Checkmate

by Malorie Blackman

  'Hi, Dad,' I whispered. I didn't want Tobey to hear me or he might think I was cracking up.

  Then we carried on running. Once we hit the beach, we got straight into the game.

  'Where's the net?' asked Tobey.

  'In our heads.'

  So we started playing. But Tobey was in a very funny-strange mood. We played tennis on the beach, but the ball kept bouncing off in all directions. I mean, that was the whole point. But every time the ball flew off, Tobey would huff and puff and scowl as he went to get it. He obviously wasn't enjoying himself, so after about ten minutes I gave up on the tennis idea.

  'What's wrong, Tobey?'

  'Your grandma's house is huge.'

  'So?'

  'And she lives there just by herself?'

  'Yeah, but she has a full-time secretary called Sarah and a cook.'

  'And that's it?'

  'Yeah. Why?'

  'That's not right – one woman living in a huge big house like that all alone.'

  'Well, she and my grandad divorced years ago.'

  'That's not what I meant. Her home is big enough to be a hotel and the whole thing is just hers. A quarter of Meadowview could fit in that place. It's not right.'

  I'd never thought of it that way before. Tobey had a point. It was a big house for just one person. When I thought of all the homeless people in Meadowview who lived under cardboard boxes . . . But at the same time, if Nana and Grandad had worked for their money and then decided to buy a big house and have people working for them, what was wrong with that?

  'Mum says if you get a good education, then anything is possible. That's why she wants me to go to Heathcroft. She says with a good education behind me I could sweep the streets or be Prime Minister one day. But the choice would be mine. She says a good education gives you lots of choices.'

  'Except that the choice of a "good education" isn't available to everyone,' said Tobey.

  I had to think about that as well. Heathcroft School wasn't free. Nana Jasmine was going to pay my school fees.

  'What're you going to do about secondary school?'

  'Work my arse off to get a full scholarship,' said Tobey.

  He swore! He's not supposed to swear.

  'If your mum heard that, you'd get what for,' I told him.

  'Mum's the one who told me that I need to work my arse off to get anywhere,' said Tobey.

  'And she used those words?'

  'Those exact words,' said Tobey.

  Maybe one day I would work out grown-ups and their 'do as I say, don't do as I do' escape route. But not today.

  Jude versus Jasmine

  thirty. Jude

  I still can't believe it. Jasmine Mad-Bitch Hadley is in my hotel room. My hotel room. How did she know where to find me? I'd fallen down on Jude's law, number fourteen: Stay organized, stay one step ahead, stay alive. It served me right. I'd been celebrating my final act of revenge on Persephone Hadley and her offspring. A couple of beers from the mini-bar and then I'd thought, Sod it, this calls for more than just beer. This calls for champagne. So I'd rung room service and ordered a bottle of the best vintage the hotel had.

  'None of your fizzy muck pulled down from the top of a cupboard,' I warned the man at the other end. And then I'd sat back on the bed, watching TV and waiting for my champagne to be brought up. I was too busy revelling in the brilliance of my final move to be on my guard the way I should've been. A knock on the door and the assumption that the room service in this hotel was, for once, actually on the ball were all it took for me to lower my guard.

  And now thanks to that one lapse in concentration, this crazy bitch is sitting on my bed, smiling at me. Not that I blame her. In her position I'd smile too. Even now I can't believe I'd been quite so stupid. Jasmine Hadley had me where years of countless police undercover operations and the odd traitor or two had failed. How had she found out where I was? Callie couldn't've told her. And the green windcheater Jasmine wore on her scrawny, meagre body – that was Callie's. It was unmistakable. The inside of the windcheater was lined with the pockets I'd instructed Callie to sew into it, and each pocket was filled with explosives. Enough to send this room and the roof above it into orbit. Wearing the windcheater, Jasmine looked like a stick wrapped in a double duvet. She must've had liposuction and nips and tucks up to yazoo to look the way she did. There wasn't a spare bit of fat anywhere on her. Her hair was black with the odd wisp of silver around her temples and her face was very carefully made up, with just the right shade of burgundy lipstick, just the right amount of black mascara on her eyelashes, eyebrows professionally shaped, eyelids coloured with silver and the merest smudge of purple. All very immaculately done. Here was a woman who definitely meant business. I'd have to figure out very carefully what my next move should be because I had no doubt, one false move on my part and Jasmine Hadley would blow us both to kingdom come. I thought about trying to distract her and then charging. But we were a good two metres apart, more than enough time for her to flick the switch. I thought about the knife I had strapped to the inside of one leg and the backup gun I had strapped to the other, both hidden by my trouser legs. There had to be a way to get to my gun and blow her away before she could return the favour. I just had to bide my time and wait for my moment. And life had taught me that opportunities always came, you just had to wait for them and recognize them when they arrived.

