Renegade (20 page)

‘That was about seven or eight years ago,’ I say.

Mayall cackles before it turns into a cough. ‘Yeah, that Dopey kid, he’s really got a thing for you. Don’t think I haven’t seen you all those times, sneaking around late
at night when you think there’s no one around.’

Even though I was creeping around public places, I feel a little violated that someone else may have seen me. ‘Mayall, do you know where my mum and brother went?’

‘Oh, your mum . . .’ Mayall’s voice is a low hoarse whisper as he coughs again. ‘Do you know, she says hello to me all the time? She gives me little bits of food.
I’m all like, “Thank you, Mrs Blackthorn,” and she’s like, “Oh, that’s no problem, Mayall,” and then I’m like . . .’

‘Mayall, has anyone except me come to see you in the last couple of weeks?’

I’m not convinced Mayall’s version of events is an accurate description of any conversation he may or may not have had with my mum but it does seem likely she would say hello and
offer him food on occasion. The reason I understood her clue is because she would always tell me that if I stayed ‘out all day’ then I’d end up like Mayall. It was meant as a
warning, albeit an affectionate one.

Mayall doesn’t seem too put out by my interruption, scratching his chin thoughtfully. ‘What’s that little Dopey kid called?’

I run through the names of Opie’s brothers: ‘Samuel?’

‘Nope.’

‘Felix?’

‘Nope, what sort of name is that?’

‘Eli?’

‘Nope.’

‘Imp?’

‘Yeah, that little one. He’s a right little swine.’ Mayall thrusts a bottle of something that smells strongly of alcohol into the air. ‘I was sleeping this one time and
he replaced my drink with a bottle of pop.’

I struggle not to laugh. ‘If you were asleep, how do you know it was him?’

Mayall flaps his hand dramatically at me. ‘Bah. Are you saying it’s not?’

I shake my head. It does sound like something Imp would do. The alcohol probably ended up being sold back to the inn before, inevitably, being sold back to Mayall. Thieving it may have been, but
Mayall could probably do with a few nights away from the bottle.

‘What did Imp say when he came to see you?’

‘Something about a lake.’

‘Did he tell you they were going to the lake?’

Mayall coughs again and his glassy eyes suddenly shift into focus as he turns to face me. ‘You really are her, aren’t you? The one they’re all talking about.’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re at the centre of the lake, my dear.’

I take the jam jar from my pocket and press it into Mayall’s hands. ‘Thank you.’

He looks at my gift and pushes it back towards me. ‘Bah! Call that a drink?’

I put the jar back into my pocket. ‘I didn’t actually but thanks again. Goodnight, Mayall.’

‘Goodnight yourself, weird one.’

I stick to the shadows, snaking my way back to Hart’s house. This time I head towards the rear and tap gently three times on the back window. We could have done this when we arrived but
neither of us knew what state his parents would be in. Hart has been listening for my signal and quickly tries to open the window. It sticks in the corner and I shunt it from the outside until it
opens.

‘It always does that,’ he says.

‘I know where they are,’ I reply, adding: ‘Let’s go.’

He shakes his head and I can see in his face that something isn’t right. ‘You should come in,’ he says. ‘It’s the Offering – it’s happening
now.’

Hart helps me through the window and secures it behind us. ‘The screen switched itself on about two minutes after you left,’ he says. ‘They’ve already
done the South – there was one thirteen-year-old and another girl who was fifteen.’

In the living room, Hart’s parents both turn to face me. ‘Did you get what you needed, love?’ his mum asks.

‘Yes, thank you.’ I sit next to Hart on the floor and whisper in his ear. ‘They’re at the centre of the lake. All the junk is piled highest there but, if they know where
they’re going, they can find little caves carved out of smashed-up cars and old electrical items.’

‘How would your mum know about somewhere like that?’

‘It will be Opie. We used to go there all the time and call it the gully. On the train before we left for the Offering, he promised he’d keep them safe. It’s a lot longer walk
than you think to get to the middle. If you didn’t know they were there, you’d never find them.’

Hart nods but then quickly leans back. It’s doubtful he’s ever been there. ‘Why are you telling me?’

I make sure he is looking at me when I reply. ‘Just in case.’

