Contents
Author’s Introduction
PROLOGUE: The Catalyst one. Callie
NOW two. Troy
THEN three. Libby
four. Troy
NOW five. Troy
THEN six. Libby
seven. Troy
eight. Libby
nine. Troy
ten. Libby
eleven. Troy
twelve. Libby
NOW thirteen. Libby
THEN fourteen. Troy
fifteen. Libby
sixteen. Troy
seventeen. Libby
eighteen. Troy
nineteen. Libby
twenty. Troy
twenty-one. Libby
twenty-two. Troy
twenty-three. Libby
twenty-four. Troy
twenty-five. Libby
twenty-six. Troy
twenty-seven. Libby
twenty-eight. Troy
twenty-nine. Libby
thirty. Troy
thirty-one. Libby
thirty-two. Troy
thirty-three. Libby
NOW thirty-four. Troy
THEN: Way Back When thirty-five. Tobey
thirty-six. Callie
NOW
THEN thirty-seven. Tobey
thirty-eight. Callie
thirty-nine. Tobey
forty. Callie
forty-one. Tobey
forty-two. Callie
forty-three. Tobey
forty-four. Callie
forty-five. Tobey
forty-six. Callie
forty-seven. Tobey
NOW forty-eight. Libby
forty-nine. Troy
fifty. Libby
fifty-one. Troy
fifty-two. Libby
fifty-three. Troy
fifty-four. Libby
fifty-five. Troy
THEN fifty-six. Tobey
fifty-seven. Callie
fifty-eight. Tobey
fifty-nine. Callie
NOW sixty. Troy
THEN: The Party sixty-one. Tobey
NOW sixty-two. Callie
sixty-three. Troy
sixty-four. Callie
sixty-five. Tobey
sixty-six. Callie
sixty-seven. Tobey
sixty-eight. Troy
sixty-nine. Callie
seventy. Tobey
seventy-one. Callie
seventy-two. Tobey
seventy-three. Callie
seventy-four. Libby
Author’s Note
About the Author
Malorie Blackman has written over seventy books for children and young adults, including the Noughts & Crosses series, Thief, Cloud Busting and a science-fiction thriller, Chasing the Stars. Many of her books have also been adapted for stage and television, including a BAFTA-award-winning BBC production of Pig-Heart Boy and a Pilot Theatre stage adaptation by Sabrina Mahfouz of Noughts & Crosses. There is also a major BBC production of Noughts & Crosses, with Roc Nation (Jay-Z’s entertainment company) curating and releasing the soundtrack as executive music producer.
In 2005 Malorie was honoured with the Eleanor Farjeon Award in recognition of her distinguished contribution to the world of children’s books. In 2008 she received an OBE for her services to children’s literature, and between 2013 and 2015 she was the Children’s Laureate. Most recently, Malorie co-wrote the Doctor Who episode ‘Rosa’ on BBC One.
You can find Malorie online:
www.malorieblackman.co.uk
@malorieblackman
Praise for Malorie Blackman’s books
‘The Noughts & Crosses series are still my favourite books of all time and they showed me just how amazing storytelling could be’ Stormzy
‘Flawlessly paced’
The Times
‘Unforgettable’
Independent
‘A work of art’
Benjamin Zephaniah
‘A book which will linger in the mind long after it has been read’
Observer
‘A gritty read’
The Bookseller
Also available by Malorie Blackman for young adult readers
The Noughts & Crosses sequence
NOUGHTS & CROSSES
KNIFE EDGE
CHECKMATE
DOUBLE CROSS
CROSSFIRE
CHASING THE STARS
BOYS DON’T CRY
NOBLE CONFLICT
THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES
Anthologies
LOVE HURTS
An anthology of love against the odds from the very best teen writers, edited by Malorie Blackman
UNHEARD VOICES
An anthology of stories and poems to commemorate the bicentennial anniversary of the abolition of the slave trade
For a full list of Malorie’s books for readers of all ages visit malorieblackman.co.uk
For Neil and Liz, with love as always
Never say never. You’d think I’d know that by now! After Double Cross, the fourth in the Noughts and Crosses series, I thought, Right! That’s it. The series is finished. Except no writer lives in a vacuum or we’d soon run out of things to write about. The results of the UK Brexit referendum and the US presidential election in 2016 brought home to me just how potent the politics of fear and division can be. The food we eat, where we live, how we’re educated, the job opportunities open to us, the healthcare we receive, how we’re treated by the judicial system, the life opportunities afforded to us – every aspect of our lives is governed by politics.
I wrote Double Cross, the fourth in the Noughts and Crosses series, because Tobey Durbridge, a minor character in Checkmate (the third in the series), began to whisper his story into my ear, and he wouldn’t leave me alone until I got it all down. After the events of 2016, Tobey started whispering in my ear again – but he’d changed. He was an adult now, a politician and ruthlessly ambitious. Hell, let’s face it. He was just ruthless! It was interesting to explore just what had changed him over the years, and the consequences of that for the next generation.