  'So what happens now?' I asked softly.

  Jasmine shrugged. 'We wait.'

  'For what?'

  Jasmine glanced down at her watch, before looking back at me.

  'We wait,' she repeated.

  And she didn't take her finger off that switch.

  Not once.

  thirty-one. Jasmine

  I'll say one thing for Jude, he met my gaze without flinching or turning away. I was more nervous than he was. I guess he did this kind of thing every other day. How did someone like Jude spend his days? Dreaming and scheming? And how did he sleep at night? Probably like a log. There'd be no doubts or anxieties to cloud his sky. And no regrets either. Lucky him. There came an unexpected knock at the door behind me.

  'Room service,' said a cheery voice.

  I turned my head. Big mistake. I sensed rather than saw the moment Jude pounced.

  'Come in!' I screamed out, and I leaned back rather than trying to jump up. Half a heartbeat later, I was flat against the bed with Jude's guns digging into my back through my coat and Jude's hands around my throat. The hotel door opened. My heart shrieking inside me, I tried to get my hand on the switch in my pocket. Jude's body was a dead weight on mine as his hands descended to fumble around for my own. He should've gone for my hands straight away. Pouncing like that had knocked the stuffing out of me, but the couple of seconds where he'd gone for my throat had afforded me just enough time to get my thumb back on the switch.

  'Boom!' I whispered as his hand closed over mine.

  Jude instantly removed his hand.

  The waiter emerged from round the corner to see Jude lying on top of me on the bed.

  'Oh, excuse me!'

  'Get off me,' I hissed at Jude. Jude pushed himself up onto his hands and moved away. I sat up, fighting to get my breath back. Now that the adrenalin had stopped coursing through my body, I felt an ache in my back where the guns had been pressing and a burning pain in my chest. I didn't want to do that again in a hurry. I glanced at the nought waiter, who was redder than a summer sunset.

  'S-sorry! I'm so sorry. I did knock.' The waiter looked at the carpet, the wardrobe, back at the bathroom door – anywhere but at me and Jude.

  'Sit. You're embarrassing the waiter.' I pointed to Jude's previous chair with my free hand.

  Jude reluctantly sat down.

  'W-where would you like your champagne?' asked the waiter.

  'Next to me on the bed,' I replied, not taking my eyes off Jude for a second.

  I felt the bottle slightly depress the bed beside me.

  'Who'd like to sign for it?' queried the waiter wi
th diffidence.

  'Put the bill on the table in front of my friend and then step back please,' I said pleasantly.

  Curious, but too well trained to question my directions, the waiter did as asked, placing a small, cheap plastic pen on top of the narrow bill. Faking nonchalance, he had both hands on his stomach, one on top of the other. But his hands kept twitching and switching places and he kept stealing glances at Jude and me. Did he think Jude was my toy-boy lover? My bit of nought on the side. How amusing!

  'Well, sign it, please – darling,' I told Jude.

  Jude leaned forward to do as I asked. I watched him intently to make sure he signed his name and didn't write anything else. He didn't write Jude McGregor. It was some name like Steve Wine or Steven Winter or something like that. It was hard to read upside down. But at least it wasn't a secret message. Then I wondered if the name he'd signed was a message in itself. What better way to arouse suspicion and have the manager up here than by signing a false name?

