When she discharged me from hospital, Dr Hayes told me not to run while the bones in my knee are still healing, and I’ve followed her instructions. But today I pull trainers and running kit from my wardrobe and change into them without thinking. I shake two painkillers from the bottle next to the bed, and swallow them. I check the battery in the PowerGel, and put a spare in my pocket. I take my room key, and a bottle of water, and I take the stairs to the lobby.
Outside, I start to run. I don’t have a plan in mind. I don’t know where I’m going. But I need to run, and I need time to think.
I follow the road to Hyde Park, and turn to run along Park Lane, past big hotels and expensive cars.
And I wonder how long it took Dad to stop paying the rent. How long he spent sleeping on the street, without me to pay the bills.
I wonder who was with him when he died.
And I think about Jackson, lying in the road outside the coach. Calling my name as he fought for breath, as Recruit Mitchell and the coach driver tried to save his life.
And Bracken, ending his own life when he realised we’d lost. Leaving me and Conrad and Franks to take the blame, and the consequences.
Franks, slumped over her handcuffs in the interrogation room.
All the people I cared about, leaving me to go on without them.
Come on, Ketty. Self-pity doesn’t suit you.
I think about Fiona, and what she wants from me now that Franks has given a full confession. How much longer will she need my help? How much longer can she keep me out of prison? Am I free, now that Franks has confessed, or is my name on a coalition list? If I walk away from Fiona’s protection, will they arrest me again?
I haven’t seen my release papers. I don’t know the terms of my freedom. Is this a permanent release, or am I only free until Fiona can’t use me any more?
Survive, Ketty. Keep giving Fiona what she wants.
I feel the tightness of the PowerGel round my leg. The freedom of running, after weeks of prison and hospital and working on Fiona’s campaign. It’s a warm, bright day, and I feel as if I could go on running forever.
I find myself running through Green Park, and out onto the Mall.
I’m following my old running route, back towards the flat. Back towards the Home Forces and the South Bank bomb.
Back towards my old life.
But the flat has been confiscated, the locks changed. It belonged to the Home Forces, so now it belongs to the coalition. Disgraced former Corporals are not welcome.
I can’t face running down Whitehall. Past the place I hailed the taxi for Bracken, the night I took him home. Past the buildings where I worked for the losing side. Past the building where everything ended – where Lee and Bracken died.
I turn to run along Horse Guard’s Road. Horse Guard’s Parade is empty, fenced off from the pavement.
And there are flowers, heaped up against the barriers. Piles of them, spilling across my path.
I stop, and crouch down to look at the cards.
‘Remembering William Richards.’
‘In memory of a resistance hero.’
‘For Will, who saved his daughter.’
There are hundreds of them. Hundreds of bunches of flowers. Hundreds of people, paying tribute to the resistance fighter who betrayed his people to protect his daughter. Who took the bullets that were meant for her.
Who redeemed himself, in the only way he could.
And there are more, remembering everyone we sent to the firing squads.
‘For all the victims of the Home Forces.’
‘For everyone who died to keep us afraid.’
‘Thank you for your resistance.’
I kneel on the ground, reading card after card on the bunches of flowers.
This is what it means to be on the losing side. This is how it feels to see your fellow soldiers locked up, and your enemies become heroes.
The orange jumpsuit might be a mark of shame for Franks and Conrad, and everyone else they’ve locked away, but out here it’s a mark of sacrifice. Out here it’s the mark of heroes, standing in their handcuffs on PIN, watching the firing squads turn towards them and lift their guns.
Where do you fit in this new world, Ketty? Where’s your place in the coalition’s UK?
I shake my head.
Dad taught me to survive, whatever happened. Whoever was against me. And I used what I learnt – with Jackson, at Camp Bishop. With Bracken, through his weakness and his anger. With Conrad. With Jake and Saunders, at the farm. With Penny and her friends, in prison.
I’m still here. Dad’s gone, Jackson’s gone, Bracken’s gone. But I’m still here.
And I’m free, for now.
I stand up, and start the run back to the hotel.
I need to talk to Fiona.
*****
She’s waiting in the lobby when I walk through the doors, and Colonel Ryan is with her. They look up as I walk past.
“Katrina!”
I turn, my T-shirt soaked with sweat and my hair clinging to my neck.
“Fiona. Could I have a moment to get changed?”
Ryan smiles. “This won’t take long.”
My breath catches in my throat.
This is it, Ketty. This is where they send you back to prison.
To sixty years, or a firing squad.
I make myself stand up straight, and wait for Colonel Ryan to take away my freedom.
“I’m sorry to do this, Fiona,” he says, and I force myself to stand at ease. I lift my chin, and focus on the wall behind him.
I will not let him see my fear.
Discipline. Determination. Backbone.
“I know Miss Smith has been useful to you, and we appreciate her help with getting Franks to talk.”
Fiona nods, and glances at me.
“But I think it’s time to move on. Don’t you?”
Fiona opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, Ryan turns to me. I think of Conrad in his cell, begging me to get him out. I think of Penny and her friends, waiting for me behind the prison walls. I think of Elizabeth. Of spending sixty years in a cage.
