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

by Rachel Churcher

  “Tough call.” He looks at the glasses in front of him. “I could suggest alcohol, or I could suggest vitamins.” He points at the fruit juice. “The fruit punch is pretty good.”

  I can’t help smiling as he hands us both our drinks.

  He winks. “Good luck, Bex.”

  *****

  We’re on a table with Dan and Margie. Mum sits next to me on one side, and there’s a seat for Dan’s father on the other.

  Dan arrives first, and his parents follow him in.

  It’s the first time any of my friends have seen their families since we left the UK, and it’s as if we’ve been away forever. I know Dan’s parents from school, and I’m surprised at how much older they look. It’s less than a year and a half since they last dropped him off at Rushmere, but they look as if they’ve aged ten years, waiting for him to come back.

  “The lovely Bex!” His dad walks up to the table, power suit and tie just as I remember them. He waits for me to stand up so he can give me his usual smothering hug. It’s like being hugged by a bigger, starchier version of Dan, and it makes me smile. “And Mrs Ellman. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He shakes her hand, a serious look on his face. “We were sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs Ellman. My condolences.” She nods, and gives him a quick smile.

  I’m busy with introductions when Margie walks in. She’s holding the hand of a younger girl, and she’s followed by her parents. Her mother wears a sundress in a bold African pattern, a thick cardigan round her shoulders. Her Dad’s shirt collar is open, his sleeves rolled up. I glance at Dan. We’ve never met Margie’s family – they’ve always been busy in Kenya when Margie arrives at school – but we’ve seen photos. It’s clear that they’re related.

  “Is that her sister?” Dan nods.

  Jake and Amy and their families arrive together, parents deep in conversation. It’s clear that they’re old friends. There are two brothers in the group – the older boy with short black hair is obviously Jake’s brother, and the younger is Amy’s. They stop and look around the ballroom, nudging each other and grinning.

  Fiona invited everyone who escaped from Camp Bishop – everyone with their face on a Wanted poster – so Jake’s here, whether he wants to be or not. He glances at our table, but looks away when he sees me watching.

  Charlie’s invited her brother, but she walks in with Maz. It’s only when she’s picked up a drink and found her seat that a man walks in, looking lost. Maz taps her on the shoulder, and she runs to the door, wrapping her arms round her brother and crying. He’s crying, too, and I wonder whether he’s ever going to let her go. Maz grins, and shakes his hand. Her brother keeps running his hand through his hair, and looking around as if he can’t believe he’s here.

  *****

  “Dan tells me you’ve been looking after him, Bex.” Dan’s mum smiles at me.

  I glance at Dan. “I think we’ve been looking after each other, Mrs Pearce.”

  “They’ve all taken care of each other.” Mum reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. “They’re lucky to have such good friends.”

  I look around the table. Everyone’s enjoying their lunch, and everyone’s joining in the conversation. Even Margie’s sister is chatting with Mum about her life in Kenya.

  This isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be. I’m surprised to find that I’m enjoying myself.

  It’s better than the newspaper interviews I sat through this morning, with Dan and Margie and Charlie.

  Margie catches my eye, and smiles. I smile back, glancing at her family. She rolls her eyes, but I know she’s pleased to see them.

  “I gather you’ve spent some time in the Netherlands?” Dan’s father asks across the table.

  Margie’s mother nods. “We couldn’t get into the UK. They wouldn’t let us get on the plane, in Kenya.” She glances at Margie. “They’d put us on a list. No entry, even though we’ve got UK passports.”

  “The Terror Prevention Act.” Dan’s father nods. “The most abused piece of legislation I’ve ever worked with.” His face brightens. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally made it back.”

  “So are we.” She looks across at Margie. “We had to watch on TV, while …” She stops, and wipes tears from her lashes.

  Dan’s father coughs, politely.

  “Do you have somewhere to stay, in London?” Dan’s mother asks, breaking the awkward silence.

