Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

Callie nods. ‘The trolls have begun to crawl out of their slimy holes. Threats have started coming into chambers, and Sol, my boss, is livid that I took on the case without discussing it with him first.’

  ‘What kind of threats?’

  Callie’s eyes roll. She’s trying to make out that it’s no big deal, but her actions speak far louder than her words. ‘Warnings to back down. Step up. Drop it. Don’t drop it. Take the case. Don’t take the case. Or else.’

  ‘How does anyone even know about it when it hasn’t been in the news?’

  ‘I told you I took out a super-injunction to suppress the story so the press aren’t allowed to report on it, but the officers who arrested and charged Tobey are bound to tell their families who blab to their friends.’

  ‘Hmmm … You’ve had threats before—’

  ‘Not like these. There’s a new tone to some of them …’ Callie’s voice trails off.

  ‘Threatening me and Mum as well as you.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she admits. ‘I’m big enough and ugly enough to take care of myself, but I’m not going to risk anyone trying to harm you and Mum. If by some miracle the prosecution manage to get the super-injunction overturned, I’ll assign a close-protection officer to look after you and Mum. Until then, just be vigilant. OK?’

  ‘Callie, you’re probably worrying about nothing. I’m not gonna start looking over my shoulder everywhere I go.’ Bugger that for a game of soldiers.

  ‘Look, Troy, this isn’t a joke or a game. I’m taking these threats seriously. So are the police – and so should you.’ Callie’s tone is sombre. ‘There are people out there who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you and Mum to get to me.’

  Her razor-wire words slowly but surely sink in.

  ‘How is Gabriel taking all this?’

  Gabriel Moreland is Callie’s knob of a boyfriend. I’ve only met him twice, but each time he spoke to me like my shoe size and IQ were a matching pair. With his power suits and his power fade and his power-toned muscles and his power-plucked eyebrows, he was all about money and the status that synchro-swam with his job title. The last time we’d met was at the Mafanikio Ball, a big, glossy annual dinner-dance for lawyers, which also included a charity auction of donated gifts. Callie had unexpectedly invited me to go with her and I’d snatched her hand off. It wasn’t often I got to attend formal functions. My sister and I sat at a table of ten, including Gabriel. Our meal was over and the auction due to begin. My first auction. I couldn’t wait to see how it worked. Some of the submitted gifts included a spa weekend, a flying lesson, driving a Formula One car for an afternoon, a few paintings, rare books and a trip in a hot-air balloon. I could’ve gone for any of those – except the spa weekend. Hard pass on that one. Not that I could afford any of the auction items if the guide prices were anything to go by.

  While waiting for the auction to start, for the first time that evening Gabriel spoke to me. ‘So, Troy, what do you plan to do once you’ve left school?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied honestly. ‘I wouldn’t mind teaching chemistry or maths, but I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Teaching?’ Gabriel looked me up and down with disdain. ‘You know what they say – those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’

  I glanced at Callie. Had that been a frown on her face? It had come and gone so quickly it was hard to tell.

  ‘I mean really – don’t you have any ambition?’ Gabriel said with contempt.

  I replied, ‘You wanna know the difference between a mosquito and a lawyer? One is a blood-sucking parasite and the other is an insect.’

  Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up at my retort.

  ‘Troy, you’re sitting at a table of lawyers,’ Callie reminded me pointedly. ‘And we’re not all like that.’

  My face flushed hot as I looked around. My joke had gone down like a cup of sick. A perfect example of not reading the room. Damage limitation was required. ‘Callie, I know that’s not you. It’s just a joke I heard,’ I tried feebly. ‘Besides, I know you wouldn’t work or go out with other lawyers who are like that either.’

  A few hard glares, a couple of forced smiles.

  The other lawyers might’ve been OK, but Gabriel sure wasn’t. I knew a dickhead when I saw one. He wasn’t just conforming to every negative stereotype, he was basking in them. After my comment, the gloves came off. Gabriel spent the rest of the evening ripping into me. Ass hat! He was so patronizing, he was lucky I didn’t knee him in the nuts. God knows I wanted to. But what burned me more than anything – and still burns, if I’m honest – is that Callie sat next to him and didn’t say a word as he verbally crucified me.

