Balancing Act

by Rachel Churcher

  When we knew we’d been played.

  “David?” He taps his pen on his notes, and my handcuffs clink against the table.

  We should have listened. We should have expected the invasion.

  We lost control a long time ago – we just couldn’t see it.

  *****

  There’s a patch on Ryan’s sleeve. Half Union Jack, half Dutch flag – the badge of the British Rebel Forces. The OIE worked with the Netherlands to put together a coalition of countries to liberate the UK, and we missed every sign. Every clue.

  When they invaded during Margaret’s trial, we had no plan. No way to fight back.

  My trial. My event.

  My disaster.

  I gave Lee the show trial he wanted, and the coalition used the distraction to march on London.

  We had no idea what was coming.

  *****

  “When did you …?”

  I shift my hands against the table and sit up straight in my chair.

  “I didn’t.”

  He raises an eyebrow and puts his pen down.

  “You didn’t realise what was happening?”

  I shrug. “I was backstage. I was watching the live feed. I didn’t see what was going on.”

  “You saw the broadcast from Bex Ellman. That didn’t concern you?”

  I think about the moment the OIE hacked into the live feed. Ellman’s face on the screen.

  I didn’t believe it. I thought it was a warning – a prank from a resistance cell. I knew Ellman had a habit of making videos. I thought that was all it was, and I was too busy shouting at the team from PIN to hear what she had to say.

  I shake my head.

  “She told you the armies were coming. She told you you’d lost. She started naming the people behind the Leominster attack.” He frowns, watching me. “Are you telling me you didn’t pay attention?”

  I have no idea what Ellman said. I was too desperate to get her off the air.

  “I had a job to do, Colonel. I had to cut off their broadcast, and I had to get our footage back. I had to make sure the trial continued.” I spread my hands, pulling against the handcuffs. “I was doing my job.”

  He picks up his pen, and scribbles a note.

  “What was the last thing you saw, on your live feed?”

  “When we cut off Bex’s broadcast?” I shake my head. “The prisoner waiting for the firing squad. Sheena Richards joining her on stage.”

  It’s an image I can’t forget. Two figures in orange jumpsuits, standing against the black wall at the side of the stage. Sheena pushing her guards away and taking Margaret’s hand.

  We hadn’t planned for two executions. I knew Lee was using Sheena as insurance, keeping her alive to make sure her father cooperated with us. I don’t know what made him change his mind, but I remember thinking it was a good decision. Sheena and Margaret together, helping us send a message to the OIE.

  It felt good to be in control. Deciding who lived, and who died. Managing the show, and imagining the reaction in Edinburgh.

  Smiling at the thought of Ellman and Pearce, watching us execute their friends.

  I didn’t know the coalition was already in control. That Lee and Bracken were already dead. That Ellman was steps away from the front of the crowd, armed, and angry. That Sheena and Margaret would not be the ones to die on my stage.

  “So when William Richards rushed the stage? When Bex and Dan stopped the execution?”

  I shrug. When William rushed past me, shouting about his daughter, my part in the trial was already over.

  “I was looking at the dangerous end of a gun. There were coalition soldiers surrounding my team.”

  “So that’s when you knew?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t know anything. I heard shooting, I turned round, there were soldiers behind me. I assumed I’d screwed up – that Lee had finally had enough.”

  “Of you?”

  “Of having me as his assistant. I assumed I was under arrest.”

  I think back. The sound of the audience, shouting. Gunfire. Soldiers crowding the backstage space. Opening my mouth to ask them to move, and finding all their guns trained on me.

  My breath catches. I remember lifting my hands in the air, and trying to reason with them, ignoring the guns.

  Like Ketty’s knuckleheaded friend, on the coach. Going up against armed men with nothing but my anger.

  I wanted to be in control. I wanted to finish the job.

  Instead I walked out in handcuffs, and the prisoners survived.

  “And when did you realise it was more than that?”