Here it comes. Enjoy your final moments of freedom.
“You were a soldier, Katrina,” he says. I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak.
He smiles. “Do you want to be a soldier again?”
I can’t help staring at him. “Sir?”
“You’re good at what you do, Katrina. I’ve seen your interrogations – the way you persuade people to talk. And I’ve seen your record from Camp Bishop. I know you saved yourself from a difficult situation at home, and that you worked hard for your promotions.” He glances at Fiona, and back at me. “I think you’re wasted here.”
Fiona steps forward. “Colonel …” He waves her away.
“I’m offering you a chance to join the coalition. To join the new UK Army, when we’re ready to stand by ourselves again.” He watches me, still smiling. “We need your skills, Katrina. We need people with discipline. People who can get things done.”
“Sir, I …” My voice fails. I don’t know what to say.
“I’m not going to give you your old job back. I think it was a mistake, making you an assistant – isolating you from the chain of command. And without proper leadership, you have a habit of crossing lines we’d rather not cross.”
I can feel the colour rising on my face. He’s talking about Elizabeth, and Margaret. With a jolt, I realise he’s talking about Saunders.
“I have your release papers. It’s my decision, what happens to you when Fiona’s finished with you.” Fiona starts to protest, but Ryan ignores her. “I can send you back to prison. Hand you over to the coalition. Or I can give you a chance.” He watches me, the ghost of a smile on his face. “I want to give you a chance.”
I’m staring at him. I’m trying to understand what he’s saying.
This is my answer. This is what happens next.
This is how I keep my freedom.
“Y
ou need a strong chain of command, and a lot of training before we can put you to work. We need to make sure you stay on the right side of the lines. But I think you can do that, with the right guidance.” I nod, finally taking in what he’s offering me. “I’m willing to invest in you. You’ll be starting at the bottom – Private Smith. Can you handle that?”
Given the alternatives?
“Yes, Sir. Absolutely.” I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“Two weeks, then? I’m sure Fiona could use your help for the Victory Day celebrations.” She nods. “But after that, you work for me.”
He checks his watch. “Two weeks from today, have your bags packed. We’ll pick you up at noon.” He points at my knee. “And bring the PowerGel. You’re going to need it.”
“Yes, Sir.” I’m grinning now. I can’t help it. “Thank you, Sir.”
Ryan shakes my hand, and Fiona’s, and leaves us standing in the lobby, out of place between the velvet sofas.
“Well,” says Fiona, eventually, her voice cold. “Go and take a shower, and meet me in the office. We have plenty of work to do.”
JUNE
Victory
Bex
I pull the dress from the suit carrier, and drape it over the back of the sofa.
Gail chose it on our shopping trip, after I rejected the pink ball gown. And it’s beautiful. Simple. Silver-grey, like a shadow. Fitted, knee-length, with sequins that catch the light.
I didn’t want to come. I didn’t want to be here, but I promised Charlie. So I’m back at the Royal Hotel, in my room next to Mum’s, on the corridor with my friends. I didn’t think I’d have the chance to wear the dress – not after I walked out on Fiona.
But here I am.
I take the lid off the shoe box, and pick up the silver-grey sandals with their low heels and glitter. There’s a tiny shoulder bag on a sliver chain, and a necklace that sparkles in the bright lights.
I look at the outfit. This isn’t me. Jeans and T-shirts, cargo trousers – even Fiona’s smart suits – but not this. It feels too exotic. Too high-profile. Promising that I’m something I’m not.
And I realise that it’s another uniform, like the RTS fatigues. Like my armour. Dress up and blend in. Wear what everyone else is wearing and hide behind the disguise.
I shrug off my jacket, and carefully take the dress out of its plastic wrapping.
*****
It’s Victory Day. Charlie promised Fiona I’d be here, and my friends have been calling me ever since the funeral, making sure I haven’t changed my mind.
Reminding me about the dress. Promising me a party before they all leave London.
We’ve spent the afternoon on the stage in Hyde Park. There were speeches and medals, and confirmation that Fiona will be our new Prime Minister after the election last week. The King hung a heavy gold star round my neck on a broad purple ribbon, and the vast crowd clapped and cheered. I closed my eyes as he presented medals to my friends, and handed a medal in a box to Saunders’ parents. I blocked out the sound of the crowd, cheering for us.
It sounded too much like the crowd at Horse Guard’s Parade. Too much like the people who shouted for Margie to die.
Margie made a speech, and the whole crowd fell silent. She talked about her imprisonment, and she talked about facing the firing squad. She asked us never to put anyone through that again. Dr Richards gave everyone a history lesson, leaning on a walking stick at the lecturn, and reminded us to learn from our past. Charlie talked about friendship and working together. Dan thanked everyone he could think of. Amy cried, and talked about Joss. She told the crowd to build a better country together.
Jake and I refused to speak. I’m not the Face of the Resistance any more, and I said everything I needed to say on the day we saved Margie. Fiona doesn’t get to use me again.
Mum watched from the VIP box with the other parents and families. I thought she might burst with pride, but I couldn’t wait to get off the stage, and away from the crowd.
I couldn’t wait to get back here, to my room, and close the door.
