by Teri Terry
‘Your mother was behind that? Oh my God. You have to tell. You have to!’
‘No. I can’t! I never can, not any more. It’s too late, far too late. What would it even mean now? After all this time. No.’
‘Listen to me. Astrid was blackmailing you using me. If I’m not here, and she doesn’t know where I am, she can’t blackmail you. Can she?’
‘It’s not that simple any more. It’s everyone: all the girls here. She’d use them against me.’
I try. So hard. To tell her that if people don’t say what they know, that if we don’t stand up against the Lorders, things will keep getting worse. That it is in our hands to do something. She isn’t listening, I can tell.
But how can I complain when all those times with Aiden, I didn’t listen, either?
What I don’t say is, what if she had spoken out all those years ago? Told everyone that the Prime Minister was going to resign and expose the Lorders, that they were assassinated by their own government to keep them quiet. Maybe the Lorder stranglehold we have today would never have taken place.
I stand to go.
‘Wait. My last request. Can I have your camera?’
‘My camera? Why?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ll give it back. I just want copies of your photos: those of you and us.’
I hesitate. ‘Okay. I’ll bring it down.’ I leave the room wondering if she could see the telltale bulge that said the camera was in my pocket the whole time.
Back in my room I fiddle with the camera’s interactive screen until I work out how to make folders; I password protect the ones of the orphanage. I long to email them to somebody, anybody, but don’t dare without a non-government computer. They’d be monitored and stopped for sure, and then they’d have my location.
I bring it back down, thinking I’ll wait while she downloads the photos. Hesitant to let it out of my sight.
‘I’ve got something for you.’ She holds out her hand, and in it, a key. ‘Your dad’s stuff. Photos, all of it. I wanted to get rid of it, but somehow couldn’t bring myself to do it.’
‘Where?’
‘In the old boathouse. Do you remember where it is?’
‘I think so. Thanks.’ I clutch the key in my hand.
‘Go on, have a look while I go through the photos on your camera. I’ll give it back to you at dinner.’
I hesitate, unsure if I should let it out of my sight, but the key in my hand is pulling me another direction. I grab my coat and put my boots back on, groaning a little at sore feet from so many fast miles covered today. Slip out the side door, run down the garden towards the lake.
Do I remember the boathouse? I try, really hard, but nothing comes to me beyond flashes of a kayak, sliding into the water. I wander the paths along the water’s edge. There are several outbuildings along the water next to the racks of kayaks, and another further along, almost hidden by overgrown plants and overhanging trees. As soon as I see it in the moonlight, I know: this is the boathouse.
Dad used to spend a lot of time here.
There isn’t a boat in sight; it was a converted workshop, where he’d build bits of things, or just hang out: getting out of the house. Getting away from Stella, I realise now, in a way I didn’t back then.
The key fits in the lock; it doesn’t turn. Some trace of memory tells me to push the door in with my knee and try again, and this time it does. The door creaks open.
It smells dusty and damp, and I step forward into cobwebs. I brush them off and sneeze, feeling along the wall for the switch. I find it; it doesn’t work, but then my elbow knocks something off a shelf. I stoop to pick it up and my hand closes around it: a torch. I flick it on.
The table, the bench, all still in place: as I see them, the rush of memory almost knocks me from my feet. Instead of tools and stray broken things, they are covered now by plastic boxes. I pull the lid off one, then another: clothes. Dad’s clothes, from a lifetime ago; books that were his.
In another, under more books, is a chess set. His set, the one he taught me to play on: one of my few happy memories. He let me win. I smile, open the box, and touch the pieces inside.
Of course one is missing: one rook. The castle. He used it to reach me in that far away place, where I was taken, held and fractured. It’s up in my room here, tucked in a corner of my bag. And here are all its mates. Something inside me longs to bring the missing rook down to this place, have them reunited in their little nests inside the box.
Another box is full of photographs, and I dive into them. There are old photos of Stella and Dad, some from their wedding. I hunt for some of us together; there aren’t many, but I find a few. There is one of me and him and Pounce as a tiny kitten, all smiles. It must have been taken the morning of my tenth birthday. Before everything went wrong. I tuck it into my pocket, along with one of Stella and Dad laughing together when they were young. There aren’t many photos of Dad, if this is all of them, to make the trail of an entire life; he was usually the one with a camera in his hands.
My camera. Some sense of unease returns. How long have I been down here?
‘Riley?’
I jump, turn. Ellie stands framed in the door, shivering without a coat on, my camera in her hand. She holds it out. ‘Stella asked me to give this to you: you forgot it in her office. And to say that it is okay to miss dinner if you want to.’
She turns, dashes back up the path.
I stare at my camera in my hands, confused. I forgot it? She said she’d give me the camera at dinner. Why the change? Did she realise I was going to want to spend loads of time down here, or what?’
Maybe it is a message beyond just the words. Something isn’t right. My skin crawls as if an army of spiders have found me here.
I switch off the torch, then slip out into the night. Close the door, slow and quiet; push it with my knee. Lock it. Wonder what to do with the key, then put it on top of the door.
