Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  ‘They’re just checking we ain’t got our guns, then they’ll put theirs down,’ he says.

  Suddenly there’s a noise from the left, dry twigs cracking, boots on dusty earth.

  ‘Daddy!’ Rebecca screams.

  The policemen turn towards the noise, their sights now on Daddy. Noah lets out a shout, reaching for his own weapon.

  ‘Daddy!’ Rebecca screams again and flies off towards him. Veronica-Mae takes two steps after her.

  ‘No!’ Isaac shouts.

  Too late.

  The police open fire, bullets searing through the air. Rebecca falls, the nape of her neck an open mess of blood and bone. Noah fires back, until he too drops to the ground.

  Veronica-Mae stops in her tracks, and spins back to Isaac, her arms out to be scooped up.

  The look on her face is the last thing he sees before a bullet passes through her shoulder and into his chest.

  Chapter Eleven

  I look around me for something, anything, to cut my binds. Ronnie left five minutes ago and I don’t know how long I have before she returns. She’s left me with my wrists tied behind my back and my ankles bound together. My mouth isn’t taped, but given the location of the caravan and the shrieking of the wind outside, I could scream for the next week and no one would hear me.

  The window frame to my right looks old and rusted. It might be sharp enough to cut through the length of rope wound repeatedly around my hands. If I can just get to it.

  Before she locked the door behind her, Ronnie told me not to move. ‘I can’t think of one good reason why I haven’t killed you already,’ she said. ‘So don’t give me an excuse.’

  She meant it, too. Something in her is dead and she would happily do it. Not happily, no – that’s the wrong word. Draining the life from me wouldn’t give her pleasure, but it wouldn’t cause her pain either. She wouldn’t feel anything, and that is an infinitely more frightening thought.

  I watched her open the fridge and take out a small bottle of water. She took a drink and grimaced. ‘It’s warm,’ she said.

  I was so thirsty my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ I asked.

  She didn’t reply but took another snatch of water. The lights began to flicker, casting her face in shadow. She remained as if transfixed, then slipped towards a gas canister in the kitchen, her movements strange and unearthly. A trick of the light.

  ‘Almost empty,’ she said and disconnected a black rubber tube, plunging the room into darkness.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I blinked and saw Ronnie bent over the canister, pulling it onto its edge so she could roll it to the caravan door. Deftly, she pulled at the lock with one hand remaining on the metal side of the canister, then kicked the door so that it swung out. In seconds she had it outside and I could hear the clunk as she pulled it down the steps.

  Something told me Ronnie had been here and performed this manoeuvre many times before. In a heartbeat she appeared again with a different canister, pushing it in front of her. She was almost inside when a gust of wind howled, making the caravan shudder and the door slam shut, catching her left shoulder. She didn’t cry out but her face told me the blow had been hard. Once she had the canister in place she reconnected it and the lights came on with another pop.

  Ronnie stood upright, rotated her injured shoulder and winced. She turned her back to me and shrugged off her leather jacket, exposing a tight black vest beneath. I gasped. There was a red welt. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention.

  It was the scar. The skin from the nape of her neck to her left bicep was a mass of scar tissue, the flesh pulled and puckered in a swirling pattern that drew me in.

  Then she replaced her jacket and turned back to me, her eyes hot. ‘I have to go back to Rory,’ she said. ‘Check he’s all right.’

  ‘Are you going to leave me like this?’ I gestured to my feet bound together.

  Her face didn’t move. She crossed the room, pulled open a drawer and rummaged inside. There was a torch and Ronnie flicked the switch with her thumb. Nothing. She cast it back into the drawer. Then she moved aside a packet of Senior Service cigarettes, a book of matches and a board game. I could read the cover of the yellowed box and see it was Twister. It was as if a family in the seventies was still in residence.

  At last she found what she wanted; a transistor radio. The battery-operated sort. She twiddled the dials until she found a signal. The sound of tinny music filled the caravan, interrupted by electric crackles.

  ‘Don’t want you to be bored,’ said Ronnie. Then she left.

