Fighting Back (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 4)

by Rachel Churcher

  “So, Margaret. Tell me about Dan Pearce.”

  She can’t hide her smile. She looks at me, and says nothing. I nod.

  This time, the punch is to her back, and it knocks her onto her knees. She takes a few controlled breaths, then pushes herself back to her feet and stands up straight.

  I nod again.

  One of the men grips her shoulders, and the other kicks her feet out from under her. She drops to the floor and grunts as her head hits the tiles.

  I take a step forward, looking down at her.

  “Dan Pearce, Margaret. Start talking.”

  Her eyes are closed, and she lifts her cuffed hands to the side of her head, where she hit the floor. She drops her hands, and opens her eyes.

  This time, she’s looking past me, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  I smile, and nod again. I know how Margaret works. How she handles physical assault.

  She’s not looking at me any more. She’s looking past me and through me.

  I’m getting to her.

  One of the men kicks her, hard, in the stomach. She curls round herself, breathing hard. She stares at the wall.

  I crouch down next to her.

  “Just tell me about Dan.” I point at the interrogators. “These men will leave you alone if you tell me what I want to know.”

  I can feel the buzz. The power, running through me like an electric charge. I can do anything in here. I can do anything to her.

  I need her alive, for the trial, but that’s the only limit. She’s at my mercy, again.

  I smile, and nod again, standing up and out of the way.

  The men take her hands and feet, and drag her onto her back. One of them holds her feet against the floor, while the other puts his foot on her knee. She closes her eyes, but she doesn’t move. He starts to move his weight onto her kneecap.

  She flinches, but as the pressure builds she relaxes. She opens her eyes, and stares at the bright, white ceiling, breathing steadily.

  “Let’s start with something simple. Let’s start with Bex.”

  She blinks, but says nothing.

  “What’s his relationship with Bex Ellman?”

  The smile crosses her face again. The interrogator eases more weight onto her knee.

  “Are they in love, Margaret? Is Bex your rival for his attentions?”

  She actually laughs, then inhales sharply as the interrogator starts to twist her kneecap towards him. I wave at him to stop, and he steps back.

  “No?”

  Interesting.

  “But you like him. You’re doing all this to protect him.” I step closer. “It’s really very sweet, Margaret, your schoolgirl crush. But it’s not going to save him.”

  She stares at the ceiling.

  “Do you understand what we can do here? Do you understand how far we can push you?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “I think you do. I think this is a noble cause, for you. You think you’re being brave, and you think you’re protecting Dan.”

  I nod to the interrogator, and this time he kicks down at her knee, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to break anything. Then he steps across her legs and raises his foot again. I wave him off.

  I crouch down next to her again, and speak quietly into her ear.

  “How many bones shall we break, Margaret? How much pain can you take?”

  She shudders, but she doesn’t look at me. I nod, and a booted foot cracks into her other knee.

  She shuts her eyes, and the pain shows on her face for a second, and then she’s staring at the ceiling again.

  She’s not responding. Most people are begging, by now. Babbling. Telling you everything and nothing, desperate to make the interrogators stop.

  But not Margaret Watson.

  The feeling of power is fading. We’re not getting through. We’re not touching her.

  I stand up, and step back against the wall. I look at the interrogators, and shrug.

  “See what you can do.”

  *****

  When I shout at them to stop, she’s curled up tightly on the floor, handcuffed hands wrapped round her knees, head tucked in, hair untied. The skin I can see is purple and black with bruises. When I crouch down and move her hair back from her face, there are tears on her cheeks.

  She flinches away from my hand, then opens her eyes and looks at me. Slowly, she pulls her hands away from her knees, and straightens her legs. Her teeth are clenched, and she’s breathing fitfully. With obvious pain, she pushes herself upright, onto her knees, and then puts one foot on the ground and pushes herself to stand. She staggers, slightly, but regains her balance. She straightens her back, lifts her bruised chin, and fixes her eyes at a spot on the wall behind me.

  It’s as if we haven’t touched her.

  My knee is aching as I crouch on the floor.

  I need results here, today. I need something to focus on. I need something to go my way.

  I think about Conrad, hiding the truth behind cryptic messages. About Bracken, slamming the door shut behind me, shouting at me for bothering to take care of him. About the Terrorism Committee, and the false flag attacks.

  I’m trapped, here. I’m trapped by Bracken, and Franks, and Lee. I’m trapped by the job I have to do, and the things I shouldn’t know.

  And no one is telling me the truth.

  I’ve thrown the first punch at Margaret before I know what I’m doing. I stand up and I hit her, hard, in the chest. She blinks with surprise, and as she steps backwards, she falls, and I’m on top of her. Like Jackson, I straddle her hips, throwing punches at her body, harder and harder, raining my fists down on her chest and arms and face, dodging the handcuffs and pinning her down.

  And I’m shouting. Something about Dan, and Bex, and how I’ll execute them all.

  I’m still throwing punches when the interrogators pull me backwards and pin me by my shoulders to the wall. They’re shouting, too, but I can’t hear them over the rushing sound in my head. All the anger and frustration and pain crashes into me at once, and I only stop struggling when one of them holds a fist to my face. I think I’m screaming.

