by Amy Lord
His eyes were black. ‘It doesn’t end, none of it. Not for you. You won’t leave this room. The only question is how badly you will force me to hurt you.’
I stared at him. I could feel the bruises blooming on my face, the raw flesh on my wrists where the restraints had cut in. My chest hurt with each breath; I had at least one broken rib. And that hadn’t been the only bone to break.
‘What does hurting me achieve? Do you want to punish me for my mother, because no matter what you did or said or gave her, she never really loved you? Not like she loved my father. However much she pretended to want you – perhaps she even convinced herself for a while – it was all to stay safe, to have a home. You spent years causing him pain, trying to take him apart. But you could never obliterate him; he was always there, in our lives. He’s never been gone, not really. And whatever you do, you’ll never ever be half the man he was.’
I wasn’t ready for the pain that came when he drove his fist into my stomach. I doubled over, the air forced out of my lungs. My ribs burned and I couldn’t think of anything except the sheer bloody agony.
When I came back to myself he was examining me, his face a twisted mask. I knew that I was just a piece of meat now, to be butchered. Whatever questions he might ask, he didn’t expect answers. The only goal was to take me apart, finally, piece by piece.
‘The others – the ones who brought you here – we need to know where we can find them. What their plans are.’
All I could do was stare at him, my face blank, my body prepared for pain. I gave no answer.
He hit me again and I wanted to scream, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He saw my resolution and jabbed me twice in the gut, with the practised moves of a champion fighter.
I couldn’t have answered him, even if I wanted to. I coughed and spluttered, gasping for air. He waited for me to regain my composure before he asked again.
‘Where do they operate?’
I looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
This time he hit me in the face. My head jerked backwards, the world around me spinning. I spat blood onto the floor, marking the polished leather of his shoes. He stared at it, expressionless.
I saw it then, the thing that had driven my mother to lose herself in alcohol. It wasn’t the guilt; she felt that every day, but she had learned to live with it. No, it was him. He must have hidden it well at first, and she allowed herself to find hope, to take on the role of wife. To bear his child. But one day she saw it. That something inside him was broken; he relished the misery of others, delighted in their pain. It made him stronger. He used it to measure his manhood. It made him rich; made him important. By spending her life in a haze of liquor, my mother took herself out of the game. It was no fun to have a victim who couldn’t appreciate their own anguish. She allowed him to send me away, to a place where I would find a modicum of safety. But she couldn’t save both her children. Will had always been his father’s son.
‘Do you make him do this too? Does he enjoy beating women?’
My stepfather’s head tilted to one side quizzically.
‘Will,’ I said. ‘My brother.’
His smile frightened me. ‘I’ve never needed to make Will do anything. He has certain… talents. He is above the pain of others.’ His eyes shone. ‘Take your friend. That pretty blonde girl, the one we caught coming out of your apartment so late at night.’ He wagged his finger at me. ‘You were up to no good with that one.
‘Well, we got the truth out of her. It didn’t take long at all. Will was instrumental in that interrogation.’
I swallowed back the urge to vomit.
‘You encouraged your teenage son to do that to a young girl. What is wrong with you?’ My voice was an open wound.
His smile widened. ‘That bothers you does it? Making a woman bleed…’ He took a step closer to me, touched the tip of his finger to my cheek and drew it slowly downwards. ‘Perhaps I was wrong about you. Perhaps we can find another way to make you break.’
The finger slid under my jaw and along the curve of my neck. Underneath the collar of the soiled hospital gown. My entire body went cold.
‘I’ve always thought that you looked a lot like your mother.’ The hand came up and caressed my hair. ‘You’re not as petite as her, or as delicate. You look like you could withstand much more than she ever could.’
I refused to look at him. He would not know that I was afraid.
He leaned down and put his lips close to my ear, whispered, ‘I don’t need to see it on your face. I can smell it on you.’
Before I could react, he stuck his tongue in my ear. I jerked away in disgust, but there was nowhere to go. My whole body strained to put as much space as possible between us. My arms felt as though they would break.
He stood up straight and began to laugh. ‘You can’t get away from me, you know. There’s no way out of this room. You could scream and scream all day, and no one would come.’ He laughed louder. ‘Well, they might. But I don’t think it would work out well for you.’
A single tear broke free and rolled down my cheek. I forced myself to look him dead in the eye, to lift my chin.
‘You don’t scare me.’
He moved closer, one hand on each arm of the chair, his face close to mine. His breath was hot and musty on my skin. ‘I should.’
He jerked forward and his forehead connected full with my face. I’d never felt pain like it, exploding in my skull so intensely that I was blinded. Every sense was focused on the hurt; it was the only thing.
I don’t know how long I was insensible, but something had changed. The chains were gone. My hands were no longer cuffed. I looked at my arms, barely able to recognise my own body, torn and scarred. Blood poured from my nose; I struggled to breathe.
‘Of course, you’re not so pretty now.’ He pulled a sad face. ‘Now, that’s a shame.’
He resumed his pacing as I struggled to my feet, my legs feeble beneath my diminished weight. I took one step towards the door, and then another. I moved slowly backwards. I wouldn’t turn my back on him.
