Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

  Oh my God! She’s serious! I should be used to that expression when she looks at me by now, but I’m not. It pisses me off.

  ‘I’m all out of chewing gum,’ I inform her.

  ‘Improvise.’

  ‘I’ve got news for you, Libby. Guys like that don’t exist outside of action films.’

  ‘Well, what can you do?’ Libby throws down the challenge.

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Nothing useful though, eh?’

  I study her. ‘I’ve just realized I’ve died and gone to hell.’

  ‘I’m in your hell then?’ she mocks.

  ‘You are my hell, Libby. You always have been.’

  Libby’s eyes narrow. ‘I’m not in any rush to have your babies either, Troy.’

  I cough a couple of times, before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Don’t even joke! God, I just threw up in my mouth at the prospect.’

  ‘Screw you, Troy.’

  ‘Only if I was comatose and floating in a vat of penicillin,’ I shoot back.

  We glare at each other, the loathing deep-seated and mutual.

  Libby sighs, looking away first. ‘How about we work together to get out of here first and resume hating each other afterwards?’

  I nod. My dislike of Libby is hardly the most important thing at the moment. ‘Suits me. So what d’you suggest, as I’m so useless? Come on. I’m all ears.’

  ‘We need to come up with some way of getting out of here.’

  ‘Duh!’

  ‘I just meant that, as the only way out is up those stairs and past our kidnappers, we need to be prepared the next time the door opens.’

  I nod. ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’

  ‘What we need is a way to arm ourselves with some kind of weapon.’ But what?

  The boxes are made of wilting, rotten cardboard so they’re no use. I check out the nearest crate. It’s solid wood, reinforced with thick metal strips along its sides. No way am I taking one of those apart with my bare hands. I push it to the closest wall, picking up speed as I approach. The thing smashes into the wall, then rebounds to crash into my legs. It hurts. A lot. Won’t be doing that twice. I try picking it up to slam it back down again. Maybe it’ll fall to pieces that way? Nope. All it does is scratch up my hands. So much for that then. I push the crate till it’s under the light bulb, a metre away from the foot of the wooden steps. At least it makes a solid chair. I need to think. Not panic. Think.

  ‘Budge up then.’ To my surprise, Libby sits next to me, her body warm against mine.

  I move over so that we’re no longer touching. Glancing around, I wonder if it’s worth taking a second look in all the boxes and crates. Maybe we missed something. But it’s wishful thinking. Besides, no kidnapper with any brains would put us in a room with potential weapons or an escape route.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about why they drugged me and not you,’ says Libby.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I reckon they only meant to grab one of us. Before I passed out in the van, I heard one of them say that, as we were together, they had no choice but to take us both.’

  I regard Libby. ‘Which one of us did they mean to take then?’

  Libby shrugs. Her words circle and land heavily on my shoulders. If what she said is true, then that means one of us is expendable. Libby and I study each other as the truth sinks its claws into us.

  ‘Troy, I … I’m scared,’ Libby admits.

  We sit in silence, alone together. Another look around the basement, with its clutching shadows and its intermittent skittering noises. The walls are breathing – in out, in out. The ceiling is slowly but inexorably coming down to crush me. I close my eyes.

  Mind over matter.

  You can do this, Troy. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think it and blink it all away.

  I open my eyes. The walls have stopped breathing, the ceiling has stopped descending, but I’m still locked in the basement – with Libby. It’s only a matter of time before the walls start to heave again. If we’re not rescued soon, losing it will be a matter of when, not if. Libby moves closer. We’re almost touching. Almost but not quite. Silence reigns for too long. Despair, like icy hands, steals round my chest to hug me, squeezing and freezing by degrees, making it hard to catch my breath. It’s a struggle to think clearly, what with the sheer dread bubbling up inside. I force it down, knowing it’s in me now and won’t depart until I’m out of this basement. In fact, the longer I’m in here, the harder it will become not to freak out. I can’t do that, not in front of Libby of all people – but she’s already told me she’s frightened. Whether I like it or not, we’re in this together.