  'Sit back, cup-cake. You're making the waiter nervous,' I said easily.

  Slowly Jude sat back.

  'All yours,' I said to the waiter.

  I watched as the waiter picked up the bill and checked the signature. He smiled and didn't seem the least perturbed, so I relaxed. It was only natural that Jude would use any name but his own when booking into this hotel.

  The waiter looked from me to Jude expectantly.

  Sorry, love. No gratuity today.

  'Sir. Madam.' His plastered-on, polite smile wavering only slightly, the waiter started to turn round.

  'Thank you so much.' I smiled at him as he went to walk past me. 'Could you do me one last favour?'

  'Of course.'

  'Could you put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside of the door as you leave?'

  'Certainly.'

  I kept my eyes on Jude as the waiter left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. I heard him briefly fumble around with the handle as he hung up the sign.

  Then silence.

  Further along the corridor, a woman laughed – a happy, carefree sound. A TV started up in the room below us and the sound was instantly lowered. Then there was nothing. Just the awareness that comes with utter silence.

  'So what name are you using at the moment?' I asked Jude.

  'Steven Winner,' Jude replied at last.

  'Steven Winner,' I repeated. 'Where did you get that from?'

  Jude didn't answer.

  'When was the last time you were Jude McGregor?' I couldn't help asking.

  I didn't really expect an answer, but I got one.

  'When my brother died,' said Jude.

  I nodded slowly. I was beginning to feel sick – and it wasn't just the situation I found myself in. I needed one of my painkillers, but they fogged my brain and clouded my judgement and I couldn't afford that. I had to stay sharp to deal with the man before me. A secret smile slashed its way across Jude's face. Inside, I went very still. Jude's eyes narrowed till I could barely see his irises. What was he thinking? What was he up to? Or was this just a mind game, meant to throw me off guard?

  Careful, Jasmine.

  Be very, very careful.

  thirty-two. Jude

  Could she do it? Could she really kill both of us by pressing that switch? If she was holding a knife or even a gun, I'd've been at her throat again before she could draw her next breath. Stabbing someone took a great deal of motivation. To feel a knife slip through skin and muscle, to feel hot, gushing blood rush over your hand as you did so, that took a great deal. To look someone in the eye and pull a trigger knowing that you were about to end their life, that still took a great deal even if it wasn't as intimate as stabbing. But flicking a switch, that was different. Detached. Remote. Like turning out a light. What had Mad-Bitch Hadley told herself before she'd entered this room? That she wasn't really killing me? That the bomb was going to kill her and if I happened to be in the room, then it was just so much collateral damage? The ultimate in sanitary killing. Flick the switch and then nothing. No mess, no fuss – not for either of us at any rate. For those left behind to pick up our pieces afterwards, it'd be a different story. But that wouldn't be her problem and no doubt she was counting on it not being mine either.

  But would she do it? It was hard to tell. She was practised at keeping her expression mask-like. So what to do, Jude? What to do? Talk her down? Reason with her? Get her to talk to me, make a connection, make her see me as a person so that when the crucial moment comes . . .

  But what should I say? Hell, this woman and me have nothing in common. I don't know her. I don't want to know her. But I've got so much that I still have to do. So much to organize. More dreams and schemes to put into operation. I can't let this woman stop all that. So talk to her, Jude. Say something.

  'How's your daughter Minerva?'

  'The one you shot all those years ago?'

  I almost flinched at her words. I'd forgotten all about that. I'd allowed Minerva to fly beneath my radar years ago. Minerva didn't interest me. Only her sister, Sephy.

  'Minerva's fine,' Jasmine continued.

  'Still a journalist?'

  'News subeditor now,' said Jasmine.

  'Is she married?'

  'For five years. She has a boy called Taj and she's expecting her second child.'

  That, I pounced on. 'I bet you can't wait.'

  Jasmine didn't answer.

  'You must be so excited,' I said, trying unsubtly to get her to think about all the things she'd miss if she flicked that switch. 'Will it be a boy or a girl? D'you know?'

