Half Lost

by Sally Green

  “You have to stop at some point, Nathan, but because you choose to. You’ll never kill them all. It’s impossible. And . . . I think it’s wrong. I mean it’s wrong for you. It’s a path your father would have gone down, did go down. But you have to choose what is right for you. You aren’t disrespecting your father by following your own path. He knew you loved him. He knows it still. You don’t have to do this for him.”

  I nod. I know Gabriel is right. Everything he says is right. But just now I feel more lost than ever.

  He takes my hand and weaves his fingers with mine and says, “You will stop, Nathan. I’ll help you stop. And you will live a quiet life by your river and I’ll be there with you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  It’s three days to the attack. We’re all ready. Even the trainees look pretty good. Every day, Gabriel and I train together. For fitness we run and climb in the forest and then we practice in the Council building mock-up. We test each other in there. Trying to confuse each other, put each other off with noises, shots, but we know we’ve got it sussed. Today we’re going to the Tower. I want to see it before the attack anyway but Celia is taking us there so we can find out the passwords.

  Me, Celia, and Gabriel go through a cut to London and make our way to a grim residential estate that is a wasteland of mud, sparse grass, litter, and broken tarmac. There are five towers, each seemingly separate and unconnected to the others and anything else around them. Celia has already had someone check out the guards’ movements but she wants me to check again, closer, using my invisibility.

  Roman Tower looks nothing like a fain prison, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word: it’s orange for a start. All five towers are seventies-style blocks, each one with its panels painted a different color: red, yellow, orange, lime green, and pale blue. The colors and the concrete are all dirtied and worn. Roman Tower is five stories taller than the others and the prison occupies the top five floors. Below live ordinary fain residents. How or why they don’t notice who lives above them I haven’t asked. I guess it’s a mixture of magic and general apathy.

  The guards mostly live in the other towers, and they use the ordinary fain entrance to get to the prison. The Hunters get to work through the Council building, through the cut. In Celia’s day there were six guards and four Hunters on each shift. The guards are not trained to fight, but the Hunters are Hunters. Each floor can house up to twenty prisoners, so there might be as many as a hundred in there.

  Anyway, we’re here to watch the guards and confirm their pattern of movement. I’m standing with Gabriel in the shelter of a building that’s occupied by a series of shops and a launderette. All have their graffitied shutters down but even here the graffiti isn’t up to much: like no one could really be bothered with that either. Gabriel is standing close to me. We’re eating a takeaway curry, which isn’t as disgusting as its green color would suggest, but then any food is good food to us.

  Celia is at the other end of the wasteland. The guards change over three times a day. We’re waiting for the four p.m. changeover, or rather I’m waiting for it as it’s only me that’s going to go in. We’ve agreed I’ll go into the Tower at three thirty and suss it out and most importantly suss out the entrance to the top five floors. Celia says that the entrance to the prison has an outer and an inner door. The first door is opened from the outside by the person saying the password and using a key and this leads to a holding area. The next door is opened from the inside, again with a key and a password. There’s a peephole to check the incomers are who they are supposed to be. All I’ve got to do is shadow the guards as they go in, check that the system is still in place, and find out what the password to the outer door is.

  At three thirty, I set off, walking slowly across the expanse of open ground to the Tower. There’s a number-code system to gain entry, but the door is broken anyway so I go straight in. There’s a lift but I go up the stairs. In the stairwell the smell of stale urine is strong but the steps are clear of rubbish, just dirty with years of grime. I become invisible now and move silently and quickly. I check out each floor, looking for anything that might be out of place; any sign that Hunters are watching or setting a trap. I don’t see anything and I don’t get any feeling that Hunters are here or things are out of place.

  On the eleventh floor there is only one door: the entrance to the prison. I realize I’m tense, holding my breath. I stand in the furthest corner, back against the wall, and concentrate on breathing slow and staying invisible while I wait for the guards.

  It’s not long before I hear the lift crank into gear. There’s no lift door on this floor. It might be them or it might not. I find I’m holding my breath again. Then the lift doors open on the floor below and I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. No one talks. There’re five of them but they’re typical of the guards used in the Council building—huge. Not dressed like guards or Hunters, though, but like fains, in jeans, jumpers, and jackets.

  When they’re at the door to the prison, all I can see is the backs of five massive men. One of them says something—“Ring ray,” it sounds like. Then the door opens and they move through into another room but I can’t see much and the door shuts.

  Shit, that was useless.

  Now what?

  Then I hear more footsteps on the stairs. They get louder and slower and finally another guard appears. The sixth one.

  He goes to the door, puts a small key in the lock, and leans to the hinged side, not the side that opens, and says, “Spring day.” He has his left hand on the key and as he says the words he turns the key and the door opens. I get a brief look inside to a small room, painted in shiny orange paint with an orange door beyond it. Then the outer door closes.

  I make my way back to Gabriel and Celia slowly, still checking each of the floors of the Tower again for anything that might feel out of place, but I don’t spot anything.

