Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  ‘You bitch,’ I cry, and head-butt her, my forehead cracking the bridge of her nose.

  She flies backwards, her blood splattering across my face and chest.

  I’m shocked at my actions, at what my rage and revulsion have made me capable of. But I don’t care if she kills me, or how she kills me; I just want her to know what a disgusting excuse for a person she is. ‘You’re an animal!’ I scream at her.

  She recovers quickly, ignoring the gash on her nose. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out her gun and points it at me, panting. She’s aiming right between my eyes. At this range I won’t stand a chance but I’m past that.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I say. ‘What are you waiting for? You’ve been wanting to kill me all along, so why don’t you just do it?’

  She takes a step closer.

  ‘This is what you do, isn’t it? Kill people? How many did you kill at the Plaza? Or don’t you bother to count? And how many did you hope would die at the Opening Ceremony?’ Sweat streams down my cheeks. ‘You must be disappointed that your plan hasn’t worked. Not enough innocent people dead. Not enough children lying on the ground.’

  Ronnie looks down at me, her eyes vacant.

  ‘You’re a fucking monster,’ I rage at her. ‘So just do your worst.’

  She blinks once, then lowers the gun to her side.

  Dear Veronica-Mae,

  I don’t know if you got my last letter. My lawyer Bert says he passed it along to the welfare people but I don’t know as I trust him what with him working for the government and being a Jew and all.

  Anyhow, this is my second letter, which is pretty surprising seeing as how I never was one for my books. Mama always did say I’d do anything bar my Bible studies.

  I’m still in the hospital. I don’t know exactly how long I been in here, but it seems like weeks and weeks. I feel better every day but the doctors say I’ve still got a long ways to go.

  Bert told me that if the bullet hadn’t have passed through you first then I’d be dead, so I guess I owe you some thanks for that.

  To be honest, although I rightly hate it here, I’m not looking forward to getting out either to face everything that needs facing. That probably makes me a coward, huh?

  I reckon by now they told you about Mama and Noah and Rebecca. Bert says they had a proper Christian burial and that a lot of folks showed up, some of them from as far away as Texas. I can’t say I understand why anyone would go to the funeral of a body they don’t know, but I’m glad all the same.

  Well I guess I’ll leave it here and say goodbye. If you can, write back and tell me where you’re at.

  Your brother,

  Isaac

  PS. Daddy ain’t been allowed to get in touch cus of some court order. Bert says I’m to concentrate on myself and not worry about him. Thing is, that just makes me worry all the more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I lie quietly on the floor, watching Ronnie, who is crouched in the corner, her head on her chest, her arms covering her head. She looks smaller than before, as if she’s shrunk in the wash. I have no idea what’s happening. All I do know is that I’m still alive.

  At last she looks up at me. There are no tears staining her cheeks, but for the first time there is something in her eyes. Something living.

  ‘It had nothing to do with Shining Light,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All that stuff.’ She waves at the radio. ‘It had nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ I ask.

  She shrugs and looks away.

  When she moves towards me and pulls me up in one swoop, I’m shocked again at her strength. She throws me back to the bench and I flop onto it, my reserves of energy spent.

  She removes a bottle of water from the fridge, nodding as she checks its temperature against her forehead. When she has taken a drink, she holds it out towards me.

  I shake my head. I am unbelievably thirsty, but I need to get this straight. ‘MI5 told me you were responsible,’ I say.

  She puts the bottle back to her lips, speaks around the plastic neck. ‘MI5 talk shit.’

  I watch the skin of her throat bob as she swallows and I lick my parched lips. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  I shake my head. I can’t do this again. ‘They had you under surveillance before any of this happened,’ I say. ‘They knew about your activities.’

  ‘Then they know we’re not about hurting innocent people.’

  I can’t keep the hint of sarcasm from my voice. ‘So tell me, then, what are you all about?’

  She screws the top back on the bottle and slides it into the fridge. I try to encourage enough saliva to swallow.

