by Joe Ducie
‘I –’
‘You’re a coward.’ Irene thrust an indignant finger into his chest, hard enough to leave a bruise. ‘Do you actually enjoy acting so hard and indifferent to your friends? You’re still a teenager, Will, so bloody act like it now and again!’
‘Irene,’ Tristan said, clearing his throat. ‘Please …’
‘Leave it, Tristan.’ Drake ran a hand back through his dark hair and shoved Irene back a step, away from him. ‘You’re not my friend. I don’t need friends. I’ve only been meeting here because you were useful exploring this place. I don’t need you any more, Irene. You can get lost and find your own damn way off the Rig.’
21
Mothers
Two days later, in the afternoon of the final rigball game of the season, Drake found himself still fuming from his argument with Irene. Tristan had been sulking around their cell, trying to get Drake to come out at night and apologise, but he was having none of it.
Perhaps we could escape together, he had found himself thinking, knee-deep in muck and grime in Tubes on Friday afternoon, the day before the game. No, we’d never get away.
‘This is our game,’ Mario said, still sporting a black eye and split lip from the previous week’s game. ‘You feel that, Drake? That’s victory, I can taste it.’
Handing out the racquets alongside the field, Tommy ruffled Mario’s hair. ‘Nothing gets you down, does it, kid?’
‘Broccoli and sprout night does,’ he said glumly. ‘But that is not tonight!’
Given the advantage Grey and his team had, Drake was sure they were in for another trouncing today, but it was the last chance he’d have to cause some damage. No matter what, Drake knew he wouldn’t be here for the summer season of rigball games.
After watching the girls’ matches, Drake strapped on his helmet and pads and stepped out onto the field, claiming his wing. Alan Grey stumbled onto the pitch, hulking and impressive. The helmet strapped to his head looked about two sizes too small, almost like a tiny hat sitting atop his hair. He grinned at Drake and smacked his racquet against his palm.
The guard-ref blew the air horn and the game was underway.
Since his first game, Drake had become a lot clearer on the rules of the sport and also how to play to the letter of those rules, bending them until they almost fractured. He ducked and weaved along the wing, moving in and out with Tommy and the lads, keeping the ball moving.
He took a lot of hits from Grey’s team, hitting the concrete hard, but had learnt in the third game that staying down only got you trampled. Drake leapt to his feet as quick as he could after a hard check, racing after the ball.
The first half flew by, with Tommy’s team not giving an inch – thanks in most part to Drake’s fast footwork and Mario’s complete aversion to self-preservation. The game was tied at nothing as they stumbled off the field for a quick break.
‘Is it just me?’ Drake asked. ‘Or is Grey moving a lot slower?’
Emir, surprising them all, spoke in broken English, ‘He slow. He no good today. This good.’
‘Maybe he didn’t take his medicine this morning …’ Drake muttered, thinking of when he’d last seen Grey – or rather, not seen Grey. Has he been getting the Crystal-X? Did they cut him off?
The break over, the teams switched sides, and Drake moved in close to Grey, courting a beating, to get a better look at the gargantuan boy. Grey smirked when he saw him hovering just out of reach of his racquet.
‘I’m coming for you,’ he growled. His voice was deep but slow.
Drake wasn’t sure, given the bright mid-afternoon light and the glare off the concrete, but he thought he saw twin stars of red light deep within Grey’s eyes. Not as bad as Anderson … but getting there.
As the second and final half of rigball for the winter season began, both teams delivered crushing blows, tossing the ball not always to a racquet but more at an opposing player’s head. The crowd roared and cheered on the play, as the referee called foul upon foul.
With only a few minutes left to play, Grey knocked through Greg and Neil like a ball through bowling pins, sending them flying and shooting for goal.
Emir managed to catch the rigball in his glove and tossed it out to Tommy, who spun and ran for the other end of the field. Drake saw Grey take a massive leap forwards, and slam his racquet into Tommy’s leg, knocking him off his feet and hard into the concrete. A collective wince shuddered through the crowd – that had been the hardest check of the game so far.
