I touch the corner of the backstage pass in my pocket. There are no guards with me in the corridor, but there are guards on the doors at the bottom of the stairs. If I’m lucky, I can get one of them to cover for me while I sneak out to watch the trial.
I sit down behind the desk and pull out the paperwork for this morning, splitting my attention between the reports in my folder and the images on PIN.
*****
The build-up to the trial is slow. PIN is running promotion after promotion, reminding everyone about this afternoon’s show. The coverage alternates between the audience and the soldiers guarding them; and the preparations on the stage. I watch the crowds gathering, the stage taking shape.
They’re building the elements of the trial in front of the audience and the cameras, keeping everyone’s attention focused. I watch as a group of workmen constructs the bullet-proof backdrop at one side of the platform, ready for the firing squad. They’re all dressed in black, with matching T-shirts. They could be roadies at a concert, or staff at a bar. I watch as they clear the space behind the backdrop, and fire a rifle into the reinforced boards. The bullet lodges in one of the panels, raising an explosion of dust, and a cheer from the crowd.
They know what they’re doing. They know how to manipulate the audience.
Conrad appears on camera, pointing at the backdrop, and the workmen bring out a roll of black cloth, pulling one end out and stapling it to the top of the panels. They pull out the rest of the fabric, and staple the other end to the stage. Now the prisoner will stand in front of a black curtain, bold and unmissable in her orange jumpsuit.
Very dramatic, David.
I check my watch. Not long until I need to attract the attention of one of the guards, and get myself in front of the stage.
Real
Bex
The car pulls up in a narrow street near Charing Cross Station.
“Good luck,” the driver says as he turns to face us. “Good luck, and thank you.”
I look around the car. This is it. This is the moment when everything gets real.
We need to get out. We need to let the driver get away.
But I can’t move.
There’s a lump in my throat as I look across at Dan, and his face is grey as he looks back at me, the circles under his eyes dark in the shadows of the car.
I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to lose anyone.
I reach out, and touch his cheek with my glove. He takes my hand, and holds it there.
I can’t breathe. Everything we’ve done together seems concentrated into this moment. I remember the day we met, at school. How his friendship made a strange place more bearable. I remember Camp Bishop, and Makepeace Farm. I remember the bunker. I remember waiting for him to come back to the gatehouse, and the fear that he might not return. I remember Newcastle, and driving lessons, and Dan, keeping me going. I think about Edinburgh, and finding him in the common room. Finding out about his relationship with Margie. How happy I felt that they’d forgiven each other.
And now we have to go and save Margie.
And we might not come back.
“Bex?” Amy’s hand is on my shoulder. “Bex. We have to go.”
I nod, and pull my hand away. I try to speak. I want to say something encouraging. I want to inspire my friends, as I inspired the South Bank bombers, but I can’t. My throat is tight, and I can’t find the words.
I make myself think about today. About what happens next.
“Helmets,” says Charlie, watching my face. “Helmets and guns.”
I pick up the helmet from my knees and pull it over my head, clipping it onto my armour, watching as my friends do the same.
Silence. The helmet shuts out the sound of the engine, and the noises from outside the car. I’m cut off from my friends and I can feel the panic rising again. I sit still, and force myself to breathe as Charlie slides the door open.
I watch as Charlie steps out onto the pavement. Maz follows, then Amy.
This all feels like a dream. It’s everything I’ve been waiting for, but I can’t make myself move.
Dan tips the seat in front of me forward, and waits for me to climb out. I pick up my gun, and look out of the door.
I can feel the silence filling my head. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
Dan reaches over and touches the controls on the back of my glove.
And there are voices in my helmet. My friends, calling me out of the car.
The radio breaks the spell. The silence is gone, and I’m moving. Crawling out of my seat. Standing on the pavement. Helping Dan out of the car.
The driver waves, and closes the door. I watch as he drives away, leaving us alone in the middle of London.
I look around.
We’re alone, but we’re armed. We’ve got our armour, we’re trained, and we’re together.
I’m surprised to find myself smiling.
“Come on!” Maz’s voice is loud in my helmet. “We’ve got people to save. Better start looking as if we’re supposed to be here.”
I shift my gun into a combat hold, and make myself stand up straight.
“Brave and stupid,” I say, a smile on my face. There’s no going back now. This is what we’ve been training for. This is what we’ve asked for and fought for and argued for. The fire is back, and I’m ready to fight.
Charlie laughs as she turns to follow Maz. “Brave and stupid.”
I follow her along the pavement, towards Whitehall.
Soldiers
Ketty
It’s almost time.
Lee puts his head round the conference room door and sends me to make coffee. The rest of this corridor, like the ones below, is taken up with offices. Clerks and support staff, mostly, doubling up in their rooms to free up space for the rest of us, while the bomb damage to the Home Forces building is fixed. Most of the offices are empty, and I’m guessing that everyone’s out on Horse Guard’s Parade, watching the stage.
