“Good night,” said Jon stiffly, and rustled over onto his other side again.
I lay quietly for a while, my cheek resting on Bane’s arm.
“Listen!” I said after a while. Wolf song came floating over the forest’s blackness.
“Great. Just. Bloody. Great.” From the rustling sound, Jon had pulled his blanket over his head.
“They’re not going to bother us,” I said sleepily, and lay listening to the wild music…
Then Doctor Richard was bending over me, the eye scooping instrument in his hand.
“Such beautiful green eyes. Just what we need.”
Major Everington walked into the Lab, head bowed, hair hiding his face.
“You said you forgave me, young lady,” he whispered hoarsely. His hands were covered in blood. “You said you forgave me! Why did you let them do it?”
“Don’t fret, sir,” said Doctor Richard. “I’m taking care of it…”
“You can’t fix things,” said the Major, still not looking at me. Blood was dripping from his fair hair. “No one can fix things.”
Doctor Richard reached out with the scoops and the Major turned his face to me at last. Empty eye sockets stared bloodily from his white face.
“But it’s my eyes I want…” he said.
“These are close enough.” And Doctor Richard plunged the instrument into my eye.
I screamed…
“Margo, Margo, wake up, it’s all right. It’s all right!”
I opened my eyes—my intact, undamaged eyes—and found myself looking up into Bane’s face, glowing golden in the first light of dawn.
“Bane!”
“It’s all right! Wherever you were, you’re not, you’re here, you’re all right! …Did that make any sense?”
I let out a long breath and huddled to him.
“Enough.” But after a moment spent drawing in his calming scent, I said, “The Resistance helped you and Father Mark get back in to get me, didn’t they? Was anyone killed?”
“Resistance? Who cares, they asked for it. Blowing up that damn helicopter while you were all just underneath! Wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t wait…!” He was literally snarling and it was his turn to take a calming breath… “Sorry. I was just so mad at them after that.”
“It wasn’t the brightest thing to do but, I meant, guards?”
Bane gave a helpless shrug.
“I don’t know, Margo. I honestly don’t. Most of the psychos had to stay outside in command positions, if it makes you feel better. The helicopter pilot bought it, God, I was so angry… Though…” His voice was suddenly almost inaudible, “S’pose I can’t throw stones now…”
Oh. That. We needed to talk about That, I needed to see if he was all right. But… not right now, not yet, I just couldn’t…
He was silent for another moment, then went on
firmly, “Anyway, no one was boasting about killing anyone, after, ‘cept one guy who claimed he’d shot the Facility Commandant or something, only everyone else reckoned this Major chap had ducked and wasn’t hurt at all, so who knows. But they actually weren’t there for killing, Margo, they really were after some good press and everything.”
“Hmm.” I didn’t want to dwell on what he’d told me, couldn’t dwell on it. Doctor Richard still lurked over me with his instruments and I shuddered, then flinched in pain from the shudder. The agony was swamping me again.
“It’s all right, Margo, it’s all right.” He kissed my forehead, beside the cuts, stroking my hair. “You can have some more pills now, Father Mark put them ready, before he went on watch…”
He fed me pills again, pill, sip, pill, sip, pill, sip… Drew me close.
“Just rest, Margo, you’re safe now.”
I was dozing off again, but…
“It’s not like you to lie to me, Bane.”
“I was speaking comparatively,” he murmured into my hair.
“Oh. That’s all right, then.” Oh yes, I could accept some ‘comparatively’ just now.
“Rest. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
He’d drawn me so close my head rested on his chest again and his heart drummed me to sleep. Safe-safe. Safe-safe. Safe-safe. For how long? No, safe. Right now, safe. It was enough.
Deo gratias. Thank you, Lord.
###
DON’T MISS BOOK 2
THE
THREE MOST
WANTED
3 New Adults
2000 kilometres
A EuroBloc-wide manhunt
Safe?
Not even comparatively...
COMING SOON!
Scroll on down or click for a SNEAK PEAK!
Paperback: ISBN 978-1-910806-08-1
ePub: ISBN 978-1-910806-09-8
Find out more at www.IAmMargaret.co.uk
***+***
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As my book ideas sometimes (but not always) do, this one came to me in a dream. I was on retreat with the Dominican Sisters of St Joseph at the time, and the idea was certainly one of those that had to be written, not typed up and filed away ‘just in case’. So I’d like to thank the Holy Spirit for the idea and the Sisters for all their support and wise words over the last five years.
I would also most especially like to thank my parents, for all their care and love, and for generally being such wonderful parents; and all my family and friends for their support and encouragement.
I’d like to thank my proofreaders, No. 1 being my Mum, whose honesty results in such massive improvements – an invaluable quality in a proofreader! No. 2 has to be Lucy Otton, with her brilliant analytical skills – ‘Corinna, Margo’s book was actually published on a Tuesday, you know...’ – and also Anne Harriss, Caroline Green, Cat Inkpin, Ellie Smith, Emma Turner, Eoin Colfer, Georgina Phillimore, Penny Caird, Rachel Fraser, Stewart Ross and Sr Mary Catherine Bloom OP – thank you for your time and your feedback, I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks also to Sr Tamsin Geach OP for helping with my awful Latin!