  Margie’s mother smiles. “We do, thank you. Fiona’s very kindly rented a flat for us. It’s overwhelming, really, how kind everyone has been.”

  “I think its the least they can do,” Margie’s father snaps. “After everything.”

  “Well, if you need a place, we’ve got plenty of room.” Dan’s father smiles. “We’re not far from here, and we’d be happy to have you.” Dan’s mother nods, and I realise that this really is Dan and Margie’s ‘meet the parents’ meal. I take a sip of my drink, hiding my smile.

  “And you, Bex? You’ve got a bed for the night?” Dan’s father leans his arm against mine, as if he’s sharing a secret.

  “I have, thank you. I’ve got a room upstairs.”

  “Well – any time you need a break from all this,” he waves a hand at the grandeur of the ballroom, “you’d be welcome to stay with us.”

  His Mum leans over, reaching past her husband to put her hand on my arm. “Honestly, Bex. Any time. You’d be very welcome.”

  I nod, smiling.

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  *****

  There’s dessert, and coffee, and Fiona pulls up a chair to join the conversation.

  “You should all be very proud,” she says, raising her coffee cup. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your children.”

  Mum puts her hand on my arm, and gives Fiona a smile.

  “What this lot have done – escaping from Camp Bishop, getting themselves through the last year – I’m constantly amazed by their courage, and their resilience.” She looks round the table. “Not to mention the care they’ve shown for each other.”

  I’m blushing now, and so is Dan.

  “And as for this past week?” She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you how important they’ve been.”

  Dan’s mum puts her arm round his shoulders, and Margie’s dad wraps her in a hug. She hugs him back, tight, hiding her face in his shoulder.

  And I realise how much I miss my Dad. I wish he could have been here. Alive, well, laughing with us.

  Mum follows my gaze, and squeezes my arm.

  “He’d be proud,” she says quietly, smiling.

  Whispers

  Ketty

  I carry my lunch tray to an empty table and sit down against the wall, facing the room. I look around at the prisoners. The group of Privates at the next table – Penny among them. Knots of people, eating lunch together. Women in orange jumpsuits, laughing and joking as if this is normal.

  Who are we? And where are the officers?

  Is it a good sign that I’m here, with them – with the people who don’t matter? Will I stay here, after what I told Ryan yesterday?

  Or will they move me on? Put me on trial?

  I eat the tasteless stew, listening to the conversation at the next table. Something about haircuts, and how they want to dye their hair orange, to match the jumpsuits.

  I roll my eyes, and finish my lunch.

  I take my tray to the clean-up racks, shafts of pain flashing through my knee. As I walk past Penny’s table, the conversation falls quiet. Penny watches me as I force myself to walk without limping, and her friends huddle together, giggling, and whispering.

  It’s worse than being back at school.

  There’s a prison guard, watching us as we eat. She’s standing next to the security gate, a bored expression on her face. She looks up as I walk over.

  “Smith, isn’t it?” I nod. “What are you after?”

  “I need to see the nurse,” I say, as calmly as I can.

  She looks me up and down. “Do
you?” She asks, her voice flat.

  “I need painkillers. I was told to ask the nurse.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure we’d all like some painkillers, Miss Smith. Why should you be special?”

  I close my eyes. I can’t believe I have to fight for this. I think of the bottle of tablets I’ve kept in my pocket, handing out comfort to Bracken, and to myself, whenever we needed them.

  “My knee …”

  She stares at me, as if this is the worst excuse she’s ever heard.

  I meet her eyes, but she shakes her head.

  “Give it a rest, Smith.”

  I glare at her for a moment longer, then bend down and roll up the leg of my jumpsuit, pulling it up to my thigh. I hold it there, and look back at the guard.

  She stares, taking in the criss-crossing scars, red against my skin.

  “What …?”

  I can’t help smirking. “Gunshot wound.” She nods, still staring. “Constant pain. I’d like to see the nurse now, please.”