  I close my eyes for a moment. I don’t know why he’s asking these questions.

  “This is a lot of detail, Colonel,” I say, carefully. “What are you trying to find out?”

  Ryan makes another note, and puts his pen down again.

  “I’m trying to establish a timeline, David. I’m trying to find out who you spoke to. Who you contacted, before you ended up here.” He waves a hand at the interrogation room. “I’ve spoken to Lydia Wheelan and Katrina Smith. Now I’m talking to you.”

  My heart kicks in my chest. I think of Lydia in an orange jumpsuit. Ketty, sitting on the wrong side of the interrogation table, handcuffs on her wrists.

  Everyone I know – everyone I worked with – is locked up, or dead.

  If he’s talking to Lydia and Ketty, he doesn’t need to talk to me. They both know what I did for the committee. Lydia knows what happened in Canterbury. Between them, they’ll tell him everything he wants to hear.

  I thought I had leverage with Ryan. I thought I had something he needed, but now all I can do is confirm someone else’s story.

  He doesn’t need me at all.

  My stomach twists. I want to laugh.

  I look past Ryan to my reflection in the one-way mirror. Orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, hair that’s beyond taming.

  There’ll be someone behind the mirror, looking back. Sitting where I used to sit. Recording everything I say.

  I glance around the room – white tiles, table, three chairs. My handcuffs threaded through the loop in front of me.

  I think of Craig Dewar, talking himself into Ketty’s traps. Sheena Richards, protesting her innocence and William, promising everything to keep her safe. Elizabeth Ellman, defiant through her bruises. Margaret, refusing to talk. The guard from Makepeace Farm, too angry to protect himself from Ketty’s questions.

  All of them sitting where I’m sitting. All of them seeing themselves in the same mirror. Hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

  I look just like them. The jumpsuit and the handcuffs are the most important things about me, here. This is everything I am, and everything I have to offer. This is all I can expect, for as long as the coalition wants to keep me at Belmarsh.

  The room is tilting, like the Lindisfarne Lady in a storm. I’m off-balance, eyes closed, my fists tight against the table.

  I take a breath.

  When did I realise I’d lost control?

  I have my answer.

  Here. Today.

  Now.

  Over

  The guards take me back to my cell, and all I can think about is Ketty.

  He’s spoken to Ketty.

  I try to imagine her facing Ryan across the table. Handcuffs and jumpsuit. Is her hair up, or down when they talk? Pulled back, or spilling over her shoulders in waves?

  I close my eyes against a vision of our first night out. Crossing the road to meet me – skinny jeans, blouse, tumbling blonde hair. Breathtaking.

  Does Ryan think about the curves, under her jumpsuit? About her scars?

  Or do we all look the same to him? Prisoners. Enemies. Sources of information. Jumpsuits and handcuffs, safely locked away.

  Does Ketty cooperate? Does she talk, or does she stare into the mirror, like Margaret?

  And Lydia – is she telling him everyone’s secrets? Is she enjoying the drama?

  I remember the prison van on Whitehall. Climbin
g the steps in my handcuffs to find Lydia, already gathering stories from everyone inside. Making sure we all knew what she’d found out.

  That’s when I realised we’d lost.

  Lee’s dead, she said, and I didn’t believe her. Ellman did it, before the broadcast.

  I laughed. It was impossible. Absurd. Ellman couldn’t be in London.

  Lee couldn’t be dead.

  Bracken killed himself. Redecorated one of the clerks’ offices with the inside of his skull.

  One of the girls in the van nodded. She’d seen him, afterwards.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Some part of me thought the trial was still happening. I’d heard the gunshots. People falling on the stage.

  I wanted to know that I’d done my job. Delivered the show trial we’d planned.

  David. Lydia reached across the van with both hands, her handcuffs glittering in the harsh light. Let it go. They won. All we can do now is gather information, and make sure we’re useful to the OIE.

  I insisted. Demanded to know more, and Lydia shook her head. Someone else spoke up and described what happened on the stage.