The kitchen is empty, too, and it doesn’t take long to fill the coffee jugs and take them back to the committee.
The coverage on PIN is gathering pace when I come back to the desk. They’re running the footage from the interrogation room, Lee’s new questions dubbed in over the original soundtrack. They flash Margaret’s face on the screen, alongside Lee’s images from Makepeace Farm: the tables of bomb-making equipment, the rocket launcher, the maps. All planted by Lee to incriminate the members of William Richard’s cell, but the audience doesn’t know that. PIN will have the crowds shouting for Margaret’s firing squad before they’ve even started the trial.
On the stage, the workmen have installed a podium and a lectern for the judge, and a chair for the prisoner. I watch as they anchor the chair, screwing each leg to the stage. Someone attaches straps to the arms to make sure the prisoner can’t interrupt the trial by trying to escape.
The crowd responds with cheering and chanting. This is the standard setup for every trial, but the audience has never seen the preparations happening live before. They’ve never witnessed this build-up, this level of hype from PIN. Huge screens above the stage are showing the PIN coverage, beaming images of themselves back at the crowd.
And it’s working. I can feel the excitement building.
Lee is right. This is Margaret’s big day. We’ve made her the star of an unmissable show – Conrad, Lee, Me – and we’re going to send our message to Bex and her friends.
I wonder whether there’s a TV set up at Belmarsh. William Richards should see this. It would remind him what we can do to his daughter, if he doesn’t help the Terrorism Committee.
Elizabeth Ellman should see this. She should see what will happen to Bex, when we find her.
I hope all the prisoners are watching. It will make it easier to convince them to help us.
I rest my elbows on the desk, watching the screen.
The view cuts away from the stage, and onto the crowds. There are kids in grey RTS armour, patrolling the edges of
the public enclosures, and there are Home Forces soldiers in black armour, guarding the gates and the stage. In Hyde Park and Trafalgar Square there are lines of soldiers under the giant screens, keeping people back from the equipment and the speaker stacks. The chain of guards around Buckingham Palace is an unbroken circle of armour and guns, protecting the King.
There’s a PIN presenter – she must be on the roof of this building – talking through the arrival of the prisoner. The camera swings down, pointing along Whitehall, as a prison van makes its way past a line of guards and drives at walking pace towards us.
Time to use the backstage pass.
I’m standing up, pulling the pass from my pocket, when I notice the soldiers. They’re walking down Whitehall towards the camera. Twenty or thirty of them, in single file. Helmets on, guns ready.
I’ve seen the plans for security. I helped write most of them. And this wasn’t on the plan.
As I watch, another group walks out of Whitehall Place, behind the prison van. They join the first group, doubling up and walking two by two, following the van along the road.
Are these our soldiers? Extra security for the prisoner?
Or is this something else?
Is this a rescue attempt?
You’re paranoid, Ketty. This is Conrad’s trial. This is a change to the plans.
I sit down again, perching on the edge of my chair.
I could warn the Committee. I could warn the guards. I could hurry out to the stage and warn Conrad.
But what if this is nothing? What if this is part of the plan?
This isn’t your trial any more, Ketty. This isn’t your job.
And part of me wants Conrad to fail.
I sit back in my chair, and watch.
Whitehall
Bex
We’re on Whitehall. We marched up to the guards on a side street, and our armour was enough to convince them to let us through.
We’re following the prison van as it drives slowly towards Horse Guard’s Parade.
There are more of us now – we’ve joined up with others from the hotel, and we’re heading for the meeting rooms Fiona’s been told about. Another line of OIE soldiers joins us from a side street, and another. We’re three abreast, now, marching towards the leaders of all the UK’s armed forces. Marching towards the government that wants to put us in front of their firing squads.
Marching behind Margie in her prison van.
Dan’s walking in front of me, and I switch my radio to our private channel.
“You OK?”
He touches the back of his glove. “Absolutely not. You?”
I can’t help laughing.
“Nowhere near.”
“She’s in there, isn’t she?” He says, quietly.
“And you’re right behind her, Dan.” I can’t let him do anything stupid. Not when we’re this close. “Dan?”
He sighs, and his breath is loud in my ears. “Yes, Bex.”
“Stick to the plan. OK?”
There’s a pause before he answers, and I know how he’s feeling. I want to run ahead. I want to open the doors, and pull Margie out. I want to save her before she gets near the trial.
But it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t help her. We’d all end up dead – here, or with her on the platform.
“OK, Bex. I’m not an idiot.”
But he sounds exhausted. He sounds as if he’s got nothing left to lose.
“I know. Just … be safe. No heroics. OK?”
“OK.” He switches his radio back to the general channel, and I do the same.
The van pulls up ahead of us. We have time to walk past it before the guards open the doors. We march together, turning to walk through the gates and into the courtyard that marks the start of the trial cordon.
