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

by Rachel Churcher

  A jumpsuit for a terrorist. And now it’s mine.

  I almost laugh.

  There’s a faint chemical smell as I pull the jumpsuit up, and shrug it over my shoulders. The material is rough against my skin. I pull up the zip and turn to the guards, standing smartly at ease again, eyes fixed on the door.

  This is it, Ketty. The prison, the cell, the orange jumpsuit.

  This is everything you feared.

  But I’m alive. I’ve beaten Lee, and I’ve beaten Bracken.

  You can do this, Ketty. One step at a time.

  Party

  Bex

  The cheer as we walk into the ballroom is so loud it hurts my ears.

  Neesh is here, and Caroline. Gail. Fiona. Jo. All the prisoners from the cells, and all the fighters from the bunker.

  And Jake, sitting on a sofa, his arms round two girls in camouflage T-shirts.

  I can’t take it in. Mum takes my hand, and when I look at her she’s smiling. Charlie takes the other hand, and lifts it above my head. The cheering begins again.

  Jo runs out from the crowd, and throws her arms round Margie. And then Gail is hugging me, and Neesh. Jo asks me about Dr Richards, and I tell her I’m sorry about Will. Someone puts a drink in my hand and pulls me into the room. Everyone wants to shake my hand, and ask me what happened, or tell me what happened to them.

  It’s exhilarating.

  And it’s too much.

  I put my drink down and push my way to the edge of the room, past buffet tables and trays of champagne, and slip through a door into a service corridor.

  I lean against the rough concrete wall, trying to catch my breath.

  Margie’s safe. Dr Richards is in hospital. Mum’s safe.

  That’s all I need to know.

  And in making it happen, I killed people, and I betrayed the person who saved my life.

  I can feel the weight of the rifle in my hands, pointed at the man in the conference room. Shooting the guards as they fired their useless bullets back at me.

  I don’t deserve a party. I deserve a prison cell.

  The door opens, and the sound of the celebration bursts into the corridor. A waiter walks through, carrying an empty tray.

  He stops, staring at me.

  “You’re the Face …”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “I saw you on the screens today! You were wild!”

  I shake my head. He looks back over his shoulder.

  “Isn’t this party for you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t feel like celebrating.”

  He steps back. “You just saved the country, and you don’t feel like celebrating?”

  I shake my head. He leans the tray against the wall and plants his hands on his hips.

  “What does it take to get you to party?” He’s grinning at me.

  “Some bad stuff happened today,” I say, and I can’t meet his eyes.

  He steps forward, and touches my arm, gently.

  “Yeah. I know it did.” He points back at the door. “But some good stuff happened, too. There are people out there who wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for the bad stuff.”

  I nod. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the bad stuff.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I can’t stop myself.

  “Then I think we should drink to that.” He holds up a finger. “Don’t move.” And he pushes through the door.

  I lean my head back against the wall.

  Bad things happened. But he’s right. Good things happened, too.

  We went to war today. We fought. We did everything we’ve been trained to do.

  And we won.

  We won.

  It’s over. I don’t need to train any more. I don’t need to fight. I don’t need to hold a gun, or run in my armour. I don’t need to hide my face.

  I don’t need to do what Fiona wants, or Caroline, or the RTS.

  I’m free. And so are the people who trained with me.

  I’m smiling when the waiter comes back with two glasses of champagne. I take one, and hold it out. He clinks his glass against mine, and we drink.

  “Cheers!” He says. “And thank you, Bex Ellman.” I can’t help smiling, and he smiles back. “Now get out there, and celebrate the good stuff.”

  He holds the door open, and I walk back into the party.

  Cellmate

  Ketty

  My prison-issue essentials are waiting on the top bunk when the guards bring me to my cell. Towel, toothbrush, hairbrush, and soap, along with shorts and a T-shirt for sleeping in, and a change of underwear. The bottom bunk is already occupied, by a woman I recognise. One of the Privates from the document drop at the Home Forces Building. She can’t be more than eighteen. She’s pretty, and she’s quiet. She’s been crying, tears staining her cheeks.

  I roll my eyes. I’m not climbing to the top bunk while the guards have my painkillers.

  I wait until I hear the door lock behind me, then step over to the bed. My pulse is hammering in my knee, and I make myself stand up straight.

  “Bottom bunk’s mine,” I say, calmly.

  She looks up, surprise in her voice. “Corporal Smith?”

  Right first time, Private. Now get out of my way.

  I nod, smirking. “I don’t want any trouble, but the bottom bunk is mine.”

  She stares at me for a moment, and I wait, meeting her gaze.

  She nods. “Yes. Of course.”

  She stands up. I wait while she moves my things from the top bunk onto a shelf, then sit down on the bottom bunk, relieved to take the weight off my knee.

  “I’m Penny,” she says, holding out her hand.

  “Ketty,” I say, lying down on the bed and staring at the slats of the bunk above me.

  She drops her hand to her side, disappointment showing on her face.

  Shopping

  Bex

  We’re outside. We’re walking along Oxford Street in the middle of the day, and I don’t have to hide my face.