  She nods again, pulling the radio from her belt.

  “Escort for a prisoner to medical, please. Non-emergency.”

  I unroll the jumpsuit, and let it drop. “Thank you,” I say, as politely as I can.

  *****

  We sit at a table, waiting for the escort to arrive.

  “So who shot you?”

  I shrug. “A terrorist.”

  Her eyes widen. “Which attack?”

  I can’t help smiling. “Not a public one. I was in uniform. They shot me for protecting a coach load of kids.”

  “Really?”

  I nod.

  Close enough.

  “So what happened?”

  “I kept the kids safe.”

  She gives me an appraising look. “Good job, prisoner. Sounds dangerous.”

  “It was. The person with me was killed.” I’m surprised when I choke on the last word.

  “Killed?”

  I nod.

  She shakes her head. “You were lucky.”

  I was used. I was bait.

  “I was lucky.”

  Her radio crackles, and there’s a shout from behind the gate.

  “That’s your escort,” she says, standing up.

  I push myself to my feet, glancing back at the dining room.

  Everyone on Penny’s table is watching me, laughing, as I walk out of the room.

  *****

  The nurse pokes my knee, her gloved fingers cold against the scars. She looks up as I take a sharp breath.

  “This looks painful.” I nod. “Everything’s swollen. Have you twisted it?”

  “I think so.” She looks at my face, and my clenched fists, and peels the gloves from her hands.

  “So what have you been using? Something on prescription?”

  I shake my head. “Something from the chemist.”

  She nods. “I think we can do better than that.”

  She pulls a key from her pocket, and unlocks a metal cupboard. She pulls out a plastic bottle, and shakes four tablets onto a tray.

  “Two now. Two before bed.” She tips two into my hand, and two into a red ziplock bag. She signs the bag with a permanent marker, and hands it to me. “Come back tomorrow, after breakfast, and I’ll give you the next dose.”

  She fills a plastic cup with water and passes it to me. I swallow the tablets and take a drink.

  “Do you want to wait here while it takes effect?”

  I shake my head, standing up from the bed. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, watching me walk out to the waiting guard.

  *****

  “Friendly with the guards, now, are we, Ketty?”

  Penny is sitting on the top bunk when the guard brings me back to the cell.

  “Best buddies,” I say, lying down. “Jealous?”

  There’s a pause, and then her head appears over the side of the bed.

  “No need to be sarcastic.”

  I smile, staring up at the slats of her bed.

  “Why do you always sit on your own, Ketty?” She actually sounds concerned. I try not to laugh.

  Giggles and hair dye? Give me a break.

  She watches me, and I realise that she’s trying to help. She’s trying to be friendly.

  “Leave it, Penny,” I say, quietly.

  “But …”

  I prop myself up on my elbows.

  “Let me spell this out for you. I’m a Corporal. I worked for Colonel Bracken. I worked with some of the most wanted members of the Home Forces. When the government works out where I am, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.” She nods. “You,” I say, pointing up at her, “are a Private. You were the bottom rung of the ladder. You fetched and carried and smiled and saluted and you had no idea what was going on in the conference rooms upstairs.”

  She stares down at me, horrified, as if I’ve just punched her. I roll my eyes.

  “I did, Penny. I knew. I’m involved, and I’ve done things that you’re better off not knowing about.” I lie back on the pillows, one hand over my eyes. “So forgive me if I choose not to sit with you and your friends, and talk about hair dye and prison gossip, and whatever else you find to giggle about. I don’t need that, and I don’t need you.”

  There’s a pause, and then the bunk shakes as she pulls her head back and throws herself onto the mattress.

  Getting the message now, Private? Leave me alone.

  Park

  Bex

  “We can’t do this, Fiona. We can’t just keep going out there and facing the cameras. You need to give us some time to figure out where we are.”

  Fiona frowns, and glares at Dan.

