Victory Day (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 5)

by Rachel Churcher

  I watch as the guards pull him away, out of sight down the corridor.

  “You’re on your own, Ketty. You’re on your own.”

  I stagger back, away from the door, and sit down again on the mattress.

  Bracken’s gone.

  I took his hip flask. I tried to help. I tried to keep him safe.

  But I killed him.

  I took his whisky. I took what he needed, and I left him alone. And he couldn’t handle it.

  I killed him.

  I shake my head. All those years at Camp Bishop, working together. All those months of keeping him sober. Keeping him in his job. Threats and anger and fear. Allowing his weakness to shape my life.

  And what for? I protected him, but he couldn’t protect me. He was weak, and his weakness broke him. Everything I worked to protect, lost with a single bullet.

  My fists are clenched, my nails digging into my palms. Conrad is right. I’m on my own. And I’m falling.

  Cars

  Bex

  The King shakes my hand again, one more time before he leaves.

  “You should be very proud of yourself, Miss Ellman,” he says, smiling. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

  I nod, and thank him for his support.

  I can’t tell him how I really feel. How angry I am with myself, and with Ketty. How sorry I am for forgetting my friends.

  How much I want to turn back the clock, and not allow Ketty to manipulate me.

  Charlie puts her hand on my shoulder, and we watch as the King and his guards leave the room.

  “You’ve done the right thing, Bex.” I nod. “Not the easy thing. The right thing.” She pulls me into a hug, but I can’t hug her back. I’m too angry with myself. I don’t deserve kindness like this.

  “You OK?” She says, pulling back.

  I shrug. “Not really. I’ve been stupid. I wish …”

  She shakes her head. “No wishing, Bex. Look around. Everyone’s here because of you. Because you made a deal with Fiona, and you stuck to that deal.” She smiles. “The King just thanked you, Bex. The King wouldn’t be free, and in charge, if you hadn’t spoken up.” She watches my face, waiting for a smile, but I stare back at her. She points across the room at Margie. “Your friend is alive. She’s safe, and she’s here with you, because of what you did today. The Home Forces didn’t get their execution. PIN didn’t get their show.” She shakes her head again. “At least – not the one they were planning.”

  “I think we gave them a show.” And I can’t help smiling, thinking about how Margie’s trial must have looked to anyone watching on TV.

  “I think we did.”

  There are tears in my eyes, but Charlie’s right. We saved Margie. I hope we saved Dr Richards.

  For the first time, I wonder where Fiona is.

  *****

  The door opens, and a prison guard walks in. She looks nervous, faced with a room full of people in amour, and orange jumpsuits. The room falls silent.

  She clears her throat.

  “There’s a fleet of cars outside. I’m supposed to bring you all up. They’re here for you. And you can pick up your weapons in the entrance hall.”

  We all start talking at once, and she holds her hands up for quiet.

  “Where are they taking us?” Maz shouts.

  She shakes her head, and holds her hand up. “I don’t know. But they’re diplomatic cars. They’ve all got flags flying at the front, like you see on TV.”

  “Whose flags?” Dan and Maz shout together.

  She shakes her head again. “All different, as far as I could see.”

  “Any Dutch flags?” Charlie says, her eyebrows raised.

  “I don’t know. But there are black motorbikes, and armed guards, so I think you’ll be safe.”

  Charlie looks at me, and smiles. I look back at the guard.

  “Who sent them?”

  She smiles. “They told me it was the King.”

  Pride

  Ketty

  There’s a shout from the end of the corridor.

  “Katrina Smith!”

  When I raise my head, my hands are shaking.

  This is it, Ketty. Who will you be?

  Slowly, as if I’m carrying a heavy load, I pull myself to my feet. I can hear footsteps approaching.

  I think of the first prisoner I put through Enhanced Interrogation. The man who owned the car Bex used at the nursing home. How he begged and pleaded with us, before anyone had laid a hand on him. How he knew what was coming, and how the fear gripped him and pushed him to his knees.

  And I think of Margaret Watson and Sheena Richards on the execution platform. Facing their firing squad, heads held high. Proud, confident, and unbroken in the face of a public death.

  You’re on your own, Ketty. Can you do this?

  I shake my head, and think about the bad situations I’ve faced. Fighting off Dad. Knocking Jackson to the floor. Keeping the recruits safe during the raid on the coach. Walking, again and again on my shattered knee. Losing Jackson. Standing up to Lee, and to Bracken. Standing up to Conrad.

  I’ve been working with Bracken for too long. We’ve been a team, and he’s made me forget how to be myself. How to be strong.

  I know who I need to be.

  When the guards reach my door, I’m standing in the middle of the cell. At ease, feet a shoulder width apart, hands clasped smartly behind my back. I’ve straightened my uniform and pulled my pony tail tight. I fix my gaze at a spot above the door and face the guard who unlocks the cell, my head held high.

  There’s nothing else left for me to do.

  Motorcade

  Bex

  We pile into the cars. Black limousines with diplomatic plates and flags flying from the fronts of their bonnets. And a London taxi, for Mum, and her wheelchair. The driver helps her into the car, and I climb inside with Charlie and Maz. Dan waves to us as he follows Margie into the car in front, a chauffeur in a uniform holding the door for him. He looks as if he’s just landed from Mars, in his armour, and I can’t help laughing.