Crossfire presents the third generation of Noughts and Crosses inhabiting the world I created almost two decades previously. Has life for Noughts improved? Is there more inclusion in society? Less division? I do believe in hope, in two steps forward for every one step back. But sometimes hope is hard to find and harder to hold on to. But hold on to it we must. I wanted to set up a situation for my two younger protagonists, Libby and Troy, which would place them in a predicament where hope was perhaps all they had. A predicament where they would have to work together and finally see each other, otherwise they would both fail. And, as for the older generation of Callie and Tobey, they are in a situation where they need each other but both make mistakes. Crossfire is about the guilty, the innocent, motives and consequences.
There is an old proverb that goes, ‘Get what you want, and pay for it,’ meaning ambition and ruthlessness may serve you in the short term but they come at a price. Sometimes it’s those we love who may have to pay that price as they get caught in the crossfire.
It’s been such fun revisiting the world I created so many years ago. Fun and daunting. But, like Noughts and Crosses, it’s a story I needed to tell.
I hope you enjoy it.
Malorie Blackman
Prologue
* * *
THE CATALYST
one. Callie
* * *
A Nought woman, no doubt some poor jobbing actress desperate to pay her rent, knelt down in the middle of a stylized pigsty. She held twelve leads attached to a number of decorated sculptures of life-sized pink pigs that surrounded her like the petals of a flower, all looking out at the audience. Some of the pigs wore clothes – one
a military uniform, another a flowery straw hat and gold-coloured high-heeled shoes. One sported a gaudy sapphire and diamond necklace, the stones as big as plums. Two of them were simulating copulation. The Nought woman at their centre wore a bodysuit that at first glance made her appear naked. She was kneeling, her head down. At random intervals, she looked up to stare at the person directly in front of her for a few seconds before slowly bowing her head again. Now it was my turn to receive her numb stare. My lips twisted in distaste. Blinking rapidly, the ‘exhibit’ lowered her head, her cheeks reddening.
Embarrassed for both of us, I said quietly, ‘The look on my face wasn’t aimed at you. It was aimed at this ridiculous so-called art installation.’
The woman’s head remained bent, the slight tensing of her shoulders and reddened face the only indications that she’d heard my words. Whether or not she believed them was another matter.
I shook my head, sighing inwardly. It had taken me years to cultivate a poker face, but there were moments – like now – when the mask inadvertently slipped. After glancing at my watch, I took a seat at one end of the gallery. A huge sign hanging above all the exhibits declared: ALBION – LESSONS LEARNED: A 21ST-CENTURY RETROSPECTIVE. Talk about the chieftain’s new robes. This was supposed to be the most avant-garde, exciting art exhibition currently in the capital. Nought actors and actresses adorned the various works of art, a few of them naked, some covered from head to toe in body paint of various hues. They sat in, on or among the various exhibits, seldom moving. The whole thing had a melancholy air of crass awkwardness to it.
If I were an art critic, I knew how my review would read: Dubious style and precious little substance. The few articles I’d read about this so-called exhibition described it as ‘daring’, ‘innovative’, ‘a fresh take’ – blah-blah.
Yeah, right.
Sauley J’Hara, the Cross artist responsible for this hot mess, had been all over the news during the last two weeks, responding to the very vocal criticism of his art stylings.
‘It’s a challenging, forward-thinking look at how we used to regard and treat Noughts, juxtaposed with how they are regarded now,’ he’d argued. ‘This isn’t a museum’s historical installation; this is art.’
What a steaming pile of horse manure. An exploiter, seeking to define and monetize the exploited. If it really was art, why not use Crosses and other ethnicities in his exhibition? The whole thing was nothing more than a self-congratulatory exercise in nostalgia for the backward thinkers who still wished – or still believed – they lived in the past.
I looked up at the ceiling and cornices. Now there was real art. Panels depicting Zafrika’s history – some carved from wood, some from marble, some just painted, but all exquisitely beautiful. I glanced down at my watch again. It hadn’t been my choice to meet here and I was burning to leave. The ceiling, which was part of the fabric of the building, I admired. The rest of the exhibition in this gallery was making my skin itch. I drank in the artwork on the ceiling, closing my eyes to imprint it on my memory as I lowered my head. A sudden frisson of awareness crackled through me like a static shock.
‘Hello, Callie. What’s what?’
The baritone voice made my head snap up.
Tobey Durbridge.
Damn it! My heart jumped at the sight of him, dragging me to my feet. God, it had been so long. Too long. When did the air get so thin in here? There was no other explanation for feeling this light-headed.
Oh, come on! You’re a grown woman for God’s sake. Get a grip, Callie Rose!
It had been such a long time since Tobey and I last met. A lifetime ago. What had I been expecting? Certainly not this. Over the years, just like the rest of the country, I’d seen Tobey on the TV countless times as he rose in prominence to become the first elected Nought Mayor of Meadowview, then a Member of Parliament, but seeing him in person was so different. Tobey had moved on and up – the only directions he was ever interested in. He was now the country’s first publicly elected Nought Prime Minister and there wasn’t a single soul in the country and beyond who didn’t know his name. As Solomon Camden, the head of my law chambers, had put it, ‘Only a fool would bet against Tobey Durbridge.’