I want this to be over. I want to be invisible again.
*****
There’s a knock on my door, and Dan calls my name.
I stand in front of the mirror, checking my outfit. Checking that I have enough clips and hairspray in my hair. I straighten my necklace and my dress, and walk to the door.
Everyone’s waiting. Dan and Jake in their black bow ties and dinner jackets, and Maz in his kilt. Margie, in a long, fitted black dress. Charlie in a stunning shade of green, and Amy, rocking the pink sparkling ball gown I turned down. And Mum, in a midnight blue jacket and trousers, the silver bird necklace at her throat.
She breaks into a grin as she sees me, and I can’t help smiling back.
Charlie steps forward and gives me a careful hug. “You look amazing, Bex.”
“You, too.”
“That dress ...” She steps back and looks me up and down. “You’re going to upstage Fiona tonight.” She shakes her head, and makes a face. “She won’t like it.”
And I’m laughing. “She paid for it! And I don’t care what Fiona thinks.”
Dan holds out one arm to Margie, and one to me, and I’m about to take it when Maz steps in.
“Bex of the Resistance. May I have the honour of escorting you to the official Victory Day ball?”
I’m blushing as I take his arm, Charlie grinning at me over his shoulder. I might be upstaging Fiona, but Maz is upstaging all of us in his kilt. And he’s walking in with me.
I feel as if I’m floating as we take the lift to the lobby.
Changes
Ketty
Fiona sends me out in a taxi when she realises I don’t have anything to wear for the party. She calls the department store and books me a personal shopper, then tells them to send her the bill. I have half an hour to pick out an outfit that works with the PowerGel.
The third outfit I try on is a pair of wide black trousers and a tight silver sequined halterneck top. The assistant hands me a pair of flat shoes, a sparkling hair clip, and a long necklace with an oversized black pendant, and I’m back in the taxi.
Twenty minutes. I still have time for a shower.
*****
There’s a smile on my face as the taxi pushes through the crowds on Park Lane. The road is closed, but when I show the pass Fiona gave me, the soldier at the barrier waves us through.
I don’t have long to enjoy this power. Tomorrow at noon, I join the army. Colonel Ryan’s people will pick me up from the hotel, and I’ll start my new life as Private Smith. A uniform, a gun, and no one but myself to take care of. Work hard, get noticed, climb the ranks.
This is a world I understand.
And this is what I want.
I need to take this chance. I need to take my life back. I need to learn to work inside the lines.
I need to leave the RTS and the Home Forces behind. I need to start again.
It seems impossible that two and a half months ago, I was behind bars, wearing a prison jumpsuit and begging the guards for painkillers. This afternoon, I waited backstage in Hyde Park, assistant to the most powerful woman in the country. Fiona addressed the crowd, and the King hung medals round the necks of my recruits. I wore the suit Fiona bought me, and held the new Prime Minister’s briefcase while she stepped out on stage and formally agreed to form His Majesty’s Government. Tonight, I’m dressing for a ball, and by tomorrow night I’ll be back in uniform, and all this will be behind me. The Home Forces, prison, the choices I’ve made.
My bags are already packed. It can’t come soon enough.
*****
“Katrina!” Fiona looks up from the mirror, and the stylist holds her hair in place with one hand while she turns to look at my outfit.
She nods. “That looks good. Are you ready?”
My hair hangs loose, with the clip on one side above my ear. The halterneck fits as if it was made for me, and there’s no hint of the PowerGel under the wi
de trousers. I’ve put a new battery in the power pack, and there’s a spare in my pocket. I’m ready.
“Whenever you need me.”
“Could you run down and check that the ballroom is set up? And make sure the journalists don’t get inside. Keep them in the lobby for me.” She turns back to the mirror, and the stylist resumes sliding clips into her hair. “I’ll meet you down there.”
“There’s no hurry, Fiona. I’ve got this.”
She smiles. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
Run the country. Order someone else around. Take credit for Franks’ confession.
I’m smiling as I leave the room.
Whatever you do, it’s not my problem.
*****
I check the official photographer’s ID, and let her into the party. Everyone else – the newspapers, the TV cameras – I line up in the lobby outside the ballroom. There are bouncers on the door, and I make sure they know to keep the reporters outside.
Fiona waits until most of the guests are inside before striding through the lobby and addressing the cameras. She’s wearing a floor-length off-the-shoulder dress that makes her look more like a princess than a Prime Minister, and the photographers love it. She talks to all the reporters, and answers questions for the news channels and the papers. It takes twenty minutes, but she’s smiling when she walks past the bouncers and into the ball.
VIP
Bex
There’s a wall of cameras outside the ballroom. Photographers and TV reporters and journalists, all wanting to take our photos and ask us how we’re feeling.
I can’t do this. I can’t pose for photos and pretend that I’m fine. I can’t pretend that I’m not hurting. I wish Saunders was here, and Dad, and Will. I don’t want to smile for the cameras, when I’m thinking about them. About everyone we’ve lost.
My footsteps slow, and I’m turning away when Maz puts a hand on my arm. I try to tug away from his grip, but he doesn’t let go.
Victory Day (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 5) Page 25