Crossfire

by Malorie Blackman

  Mum says …

  Mum says.

  If such tactics were good enough for the government, why weren’t they good enough for me? Only the government didn’t get half the flak I’m taking from Troy.

  How is that fair?

  forty-nine. Troy

  * * *

  Libby is looking at me, stricken.

  Yeah, that hit you where you live, I think sourly.

  I mean, come on! I didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Despite every cutting remark Libby has ever made about her mum, she’s still doing her damnedest to be just like her. What’s that about? And, now that I know who her dad is, the resemblance is unmistakable. Uncanny even. Libby is still blinking at me like a stunned owl, like I’ve said something insightful. Hardly.

  ‘I’m not getting into a blinking contest with you, Libby,’ I tell her straight.

  And I can’t take being down here a moment longer. I’m about ready to start climbing the walls; either that or start banging my head off one. There has to be a way out of this basement. There just has to. Deciding on the direct approach, I start up the stairs.

  ‘What’re you going to do?’ Libby asks from behind me, trepidation in her voice.

  ‘Make a nuisance of myself,’ I reply.

  ‘Because making a nuisance of yourself is a sure way to win friends and influence people.’

  Really? ‘What’s your plan then?’ I turn to ask. ‘To make yourself as small as possible in the hope they’ll forget all about us?’

  Even in this dim light, I can see Libby’s cheeks begin to redden. Bullseye!

  ‘Not gonna happen, Libby. You’re the one that wanted to be up and doing,’ I remind her. ‘If we want out of here, we’ll have to do it ourselves. If there’s only one person out there, then we might stand a chance.’

  ‘There are three of them – at least. The tiger, the rabbit and the fox.’

  ‘But it doesn’t take three people to babysit a locked door,’ I point out. ‘If we’re very lucky, there’ll only be one or two out there, not all three.’

  ‘You think the two of us stand a chance against grown men?’

  ‘Libby, we stand no chance at all if we don’t try. You want to be a coward and do nothing? Go for it. Me? I’m gonna do something.’

  For Shaka’s sake! Libby is a real dead weight around my neck. It’s like having to fight our assailants and her at the same time. Heading up the rickety wooden staircase, I’m aware that my tone is unnecessarily brusque, but I’m not sure how much longer I can stay in this cellar without losing it completely. I’m not a fan of confined spaces at the best of times – but this? This is like someone has reached into my head and extracted my idea of hell.

  Fists clenched, I pound on the door. ‘LET US OUT OF HERE! LIBBY HAS COLLAPSED! SHE NEEDS HELP!’

  ‘I have not—’ Libby calls after me.

  I glare at her. ‘Shush!’

  ‘Oh!’

  Bloody idiot.

  ‘PLEASE! LIBBY NEEDS HELP! SHE’S HARDLY BREATHING!’

  I keep pounding on the door and shouting until my throat protests and my hands and wrists are red-hot and aching, but I’m not going to give up. I can’t. If I give in to the despair flooding over me, then I’ll drown.

  fifty. Libby

  * * *

  Troy is making far too much noise. The last thing either of us wants or needs is to accelerate whatever plans our kidnappers have for us. Troy is right about one thing though: I do just want to make myself as tiny as possible until we’re rescued. How does banging on the door and demanding to be let out because I’m supposedly ill help us? Like suddenly the ones who grabbed us off the street will listen to Troy and think, One of them is sick. We shouldn’t have abducted them like that! and then they’ll let us go?

  ‘Troy, you’re giving me a headache,’ I state softly for his ears only.

  He glowers at me, incredulous.

  ‘Are you kidding me, Libby? Is your home life with your mum so awful that you’d rather stay down here and rot?’

  Now he’s not the only one who’s scowling. He has a whole repertoire of low blows when it comes to me.

  ‘How is demanding to be released getting us anywhere?’ I ask, exasperated. ‘All you’re going to do is piss them off.’

  ‘Good. Then they’ll open the bloody door and—’

  The sound of the bolt being drawn back is unexpected, jarring. Troy and I both freeze until we hear the sound of the key turning in the lock. Troy quickly beckons me up the stairs before he takes a step back, ducking to his right to stand just behind the door as it slowly opens.

  Oh God! My heart is inflating inside my chest, pushing against my ribs, my spine, till there’s a tight band right round my torso. I walk halfway up the stairs. The man wearing the rabbit mask appears.

  ‘Water. Aspirin. Stay there.’ His voice is deep and gruff, but there’s something not quite right about it, as if he’s trying to disguise his voice. He bends to place two large bottles of water, what looks like a packet of biscuits and a blister pack of tablets on the floor. His head turns to look at me. I see the frown in his narrowed eyes behind the mask. ‘Where’s your friend?’

  Oh, Troy, don’t do anything stupid—

  Too late!