A fanfare sends our attention back to the screen where a presenter is standing in front of a map of Britain with a wide grin on his face. The authorities clearly want this Offering to have the
same sense of scale and reverence as the usual one. ‘That’s the South and the West all sorted. Sixteen down, sixteen to go. Let’s get some reaction.’ He presses a hand to
his ear. ‘Jay, are you there? Jay?’

A man appears on the screen wearing a tight-fitting grey suit. He is clean-shaven and has his hair slicked back, a hand pressed to his ear. ‘I’m in the West Realm in the city of
Bristol,’ he shouts, as a crowd of people largely shrouded in darkness cheers behind him.

He turns to a woman standing close, who is awkwardly hopping from one foot to the other. She looks freezing and jumps as he places a hand on her shoulder. I wonder if there is a Kingsman a
little out of shot, weapon ready just in case. ‘What do you think of the second Offering?’ the man asks.

A quick glance off-camera and the woman smiles broadly. ‘I think it’s brilliant.’

‘And what do you think about the fact anyone over the age of ten can be chosen?’

A gulp, another glance. She’s not doing well. ‘It’s fantastic that all the little ones get a chance to serve their King as well. My lot were dead keen. They were really hoping
to be chosen.’

‘We can’t all be the lucky ones!’ Jay’s joke is weak to start with but the woman doesn’t sell it. A fake laugh, a third glance at the person off-camera. This is not
going to end well. ‘And what about the person who caused all this?’ the man adds. ‘What do you think of Silver Blackthorn?’

The woman’s eyes flicker both ways, as she licks her lips, trying to remember whatever the line was she was given. I can see the panic in her. ‘She’s bang out of order,
isn’t she?’

Whatever it was they wanted her to say, I doubt it was that. Jay takes the microphone away before she finally remembers. ‘Oh,’ she shrieks, grabbing his arm. ‘And she’s a
traitor, isn’t she? She’s put us all in trouble and brought this all on herself.’

Jay scowls at her and yanks his arm back. He turns to another woman on his other side, trying to compose himself. ‘Now, you actually know one of the Offerings, don’t you?’

The woman grins broadly. ‘Oh yes, little Georgie. She’s fifteen.’

‘And how do you know her?’

‘She lives next door to me – I’ve known her all my life.’

This woman is far more natural on camera. Whether she’s misguided, or if she believes everything that she has been told, she is genuinely pleased for the child.

‘What about Georgie’s parents?’

‘Oh, they’re thrilled.’ She looks straight into the camera. ‘It’s a massive honour to serve your King, isn’t it?’

‘And do you have a message for Silver Blackthorn?’

Another mention of my name. The strangest thing is that they don’t even realise what they’re doing. This is one big show to try to convince everyone it’s business as normal but
by constantly talking about me as the enemy, they are making me just that.

The woman’s face contorts in fury. ‘I can’t wait until they catch her,’ she snarls. ‘I’d string her up myself.’

Jay turns back to the screen and then there is a shout from over his shoulder. A man’s voice, clear for everyone at home to hear: ‘She’s a hero!’

Jay’s hand shoots back to his ear, eyes darting towards whoever is behind the camera as murmurs of support and panic bounce around the crowd. Before he can say anything, the screen turns
black, before the original presenter reappears, looking flustered. ‘Welcome back. A few technical errors there . . .’

Hart’s father laughs. ‘Did you hear that, dear? They called her a hero.’

His mum leans forward in her rocking chair, fingers flashing back and forth with the knitting needles. ‘They called who a what?’

He nods towards me. ‘They called her a hero.’

‘I know, I’m not deaf.’

I suppress a smile, even as the presenter points towards the map on a screen behind, which zooms in automatically.

‘And now to the North,’ he says, ‘which I should remind you is Silver Blackthorn’s Realm.’

At first, I’m not sure why he has pointed that out but then the name of the first Offering has the words ‘aged ten’ written underneath. The second is eleven, the third twelve
and the fourth ten.

And therein lies the message – if one of you steps out of line, we’ll hit back hard. If a handful of sixteen-year-olds won’t obey us, we’ll take your ten-year-olds
instead. If they can’t make people hate me by setting me up as the central figure in a traitorous conspiracy, they will make people blame me for their children disappearing instead.