  Alone now, I know I have to try to free myself. I don’t know why she hasn’t put a bullet in my head; perhaps she wants to torture me beforehand. Whatever the reason, I’m not going to stick around to find out.

  I shuffle along the bench to the window frame. Once I’m there, I push myself to my feet, wobbling precariously. I hold my body rigid until I’m steady, then try to lift my arms to the same height as the window frame. My bones crack as I raise my clasped fingers behind me. I’ve always been fast but never flexible and my muscles soon begin to burn. I turn my head, trying to see how far I have to go and realise I need to lean forward to help things along. I grunt with the effort and tip from my waist. Please let it be enough.

  Bingo. I feel the cold of steel on my knuckles. The corroded edge rakes my skin. It’s sharp. This will work. It’s got to.

  Gently, I place my wrists on the frame, not wanting to shift myself off balance, and begin a left to right wriggle, laughing at the rasp of metal against rope. I keep going until the ache in my arms and chest is unbearable, then I stop to breathe. I stretch my neck backwards to check my progress but it’s impossible to see. The rope feels looser, but is that just my imagination?

  I go back to work, rubbing back and forth, praying the fibres are coming away. I don’t know how long this will take. Or how long I’ve got. Got to go faster.

  I move in a frenzy, swaying from the hips to increase the pressure and speed.

  There’s a smell in the air, a bit like burning. It must be the rope. I must be nearly there.

  I picture the material fraying under the friction.

  ‘Come on,’ I yell, using my thighs now, then my knees and feet. Every part of my body is dancing as I drag the rope across the frame.

  Too late I realise I’ve lost my centre of gravity. I’m pitching to the left, my weight transferring to one foot, then the side of that foot. I try to rebalance, throw myself to the right. I end up crashing to the floor, my mouth and nose taking the first hit.

  Fuck. Face down on the stained rug, I can smell the iron tang of blood and feel it seeping out of me.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, here at the Olympic stadium,’ a voice spills out from the radio. ‘And outside, the crowds are already forming for the Opening Ceremony, which promises to be this country’s finest hour.’

  I groan and wonder what the hell I plan to do now.

  ‘We need to cancel the Opening Ceremony.’

  The PM and Benning froze, open-mouthed, and stared at Clem.

  ‘We don’t have a choice,’ he said.

  There was a second when no one spoke, then Benning slammed his fists down on the PM’s desk. ‘Are you out of your tiny mind?’

  Clem pressed his lips together.

  ‘Have you any idea how long this thing took to plan?’ Benning shouted. ‘No? Well, let me tell you. Six years. Six long years. And every minute of those six years was building up to this afternoon.’

  Clem didn’t respond.

  ‘And have you any idea how much it’s cost? Again, let me enlighten you: four billion pounds.’ There were flecks of saliva at the corners of Benning’s mouth. ‘The country is on the verge of bankruptcy here. Have you seen what happens when the banks lose confidence in a country? Just look at Ireland or Spain or bloody Greece. There is no fucking way the Opening Ceremony isn’t going ahead.’

  ‘Have you any idea how many people
might die if we proceed today?’ Clem’s tone was calm. ‘Eighty thousand is a conservative estimate.’

  Benning let out a roar and swept an empty coffee cup onto the floor. Clem watched it bounce, the handle snapping off.

  ‘Is it a credible threat?’ the PM asked.

  ‘This group, Shining Light, was responsible for the Plaza bomb and their leader is still at large,’ said Clem. ‘I’d class that as credible.’

  ‘Do we really believe this bunch of no-hopers was responsible for the previous attack?’ Benning’s face was contorted. ‘You said yourself, Clem, that it was highly unlikely. You had grave doubts.’

  Clem nodded. He had had doubts. A lot of them. But then Ronnie X had proved herself a dangerous and resourceful individual.

  ‘I thought this was just a raggle-taggle bunch of crazies,’ said Benning. ‘You certainly neutralised them without too much trouble.’

