One of Us (19 page)

G
REG IS WAITING
inside the station, looking at his watch.

“Sorry!” I pant as I run up.

He doesn't say anything; instead he makes his way toward the platform. I follow him, but as we reach the ticket barrier, my feet slow down. I can see the train waiting on the other side. It's going to leave in six minutes. It doesn't even look like the train that was bombed, yet I still can't make myself move forward. Greg stops and turns back. His eyes search my face. Then he reaches out and takes my hand. His clasps mine as if we always hold hands.

“You were there that day,” he says. “Before the bomb.” He gives my hand a little tug. “Ready?”

We jump onto the train just before it rolls out of the station. I look down at our hands and let go of Greg's. The blood springs back where I was gripping his fingers so tightly. “Sorry.”

But he doesn't say anything. He gives me a little smile. It didn't mean anything, he was just being kind.
The train is full of young people, some citizens and some Brotherhood. Now that we've left the station, I start enjoying the trip. Celestina's shoes are biting my toes, so I kick them off and put my feet up under me on the seat. Greg's legs don't really fit in the space. His knees are wedged up against the seat in front. He opens his backpack and gets out two packed lunches in white paper bags.

A strong smell of boiled egg leaps out as I open mine. But that's OK. I like eggs, Grandma's favorite sandwich filling. “Very organized,” I say. I can't imagine Oskar or Col making a packed lunch for anyone.

“I ordered them from Georgette last night,” he says. He gets out his book, so we don't talk again until we get there. But I steal secret glances at him as he reads.

W
E MAKE OUR
way slowly out of the station, in the middle of the crowd. I see Greg glancing around him carefully at the citizens. It's different for me—I feel comfortable with both now. In any case, it's a nice crowd, with an excited buzz. Although I was here the other day as a citizen, I feel sure that nobody will recognize me under my hat. I still can't quite believe that after being gone for so long, I've come home to Yoremouth twice in just the past few days.

When we come out of the station into the gray afternoon, there's a bank of journalists waiting, cameras clicking. It's a breezy day. At the end of the road to the station, I know that the sea will be dashing pebbles
against the promenade. The Reconciliation meeting is in the Yoremouth school, up the hill.

“This way,” I say, pointing to the right.

“You know Yoremouth?”

“Um, no. I just thought we might as well follow everyone else.”

But Greg is checking a map on his phone. “Well, you're right,” he says.

It isn't possible to walk fast in this crowd. Greg is looking around him. He turns to me, his face lit up. “Everyone looks so happy,” he says. “We should always be like this”—and he pauses as we inch forward—“together.”

There's no way Greg would have anything to do with a militant cell. I'm sure of it. Even I feel excited now. For the first time I wonder if it could really work, if all these years of hate could end. But how can I ever forget that a Brotherhood bomb killed my parents?

Greg turns to me when we reach the school. “If we get split up, let's arrange a meeting place, OK?” He doesn't wait for me to reply. “On the platform for the seven o'clock train?” Then he adds, “You look nice.”

We follow the crowd into the hall. Journalists line the entrance, filming and shouting out questions: “How do you feel about sitting with nonbelievers?”

“Could you go to school with them?”

“Are you worried that Brotherhood extremists will use violence against this meeting?”

We filter into the huge hall, where there's no girls' side or boys' side, no special seats for Brotherhood or citizens. Everyone sits down wherever they like.

G
REG AND I
do lose each other, because the youth event is not a speech. Instead, we are all split up into mixed groups to talk about the changes in the Reconciliation Agreement. How do we feel about mixed schooling? Should we be able to have normal social contact between Brotherhood and citizens? Would it be better if we didn't live in segregated areas? What do we think of paramilitaries on either side?

I can say what I really think and feel here, and for the first time since I became Verity Nekton that's the only lie I tell—my name. And then I think of the list of names I stole yesterday, how they're hiding in my art pad.

I can't find Greg afterward, so I go down to the station on my own. We shouldn't have arranged to meet so late. Almost everyone else from the Reconciliation event seems to have left already. There are two policemen outside the station but inside the station concourse it's quiet. I look at the clock. Six forty-five. Time to go to the platform. I hobble over in Celestina's tight shoes. I hope they don't have bloodstains in them when I give them back. There's no sign of Greg. The train is waiting, creaking and hissing.

Maybe I've been in the safe world of the Institute for too long. Normally I would be aware of who was around me. But this evening I'm busy looking for Greg, and I don't take notice. Until I hear a voice in my ear.

“Hood.”

I spin around. There are three boys, two behind
me and now one in front of me. They are all wearing baseball caps with the peaks shading their faces.

I step back, gripping my bag like a shield.

