by Amy Lord
I pulled a face and tried to mouth that I would speak to her after the lesson ended, but she frowned like she hadn’t understood.
When the bell rang, she hung back, waiting for me to gather my books.
‘What’s wrong with you? You know Mason will put you in detention like that. You’re lucky she didn’t see.’
I tried to look contrite. ‘Did I snore?’
Jasmine snorted. ‘Er, yeah. Why d’you think everyone was staring?’
We left the classroom, trying to muffle our laughter. It was lunchtime and we went to the dining hall to collect something to eat. The selection wasn’t exactly great.
‘Another delicious dinner.’ I dipped a ladle in a bowl of brown mush and examined it, before letting the goop slide back into the pot, one lump at a time. Behind the counter, one of the dinner ladies frowned at me, her hairnet slipping a little too low over her forehead.
Jasmine gagged. ‘Gross.’
She spooned some plain white rice onto her plate, adding a side of shrivelled peas and a small carton of juice. I wasn’t really hungry; the smell in the canteen always made me nauseous. I grabbed a packet of crackers and an apple. We handed our cards to the stern-faced dinner lady to stamp.
Jasmine and I always took our food outside, away from the other kids. Neither of us was exactly popular. We were the only two kids still in school with a relative who had been spirited away by the Authorisation Bureau: my dad, her brother. Jasmine had never been sure what he’d done, but she suspected it was something to do with a march he’d once been on, campaigning against forced detention.
I knew she missed him, but we didn’t talk about it much. We ate our lunch and talked about a geography test we had that afternoon and whether we felt prepared. She did, I didn’t.
‘It’s impossible to study when Will’s always crying,’ I complained. ‘And he’s awake half the night; I can never get anything done. When he does go to sleep, I can usually hear my mother crying, or arguing with my stepfather.’
Jasmine nodded. ‘My mum cries a lot too. She doesn’t think we hear her, but we do.’
I immediately felt awful. While I lived in the major’s enormous house, slept in my own bedroom and had space to escape from my family troubles, Jasmine lived in a small flat with her parents and grandparents. There was no privacy or quiet there, yet she still managed to study more diligently than I did. But I always enjoyed visiting; Jasmine’s grandparents were German and would tell us stories about growing up in Munich and the extended family members who still lived there.
The canteen door opened and a burst of chatter escaped as three older boys came outside to eat. We finished our lunch in silence and trailed inside before the bell rang, when it began to drizzle.
*
My mother was unusually quiet that evening, her face pale and drawn. The major was away and we ate dinner in the dining room, where it was cold. Mary the housekeeper silently placed the plates in front of us. Ice clinked in my mother’s glass as she took a sip of her drink, ignoring the food. Mary patted my hand when my mother wasn’t looking and left the room.
I began to eat.
A sudden wash of light swept across the window as a car made its way up the drive. My mother’s glass banged against the table. There were loud voices outside and the front door burst open. I stopped eating, knife and fork poised in mid-air.
‘Mrs Jackson! Mrs Jackson!’
The major’s driver was shouting. My mother stared at the door for a moment, frozen to her seat. Upstairs, the baby began to cry. Mary came running along the hall and my mother finally got up, knocking over her chair, pristine napkin falling to the floor. She hurried to the door and I was left alone in the room.
Putting my cutlery down carefully, I got up and followed the sound of raised voices into the living room. From the hallway, I heard the driver say something about an ambush. I crept into the room. The major was slumped in a chair in front of the fire, blood gushing from a cut on his cheek. His uniform was torn and covered in dirt. I hovered in the doorway, my eyes wide. No one noticed me standing there.
‘Mary, we need to call for the doctor,’ my mother wailed, her hands fluttering as she tried to decide whether to remove the major’s jacket or touch his face. ‘He’s going to need stitches.’
‘Don’t bother,’ the major grunted. ‘The roads are hell; it’ll take him hours to get through. Hunt will do it.’ He gestured at the driver, wincing as he tried to raise his arm.