  “Stand down, Corporal! Stand down!”

  The door opens and Lee bursts into the room, a look of fury on his face. He points at me.

  “Out here! Now, Corporal.”

  The interrogators release me, and I stand up straight. I look down at Margaret, still lying on the floor, a line of blood trickling from her nose.

  And she stares up, calmly, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Looking right through me, as if I’m not here.

  *****

  “What was that, Corporal? What just happened?”

  I shake my head, leaning my weight against the table in the waiting room.

  He shouts, barely controlling his fury. “Enhanced Interrogation is not your own personal revenge opportunity.”

  Lee runs his hands over his face, and stops pacing long enough to stand in front of me. I look up at him, waiting.

  “You understand how this works? While Bracken is toeing the line, you’re both safe. While you keep him working, while you keep him walking and talking and not embarrassing himself, you’re safe. But if Bracken falls apart, Franks has enough on both of you to send you home so fast your feet won’t touch the ground.”

  I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.

  He looks back at the tiled room. The prison guards have arrived, and the interrogators are leaving.

  “Do you want that?” He looks at me with all the anger he’s trying to control. “Do you want to go back to Daddy, Corporal?”

  It’s like a punch, and he knows exactly where to hit me.

  “No, Sir.”

  He watches me, regaining his composure. There’s a sneer on his face as he steps back.

  “I could lock you up for what you did in there, Corporal. I could take your rank, and your job, and your freedom.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He sighs. “You know what you’re here to do. Keep Br
acken in line. Keep him functioning. And bring us whatever your little vendetta against Bex Ellman throws up.”

  I nod.

  He steps towards me. “Concentrate, Corporal. Do your job, and don’t get sidetracked. Don’t get carried away – not here, and not with your colleagues.” He shakes his head. “Your permission to use Enhanced Interrogation is withdrawn.”

  Lonely

  BEX

  “So you guilted Fiona into giving you a seat on the committee, and now you don’t have to train with us?” Dan puts his coffee mug on the table and folds his arms. “Miss Committee Member Ellman. Too good for strategy classes and driving lessons?” He grins at me.

  I grin back. “What can I say? I’m going up in the world.”

  He shakes his head. “So you’re too important to mix with us, now? We’re only the drivers who’ll get you where you’re going, and the soldiers who’ll save your life.”

  “I think Bex is perfectly capable of firing her gun and saving her own life.” Charlie winks at me. “She might need a chauffeur, though. Amy? What do you think? Do you fancy driving a Committee Member around?”

  “What’s wrong with my driving?” Dan and I shout at the same time.

  Amy and Charlie give each other high-fives across the table, laughing. Dan and I sit back in mock offence, but I can’t keep a straight face for long.

  “You want to know what it’s really like, being on the committee?” Dan nods, and I drop my voice to a stage whisper. “Boring. Dull, tedious, and boring.”

  Dan smiles, and Amy frowns. “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that it’s mostly housekeeping stuff.”

  Charlie smiles. “So it’s not all fighting the bad guys and running the resistance?”

  “Not even close.”

  Amy leans her elbows on the table. “So what do you discuss?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Oh, come on, Bex …”

  “I’m serious! I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “But this is us!” Dan throws his hands in the air. “This is the Morgana Wholefoods Store Room Team. The Makepeace Rebels! The Camp Bishop Escape Committee!” He drops his voice to a whisper. “You can tell us. Go on.”

  There’s a sneaky smile on his face, and I can’t help laughing. I shake my head again. “I’m really sorry, Dan. I can’t. It’s part of the job, keeping secrets.”

  He drops his arms, and tries to look hurt. Charlie gives him a playful punch on his shoulder, and he smiles.

  “Proud of you, Bex,” he says.

  *****

  I spend the morning reading the briefing documents from yesterday’s meeting. Caroline’s report explains which requirements we’ve met, to convince other countries to join the coalition, and she goes into detail about the things we still have to do. The only thing I can help with is acting as their figurehead, and I’ve already volunteered for that. I still hate the idea of being the official Face of the Resistance, but if it’s what we need to bring these armies together, I don’t have a choice.

  And there are twenty of them. Twenty countries – twenty armies – who will join us if we can give them what they need.

  I have to put the papers down on my desk and take a deep breath when I read that. That’s the missing link. That’s enough people to overrun the UK Army and the Home Forces. That’s enough people to take our country back. To save Mum, and Margie. To send us back home, and keep us safe.

  I pick up the report and carry on reading. They still want proof that people in the UK want to be rescued. Surely the camp in the Netherlands is full of people who wanted to get away from the Home Forces? I scribble a note in my notebook, and move on to the next section.

  They want a trigger event. Fiona said she was working on it.

  I’m not sure I want to know what that means. Are they planning something as horrific as the Crossrail bomb? The attack that made the government take away our right to vote? Crossrail was a massive attack. Hundreds of people were killed, and the damage still isn’t fully repaired. It’s been years, and we still haven’t rebuilt the roads and the rail tracks and the buildings that the explosions destroyed.

