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

by Rachel Churcher

  Dan puts his arm round my shoulders, and Amy puts an arm round my waist, and we can’t keep straight faces.

  I can’t believe this is real.

  The photographer shows us the photos, afterwards. We look happy, and carefree – completely at odds with the posters behind us. He assures us that the editor will love them.

  *****

  The rest of the day is packed. Radio interviews, the newspaper interview we skipped yesterday, and a meeting with the OIE’s opponents – the people who were in charge before the introduction of Martial Law.

  Before Leominster.

  The woman who talks to us is friendly and cheerful, and I have to remind myself that she works for the ex-Prime Minister. The person who agreed to hand over power to the Home Forces.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you all,” she says, showing us to our seats at a long conference table. “We know you’re working with Fiona Price, and we understand that she’s the one who’s been protecting you.” We all nod, and I’m wondering what she’s going to ask us to do. “We’re very keen to make sure that this doesn’t stop us from connecting with you.”

  I stare at her across the table, anger swelling in my chest. This is the party that introduced the emergency powers – stopping elections and stripping people of the right to vote. This is the party that approved the Emergency Armed Forces Act, and allowed the Recruit Training Service to conscript teenagers.

  This is the party that allowed our abduction to Camp Bishop, and encouraged everything that happened to us there.

  They enabled Jackson’s fists and Ketty’s cruelty. I can feel the breath, knocked out of my lungs as Jackson threw punches and Ketty pinned me to the ground. I remember sitting with Saunders, outside the gates in the rain.

  I’m shaking my head and standing up before she can say any more.

  “Bex?” Dan reaches out and takes my hand.

  “I can’t. I’m not going to sit here with the people who started all this.”

  “Bex. We should at least listen …”

  “To what, Dan? To the people who sent us to Camp Bishop?” I point at the woman across the table, my hands shaking. “If it wasn’t for these people, we’d all still be at school. You, me, Margie. Studying for exams. Our worst nightmares would be about exam questions and revision, not bullets and safe houses and executions.” I shake my head, pushing away images of Leominster. Of the City Killer, and the line of empty cars.

  And I think about the bunker. About Saunders, lying on the cold gatehouse floor. I can’t be polite. I can’t hold back my anger.

  “Joss would still be alive, if it wasn’t for these people.” Amy gasps. “Joss Saunders would still be at school. Drawing, taking photos. Making a life.” My voice is a harsh whisper. “Joss is dead because these people sent him to Camp Bishop.”

  I twist out of his grip, and walk out of the room.

  As I walk out to the car, I’m brushing tears from my eyes, and I’m relieved to find Amy and Dan behind me as I climb inside.

  *****

  “How can Fiona do this?” I shake my head. “How can she send us to talk to them?”

  Dan shrugs. “Fair play, I guess. They’re organising elections, and the ex-PM is going up against Fiona to run the country. Fiona needs to look as if she’s playing fair.”

  The others are sitting in my room – on the bed and on the sofa – but I can’t sit still. I’m pacing up and down between the door and the window, trying to contain my anger.

  “But why did she think we would want to talk to them? How could she send us in there, as if this was just another interview?”

  I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to make everything fit together, but this doesn’t make sense.

  “She probably didn’t think about it, Bex.” Amy shakes her head. “And they were nice to us.”

  I want to scream.

  “Of course they were nice to us! They want us to support them!” I’m shouting, and Amy shrinks back as I walk past her.

  Charlie shrugs.

  “Maybe they don’t want your support. Maybe they just want to stop you from campaigning against them.” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand it either, Bex.”

  I clench my fists and let out a yell.

  Dan looks up at me.

  “I think I know what they’re doing.”

  I stop pacing and glare at him, waiting for him to explain.

  “I think they’re trying to use us to promote the elections, not influence the outcome.”

  I feel as if I’ve dropped into freezing water.

  I have to catch my breath.

  Dan’s right. It makes sense.

  “You think Fiona wants us to stop fighting the bad guys, and tell everyone what a good thing it is that they get to vote again?”

  He nods.

  I hold my hands up, shaking my head. “But why wouldn’t Fiona want us to support her? To support the OIE?”

  Dan bows his head.

  “I don’t know, Bex,” he says, softly.

  The room is quiet. No one has anything to say.

  Maz coughs.

  “I don’t think she needs you to support her.”

  “Then what …?”

  He shrugs. “Sorry, Bex, but as much as you hate it, everyone knows who you are. And everyone knows who’s been protecting you.” He waves a hand. “That’s what all these interviews are about. Reminding the voters that it was Fiona and the OIE who got you out of the UK, and Fiona who got you back in, with her coalition at your backs.”

  I nod, thinking about all the publicity we’re giving Fiona and her party, just by telling our stories.

  “So she’s already got our support, as far as the public can see?”

  He smiles. “Absolutely. She doesn’t need to have you campaigning for her, as long as you’re not campaigning against her.”

  I stare at him, shaking my head.

  Charlie nods.