I’d especially like to thank Amanda Preston, my agent, from whom I have learnt so much about editing my own work – a painful skill every author needs to learn. Also Regina and Andrew at Chesterton Press, who have given so much help with preparing this edition.
I’d also like to thank those who have helped me by proofreading earlier work – Ehren Smith, Fiona Tubbs, Ann Harrison, Sam Moth, Diana Thombs, Clifton Martin and anyone I’ve forgotten!
And last but not least, my Guardian Angel (because they’re so underappreciated).
***+***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corinna Turner has been writing since she was fourteen and likes strong protagonists with plenty of integrity. She has an MA in English from Oxford University, but has foolishly gone on to work with both children and animals! Juggling work with the disabled and being a midwife to sheep, she spends as much time as she can in a little hut at the bottom of the garden, writing.
She is a Catholic Christian with roots in the Methodist and Anglican churches, and also edits her parish magazine. A keen cinema-goer, she lives in the UK with her Giant African Land Snail, Peter, who has a six inch long shell and an even larger foot!
Get in touch with Corinna (and Peter!)...
Facebook: Corinna Turner
Google+: Corinna Turner
Twitter: @CorinnaTAuthor
Or sign up for a (very occasional) newsletter at:
www.IAmMargaret.co.uk
***+***
The Three Most Wanted: 1st 2 Chapters!
Chapter 1
The mist hung thickly over the trees. No helicopters flying today. Thank you, Lord. No one looking for us here, anyway...
“Is the weather going to hold?” I murmured.
“Forecast’s mist for the next week.” Bane climbed carefully over a fallen bough. “We had our month’s sun the day before yesterday.”
The latest painkillers were beginning to work. I hung there contentedly in Bane’s arms. Swing. Swing. Swing...
...The mist
y forest just the same. Everything just the same, except it was Father Mark carrying me.
“You shouldn’t have gone in there, y’know,” I mumbled. The pain was getting back up to full strength.
“Oh, hush,” said the young man, a smile softening his hatchet-face. “I can go where I like.” His eyes raked briefly over me. “Want some more pills?”
“Is it safe?”
His attention returned to the path ahead.
“Not ideal. But I wouldn’t get too excited.”
“Okay, then.” I couldn’t think straight. “Where’s Bane?” Trying and failing to keep panic from my voice...
“At the front. We need someone who knows what they’re doing at the front and his arms needed a rest.”
“Right. Of course.” I clamped my lips together. I will not scream for Bane. I’m okay here with Father Mark.
“We’re stopping, people, pass it on,” called Father Mark. Soon I was swallowing pills. Again. Bane came loping back along the long crocodile. He brushed hair from my face and kissed me tenderly.
“Okay with Father Mark for a bit?”
“’Course,” I lied. “Fine.”
“I’ll just leave you to confess, then.”
He kissed me once more and hurried back to the front.
“Could I confess?” I murmured.
Father Mark rolled his eyes.
“Have you committed a mortal sin since your last confession?”
“No...”
“Then go to sleep.”
I tried to think of a reply...
...My head rested on a familiar chest – my insides plummeted sickly – I’d dreamt it all, I was still back at the Facility... But... why was I being carried? I struggled to lift my aching, pounding head...
“Jon...?”
“Hello, sleeping beauty. How d’you feel?”
Everything echoed in my ears. The sun was rising above the trees, a brighter patch in the mist. I’d no memory of night, but it was morning now. I squinted against the cruel light, focusing on the flat dirt track along which the crocodile moved. Oh. Not a dream. Bane and Father Mark both exhausted? Or taking advantage of this flat track to get some extra time off?
Sarah walked beside Jon, raising a hand and touching his arm when he veered slightly to the left.
“Hi, Margy. You feel better?” She looked proud of her little job as Jon-aimer.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, trying for a reassuring smile. Failing, apparently – Sarah stared worriedly at me. But getting words out was like lifting lead to my lips – I let my head rest on Jon’s shoulder and said nothing.
“It’s too early for more pills, Margo,” Jon told me after a while. Had I said something? Not too sure, but he looked worried.
“M’fine,” I muttered, though I was by no means sure about that. Major Everington was walking alongside with his empty eye sockets turned towards me, blood trickling down his calm face like tears.
He held out a hand, palm cupped as though to receive something.
“I do think it’s very decent of you. But if you’re not going to need them anymore...”
“Go away,” I told him desperately. “You’re not really here...”
“Am I not?” He raised an eyebrow, making one empty socket gape horribly. I shut my eyes tight.
“Sarah is here, Margy,” came an anxious voice. “I is...”
“It’s okay, Sarah.” Jon’s voice. “I don’t think she’s talking to you.”
“Then who Margy talking to?”
“Someone who’s not there.”
“A ghost!”
I whimpered. Not a ghost, please, Lord?