My mother gasped in horror. ‘But Darius, no, your face.’
‘Shut up and get some thread. One of you must have a sewing kit.’
Mary backed away. ‘I’ll get it, and some hot water and towels.’
‘And bring the vodka,’ barked the major.
They all seemed oblivious to Will screaming upstairs in the dark. I slipped out of the room and fled upstairs, my heart thundering.
Twenty-one
Sometimes after school I’d go with Jasmine to the café where her parents worked. Her mum inhabited the narrow space behind the counter, taking orders, making change and fixing drinks. Jasmine’s dad worked in the kitchen, preparing ingredients. He had been a lawyer, once.
They both worked long hours and we went there to study. Jasmine’s mum would let us have a table in the corner for the price of two cups of tea and we would spend the late afternoon gossiping and sharing notes from that day’s classes.
I wasn’t keen to go home after last night’s drama. The house was quiet when I got up for school that morning. Mary made my breakfast and helped me get my things together, but she was unusually subdued and wouldn’t be drawn on what had happened to the major.
At school, I’d heard a group of kids whispering about an attack, but their voices rose and fell as other students came close and I couldn’t make out the details of their conversation. I listened all day, but didn’t learn anything else.
We walked along echoing streets to the café. A sense of unease followed us there; on every corner was an armed soldier, a pair, a group, guns strapped across their chests, fingers tight to the trigger as they watched the people passing by with piercing eyes.
The bell rang as Jasmine opened the door. There were only a few customers in – the lull before dinner. A couple sat in a booth, him intent on the newspaper, her much younger, eyes flitting around the room as he ignored her. She smiled at us as we walked to the counter.
‘Clara!’ Jasmine’s mum smiled when she saw me, her whole face brightening. ‘You want some brownies, girls? Made fresh today.’
‘Yes please, Mrs Beck.’
We laughed, letting Jasmine’s mum find us a table and fuss around us, bringing us tea and cakes as we opened our school books. When we were settled she patted my hand and kissed Jasmine on the head. On her way back to the counter she stopped to clean another table, brushing away crumbs with her cloth and gathering empty plates together.
She looked up with a smile when the bell rang again. I watched as it drained from her face and the rag she was holding fluttered to the ground.
The soldiers rushed inside, their voices loud in the small space. I shrank back into the booth as they surged forward to grab at Jasmine’s mum, forcing her into the seat beside her daughter.
One of the men marched through the café, waving his gun at the diners and ordering them to leave. They fled. The only one who looked back was the young woman, as her partner dragged her by the wrist towards the door. The bell chimed again as the door swung shut behind them.
‘What’s going on out here?’ Jasmine’s dad appeared from the kitchen, his eyes growing wide as he took in the scene before him. He yelled, putting his hands up to protect his face as the men charged forward to grab him. They dragged him towards our table, forcing him to the floor as Jasmine screamed. One of the soldiers slapped her across the face. She clutched her cheek, voice silenced, redness blooming across her skin. I couldn’t move, couldn’t find my voice. I shouldn’t have been there.
‘Please, tell us what’s hap
pening,’ Mr Beck begged.
A soldier glared down at him, but didn’t speak. Slowly, he spat on the floor at Mr Beck’s feet.
‘Your son is a terrorist. He’s responsible for the deaths of a lot of people. We know you were working with him.’
Mrs Beck let out a wail of grief.
‘Silence.’ The soldier pulled out a handgun and pointed it at her face. She couldn’t control her tears, her shoulders quaking. With a mean smile, he turned the gun on Jasmine. Her parents both let out animal noises, as Jasmine’s mother reached for her, pulling her against her own body. Jasmine’s eyes were screwed shut and her lips moved as she whispered a prayer.
‘Tell us what you know, or we’ll take the girl.’
I pressed my back against the wall, willing them not to look at me, not to ask for my name.