  Our Wanted posters are still on display, on bus shelters and billboards. On a side street, I glimpse a wall of resistance posters – my face staring out, and the flag waving behind me.

  Someone put those there. Someone brave. Someone who knew they might get caught.

  I hope they’re safe. I hope they got away.

  Amy’s hand is gripped in mine as we walk towards the department store, our armed escorts clearing a path through the crowds. It’s only a short walk from the hotel, but everyone seems to know that we’re here.

  “Have you decided what you’re buying?” She sounds nervous, glancing around at the people watching us.

  I shake my head. “Something smart. Something for parties.” She nods. “Whatever’s on Fiona’s list.”

  They’ve closed the store for us. The guards have to push their way through the crowds outside, and two men in smart suits hold the doors open, watching for anyone trying to walk in behind us. There are photographers in the crowd, holding up cameras and shouting our names. There’s at least one TV camera. A woman with a microphone is shouting at me, trying to ask a question. One of the escorts puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her away.

  It’s a relief to walk through the doors.

  A woman in a suit is waiting in front of the perfume counters. She waits for the doors to close behind us, then steps forward.

  “Welcome! It’s an honour to be able to assist the Face of the Resistance,” she nods at me, “and your friends. Please, Ladies, step this way. Gentlemen – please follow my colleague.” Dan squeezes Margie’s hand before letting go and following his Liaison Officer towards the back of the shop. Maz follows, turning back and grinning at Charlie as he walks away.

  “This way, Ladies.” We follow her towards the lifts.

  *****

  We’ve each been assigned a personal shopper, and Gail is here, making sure I buy the items on Fiona’s list. They walk me round the womenswear department, picking out smart suits and blouses and dresses. It’s overwhelming.<
br />
  I don’t want any of this. I don’t want to go on television, or meet the King again, or go to any more parties. I want to stop. I want to enjoy my freedom.

  I thought I’d done everything I needed to do, but I was wrong. I still have to do as Fiona tells me, if I’m going to make it through the next few weeks. The whole country wants to hear our stories, and Fiona is making sure they don’t all come after us at once. She’s put guards on the hotel, and she’s negotiating with newspapers and TV stations.

  But we need to be dressed for TV. Dressed for receptions and parties and royalty, and all we have is the clothes in our rucksacks. Margie and Mum have nothing.

  So Fiona has sent us shopping, with lists and requirements and assistants.

  And I hate it.

  The personal shopper pulls back the curtain on another changing room, and sends me inside with an armful of clothes. I pull off my fleece and jeans, pull another party dress over my head, and look at my reflection in the mirror.

  I look tired. I look pale, and exhausted.

  And I look ridiculous, in the bright pink sequined ballgown Gail picked for me.

  *****

  “What have you got?” Amy bounces up to me, shrugging off her assistants. I’m searching through a table of long-sleeved T-shirts for the colours Gail thinks I need.

  I shrug. “Nothing I like.”

  “I’ve got the most amazing dress!” She’s grinning, and I realise that she’s actually enjoying this. I make myself smile back.

  “That’s great, Amy. You can be our party queen.”

  Her Liaison Officer calls her over, and she hurries away, still grinning.

  I turn back to the T-shirts, and find Margie, watching me from across the table. She’s dressed in one of Charlie’s T-shirts, and the skinny jeans she wore last night.

  “No luck, Bex?” I shake my head. “What are you looking for?”

  I tell her what I need, and we search together.

  “I wanted to talk to you …” she says, eventually, and catches her breath. “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you did yesterday.”

  I shake my head. “It wasn’t just me.”

  “No, but you’re the one who made the broadcast. You’re the one who put your face on the screens.” She shudders, putting both hands on the table in front of her. “I wanted you to know how it felt, seeing you. Hearing your voice. Hearing the crowd, cheering your name, in the middle of their show trial. I thought …” She shakes her head. “I thought they were going to shoot me, Bex. I thought that was it.” She looks up, meeting my gaze. “And then you were there. You were talking, and you were telling them that it was all over.”

  I think back to the conference room. The director’s shout as they hacked us out of the feed.

  “But they stopped us. They carried on …”

  “I know. But the crowd changed, after you spoke. They didn’t want to see a firing squad. They wanted to see victory.” She closes her eyes. “Even when I thought it was over. Even when I was looking at the firing squad, and they were raising their guns, I knew that you’d made a difference. And then you were there, and Dan, and I knew their bullets couldn’t touch me.” She shakes her head again. “So thank you. Thank you for being the Face of the Resistance, and inspiring people, and making all this happen. And thank you for being brave.”

  “But Will …”

  She nods. “I know. Will saved his daughter. He did the only thing he could.”

  “I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. Will chose to do what he did.”

  “But …”

  She stares at me.

  “Bex. You were amazing yesterday. You stormed the stage. You wiped out the firing squad. You spoke to the crowd and you told them to start a revolution. The King said you were a hard act to follow.” She reaches out and puts her hand on mine. “You were born for this stuff. You’re good at it. Keep going out there and inspiring people. OK?”

  I don’t know what to say, but there’s a tight feeling in my chest.

  This isn’t over. I don’t get to walk away.