“No, no, not a ghost, Sarah. She’s running a temperature, that’s all. It makes people... see things.”
I dragged an eyelid up and risked a peep. The Major was gone. For now... I sunk slowly back into a daze of heat and pain...
...Kept hoping my head would clear, but it just seemed to get worse. There were voices, but I could hardly concentrate of what they were saying.
“She needs more pills.” Bane’s voice. Anguished. I dragged my eyelids up and tried to focus on his face.
“It’s too soon.” Fr Mark. Very firm.
“But...”
“No. Taking that many tablets too often would really be pushing it.”
“We’ve got to do something about the fever. Can you put more solution on?”
“No. Every time we unwrap those wounds to add more antiseptic, we also get more bugs in there. Tonight, maybe.”
“Well, what can we do?”
“For now, nothing. Give her more tablets in an hour.”
“Can’t you do anything else?”
“I’m a priest, not a doctor.”
“Much use that is! There’s got to be something!”
Father Mark opened his mouth again, exasperated – paused.
“Well, now you mention it.”
He fished out a case from around his neck, taking out a familiar compact camera – or something which looked like a compact camera. He opened the battery compartment and slid out a little vial full of golden liquid.
“I can give her the Sacrament of the Sick. It might make her feel better.”
He held out the vial towards me and Bane batted it away.
“Isn’t that for dying people?”
“No. It’s for sick people, as the name might suggest.”
“Seriously, Bane, it might make her feel better,” put in Jon.
Father Mark turned to me.
“Margaret?”
Perhaps it was worth speaking.
“Yes, please,” I whimpered. Certainly felt sick enough. Couldn’t keep my attention on what Father Mark was doing, though...
Vaguely aware of him sliding a second vial out and shaking a few drops of Holy Water over all of us... Jon crossed himself but my hand went all over the place – Bane put his hand around it and moved it for me....
“Penitential rite,” Father Mark was trying to catch my eye again. “Do you confess your sin?”
“Umhmm,” I managed...
...Father Mark’s cool hands rested on my pounding head as he prayed over me... then his thumb was running lightly over my forehead, damp with holy oil, marking a cross beside the plaster-covered one Major Everington had cut into my flesh.
“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit...”
“Amen,” said Jon and Bane mouthed the same. Father Mark took my hands gently, one at a time, to anoint my palms... finished by reaching out to silently anoint my eyelids – I closed them helpfully. Wordless thanks that they’d rescued me when they had?
Father Mark was tracing a cross over us and putting the vial away. The Mass kit disappeared back inside his shirt. “All done.”
“I’m sure she feels a lot better,” said Bane sarcastically.
But I did. Not any more with it, but a whole lot calmer. Like I’d had a spiritual infusion.
“Except I bet you do, knowing you,” Bane sighed. He pressed a gentle kiss onto my cheek and picked me up again.
***+***
Chapter 2
The coach went over a pothole and I woke with a jolt.
“Okay?” Bane looked strange in the unfamiliar school uniform.
“Yeah. It’s not hurting so much now.”
“It’s been almost six days. The skin should be reattaching.”
“Can’t be too soon.”
I eased up to sit on the coach’s rear seat instead of lying along it, Bane’s hands hovering around me against the assault of another pothole.
“Are we on schedule?”
“Yep. Should reach the Channel Bridge in about two hours.”
A knot of icy fear twisted in my belly. The Channel Bridge. Far, far more dangerous than going to a private school on the outskirts of York, changing into uniforms and boarding a coach for a supposed school trip. Marian Forbes, a teacher who claimed she wanted to go to Vatican State anyway and
wasn’t this an easy way to do it, was with us on the coach, but... Lord, protect that brave headmistress?
Bane and Father Mark had filled in all the forms themselves, but Mrs. Clayton had told them exactly what to write. She’d even donated the cost of the coach. In cash. But forged travel application or not, if they asked her to make the Divine denial...
“How much money have we got left, come to think?” I asked.
“The Resistance donated the ration packs and foil blankets, I just had to pay for the camping stuff, the admin fees and a few other things. We’ve enough to get us to Rome, ‘specially walking.”
I shuddered – looked out the window again. Another factory farm. A square concrete building all too like the Facility. Happily our meat back home came from the Fellest, stored in the butchers’ freezers after each yearly round up and cull. But the big cities of the south didn’t have our huge forests and couldn’t waste crop space on animals, or so they said.
I’d been determined not to miss any of the counties we’d passed through, since who knew if we’d ever be back – I’d slept through quite a few, all the same.
“Don’t you dare let me miss the Channel Bridge.”
“You’ve only said that a hundred times.”
“Okay, sorry, but I’ve only seen the sea once. And I’ve never seen the largest bridge in the world.”
“Me neither. But I’ll be waking you so you can pretend to be asleep.”
Excitement at the thought of the mighty bridge abruptly washed away in a wave of terror. I swallowed hard – he saw it in my eyes and gathered me close, cupping my face between his hands. Spoke low and intent.
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