  Troy shoves the door forward. It smashes into Rabbit Man just as he’s straightening up. A yell of surprise and the man falls to the floor on all fours, his bare hands thudding against the quarter-space landing at the top of the stairs. Troy pulls back the door, slamming it forward again on the man’s head. Not even a groan. The man in the doorway drops like a stone. Troy leaps out from behind the door and charges through it, jumping over the guy now lying spark out on the floor. I race upstairs in full panic mode. I have no idea what Troy is up to, but I don’t want to get left behind. Being stuck in this cellar with Troy is bad enough. Stuck down here on my own would be far worse. When I reach the doorway, to my dismay I see Troy battling a tall, thin man in jeans and a black leather jacket, wearing a fox mask. The driver. The fox leaps onto Troy’s back and is trying to put him in a chokehold. Troy pulls at the fox’s arms, spinning round and backing into the nearest wall at speed to try and dislodge him.

  I jump over the rabbit guy, looking about for some way to help Troy. A frantic glance around gives me a better grasp of where we are. It’s definitely a house, with stairs running up to a first floor, and a basement. On the ground floor, through the closest doorway, I can see two old, collapsible wooden chairs and some empty, discarded pizza boxes on the floor – that’s it. The rest of the room is empty. The hall is bare floorboards with protruding nails and discoloured walls. We’re in an abandoned house that shrieks neglect. A second to take it all in. My only thought now is how to get out. Troy manages to dislodge the fox man on his back who falls to the floor. I leap out of his way as he lands. Immediately the fox jumps up, launching himself at Troy, his gloved hands round Troy’s throat. Troy lashes out. The fox only just manages to dodge his flailing blow. I take a step forward, ready to make my own dash for the door. One of us … one of us has to escape this house. A hand grabs at my ankle. Instinctively, I kick back, smashing my heel into the rabbit’s face. Tuck into that, you bastard!

  ‘Ooof! You little bitch!’

  An icy frisson of recognition runs through me. That voice … Where have I heard it before? No time to stop and think. I run for the door just as Troy manages to land a blow to the fox’s chest, which floors him again.

  ‘Stop them!’ calls out the rabbit, scrambling to his feet.

  That voice …

  Troy is only a step or two behind me. This might be our one and only chance to get away. I wrench open the door – and we run.

  fifty-one. Troy

  * * *

  A street. Evening by the feel of it. The air is filled with darkening blues and sodium orange. The shock of the outdoors. I’d lost track of the time of day down in that basement without my phone, and now being outside makes me stumble and pause, but only mo
mentarily. Now that the sky is my ceiling, the thought of being dragged back to the basement sends a chill down my spine.

  RUN!

  We’re out of the door and sprinting along the road faster than I’ve ever run before. We’re in a street of terraced houses, all boarded up and dilapidated. I don’t recognize the houses, the area – nothing about this place is familiar. And the worst thing? The whole area is quiet. Eerily quiet.

  We run – like the devil himself is chasing us. Libby is racing along beside me, matching me step for step.

  Where are we?

  I look around for a road sign, a recognizable landmark – but there’s nothing.

  Keep running.

  Behind us a car engine starts, the sound ripping through the quiet. Already it’s in motion. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to roar any harder. I was wrong.

  ‘Troy …’ Libby’s terrified whisper echoes in my head.

  ‘Don’t look back. Keep going.’

  We need to get off the road. There’s a corner up ahead. I pray there’s some place to hide, some bolthole nearby. We round the corner, only to pull up abruptly at the sight before us.

  The docks.

  Huge pallets, shipping containers and crates the size of lorries fill the view. All shapes, sizes, colours, and so many of them they go on for kilometres. At least I know where I am now – roughly. East Gurendah Harbour. But there’s no one in sight. Shouldn’t this place be heaving?

  There’s no time to ponder that. A quick glance over my shoulder shows the car behind us getting closer. There’s at least one hundred metres of scrubby wasteland filled with debris and junk between us and the nearest dockside pallets. Not enough debris to hide behind, but hopefully enough to slow down a car. Whoever’s driving will have to get out and follow us on foot.

  No time to think.

  ‘That way!’ I point towards the harbour.

  We take off.

  If the car behind us isn’t going to drop us where we stand, we need to run like the wind. Fail, and we won’t get a second chance. If we’re caught, we’ll both end up decorating the bottom of the harbour.

  The answer is simple.

  Don’t fail.

  RUN!

  fifty-two. Libby

  * * *

  My mouth is open, dragging air down into my lungs as I sprint. My lungs are red-hot, burning inside my chest. The throat-catching stink of shit, rotting food and fish pummels at my senses. Troy is only a step or two ahead and he keeps slightly twisting his head to the left to make sure I’m still at his shoulder. Shouting comes from behind us, but no more car engine noises. The two men who’d kidnapped us are obviously on foot now, chasing after us, shouting obscenities. I choose not to focus on what they’re yelling. Troy and I sprint past the nearest pallet and keep running, turning left, right, right, ducking round the vast shipping containers.

  I’m not going back to that basement.

  Troy pulls me down behind one shipping container, a finger to his lips. We both listen. Silence. Our captors have obviously stopped running too, doing the same thing, listening out for us. Troy points to the low harbour wall and nods. I frown. Why is he pointing in that direction? The only thing beyond the wall is the river.

  ‘Once we’re in the water, we’ll swim across to the other side and contact the police,’ Troy whispers.

  My heart nosedives. I shake my head. ‘You go. I’ll hide here until you can bring help.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Troy frowns. ‘I’m not leaving you behind.’

