by Jo Zebedee
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sean stepped into the hall of his house. Nothing felt right. It was too quiet, the night too long; the house lay waiting, vulnerable.
“Is that you, Sean?” His ma’s voice came from the kitchen, and it sounded shaky and old. Nothing like she usually was.
“Aye, Ma.” He hung up his coat and went to close the door. His gaze drifted over the pathway and the lawn. The alien had done the same, its eyes taking in everything. He picked up his coat as his parents emerged from the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” asked his da.
Sean swallowed and pulled his coat on. “We have to go.”
“Go?” said Ma. “Go where, Sean? We’re registered to here, we’re not allowed to go anywhere else.”
“Anyway, why would we want to?” demanded his da. “There’s the farm to see to, and they’ve upped the quota for milk, son.”
Sean lifted his ma’s coat down and held it out to her. “The girl, the one that was here... I think the GC are after her.”
“She’s not here anymore,” said his ma. “Anyway, she was only a wee slip of a thing.”
“I know,” said Sean, “but they want her, and I was with her when she went to the GC.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Hell, I was stupid enough to bring her in. And there was a cop, one from Belfast, who took her. He said I was to call if anyone asked after her.”
He paused, remembering the cop’s face, how worried he’d been, how there had been something behind his words. How he’d given a firm nod as if checking that Sean understood his hidden meaning. At the time, Sean hadn’t, but now, remembering the Barath’na’s knowing eyes, its close attention...
“One of the Barath’na gave me a lift back. It knows where we live. And the girl, who she is, when they find out, they might not want anyone else to know–”
“She told you, then,” said Da. “I knew she was lying.”
“Aye, she’s yer man John Dray’s sister.” He forced the coat into his ma’s hands and pulled down his da’s, ignoring their shocked looks. “The Barath’na… it... its eyes were...” He shrugged, not sure what to tell them. He just knew the bottom of his stomach felt like it had ants crawling across it, and that he had to get them away. “We need to go. I know it. And soon.”
He opened the door and outside the night was still, the only sound a distant fox call, yowling through the night. The mist off the hills wreathed the yard, thickening all the time. It was so peaceful he was tempted to close the door, go into the living room and sit by the turf fire until he settled down.
He pulled the door wider. It wasn’t peaceful, it was quiet. Too quiet.
“We have to go.” He glanced up. He could hear something, a low thrum, not quite in the range of his hearing, more a sensation. It might have been his blood racing through his body, or the sound of a silence so deep it was impossible not to pay attention to it. “Please Ma, Da, trust me. We can’t waste time.” He jerked his head at the door. “They know where we are – we can’t stay here. We can’t.”
Something in his voice must have got through to them, because Ma put her coat on and Da took down his cap and tugged it onto his head.
“Do we have petrol?” asked Sean.
“Aye; we got an extra allowance because of the milk agreement,” said his da. Sean led his parents around the side of the house to the car. Da put the headlights on and Sean, in the back seat, tapped his shoulder. “Turn them off,” he said. “And keep to the back roads.”
His da nodded, and it was as if the quietness of the evening had infected him. The thrumming sensation had grown louder, becoming a noise separate from the night. His mother’s shoulders hunched up, and he didn’t think he was the only one hearing it anymore.
They drove to the bottom of the back driveway and out onto the country road beyond. Da took a right towards Coleraine and then a left onto a narrow road. It ran under an avenue of trees, and Sean nodded at his good sense. He wound down his window and listened. The distant thrumming was unmistakable. They drove on, moonlight flashing between the trees, its light diffuse and dull. Sean leaned his head out of the window, listening even more carefully. A low drone replaced the thrum, a distinct noise, like engines. He looked behind and saw lights in the sky, back in the direction they came.
“Pull over,” he said, “and stay under the trees.”
The car cruised to a halt and his parents turned and looked out the back window. The drone increased and then there was a whump, carrying through the air.
The dark sky changed to a flickering orange.
“Mother of God,” said Ma, “is that our house?”
Sean grimaced. “I think so.”
“Jaysus,” said Da.
The droning receded into the night. Sean looked forward, and his da’s eyes met his in the mirror; he looked drawn and old, shocked.
“Where do we go?” asked Ma. “We’re not supposed to be out after dark. We’re supposed to be at home.”
At home. Sean looked out the back window and saw that the sky was a steady orange now, deeper. The house must be well ablaze. The noise in the sky had vanished, as if it were never there, leaving only the memory of it.
He put his hand in his pocket, pulled out the slip of paper and read the policeman’s number. He brought his mobile out, but there were no bars on it. There hadn’t been for months, since the military had taken the networks off air and commandeered them for themselves. He only kept it charged and with him because it had his music collection on it, and he’d paid a fortune for that before the war. Was there still an iTunes store? Somewhere out there, did Apple even exist? Or was that gone, like the old Earth, replaced by an alien version? He shivered, and looked at the number again. He needed someone to help; there was no way they’d get across country on their own...
“Sean!”
He glanced up and realised his father had been calling him. “What?”
“Where do we go?”
“We need to go one of the towns, so that I can get some network coverage,” he said. “Or a pay-phone. If we can’t get that, we’ll have to go to Belfast.”