  William’s sacrifice, for his daughter. Ellman and Pearce taking control. The firing squad, falling. The judge, his hands in the air, begging. Soldiers and medics.

  The speech from the King.

  Lydia gripped my hands in hers, keeping her eyes on mine.

  It’s over, David. Be smart. Make sure you have something they want.

  I nodded, and listened, and I still couldn’t believe what I heard.

  *****

  I saw Ketty, later. In the holding cells. She called out to me as the soldiers took me away, and I remember my disappointment. Lydia said she’d got out, after Bracken’s suicide. I wanted to believe she was free.

  Where’s Bracken, David? She sounded desperate. She didn’t know. Is he here?

  We’d been invaded. Dragged away in handcuffs and locked up. And she was still trying to protect her boss.

  I had seconds to tell her he was dead. I made sure she knew she was on her own.

  I think about Ketty, locked in a cell. I’m sure she’s not here – I haven’t heard her voice. Is she at another secure site? Or is she in one of the prisons? Does she have a high-security cell like mine, or does she share her space with one of the other Home Forces girls?

  The thought makes me smile. Jules or Rosalind or Penny, sharing a cell with Ketty.

  I think about her ice-queen act in the interrogation room. Sending a guard to break Elizabeth’s arm. Using her own fists and boots on Margaret.

  The girls wouldn’t stand a chance.

  And Lydia. Sergeant Wheelan. Is she with them? Or is she in isolation, like me? Giving up her gossip in exchange for attention and favours.

  It’s such a waste, these girls. Curves, smiles, cinnamon and roses. The way they called out my name in the dark.

  I dream about them, in here. Penny’s milk-white skin. Rose, pulling me into the shower. Ketty, walking away from me on the South Bank, at midnight.

  We’re not getting out any time soon. I don’t know how long we’ll be locked up – Ryan won’t tell me – but I know we’ll all face trial. Some of the girls will get away with a quick court appearance and a few years inside. The rest of us?

  I guess Lydia was right. It depends on how useful we can be.

  Judgement

  I dream of a girl. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles.

  We’re in Whitstable, with the white holiday-cottage sheets – but I don’t know whether it’s Emma or Ketty in my arms.

  I should be happy, sharing my bed, but I feel empty and heavy and dark.

  I know Emma is free. She’s miles away with the Canterbury team – heroes of the resistance, after the South Bank Bomb.

  I know Ketty is behind bars, like me. Facing years of waking up in the same cell. Living through day after pointless day.

  Curves, scars, and attitude in a prisoners’ jumpsuit.

  The dream hollows me out. The sadness is overwhelming.

  I don’t know who is holding me. Whose dream I’m sharing.

  *****

  The lights hum and flash, and someone shouts in the corridor. I throw my arm over my eyes against the sudden brightness.

  There’s a banging on the door, and on every other cell door in turn. I make myself stand up, rubbing my hands over my face and trying to smooth my hair.

  Five minutes until inspection.

  I relieve myself, and throw cold water onto my face. The high-security cells are stark, but at least our needs are met. Toilet, wash basin, bed, and a tiny mirror glued to the wall. We don’t need to leave, unless they want to question us. I’ve spent days in this room, staring at the walls.

  The door opens and I’m standing in the centre of the space, jumpsuit on. The guard looks at me and grunts before pushing a breakfast tray into the room and closing the door.

  I close my eyes as he slides the lock into place.

  How many years will I spend, sealed inside a concrete box?

  I used to tell myself there would be other nights, other girls. I wouldn’t be alone forever.

  But I’m not sure I believe it any more.

  I have a routine, every morning. Get dressed for the inspection, then strip off again when the door closes. Press-ups, sit-ups, stretches, shadow boxing. Anything to keep fit and focused. When I’m done, I wash, filling the tiny basin and drying myself with the thin, scratchy towel. Dress again, and sit cross legged on the bed to eat breakfast.