  Celia seems pleased, if she ever seems pleased about anything. She says, “The system is working the same as in the past. You’ll be able to get in. Of course, once you’re in you have to deal with the guards, et cetera, et cetera.”

  I turn to Gabriel, saying, “Et cetera, et cetera: that’s my specialty.”

  Celia replies, “It’d better be.”

  Scum

  When we get back from our trip to the Tower, I go to the mock-up of the Council building. I know I have to keep practicing and double-checking my knowledge of the layout, and it’s reassuring to go over it again and again. It’s night, so a good time to practice in the dark.

  I’ll get into the Council building through the cut in the basement, invisible, and I do that now: go invisible and go through the basement and its narrow corridors, then up to the ground floor and then up the main staircase to the fifth floor, the top floor. It’s the place we know least about but I go through where I’ll look for Wallend. Then I have to deal with Soul. And so now I make my way back through the corridors to Soul’s private office on the ground floor, as I plan to do it: walking quiet and fast. This part of the mock-up re-creates the corridors, meeting rooms, and offices with walls of tarpaulin across wooden frames.

  There’s a strong wind and the tarp is flapping and snapping. I slow as I get closer to Soul’s office, looking and listening, imagining where guards would be positioned, staying invisible as I move past them. I’m almost at the doorway to Soul’s office when I hear the voices of some trainees. Greatorex encourages them to practice constantly so I shouldn’t be surprised they’re here, but I don’t want to go in there with them around. Anyway, I’ve done most of my route; I can start again from the beginning. I’m about to retrace my steps along the tarpaulin-lined corridor when I hear my name and I stop. I realize they’re not practicing but talking. I go back to listen.

  “If he does manage to kill Soul, then this could all be over. Soon.”

  “It’s a big if.”

&nb
sp; “Well, he’s got more chance than anyone. And look on the bright side: if he fails at least he’ll be killed.”

  “He’s invulnerable. He can’t be killed.”

  “Exactly what I’ve been saying. No one can kill him. So what’s to stop him turning round and killing us after he’s killed all of Soul’s people?”

  “He’s on our side, guys!”

  “Yeah? The way he looks at us, I think he wants us all dead. Remember he almost killed Celia with those flames from his mouth? Look at us. We’re all Whites. What’s to stop him executing us after all this is over?”

  “Celia believes in him. So does Greatorex. They know what they’re doing, Felicity. Our fight’s against Soul, not against Nathan. Soul’s the evil one.”

  “And what’s Nathan?”

  “Scum.”

  “Black, blood-sucking, heart-eating scum.”

  “Come on, guys. He’s on our side.”

  “He’s not Black anyway; he’s half Black.”

  “Oh, sorry. Correction! Half-Black, blood-sucking, heart-eating scum.”

  Someone laughs.

  “Not jealous, are you?”

  “What? Of him? Pleeeaase!”

  “Everyone knows you adore Gabriel. And didn’t he turn you down?”

  “He didn’t turn me down. Do you really think I’d throw myself after some Black Witch?”

  “Well, whether you did or not, he’s not interested in anyone but Nathan.”

  “Yeah, have you seen the way they look at each other?”

  “Nathan looks like he wants to kill everyone all the time.”

  “Maybe that’s his plan. He’ll kill everyone, until there’s only the two of them left, just him and Gabriel.”

  “Correction on the correction. He’s gay, half-Black, blood-sucking, heart-eating scum.”

  “I heard he had a girlfriend before. A White. Annalise O’Brien. She’s Soul’s niece.”

  “I don’t get it—is he gay or what?”

  “Annalise? Isn’t she the one who was being held prisoner at Camp One?”

  “Yeah, everyone at Camp One was killed.”

  “I heard he killed her.”

  “Maybe she caught him with Gabriel.”

  Laughter.

  “And he killed all Annalise’s family. Her brothers were Hunters. He ripped them apart.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too. He ate their hearts.”

  I don’t know why I’m still here listening to this rubbish and I’m about to leave when I change my mind and walk round the corner slowly so they see me, so that they know I’ve heard everything.

  They all go quiet and I say to them, “As far as I know Annalise is still alive. And for the record I’ve only killed one of her brothers. My father killed another one. The third one’s still alive, but don’t worry—if I get the chance I’ll gladly rip him to pieces. Annalise shot my father. Because of her he’s dead. And, yes, he was a murdering Black Witch but he was also a great man and you are so stupid that you will never have a chance of understanding one molecule of his being. And as for me . . . mind your own fucking business.” I turn to go then turn back and say, “I’m not scum but, yes, I’m a fucking blood-sucking, heart-eating half-Black so I suggest you keep out of my way.”

  * * *

  I’m back in the cell. I’ve been sitting here for a few hours. I keep going over what I said to those trainees, wishing I hadn’t said anything or wishing I’d said it better. I go over it all again and again and again.

  A silhouette appears in the cell doorway.

  “Ah, found you,” Arran says, and sits down next to me. He’s been in the camp since I was shot and I see him most days but we hardly ever have time alone together.

  “Hi.”