  ‘Shining Light is against oppression,’ she says. ‘We fight the state, the media who keep them in power. We fight the multinationals who don’t give a shit about anything but profit.’

  ‘High-minded stuff,’ I say. ‘But does it justify violent attacks?’

  A small smile plays around the corners of her mouth. ‘We only attack those directly responsible.’

  I screw my eyes closed. None of this makes any sense. It just isn’t possible.

  ‘Think about it.’ Her voice is near and when I open my eyes I find her sitting on the bench next to me, uncomfortably close. ‘Didn’t it seem just a tad too convenient to you that everyone in the cell was killed before any real investigation could take place?’

  I push Dad’s words about scapegoats to the back of my mind. ‘You’re still alive,’ I say.

  ‘For how much longer? Don’t you think they’ll kill me as soon as they find me?’

  I think about Clem for a second and I suspect she’s right. ‘They told me you were white supremacists.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I saw Miggs’s arms; they were covered in swastikas and other racist crap,’ I say.

  She nods. ‘Miggs was really fucked up by your precious system. You know, the one that was supposed to protect kids like him? He was damaged and angry and went looking for redress in all the wrong places.’

  ‘Until you led him onto the path of righteousness.’

  ‘I don’t lead anyone anywhere. If they want to join me then that’s up to them. I’m honest about what it might cost them.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you care that any of your friends are dead,’ I say.

  ‘Care? I wasn’t their fucking social worker. They were freedom fighters. They knew what we were up against. They knew the risks.’

  Then she gets up and retrieves the water. She doesn’t ask this time, just holds it for me to drink. I’m done fighting and gulp it down. I don’t know who or what to believe and I hang my head it hurts so much.

  ‘You need to sleep,’ Ronnie says. ‘And so do I.’

  She reaches to a cupboard and pulls out two blankets, brown and itchy, the sort you imagine they hand out in police cells. She gestures for me to lie sideways on the bench and when I do she covers me. The fabric scratches and smells of damp bank holiday weekends but I can’t keep my eyes open.

  As I drift off into sleep, the last thing to cross my mind is a question. If Ronnie isn’t responsible for the terrorist bombs, who is?

  The look on the operative’s face was a mixture of horror and relief.

  ‘First time?’ Clem realised he didn’t know her name.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He could tell her it got easier, which would be true, but only because you never got back what you lost after that first kill. Clem decided the girl didn’t need to know that.

  ‘We did what we had to do,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  When his mobile rang, Clem was glad.

  ‘You got a name for me?’ asked Carole-Ann.

  Clem wiped the blood from the student card he had fished out of the dead boy’s pocket.

  ‘Thomas Frasier,’ he told her. ‘Date of birth, eighth of May 1994.’ He waited for a second while Carole-Ann ran the name through the computer.
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br />   ‘Clean,’ she said. ‘No previous convictions, no links to any terrorist organisations.’

  ‘Have we been watching him?’ asked Clem.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Is there anything at all?’

  ‘Just an address in south London.’

  Twenty minutes later, Clem was parked outside an end-of-terrace town house in Greenwich. The door was primrose yellow, recently painted by the looks of it.

  There had been no alternative but to kill Frasier, despite him being possibly the only lead to Connolly. Clem’s only hope now was that something or someone in this house would provide a clue to Frasier’s actions. He signalled to his backup that he was ready to make his move and silently they moved in.

  Two years ago E Group had raided a house a few miles east of here. The suspects had decided to go down with the ship and had the place booby-trapped. One agent died and another lost both his legs.

  Clem led half of the team to the door; the other half went around the back. He checked the countdown on his watch and at four seconds gestured for the officer with the ram to take his place. He lifted three fingers. Then two. Then one.

  Bam. The ram battered the door, knocking it off its hinges, splintering wood. At the exact same moment the back door suffered the same fate.

  From inside, Clem heard a scream and trampled over the broken wood towards it.

  ‘Security services,’ he shouted, gun at arm’s length.