  'A boy – so Minerva tells me.'

  'Another boy,' I nodded. 'Another grandchild for you to love.'

  'What would you know about love, Jude?' asked Jasmine quietly. 'Have you ever loved anyone in your entire life?'

  My heartbeat slowed at the question, but regained its regular rhythm almost immediately.

  'Has anyone ever touched you? Moved you? Made you forget who and what you are for long enough to make you happy?' Jasmine persisted. 'Have you ever even liked anyone – including yourself? Especially yourself?'

  'What difference could it possibly make to you?' I asked.

  'None, I guess,' Jasmine agreed. 'I'm just curious.'

  I didn't reply. We sat in silence for a while. Jasmine began to rock on the bed, backwards and forwards, very slowly. Her eyes were clouding over, her expression pinching in on itself. I frowned inwardly, careful to keep it off my face. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was in pain. But she couldn't be, unless I'd managed to hurt her more than I'd thought when I was trying to get her hand away from the switch in her pocket. I should've snapped her twig-like arm when I had the chance, rather than going for her scrawny neck. That'd been a big mistake on my part. I wouldn't make another. What to say? What should I ask her? I was trained for this. There were many gambits open to me – but I chose a risky one.

  'Why haven't you detonated your bomb yet?'

  'It's not time.' Jasmine glanced at her watch again.

  'What're we waiting for?' I said.

  'Company.'

  Sephy versus Callie Rose

  thirty-three. Sephy

  Callie Rose was ricocheting off the cellar door like a squash ball being hit incessantly off a wall. Rattling the handle and screaming for my mum for the last hour hadn't worked so now she was trying something more drastic. She was also giving me a headache. I sat down on the stone floor, my back against the cool, plastered wall. The wine cellar was on the chilly side of comfortable and the two sixty-watt bulbs which provided the only dim yellowy light didn't exactly add to the ambiance. Hell, could I sound any more like my mother!

  'Callie, please sit down. That won't do any good,' I told her.

  She ignored me and carried on bounce, bounce, bouncing off the solid, wooden door. It would take a bulldozer to get through that door, anyone with half an eye could see that – but then my daughter never was one to admit defeat.

  I looked around the cellar.
Well, we wouldn't die of thirst at any rate. Cirrhosis of the liver maybe, but not thirst. How like my mother to keep a full cellar for her guests, even though she herself, as an ex-alcoholic, could never touch a drop. Just another example of her iron self-control. There were no windows and the only door to the cellar had been locked from the outside. I glanced at my watch. It was early afternoon, although it certainly didn't feel like it. It felt like the middle of the night. With no windows to indicate the time of day, the quality of time had subtly changed.

  'Isn't your shoulder hurting yet?' I asked.

  Ignoring me, Callie walked – well, more like stalked – angrily across the room and ran towards the door at full throttle. She hit it with her shoulder and, in the time it took to yowl with pain, she 'was flat on her backside, her legs an ungainly mess on the stone floor as she tried to figure out which part of her body hurt most.

  My patience ran out. 'That's enough, Callie Rose. More than enough. If you break your fool neck, there's not much I can do for you in here.'

  'You put Nana Jasmine up to this, didn't you?' Callie spun round to blaze at me.

  I sighed. I was waiting for that. We'd been in here for a couple of hours now and Callie hadn't said a single word to me. She'd strode up and down the cellar in between chucking herself at the door at irregular intervals and calling for my mum, but I was totally ignored. But I knew that sooner or later the accusations and recriminations would start. I watched as my daughter rubbed her arm, which had to be sore as hell by now. She'd have a whole assortment of bruises there in a few hours, not to mention one or two stunners in other places where she'd hit the stone floor as she fell backwards. She was just lucky that she hadn't dislocated her shoulder – not that I was stupid enough to say that out loud. Callie kneeled up, then stood up, still rubbing her shoulder and arm. I watched as she marched across the wine cellar to the furthest point away from me that she could get. She sat down so that we were directly opposite each other and at least six metres apart.