Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

  Everything I thought I knew about myself was way up in the air. I’d always prided myself on my integrity. So much for that. I’d slept with my client, who was holding that fact and my mum’s supposed guilt over my neck like a guillotine blade. The phone call I’d received this morning made it very clear that, if I represented Tobey, my brother was dead. What guarantee did I have that Troy’s kidnappers would keep their word and let Troy go, even if I refused to defend Tobey? The answer was: none. Was Troy even still alive? Uncertainty brought tears to my eyes. The bees in my head were buzzing and stinging and swarming till I could hardly think straight. The judge entered the room. We all stood up. I groaned softly. The moment of truth had arrived.

  ‘Callie?’ Sol said quietly. ‘Are you OK?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Have you made a final decision yet? Am I taking over this case or is it still yours?’

  I couldn’t answer. This was the hardest decision of my entire life. I held my brother’s life in one hand, Tobey’s future in the other. How could I represent Tobey, knowing that, if I did, Troy was dead for sure? And, if I stayed on the case, wasn’t I also putting my mum’s head on the chopping block? Maybe Tobey was lying. But that unwavering look in his eyes as he told me he had proof of Mum’s guilt … If he was bluffing, he had it down to a fine art. What should I do? I was heartsick and heartsore and the hearing was about to start.

  A tap on my shoulder.

  I turned to see Aaron, one of the Cross court clerks, behind me. He was a man in his fifties with silver hair at his temples and a ready, twinkling smile in his eyes – except he wasn’t smiling now.

  ‘The defendant in the dock wants a word with you,’ he told me.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. He said it was urgent.’

  Frowning, I looked across at Tobey. He beckoned to me, his expression serious, anxious.

  The judge was approaching her chair. I could get into trouble for this as it was a breach of court protocol, but Tobey looked desperate to speak to me. I slid past Solomon and headed to the back of the court.

  ‘What? And make it fast,’ I hissed at Tobey.

  At any moment, Judge Okafor was going to take my head off. All those in the court took their seats.

  ‘Drop this case, Callie,’ said Tobey quietly. ‘It’s not worth your brother’s life. Just walk away. No hard feelings. And, if you’re worried about any repercussions from me, there won’t be any. No more threats, I promise.’

  I realized what Tobey was saying. He was giving me a clear way out.

  ‘Miss Hadley, is there a problem?’ asked Judge Okafor.

  I turned to face her. ‘No, your honour. And my apologies for my rudeness. The defendant had some last-minute instructions for me.’

  ‘Then perhaps, if your conversation has concluded, you’d like to sit down?’ said Judge Okafor, looking daggers at me.

  Not a good way to start this trial.

  I headed back to my seat. The bees in my head weren’t any calmer.

  ‘Well?’ said Sol softly.

  I shook my head. Far from clarifying and ordering my thoughts, Tobey had just confused me further.

  seventy-two. Tobey

  * * *

  Libby …

  Was she dead? Alive? If alive, she had to be so scared. And here I was in this dock, unable to go to her or help her. The warning I’d received had been quite explicit – plead guilty or have my daughter’s blood on my hands. So I’d plead guilty. But, even if I did do that, why would Libby’s kidnappers let her go? So that they could be identified by her? To have a witness against them? No way. Once they’d got what they wanted, I’d be signing my daughter’s death warrant.

  But if there was a chance, no matter how slim, that the kidnappers would keep their word? Was that even likely though? Surely Libby’s greatest chance was for me to not do as I was told. That way I could buy some time. Or was I just deluding myself?

  And round and round. My thoughts fizzed and burned like fireworks. My head was about to explode.

  Wait … What?

  My name was being called.

  ‘Will Tobias Durbridge, the defendant, please rise?’

  I got to my feet, tugging at my dark blue tie, which was strangling me.

  ‘Tobias Durbridge, you have been charged with the murder of Daniel Jeavons. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?’

  I glanced at Callie. I couldn’t help it. She was looking at me, her gaze intense. She knew as well as I did what was at stake.

  The question was repeated. ‘Tobias Durbridge, how do you plead?’

  Libby …

  I straightened up and replied, ‘Not guilty.’

  seventy-three. Callie

  * * *

  ‘Let the record reflect that Gabriel Moreland, QC, is the prosecution barrister, with Leanne Grant as his co-counsel,’ said Adele Dupres, the head court clerk. She frowned down at the electronic tablet in her hand. ‘Who stands as the defence barrister?’

  Adele looked from me to Sol impatiently, her lips pursed in irritation. The announcement of the defending barrister should’ve been a formality at this stage, but that part of the form on her tablet was blank – and she wasn’t happy. Adele liked her court to run like clockwork and she could make life pretty tough for those who didn’t toe her line.

