Dolph Lilac went on to say, ‘Last week, after I scored the winning goal for my team, opposition fans invaded the pitch and I was actually in fear for my life. Enough is enough. After talking it over with my wife, I’ve decided to call it a day.’ The Albion Football Commission has since issued a statement in response: ‘Dolph Lilac is wrong to say we are doing nothing. We have called for an inquiry into last week’s pitch invasion and will be seeking a ban of at least two games for any season-ticket holder found guilty of threatening behaviour.’
NOW
* * *
five. Troy
* * *
How long have we been down in this basement? Over an hour? It feels like it. The air down here is thick, heavy, unpleasantly warm. Libby and I have been sitting on this crate, contemplating our fate, and the inactivity is getting to me. It’s taking everything I have and then some just to keep it together. I glance at Libby. Her expression might be carved from stone.
‘You OK, Libby?’ I ask softly.
‘No. Are you?’
A moment’s pause. ‘You’re right. It was a stupid-ass question.’
Libby smiles faintly.
We keep our voices low and quiet as we both watch the top of the stairs, straining to hear something. Anything.
Silence.
We exchange a look. I’m scared to shout and bang on the door and draw attention to us. I’m scared to stay still and quiet and hope they just forget about us. Basically, I’m scared shitless. Libby slips her hand into mine. I freeze. My first instinct is to pull away, but I don’t. Giving her hand what I hope is a reassuring squeeze, only then do I let it go.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Libby. ‘We haven’t seen our abductors’ faces. That’s good, right? A positive sign? That means they have no reason to … to kill us ’cause we can’t give their descriptions to the police. Right?’
The desperate hope in Libby’s voice … I can’t stamp on that.
So I nod and say, ‘Yes, but we should still try to figure out who took us and why.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Libby says softly.
‘So have I,’ I confess. ‘In my case, the line forms on the left.’
‘Why?’
Oh God! I really don’t want to say, but what choice do I have? This is not the time for hiding or dressing up the truth.
‘Because of my sister.’ It feels strange, almost traitorous to state it out loud, but having the words out rather than within has an unexpected effect. They settle me. I’m calmer.
Libby studies me then shakes her head. ‘You’re wrong. I have a line forming on the right.’
I frown, my question evident from the tracks furrowing between my eyebrows.
Libby answers my unspoken question. ‘I’m so sorry, Troy. It’s hard to say it but … I think we’re here because of my dad.’
THEN
* * *
six. Libby
* * *
As I walk along the corridor towards the library, I allow myself a slight smile. My campaign is going well. I’ve got my friends Raffy, Eden and Maisie lobbying on my behalf, talking me up and extolling my virtues. They’re the only real friends I have at this school. We’re four Nought girls who’ve come through school together. If it wasn’t for them on and at my side, I don’t know how I would’ve survived. Eden is already talking about all the things I can do when I’m head girl, like I’ve already won. According to her, I’m ahead in the straw poll they took last week when they went round all the upper-school classes asking everyone how they intended to vote. Since then Troy has joined the race. OK, so Troy is also gaining traction in the fight for votes, but I’ve made a point of going round to each classroom during the lunch hour and speaking for a few minutes about what I stand for and what I intend to do for each and every student. And I steer well clear of ‘us and them’ rhetoric. I’ve learned from my mistake in the common room. Luckily for me, memories are short. Well, not Troy’s – but I don’t want to think about that.
I’m within arm’s length of getting what I want. It smells of fresh-cut grass. It’s warm, furry and purrs beneath my fingertips. It tastes raspberry-sweet and sharp against my tongue. Its siren song stirs my blood. Ambition is working all my senses. This time next week I’ll be head girl and it’s going to look so good on my university application forms. As a Nought, I know I have to be twice as good to get half as far as a Cross. My mum has drummed that into me since before I could walk and talk. Being head girl of a school like Heathcroft High will guarantee that I get to study medicine at my first choice of university. I’ve got it all worked out. I’m going to be a surgeon. Maybe even a neurosurgeon. The best damned one in the country. My hands are going to make my fortune. And then no one, but no one, will look down on me or laugh at me behind my back because of my mum. I’ll be my own boss. I’ll be Liberty Jackman – renowned doctor. And, even if being head girl only gets me a partial scholarship, at least it’ll be something. Some way, somehow, I’ll find the rest of the money needed to get to uni. Even if I have to work two jobs while I’m studying. Every time I mention going to uni, Mum scoffs and tells me I’m wasting my time.
‘You could be a hairdresser or work in a shop. There’s nothing wrong with those professions.’
When it comes to what I should do once I leave school, it’s the only song Mum sings and those are the only lyrics she knows.
‘You’re right, Mum. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with those jobs, but I want to be a doctor,’ I tell her.
‘A doctor? A Nought doctor? That’ll be the day.’
I only just manage to keep my expression neutral.
‘There are Nought doctors,’ I point out.