  ‘I’m scared too,’ I say quietly.

  What the hell has happened to bring both of us to this dank basement and this predicament? If I can figure that out, then maybe, just maybe, I can think of a way to get us out of here.

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  Kamal Hadley’s love child, Yaro Hadley-Baloyi, reveals all about the father who disowned him

  Yaro Hadley-Baloyi has broken his silence regarding his politician father, Kamal Hadley, who died last year. It has recently come to light that Kamal Hadley, who served as Home Secretary of the Liberal Traditionalist party from 1998 to 2008, had a dual-heritage son whom he kept hidden from public gaze. Kamal Hadley, who often spoke out against miscegenation at the start of his career, is now being called ‘a raging hypocrite’ in some political circles. He famously disinherited his daughter, Persephone Hadley, when she became pregnant by Callum McGregor, a Nought who was later hanged for terrorist activities.

  THEN

  * * *

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  The Democratic Alliance ahead in the polls for the first time

  The Democratic Alliance party are ahead in the polls for the first time, with the general election only days away. Tobias Durbridge, Nought, 36, and Lydia Scruggs-Morsanya, Cross, 47, are currently neck and neck in the polls to become both leader of the DA and Prime Minister should the DA win the election.

  Opinion

  The Daily Shouter believes that our country is not yet ready for a Nought Prime Minister. It must surely happen one day, but Tobias Durbridge is not ready for the role. For one, he is far too unseasoned. Though popular with younger voters, the Daily Shouter questions whether his words and demeanour carry enough gravitas to be taken seriously. The Prime Minister should be a statesman, someone who will be respected by our country’s friends and enemies alike. Though he has been a Member of Parliament for a number of years, as well as a former Mayor of Meadowview, that hardly qualifies him to run the country. His degree was completed part-time and his family is totally unsuitable. The Daily Shouter has learned that his sister, Jessica, used to have a drug problem. In only a few days, our country will have to make a decision on not just which party but which leader shall govern us. The Daily Shouter says that, if you must vote for the DA, then Lydia Scruggs-Morsanya is the only right and logical choice for leader.

  three. Libby

  * * *

  ‘Libby, you can’t just assume you’ll get the votes of everyone who isn’t a Cross,’ says Raffy. ‘That’s not how it works.’

  I scowl at Raffaella, or Raffy as she prefers to be known. She’s a Nought, the shortest girl in our year and one of the smartest. And, unlike most people I’ve met, she doesn’t just speak to hear herself. She only opens her mouth when she’s got something to say – and it’s usually worth listening to. Except for now. What’s my friend talking about? The others running against me in the forthcoming school election are no competition at all – that’s why I’d get most of the votes. Besides, ‘Why on earth would the Noughts in this school vote for anyone else?’

  Raffy shakes her head, her auburn cornrows working loose.
By the end of the day, they’d be out completely – as per usual. ‘Libby, it’s not a foregone conclusion. You need to let everyone know what you stand for. If you want to be head girl, you’ve got to convince the majority of the school to vote for you and your policies, not just Noughts.’

  ‘No one’s going to vote for you if they don’t know what they’re voting for,’ says Maisie, who looks enough like me for the two of us to be mistaken for sisters. But our looks are where the similarities end. Maisie is laidback to the point of tipping over. Me? Not so much.

  ‘And, even if you get the vote of every Nought in the school, that’s still not enough to win the head-girl election,’ Raffy adds.

  I frown. My friends are right. Looking around the sixth-form common room, I notice it’s unusually full for the beginning of the lunch break. Usually, at this time of day, there’s less than a dozen people in here, but there are at least three times that many scattered throughout the room. I’d say the room – like the school – is just over one-third FEN (Fenno-Skandian, Eastern and Nought) and just under two-thirds Cross, mostly of Zafrikan heritage. A couple of metres away sit Troy and his friends, Zane and Ayo. Troy Ealing – the fly in my ointment, the boil on my backside, the pain in my neck. Troy Ealing with his perfect mahogany skin and his perfect teeth and his perfect smile. God, but that guy loves himself, and he expects everyone to feel the same way. And to think that once … No! I’m not going there! I turn back to Raffy and Maisie.