  Is the OIE planning another Crossrail?

  Or another Leominster?

  I’m shivering as I think about it. We can’t be planning something like that. We’re the good guys.

  I lift my pen to make another note, but I can’t think of anything to write. Fiona thinks it’s under control. She didn’t want to talk about it yesterday. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it, whatever they’re planning.

  I hate myself for thinking this, but a big attack might get us our coalition. It might win us the support of twenty armies.

  It might get us to London.

  *****

  I take myself to the gym before lunch. The room is empty, so I claim the treadmill in the corner and program in a five mile run. It’s stuffy – the heating is on too high, and I don’t know how to change it. I stare at the beige carpet and the beige walls in the mirror in front of me, trying not to watch myself run.

  Amy is right – it would be so much nicer to be outside. I imagine cold air on my skin, and a view of the sky. Trees, buildings, cars – anything but myself in my grey tracksuit and T-shirt. Anything but this windowless room.

  And it’s lonely in here, running by myself. I’m used to running with Dan, or with Amy. Keeping each other going.

  I think about running in our armour at Camp Bishop. Out of the gates, across the ring road, and through the industrial estate.

  I hated it, but at least I had company.

  I think about Saunders, twisting his ankle and needing my help to get back to camp. I think about waiting outside in the rain while Ketty kept the gates shut on us. I remember the beating Jackson gave me, for getting them into trouble. I remember Ketty, pinning my arms against the floor while Jackson threw his punches.

  Ketty, who’s in London, hurting Mum because she can’t get to me.

  I run faster, blinking back tears.

  We need those armies. We need that coalition. Whatever it takes.

  *****

  “Tell them to take statements from the people at Neesh’s camp.”

  Fiona nods. “I’ll suggest it, Miss Ellman. Thank you.”

  “I mean – those people wanted to get out. They wanted to be rescued so much that they worked out how to save themselves.” I know I should be quiet. I know I should let the other committee members speak, but I need Fiona to listen. “They’ll know what the mood is like at home. They’ll know how dangerous it is. How afraid people are.”

  “It’s a good suggestion, Bex. I’ll pass it on.”

  “And tell them what’s happening to my mother. Tell them to watch PIN, every night. Tell them to count the prisoners, and the executions. Tell them they can’t stand by and watch while this is happening.”

  Fiona makes a note on the notepad in front of her, holding up one hand to stop me.

  “I’ll raise that with Caroline. I promise.” And she smiles at me.

  I sit back in my chair. That’s the best I can do here, surrounded by the people who’ve been running the OIE for years. I’ll keep reminding them, if I need to, but I’ve done what I can for today.

  “… and we’ve had another report of a resistance cell being offered explosives for an attack.”

  I sit up. Could this be the people who told Will about the coach? Who trapped him with information about the supply convoy?

  “Do we know who it is, offering the explosives?” Someone asks.

  Fiona shakes her head. “We don’t have proof. But what they’ve been offered this time? This is heavy military hardware. This is demolition-level bombs, hidden inside suitcases. This is high-tech, and high damage.”

  “Government, then?”

  She nods. “It seems very likely.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Barbara leans forward in her seat.

  Fiona looks at her notes. “The targ
et they’ve been given is a shopping centre. They’re supposed to hit it on a weekday morning, before the crowds arrive. There will be civilian casualties, and the damage to the building will be significant. They’ve been told where to park, and where to leave the bombs. They’ve been told that the CCTV will be switched off.”

  I look round the table. People are making notes, or checking their briefing documents. No one looks shocked. No one is commenting on this plan.

  I put my elbows on the table and lean in.

  “Excuse me, Fiona. Are we OK with this? With bombing a shopping centre?”

  “That’s what we’re here to discuss, Miss Ellman. Do we follow their instructions? Or do we tell the resistance cell to take their explosives somewhere else?”

  This feels too extreme. Too dangerous.

  “Is there a better target? Something with fewer people?”

  “That’s the tough decision we need to make, Bex. Do we let them bomb the shopping centre, or do we ask them to change the target?” I nod. “If they do as they’re told, we stay behind the scenes. No one knows we’re involved. No one knows we’ve figured out who’s running the bombings.”

  “But a shopping centre gets destroyed.”

  She nods. “Exactly. But if we interfere? If we specify a new target? The government will know that we’ve figured out what they’re doing.” She taps her pen on her notepad to punctuate her words. “We only get one shot at this. If we change the target, and the bombers make a mistake, we lose our advantage. They’ll know we’re involved, and we don’t know what they’ll do.”

  “How bad would that be?”

  She shrugs. “They obviously have a list of resistance contacts. That’s how they’re recruiting people to place the bombs. We might be sentencing all those people to arrest and firing squad, without even knowing who they are. We’ll lose our allies inside the UK, and we won’t be able to fight back.”

  “Bad, then?” My voice comes out as a whisper. I can’t see a good answer to this. Whatever we do, lives are at risk.

  Fiona nods. “Very bad.”