“Belfast?”
His da spoke of the city as if Sean had asked him to take a trip to Outer Mongolia, yet before the war they’d have been there a couple of times a year.
“Aye. We need to find Inspector Carter and tell him what happened.”
His da nodded. His ma was quiet, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. The car moved forwards in the darkness, furtive and hunted, and Sean made himself look forwards, not back at the angry sky.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The cell’s lights dimmed around Neeta, but she didn’t move to bring them back on. Instead, she kept her hands on her knees, her control firmly in place. The trick was to not let fear into the chinks, because once it found a way in, it wormed to the centre of you. She’d learned that in Belfast, left in the house with Nani, no food, and no idea why her parents hadn’t come back. Presumably, they were dead; nothing else made any sense.
Sitting in the darkness was like being back in the house, with Nani telling tales of India’s Independence long into the nights. The stories had been about real people in the war – not just men, but women too. Women like Tara Rani Shrivastava, who’d marched for peace as her husband lay dying of gunshot wounds, and others who’d fought quietly, providing food and support behind the scenes. They’d talked and talked, her and Nani, and tried to ignore the hunger that dragged at their bellies and the constant fear of the shooting.
After three days, Nani had started to frighten Neeta. Her paper-thin skin had paled to near-grey and she’d started to wheeze. Fear for her had forced Neeta into the city for food, blankets, medicine, and she’d made it to the main road, through the changed city, all rubbled and dented. Zelo transporters flew overhead, scanning for anyone that moved, making Neeta keep to the shadows. She’d passed a half-bombed mural that marked the gable-end where the local shops had been, but when she’d rounded the corner all that was left was
a crater, with nothing to scavenge – anything that had survived had long been picked over.
She’d gone home empty-handed and had sat with Nani through the rest of the night, holding her hand and brushing her hair from her too-hot forehead. After daylight had faded, she’d gone back into the city, using knowledge from her nightly joy-rides before the invasion, when she’d got out of the house no matter what her father had done to stop her, because she was smart on the streets, and quick.
She’d headed over to the Crescent to try their shops, but had come across a group of three kids going from house to house, taking anything useful and stashing it. They’d reached the end of the street, unnoticed by either of the two transports that had passed overhead, but were stopped by a group of the new-revolutionaries. She knew them, they were the same thugs who’d run the streets before the war.
Later, running for home with the little food she’d managed to find – some stale bread snitched from a bin, and a wizened apple – she tried to tell herself there was nothing she could do to stop that sort of thing happening. But it wasn’t true. Tara Rani wouldn’t have let something so unfair happen. Nani wouldn’t agree, either: she’d been forced from her home, into a tent for weeks, because her father had refused to deny Gandhi’s beliefs. That was the blood that ran through Neeta, blood that couldn’t be doused by aliens or thugs who purported to be fighting for Earth’s freedom.
The next night, she’d drawn the kids together and they’d cleaned out another street before they were stopped again. She agreed an exchange with the thugs: some food in exchange for her kids working as look-outs and decoys.
The next night, there were more kids waiting for her, and the next, and the next, until she’d had fifty under her protection. She trained them how to divert a patrol and hide before the Zelo could catch them; how to split up and lead the aliens on dashing runs through the estates they knew well and could lose them in.
When she’d told Nani, late on the last night when her paper skin had stretched to breaking, Nani had squeezed her hand, telling Neeta she’d done the right thing.
Well, tonight she’d do the right thing again. She stared into the inky blackness, listening to the force field’s steady hum. The Barath’na would come for her soon; she’d seen it in the long look they’d given her as she’d climbed the stairs, in their knowing growl. But mostly she knew it in the pit of her stomach that had saved her so many times in Belfast, the voice of warning she always listened to, even when, like tonight, listening would make no difference.
She clasped her hands together. Let her carry her dignity to the end. She could be like her Nani, and so many in the war, unsung and unknown, but still brave. She’d seen others taken and heard their screams, their pleas. Some of the hardest blokes she’d known had broken. She would not. She watched the screen’s steady green line of calm and reached deep into herself for the courage she’d always had and had never needed more than now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A small whirr echoed. A beep. Another whirr.
A whirr. Two beeps.
***
Carter pushed open the front door of the police station, his heart thumping so hard it felt like it was going to rupture through his shirt, Alien-style. He stopped at the reception desk. “I have to clear my desk, shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
“You need to sign in, Inspector.” The duty sergeant put a slight emphasis on his rank – obviously his fall from grace was not a secret.
Carter lifted his chin. Damn, he’d hoped not to. “Of course.”
The sergeant watched him sign, a slight sneer on his face; any false respect had gone out the window along with his badge. Carter shrugged; to hell with them. Maybe he’d get the chance to tell Sanderson what a creep he was.
He passed offices, mostly in darkness. He assumed the Barath’na plans for the virus weren’t recorded anywhere on Earth, but the prison audits might be on a system somewhere. If he could throw up a discrepancy, he could take it to O’Brien.
He pushed open the door to the general office, the automatic lights flickering on. Fifteen minutes later, he straightened up from the filing cabinet’s bottom drawer and kicked it into the cabinet in disgust. Nothing.