Up close, Drake had heard the bone snap. Tommy clutched at his ankle, rocking back and forth. Time out was called as Nurse Rose and the guards saw to him. Drake and the rest of the team hung around in a loose circle, watching him writhe.
‘That sounded nasty,’ Mario said, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘There’s a few minutes left. How can we win a man down?’
‘A tie’s better than anything else we’ve had this season,’ Greg said.
‘I want the win,’ Mario insisted.
‘So do I, mate.’ Drake motioned them close. ‘So here’s what we do …’
After Tommy was carted from the field, Drake’s team were awarded the ball. He gave it to Neil from the quarter line in their half and ran up the wing. Mario was in place, as well, and Greg had his part to play.
The air horn blew and the clock continued to count down towards zero. According to the timer beneath the scoreboard, there were six minutes left of the half. This’ll be close …
Grey and his goons moved in on Drake’s depleted team.
The next four minutes were a grudge match, pure and simple. Drake stayed out of most of it, keeping his wits about him, but the rest of the lads – as per the plan – took a bit of a beating. Mario was as impervious as always, but even Greg and Neil were soon sporting cuts on their cheeks and matching black eyes. Despite the onslaught, they managed to keep the score tied at nothing.
Drake kept his eye on the clock, and as the last two minutes began to count down, he whistled loudly. His teammates acknowledged the signal and moved into position. They’d been playing defensively for most of the half, but now was the time for Drake’s play.
Mario dived in and seized the rigball from under Grey’s arm. Like before, Grey was too big to see him coming from behind. With three seconds to pass, Mario hurled the ball downfield, away from their goal, to Neil. Neil caught it and dashed across midfield, passing to Greg.
That was the three passes they needed to score.
Drake had been climbing his wing and was ready for the ball when Greg tossed it his way. He made a dash for the goal, about six metres away, and raised the racquet to take a shot against the keeper, as Grey and his thugs moved in to intercept.
The crowd gasped.
Drake swung – and hurled the ball to Mario across goal.
‘I’ve got it!’ Mario cried, and spun on the spot, lining up a shot.
Half of Grey’s team peeled away after him, and the keeper moved out to intercept the small boy.
Only, he didn’t have the ball. Drake lifted his racquet onto his shoulder, the rigball still clinging to his net, and took a run at goal himself. He had never crossed the ball to Mario, keeping it firmly magnetised in his own racquet. He had less than three seconds to take the shot, but that was all he needed.
Grey hadn’t been fooled.
He split away from the pack chasing Mario and spun towards Drake, a snarl on his face, and took a huge stride towards him, less than two metres away.
Drake pulled his racquet back behind his head, took aim, and swung. As the racquet fell through the air, he released the rigball into the half of the net left un---defended by Grey’s keeper, just as the massive boy himself reacted and reached for Drake.
The force of Drake’s swing kept his racquet moving down, heavy and hard, and as Grey moved in close he smacked the bully across the face with all the force he could muster. Drake heard something snap, saw Grey’s eyes flare crimson for just a second, then he spun like a top and hit the concr
ete hard. Blood dribbled from his mouth and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head.
The rigball, for its part, sailed into the net with three seconds left on the clock.
Drake had scored.
Drake had won.
The crowd erupted in a wave of shocked cheers that shook the platform, echoing into the clear skies and carrying away on the salty wind over the ocean, even as the air horn blew and called the end of the game.
‘You did it!’ Tommy shouted from the sidelines, hopping up onto his good leg. ‘You silly buggers, you did it!’
The rest of Grey’s team looked stunned by the unexpected goal and hovered around their fallen leader as Mario tackled Drake and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Knew you were good for something,’ he said, laughing.
Drake remembered thinking during his first game that rigball was not about winning, but about power and dominance. He looked over at the guard box, at the warden and his guards behind the goal, and smirked. Winning was good, but he’d been right the first time, and he’d just taken some of that power and dominance away from those men and women – and Grey.