  In the sitting room a middle-aged couple were huddled on the sofa. The television was on, the chaos that was now the Opening Ceremony at full blast.

  ‘On the floor,’ Clem yelled.

  The couple looked at one another in confusion.

  ‘Get down on the floor.’ Clem moderated his volume. ‘Hands on the back of your necks.’

  Clem watched their uncertainty as they did as they were told while all around them agents rushed through the house, checking each room.

  ‘All clear, Clem,’ the team leader called from the hallway.

  Clem nodded his thanks. ‘Does Thomas Frasier live here?’ he asked the couple.

  ‘Yes.’ The man’s speech was muffled as he spoke into the carpet.

  ‘He’s our son.’ The woman lifted her head, anxiety overcoming caution. ‘Is he okay? Has something happened?’

  Clem glanced around the scene. A coal-effect gas fire flickered on the ‘light only’ setting. A tank of tropical fish sat in the corner, the residents swimming endless circles around a plastic shipwreck. Instinct told him these people knew nothing of their son’s activities. A tang of nausea tickled his throat.

  ‘Please,’ the woman begged. ‘Just tell us Tommy’s okay.’

  Clem coughed and put his gun back in its holster. ‘Why don’t you get up?’ he said.

  The man rose first, brushing non-existent dust from his trousers, then helping his wife to her feet. ‘Would you mind telling us what on earth’s going on here?’ His words were stern but his tone couldn’t quite conceal his fear.

  ‘I need to see your son’s room,’ said Clem. ‘Could you show me the way?’

  The woman took a step towards Clem and put a hand on his arm, blue veins protruding through the skin. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  Clem knew that if he told them their son was dead, he wouldn’t get the information he needed. The deceit made him wince, but it was necessary. ‘Thomas has got himself into trouble,’ he said. ‘We need to check his belongings.’

  ‘Is it that girl?’ Tears shone in the woman’s eyes. ‘Has he been bothering her again?’

  ‘The bedroom, please,’ said Clem.

  Mrs Frasier pursed her lips and led Clem upstairs, her husband trailing after them. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’ She leaned heavily against the banister. ‘He doesn’t realise.’

  Clem counted the family portraits lining the ascent. Eight in total. A record of Thomas Frasier’s life from birth to death. The last photo showed him as he had been earlier that day. Smooth skin, hooded top, lost look.

  ‘Tell her we’re really sorry,’ said Mrs Frasier. ‘Tell her he doesn’t mean any harm by it.’

  They paused on the landing outside the first door. A ‘No Entry’ sign had been pinned to it.

  Mrs Frasier pushed the handle and stepped inside. ‘Bit of a mess,’ she clucked, reaching down to scoop up a towel from the floor.

  ‘Please don’t move anything,’ said Clem.

  Her hand floated in midair, fingers shaking.

  At first glance the room looked like any teenager’s, all discarded socks and half-eaten bowls of cereal, but closer scrutiny told a different story. A Star Wars poster was tacked to the wall; a stuffed giraffe sat on the windowsill.

  ‘How old was Thomas?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Was?’ Panic shook Mrs Frasier’s voice.

  ‘How old was he at his last birthday?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Oh. Right. I see.’

  ‘Eighteen.’ Mr Frasier spoke from the doorway. Clem saw reality beginning to dawn on him, drawing his features down. ‘This has nothing to do with Tommy pestering that girl, has it?’ he asked.

  ‘He wasn’t pestering her,’ said Mrs Frasier. ‘He just likes her and he doesn’t understand why he shouldn’t.’

  ‘Be quiet, Marion,’ said Mr Frasier.

  Clem breathed hard. ‘Did you see your son this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Frasier’s voice was small. ‘I made him his breakfast like every morning; then he went off to the centre as usual.’

  ‘Centre?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Portman Row,’ she replied. ‘It’s a centre for education and training and what have you. For youngsters like Tommy.’

  Clem raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Our Tommy’s not like other kids,’ she told him. ‘He’s special.’