Voices float out on the night air, too faint to discern. There are feet crunching on the shingle above. I slink from one tree to another until figures above are in view, but it is too dark to make out who they are. I get the camera out, put it in night mode and peer through the zoom. A car is parked to the side of the building; the main lakeside door is open, Stella framed in it. Two others are walking towards her. One is Astrid. The other is a man, his back turned to me. The light is poor, but every move he makes is fluid, sinuous, cat-like. Inside I feel as if my muscles and bones are melting, can’t hold me upright; I may collapse.
Nico.
Why would he be here, with Astrid? It doesn’t make any sense.
He pauses, turns his head and scans out into the darkness, and I shake, convinced he can sense my presence, that his pale blue eyes can somehow penetrate the night and see where I hide. Without thought my finger pushes the camera button, taking several quick shots of him and Astrid in the same frame.
How can this be? Astrid and Nico – Lorder, and AGT – are sworn enemies. Aren’t they?
Movement draws my eyes to the sides of the house. I swing the camera. Figures in black: Lorders. They’re watching the side doors. What do you want to bet they are by every door? Fear grips my gut for Ellie. Did she get back inside before they came?
Then I notice one of the Lorders has something strapped across his eyes: night vision goggles.
I sink back down, until the dip of the land has them out of sight.
That message from Stella was a warning: has Astrid worked out who I am? My panicked brain can’t process Astrid and Nico being together, or what it means. But whatever it is can’t be good.
Adrenalin pours through my body: run!
To go right would mean going past an open stretch of the grounds that slope down to the lake without cover: no way I wouldn’t be seen. To go left is the logical escape route: the wooded f
ootpath into town. This is where they will hunt when they realise I’m not in the house.
The lake.
I slip along the water’s edge to the racks of kayaks. I almost hold my breath as I lift one off the rack as quietly as I can. The paddles are clipped alongside the kayaks. The desire to get away is so strong that it is hard to pause, but I do, unclipping all the other paddles, gathering them together. Make it harder to chase.
I move along the shore, awkwardly balancing the kayak and paddles. Step slowly into the water so I don’t splash, struggling not to gasp with the cold when it goes over my boots. As silent as I can, I get into the kayak, awkward in winter clothes and with all the paddles tucked under one arm. A paddle drops and catches the water; the end jumps up, knocks my glasses off my face. There is a slight splash as they drop into the water. I grab for them, but they’re gone in the darkness. What does it matter? They’re not going to fool Nico if he catches me.
I set out, and my childhood kayaking soon comes back to me: my strokes are fast and sure, hugging the shoreline so I’m harder to spot.
Once I’m well away from the house I move away from the lake’s edge, and slip the other paddles out in the open water with a silent apology. I leave them floating behind me as I pour every bit of panicked energy into strokes to get me as far from Astrid and Nico as I can.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
* * *
Shivering, I pull the kayak well up from the water, push it and the paddle under bushes. I focus on picturing the map Finley had shown me earlier: Keswick Boys should be nearby.
I don’t like going there, it’s risky for so many reasons, but what choice do I have? I need to find Len, and the only way I know how is through Finley. Besides, I’m half soaked with January lake water. My feet must still be down there, but are so numb, walking is clumsy. The temperature is dropping, and judging by the thin ice I had to break through on this side of the lake, it is going to get worse. I need to get warm and dry.
There are buildings above me, lights, voices. I hug the path that skirts around the houses, until at last I see a large rambling building set apart above them.
I slip around the side of it. There is a boy in shadows near the back door; a dot of red light says he is having a smoke. Do I wait until he goes and try to sneak in, or brazen it out?
I’m too cold to be subtle.
I step down the path in front of him. ‘Hello,’ I say.
He squints into the darkness; I step into the light by a window.
‘Hello there, yourself. Where did you magic from?’
I giggle. ‘Could you tell Finley I’m here?’
‘Him again?’ He rolls his eyes. Stubs out his cigarette on the side of the building. ‘Wait a sec,’ he says, and disappears into the house.
A few minutes pass. A window down the end of the building opens with a thud, and a head peeks out: Finley.
‘Riley? What are you doing here?’
I quickly cut across to the window. ‘I’m in some trouble.’
‘A damsel in distress? One of my favourite things. Come in the back way.’ He holds out a hand and I realise he means the window. He half pulls me through, into some sort of utility room.
‘You’re frozen,’ he says.
I nod, shaking violently and not bothering to try to hide it any more. ‘I kayaked across the lake. I’m soaked.’
‘I’m guessing this has something to do with the Lorders chasing us earlier today.’
‘Probably,’ I say, though not entirely sure that they could have worked out who I was and where to find me that quickly. Then I remember Steph at dinner the other night: she saw my green eyes. Is she a spy for Astrid? If so, that’d be weird enough for her to report, even if she didn’t have an inkling who I am. I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. It could be that, or it could be something else. Either way, I’m trouble. Are you sure you want to help?’
‘Don’t be daft. Of course I’m helping you. We’ll get you warm to start with. Hang on.’ He opens the door, looks out. ‘Coast is clear.’ He holds out a hand. ‘Try to look like you are here because of my irresistible charms, not on the run from the law.’ He winks, takes my hand and wraps an arm around my waist.