  I sit down next to the wheelchair.

  “Are you OK, Mum?”

  She gives me a huge smile.

  “I’m fine, Bex.” She leans over and puts her arm round my shoulders. “I’m free, and I’ve got you back. Everything else can wait.”

  The taxi moves off, following the cars in front. There’s a motorbike, matching our speed outside the window, blue lights flashing.

  Charlie takes Maz’s hand. “Welcome to the UK, Maz Ainsley.”

  He looks out at the motorbike, dropping back to drive behind us as we pick up speed.

  “I assume this is normal for public transport in your fair country?” He grins.

  Charlie grins back, and shakes her head. “Oh, no. This is just for me.”

  “Oh, well. I’ll just have to make sure I travel with you in future, won’t I? Anyway,” he winks at me, “ I think Bex had something to do with this. Face of the …”

  I shake my head, catching his eye. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Charlie punches his shoulder, and he laughs. “OK, OK.”

  He leans forward, past Mum, and knocks on the glass. “Driver? Where are we going?”

  The driver slides the partition across.

  “Mayfair, Sir. The Royal Hotel.”

  Charlie raises her eyebrows.

  Mum holds up her arms and looks down at her prison jumpsuit.

  “I feel a bit underdressed,” she says, smiling.

  Walk

  Ketty

  “Katrina Smith.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The guard looks me up and down, and makes a note on his clipboard. He stands back as two women in blue prison uniforms walk into the cell. I keep my eyes fixed on the point above the door.

  “Arms,” says one of the women, unclipping handcuffs from her belt.

  I hold out my hands, not moving my gaze.

  I’ve heard others being pulled from their cells. I’v
e heard them shouting.

  I will not be dragged away.

  I close my eyes as the handcuffs lock round my wrists, hard and cold against my skin. I force myself to breathe. To push away the fear.

  Discipline, determination, backbone, Ketty.

  Don’t let them win.

  The man at the door marks his clipboard, and walks out into the corridor.

  One of the women takes hold of my elbow, but I shrug her away.

  “I can walk.”

  She shrugs, and puts a hand against my back.

  “So walk.”

  The guards escort me out into the corridor.

  *****

  There’s another prison van. Another journey, cuffed between my guards.

  But this time, I don’t know where I am.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the wall opposite my bench, and make myself take slow, calming breaths.

  I don’t know where they’re taking me.

  I sit up straight, pushing away thoughts of trials and executions, and Elizabeth’s voice comes back to me.

  “If you ask me, you deserve a firing squad, Ketty.”

  My hands are shaking, and the pain in my knee is growing. I fix my eyes on the opposite wall, and wait.

  Dressed

  Bex

  The taxi pulls up outside a tall red-brick building on a street lined with trees. A man in a hotel uniform opens the door, and helps the driver pull down the ramp for Mum. We follow her out, into an evening lit with street lamps.

  “This way, please.”

  The Doorman leads us through the front doors, and into a reception lounge. There are velvet sofas and chandeliers, and polished wood panelling.

  It’s beautiful.

  I think of the safe house – the empty hotel we left this morning. And I think of the cells at Belmarsh. It’s hard to remember that there are places like this in the world.

  The Doorman leads us to a sofa, and asks for our names. We sit, waiting, our armour and guns out of place on the plush fabric.

  He returns with four keys, and three rucksacks.

  “These are your bags?”

  It’s my bag, from the safe house. Someone’s brought it here, and there’s a label with my name on. I take it from him, and Charlie and Maz take theirs. I’m starting to understand what Fiona’s been doing, behind the scenes.

  He hands us each a room key, and I shake my head.

  “I’m sharing with Mum.”

  He looks doubtful. “Are you sure? The OIE has reserved rooms for each of you.”

  I look at Mum, and she’s watching me. “Take it, Bex. You might want it.”

  I shake my head. Charlie taps my shoulder and whispers in my ear. “Take it as a group room, Bex. There’s no common room here.”

  I can’t help grinning as I reach for the key. “OK. Thanks.”

  *****

  We’re all on a corridor together – me and Mum in the accessible room. My room next door, and Charlie and Maz next door to that. Dan. Margie. Amy.

  Amy comes running down the corridor as we open our room.

  “Bex!” She gives me an excited hug. “There’s a party tonight, in the ballroom. But Margie doesn’t have anything to wear,” she looks over my shoulder, “and neither does your Mum.”

  I nod, trying to keep up.

  “So I thought – let’s unpack our bags, and see what we’ve got. We must have something to fit everyone. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good.” I look over my shoulder. “Mum?”

  She smiles. “Thank you, Amy. That sounds good to me.”

  I hand Amy my room key, and point to the door. “Get everyone in there. I’ll be in in a moment.”

  She grins. “Thanks, Bex!”

  *****

  Mum’s room is enormous. There’s a giant bathroom, set up for a wheelchair, two leather sofas and two double beds. The TV is the size of a cinema screen.