‘We don’t know what you want,’ Mr Beck cried. ‘Our son hasn’t done anything. You took him! He’s gone!’
The soldier dropped the gun to his side.
‘No. Your son is a terrorist. He was responsible for the Whitehall bombing. We want to know who he was working with.’
Fear swelled in my stomach. I didn’t remember the bombing itself, I was too young then, in the time before. But we’d learned about it at school. It was the final attack, the turning point that inspired the First General to take control and save us from the grip of the terror groups.
In Whitehall, a teenage boy strapped a bomb to his chest and waited on Parliament Street. He stepped out in front of the Prime Minister’s car, but he didn’t detonate the explosives fast enough. The driver swerved, accelerating along a side street as the bomb went off, the explosion engulfing the car behind, which carried two Cabinet ministers, as well as several other vehicles. A young family on their way home to Wales were all killed in the blast, as were two police protection officers, a journalist heading to the Houses of Parliament in a taxi and a passing cyclist. The facades of the buildings on that street still bore the scars.
For weeks afterwards, the faces of the victims were plastered everywhere, their names on all our tongues. They were feted as martyrs, whose deaths ushered in a new era.
But it happened years ago. How could Jasmine’s brother have been involved?
Mr Beck wept.
‘Please, my son did not do this. He’s a good boy.’
The soldier sneered. With a wave of his hand, he sent the other men on a whirlwind of destruction. They smashed the glass case that sat on top of the counter, hurling the food to the floor. They slammed rifle butts against mirrors, windows, tore pictures from the walls. We listened as they rampaged through the kitchen, the sound of metal reverberating through the air.
‘Tell us what you did!’
The soldier grabbed at Jasmine, his fist twisting in her hair. She screamed as he dragged her out of the booth, across her mother, who clutched at her child’s flailing limbs but couldn’t hold on.
My body shook furiously. I couldn’t process what was happening. It was all too much. I remember the room in snapshots, still frames of fear that are seared on my heart.
And then it stopped. There was a burst of gunfire somewhere outside, the echo carried to us on the wind. Everyone stopped. The soldier let go of Jasmine as his radio crackled. He reached for it, his whole body tense.
In a moment they were gone. I didn’t know if they would be back, but I couldn’t move. Mr Beck was shouting at me but there was a ringing in my ears and I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
He pulled me up, out of the booth. Jasmine was sobbing into her mother’s chest, as they clung to each other.
‘Clara, you’ve got to run. You must get home. Be careful, child.’ He ushered me to the door, my school bag trailing on the ground behind me, strap clutched awkwardly in my hand. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to Jasmine, to ask if she was okay. As Mr Beck pushed me gently onto the street, I saw Jasmine turn to watch me go, her face streaked with tears.
*
The next morning, Jasmine wasn’t in registration. She normally arrived at school early, but her desk was empty. I picked at my nails as the other students filed in and sat down, still full of whispered secrets. The teacher arrived and closed the door behind her. Everyone fell silent.
Then, just as the bell rang, the classroom door burst open and Jasmine dashed inside. She mumbled an apology to the teacher and then scuttled to her seat, chin tucked firmly into her chest, hair falling over her face. As the teacher began calling out names I tried to catch Jasmine’s eye, but her gaze was locked on the desk in front of her.
Once the register was marked, the teacher launched into that day’s announcements. There would be no outdoor physical education classes that day and students were not to leave the school grounds during breaks. No one was to go home unaccompanied after lessons. The air of tension in the room increased.
The clang of the second bell startled me, but before I could say anything to Jasmine, she bolted from the room without looking back.
*
She was waiting for me at lunch, her face pale and drawn. I took my tray outside, where she was sitting alone, the table empty in front of her.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked, fighting back tears. ‘I was so scared all night that something had happened to you.’
A single tear slid down Jasmine’s cheek. It glistened in the cold autumn light.