  ‘Well?’ I prompt. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. Gabriel isn’t happy and is telling you to drop the case.’

  ‘I have no idea how Gabriel feels about it. Nor do I care. He and I aren’t together any more,’ Callie retorts.

  ‘Oh? When did that happen?’

  ‘The day after the Mafanikio Ball.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I didn’t appreciate the way he spoke to you,’ Callie says with a shrug.

  ‘No, why did you really break up with him?’

  Callie quirks an eyebrow, tilting her head to one side as she looks at me. It hits me like an express train that she’s deadly serious.

  ‘You dumped him because of me?’

  ‘No, I dumped him because of him,’ she says firmly. ‘He went out of his way to be a dick to you and I’m not having that, not from him, not from anyone.’

  ‘Why was he so unpleasant?’

  ‘Maybe he thought that making you look small would make him look bigger,’ Callie says, unimpressed. ‘He was wrong.’

  ‘But you didn’t say anything at the time,’ I can’t help pointing out. ‘You sat next to him and didn’t say a word.’

  ‘I wasn’t about to make a scene in front of my colleagues and the whole lawyer fraternity,’ Callie replies. ‘I’ve told you before, Troy, learn to pick your moments.’

  She had told me that – and more than once. If it’d been me, I would’ve told Gabriel something about himself right there and then, but Callie always views things from every angle before she makes a move. That’s probably why she always thrashes me at chess and is formidable in court. A satisfied smile creeps across my lips. Gabriel got dumped. Ha!

  ‘Troy, don’t get puffed up,’ she says. ‘I would’ve dumped him if he’d spoken to anyone the way he spoke to you. When people show you their true selves, you need to believe them. I always do.’

  One shiny moment for my ego and then my sister has to go and stick a pin in it. Typical!

  ‘So you’ll be careful? And report anything suspicious straight back to me?’

  ‘Course.’

  Callie’s eyes narrow. ‘Troy, promise.’

  For Shaka’s sake! ‘I promise.’ It’s only a takeaway, disposable promise, barely acknowledged by me. I’m sure Callie is overreacting and worrying about nothing.

  Callie nods, then leaves the room, taking my promise with her.

  seventeen. Libby

  * * *

  I try to open my eyes, but the pain is blinding. My left eye feels like it’s been sewn shut with a rusty needle and my whole face is throbbing. A sound comes rumbling towards me like a rainstorm approaching. The voice is muffled at first, but grows more distinct by the second.

  ‘Libby darling, I’m sorry. Wake up. I’m so sorry. See what you made me do.’

  Mum.

  I lie crumpled on the floor. Forcing my right eye open, I see Mum standing over me, swaying slightly, still drunk. Or high. Immediately I scramble away from her until my back hits the wall. Mum looks at me, a strange expression on her face. She reaches out with one hand. I notice the back of her hand is bleeding where she’s been scratching it.

  ‘Libby—’

  I shrink away from her. Mum’s hand falls to her side, her expression freezing by degrees.

  ‘You are your father’s child,’ she tells me, her voice dripping with con
tempt.

  It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, but now I understand the comment for what it truly means.

  ‘And that’s why you hate me,’ I reply quietly. ‘That’s why you’ve always hated me.’

  I voice what I should’ve figured out years ago. Mum straightens up, very still. We regard each other, the truth naked and ugly between us.

  I struggle to my feet. Mum takes a step back as if she thinks I’m about to launch myself at her. I take a step forward. She takes another step back. For the first time, I’m in control, not Mum. The heady rush of realization is intoxicating.

  ‘Mum, I will never allow you to hit me again,’ I tell her quietly. ‘And tell your boyfriend that, if he ever lays a hand on me, I’ll chop it off and then go straight to the police and have him arrested.’

