Breathe (24 page)

I throw my backpack over one shoulder, Maude’s backpack over the other, loosen the valve on my airtank, and follow through the throng of people to the door. As I leave, I glance over my shoulder. Petra is standing back from the crowd, watching. There’s something behind her rigidity that I’ve never seen in her before. I keep walking and when I look back at Petra for a second time I can name it: fear.

It’s more like a blizzard now, the wind choking up our route. And the weather is not all there is to worry about. We have to listen for the rumble of the approaching army, too. With the storm so heavy, it would be easy to mistake zip blades for a whip of wind or marching feet for the distant crack of thunder.

Apart from Maude, who is barely able to shuffle forward through the snow, I’m the least experienced. I should feel safer tagging along with Dorian and Silas than I did when I led Bea and Maude to The Grove all on my own, but for some reason I’m much less confident now. Maybe it’s because I know too much. Even with Silas to protect him, Inger perished. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to be brave anymore, now there are others to take my place up front. Or maybe I’m giving up.

We walk for what feels like hours, Maude at the front of the group, and when we make our first stop, it’s only to check a map and eat half a pear each. Maude’s face is stiff from the cold and even her eyelashes are rimed with frost. I try to hold her face in my gloved hands to warm it. She hisses when I come close. I don’t have Bea’s way, I suppose. Dorian sees this and removes the balaclava he’s been wearing. He hands it to Maude without looking at her.

“Wear that,” he says, and immediately she slips it over her head and hides her face from the storm. “We can’t have her dying before we get there,” he whispers when he’s next to me again. “If anything happens to Old Maude, The Grove’s done for.”

We’re invited into a meeting room, though in reality it’s an interrogation chamber. Two burly stewards sit at a desk opposite us, staring. We’re told we need to wait for their boss to arrive before we can begin. I’m not sure that’s why we have to wait at all. I think they’re using the time to intimidate us. I try not to look terrified, pretending I’m so exhausted I might fall asleep right here in this chair.

Our story is that the soldiers saved us from the driving snow, so if that’s true I have no reason to be afraid; all we’re doing here is helping the Ministry understand what happened. More than that, we’re helping to fight terrorism and bring our captors to justice.

Quinn is trying a different tactic. He keeps tapping his foot and tutting. He turns around occasionally to look at the colossal ticking clock on the wall behind us, and once or twice he’s demanded to see someone in power. “He’s on his way,” one of our babysitters says, adding, “sir,” with a little too much emphasis. I don’t know that the arrogant role Quinn’s playing is doing us any favors as they seem to be increasingly annoyed and suspicious of us.

The door eventually creaks open and a hulking figure strides in wearing an expensive antique fur coat with a collar that covers his face. He brushes snow from his shoulders and, taking off the coat, throws it at our minders, who stood sharply as the door opened. At first I have the impression I’ve seen him before, and I start to run through a mental catalogue of all the places we might have met until I realize that I’ve never met this man anywhere. The reason I recognize him is because I’ve seen him on the screen—on the news and on political broadcasts, on posters and in displays at school. Towering over us is the Pod Minister.

He examines us over the bridge of his bulbous nose. One minute he is scrutinizing us, the next he turns to the two stewards and bellows, “I’m cold!” The steward holding the coat steps up to offer it to the Pod Minister, who cuffs the steward on the ear. “Not the coat! Get me a drink!” The stewards scurry out of the room and return quickly with a tray.

“Caffrey Junior,” the Pod Minister says, reaching forward to shake Quinn’s hand.

“Pod Minister,” Quinn answers, standing.

“You’ve had quite a journey, I hear,” the Pod Minister says, and plonks himself down in one of the chairs. He unplugs a heavy stopper from the bottle in front of him and pours a large glassful. He leans back in the chair and sips at the drink. The room fills with the sharp smell of whiskey. “Thirsty?” he asks. We both shake our heads. “I got a call this evening saying we found two missing persons. I couldn’t believe it when I heard the full story. Even now I almost don’t. It’s curious because one of our tanks spotted a lone boy in a location very close to where Communications tracked the last signal from your pads.” Quinn frowns as though he doesn’t understand the connection. “And, do you know that no one has ever escaped the terrorists before? You’ve achieved quite a feat.” The Pod Minister swirls the whiskey in the glass and inhales deeply before taking another vigorous mouthful. Quinn doesn’t speak up even during this long pause.

