To Snatch a Thief

CHAPTER TWO



Skye was late for supper, and it wasn’t her fault. If Hunter hadn’t kept her so long, the water in her shower wouldn’t have been lukewarm and might not have decided to ooze wearily from the jets a second after she’d lathered her stupid hair with shampoo. And she might not have been in such a bad mood when she finally barged into the refectory.

Her shoulder ached, and that was on Hunter too.

She shoved through the cluster of girls gossiping around the entrance and scored some colourful abuse. ‘Yeah, yeah, stick it,’ she muttered raising a finger as she strode towards the bank of infrawaves along the back wall. She’d almost made it, was thinking of snagging a soy burger and thick shake, when Chloe, a girl with a mouth the size of Neptune, swaggered up.

‘Hey, bitch. You been kissing Hunter’s arse again? Heard he’d got a new pet.’ She turned, grinning at her rat-pack hovering behind. ‘Given him a blow tonight?’

Normally Skye would ignore the jibes, they weren’t anything new but, hey, she was hungry, tired, and right now her hair was dripping soap down her neck. With teeth bared, she rounded on Chloe. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself? Why don’t I drag you by your ratty hair and let you ask him yourself? C’mon, he won’t have left yet. Let’s go find him.’ She pretended to make a grab for the girl and, while Chloe squealed like a pot-bellied pig, lifted the contents of her pocket. ‘Aw, did you drop this?’ Skye waggled a packet of Banish - the latest fat-blaster pills - and watched Chloe’s face go puce. Skye smiled. ‘Guess you haven’t started taking them yet, eh?’

With a howl of rage Chloe came at her.

Anticipate, read your opponent. She heard Hunter’s words in her head. Okay, the girl was top-heavy and clumsy but she needed to save face with her friends, and that made her dangerous. Skye couldn’t match her in brawn, so she’d have to be tricky. In a move Hunter would have been proud of she ducked under the grasping arms, turned and planted a foot in the middle of Chloe’s back, sending her several stumbling paces past where she crashed headlong into an empty table. As if by magic a circle formed. Chairs scraped back from tables, food was left half-eaten as the room scented a fight.

Surveillance was part of life: micro-chips, health checks, updates, permits, licences, screens, cameras. No part of human life was left unmonitored – so how, Skye cursed, could she forget the close circuit device in the ceiling currently screaming out a siren wail which had spectators scuttling back to their tables? Not smart.

Chloe righted herself and shot Skye a glare. ‘If I lose parole over this, you’re dead.’

The refectory door opened and a living corpse in ute boots and standard issue black body suit came in. In Skye’s opinion, job satisfaction had worn thin for Sergeant Goodwin years ago. If her body language was anything to go by, she had a complete lack of interest in her charges, and Skye figured only rapidly approaching retirement kept her turning up for work at all.

Her jaded eyes fell on Skye; she jerked a thumb. ‘You, out!’

The security monitor would have shown the whole action, but Chloe got off scot free. Skye was marched off to her room with packet sandwiches and a half-hearted dressing down from the ghoul.

It wasn’t so bad. Unlike her dump of an apartment in the city which, she assumed, her cretinous landlord would be keeping for her seeing as she’d unloaded a whole lot of global dollars onto his plastic before she was arrested, Skye’s cell here was tastefully decorated in pastel shades. Furniture consisted of a bed, small work surface with chair and a three drawer chest for clothes. There was a fitted wardrobe and tiny bathroom. Across from the bed was a small-pane screen. She lay with her head against the headboard chewing a nameless substance between two slices of cardboard. ‘Screen on,’ she ordered. The nightly news flickered on showing ever thickening snowfalls blanketing the country, snarling up traffic and disrupting power supplies as residents cranked up their heating.

‘The annual winter migration from the north is being hampered by a goslow by air-traffic controllers.’ Despite being swamped in a thermal survival suit, the presenter still managed to look sexy as she stood on the shores of a rapidly freezing North Sea. ‘The President himself has intervened and threatened military action if management and staff cannot reach an agreement in the next twenty four hours.’ The camera segued to an instantly recognisable face. The whole country tapped their oath of allegiance into their wake-up call every day of their lives, while President Keating’s benevolent, baggy-eyed, father-of-the-nation features filled their screens. To the masses he was as familiar as soy milk, as unattainable as red meat.