That was for Doctor Lambros, he thought, and felt all that old frustration and anger bubble up inside of him, even as Greg and Neil slapped him on the back. No, this is for Doctor Lambros …
Drake held his racquet up over his head victorious and acknowledged the cheering crowd. He did a slow lap of the field as Grey was carted away on a stretcher by the guards, his jaw hanging askew and bloody. Tommy and the lads cheered from the sidelines and tossed Drake the match-winning ball as he walked past. Most of the boys in the stands were on their feet and cheering as well. Taking his time, waiting for his moment, Drake strolled over and along in front of the girls’ stands. He got quite a few wolf whistles and kisses blown his way.
Those made him grin. He didn’t see Irene amidst the sea of red jumpsuits.
As he came around to the special box filled with guards, the staff of Control, and Warden Storm, he received a polite round of applause from about half of them. Brand sat next to Storm, on his left, with Doctor Elias on his right.
Drake smiled and Storm nodded at him. He pressed the trigger and reignited the current through his racquet. Whose dumb idea was it to give magnetised racquets to us lot? Drake remembered asking Tommy that question just two short months ago.
With little preamble, Drake tossed the ball up in the air and smacked it into the guard box using every ounce of strength in his arm. The small, heavy, magnetised ball hit Doctor Elias in the gut, bounced back to the nearest source – Drake’s racquet – where he proceeded to send it right back into the box. His aim was as good as ever, and it clipped Brand on the ear.
The stands behind him, boys and girls, erupted in cheers as the guards dived for cover. Those stationed on duty around the edge of the playing field ran in, raising their rifles. Drake hurled his racquet into the box, aiming for Brand again, just as he was tackled by a furious-faced Stein. A hundred kilograms of angry guard slammed him into the ground, forcing the air from his lungs.
Worth it, Drake thought, as the crowd erupted in renewed cheers.
He was manhandled from guard to guard, roughly, and ended up being dragged down through the platform by Brand and Stein, both of them pinning his arms to his back and almost carrying him along. His tracker buzzed angrily, chiding him for being off schedule. Drake laughed.
‘You won’t think this is funny in a minute,’ Brand promised, cold fury on his face.
They dragged him back to the western platform and down the tiered cellblock to the third level and the cell he shared with Tristan. Stein threw him against the floor and Brand stepped into the cell, cracking his knuckles.
‘Don’t you have work to be doing, Officer Stein?’ Brand asked casually.
‘You know I believe I do, Officer Brand.’
She smirked at Drake and left.
‘You’ve been pushing your luck since you got here, lad,’ Brand snarled, and hurled Drake up against the sink in 36C. The moulded plastic dug into his back, sending pain shooting up his spine. ‘Get it through your head – you belong to the Alliance now, and for all that matters, I am the Alliance here.’
‘What happened to Doctor Lambros, Brand?’ Drake asked, already knowing the awful truth. ‘Where did she go?’ He balled his hand into a fist and delivered a powerful blow into Brand’s face.
The mad guard took the punch, laughed, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. ‘Everyone gets one free hit, lad.’ Brand grabbed him by the collar. ‘How’s your mother doing? Want to know if she’s still alive? I know, Drake. Want to know how much she suffered without you?’
Brand drove his forehead into Drake’s nose and his nasal bones snapped like twigs. A torrent of blood gushed from his nostrils and sprayed in a wild arc, as Drake tossed his head back with a cry and saw galaxies spinning in the cell.
‘Look at me, Drake!’ Brand demanded. ‘You. Are. Mine. No one in this world gives two shits about you, lad.’
Brand punched him in the stomach – once, twice. Drake keeled over, gasping for breath. The Rig’s number one guard didn’t let him fall to his knees. He grabbed his shoulders and slammed his head against the steel frame of the bunk beds.
Dazed, his head spinning, Drake managed to stay on his feet. He saw two blurry versions of Brand take a step back. Speaking of mothers … ‘If I …’ Drake frowned. Blood flowed in rivulets into his mouth from his nose. The crimson mess dribbled down his chin as he spoke. ‘If I wanted a kiss, Brand, I would’ve asked your mother.’