  Mr Frasier sighed and shook his head. He appeared to have aged years in the last few moments. ‘What Marion’s trying to tell you is that our son has learning disabilities.’

  Ronnie nudges me awake with her foot.

  I blink at her and struggle to sit up. ‘How long have I been asleep?’ I ask.

  ‘Almost two hours.’

  I groan. I feel like I need another twenty at least. Ronnie, on the other hand, seems refreshed. She slides into the kitchen area, pulls out a box of cereal and tears open the inner plastic wrapper with her teeth.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she says, scooping out a handful of flakes and stuffing them into her mouth. She stares into the middle distance as she chews and swallows. ‘They’ll put everything they’ve got into finding me,’ she says. ‘Sooner or later they’ll do it. Then they’ll kill me.’

  She strides back to me, the cereal box swinging in her hand. She presses it to my lips. ‘Eat.’

  My stomach growls as she shakes cereal into my open mouth. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to give yourself up?’ I choke slightly on the dry flakes. ‘You could prove you had nothing to do with the bombing.’

  Ronnie shakes her head. ‘I’d be dead before I got to the police station.’

  Though I hate to admit it, I suspect she may have a point. ‘Where will you go?’ I ask.

  ‘I know some people,’ she says. ‘One in particular. If I can get to him, he’ll keep me safe.’

  I can’t imagine who would be able to hide a refugee from MI5, but if such people do exist, I’m damn sure Ronnie will know them. ‘Will you let them know I’m here?’ I ask.

  She cocks her head to one side, puzzled.

  ‘Once you’ve got away,’ I say. ‘Or they might never find me.’ I don’t need to say that I could die in bloody agony in the meantime.

  She doesn’t answer and closes the cereal box. Even if she were to leave it for me, how long would I last? I once saw a telly programme about some women in Ireland who decided to kill themselves for God. One of them wrote a diary and it detailed how horrifying their end had been as their bodies ate every last morsel of body fat and muscle to try to survive. ‘You could do it anonymously,’ I say.

  �
�Do what?’

  ‘Let them know where I am. I could give you my dad’s number if you don’t want to call the authorities.’

  ‘I’m not calling anyone,’ she says.

  Panic hits me. ‘But you said you weren’t into hurting innocent people.’

  She stifles a laugh and I understand my error. To Ronnie I am no more innocent than Clem. I am part and parcel of the establishment and everything she hates.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘You’re not going to die in this caravan.’

  ‘How can you be sure? It could be too late by the time they track me down.’

  She pulls me to my feet and takes out a hunting knife, the steel blade glinting. I shrink away from the serrated edge. I’m not going to starve to death after all. Ronnie moves towards me, her eyes wide. Then she cuts the binding around my ankles.

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ she says.

  ‘Dear God, what went wrong, Clem?’ The shadows under the PM’s eyes were like purple bruises.

  ‘Why didn’t you stop this attack?’ Benning hissed.

  ‘We did stop the attack,’ Clem replied.

  ‘In full view of the watching press,’ said Benning. ‘Jesus, could you not have taken the boy aside? Dealt with it in private?’

  ‘He was carrying a bomb,’ said Clem. ‘The loss of life could have been catastrophic.’

  Benning sighed. ‘It’s a disaster. The Olympic Village is in meltdown. The athletes are desperate to leave but daren’t get on a plane and every Tom, Dick and fucking Harry is demanding a statement.’

  Clem’s jaw dropped. If Clem had been able to apprehend Frasier and put a bullet in his brain on the QT, Benning would cheerfully have proceeded with the Opening Ceremony and kept the whole incident quiet. He didn’t know why he was surprised, actually.

  ‘There wasn’t any way of knowing if Frasier was a lone wolf,’ he told them. ‘There could have been more bombers. However things panned out, we would have had to cancel the Opening Ceremony.’

  ‘We could have made that decision ourselves. Instead we’ve been left with no choices,’ said Benning.

  Clem felt spots of heat in the apple of each cheek. ‘There were no choices.’

  ‘There are always choices,’ said Benning.