  ‘You must. You swim across the river and get help. OK?’

  Don’t make me say it. Please.

  ‘No. Not OK. We both go or we both stay,’ Troy insists.

  ‘Troy, I can’t swim,’ I admit.

  fifty-three. Troy

  * * *

  You have got to be shitting me. I search Libby’s face for a sign that she’s pulling my leg. There is none. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘I can’t swim,’ she repeats.

  ‘Well, we can both just hide out in the water. You can doggy paddle, and when the coast is clear I’ll swim across and—’

  ‘NO! I can’t get in there. I won’t. You can’t make me.’

  What the hell? Libby’s voice is rising as she stares at me. No, it’s more than a stare. Her eyes are wide like she’s forgotten how to blink. And her lips are pressed so tight together as to be bloodless. I’ve never seen her like this before.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Libby. And you need to get real. We have to jump in. It’s our only chance.’

  ‘I’m not being a diva. It’s not that I d-don’t fancy getting my hair w-wet or s-something.’ Libby’s talking so quickly that her words start to trip over themselves. ‘I can’t be in the water.’

  ‘For Shaka’s sake! Why not?’

  ‘It’s just a joke. Just for a laugh. Ha ha. Where’s your sense of humour, Libby?’ Libby’s eyes are wild, and she looks through me as she speaks. I haven’t a clue what she’s saying. ‘Where’s your sense of humour, Libby?’ she repeats.

  What the hell? What’s she playing at?

  ‘Troy, I’m afraid of the water. No, it’s more than fear, it’s a phobia. Rivers or lakes or the sea – makes no difference. Hell, standing in a puddle gives me a panic attack.’

  If that last statement was an attempt at humour, then I’m not feeling it.

  ‘You’ll just have to get over it,’ I say dismissively. ‘It’s the river or the basement – those are our only two options.’

  ‘There they are!’ The shout comes from the end of the row of shipping containers we’re crouching behind. Two men, one with a tiger mask and the one wearing the rabbit mask, are sprinting towards us.

  ‘Libby, come on.’ I grab her hand and pull her towards the harbour wall. She struggles to get out of my grasp but I’m not letting go. If I have to, I’ll pick her up and jump. I look over the harbour wall. The river, a good two storeys below us, undulates with dark grey-brown eddies in the evening light. Our captors are yelling at us, getting ever closer.

  ‘Libby, trust me. Hold my hand and jump,’ I order. ‘I won’t let you drown. I’ve done life-saving!’

  ‘No. I can’t. You go. Leave me. Get help.’ Libby is clawing at my hand, which is still holding her other wrist. Her nails dig deep, drawing blood.

  ‘Libby, move your arse.’ I pull her forward, swinging one of my legs over the low wall.

  ‘NO! LET ME GO! I CAN’T. LET ME GO.’

  Our two captors are less than ten metres away, screaming abuse, closing fast. Libby is screeching in my ear, still clawing at my skin. She’s twisting and coiling, trying to pull free. She’s bending my fingers back like she’s trying to break them. Jesus! The man in the tiger mask is carrying something in his right hand. A torch?

  ‘Stay where you are!’ he yells.

  ‘You’re gonna be fucking sorry!’ shouts the other.

  ‘Libby, please trust me.’ Desperation laces my words.

  ‘Troy. Go!’ Libby manages to pull away and sinks to the ground, sobbing like her heart is breaking. Our kidnappers are almost upon us.

  Jump, Troy. You might never get another chance …

  Heartsick, I swing my leg back over the wall so I’m on the same side as Libby. I see what the man in the tiger mask is holding now. A gun.

  ‘You fuckers better get your arses back to the house. Now. Or your bodies will be found floating in that river behind you.’ Tiger Man is beyond pissed. He sounds like he’s a hair’s breadth away from shooting us anyway, just for the hell of it.

  ‘You don’t want to test us,’ adds the man in the rabbit mask, sounding equally pissed off.

  Libby’s head jerks up. I see the shock on her face as she stares at Rabbit Man. What did she expect? That he’d give us both a hug for trying to escape?

  ‘Put your hands in the air. Move!’ the tiger barks, waving us back the way we came with his gun.

  Taking Libby’s hand, I help her to her feet. Why
on earth didn’t I jump? The opportunity was within my grasp and I threw it away. And for what? For Libby. Even now, she still looks terrified. Haunted. A split-second decision not to leave her in that state might end up costing both of us our lives. At the very least, our best chance at escape has vanished. We’re heading right back to where we started.

  The walk back is excruciating. Every time I try to lower my arms, the tiger guy jabs the barrel of his gun in my back – hard. I get the message. I guess ensuring our hands are in the air as we walk keeps us off balance. Hard to run with your hands up. I can’t even look at Libby. How can anyone be afraid of water, for Shaka’s sake? That’s like … that’s like being afraid of the air we breathe or the food we eat. She was probably just too chicken to jump. If we’d taken a run at it and we’d tucked our legs up as we jumped, I’m sure we would’ve been just fine. We could’ve been halfway across the river by now, instead of on our way back to that dank, rank basement.