Fractured (29 page)

‘Nico also wants me to check you are on side. What has him worried?’

‘I figured a few things out, and foolishly spoke to him about it.’

‘Oh? Like what?’

‘Can you answer a question first?’

‘You can ask. Can’t say that I’ll answer.’

‘How did the Lorders get me? What happened that ended with me being Slated.’

Katran goes still, and I start to think he won’t answer. Then he sighs, runs his fingers through his hair as he always does when troubled. How can I remember little things like that, and not the big things?

‘Honestly? I don’t know. There was a raid on a Lorder weapons storage site, but I wasn’t there. I was supposed to be, but at the last minute Nico sent me off on a stupid errand. I was so angry! Then, when I got back...’ He shakes his head. ‘I heard it was an ambush. Somehow they knew we were going to be there. Three killed. You and a few others who were underage taken, presumed Slated. I wasn’t there to protect you! Until I met you here, days ago, that was all I knew of what happened to you.’

I stare at him, shocked. So many lives wasted. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Besides, what could you have done if you had been there, but get killed?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ he says. But Katran has always seemed invincible, like if he had been there things could have turned out different. Is that why he was sent someplace else?

‘It wasn’t your fault, but I know whose it was.’

‘The Lorders.’

‘They did the dirty work, but who set it up?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Listen. The thing I worked out today is that I was always meant to be Slated. It wasn’t some random act of bad luck that I got caught. I was prepared for it, and it was always in Nico’s plans.’

‘No. No way. Even if that could be true, not with all the others there. No!’

‘Well, he couldn’t just hand me over to the Lorders, and say “here you go, please Slate this girl we’ve been experimenting on”, could he?’

Katran’s fists curl. ‘If it’s true, I’ll kill him.’

‘It’s true. He told me so. But what about Free UK, and all you’ve fought for?’

His eyes are wild. ‘How can I just keep on as if I never knew this? How can I ever trust him again?’

‘Simple: don’t trust him. I don’t. But that doesn’t change what we’re working for: the same thing Nico wants. To overthrow the Lorders.’ I hear myself say the words, hating myself for defending Nico when what happened to me, what happened to Ben, lies at his feet. And to think I’d blamed Aiden when Nico was behind Ben’s actions all along. But it was still Lorders who Slated Ben; Lorders who did whatever has been done to him, now. ‘But when the Lorders are gone…’ I say, and shrug.
After is another time.
Nico won’t get away with it. Not now that Katran knows.

‘When they’re gone…’ Katran says, and in his eyes, I see Nico’s death.

‘Do you think it can really happen? Can we win against the Lorders?’

‘Yes. We’re going to do it this time. We’re organised like never before.’

‘Really?’

‘There is so much in place. There will be coordinated attacks all over the country. Key assassinations, too, and all at the exact moment the treaty was signed that began the Central Coalition and their grip on this country. But we still need general support. Without it...’ He shrugs.

Without it we will ultimately fail
.

‘We need Mum’s speech, for her to tell the truth. But if she doesn’t? What then?’

He spins me around, a hand on each shoulder. Eyes intent on mine. ‘Nico says, plan B. Cut the heart out of the Lorders by killing their hero’s daughter: show that no one is safe, that they are vulnerable everywhere. But don’t do it, Rain. Save yourself.’

I swallow. ‘I have to. The Lorders have to go. Remembering things, what Nico has done, doesn’t change that.’

Katran’s dark eyes plead with me to change my mind. Without thought my hand reaches up like it did before, to lightly touch the scar on his face. His
why.
This time he doesn’t pull away.

‘Katran, you were right, what you said the other day: I need to know what happened to me, and why. Everything.’

‘Do you really mean it?’

‘Yes. Nico said my parents gave me to him. That they and I agreed to have this done to me. I want to know. I
need
to know the truth.’

‘I’ve got something for you,’ he says. ‘But only if you are sure. Do you want to remember, no matter what?’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’

He reaches into his shirt, pulls on a bit of leather thong around his neck. When he pulls it out from under his clothes there is something hanging on it.

‘What is it?’

He pulls it over his neck and hands it to me. ‘This is something you gave me, years ago.’