Drake laughed, wincing through the pain. One of his ribs felt cracked. When had that happened? Brand laughed, too, and drew his ugly, black baton.
‘You know we should get you a spot in the common room on Saturday nights,’ Brand said, and swiped the baton across Drake’s face.
Star-studded pain exploded in Drake’s head. He spun and tumbled along the length of the bunk beds and saw, vaguely, one of his teeth go flying from his mouth and hit the cool floors. His cheek hit the same floor a few seconds later.
‘Such a funny kid, aren’t you? Should be a comedian!’ Brand kicked him – hard – in the stomach with his steel-capped boot.
Drake was laughing and crying. Vicious pain tore at him from so many places that he felt almost euphoric, as his vision slipped away down a long, dark tunnel. He saw something crimson lying on the floor in front of him and tried to focus. He realised, after a moment, that it was his tooth.
‘You know, Drake,’ Brand said, as if from a great distance. ‘You’ve been working hard lately. I reckon you should have the day off tomorrow, on me.’ He kneeled down on his haunches so Drake could see his face.
‘You know, Brand …’ Drake felt like he was speaking through a mouthful of pennies. He wheezed and chuckled. ‘You … you don’t deserve the … the bad things they say about you around here, mate.’
The baton hummed as Brand pressed the red trigger, sending a cruel current coursing through the weapon. The last thing Drake felt was a jolt and his body stiffened like a board. A string of mumbled curses exploded from his mouth and someone turned out the lights.
22
Dreamland
Drifting in and out of consciousness on the floor of his cell, Drake dreamed.
He was back in Cedarwood, high up in the Alps, and the snow-capped peaks stood like silent, impassable sentinels. Towering jailers of rock and dirt, imposing and intimidating. He picked one of them up and tossed it like a skipping stone across the electric-blue waters of the Arctic Ocean. The mountain sank below the waves, burning with wicked red light the whole way down.
He was in Trennimax and on days when the wind blew just right he could smell lavender, carried on the air from the famed fields of Provence. None of the guards spoke much in the way of English, but that didn’t matter, because he was Will Drake, blackberry farmer, and although this was his first prison, he already knew he could escape from anywhere. Nowhere could hold him – not if he didn’t want to be hel
d. He just had to follow the web. Drake walked through the walls like a ghost and stepped …
… into the cool, clinical cells of Harronway in Ireland. This place had always felt more like a hospital than a prison. He lay on a bed of clovers, of course, and a leprechaun wearing golden glasses was smiling down at him.
Drake blinked and he wasn’t in Harronway any more. Or even on the floor of 36C. He was in Tristan’s lower bunk, and Tristan himself was talking to him and dabbing his face with toilet paper that had soaked through red.
‘Stay awake, Will,’ Tristan said, and was he crying? Yes, yes he was. ‘Can you hear me?’
Drake dreamed.
He was crawling through the vents of Cedarwood, something he had never done, as the temperature was often below freezing, and the heating churned near-boiling twenty-four hours a day. Aaron was with him. Friendly, funny Aaron. Half his face had melted away, but the accident hadn’t happened yet, had it?
‘The fire wasn’t your fault, Will,’ he said, but the voice that came out of his mouth belonged to Doctor Lambros.
Another of the dead, Drake thought, unsure if he was awake or dreaming.
‘Risky business, what you do,’ Aaron said. Flames danced within his golden hair, and his eyes were tiny bright stars of red. ‘Escaping. Following that web. But it is what you do. Sometimes there’s only one path, so get to it, eh?’
Strange orange light played havoc with the shadows in cell 36C. Tristan sat against the wall near the sink, head resting on his knees, fast asleep. Bloody tissue lay in spent piles all around him. Drake tried to move, but his side was on fire. Someone had filled his mouth with copper, he guessed from the taste. A dozen pennies under his tongue. He chuckled, winced, and dozed off back to sleep.
He dreamed of escape, of London, and of his mother.
‘I expected you sooner,’ mad Carl Anderson whispered. ‘And later.’
Drake hovered, beaten and bloody, in front of his glass cage.
‘They’re going to have trouble stopping you …’