He went back to the corridor and looked both ways. O’Brien’s computer? He cursed; he knew nothing about computer hacking and he daren’t search under his own password. He screwed up his face, trying to remember what he knew of O’Brien to come up with possible passwords, but wasn’t even sure of her husband’s name, let alone her eighteen, or however many, kids.
He crossed to her office and slipped through the unlocked door. Her desk stood, a computer casting light across the old-fashioned desk, blinking its demand for a password. He pulled the drawer instead, until it gave way with a loud splintering sound. He took out a bundle of papers. The top sheaf were budget reports, but he smiled when he read the second: official audit figures.
The main light came on, blinding him.
“Looking for something, Carter?” Downham stood in the doorway, flanked by two heavily armed Barath’na.
Carter set the papers down and backed away, licking his dry lips. These Barath’na looked different; gone was their fluffed-up fur and slightly hang-dog manner. Their hair had flattened to reveal lean, toned bodies, and the look in their eyes was anything but apologetic. His chest tightened, making him wince.
“The name I’m to report to, sir,” he tried. “I didn’t know where else to look other than the super’s office...”
“Give me the report.” Downham closed the door and locked it. “Sit down,” he commanded.
Carter shook his head. “I think I’d prefer to stand.”
One of the Barath’na raised its weapon; it was like nothing Carter had seen before, built around a cylindrical chamber filled with liquid, a more traditional cartridge on each side. It was alien enough to tell him the Barath’na didn’t care about fitting in anymore. Not good: things were happening too quickly.
“Sit down,” said Downham.
The Barath’na jerked the gun and Carter sat in O’Brien’s seat. The colonel dropped into one opposite. His eyes looked shadowed and tired. He sighed. “I want to talk about Josey Dray. What she knows and where she is.”
Carter cocked his head to the side. “I have no idea. Where’s Superintendent O’Brien? Isn’t this her pitch?”
“The superintendent isn’t fully conversant with facts.” The colonel gave a soft laugh. “In fact, you’re more up to date than she is. Now, where is Josey Dray?”
“I told you. I have no idea.”
“We’ll see what we can do to focus your thoughts.” Downham nodded to the Barath’na, who brought up his fore-limb, showing clawed talons, their razored edges shining in the light. Carter’s blood became ice.
“Is she with the lawyer?” asked Downham.
“No.” His voice was a croak. “No.” He managed to put some conviction into it the second time. He had to: he couldn’t let these alien... things turn their attention to Catherine. The claw opened and closed, raking the air as it came close to his face. Carter flinched away. Sweat broke across his shoulders. “Downham, look, I really don’t know anyth–”
“Peters, then? He didn’t report in tonight.”
“No.” But his voice wasn’t as strong, not looking at those claws.
“Well, we’ll soon know for sure.” Downham nodded at the Barath’na. “He’s all yours. Do what it takes.”
Carter shrank back at the first touch of the claw on his face.
***
“So, you can’t positively identify Gary McDowell as the man who killed Liz?” said Catherine.
Josey winced at the word killed, but nodded; the barrister had explained that she needed to be very precise. Peters was leaning out of the window, smoking a cigarette and scanning the road outside. She was safe here, that was why Carter had brought her. She thought back to the nigh
t in the stable, taking her time so that she got it right.
“I heard the shot, and I saw her body. Demos and Ray were both with me…” She started to shake, remembering the crack of the shot. “It was Gary, definitely.”
“But you didn’t see him?”
“No....” Josey bit her lip. “But I saw her body – it was in the back of his car. And he was with me, so he knew about it, that’s definite.” The two adults exchanged a glance, and Catherine shook her head a little. Josey’s heart skipped a beat, thinking of Gary’s hard eyes, his words to her, wanting to own her. “Will they arrest him if they find him? Is it enough?”
Peters flicked the cigarette out of the window. Josey had lost count of how many he’d had. He gave curt nod, and the counsel said, “Yes, it should be enough.” She reached out her hand. “You’re safe now, Josey, okay? He’s not coming back for you.”
Josey pulled her hand away, bringing it close to her chest and clasping her other hand over it. What did this woman know about safe? Liz had told her she was safe after her parents’ death, and she hadn’t been. Peters was practically lighting one cigarette off the other, the way Ray had done when he was in charge on his own. None of it felt safe. “And will John be freed? I mean, I heard them say McDowell – Gary’s da, that is – set him up.”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said. “It will have to go to the GC and they’ll decide if there are grounds for an appeal. But I think if we can prove you were being held, and that my clients knew – which we can – there’s a good chance they’ll be freed.”
Josey bit her lip. “But will the Barath’na agree? If they run the prison, couldn’t they just refuse or something?”
“We can take it to the Zelo,” said Peters. He flicked his cigarette out of the window and came over. “They form part of the Galactic Council; we just don’t see them because of the virus. That’s what Carter said to do. He reckoned they were easier to deal with than the Barath’na. I think if we get the evidence, we can bypass Earth and the Barath’na, and take it straight to the Zelo. After all, it’s about the virus.”