‘It’s more fun this way. When you have a chance to fight.’
I gave a sob, the emotion echoing through my body from somewhere deep in the core of my being, somewhere primal and long forgotten.
‘Just try and run, little girl. You’re back in my house now.’
The fear consumed me and I did as he said. He didn’t even have to chase me, I moved so slowly. The door seemed so far away; with each step I took he came closer. And then his hands were on me, pulling me down. I screamed and clawed at his face, gouging his eyes, but there was no strength in my arms. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them easily above my head with one hand, yanking at the hem of the miserable scrub gown with the other.
I screamed louder and struggled beneath his weight. I could feel the chill of the concrete on my skin, exposed and hurting. But I didn’t care; I had to get away. I struck his face, harder somehow, and he growled at me, driving his fist into my body, my face. Blood flamed on my flesh, knuckle-shaped bruises darkened.
There was a crash as the door opened suddenly. Will stood in the doorway, staring at us as we grappled on the floor, his lip twisted in disgust.
‘What are you doing?’ he cried.
The major glared at him, his normally coiffed hair in disarray as he fought to keep my hands pinned. ‘Get… out.’
‘You can’t – that’s my sister.’ Horror filled his voice. He took a step forward, but before he could intervene, there was a burst of noise somewhere outside the room. There were shouts and storming feet; a burst of gunfire.
Will’s attention shifted. He clutched at the gun on his hip, pulling it free from the holster. Shifting to a slight crouch, he edged towards the door, the gun clutched in both hands. He disappeared into the corridor.
My stepfather’s grip on me loosened, the hunger in his eyes dulled as he glanced towards the door, panting.
In the distance t
here was a cry of, ‘Guards! Guards! Stop!’ and more shooting. I barely noticed when the major’s weight disappeared and I was no longer pinned to the floor. The air was cool on the top of my thighs. Clutching at the thin fabric, I wrenched the gown back into place, my legs shaking.
He pulled his gun from a holster on his ankle; I hadn’t even noticed it was there. Cautiously, he peered out into the corridor. Uniform feet ran past; he left the room and relief surged through me, but was quickly overtaken by panic. I had to get out.
I didn’t know what was happening, but it had to be big. Hope coursed through me; what if it was Lumière, come to rescue me? Crying, I dragged myself to my knees and began to crawl towards the door, my shattered body fighting to escape.
I reached the door frame and clutched it, dragging myself to my feet, ignoring the shots that rang out along the hall. But before I could get through the door, the major reappeared. I cried out in despair, but he didn’t look at me. I staggered away, every instinct telling me to run, as he backed into the cell.
A gun appeared; it was pointed at him. Another man came into view; a man with long hair fastened back in an elastic band, his thin body tense, the expression on his face hard. In his other hand was the major’s gun.
I studied him, holding my breath. The moment felt unreal. It was my father.
A low wail escaped me. ‘Daddy!’
He looked at me, blankly at first, then with an air of recognition spreading over his face. ‘Clara? Is that you?’
I began to cry.
With my father’s attention momentarily fixed on me, the major took his chance and surged forward. He tackled my father, who was blocking the doorway. Despite his slender frame, he didn’t give way. They collapsed to the ground in a blur of arms and legs, grunting with rage as they each tried to take control. The major’s gun clattered to the floor and skidded off into the corner of the room. Neither man seemed to notice, they were so intent on their struggle.
In a daze, I stumbled across the cell. The gun was heavy in my hand. I had never fired one before. I stared at it, turned it over in my hand. It wasn’t connected to me; it was outside my control. Without thinking I walked forward and pressed the gun into the back of the major’s head.
‘Stop.’
They both froze. The major’s body was rigid. My father slid out from underneath him and got up. There were tears in his eyes.
‘Clara, my Clara, are you okay?’
I didn’t take my eyes off my stepfather. ‘I’ll be okay, Daddy.’
The major was tensed, his palms pressed against the rough concrete floor, ready to spring to his feet. My father followed my gaze. One foot took the major’s arms out from beneath him, his face scraping painfully as he hit the floor. He looked at me over his shoulder, eyes rolling upwards.
‘Get up.’
He did as I said. This time he was the one to meet my gaze.
‘I wasn’t…’
I didn’t even think; I pulled the trigger. My hand recoiled painfully as the major’s forehead exploded, blood and shards of bone splattering the wall. His body fell to the floor with a heavy thud, legs twitching. I didn’t feel anything.
I looked down at the gun clutched in my hand, as though it belonged to someone else. When I let go, it clattered noisily to the concrete. A spray of blood stained the front of my surgical gown. The major’s, mine, it all blended together in a mess of pain.
My father was watching me silently. We stood there, unspeaking in the midst of chaos. I was calm.
It took me a moment to realise that my brother had come back into the room, the gun still clutched in his hand. He saw his father’s body sprawled on the floor and he cried out. He looked from me to my father, to the gun in his grasp.
‘No – no, you didn’t.’
‘Will…’ I began, holding out my hands towards him.
But he wasn’t looking at me. He was fixed on my father, every muscle coiled as though he was about to pounce. He stared at his face.