  Clem smarted. Shooting people was hardly trouble free. ‘Ronnie X is different,’ he said.

  Benning rolled his eyes. ‘With a name like that, I’m not sure I can take any of this seriously.’

  ‘Her real name is Veronica Pearson and she has kidnapped a senior civil servant, your blue-eyed girl, from right under our noses,’ said Clem. ‘I think that demands we take her seriously.’

  ‘Is it possible for us to deal with this in a different way?’ the PM asked. ‘Increase security to a level you’re comfortable with, Clem?’

  Clem considered this, then shook his head. ‘Too risky.’

  ‘What sort of things could we do to reduce that risk?’ asked the PM. ‘In theory?’

  ‘We could change the status to the highest alert.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ said the PM.

  ‘We could double, no treble, manpower at the scene.’

  ‘I’ll authorise that immediately,’ said the PM.

  Clem sighed. ‘The risk would still be too great, sir. My advice remains the same. We must cancel the Opening Ceremony.’

  Rory likes being on his own.

  ‘Don’t you get lonely?’ his social worker asked every time they met. She was called Imelda and she smelled like dogs. ‘Everyone needs friends,’ she told him.

  Rory would put his hand over his nose and mouth so he didn’t have to breathe in the air between them.

  He once caught sight of the file Imelda had made about him. It said he was ‘nonverbal’. This means that Rory doesn’t speak. Which isn’t correct. Rory does speak. Just not to Imelda.

  He settles in front of his computers and concentrates. That’s one of the best things about being alone. He can concentrate. When there are other people around, Rory gets confused. The smell and the noise make his head hurt and he can’t focus on anything.

  Rory often wonders what it would be like if everyone on the planet died and only he was left. It would have to be a virus to which only he had immunity. It would also need to be a fast-mutating virus in order to kill everyone before a vaccine could be found.

  Statistically this is very, very improbable. But he would be able to go to the library or the park without his head hurting.

  Actually, Rory would like it if Ronnie also had immunity to the virus. He likes Ronnie. And Hawk. Rory likes Hawk. But the statistical probability of the only three humans to display natural immunity to the virus being Rory and two people he knows and likes would be incalculable.

  He cleans his keyboard with an antibacterial wipe and taps in a website address. It’s one he visits several times a day, but he ensures the favourite function is empty and cleans his online history after each use: www.platformnow.com.

  Rory’s nose hurts as he navigates his way through the site. There are news articles about taxes and government and guns. He doesn’t open them but clicks onto the forum. There are lots of topics. Rory estimates that there are approximately forty, listed in alphabetical order.

  He hovers the cursor over the ‘M’s, until he finds ‘Militia’. It is always busy in Militia. Inside the topic, he checks which threads are the most active and chooses the one with the most recent activity.

  Topic By Replies

  Should militia groups oppose Gunshot 36

  tyrannical governments?

  Gunshot is a prolific poster, sometimes starting ten or more threads a day. The first response is from TheTimeForTalkIsOver:

  TheTimeForTalkIsOver At 10:37

  You said it, brother.

  This government and most other world governments have been subverted. They no longer represent us but seek to enslave us.

  It’s time for action.

  Gunshot At 10:42

  By taking up arms?

  TheTimeForTalkIsOver At 10:46

  By any means necessary.

  Rory scrolls down the posts, skim-reading. Everyone will agree with Gunshot. Everyone always agrees with Gunshot. Finally, Rory finds what he’s looking for.

  Hawk At 11:15

  Each of us needs to stand up and be counted before the New World Order brings us to our knees.

  Rory hopes Hawk is still online and starts his own post to find out. It took him three days to decide what to call himself. His name has been Rory all his life. The other things people have called him he doesn’t like. By the end of day three, he chose R1234.

  He finishes his message and posts it.

  R1234 At 11:21

  I am here.

  Then he waits. His nose is blocked and he wants to blow it but he’s frightened it will start bleeding again.

  In less than one minute someone replies.

  Hawk At 11:21

  Hey man, how are you?