“The thing is,” the Pod Minister continues, “I had a report that you accompanied a suspect out of this place a few days ago. So … you helped a terrorist leave the pod and she turned on you. That’s what you’re saying?” Quinn nods. “Well, to start with, I’ll have the stewards who permitted the girl’s escape reprimanded. I presume they were open to some kind of bribe.”

Quinn looks down, ashamed, but remains silent. I keep my mouth shut and literally bite my tongue so I won’t be tempted to say anything. No one wants to hear from me. “Tell me, son—exactly what
is
going on?” The Pod Minister runs a hand through his thinning hair and grins.

Quinn sighs and gives the Pod Minister a shameful look. “Her name was Alina. I … I … It’s sort of embarrassing.” The Pod Minister leans forward in his chair and the stewards, who are now standing by the back wall, start to look interested. “I liked her, you see. And, well, when she asked if she could come with us on our trip I, well, you know. When she tells me she wants to go too, I think that I’m in with a chance. You know?” The stewards begin to snicker as my whole body aches at the memory of Quinn’s infatuation. Does he still feel that way about her? Is it possible to fancy a person one day and forget her the next? “So I gave her Bea’s pass and bullied my way through Border Control.”

“So this trip was all planned?”

“Yeah. ’Course. I mean, I didn’t tell my parents about Alina because they’d have given me
the talk
. Every time I meet a new girl they remind me how dangerous it is to get naked. I mean, I’d be lucky, you know.” The stewards are now bent over, trying to subdue their chortling.

“Why did
you
go?” the Pod Minister asks, turning on me all of a sudden, spraying my face with droplets of whiskey. Before I can speak, Quinn cuts in.

“Bea had never been outside the pod and I invited her to come with me before I met Alina. I couldn’t exactly tell her to get lost.” He pats my knee in the most irritating display of condescension. “I never told her Alina was coming, too.”

“You’re a sub,” the Pod Minister declares, insultingly. He smiles and watches me carefully. In fact, this whole time his expression has been calm, pleasant even. But I know that underneath the smile is suspicion and rage, and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of it. I am about to speak up when the door swings open and Quinn’s father appears. He stands by the door looking at Quinn, not speaking, and steals a glance at the Pod Minister. Next to me, Quinn shudders.

“Ah, Jude, there you are, my man. Do come in,” the Pod Minister says, scraping a chair across the floor and offering it to Mr. Caffrey.

“I had no idea you would be here,” Mr. Caffrey tells the Pod Minister. “I could have handled this. You’re much too busy.”

“Come come, Jude. Nothing goes on that I don’t hear about, you know that. And then I heard your poor son had been taken prisoner. I thought it my duty to come down here and make sure he was okay. For you. Ha!” Mr. Caffrey sits down in the chair being offered to him.

“Well, I’m embarrassed, Pod Minister. I promise you, he won’t see daylight for a year,” Mr. Caffrey says.

“What? Punish the boy? No, no, I don’t think there’ll be a need for that.” The Pod Minister pushes an empty glass and the decanter of whiskey to Quinn’s dad, who pours himself a generous measure.

“What the hell were you playing at?” Mr. Caffrey demands to know after he’s downed about half the glass.

“Father, I … I …” Quinn stutters. He can’t get the words out. He’s more scared of his father than he is of the Pod Minister. A large vein in Mr. Caffrey’s neck throbs and before Quinn can put up his hands to protect himself, Mr. Caffrey stands and smacks him hard across the face. Quinn lets out a small whimper and holds his face in his hands.

I know that to them I’m nothing, and that my word means even less than nothing. “May I speak?” I ask anyway, my voice barely a whisper. The Pod Minister stares at me, his smirk a challenge.

“Why, of course. Ha! Speak up, sub. Speak up. Tell us what you know.”