  I drop my bag, and my helmet and gun, onto one of the beds, and sit down next to them, letting myself fall onto the clean, white sheets.

  I can’t believe we’re here. I can’t believe we’ve made it.

  And I can’t wait to get out of my armour. I sit up, and start tearing at the laces on my boots. I pull them off, and my socks, and start unclipping the plastic panels.

  Mum sits, watching me.

  “Can I help?”

  “I’m good,” I shout, throwing the dented chest plate onto the bed and stretching my arms. It feels good to stand on a soft carpet, in bare feet and my base layers.

  But I need to get dressed. And I need to find clothes for Mum.

  “Ready?” She nods. I pick up my bag, and head next door, Mum pushing herself behind me.

  *****

  My room is smaller, but there’s still plenty of space. I unpack my bag onto a corner of the bed, sorting through jeans, tops, and underwear. Amy does the same, and Charlie joins us, tipping out her clothes on the end of the bed.

  I stuff everything that needs washing back into the bag, and take a look at what’s left.

  There’s a pair of black jeans and a purple shirt that will do for tonight, so I fold those up and put them to one side.

  Margie puts her head round the door.

  “Are you guys serious? Do you have clothes?”

  Amy waves her in, and Margie stares at the piles on the bed.

  “Oh my god, give me jeans. Give me skinny jeans! And a decent bra!” She winks at me. “I have a handsome man to impress, after all!” I can feel the colour in my cheeks as I smile back.

  It takes a few minutes to work out what Mum and Margie need, and then we’re sorting through the piles on the bed.

  “Mum?”

  “Anything that fits. I’m happy with anything.”

  Charlie holds up a patterned blouse and a long black skirt. Mum smiles.

  “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

  And we go on, digging out jeans and tops and underwear until everyone has a bundle of clothes in a size that fits.

  Pockets

  Ketty

  The van pulls up. I hear the front doors slamming, and someone unlocks the door at the back. The guards stand up, and help me to my feet.

  When I step outside, I’m in a cage. Heavy metal gates behind me, bars overhead, and tall, red-brick walls on three sides. There’s a door ahead of me, and the guard puts her hand on my shoulder, pushing me towards it.

  I stand up straight, and walk ahead of her, trying to hide the pain in my knee.

  Inside, we walk past a reception desk and through another metal gate. One of the guards hands a folder to the woman at the desk, and picks up a clipboard and two plastic bags.

  Keep walking, Ketty. Don’t let them win.

  We stop in the corridor. The guard unlocks a door, and pushes me through.

  I’m in a small cell. There’s a table, and a bench. Posters on the walls warn me to declare everything in my pockets, and list the punishments for carrying knives, or drugs.

  And on the bench, neatly folded, is an orange prison jumpsuit.

  I feel sick. I can feel my knee shaking. I feel myself falling, and I force myself to stand.

  Discipline, determination, backbone.

  “Pockets,” says the guard behind me, holding out the smaller plastic bag. It takes all my effort to fix her with a recruit-scaring stare while I hold out my hands. She nods, and the other guard pulls a bunch of keys from her belt and unlocks my handcuffs.

  I stare at my wrists, turning my hands and stretching my fingers. It’s a small victory, but it feels immense.

  “Pockets,” she says again, shaking the bag. I nod, and work through the pockets of my uniform, pulling out my ID card, my backstage pass, my access card for Belmarsh, the keys to my flat. I unclip the empty holster from my belt and take the watch from my wrist, dropping each item into the bag.

  “Anything we should know about?” Asks the other guard, pointing at the posters on the walls. I shake my head, and take out my wallet. I hold it for a moment, over the ba
g, and then force myself to let it go.

  It feels like surrendering the last of my independence. It feels like losing myself.

  The last thing I hand over is the bottle of painkillers. The guard takes the bottle from my hand, and stares at the label.

  I hold out my hand.

  I can’t believe I have to ask.

  “Could I take a couple? Before you put them away?”

  She shakes her head, reading the back of the bottle.

  “Not allowed.” She drops the bottle into the bag. “You’ll have to see the nurse, for anything like this.” She seals the bag, and puts it out of reach on the table.

  The pain in my knee peaks with every heartbeat.

  She steps towards me.

  “Arms out.”

  I hold my arms out straight as the guard pats me down, searching for anything I haven’t declared. I stare at a poster on the wall, trying to stop my knee from shaking.

  She nods, satisfied, and the other guard makes a note on her clipboard.

  Then she turns to the table and picks up the second bag.

  “Clothes,” she says.

  I can’t help rolling my eyes.

  She looks down, pointing. “Shoes first.”

  I walk to the bench, and untie the laces on my boots. I pull them from my feet, and place them neatly next to me on the floor.

  I will give them my clothes with military precision. Neatly folded. Neatly stacked.

  I take off my socks, and fold them into the tops of my boots, then I stand up, and pull my shirt over my head. I fold it, carefully, straightening the creases on the sleeves, and place it on top of the boots. I do the same with my trousers, and my T-shirt. With everything.

  When I’m done, she points at the jumpsuit.

  “Get dressed.”

  It’s new. The fabric is stiff, and there are sharp creases where it’s been folded. I realise it must have come from the government stores.