There’s a door, ahead of me and to the left. I’m heading that way, with a group of OIE fighters. Dan’s heading straight ahead, into Horse Guard’s Parade, with Amy and Charlie and Maz.
I want to stay with them. I want to fight this together. But that’s not the deal we made with Fiona.
I want to say something. I want to give Dan a hug. I want Charlie to tell me we’re OK.
But I can’t stop.
I take a deep breath, and turn away from my friends, heading for the Terrorism Committee.
Suspicion
Ketty
There are more of them now. More soldiers in armour, marching out of the side streets and joining the procession behind the prison van.
This feels wrong.
If the soldiers are part of the plan, why are they appearing bit by bit? Why weren’t they all waiting in Trafalgar Square? They could have formed up in advance, and followed the van past the guards.
But not if the guards wouldn’t let them through.
The van pulls up outside the building. PIN is still running the feed from the roof. Everything I’m watching is happening meters away, on the street outside.
The van stops, but the soldiers don’t. They file past the prison vehicle, and through the gates. No one stops them, and they march out of shot.
I can’t see them any more.
They’re at the bottom of the stairs, outside this building, and I can’t see what they’re doing.
If this is an invasion, if these are terrorists, then you’re in the line of fire.
I stand up, reaching for my gun.
There’s a noise from the stairwell at the end of the corridor. Shouting.
I glance along the corridor in the other direction, but it’s empty.
There are footsteps on the stairs, and someone fires a shot. The shouting stops.
On the screen, the prison van opens, and two guards step out. I pick up the remote, and mute the sound.
I should warn the committee. I should warn Bracken.
I should run.
You’re better off with Lee and the Committee behind you. If you run, you’re on your own.
I feel sick. I’m taking quick, shallow breaths, and I can hear my pulse, thumping in my ears. My hands are shaking.
Make a decision, Ketty.
More footsteps. Someone’s running up the stairs.
Run, or warn the committee.
And I’m back in the worst place in the world, fear kicking into me like a bullet.
Out of time, Ketty.
On the screen, the image switches to a camera in the street. The prisoner steps down from the van, her hands cuffed, chains linking her hands and feet.
You’re on your own.
The footsteps grow louder.
I step back to the conference room door. I draw my gun, point it at the stairs, and wait.
Sprint
Bex
I sprint up the stairs. They’re taking Margie out of the van, and I don’t have time to wait. Dan needs my help, and I need to make the broadcast for Fiona.
I run, and I leave the others to catch up with me.
At the first landing, I pause, lifting my visor. I can hear the rest of my team, gathering in the hall below, and I can hear voices on the floor above. I listen for a moment, and I realise it’s the sound from a TV, somewhere near the top of the stairs. As I wait, listening to my team, the sound from the TV switches off.
There’s no sound from the floor above. Before I can think, I’m running again, up towards the silence, pulling my visor down as I throw myself up the stairs.
Threat
Ketty
A soldier in black armour steps into the corridor, and I see myself reflected in their visor. My bullets won’t stop them, but if I’m lucky, they’ll hurt. I stand as if I’m in the firing range, gun ready.
Whose side are you on?
My hands grip my gun, aiming at the soldier’s helmet.
There’s no sound from the conference room. I’m on my own out here.
And I’m wearing fatigues. I have no armour to protect me from the soldier’s bullets.
Stand your ground, Ketty.
My pulse is loud in my ears. The soldier raises a
hand.
Gun
Bex
I step into the corridor, and I’m looking down the barrel of a gun. Someone in fatigues is pointing a handgun at me, standing between me and the meeting room. I’m wearing armour. I’m safe. I keep my breathing steady. I’m about to raise my gun, when I recognise the guard.
I recognise Ketty.
She’s standing here, between me and my target. Between me and Margie. Between the OIE and the government.
I should shoot. I could take her out, with one bullet.
I think of the firing range, and the paper targets.
But I can’t. I’m back under Mum’s bed in the care home, waiting for Ketty to find me. Waiting for my chance to shoot.
I’m distracted. I need to concentrate. I need to get into the meeting room.
And Ketty can help.
I raise one hand, pointing the gun downwards with the other, and slowly reach for my visor.
Calm
Ketty
I almost laugh. The soldier raises her visor, and it’s Bex.
Bex Ellman, walking right into my line of fire. Lifting her visor. Showing me her face.
Nowhere to hide this time, Mummy Ellman.
I adjust my aim, sighting between her eyes. My finger tightens on the trigger.
And she brings her gun up.
I freeze.
I’m dead if she fires. Her bullets will tear through me, and I won’t have time to shout.
This is about survival, Ketty. Buy yourself another minute. Another two.
I open one hand and hold it out, letting the gun dangle from the fingers of the other hand. Slowly, I bring the gun down, and push it back into the holster on my hip, then raise both hands in front of me.
Victory Day (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 5) Page 5