The light is faint, and I feel it with my fingers: still warm from his skin, a carved piece of wood, a few centimetres long. A rook. My fingers remember it, and not just as any rook but
the
rook. My rook. Daddy’s. I gasp.

‘Do you remember it?’

‘I think so. Something from my childhood. I don’t understand. Why did I give it to you?’

‘Your nightmares were so bad. You said even though you didn’t want to lose any more pieces of yourself, you couldn’t take that one any more. You had to let it go, to forget it. Somehow it is tied up with this rook. You asked me to get rid of it for you because you couldn’t bear to do it. But I’ve always kept it, Rain. To keep part of who you were with me. Maybe it will help you remember.’

I stare in wonder at Katran. Something of me, next to his heart? ‘Thanks,’ I say, and I slip it round my neck, under my clothes. A dread I cannot identify steals over me to feel it against my skin.

‘Time to go,’ he says, but he doesn’t move, and neither do I.

‘Take care tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Fight the good fight.’ Echoes of Nico whisper in my ears –
die the good death
. A shiver goes up my spine.

‘We’ll be all right, you and I,’ he says. Slow, uncertain, he holds out his hands. The violent hands of a killer; gentle hands, that comfort and protect. I move towards him, he holds me against him. His heart beats mad in his chest. ‘Go,’ he says in my ear, and gives me a little push away. ‘Try to be quiet this time.’

I walk off, and moments later hear the faint sounds of his bike.

Back in bed I hold the rook tight: are my hands the hands of a killer, too? Why is the rook so important? All I know of it is a happy dream memory, playing chess with my dad.

We run. He holds my hand, tight, like he will never let it go again.

But my legs are failing, my breath in such great gasps that my chest will surely burst, but still I can’t get enough air. Sand slips under my feet and still I run.

Until I fall. I trip, sprawl, and land on the beach hard, winded. No strength, nothing left.

‘Go!’ I push him away but he turns, holds me.

‘Never forget,’ he says. ‘Never forget who you are!’

And terror is closer. I can hear it, but I can’t look. He shields me but I twist and shield him, and my eyes are clenched shut tight. I can’t look, I can’t.

An echo inside of another time, another place. Midnight terrors, and a gentle voice: go on and look, Lucy. Face what scares you, and it will lose its power.

I open my eyes. But this time, it isn’t like under the bed. This fear is real.

Terror stares back. Wide, pale blue eyes gleam with death, and triumph.

I jump bolt upright in bed, heart thumping a painful beat against my ribs. Terror so real and strong the lights must come on, blankets pulled up to my chin, yet still I shake. Never in all the replays of that nightmare have I dared to open my eyes, and see what chases.

Only one man has eyes like that.

Nico
.

I curse the fear that woke me, so close to knowing…
what
?

Who was with me? What happened next?

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

‘How do I look?’ Cam does a model twirl in his suit. Mr Casual looks surprisingly good in a jacket and tie, but other things are on my mind.

I frown. ‘Your tie’s crooked. Stay home, Cam. You don’t want to come today.’ My eyes plead with him.

He straightens his tie in our hall mirror, faces me. ‘What’s up, Kyla?’ he asks. ‘Tell me.’

‘Nothing. But this will be boring as hell. You don’t have to come; run while you can.’

He looks thoughtful as if he can see there is something that I’m trying to hide. Half opens his mouth to say something else when Dad comes in from the lounge.

‘Aren’t you two a picture,’ he says.

I’d worn what I was told, without comment. A deep green dress – swishy, silky stuff – luckily with long sleeves. Fits well. Stupid shoes with heels not my footwear of choice on any day, but today speed might be useful and if so, they’ll have to come off. The cold feel of something round and deadly against my skin, strapped inside my arm.

‘Isn’t your mother ready yet?’

‘I’ll go see,’ I say, and climb the stairs. Knock on their bedroom door. ‘Mum?’

‘Come in,’ she says.

‘Are you all right?’

She shrugs, dabbing powder on her face. ‘I hate these ceremonies.’

‘Why? It honours your parents, grieves their loss to you and the country.’ I parrot the official line on Armstrong Memorial Day. Watch her closely.