‘Damned few and far between, and do you really think Crosses will want you looking after them? They’ll insist on one of their own. And, even if you do qualify as a doctor, I guarantee you’ll be questioned every day by some dagger moron about whether or not you’re really qualified.’
I wince. Mum can never mention Crosses without calling them daggers or worse. After all these years of hearing it, I should’ve got used to it by now, but it still jars.
‘I don’t care. I’m going to be a doctor, Mum.’
‘And who’s going to pay for your training?’ says Mum. ‘Because it won’t be me. I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘I’ll find a way.’ That was my motto. My mantra.
I have no idea how I’ll do it, but I won’t give up. I can’t.
And the first step towards the realization of my dream is to be voted head girl. Since Troy announced that he’s going to run for head boy two days ago, he and his friends have put up posters all around the school detailing his plans – what he grandiosely calls his manifesto. Plans like setting up a student council to meet with the staff once a fortnight. Or plans to stop whole-class detentions in the lower school for the actions of one or two disruptive students. I have to admit they’re reasonable ideas and he’s making sure everyone knows about them. That’s what I should’ve done from the beginning – put up posters all over the school. The moment Troy got approval from Mr Pike, the teacher co-ordinating the head-student election, to run, he hasn’t let up. I’ve been campaigning all term, but it never occurred to me to stick up posters until Troy did it.
Luckily, good ideas love company so I stole a leaf out of his book. I took a selfie, used the school library computer to enlarge the photo and then turned it into a set of posters, printing a metric ton of them. My smiling face had the straight-up slogan – VOTE FOR LIBERTY JACKMAN – above it and the words VOTE FOR STUDENTS’ RIGHTS below it. My friends and I put them up all over the school. I only have a few more days to make my message count. And I intend—
Wait … What the—?
Fists clenched, my face burns as I stand outside the school library. On the poster of me taped to the noticeboard by the door, someone has drawn horns sprouting out of my forehead and the word FAKE has been writ large across my face.
I don’t need
to be a genius to know who’s responsible.
OK, Troy. You know what? You want a war? You got it.
Speak of the devil. There he is, rucksack over his shoulder, laughing at something his equally moronic mate Ayo has said. Troy, Ayo and Zane are heading my way. Then Troy notices me and his smile vanishes. I step into his path.
‘You really are pathetic. You know that, right?’
‘Hello to you too, Princess Petunia. What’s biting you now?’ Troy says with an exaggerated sigh.
I point to my poster on the wall. ‘That! Is that really the best you’ve got? So much for not trashing the opposition. That’s so pitiful. And stop calling me Princess Petunia.’
‘Whatever you say, Ms Dibby.’
Bastard! He knew that name wound me up. ‘Stop calling me that too.’
Ayo and Zane stand on either side of Troy, grinning at me, revelling in my humiliation.
‘Libby, I’ve got ninety-nine things I’d rather do than talk to you, including having my toenails extracted,’ says Troy. ‘What d’you want?’
I point at my poster again. ‘You did that, didn’t you?’
Troy contemplates the poster like he’s never seen it before. Who does he think he’s fooling?
‘I don’t need to resort to stuff like that to see you lose. That poster is pretty accurate though.’
‘Drop dead, Troy.’
‘You know what, Liberty? Contrary to what you obviously believe, I don’t spend my hours thinking up ways to annoy you,’ Troy snaps. ‘Actually, I don’t think of you at all, so could you miss me with your bullshit, please?’
I scowl at Troy, my heart slamming against my ribs. Flashes of light and white appear before my eyes. Why can’t I catch my breath? Then I realize what’s happening. I tear the poster off the wall, turn and stride away from Troy, heading for the girls’ toilets.
Don’t melt in public.
Don’t melt …
I have to get away before I embarrass myself. A couple of girls I recognize from the year below mine are already in there. Ignoring them, I head for a cubicle, slamming the door behind me before leaning against it. Breathe in. Breathe out. I want to slide down the cubicle door and keep falling right through the floor, but force myself to stay upright.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I grab for my pencil case from my rucksack, which is now resting on the mucky cubicle floor. Digging into it, I look for the sharpest thing in there. My safety pin. My pin of safety. I pop it into my mouth to rest on my tongue before rolling up my left sleeve. Retrieving the pin, I open it, running my thumb over its point. Caressing it. One deep breath later and I scrape the pin along my skin. Slowly. Deliberately. From inner wrist towards my elbow. One direction only. Scrape. Scrape. Little beads of red appear along each line.
Breathe in …
Breathe out …
Concentrate on each and every bead of red. Watch them swell. Grow. Then still.
At last my heart rate begins to slow down. I close the safety pin and push it back down to the bottom of my pencil case. My life-saver. My forearm is stinging. I focus on the burning prickle of my skin. The one thing in my life I truly control. There’s only one person in the entire school who knows what I do to keep from … exploding. One person who shares my secret – Troy.