  “I think Dan’s right. I reckon they’re going to use you all as the Faces of the Election. Use your stories to make sure people vote. They need to get people excited about democracy again.” She points at me. “And you’re the most exciting news they’ve seen in years.”

  I throw up my hands in frustration.

  “She’s never going to stop using us, is she?”

  Margie raises an eyebrow.

  “What do you mean?”

  I can feel the fight going out of me. There’s nothing I can do to stop this. I pull the chair out from the desk and sit down, my elbows on my knees.

  “She’s the one who put my face on the resistance posters. She’s the one who tried to package our stories without understanding what we’ve been through.” I roll my eyes. “She’s the one who put me on the OIE Committee, to keep reminding them why they needed to fight.” I look up, at everyone watching me. I’m finally piecing this together. “But that’s not why I was there.”

  “Bex?”

  I think it through. Asking to observe the committee. Taking Fiona’s offer of a seat at the table. Believing her when she promised they would listen.

  And the coalition. The list of their requirements to justify the invasion.

  “I was there as the figurehead. I was there to sweeten the deal for the coalition.” I shake my head. “She wasn’t planning on listening to me at all. She just needed to show that I was on her side. That the face on the posters was the face of her movement.”

  I feel sick. I feel used.

  None of it was real. I worked for the committee. I kept their secrets, and I helped pick the target for the South Bank Bomb. The blood of the victims is on my hands, but none of it was real.

  Fiona didn’t need my input. She needed my face.

  Charlie was wrong. I wasn’t a player at the table – I was a playing piece in Fiona’s game.

  “She needed me, because she needed her invasion. And now she wants to run the country.”

  I slump back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I can’t believe I didn’t see this b
efore.

  “And we’ve done her campaigning for her,” Dan says, nodding. “We stormed the execution platform, live on TV. You gave the only election speech she’ll ever need.

  “Even if we refuse to do anything else, Fiona’s already taken everything she needs.”

  Physical

  Ketty

  It’s after dinner when they come for me. We have some free time in the dining hall after the meal, and I’m walking back from the toilets when the lights go out in the corridor, and someone throws an arm round my neck from behind, dragging me backwards. I’m knocked off my feet, struggling to stand in the sudden darkness. My throat is still sore from Bracken’s attack, and I’m choking as I fall, my feet slipping on the tiled floor.

  My back hits the ground, smashing the breath from my lungs, and my head cracks against the tiles, pain bursting like a firework in my skull. I try to sit up, but someone I can’t see locks their arm across my neck, pushing down hard. I’m flashing back to Bracken, his fingers digging into my throat, and I’m fighting panic. I reach up to push my attacker away, but two more women grab my arms, and pin them to the floor. Someone else locks their hands round my ankles.

  I close my eyes, and wait for the punches.

  Iron fists and steel toe caps. I know how this goes.

  There’s a voice, hissing in my ear. I can feel her breath, hot on my face.

  “Think you’re better than us, Corporal? Not here. We’re all the same, here.” I nod, carefully, my head and neck still pinned against the floor.

  “A bit of respect. That’s all we want.” Another voice. I nod again. “We know you were Bracken’s bitch. We know you ran his interrogations.”

  “We know about you and Corporal Conrad.” The hissing voice is back, next to my cheek. Someone else makes kissing noises, and laughs. “He had some things to say about you, Ketty.”

  Not punches, then. Rumours. Lies.

  I roll my eyes, grateful for the darkness.

  “Bracken’s bitch, and Conrad’s bitch. Did you get on your knees for Lee, too?”

  I’m fighting. I’m pulling my arms up and kicking and throwing my head forward, but the arm on my neck presses down harder, and the grips on my arms and legs only get stronger. I’m pinned, I’m outnumbered, and I can’t fight them off.

  I make myself relax.

  It’s just words.

  Get through this. Wait for them to leave.

  The breath on my face fades as the person behind me sits up.

  “She has a weak point.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Which knee was it, Penny?”

  I can’t breathe. Panic locks my muscles and my pulse slams through my body. I can feel my hands, shaking against the floor.

  They’ve seen me without my jumpsuit. They’ve seen the scars. They’ve seen me limping.

  They were there in the showers. They were there in the dining room, when I showed the guard.

  “The right knee,” says Penny, calmly.

  I want to shout, but the arm is still against my throat. I throw my head to one side, dislodging the choke hold.

  “No no no no NO NO NO!” I shout as loud as I can, until someone claps a hand across my mouth.

  I’m begging. I’m pleading with my captors. This is the weakness I’ve enjoyed, in my prisoners.

  This is who I am.

  This is fear.

  My whole body is shaking as I feel the grip on my arms shift. Someone swaps their hand for a knee, pressing into the bone, just below my elbow. I try to twist out of her grip, but she leans on my leg, pinning me to the floor. I pull one arm free, and reach up to grab the person behind me by her hair.

  But it’s too late.

  The world explodes into pain. Something smashes into my knee. Something hard and unforgiving, and I feel bone, breaking. All the pain of the bullet, all the pain of learning to walk again, all the pain of the PowerGel, failing, crashes into me, and I’m screaming.

