeing as it is my car, I’ll drive, thank you very much.’

  Finley reluctantly hands over the keys.

  ‘How’d you get here?’ I ask.

  ‘Over hill, over dale.’ Len grins.

  My jaw drops. How many miles was that? He looks ancient and was walking rings around us.

  As we pull onto the road, Len glances at me in the mirror ‘You’re one of the Parks’ new potential apprentices, aren’t you? I take the group on a walk first day, so I’ll see you Monday. We’ll talk then.’

  A slight emphasis on then. He doesn’t want Finley to know anything.

  Finley is whistling as Len pulls onto the road, heads for Keswick. ‘You’re awfully cheerful,’ I say.

  He looks at me sideways. ‘We just stuck it to them, didn’t we? Know you’re not going to tell me why they were after you, but I don’t care why. Any time a Lorder doesn’t get what they want, I am happy.’

  I know what he means, but I’m not feeling it. Have we really got away with anything? All through the drive back to Keswick I keep scanning the road ahead, half expecting a road block.

  And my camera is burning a hole in my pocket. Aiden has to have these photos. The proof is there: Lorders are breaking the law, they are Slating little children. No one could ignore this. Is it the one thing that’ll finally make everyone stop, stand together, say no more to the Lorders?

  There is panic inside that I have the only copies, here, in my camera. If the Lorders ask those boys the right questions, they’ll know their Levos were photographed. They’ll be desperate to find me. And if they work out who I am…I’m dead.

  This is way past self-preservation. I have to stay alive. I have to get these photos to Aiden.

  We have to get the word out, and make it stop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  * * *

  ‘Can we talk?’

  Stella smiles to see me, looks so absurdly happy that I’m seeking her out, that a sinking feeling stirs deep in my chest. ‘Of course, come in,’ she says, and I walk into her office and turn the lock behind me. She raises an eyebrow. ‘This looks serious. Is everything all right?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘What is it?’

  And I don’t know what to say. The less I tell her, the better for her, really. But despite all the need for caution, I just can’t do it to her; I can’t disappear with no word. Not again.

  Stella gets up from behind her desk, goes to the sofa against the wall. I sit next to her.

  ‘Go on. You can tell me anything.’

  ‘You don’t want to hear this. I’m sorry, but I have to leave.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Leave? You’ve barely got here. Why?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure my cover is blown; or, if it isn’t, it will be soon. They’ll come for me if I stay.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy. No. I’ll come with you. I’ll—’

  ‘No. Really, you can’t; it’s too much of a risk. I’ll be safer getting away on my own.’

  A range of emotions cross her face and I brace myself for the storm, but before it gets going, it disappears. She sags back on the sofa.

  ‘When?’ she whispers.

  ‘I don’t know. Soon. As soon as I can arrange something. It won’t be forever, I promise: I’ll get in touch. Some day I’ll come back and see you, when things are different.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy. No. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Life’s like that,’ I say, sharper than I mean to. But really, when has life been fair to me? Even when I finally thought I was returning to a family that was mine, I found out it was all lies.

  ‘This isn’t because of me, is it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Tell me everything. Maybe I can help.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, it’s safer if you don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t trust me,’ she says, her voice bitter.

  ‘It’s not that! But why should I? You’ve lied to me my whole life,’ I say, the words spilling out of me before I can call them back.

  She recoils. ‘You’ve worked it out, haven’t you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I haven’t told you everything.’

  ‘What else haven’t you told me?’ I demand, even as some part of me realises this isn’t supposed to be going like this; I’m supposed to be trying to mend things a little before I go, but I can’t stop myself from asking. What more could there possibly be?

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’

  ‘What wasn’t your fault?’

  ‘She made me do it, don’t you see?’

  ‘Who – your mother? What did she make you do?’

  ‘She was blackmailing me, all these years, into keeping quiet. I was a prisoner back then! She had me under lock and key the whole time I was pregnant, to stop me from talking; she kept Danny away, made him think that was what I wanted. Maybe my baby would have lived if I’d been at home. But then when she brought you…she knew she had me. Right where she wanted me. I couldn’t say
anything, could I? Or you’d be gone. So she finally let me go.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘No. That’s enough. If you want to know any more you have to tell me your secrets, too.’

  ‘I just did. I came here to tell you I was going to have to leave. I shouldn’t have told you, it was dangerous to tell you, but I did it.’ I stand up.

  ‘Wait. Don’t leave like this. Please. I’ll tell you. But you have to promise to never tell anyone.’

  I pause. I’m seething, again. Something about Stella and I just – I don’t know. She makes me crazy. But she’ll be so sad when I’m gone.

  I take a deep breath, and sit. ‘Okay. Tell me.’

  ‘I found out some things, put them together. Stuff my mother did years before against the government.’

  ‘Against the Lorders?’ My head is reeling. No way: she is Lorder through and through.

  ‘No, not exactly. There are factions, you see. In the government. Mother is on the hardline side; the last Prime Minister wasn’t. He had to go.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Are you talking about Armstrong?’

  ‘Yes. He and his wife, Linea.’ She sighs. ‘They were so lovely, and—’

  ‘You knew them?’

  ‘Linea and Mother were friends at school years ago. Linea confided in her that her husband was planning to expose some of the nastier side of the Lorders, and resign. He never got a chance.’

  My head is reeling. ‘No way. Mum’s parents?’

  She frowns. ‘Mum? What do you mean?’

  ‘After I was Slated, that was the family I was assigned to. Sandra Armstrong-Davis.’

  Now it is Stella’s turn to look shocked. ‘You were with Sandy? I didn’t know.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Of course. We used to have holidays together, years ago when we were children. We haven’t kept in touch. I couldn’t. Not after I knew what really happened to her parents.’

  ‘But they were assassinated by AGT.’

  ‘Yes. But the AGT were told where they’d be. The information was leaked: it was a set up.’