‘We’re leaving. I have to say goodbye.’ Her hands shook.
My throat was tight, my voice pitched too high. ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving? When?’
‘Shh!’ She pressed a finger to her lips, glancing quickly through the window to the other students who laughed and chatted in the warmth of the canteen. I followed her gaze, my own face reflected back to me in the glass.
‘We’re leaving tonight. My dad knows someone who can get us to France. We’re going to stay with his cousins in Munich.’
My mind whirred, trying to process what she was saying. ‘By boat? You’re going in a boat?’
She shrugged. ‘Is there another way?’
The Channel Tunnel had been blocked for years. It was closely guarded by the Authorisation Bureau, who shot anyone trying to sneak through on sight. Even on the French side, it was rumoured the entrance to the tunnel had been destroyed. In the early years France struggled to cope with the influx of people trying to escape, often bloody and broken.
But a boat. I hadn’t heard of anyone brave enough to venture out into the open water, exposed. I pictured Jasmine standing on the deck of a fishing boat, her hair blowing around her face as she stared out to sea, the lights of the French shoreline twinkling in the distance. My chest contracted.
Jasmine squeezed my hand. ‘Please Clara, you can’t say anything. Dad said I had to come to school, to be normal, so no one would suspect. But we have to go.’ She hung her head, her fingers loosening. ‘Mum didn’t want to leave Christopher, but Dad says he’s probably been dead for a long time. Or if he is still alive, there’s no hope for him now. Not when they’re calling him a terrorist.’
I didn’t know what to say. All I could feel was the swell of my own pain at the thought of losing Jasmine.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ I whispered, my voice raw with unshed tears.
She looked at me.
‘I’m going to miss you so much, Clara. I hope, one day, we can see each other again.’
We sat together until the bell rang to announce the end of lunch, staring out across the field, letting the rain hide our tears, my food left uneaten.
When our final class finished, I couldn’t look at Jasmine. We went to our lockers in silence, collecting our bags and coats. She closed her locker door firmly, leaving behind a pile of books and school work.
It was raining outside. We stood together outside the gates, neither of us wanting this final moment to be over. When Jasmine took my hand, I started to cry.
‘I’ll miss you.’
She squeezed her fingers around mine and then they slipped away. I stood for a long time watc
hing her grow smaller as she moved towards the end of the street. At the corner she paused, looked back at me. I lifted my hand and she was gone.
I walked home, not caring as my clothes grew heavy with rain and clung to my skin. My hair was plastered across my forehead, water running cold over my face and down the back of my neck. A fierce knot of emotion burned inside me.
I could hear Will crying before I even got inside the house. He lay on his back in the Moses basket, waving his arms angrily in the air. Water dripped from my hair onto the pale carpet, leaving a dark stain. There was no one else in the room. I wandered through the house, looking for my mother.
She was in her room, curled up on the bed, staring off into the distance. An almost-empty bottle of vodka lay discarded on the rug. Rain lashed against the window.
‘Mama? Will’s crying.’
She didn’t turn to look at me.
‘I can hear him.’
‘Aren’t you going to see what he wants?’
She sighed. ‘You do it, Clara. You’re a good girl.’
I hated her, then. I’d never felt so alone. Furious, I stormed downstairs and picked up my brother, basket and all, and hauled him up the stairs, where I deposited him on the bed beside our mother. He never once stopped crying.
She turned to me, her eyes blank and watery.
‘I thought you were going to take care of him for me?’
I snapped. ‘He’s your son! You do it. I just hope you can look after him better than you looked after me.’
Before she could reply I rushed from the room, almost colliding with the major as he appeared in the doorway. He grabbed my arm and forced me to stop.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he yelled. ‘Can’t you stop Will from bloody crying?’
My mother raised her voice in response. I listened to them arguing, the knot in my stomach growing tighter. ‘You expect me to do everything. Why don’t you deal with him for once, he’s your son too.’