  The hands let go. The arm lifts from my throat, but I don’t feel it. All I can feel is the hot, shrieking pain in my knee.

  When I open my eyes, I’m curled up on the floor. The lights are on in the corridor, and my attackers have gone.

  The pain is everywhere.

  I’m alone, and I’m still screaming.

  Fiona

  Bex

  “That’s it. I’m going to go and talk to her. I want to know what’s going on.”

  Dan jumps out of his seat at the breakfast table, catching my elbow and slowing me down.

  The conversation from last night is still going. I’ve been thinking about all the ways Fiona has used me, and I want answers.

  “Wait, Bex. We don’t know what she wants. We’re just trying to understand …”

  “And that’s why I’m going to ask her a straight question.” I glare at him. “Coming?”

  He drops my elbow, shaking his head. When I turn back at the door, he’s still standing, watching me, Margie’s hand against his back.

  *****

  “Bex.” Fiona looks up from her laptop as I walk into her conference room. “I’m a little busy …”

  I don’t let her finish. I’m not going to let her send me away.

  “I want to know what I’m doing here.”

  She blinks, staring at me, and shakes her head. “I don’t have time for this.”

  I stand in front of her, my hands shaking. I know I should walk away. I know I should leave her alone. Come back later.

  Do what she wants.

  I know Dan should be here, holding me back, but I’m too angry to leave.

  I pull out the chair next to hers, and sit down. She closes her laptop and sits back in her chair, folding her arms.

  “What is it, Miss Ellman? What’s so important that you have to talk about it now?”

  I force myself to meet her gaze. I need an answer. I need her to be honest with me.

  “What are you expecting from me, Fiona?”

  She shakes her head again, shrugging her shoulders.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I take a deep breath. I need to make her understand.

  “You saved us, Fiona. I know that.” She nods. “You had us picked up, after the bunker raid. You got us out of the UK. You protected us, in Edinburgh. And you got us back here, with an army behind us.” She starts to speak, but I cut her off. “You got us where we needed to be, and our friends are alive. Mum’s free. We couldn’t have done all that without you.”

  My hands are still shaking, and Fiona is waiting for me to continue. I need to think clearly about this. I need to explain.

  “I was your Face of the Resistance. I let you use my photo, on all those posters.” I can’t help pulling a face. “And I hate that photo.” She laughs, once. “I made your videos. I made your speeches. I let you put me on your committee.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “As I recall, you demanded a seat on the OIE Committee.”

  “You didn’t need to give it to me.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “I mean, what was I doing there? A seventeen-year-old girl, with the rest of you? With all your experience? Casting votes and debating with you?”

  “A seventeen-year-old with combat experience, Bex. A seventeen-year-old with inside knowledge of the Home Forces, and the resistance. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  I nod. I haven’t thought about it that way. “OK. So there were some things I could help you with.”

  “And so we asked you to join us.”

  I’m staring at my hands in my lap. I need to make my accusation. I need to say what I came here to say.

  I look up at her.

  “I think I was there to convince the coalition to support you.”

  She watches me, a smile spreading over her face. I can feel the colour rising in my cheeks.

  “You’re right, Bex. That was part of the deal. I told you they needed a figurehead, and putting you on the committee showed them that we were serious.”

  This is too easy. I came here to argue. I came
here to make my case, and she’s agreeing with me.

  “So you planned that?”

  She laughs again. “Of course I planned it.” She looks around the room, pointing at the black and white photos of London on the walls. “And it got us here, didn’t it?” I nod. “It got you here. It got your mother out of the cells, and saved your friends from execution.”

  She’s using Mum. She’s using Margie.

  She’s trying to justify everything she’s done.

  But she’s right. Putting me on the committee did help us to get here.

  “And what about now? All these interviews and photos and parties?”

  She looks down at the table, and back up at me.

  “I know this is hard, Bex. I know all you wanted to do was save your friend, and your mother. But we still need you.”

  I stare at her, the anger building in my chest. “To do what?”

  She clasps her hands together on the table in front of her.

  “You’re the Face of the Resistance, Bex. You’re the person who made the speech at Horse Guards Parade.” I nod, clenching my fists. “You’re still the figurehead. You’re still the symbol everyone’s looking up to.”

  “I don’t want …”

  “I know. But please, Bex, just for a bit longer. You’re making people feel good about all the changes we’re making. About having the King in charge while we arrange the elections. This is all new to the people out there, Bex. They’re used to bombings and firing squads and the Home Forces. We’re asking them to adjust to democracy again. To freedom. And we’re using foreign soldiers to do it.”

  She smiles at me, waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to say yes.

  I let her wait.

  She shakes her head. “It’s scary for people, watching Polish soldiers patrolling their streets. French soldiers. Spanish, Dutch. German. They need to know that there’s a plan. That we haven’t been invaded. That the fight was with the military government, not with the people of the UK.”

  I close my eyes. I can see what she’s saying, but she’s not listening to me.