‘I miss them both, so much. But today, here, I am a puppet on a string. This isn’t about my parents, or me. It’s about
them
.’

‘Lorders?’

Her eyebrow quirks; she nods.

‘Maybe it’s time to cut the strings.’

She stares back. ‘Maybe,’ she finally says, and sighs. ‘If only it were that simple.’

‘Can’t you just tell how you feel. Tell the truth. Isn’t that always the right thing to do?’

‘Knowing what is right and wrong isn’t the end of it, Kyla. I’ve lived my life like this: cut the crap, cut the politics, keep out of it. Look after the people I care about who are here, now. Like you.’ She touches my cheek and a knife of pain twists, deep inside. ‘If only everybody did that.’

‘Maybe, sometimes, here and now aren’t as important as doing what is right. Maybe the people you care about will understand.’ And I know I’m pushing it, that she’ll start to wonder. But I can’t
not
say it.

She stares back. ‘Maybe.’

‘Car’s here,’ Dad calls from below.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Time to dance.’

Cam walks us to our car. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ I say to him.

‘Not a chance! I’ll see you there.’

Our limo is a state car, like Nico said it would be: flags on the bonnet. A Lorder motorcycle escort in front and behind. Dad is in happy mode as we set out, chatting with Amy. Mum is silent; her eyes are tired, drawn. A face that hasn’t slept well. A face that is grappling with decision.

Inside everything is pleading to her silently:
tell the truth.
Do it!

Don’t make me kill you.

We near the gates to Chequers, and next to the entrance is a black van. Lorder security. A wave of fear clenches inside: perhaps it ends here. They will haul me in, search me; find the gun and take me into custody. Surely Coulson would never let me through these doors without making sure, not when he suspects what is true. Not when he doesn’t know if I’ll stick to our bargain.

But then, like Nico said it would, our limo and escort sweep past the guards and straight through the lodge gates. Down Victory Drive: a gravel lane that sweeps round a lawn with a broken statue.

‘See that?’ Dad says. ‘Statue of the Greek goddess of health. Broken by vandals in the riots. They were found, brought here and executed at the site of their desecration; it is left as it was to remind us what we fought for.’

Executed, there: on the grass. For knocking over a statue? Lorders do these things. Resolve grows hard and cold inside.

We pull in front of the main doors. Guards open them, and we step through and into a stone hall. We follow an official to the Great Hall inside, and I catch my breath. The ceiling is so far above and the space huge, our footsteps small as we walk across it. Massive paintings hang on the walls: portraits of dead people watching on. A crackling fire burns in a white fireplace, two armchairs arranged to one side of it. Cameras and microphone set up show the speech will be here.

An official goes through the order of the day. First: at 1:10 pm, the moment the bomb went off killing her parents, Mum’s live televised speech. Only immediate family will be in attendance: Dad, Amy, me. Then our friends and family – Cam included – will be allowed in, and we’ll have tea. Second: new this year to commemorate twenty-five years since their deaths, the current Prime Minister addresses the nation, and a select crowd of dignitaries. This will be in the grounds of Chequers, us alongside him, at exactly 4 pm: the precise moment the treaty that ended the county riots was signed thirty years ago. Then I’m leaving with Cam, while Mum and Dad stay for an endless reception and then, later, dinner. Amy, crazy girl, chose to stay for that as well.

But things will never move beyond
first
, will they? One way or the other.

I stare up at the ceiling, so high above. Would a gunshot echo?

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Mum says. ‘Yet it still felt like home. I used to love staying here. There’s a library so long you can play cricket in it.’

‘Did you?’

She winks. ‘I wasn’t much of a reader back then.’

We’re called to our places. Mum in one chair, Dad in another. Amy and I are to stand behind Mum, a hand each resting on her chair. Lights are checked, then sound; I’m checking things of my own.

Lorders. They are everywhere, but not too close so they stay out of screen shot. Not close enough to stop her speech if they think it is going wrong, but she’ll only have seconds before transmission is cut. I search their faces, convinced Coulson will be here, that he’ll stop this before it starts. But he’s not.

A girl darts forward and dabs Mum’s face with powder.

But if she doesn’t give the speech we want: what then?