“When we got out of the pod, she took us off in a strange direction. We hadn’t planned on it. She said she wanted to explore some of the old houses. And we knew that was dangerous. We’d read all the guidebooks and we knew the structures were unsafe, but we went anyway. We shouldn’t have. As soon as we went through the door, we were ambushed. Five or six of them came out of nowhere. We were to be used as hostages. They knew Quinn’s dad was senior. We don’t know how,” I say. “I think they thought he was in the army though.” The Pod Minister snaps a look at Mr. Caffrey.

“Don’t ask me. Even my wife doesn’t know,” Mr. Caffrey assures him.

“We were blindfolded and bound and told to march,” I continue. Quinn holds out his wrists to show them the chafing from where he really was bound. They both glance down at his wrists and then at the welt Jazz left on my face.

“Where did they take you?” Mr. Caffrey wants to know.

“We were going south. They didn’t mention a place. But it was coastal for sure because they talked about boats.”

“And eating seaweed,” Quinn adds. This is an odd detail but the Pod Minister nods approvingly.

“Their hub is a boat?” Mr. Caffrey asks.

“I think so,” I say.

“But how are they managing to grow—” Mr. Caffrey begins. The Pod Minister cuts him short.

“Classified!” he shouts.

Mr. Caffrey takes another gulp of whiskey, having almost let slip what no one in the Ministry wants revealed: there are trees out there.

“What I’m curious about is how these two
heroes
escaped the terrorists,” the Pod Minister wonders, lingering over the word
heroes
and smiling again. “Sounds very dangerous.”

Quinn’s rehearsed this part, so I sit back and let him take over the story. “On the second night, while most of them were asleep, a group of drifters attacked. I couldn’t see how many in the dark, but there was pandemonium and the punk who was meant to be watching us ran to help the others. We managed to crawl away and got as far as an underground station by the time the brawl ended. We heard them screaming and looking for us. Eventually they gave up.”

The Pod Minister raises his eyebrows. “Wow! Isn’t that something!” he exclaims. “It’s almost hard to believe.”

“My son isn’t a liar, Pod Minister.”

“Of course not, Jude. I didn’t say that, did I? But I need to be sure.” Another steward steps into the room, moves toward the Pod Minister, and whispers in his ear. “Well, bring her in, won’t you,” he says.

For the final time the door opens. Clicking footsteps echo in the corridor and then Quinn’s mother enters the room. “Oh, Quinn, you’re okay. You’re okay!” she wails. She totters toward Quinn and throws her body across him, pressing her breasts into his face. Mr. Caffrey looks away. Mrs. Caffrey rarely hugs her children, and I have to be careful not to roll my eyes as I watch her performance.

“Hello, Mother,” is all Quinn can manage. I want to reach out and take his hand.

“So, Quinn. If you had to swear to me that you’re telling the truth, would you?” the Pod Minister asks. Quinn nods emphatically as he tries to extricate himself from his mother’s embrace. “Well, good. Good.” Here the Pod Minister looks at Mrs. Caffrey and licks his lips. “And if I made you swear on the life of your unborn brother, would you still claim to be telling me the truth?” Quinn looks at the swell in his mother’s body as Mrs. Caffrey stands up straight. I have never liked Mrs. Caffrey, but she is so tiny she looks like a pregnant teenager rather than a woman in her forties. I can’t help shuddering at the thought of something awful happening to her or her baby.

“Cain. What a thing to ask!” she exclaims. She is half smiling, as though testing a joke. “Jude, tell him he’s crossing the line. You’re crossing the line, Cain.” She looks at the whiskey in the Pod Minister’s hand, and in her own husband’s, and doesn’t sense that the Pod Minister is completely serious.

His smile turns into a snarl. “If I find out you’ve been lying …” he growls. Mrs. Caffrey gasps and rubs her belly. “And as for you and your little girlfriend here. Well, that simply goes without saying. So tell me. Where does the Resistance live?” I try not to look anywhere but in his eyes. A long moment passes. No one breathes. I try to weigh the value of our lives and Quinn’s unborn brother with the lives of everyone living in The Grove. “Can I have your guarantee that if we go south, we’ll catch your terrorists?” the Pod Minister asks. He is only looking at Quinn now. The entire burden of the decision is on him. If Quinn wanted to, he could betray Alina and Silas and everyone at The Grove. They did nothing to win his support. And what does he care about Maude? Everyone in the room is motionless as Quinn opens his mouth to speak.