  “Is that so, Mr Pearce?”

  He nods.

  We’re standing in the lobby of the hotel. The taxi that dropped us off from our third interview this morning is still outside, and Fiona is waiting to tell us what’s next on our publicity tour.

  “We need to stop. We need a break. We did this yesterday, and the day before, and you want us to keep going all day today. One of our friends was killed on that execution platform, and one of them is in hospital. We need a moment to take everything in.”

  She looks at Dan, and then at me, one eyebrow raised.

  I nod. “I can’t do another interview. I can’t keep talking about all this.”

  She pulls a sheet of paper out of the folder she’s holding against her chest.

  “This afternoon is a photoshoot – you’re going to be in your armour for this one – and an interview for the Revolution newspaper. It’s for their first edition, and they’re very excited to meet you.”

  “No.” She looks up at us, and she’s about to protest. “No, Fiona.” I’m surprised at how forceful my voice sounds.

  “Right,” she says, pushing the sheet of paper back into the folder, her voice tight. “So what would you like to do this afternoon? A trip to the seaside? A picnic in the park?”

  I know she’s joking, but I can’t help shrugging. “Sounds good.”

  Fiona glares. Dan stifles a laugh.

  “Maybe I can send Amy to see the newspaper. And Charlie to have her photo taken?”

  I shrug again. “I don’t care any more, Fiona. I need a break. I need to talk to Mum, and Margie. I need to do something normal, just for an afternoon.” Dan’s nodding, next to me.

  Her shoulders slump.

  “Fine. Fine – I’ll reschedule. But I need you back and working again tomorrow. This is a limited-time story, and we need to make sure people understand what happened this week. We can’t afford to let you drop out of sight.”

  I make myself smile. “Thanks, Fiona. We’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

  *****

  The guards insist on calling taxis to take us into Hyde Park. I don’t think they want to repeat the walk to Oxford Street – pushing through crowds, and trying to keep the cameras away.

  Charlie’s had a word with the kitchen staff, and they’ve packed us a picnic in old-fashioned wicker ba
skets. Dan and I have changed out of our smart clothes, and into jeans and trainers. It feels great to be going somewhere by ourselves. Somewhere Fiona hasn’t chosen for us.

  It’s a gorgeous spring day, and there are people walking and jogging beside the lake. We find a spot on the grass, next to the water, and spread out the blankets from the picnic hampers. It doesn’t matter that we’re wearing fleeces and coats – we’re outside, and we’re safe. The guards stand in a loose circle around us, protecting us from interruptions, and we’re finally alone, and free.

  “When did we last do this?” Dan lies back on the blanket, his head on Margie’s knees.

  Margie looks around, and down at Dan. “I don’t think we’ve ever done this, Pearce,” she says. “First time for everything.”

  He waves his hands. “Not this, exactly. I mean when did we last go outside, and sit around, and do nothing important?”

  Margie looks at me, and we’re both thinking the same thing.

  “School,” she says.

  “Sitting on the school field.” I think about it. “I think we were supposed to be revising, but I don’t think we got much work done.”

  “Do you think they’ll have us back?”

  “Rushmere?” Margie shakes her head. “Do you want to go back?”

  Dan shrugs. “I need to go somewhere. I need to finish educating this exceptional brain.” He points to his forehead, and Margie rolls her eyes.

  I can’t help smiling. Dan’s right – it’s been too long. We’ve spent so long hiding our faces and staying out of sight. It’s wonderful to sit down on a blanket on the grass and talk about nothing.

  “Is he always like this?” Mum’s laughing, watching us.

  “Yes!”

  Dan sits up, surprised by the chorus of voices. Even Maz is laughing at the hurt expression on his face.

  “Come on, Dan,” he says. “It’s true.”

  He lies back down, pouting. Margie strokes his hair.

  “Who wants lunch?” Maz pulls one of the baskets towards him. “I’m starving.”