We walk fast up the hall to the end, up a flight of stairs to the next level, down a hall. He opens a door to a bedroom.
Another boy is in there, reading a book on one of two beds.
‘Clear out,’ Finley says.
He looks up, rolls his eyes. ‘Didn’t take you long to get over the last one,’ he says. Finley stiffens, but manages to keep his arm around me as the other boy leaves.
As soon as the door shuts we spring apart. ‘Sorry,’ we both say in unison.
‘He won’t say anything?’ I ask.
‘Of course he will. But only to the lads. Boys’ code,’ he says and taps the side of his nose.
‘Great,’ I say, then wonder why I care, as long as they don’t tell the authorities I am here. My reputation is far down the list of worries.
He opens a wardrobe, fishes through. ‘Get out of that wet stuff and put these on.’ He turns around and I shuck my jeans and socks and pull on his miles-too-big trackies, then some huge wool socks. I’m still shaking. ‘My bed isn’t as disgusting as his. Go on, warm up.’ I get in it and pull his blankets around me in a cocoon. Finley puts my stuff on the radiator, stuffs paper in my boots.
He pulls a desk chair round. Now come the questions, and he has a right to ask them, but in some sort of crazy delayed fear reaction I’m pulling my arms around my head in a ball. Nico: he must know I’m alive. Why else was he there? He’ll find me. Deep shuddering sobs are tearing out of me, and Finley starts patting my shoulder, all awkward but nice, but for some reason it just makes me cry harder.
‘Heh there. It’ll be all right,’ he says. But how can it be? ‘Don’t cry. If anyone hears, it’ll ruin my reputation.’
I draw in a shaky breath and fight for control. A bell rings, and I jump.
‘Dinner bell,’ he explains. ‘But I can stay.’
I sit up and rub a hand across my eyes. ‘Actually, I’m starving.’
‘Oh, thank God, me too. Right. I’ll get takeaway.’
‘You can do that?’
‘Sure. The boys’ll run interference while I stack an extra plate. Back in five.’
He leaves, and I fight for the composure I’d felt earlier. The certainty that I would get away, that I’d find Aiden, and I’d give him my photos and he’d know what to do with them. Somehow with all the Lorders in the world potentially after me I wasn’t all right exactly, but could carry on. But now that it is Nico, too?
After all he and his AGT have done to me – stolen my childhood, my life, killed my father, programmed me to be their killer – there is a core of cold fury inside. But most of all, overwhelming everything else, is fear. One glance at him in the distance, and I was terrified. He must know I didn’t die when he set off that explosion: why else would he be here? Astrid knew I survived: she must have told him when she worked out where I was. He’ll find me. He always finds me.
I look at the window behind me, the door opposite, jumpy, as if just by thinking of what scares me I can conjure it up.
And Astrid and Nico together: what does it mean? I can’t process this. Stella said Astrid was behind the assassinations, that AGT did it but she set it up. It couldn’t have been Nico; it was over twenty-five years ago, and he couldn’t be much older than that. But Astrid must have links with the AGT. Is that it, is she still using them for her purposes?
But Nico hated the Lorders. How could they be in the same place at the same time? He was AGT through and through.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all. After I was taken from Castlerigg to that other place by Dr Craig, Nico was there. He was involved from the beginning. Astrid was my grand
mother – or so I thought back then – she knew me since I was a baby. She might be the only person who knows where I even come from. Now that I’ve seen her with Nico, is it too much coincidence to think the AGT targeted me and she wasn’t involved? Stella thinks Dad was behind what happened to me, but was it Astrid – her own mother – all along?
Approaching footsteps pull me from my thoughts: my heart races. There is a light tap, and Finley opens the door.
He sees the look on my face. ‘It’s only me: maybe we should get a secret knock?’
‘Sorry, I’m just jumpy. And I’m sorry about losing it before,’ I say.
‘No worries. Here you go,’ he says, and holds out one of two big bowls in his hands, full of stew with bread on the side, and it smells good. I’d told him I was hungry to get him to go, to give me time to compose myself, but now that I can smell food, I’m famished.
While we eat, Finley looks at me curiously, then pauses in between mouthfuls. ‘You look different, and I just worked it out: no glasses. But your eyes look different somehow.’
‘I lost them in the lake.’
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
I stare back at him. The weak point in my plan, such as it is, is this moment. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know stuff.’
‘Like what you were up to today.’
‘Exactly.’
‘It’s nice to have a reputation-enhancing houseguest, but no matter how slack they run this place, eventually someone official is bound to notice. You can’t stay here forever.’
‘Just a few hours will be fine. Thanks.’
‘What can I do to help?’
I can’t see any way to get the information I need without the direct approach. ‘I need to find Len,’ I say, with a silent apology to Len. He didn’t want Finley to know anything, did he?
‘Always knew there was more to the old man than meets the eye. That’s easy; he lives over the hill. We could go now?’
‘I think better to wait until everybody is asleep, then slip out. Tell me where to find him, and I’ll—’