And he only knows because he once caught me with my pin of safety, as I secretly call it, in our first year at school. I begged him not to tell anyone. I made him promise. Well, no one else at school has ever spoken to me about it so I guess he’s kept his word. That’s the only thing Troy has going for him: he always keeps his word. But he’s the cause of this fresh set of scars on my forearm.
I may be adept at direct confrontation, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I get flustered, start sweating and my heart races like an Olympic sprinter.
All these years of living on a knife edge with my mum, I guess. When I was younger and more fearless, I tried standing up to her. After one particularly vicious argument, she hit me so hard … well, I ended up swallowing a tooth. She was all tears and apologies afterwards, but the damage was done.
My motto now – at least at home?
Anything for a quiet life.
When Mum comes at me in one of her moods, I know enough to keep my mouth shut. I look down and try not to catch her eye. Nine times out of ten, looking her in the eye makes things worse. So I always back down, beta to her alpha wolf. But every daydream is filled with getting up, getting out, getting away.
At least here at school I can be closer to my true self. Not closest but closer. Less hiding, less lying. More vocal. But arguments still make me sweat. Particularly arguments with Troy.
And I don’t need to wonder why.
seven. Troy
* * *
What the actual hell?
Furious, I watch Libby stride away from me. How dare she? I don’t appreciate the way she automatically assumes I’m the one defacing her stupid posters. Dina, Meshella and Zane are also running for head student. Not just me and her. It could quite easily have been one of those three or their friends. Why assume I have nothing better to do?
Typical of Liberty and her way of thinking. She can’t stand me, so I must be guilty. No proof required.
She’s an every-day-of-the-week-and-twice-on-Sunday member of the church of the vicious minds. You’d think, after all these years, she’d know stabbing people in the back isn’t my style. I don’t need to resort to writing facile remarks over her posters. The head-student debate will be in assembly in front of the whole upper school next Wednesday, with the vote taking place later the same morning. Two teachers are then responsible for collecting and counting the votes, and the winner of the election is announced in a special assembly that same afternoon at the end of the school day. I can’t wait for next Wednesday. Truth to tell, I’m surprised by how much I’m looking forward to it. During our debate, I intend to take Libby down so hard and fast that she’ll never get up again.
I know just how to do it too.
And it won’t be behind her back.
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Revealed: in the run-up to the election, Tobias Durbridge speaks out against confirmed residential status
Tobey Durbridge, Shadow Home Secretary for the opposition Democratic Alliance party and Prime Ministerial candidate, has spoken out against confirmed residential status, the government ruling that requires all those of Fenno-Skandian heritage who were not born in Britain to apply for confirmed residential status.
‘It is outrageous that Fenno-Skandians who came to this country as babies or young children and who might now be in their seventies and eighties are being told to apply to stay in their own country,’ said Tobey Durbridge at today’s opposition news briefing. ‘A number of my constituents have recently asked me if the current government is deliberately doubling down on deporting as many Noughts as possible in the hope of skewing the voting in the forthcoming general election.’
eight. Libby
* * *
I’m sitting at the back of the library, staring out of the grimy windows across the staff car park. The grey clouds drip their insipid colour into the very air. Everything about today is grey. School is over, but I’m in no hurry to get home. It’s been a bitch of a day. Sly smiles and snide asides about my defaced campaign posters have followed me round the school. And Meshella Musenga has made a point of ‘accidentally’ bumping into me whenever we’re within a couple of metres of each other. What is her problem? Is it what I said a couple of days ago about her only looking out for her own? How was that wrong? Isn’t it only natural? It’s not like saying that made me a paid-up member of Nought Forever. It’s just that Mum says Crosses look after their own first, last and always, and that we Noughts need to do the same.
Mum says …
Mum says a lot of things, too much of which bypasses her brain before it comes out of h
er mouth. So I should’ve known better. Why didn’t I think harder before I said anything?
My damned eyes are beginning to leak.
‘Goodness me, Libby. You’re here again?’
I dash a hand across my cheeks before dredging up a smile for Mrs Robe, the school librarian and one of only two Nought members of staff in the school – apart from the dinner ladies and the cleaners. ‘I can’t keep away, Mrs Robe.’
Mrs Robe casts a speculative look in my direction. Did she see me tearful? God, I hope not. After smoothing down her light brown hair, cut into a neat bob, Mrs Robe glances at her watch. ‘The library is closing in five minutes, OK? It’s just you, me and the cleaners left in the building at this point.’
I close my books and pull them into my bag. When I look up, the librarian is watching me.
‘Everything all right, Libby?’
‘Yes, miss. Of course.’ I force a smile.
‘I haven’t seen your mum at the last few parents’ evenings.’
Warmth floods my face. ‘She’s been busy.’
‘Oh. OK.’ Mrs Robe nods but doesn’t look convinced.
Silence sits like a voyeur with popcorn, watching both of us.
‘Libby, are you sure you’re OK?’ says Mrs Robe.
‘I’m fine.’ Please stop asking.
‘If there’s anything worrying you, I’m here,’ she says. ‘You can talk to me. You know that, right?’
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