‘I know who you are. You’re Clara’s father. You’re the one…’
My dad lifted a hand in an effort to appear conciliatory. ‘Now, son…’
It was the wrong thing to say. I blinked and Will had raised his gun, had pointed it at my father. There was a sharp pain in my chest as he yelled, ‘I’m not your son. I’m his… his…’
I couldn’t breathe. My brother’s hands shook as he tightened his grip on the gun. ‘He should never have let you leave here.’
His finger tightened against the trigger, but he wasn’t quick enough. Without breaking eye contact, my father brought his gun up and fired. I screamed as the bullet caught Will in the shoulder, sending him spinning off balance. His own shot went wide, the bullet embedding itself in the wall.
As he landed hard on the floor, he began screaming in pain. My father strode forward and kicked the gun out of his hand, where it skittered out of reach. Will’s fingers clutched weakly at his shoulder as the blood poured from the wound. He began to cry.
‘You shot me, you shot me.’
For all the uniform, all the anger, all the things I knew he had done, in that moment he was a boy again.
I looked at my father stupidly. ‘You didn’t kill him.’
He looked down at my brother, something like pity in his eyes. ‘He’s a boy. He’ll have to answer, but… no.’
There were so many thoughts crowding into my head that I struggled to focus.
Then he crossed the room in two strides and took me in his arms. I allowed myself to collapse against him, but he did not stagger beneath my weight.
I cried into his chest as he stroked my hair. It was so familiar, even after all this time. He still smelled the same. It took me a while to realise that it had fallen quiet. The gunshots, the shouting, it had all stopped. The only sound was Will’s whimpering.
I pulled away to look at my father. For a moment, I was eleven again. He touched my face softly. ‘It’s time to go home.’
*
We left Will there, locked in a cell with the body of the major. My father gave me his coat; it hung loose around my shoulders, but I found the scent comforting. He led me slowly along the corridor, supporting me as I struggled to make my legs work normally. The adrenalin had left my body and I could feel every inch of my skin, every cut, every bruise. I concentrated hard on my feet and making them move forwards.
We found the others in the guards’ room, where the walls were lined with monitors. I could see every room, every cell. I could see the people locked inside. I found my brother, sobbing as he clutched his father’s body. I had to turn away.
They were all looking at me: Caleb, Zeke and the others. Even Elizabeth was there. Her face betrayed her time in this place, but she held her chin defiantly. When I caught her eye she smiled, rushing across the room to touch my face.
‘Thank you, Clara. Thank you for coming for me.’ She pressed her forehead against mine and I couldn’t hold back any longer; I began to weep. She took my hand and I squeezed her fingers tightly.
I looked round the room at them all. ‘You came back. You came back.’
Caleb smiled sadly. ‘We couldn’t leave you here. If it wasn’t for us…’
‘No.’ I was surprised by how firm my voice sounded. ‘You’re not to blame, Caleb.’
I tried to say more, but I began to feel weak. My eyesight started to blur and the blood rushed from my limbs. The babble of voices around me intensified and someone caught me before I could fall. They lowered me into a chair.
‘Is she alright?’
‘What should we do?’
‘She needs a doctor.’
Simon was kneeling on the floor in front of me, peering earnestly into my face.
‘Simon?’
He held a finger to my lips. ‘Don’t talk, sweetheart, don’t talk. You need to rest.’ His voice shook. Other voices murmured around us.
When I came back to myself, my father was looking up at me, his eyes full of concern and fear. And it all cam
e rushing back. I pictured Simon’s body cold on the floor, mouth slack and bloody. The last spark of life inside me flickered and for a brief moment I thought it would go out.
But my father took my hand. His grip was firm, the skin of his palms rough from years of toil. He squeezed my fingers tightly, anchoring me to him.
I leaned forward and flung my arms around him. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’
He kissed my hair and it all fell away; I was eleven years old again.
They took me home through darkened streets, through a night thronged with people, crowds everywhere I looked. Caleb drove slowly, as my father and I sat together in the back seat. He would glance at us in the mirror from time to time. I leaned against my dad, not speaking, but thinking about everything we’d lost and what might happen next.
As we waited at a crossroads, people milling in every direction, Caleb flicked on the radio. They were singing. There was laughter in the streets. My heart was raw.
The end
There were a lot of funerals. Over time the gravesides blurred into one. My father came to stay with me and, without him, I’d have drifted away.
He helped me plan a goodbye for my mother and for Simon. The morning of his funeral was bright and cold, the light so intense we could see the dust motes moving slowly in the air. I wore a new dress, one that masked the jutting bones and still-smarting wounds marking my body. I felt older, weaker, not full of the hope that seemed to charge the people around me.
There was a different news show on the television now, but the presenter anchored it to the past. David Tubby had dropped the G, but he hadn’t yet lost his bruises or the haunted look in his eye. He was alone now; his former wife and co-presenter had become the news, arrested along with the other supporters of the First General’s regime.
The interim government has announced a General Election, to be held on Thursday 2 May. Members of the public will receive registration forms over the next few weeks. You are all encouraged to fill them out and confirm your vote. We need your voice.