The boy facing me steps forward so that I'm backed up against the side of the train. I'm next to the open door, just where I was when the Gatesbrooke bomb went off.

I fight down the panic and ram my bag hard into him, twisting sideways to jump onto the train. In the train car I turn to see if they've followed me, but through the dusky glass of the window I see them sauntering off down the platform, toward the concourse. Where is Greg? I know he won't get on the train without me.

If any of the other passengers have noticed, they're pretending they haven't seen a thing. I stand watching through the window, getting my breath back.

There's no sign of Greg. I take out my ticket to see what car our seats are in. Maybe he thought I would go straight there? So I walk quickly through the train until I find our car. He's not there.

I step down onto the platform. The citizen thugs have come back this way. They're barging into each other, and there seem to be more of them. I work my keys into my hand, like I used to do walking in the city at night. Each key sticks out between my knuckles.

They're coming closer. I see something red in the middle of them. I peer down the platform in the fading light. Then I realize what it is. Greg's jacket. They've surrounded him and they're all shoving and pushing. I catch sight of his face for a second, and there's red there too. Then
I
see red.

“Hey!” I fly down the platform. “Leave him alone!”

There's a moment when they all look at me in surprise—Greg too. Then he sprints free of them, grabs my hand, and leaps into the train, pulling me with him. We run through the car and into the next one, our car. Greg puts his face close to the darkened window so that he can look out.

“Still there,” he says. There's a thump on the window and a muffled shout. “Don't worry, they've stayed on the platform.”

The train lurches and vibrates into motion. We sit down in our seats. We're the only ones at this end of the car.

Greg looks down at my hand, with my keys sticking up between my knuckles.

“Wow,” he says. “Would you have used those? Where did you learn that?”

I uncurl my fingers and put the keys back in my bag. “I've never had to use them.” I don't want him to think I'm a violent person. “The police came to my old school to teach some self-defense techniques,” I say. “They said it would give you a chance to get away.”

Greg is bleeding under his left eye.

“We need to clean your face.” I take out a new packet of tissues and a bottle of water I had in my bag. Then I trickle some water onto one tissue and reach across to dab the blood away. It's only a small cut after all, right on the edge of Greg's cheekbone. He has nice cheekbones. I know their shape from drawing him. I must stop thinking like this. Concentrate on the task
at hand. I wet another tissue. Now I'm cleaning the wound, so I lean across and put my other hand behind Greg's head to hold it steady. I can feel the bones under the softness of his hair. He's so close that his breath is warm on my face. He doesn't wince. The cut's still bleeding.

“Keep still for a minute.” I press the tissue pad against Greg's cheek. We stay like that for a long moment.

“One of them punched me,” he says. “I think he had a sharp ring.” He looks at my hand with a little half smile. “Or a knuckleduster.”

“Were they trying to mug you?”

“I don't think so,” says Greg. “They were saying things.”

“‘Hood'?” I ask.

“And the rest.” Greg looks into my eyes briefly.

I'm still holding the tissue against his cut, so our faces are close. Greg is still breathing quickly. So am I.

I lift the corner of the tissue. “It's stopped bleeding, I think.”

I remove it slowly and take my hand away from the back of Greg's head.

“Aren't you going to kiss it better?” says Greg suddenly.

I look at him in surprise. He's joking, of course. I wish he wasn't. But I touch my fingertips to my lips and then to Greg's face, below the cut, very lightly. “There you go,” I say.

The train is pulling into a station on the edge of the city. It's not really stopping here, just slowing
down to roll silently past the platform. Greg stares over my head toward the far end of the car.

“Oh no,” he says.

I look around. The baseball cap boys are coming into the vestibule outside our car.

CHAPTER 21

“V
ERITY
!”
GREG GRABS
my hand and pulls me out toward the passage at the opposite end of the car. He yanks down the window and opens the door from outside, then leaps off, pulling me after him. We're traveling so slowly that we only stagger for a few steps, but we're very near the end of the platform. The train glides smoothly past and picks up speed.

We look at each other, gasping for breath, still holding hands. The sign over the platform says
Limbourne
. It's suspiciously empty.

I pull my hand away. Blood has started dripping down Greg's face again. I give him another tissue.

In the last light of dusk, I can see trees all around, just trees and more trees, with their branches full of new leaves. There's a waiting room in the middle of the platform, with a vending machine outside it.

Greg studies the timetable on the wall. “There isn't another stopping train until seven-fifteen tomorrow morning.”

“Hmm,” I say. “This wasn't one of your best ideas.”

“And my phone's dead.”

“You don't have a wind-up charger? To go with your wind-up flashlight?” I smile in spite of myself.

Greg looks sheepish. “Not with me.”