Fractured A Slated Novel

Chapter TWELVE



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‘Don’t you want to go in with Cameron?’ Amy smiles, more of a smirk, really. ‘He’s quite cute, don’t you think?’

‘No! I mean, no, I don’t want to go with Cameron.’

‘So you agree he is cute, then.’

I roll my eyes and get into Jazz’s back seat.

I’d told them yesterday not to wait, to go and I’d come home with Cam. Mum didn’t know and probably wouldn’t approve. Not necessarily of him, but of Amy and Jazz being alone: I’m their chaperone. Huh! I’d already explained this to Cam so he won’t think he is on regular chauffeur duties. Especially today, when I’ve got plans I don’t want him in on.

We pull up the road before I ask. ‘Jazz, do you think we could visit Mac after school today?’

‘Sure,’ he says, and that is that. Mac is Jazz’s cousin; the illegal computer in his back room is where I first found Lucy on MIA. Can they find Ben?

Amy starts babbling about all the gossip from the doctor’s surgery yesterday. I tune out, but then something grabs my attention.

‘Amy, what was that?’ I ask, not sure I heard right; not sure I want to.

‘You know that man I told you about, the one they found beaten up who was in a coma? He woke up in hospital.’

My heart skips a beat, an actual fluttering feeling deep in my chest.

Try to sound casual.

‘Has he said anything? About what happened to him?’

‘He was pretty out of it, according to the surgery nurse whose friend works at the hospital. Might have amnesia from his head injuries. Lorders came to talk to him, but gave up because he made no sense.’

Tell Nico!

But then what will happen? After he has finished being completely furious it is the first he has heard of it. After he gets over me not telling him about Wayne’s attack when he asked what triggered the return of my memories. Wayne is a risk: if he talks about what I did, Lorders will come for me. Nico will have him dealt with, one way or another. Dealt with means dead. And then he’ll deal with me.

I’m not doing it.

My instincts protest against taking such a risk. But wait, and see: maybe Wayne won’t remember anything.

Maybe, he will.

That afternoon we file into the hall for Year 11 Assembly. Everyone takes their seats without fuss, and it is pin-drop quiet. Up front stands the reason: Lorders.

A cold shock of recognition travels down my spine when I glance their way.

Don’t stare.

I fight to pull my eyes away. These Lorders, I know: Agent Coulson, and his underling. Coulson’s cold eyes sweep the room and I struggle to avert mine, but they are locked. What is he doing here?

Coulson is no run of the mill Lorder; he is something more. It was obvious when they came to question me after Ben disappeared. For a start, they’d be careful who they sent when Mum was involved. They’d want to be sure how they dealt with the daughter of the Lorder hero, Wam the Man, Prime Minister before Free UK blew up him and his wife. Mum might not be involved in politics now or exploit her connections in any way I’ve seen, but still: they couldn’t do or say anything that couldn’t be explained if it needed to be. She’d been the only reason, I’m sure, that I hadn’t got hauled off for a less gentle inquisition.

But, more than that, Coulson exudes careful power. He isn’t just a nasty bully, though I’m sure he would be if an occasion called for it. Everything about him is cold calculation.

His eyes rest on mine. Pinpricks of sweat break out on my forehead.

Look away!

I break the gaze, lower my eyes. Resist the impulse to check, to see if he still stares.

He’s just a man. A nasty one.

He would bleed red just like anybody else. He should!

Assembly begins. The Head drones on about student accomplishment, then sprinkles his usual warnings. His injunction to live up to your potential…or else.

But I am somewhere else.

In my mind, it is Coulson who drags Ben’s pain-wracked body away from his mother.

It is Coulson who holds a lit match. Tosses it to Ben’s house.

Coulson who plucks Lucy from her family.

Rage fills me inside: roiling, hot rage. Outside, my face is calm, attentive; inside is something else.

If I had a gun in my hand, right now, I could raise it. Shoot him. He deserves it. They all do.

The hard seat under me, the drone of the Head’s voice and the hall full of listening students all fade away. My hands grip cold metal, my eyes take sight, careful aim. Index finger pulls the trigger. A blast of noise, a recoil as the gun slams back in my hands. The bullet flies across the room too fast for normal eyes to follow, but mine watch its progress to target.

It strikes his chest. His heart explodes: a red wave ripples out in all directions like a stone dropped in still water. He falls.

I smile, then realise Assembly is over; everyone is filing out of the room. I’d stood and followed along without realising. Cam has dropped back slightly from his tutor group, and walks beside me. He must think I’m totally mad to smile, here, now.

I am.

The spell, if there was one, is gone. We approach the doors of the hall. The other Lorder stands there, watching students leave, one by one. Coulson stays at the front, door duty beneath him. I’m relieved. And then lunch twists in my stomach as images of Coulson’s bloody body replay in my mind.

‘Are you all right?’ Cam whispers as we step out of the hall. ‘You’ve gone all pale.’

I just shake my head, run to the toilet in the next building and throw up, again and again. When I’m finally sure there is nothing left to come up, I splash water on my face, stare in the mirror.

What the hell happened in there?

My hands are shaking. I’m not that person, I couldn’t do that. Could I? I wouldn’t cry if he died, but not by my hands.

But then what was all that training for?

And visions flow through my mind like a movie on fast forward. Shooting practice. Targets. Knives and their uses. Faster it spins. I was a good shot, the best of my cell. A cell that was, itself, the best.

No!

Yes. What is being a terrorist about? Political discussions over cups of tea? The Lorders are evil. He deserves to die. They all do.

I look at my hands. I can feel the cold weight of a gun in them. I know what to do with one. He deserves to die. Why not?