  ‘At least when people vote for me they know that what they see is what they get,’ I tell them. ‘I’m not about to start trying to bribe people by making promises I know I can’t keep.’

  I notice the volume of chatter has died down around me as those closest start to listen to what I’m saying. If Raffy reckons I should let people know what I stand for, then that’s exactly what I’ll do. I get to my feet. Time to turn up the volume.

  ‘What this school needs, what we all need, is someone who will take the role seriously. Someone who will be an advocate for us students against the teachers. Someone who isn’t afraid to speak the truth, even when it’s unpopular.’

  A few heads turn my way.

  ‘What this school needs is a head girl who isn’t hidebound by so-called tradition.’ A few more heads turn. ‘The status quo? The same old, same old? That doesn’t work for everyone. I want to be the voice of those who aren’t afraid of change.’

  I’m the centre of attention. Good. Even Troy is watching me. No harm in doing some campaigning here and now. Every little helps.

  ‘If you vote for me to be head girl, I promise I will take it to the teachers and fight for the whole student body, unlike some of those I’m running against who are too gutless to stand up and be counted. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re Albion, Zafrikan, Western, Eastern or Fenno-Skandian, I’m here for you and you will always have my full support. Votes for Dina and Meshella are wasted votes. They only care about their own. And Zane’s only running because he thinks it’ll impress us girls.’

  ‘Oi!’ Zane calls out.

  Eyebrows raised, I look at Zane pointedly, daring him to deny it. His face immediately flushes red. ‘That’s a lie. I want to be head boy because … because … er …’

  I turn to Troy with a satisfied smile. ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘You arse!’ Troy exclaims at the expression on his biracial friend’s face. ‘Is that seriously why you’re running for head boy?’

  ‘Course not!’ Zane’s face is now an interesting shade of beetroot.

  ‘Once more with feeling.’ Is the disdain in my voice noticeable? I hope so! ‘Whereas I will represent everyone and I can be trusted to keep my word, unlike Meshella and Dina.’

  ‘Why can’t they be trusted, Libby?’ Ayo calls out. ‘Because they’re Crosses?’

  ‘You said that; I didn’t,’ I call back. ‘But if the shoe fits—’

  Murmurs ripple around the common room.

  ‘Playing the race card, Libby?’ Troy calls out, a scalpel-sharp edge to his voice. ‘That’s low, even for you.’

  ‘Troy, I’m not going to let you put me off my stride.’

  ‘What strides would they be?’ asks Troy. ‘You think you’re going to get us Crosses to vote for you after you insult us by saying we only care about our own? Are you really that stupid?’

  I look around. Some people are frowning at me; others are giving me serious side-eye. What did I say? I replay my words. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Some of the Crosses have obviously taken it in a bad way. Time for some damage control.

  ‘You misunderstood me—’ I begin.

  ‘No, I think we’re all smart enough to understand exactly what you meant,’ Troy interrupts. ‘Channelling your mum there, Libby?’

  I scowl at him. Why bring my mum into this?

  ‘Liberty, why don’t you sit down?’ someone calls out from across the common room.

  Troy applauds in agreement.

  ‘I didn’t mean Crosses couldn’t be trusted as such,’ I say hastily. ‘I only meant that it’s natural that you Crosses would look out for your own first. Meshella and Dina would say as much if they were here—’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Troy argues. ‘And it’s funny how you wait for both of them to be out of the room to trash-talk them. What else would you be saying about Zane if he wasn’t sitting next to me?’

  Shut up, Troy. Shut up. Shut Up. SHUT UP!