Every other Offering has been based upon the results of the Reckoning. The test is meant to determine which types of job we should be doing to best serve the nation and only from that are we
chosen, apparently at random.

None of the presenters has explained what criteria are behind what is happening on the screen but there can be no doubt that these choices are targeted. Three more Offerings are chosen from our
Realm – the eldest being thirteen.

As the names scroll across the bottom of the screen, with just one remaining to be picked, I know whose it will be. There is no surprise when it settles in the centre.

The presenter presses a hand to his ear. ‘And I’m just hearing,’ he says, eyes looking skywards, ‘that Colt Blackthorn is indeed the younger brother of renegade Silver
Blackthorn.’

A shocked look, a gasp of disbelief, another hand to the ear. As if it was ever going to be anyone else. A look off-camera.

‘I should remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that the rules of the Offering are very clear. Anyone chosen must present themselves at the designated points tomorrow. If there are any
non-attenders, the penalty is as it always has been.’

He speaks solemnly and authoritatively. I always knew it was coming but to hear it out loud makes it seem so final.

My brother will be given a death sentence.

I turn to Hart, having heard all I needed to. I am about to tell him we should go – but both our heads spin dramatically as the door is almost smashed off its hinges by the deafening thump
of someone’s fist.

Hart and I dash to the bedroom as his father calls: ‘I’m coming.’ I head to the window but Hart yanks me back just as I’m about to open it. ‘I
can’t,’ he says. ‘They’re my parents.’

I hear the scraping of the front door. ‘They wouldn’t want you to get caught,’ I hiss, but by the time I stretch for the window, it is too late as we hear the front door
bursting open.

I remember how awkward the window is. There is no way we’re going to be able to open it without alerting the person I assume is a Kingsman in the other room. With no other option, we slide
underneath the bed, allowing the sheets to flap around us.

‘Where is he?’ a voice bellows, making it feel as if the whole house is shaking.

‘Who?’ Hart’s father replies.

‘Your son. Where is he?’

‘I told you the last time – I haven’t seen him in two years.’

There is a heavy clomp of boots pacing around and the bedroom door swishes open before slamming again. Whoever is here made only the briefest of glances into the room we are in.

‘You know we’re going to find him, don’t you?’

‘You’ve said.’

‘And you know what we’re going to do to him, don’t you?’

‘You’ve said.’

A pause. ‘Are you back-talking me?’

‘No.’

‘No,
Sir
. ’

‘No, Sir.’

More thudding boots as I expect a crack of fist or shoe on bone. Instead the door slams, sending a gust of air through the house that carries under the bedroom door and sets the sheets
billowing. Neither of us moves, not knowing if it is safe.

Hart shuffles uncomfortably as we hear his father’s voice from the other room. ‘I tell him the same thing every time, don’t I, dear? I don’t know why they
keep
watching our front door
but, if our son were here, it would be a good time to tell him how proud we are.’

* * *

Hart’s father’s final statement made it clear we shouldn’t go through the front. Without a final chance to say goodbye, we head out of the back window, darting
into the shadows and passing through the side streets that are so familiar until we arrive back at our spot at the top of the field where the others are waiting. They are snuggled under blankets in
a semi-circle as Pietra washes chalk from her hair, a grin on her face.

‘How did you get on?’ I ask, taking the tub of water and sitting in front of her, wiping a smear of mud away from her face.

‘It was fun,’ she says, and I can tell she is telling the truth. She hasn’t been central to much of what we have achieved so far and this has given Pietra her moment to shine.
‘I just can’t get this stuff out of my hair.’

I catch Hart’s eye as he squeezes under a blanket next to Jela. ‘That chalk is vicious,’ he says.

I nod in agreement. ‘When I was a kid, I was on that chalk path that circles the town. I was running back and forward but tripped and slid along on my hands and knees. There was blood all
over but I was caked in the white as well. It was in my hair, up my nose, in my ears; everywhere. Mum spent an hour with me washing it all away.’

Pietra pretends to be annoyed but can’t stop herself smiling. ‘You could have told me that before I covered my hair in it!’

I dampen my fingers and then use them to gradually brush away a few more flecks of white. ‘Would you have gone anyway?’