  Sol placed an understanding hand on my shoulder as he stood up. I pulled at his sleeve, and he gave me a quizzical look. I shook my head at him and stood in his place. A quick glance behind to look at Tobey. Our eyes met for only a second or two, but it was enough. I turned back to face Judge Okafor.

  ‘If it please the court, I’ll be acting as the defence barrister in this trial,’ I said. ‘Solomon Camden will be my co-counsel.’

  ‘So noted,’ said Adele.

  She sat back down, as did I.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Sol.

  I shook my head. Sure? Was he kidding? I turned to look at Tobey again. His eyes were trained on me, clinging to faint hope while drowning in despair. I didn’t doubt that my expression was a reflection of his own. Troy …

  The trial had begun.

  seventy-four. Libby

  * * *

  It’s hard to gauge the passing of time when there are no windows to see the sky and no devices to count for you. My phone and smart watch had been taken, as had Troy’s, so we were both in the dark – or as good as. How long have Troy and I been sitting on this crate? A few hours? A day? Longer? Troy says he managed to pass on some info about our kidnappers using sign language when they were filming us. I didn’t even notice him doing it. That’s a good sign, right?

  What have they done with Mum’s body?

  Is she still up there, lying on the floor, eyes closed against the world. Is all this because I threatened to visit a solicitor on my eighteenth birthday? Did Mum do all this out of desperation? Or was it love? A profound and enduring love for lots of money and the lifestyle it afforded her. Slowly, I rub my arm along the corner of the crate, feeling the welcome bite of the metal strip along its edge scraping my skin. Not ideal but I’m having to improvise.

  ‘Libby, stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop thinking all this is your fault. It isn’t,’ says Troy. ‘Your mum’s mistakes were hers to make and own, not yours.’

  ‘How did you know I was thinking that?’ I ask, too astounded to deny it.

  ‘You have a shit poker face,’ he replies with a faint smile. ‘And stop scraping your skin off. We’ve enough problems without you getting sepsis on top of everything else.’

  I stop rasping my skin and look at him. Really look at him the way I haven’t in years. The short locks styled at the top of his head, his large honey-brown eyes framed by some of the longest lashes I’ve ever seen, that ready smile of his.

  ‘What?’ Troy’s smile fades.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ he asks.

  ‘For seeing me. For saving my life.’

  Troy
shrugs. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was embarrassed. I slip my hand into his.

  ‘I mean it. If it wasn’t for you, my chest would be home to a number of bullets right about now.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Troy tries to pull back his hand, but I hold on to it tighter. ‘I’ll have my hand back now,’ he says, but not unkindly.

  Reluctantly, I let go. ‘I’m glad it’s you down here with me.’

  Troy’s smile vanishes. His eyes grow cold. ‘Yeah, you said.’ He starts to shift along the crate to put more room between us.

  ‘No, I don’t mean it like that,’ I rush to explain. ‘I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just that all my other friends would’ve blamed me for what my mum did if they were here instead of you. But you haven’t thrown it in my face. Not once. You … you’re more than I deserve.’

  Frowning, Troy opens his mouth to speak, only the sound of hammering gets in first.

  Troy jumps to his feet and races up the wooden steps to the door on the ground floor. I slowly stand, staring in horror after him. The hammering continues, the sound filling the basement and echoing round my head. Troy bangs on the door, rattling the doorknob.

  ‘WHAT’RE YOU DOING? DON’T DO THIS! LET US OUT!’

  I don’t need to be on the other side of the door to know what’s happening. We’re being boarded in. The hammering comes from the top of the door, the bottom, the middle. Whoever is sealing us in the room isn’t mucking about. I close my eyes, but I’m drowning in sounds – hammering, shouting, the door handle rattling, my blood roaring round my body. The noises are relentless. Ruthless.

  But if the hammering is bad, the silence when it stops is worse. Troy must feel the same because he stops rattling the door handle and yelling. The quiet is shocking. Troy turns to me, despair dissolving his bones as his whole body sags and he falls to his knees. We’ve been boarded in. No one is getting into this room in a hurry and we won’t be getting out.

  Ever.

  To be concluded …

  Author’s Note

  In 2010, during the Pan-Cafrique accords, it was unanimously agreed that the name of the continent should be changed to Zafrika in all official documentation to be used by each Zafrikan country. Where possible, all formal and legal documentation will be retrospectively amended. The unofficial name of Aprica for the continent is deemed acceptable for use during more informal settings.

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  First published 2019

  Text copyright © Oneta Malorie Blackman, 2019

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Cover design and illustration by Fruzsina Czech

  ISBN: 978-0-241-38845-7

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