  “You’ve been frightening some of the trainees, I hear.”

  Oh, so that’s it. They’ve been talking about me. I say, “I had an argument with them, but you’d have been proud of me, Arran; I didn’t hit them. I was incredibly calm.”

  “No wonder they’re so scared.”

  I smile despite myself.

  “They said you threatened to kill them.”

  “What?”

  “Celia didn’t think it was true. She said you’d either do it or you wouldn’t. I said I’d find out your side of the story. Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Not really.” Then I add, “They were saying stupid things about me. So I said stupid things to them. I didn’t threaten to kill them, but I did tell them to keep out of my way.”

  “Ah. A sort of veiled threat.”

  Maybe they saw it as that. “I won’t kill them, Arran. However stupid they are.”

  “Good. Not that I thought you would.”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Of course.”

  We sit for a while and talk about what he’s been doing, which is learning about healing. He ends by saying, “Van taught me a lot. I’ve still got loads to learn but she really helped me. Anyway, at the moment there’s no one left to heal. They’re either alive and well, or dead.” He looks at me. “I’m not sure if I should count that as a success or failure.”

  “When they’re all dead, that’s failure,” I say. But then I think about it and add, “No, even then it’s not a failure. You do what you can, Arran.”

  We sit for a while and then he waves his arms at the canvas walls, “All this is for some big attack, I guess.”

  So Celia hasn’t told him. And I’m going to kill more people and one of them will be Jessica, his sister, my half-sister.

  “Arran . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “I mean whatever I do. Please. I know you can’t understand me but please . . .” And I look at him and he looks back at me the same way he always has done. Meeting my gaze so honestly and openly. He says, “You’re my brother. My kid brother. I can’t hate you. Ever.”

  I shuffle closer to him and he hugs me and keeps hold of me.

  “There is something I was going to tell you”—his voice is really quiet and a bit shaky—“I mean I want to tell you and it’s good but . . .”

  I move back to look at his face and he’s smiling a little but also not meeting my gaze.

  I can’t think of anything other than he’s found a girl. Arran has never really had a girlfriend. Or at least not when I was at home with him. And I realize I’ve no idea whether he’s had girlfriends or boyfriends or anyone since I left home.

  “So?” I ask, leaning forward and peering at his face. I can’t help grinning.

  “Well, yeah . . . I’ve got a girlfriend.” He cringes. “I hate that word. I mean I’m with someone . . . there’s someone I like and she likes me and . . . we’re friends, more than friends. It’s nice. A bit of a surprise. I wasn’t really . . .”

  I try not to smile too much. “Anyone I know?” I ask. It has to be someone I know. And then I feel sick. Oh no, it must have been one of the trainees who were talking about me. “Oh shit! Have I messed it up? I mean if I have I’ll . . . but she . . . I mean you . . .” But, really, what is he doing with one of those girls?

  Arran looks confused. “You’ve not messed anything up. Adele’s far too sensible to let anyone mess her up, even you.”

  “Adele. The-one-whose-skin-turns-to-metal Adele?”

  “She doesn’t do that very often with me.”

  “She’s a good fighter.”

  “And that’s not really what attracted me to her either.”

  I snigger. “What did attract you?”

  “She’s kind and thoughtful and funny. And pretty and I like her hair . . .”

  We sit in silence for another minute while I process that. But I can see why Arran would like her. Adele is smart and attractive
. She’s also a Black Witch.

  I say, “She’s Black, you know. If you have kids they’ll be—”

  “We only met each other a few weeks ago, when you were injured. We’re not planning a family just yet!”

  “No, but you know what I mean.” I smile at him.

  “I know what you mean. Maybe in the future, under the Alliance, there’ll be lots of little Half Codes. But, as I said, we’ve only just met.”

  “I hope she makes you happy.”

  “Thanks. She does.”

  He smiles and looks embarrassed and then he goes quiet and for a few seconds I look at him happily and he looks so cute and innocent and then I realize that he’s probably been discussing me with her. I’m the subject of long conversations.

  “You want to go back and find her?” I ask.

  “No. I want to stay with you.”

  And he’s got that Arran thing about him. That slow, easy, comfortable quietness. A gentleness like no one else has.

  After a while he says, “I still have that drawing you did of you and me in the woods, the one you left with me before my Giving.”

  I remember it. Remember drawing it, remember rolling it up and laying it on Arran’s bed and leaning over to kiss his head before I left. Only it seems like a different me who did that.

  “Do you still draw?” he asks.

  “Haven’t done for a long time.”

  “You should do.”

  “You still watch old movies?”

  “I wish. When this is over I’m definitely having a day in front of the telly. A comedy marathon: Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin, the really old stuff. I love those.”

  “You love them all.” And I love being with him.

  “I miss those days,” he says.

  And I realize something for the first time.

  “I don’t. I mean, they were great times. And I love you and you’re the best brother, and I loved living with you and Gran and Deborah. But now I know that behind it all the Council was watching me, my father wanted to see me but couldn’t. Our mother . . . There was a lot of bad stuff.”