Noughts and Crosses (23 page)

‘That’s a lie,’ Jude said.

Mum and I turned as one to see Jude standing in the doorway with Dad beside him. We turned back to the TV screen as Dad shut the front door.

The newsreader’s face was replaced by a TV camera at the scene. It swung around this way and that, filming the
carnage of people lying on the ground, windows shattered, blood on the concourse. There was no voiceover to accompany it. No voice echoing sorrow at the devastation. No voice filled with indignation. No sound at all. Just silence.

Which made it worse.

The camera focused on one woman sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, blood running down her forehead and into her eyes. On to the next atrocity. The camera moved in a jerky fashion as if the person holding the camera was shaking, trembling, which he or she probably was. A child knelt by a man’s side. The child was crying. The man was still. The camera was only on them for a second or two, but it was enough.

The Prime Minister appeared on the screen, his expression angry and forbidding.

‘If the Liberation Militia think this cowardly, barbaric act of terrorism is going to win over the vast population of this country to their way of thinking, then they are very much mistaken. All they’ve done is strengthen our resolve not to give in to such “people” or tactics.’

‘Dad . . .’ Jude whispered.

‘Shush.’ Dad focused on the telly and nothing else.

The newscaster’s face re-appeared. ‘A senior police officer on the scene believes that the bomb was planted in a café bin inside the shopping centre but stated that it was too early to speculate. He did promise however that the perpetrators of this crime would be brought to swift justice. There will be more information about this in our main news bulletin after the current programme. Once again, a bomb has gone off in the Dundale Shopping
Centre, killing at least seven people.’

The detective programme returned just as the cop gave a flying tackle and brought the killer nought to the ground.

‘Dad? What happened? You said . . .’

‘Shush, boy,’ Dad admonished, looking at Mum.

Mum used the remote to switch off the telly. Then she turned to look directly at Dad. ‘I’m going to ask you something, Ryan, and I want your solemn promise that you’re going to tell me the truth.’

‘Not now, Meggie.’ Dad headed for the stairs. Mum instantly moved to block his way.

‘Yes,
now
. Did you or Jude plant that bomb?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Damn it, Ryan, don’t treat me like a cretin. Promise me you had nothing to do with this business.’

Dad didn’t speak. He regarded Mum, defiance in every bitter twist and turn of his expression. ‘What I did or didn’t do is none of your business,’ Dad said at last.

I’d never heard Dad speak to Mum like that before. The pinched, angry look on Mum’s face was an indication she’d never heard that tone of voice from Dad either. Mum and Dad regarded each other, their expressions setting harder and harder. They were standing perfectly still and moving further and further apart. Mum deliberately turned her back on Dad to face Jude.

‘Jude, did you plant that bomb?
NO!
Don’t look at your father. I asked you a question – now answer it.’

‘We . . .’

‘Jude, keep your mouth shut, d’you hear?’ Dad ordered grimly.

‘Jude, I’m still your mother,’ Mum said very, very quietly. ‘Answer me please.’

Desperately, Jude looked from Mum to Dad and back again.

‘Jude . .?’ said Mum.

‘We had to, Mum. Our cell was ordered to do it. Some of us set it up last night, but they said they’d phone through with the warning an hour before it went off. I swear they did. They said that everyone would be evacuated in plenty of time.’ The verbal waterfall tumbled from Jude’s mouth.

‘You killed, you
murdered
all those people . . .’ Mum whispered, appalled.

‘Dad said they would phone through with a warning. That’s what he said. I don’t understand.’ Jude turned bewildered eyes towards Dad.

Mum’s whole body was shaking, heaving. Her lips clamped together as she struggled to stop herself from retching.

‘Meggie . . .’ Dad’s mask slipped for the first time that evening. He looked so forlorn. He touched Mum’s arm. She spun around and slapped his face so hard, there was a crack as her fingers bent right back.

‘You murdering, lying . . . You promised me there’d never be anything like this. You promised you’d only be involved in the background, in planning. You
promised
.’

‘I didn’t have any choice. Once you’re in, they’ve got you – and you have to do as you’re told.’

‘You don’t. You could’ve said no. You
should’ve
said no.’

‘I was protecting you, Meggie. And our sons. I had no choice.’

‘Protecting us from what? From something you inflicted on us in the first place?’ Mum dismissed.

‘Who d’you think I’m doing all this for?’ Dad cried.

‘I know exactly who you’re doing all this for. But she’s dead, Ryan – and murdering innocent people won’t bring her back.’

‘You’ve got it wrong, Meggie.’ Dad shook his head.

‘Have I? I warned you, Ryan. I begged you not to involve Jude in all this.’ Mum cradled her now-limp right hand in her left. One of her fingers was bent back on itself in a definite V-shape.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ Dad began. But if anything that just made things worse.

‘Sorry?
Sorry?
Say that to the families of all those people you murdered,’ Mum yelled at him. ‘How could you? I can’t bear to look at you.’

Dad straightened up. His eyes flint-like again. The mask was back – with a vengeance. ‘At least now the Crosses will know we mean business.’

‘All those people killed and maimed and that’s all you have to say about it?’ Mum’s voice dropped to a strange hush.

‘They were legitimate targets,’ said Dad.

Mum stared at Dad like she’d never seen him before. Silence. She turned away, wearily. ‘In that case we have nothing more to say to each other. Jude, could you take me to the hospital please? I think I’ve broken one of my fingers.’