  A moment’s consternation on Mum’s part, then she turns and staggers out of my room, slamming the door shut behind her. Her final word. I rush to lock the door, then lean on it, my forehead against the cool wood.

  Stupid to open it in the first place.

  Stupid for putting up with a mum who drifts through life with nothing but hatred for company.

  Well, no more.

  Swallowing hard, I reach out for the door handle, only to snatch back my hand. No! She isn’t going to do this to me. I open the door before my courage can dance away again. The landing is empty. I head for Mum’s bedroom. No more living with lies. No more living in fear.

  I open her door without knocking. Mum is sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. The moment I enter the room, she looks up. Not allowing her a moment’s thinking time, I launch straight in. ‘Mum, where’s my trust money?’

  Mum’s expression is instantly incredulous. Wary. ‘What trust money? What’re you talking about?’

  ‘The money my dad pays you each month to look after me, for my future college fees and other expenses,’ I reply. ‘The dad you took great pleasure in saying didn’t give a damn about me.’

  Mum’s face began to redden. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  OK, so that was the way she was going to play it, was it?

  I tell her, ‘The bank sent me a statement today and I phoned them to find out if they’d sent the letter to the right person.’

  Mum’s cheeks are almost puce by now.

  ‘How dare you!’ She is actually beginning to shake with rage. ‘How dare you open my letters!’

  But I’m calm. Cool. Confident. ‘It was addressed to me, Mum. They’ve been addressing letters to me about the trust since I was sixteen, apparently – so if there’s any inappropriate letter-opening going on, it’s not from my direction.’

  ‘I’m your mother. You can’t talk to me like this!’

  I shake my head, recognizing this current argument for what it is. ‘Mum, pick one thing to get mad about and stick to that. You’re firing in all directions at the moment.’

  ‘I … I … don’t …’ Mum splutters.

  ‘So I’ll ask again: where’s my trust money, Mum?’

  Her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. She blinks rapidly, trying to summon up a suitable answer. None is forthcoming. The hunted, haunted look on her face confirms my worst suspicions. My heart is flip-flopping, though I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. My poker face is recharged and back in action. It wouldn’t do to let Mum see the disappointment on my face – again. Mum’s expression hardens as she finally settles on the way she’s going to play this. She’s about to kick off, but not in an alcohol-or drug-induced rage this time. No, this one is provoked by something less tangible, more unadulterated. Guilt.

  ‘The letter had a bank statement attached to it stating that my trust fund is now down to double digits,’ I get in before she can. ‘I didn’t even know I had a trust fund so when I phoned the bank I asked for more details.’

  Mum blanches. ‘You had no right to do that.’

  ‘It’s my trust fund, Mum, and the bank statement is in my name. That gives me every right. You said my dad was a nobody who walked away when you were pregnant. Yet he cared enough to set up a trust fund for me. A trust fund that used to have a lot of digits before the decimal point.’

  But not any more.

  ‘I’m not having this conversation.’ Mum’s voice hardens to match her expression. ‘And don’t you ever open my post again.’

  ‘It was my letter, Mum, addressed to me. I just told you that. You’re the one who’s been opening my post all these years, not the other way round.’ It’s like she just doesn’t get it. ‘I’m eighteen in a few weeks, and d’you want to know what my present to myself will be? I’m going to find a lawyer to go through my trust-fund account with a fine-tooth comb. And if … when I have proof that you’ve been taking money meant for me, I’ll make sure you pay – one way or another.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ Mum gives me a hard stare.

  I don’t answer. How can I? I’m not sure if it’s a threat or a promise or just hot air created in the heat of the moment, but Mum isn’t the only one who’s pissed. All this time she’s made out that my dad did a runner and didn’t give a toss about me. Liar.

  ‘I’ve spent years wondering why you didn’t just farm me off to a relative or put me in a children’s home,’ I muse. ‘And now I know the reason: because without me you would’ve had to work for a living. No me, no trust fund. All this time, you’ve been living off my money.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this. Get out of my room.’