  Today I have cold toast, weak tea, and orange juice mixed from powder. It’s separated in the plastic cup, the last mouthful grainy and rough on my tongue.

  I make it last. There’s nothing else to do.

  When I’m done, I clean my teeth, wash my hands, and lie down on the bed to wait for lunch.

  *****

  The bolt slides back on the door, and I’m sitting up before I realise it’s too soon for a meal tray. Another interrogation, then. I wait for the guard to call my name, but nothing happens.

  The door swings open, and there’s a figure in a black suit watching me from the corridor.

  For a moment, I think my time is up. I think they’ve come to take me to trial, or worse. I can feel the sadness from my dream spreading through my chest. My stomach tightens.

  The figure steps through the door, and my breath freezes in my lungs. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  This is impossible.

  Impossible.

  It’s Ketty. Ketty is in my cell.

  This has to be a dream. This can’t be happening.

  It’s only the faint scent of apple that convinces me she’s real.

  “Oh my god. Ketty!” I’m on my feet, running a hand through my hair, trying to understand what’s happening. What she’s doing here.

  “Conrad,” she says, nodding.

  I’m staring. I can’t take my eyes from her. She looks amazing. Her hair is tied back, neat and smart. A black trouser suit and a dark mustard roll-neck top hide her curves, and there’s a Belmarsh Visitor’s pass clipped to her pocket.

  This isn’t a prisoner’s jumpsuit. This is expensive. Businesslike.

  I’m shaking my head as I take in her clothes. The way she stands tall, her chin tilted up. The freckles dusted across her cheekbones.

  “You’re not locked up.” I know it’s a stupid thing to say, but none of this makes sense.

  The smile she gives me is like ice. I make myself take a breath.

  “It looks that way.”

  I can hear the chill in her voice. What is she doing here?

  I watch as she inspects me. Her eyes roam over my jumpsuit, my wild hair, my bare feet on the cold floor. There’s the ghost of a smile on her face as she nods.

  “Nice outfit, David.”

  It’s like a punch. She’s completely calm, and she sounds as if she’s talking about the weather, but she might as well have used her fists.

  This is impossible. I know they caugh
t her. I know she was locked up. I can feel my own fists tightening.

  I can’t help raising my voice. “You were behind bars.” She watches me, waiting for me to figure this out. “You were at the Police Station. How did you get out?”

  She shrugs, and points a finger at my jumpsuit.

  “Oh, I wore one of those for a while.” She knows something I don’t, and she’s enjoying the power. “Inconvenient, isn’t it? Being locked in here?”

  I shake my head. I don’t understand.

  There’s a smile, spreading over her face. I think about Lydia at Horse Guards Parade.

  All we can do now is gather information, and make sure we’re useful to the OIE.

  Be smart. Make sure you have something they want.

  That’s what she’s done.

  She’s bought her freedom. She’s spilled her secrets – my secrets – and they’ve set her free. I need to know what she’s told them.

  “Why did they let you go, Ketty?” I need an answer. I need to know the price of freedom. “What did they get from you? What did you give them?”

  She looks down at her smart clothes. Spreads her hands to emphasise the shape of her jacket.

  “It seems that I’m valuable to the government, David.” She’s still smiling. Still controlling the conversation. She meets my gaze, her blue eyes frozen. “But apparently you’re not. It seems that you’re more useful as a prisoner.”

  It’s like another punch. She hasn’t answered my question. I can’t believe she’s doing this. I can’t believe she’s making me beg.

  “Tell me what you did, Ketty.” My voice is quiet, my throat tight. I need this.

  She straightens her spine and lifts her chin, her smile fading.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She doesn’t need to shout. She doesn’t need to move. There’s steel in her voice, and I take a step back before I realise what I’m doing.

  “Enjoy your show trial, David,” she says, and I hear her voice catching. There’s colour, rising on her cheeks. She waves a hand at my cell. “And get used to this. I think you’re going to be here a long time.”