  ‘I just mean that, as head girl, I promise to work on behalf of each and every student in this school.’ I force a smile.

  ‘Well, I don’t need a crystal ball to know that if you became head girl it’d be a disaster. You’d play one group against another against another until the whole school fractured and became just as toxic as you,’ says Troy. ‘That’s not gonna happen. Not on my watch.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I hate the picture he’s painting of me, like I’m some kind of self-centred bigot, playing divide and conquer. I’m not.

  ‘You know what?’ Troy stands up, addressing the whole common room. ‘At the beginning of term, Mrs Paxton said I should run for head boy and I turned her down, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to run and run hard for head boy – and, unlike some, I won’t be trash-talking the opposition to make myself look good. I’ll be running a positive campaign, addressing the issues we all care about. I’d appreciate your support and votes.’

  A spontaneous round of applause fills the common room. People clap and stamp and whistle their support. Troy turns back to me with a smirk on his face. The gauntlet has been thrown down. Hard. I now have some serious competition in the race to be head student. Troy will bring it. But let him do his worst. He won’t win.

  I don’t care what it takes, but I will be head girl of Heathcroft High, and nothing and no one is going to get in my way. Or take it away from me. As a Nought with no money, making head girl of Heathcroft High plus my predicted final grades are my one shot at getting a scholarship to university. It’s my only way up and my only path out. I won’t let anyone get in the way of that. Especially not Troy Ealing.

  four. Troy

  * * *

  Yeah, that wiped the smile off your face, Liberty Jackman!

  Mrs Paxton has been hassling me since the beginning of term to run for head boy. During our last conversation on the subject, she said, ‘Head boy would suit you and your temperament, Troy. You could really shake things up in a constructive way. We should all strive to make a positive difference.’

  Do me a favour. ‘No thanks, Mrs Paxton.’

  The head wasn’t going to give up. ‘Just think about it. Promise me you’ll consider it?’

  I smiled politely and nodded while thinking, I’d rather be kicked in the bollocks, thanks for asking!

  To be honest, I suspect she was expecting me to run because of my family background. What? Did she think that with my sister Callie and what happened to her dad, Callum McGregor, I’d want to stand up for truth, justice and the Heathcroft Hi
gh way? If so, then disappointment was coming at her, top speed. In fact, if that’s what she was expecting, then it’s kinda insulting. Not a fan of people assuming they know all about me. My family’s personal business is private and I’ve worked hard to keep it that way. Apart from Mrs Paxton, a couple of teachers who’d been at Heathcroft High forever and one other person at school, my family’s secrets are safe. I haven’t even told my best mates. In all my years at Heathcroft, no one has ever confronted me about Mum and Callum McGregor, and that’s the way I like it.

  So, as far as I was concerned, the school election? Count me out. And it would’ve stayed that way if Libby had kept her mouth shut. She’s glowering at me. Is that supposed to make me back down? Apologize? Tremble? Do me a favour! God, but she really is pathetic. And to think that during our first year at school we were actually friends. Best friends.

  Libby walks over to stand before me. I rise to my feet. Tense. Waiting. What’s she going to do?

  ‘You won’t win, Troy,’ Libby leans forward to whisper. For my ears only.

  ‘That’s OK with me,’ I reply, equally softly. ‘Just as long as you lose.’

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  Nought footballer Dolph Lilac quits because of ‘racism’

  Nought footballer Dolph Lilac called a press conference earlier today to announce his retirement from professional football. ‘I’m just sick and tired of it. Not the game but the so-called fans,’ said Dolph. ‘The verbal and physical abuse comes flooding at us Nought players in every game. Each time one of us Noughts gets the ball, the clicking noises and chants of “maggot” start and we have rotten meat flung at us by idiots in the crowd. Far from racism in football being eradicated, it seems to have actually got worse over the last few years and the AFC are doing nothing about it except spouting platitudes about how it’s a bad thing.’