‘I’ll take you,’ Dad insisted.

‘I don’t want you anywhere near me. Don’t you ever come near me again,’ Mum hissed. ‘Come on, Jude.’

Jude looked at Dad, unsure of what to do. Dad nodded and turned away. Jude took Mum by her left arm and led her out of the house. Only when the door shut, did Dad let go. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms around himself and bent his head, almost like he was praying. Except I knew he couldn’t be because Dad doesn’t believe in God. He began to tremble like Old Man Tony when he’s got the DTs.

‘Dear Lord, please . . .’ Dad began. But then he opened his eyes and saw me watching him. He started with surprise. A second or two passed before I saw recognition on his face. In everything that had happened, I’d been completely forgotten. By everyone.

‘I’ll . . . I’ll just go and see if Jude and Mum n-need my help,’ I stammered.

It wasn’t that I wanted to be with them so much. I just needed to get away, to be somewhere else. Dad didn’t try to stop me. I grabbed my jacket and headed out, shaking as the door shut behind me. The evening air was warm and welcome on my skin. Was I going to try and catch up with Mum or Jude or just run and run and keep going – for ever and ever, amen? I looked left, then right. My conscience made up my mind for me. I followed after Mum and Jude.

If only I could stop my mind from spinning. If only I could shut out everyone and everything for just a few hours. Just long enough to get some sleep, so that I could think clearly afterwards. But I couldn’t switch off.

After two fruitless hours of tossing and turning and counting everything from sheep to ring-tailed lemurs, I gave in and sat up, as wide awake as I’d ever been. I glanced at the silver clock on my bedside table – a fourteenth birthday present a few months ago from my father. A present he’d probably never even seen. It was still quite early. I’d gone to bed early, mainly because Mother had insisted, but even the regular beat of the second hand counting away time couldn’t lull me off to sleep tonight.

Thank goodness Mother was OK. She was still packing away her shopping when the explosion went off. Glass from the centre was everywhere, scattered across most of the car park. And Mother was in a mad panic, screaming out my name over and over. The moment she saw me, she rushed towards me and gave me a hug which lifted me right off my feet. But we were OK – which is more than could be said for a lot of poor people still caught inside the Dundale when the bomb went off.

‘We should see if we can help,’ I’d said.

‘No way. We’re leaving now. At once,’ Mother insisted.

And no amount of arguing on my part could change her mind. She wanted to put as much space between us and the Dundale Centre as fast as possible. I wasn’t sure about the wisdom of her driving us home but we’d managed to get back home OK. Mother then insisted on checking me over properly but apart from a bruise on my forehead and a couple of grazes on my knees and hands I was fine – outside.

Inside, I couldn’t get it out of my head that Callum had known about the bomb. He’d probably saved my life. But I almost wished he hadn’t. Almost.

With a sigh I got up and headed downstairs to the kitchen. There had to be something I could do to help me get to sleep. A glass of warm milk perhaps. Mother was in her room and Minnie was away, spending the weekend with her best friend.

The kitchen was dark and silent and strangely comforting. I got myself a glass from one of the cupboards and headed for the fridge. The moment I opened it, I was instantly flooded with light.

What to drink? Warm milk or cold orange juice? In the fridge door was a half-full bottle of Chardonnay. I took out the bottle and swirled around the golden liquid. My mother lived in this bottle – and others like it. She was probably upstairs now, drinking to forget today’s events. Drinking to forget a lot of things. After a moment’s hesitation, I poured myself just enough to cover the bottom of the glass. The first sip almost made me gag. It tasted like refined vinegar. What did Mother see in this stuff? I took
another sip. After all, there had to be something to it if Mother liked it so much. Another sip. Then another. And another. I poured out a bit more, half a glassful this time. I drank slowly but steadily. By the time I’d finished, Chardonnay didn’t taste quite so bad. And it made me feel funny, pleasant inside. Sort of warm and squishy. Pouring out a whole glassful, I headed back to my bedroom. I sat up in bed, sipping at my wine, feeling very grown-up as I let it wash over me and through me and into me. My head started to sway from the inside out. Backwards and forwards, rocking me gently.

At last, I put down the empty glass and curled up in bed. This time I didn’t even have to think about trying to sleep. This time I left the world behind the moment my head touched the pillow.

And I slept like a log.

Mercy Hospital was a sad joke. The rundown accident and emergency department was busting at the seams, and then some. It looked like many of the people there were nought casualties from the shopping centre. The walking, walk-in wounded. There were people crying, shouting, one woman was screaming at regular five-second intervals and no-one was taking the least notice of her. The air
smelt of strong, cheap disinfectant. It was so strong I could almost taste it as it caught at the back of my throat, but it still couldn’t quite mask the nastier smells of vomit and blood and urine it was trying to disguise. The whole place reeked of barely organized chaos. All the nurses were noughts and all but one of the doctors. I wondered what a Cross doctor was doing at a nought hospital. Building his stairway to heaven no doubt. I looked at my brother. He’d been involved in all this chaos and carnage around us. How did it make him feel to see the result of his handiwork? But he wasn’t looking around. He was looking down at the ground, like his gaze was permanently stuck there.

‘Are you all right, Mum?’

‘I’ll survive.’

Mum sat on one of the rock-hard benches, her face rigid and set as she cradled her purple-blue, swollen finger. It looked awful. I kept stealing glances at Mum, wondering why she wasn’t crying. It must’ve hurt like blazes.