And how had I voted in the recent general election?
Well, I was nobody’s fool.
Over the last twelve years, during each general election, the public had had the chance not just to vote for the person they wanted to represent their constituency, but also to choose between two or three candidates from each of the main political parties who would run the country should that party win the majority vote. After the scandal that hit the Liberal Traditionalists a decade ago, it had been judged a more democratic way of electing our country’s leader, rather than just relying on each political party to select candidates who may have bought or bribed their way to the top. Over the last couple of years, not a week passed without Tobey making the news headlines, and, when it was announced he was running for Prime Minister, I understood why. Publicity. Publicity. Publicity. The lifeblood of the ambitious.
But, even without all the TV coverage, I would’ve known this man anywhere. The Tobey of old with his chestnut-brown hair and darker brown eyes still stood in front of me, but his face was harder, and his lips were thinner, and the gleam he’d always had in his eyes – like he was constantly on the verge of a smile – well, that had all but vanished. Something told me it would take a lot to make Tobey smile these days. And he’d filled out. He was not just taller but broader. He made me feel like I was slacking on the body-conscious front. Which I was, I admit. I enjoyed my food! I hit the treadmill regularly, but only so I wouldn’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe every six months. Tobey, on the other hand, wore his charcoal-grey suit like a second skin. That hadn’t come off a hanger in a department store. His suit screamed bespoke from the rooftops. His black shoes didn’t have a scuff mark on them; his white shirt was spotless, as was his purple silk tie. Damn! He was wearing the hell out of every stitch he had on. Instead of looking staid and boring, he managed to make the whole ensemble look … dangerous. Like this guy could quite easily hand you your head if you messed with him, and still look fine doing it.
Suddenly aware that I was staring, I mock sighed. ‘For Shaka’s sake! I see you’re still taller than me.’
A shared smile – and just like that the tension between us lifted.
We grinned at each other as the years began to fall away, but then reality rudely shoved its way between us. Another moment, as we regarded each other. My mind was racing. Should we kiss? Hug? What? I moved forward at the same time as Tobey. A brief, awkward kiss on the lips was followed by a long hug. The warmth of his body and the subtle smell of his aftershave enveloped me. I stepped back. The moment for anything deeper, anything more, came and went and faded away unclaimed.
‘It’s so good to see you, Tobey.’ I felt faintly foolish that I’d had such a visceral reaction to him. ‘How are you?’
Tobey opened his mouth, only to close it without saying a word. An eyebrow quirked, followed by that wry smile of his – there it was! ‘I was going to say, All the better for seeing you, but you deserve more than cheesy lines and platitudes.’
Momentarily thrown, I wondered how exactly I was meant to respond to that.
Tobey indicated the seat behind us. He waited for me to sit before parking himself next to me, his thigh pressed lightly against mine. His warmth was unsettling in its familiarity. I should’ve moved my leg slightly so that we were no longer touching – but I didn’t.
Time for a change of subject. ‘You and Misty – I guess things didn’t work out between you?’
‘No. We tried for a while but – no. Does that please you?’ said Tobey.
Stung, I said, ‘D’you think I’m so petty that I’ll jump up and down with glee at the news of your break-up? Seriously?’
Thanks a lot.
‘You did warn me that I was making a mistake.’ Tobey shrugged. ‘And more than once.’
My
cheeks burned. Not some of my finer moments. ‘I was wrong to do that. One of my many regrets when it comes to you – and us.’
‘Oh? What else d’you regret?’ Tobey asked quietly.
I might have known he’d leap all over that one. No way was I going there.
‘How’s your family?’ I asked.
‘They’re fine. Jessica is doing a masters at uni now and Mum is enjoying her retirement. How’s Troy?’ said Tobey.
I shrugged. ‘Same as ever. He manages to work my last nerve every time we meet.’
Tobey smiled. ‘Isn’t that what all brothers are meant to do to their sisters? I know I have that effect on Jess.’
‘Troy works extra hard at it. He’s seventeen so he’s at the age when he knows everything. I love my brother, but he’s hard work.’
‘And your mum? How’s Sephy?’
‘She’s fine. Still running the restaurant,’ I replied.
Tobey nodded. ‘I was sorry to hear about what happened to Nathan.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I mean it. I meant to get in touch, but … you know how it is.’
Yeah, I knew exactly how it was. We were old friends who shared painful memories – and a great deal of hurt. How much easier then to let our friendship simmer at a distance rather than boil away to nothing or, worse still, turn to ice between us.
‘Is it worth me apologizing again for what happened?’ asked Tobey, not looking at me but at the people milling about the gallery.
‘Tobey, let it go. I have.’ Which wasn’t quite true, but it would do. ‘Is that why you asked me to meet you here? To rehash old times?’
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