  ‘Mum, I mean it. The moment I turn eighteen, the first thing I’m going to do is check out my so-called trust fund. If you’ve stolen my money, I’m going to the police. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back and be free of you. In fact, I’m going to write to my dad care of the bank and ask if I can live with him.’

  ‘Yeah, that’ll happen,’ she scoffs.

  ‘Even if he says a flat-out no, I still won’t stay here with you. Either way I’m outta here.’

  ‘You do what you have to do,’ says Mum. ‘And so will I.’

  She glares at me, her gaze scornful. For the first time, it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even sting. I’m beyond that now. I head back to my room, locking the door behind me. Lying on my bed, the words of the letter from the bank keep dancing before me. Trust fund … account balance … Lots of technical banking jargon that all boils down to one thing – no more money. When I phoned the bank earlier, giving the account number and sort code provided in their statement to me, the first thing I asked was how much had been paid in each month and how much the account had at its peak. They wouldn’t tell me until I answered their security questions, like my mum’s maiden name and my mum’s date of birth. I was thankful Mum had picked security questions that all revolved around her. Once through security, I got shocking answers to my questions.

  Mum said my dad walked out on us and never looked back. He looked back enough to pay for my upkeep each month. He looked back enough to never skip a month. Not one. Apart from the regular monthly deposits, every year on my birthday and at Crossmas, more money was added to my account, only to be withdrawn within a couple of weeks. My dad had remembered my birthdays. It was all academic though because my account had been bled dry.

  They say you can’t miss what you’ve never had, but I was already missing the financial security that had been snatched away from me – stolen away and spent by my mother.

  And, more than that, I missed my dad. A dad I’d never met, never known. I missed the idea of him, as well as the reality. A dad who was supposedly so worthless that, under the father’s name on my birth certificate, Mum had put UNKNOWN. Why had she done that? A way of spiting, spitting at and splitting both of us? Fed up with me plying her with questions about my dad, Mum had thrown the birth certificate at me when I was six or seven. I hadn’t understood what UNKNOWN meant, so Mum had explained it meant unwelcome, unwanted. I’d believed her.

  The bank wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me my dad’s name either. The source of the mon
ey on the statement was listed as TD Holdings – whatever that meant. I googled the name, but all that came up with was some insurance company. My dad is out there somewhere, and if Mum lied about him not caring, maybe she’d lied about everything else. Maybe he does want to get to know me. Maybe I’m not as unlovable as I’ve been made to believe all my life.

  I now have a new mission – to find out more about my dad and make contact with him.

  And neither Mum nor the devil himself will stop me now.

  Daily Shouter Online

  Home. News. Politics. Celebs. Entertainment. Sport. Tech. Health. Science. Money. More.

  Prime Minister Mansa Julliard speaks out against latest confirmed residency riots

  Liberal Traditionalist Prime Minister Mansa Julliard has condemned yesterday’s riots in the capital. ‘Those arrested have no interest in debate or political discourse,’ she said last night. ‘They merely seek to destabilize this government and our great country, encouraged in their lawlessness by dissident voices such as that of Tobias Durbridge in the main opposition party.’

  What started as a peaceful march to the Houses of Parliament quickly descended into a brawl between anti-government activists and the police. One protester told the Daily Shouter, ‘It’s a shame that a peaceful protest against an unjust law can get hijacked in this way.’ Another stated, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on in this country. I’m a sixty-year-old Nought woman, born and bred here. I really thought that we, as a nation, were coming together and making progress. The fact that the Confirmed Residency Bill could become law just shows that racism wasn’t on the way out, it had just gone underground. And now it’s back and roaring. This is my home. I’m not going anywhere.’

  eighteen. Troy

  * * *

  Well, this chews bag! I really have better things to do with my Sunday, but, after our last train-wreck dinner together, Mum has arranged for us to spend the day with Sonny at his home. We’ve been invited for Sunday dinner. According to Mum, Sonny is even going to cook it himself. Big whoop!