  R1234 At 11:22

  Someone punched me.

  Hawk At 11:23

  No way. Did you punch them back?

  R1234 At 11:24

  No.

  Hawk At 11:25

  Listen to me. You have to learn to protect yourself, man. If you don’t then others will try to hurt you. Attack is the best form of defense.

  Hawk is correct. For as long as Rory can remember, people have said bad things to him and hurt him. Gently, Rory touches his nose. He wants it all to stop.

  I manage to roll onto my side, but the pressure on my already aching shoulder is too great. Instead, I settle back onto my stomach, with my face turned sidewards, my cheek pressed into the floor. At least the cold air can circulate around my swollen nose and lips. Thank God Ronnie didn’t tape my mouth this time or I’m certain I would suffocate.

  When she gets back I’ll have to pretend I fell. But will she believe that? I’m nowhere near where I started and the rope around my wrists will tell its own story.

  A leaden desperation consumes me. Why is this happening to me? All I wanted was to do something useful. To be good at my job. To make the old man proud. I groan at the thought of him and how he’ll react if I’m found dead in some ditch. He’ll probably be embarrassed that I allowed myself to get into this position.

  The radio continues to fizz and crackle in the background. ‘With less than two hours to go, the queues are building here at the stadium,’ says the presenter. ‘And I’m standing here next to a little lad who’s been waiting patiently. What’s your name, young man?’

  ‘Tyrone,’ says the boy, who sounds around five.

  ‘And who are you hoping to see today, Tyrone?’

  ‘Usain Bolt,’ he says, lisping the s.

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘He fast.’

  The presenter chuckles and begins to chat to a group of schoolgirls from Bermondsey.

  The whole world is waiting for the beginning of the Games. Surely someone has noticed I’m missing. The PM, Clem, my dad? Surely they’ll be trying to find me?

  Clem knew he should be out there looking for Connolly, but right now he had to concentrate on ensuring the Opening Ceremony was secure. Those bastards at Downing Street had overruled him, as he’d known they would. And now he had to do whatever it took to safeguard the ceremony. He made his way straight to HQ and called an emergency meeti
ng of everyone on site.

  ‘The top priority as of this moment is the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games,’ he said.

  Groans rippled around the room. Large events were the province of the police.

  Clem held up his hands. ‘There is a real threat of an imminent terrorist attack.’

  That shut them up.

  ‘What are we looking at, Clem?’ asked Carole-Ann.

  He pushed a memory stick into a laptop and a smart board on the wall behind him sprang to life. ‘Shining Light,’ he said. ‘Small cell. Dean Mantel, Steve Bentley, Stephen Miggs.’ Clem clicked a key and photos of Deano, Steve and Miggs filled the screen. ‘All dead.’

  He clicked another key and a picture of each dead body appeared, the first two in situ at the flat, blood and brains splattered on the walls. The third was of Miggs dead in his hospital bed, head bandaged, his eyes lifeless. Civilians often screamed at images such as these. Hell, Clem had known normal coppers faint at autopsy stills, but his audience were agents. This was water off a duck’s back.

  ‘Dead men don’t blow things up, the last time I checked,’ said Carole-Ann.

  Clem pressed another key and a picture of Ronnie X taken from the CCTV footage at the Station Hotel filled the room. Her eyes were like lead.

  ‘The group’s leader is still at large,’ he said. ‘And make no mistake, she is very dangerous.’

  ‘Is she likely to have recruited fresh blood?’ asked Carole-Ann.

  ‘There’s no way we can know that,’ said Clem. ‘So we have to assume yes.’

  Carole-Ann spoke again. ‘If we spot her, what are our orders?’

  ‘Disable and capture,’ said Clem. ‘We need Ronnie X alive.’

  A few murmurs rumbled around the room. Taking terror suspects alive was never easy, not if you wanted to avoid getting your own head blown off.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Clem. ‘But she’s taken a prisoner and we need to know where she’s being held.’ He pressed the keypad and Ronnie’s face was replaced by another.