  The TV interviews, the parties – this is all part of the job. I need these outfits as much as I needed my armour.

  “Have you heard any more about Dr Richards?” My voice is quiet as I think about the medics on the stage. The bandages as they carried her away.

  She shakes her head. “She’s stable.” She shrugs. “They think she’ll be OK.” She looks up at me. “Don’t blame yourself, Bex. It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could out there.”

  I nod. Margie hands me two T-shirts in the right colours. I make myself smile, and thank her.

  Then I step round the table and wrap my arms round her shoulders. She hugs me back, but there’s something cold, something distant about her. As I pull her closer, I realise she’s shaking.

  “You OK?” I whisper. She shakes her head, and pushes me back. She turns, and I watch her walk away, her head bowed.

  I turn towards the changing rooms, and I can’t shake the feeling that this is the rest of my life. That I’ll always be the brave schoolgirl on the resistance posters, Margie will always be the prisoner on the stage, and Dr Richards will be the person I couldn’t save. That the others will always be my loyal supporters, and no one will want to hear our real stories. That we’re all slipping into the roles we’ll be expected to play forever, whether we want to or not.

  Prison

  Ketty

  The morning alarm sounds, and I sit up, throwing my legs over the edge of the bunk. In the bunk above me I hear Penny yawning.

  I take my jumpsuit from the shelf, limping as I cross the room. I need painkillers, and I need to stay out of trouble. I need to be a model prisoner.

  I smile. This is like Camp Bishop all over again. Be the first up in the morning. Be the smartest, be the best. Earn some favours. I pick up my pile of belongings – underwear, towel, toothbrush, hairbrush and soap – and I’m waiting at the door when the guard comes to let us out. Penny is only just climbing down from her bunk, and I hear the guard shouting at her as I join the queue for the showers.

  Discipline, determination, backbone.

  You can do this.

  Breakfast is toast and weak tea. I sit at a table by myself, looking around at the other prisoners. Wherever we are, this wing of the prison is all Home Forces women. Most of us arrived yesterday, but there are more prisoners arriving this morning, disoriented in their brand new uniforms.

  But it’s all lower-ranking staff, here. There’s no one of Bracken’s level, or Lee’s. Major General Franks isn’t here.

  I drink my tea, watching the sea of orange jumpsuits.

  No one tries to join me at my table, and we’re back in our cells by nine, doors locked.

  *****

  “Ketty?”

  “Penny.”

  She’s sitting on the floor, watching me as I lie on my bunk. She sounds scared.

  “How long do you think they’ll keep us here?”

  A heart-to-heart with my cellmate? I don’t need this right now.

  I shrug.

  “They can’t lock us up forever, can they?”

  “Maybe.”

  She takes a sharp breath. “You don’t mean that, do you? I mean, they need to give us a trial, or something?”

  I stifle a yawn. “Probably.”

  She shuffles closer to the bunk, and lowers her voice.

  “You worked with Bracken, locking people up. How does it work?”

  I roll my eyes.

  You have no idea what I’ve worked on.

  I stare up at the top bunk.

  “It works like this, Penny. Cells. Crappy food. Orange jumpsuits.”

  “But how do we know …?”

  I turn to face her, and I can’t help raising my voice.

  “We don’t know, Penny. That’s the point. That’s what being locked up is.” She moves back, a shocked look on her face. “We know nothing. We have no power. And w
e have to get up every morning and eat the food and wear the jumpsuit and do as we’re told, and they don’t have to tell us anything.”

  “But I thought …”

  “Then stop thinking.” She shrinks away from me as I push myself up on one elbow. “You’re a Private, Penny. You were a glorified postman. You haven’t done anything, and this,” I point around the cell, “is probably the worst that could happen to you.”

  She nods, curling up against the wall and pulling her knees up in front of her. I realise there are tears on her cheeks.

  “I’m a glorified postman? What have you done, that’s so much worse?”

  I lie back on the bed and shake my head. I can’t help laughing.

  “None of your business, Private Penny. Leave me alone.”

  She wipes her eyes on her sleeves and glares at me before standing up and climbing back to the top bunk.

  *****

  I lie on my bed, thinking about the other prisoners. The Privates. The secretaries. The nobodies.

  Who are they bringing here?

  Are we the inconvenient ones? The ones without responsibilities?

  Are we the ones they can’t put through show trials?

  Maybe the prison hasn’t worked out who I am. Maybe they don’t know about my connection to Bracken. To Conrad and Lee. To Franks.

  Keep your head down, Ketty. Keep quiet. Maybe this is as bad as it gets.

  Studio

  Bex

  “We’ll be live in a moment. Are you comfortable?”

  I nod at the presenter, looking out at the cameras, and the audience.

  “Thank you for coming in, all of you. I’m very excited to hear your stories.” And she turns away, waiting for the light on the camera to go live.

  I’m sitting on a bright red sofa, dressed in one of the suits Gail bought for me yesterday. Mum is beside me, in her wheelchair, and Dan sits next to me. He looks like a bank manager, in his black suit and a pinstriped shirt. He glances at me, and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. I nod.