‘I am speaking tonight,’ he said, from his cosy office. ‘To reassure you that everything is being done to facilitate the rapid evacuation of those northernmost outposts which are under threat from the increasing bad weather. Our meteorology department predicts heavy falls as far south as Leicestershire. The Vale of York is already inundated, and those residents who haven’t left yet, are advised to make their way, on foot, to the A64 where an airlift will shortly be underway. Please take as little as possible with you. The reception points, here in the home counties, will be well equipped when you arrive.’

Skye flipped open the top layer of sandwich and rummaged amongst shreds of green for something resembling protein. Giving up, she took another bite. Slum-raised, food wasn’t to be wasted however revolting.

The president’s face had been replaced with aerial shots of a frozen countryside – white as far as the eye could see, except for the spiky branches of trees stuck through the snow and the odd chimney pot where a house lay buried. The shot panned in to a long line of moving black dots: rugged-up evacuees, struggling along in knee deep snow, waving frantically to the camera. Skye shivered and hoped they’d get picked up soon. President Keating was back on screen. He folded his hands on the polished table in front of him, and leant forward; his bushy eyebrows almost touching as he frowned. She groaned. That move was usually his cue to launch into one of his boring speeches. ‘I know there will be many of you anxious tonight,’ he began, his face carefully concerned. ‘You will be asking yourselves how the country’s fragile economy will survive another winter where half the nation’s industries, including farming, are paralysed due to the weather? When technological advances have already seen the collapse of traditional blue collar jobs, how will our burgeoning population be supported? How will we deal with the housing crisis; homelessness; the soaring crime rate in our inner cities?’ He paused to put a hand over his heart. Gold glinted on his thick fingers and at his wrist. ‘My friends.’ He smiled. ‘Since my father led us to victory in those terrible days of two thousand and thirty four, the British public have faced, and will continue to face, massive changes to the way we live and think: the aftermath of that rebellion saw us turn from a monarchy to a republic; we combined our police and military forces into one, efficient peace keeping unit of which I have the honour of being its present commander in chief; we saw climate change increase sea levels, submerging coastal areas and contributing to the rising levels of our river systems, and now the challenge of a mini-ice age in the northern hemisphere.’ With perfect timing, he fisted his hand and thumped his chest. ‘Rest assured, measures are already in place to overcome all…’

Skye yawned, had begun to open her mouth again to command a film channel, when she stopped. The captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen caught her eye. ‘Death toll rises to twenty nine; six new unexplained deaths in the Borough of Hammersmith; doctors baffled; foul play not suspected; General Redwood, head of Civilian & Military Combined Forces appeals for public calm.’

Feeling suddenly sick, she left the rest of her meal. She closed her eyes. The tight ball of fear lodged in her throat made it difficult to breathe. Memories flickered: hunger; her feet sore where her shoes rubbed; the cardboard Dad fitted over the gaps in her soles going limp in the rain. She felt her mum’s rough hand in hers as they trudged the streets scrounging leftovers from cafes and bars. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. When I’m grown up I’ll be rich and look after us all. I’ll buy a big house for you and Dad and me, and we’ll live happily ever after, just like in the stories.’

‘Shush, now, Skye. I’m not crying; I’ve just got something in my eye.’

A sob threatened, she choked it down.

Then, as if he were in the next room, she heard her father singing. It was one of the old fashioned songs heard a million times, but in the shabby pubs of Hornsey and White City people had paid him to hear it.

Tears burned behind her eyes. Pressing her fingers against her lids she tried to stop them forming. ‘Mum, Dad, I miss you,’ she whispered. Unable to sit still any longer she paced, trying to settle the feeling of dread inside her. The president had gone. The news moved on to the next story. ‘Screen off,’ she snapped, irritated at the media’s lack of concern. The poor were dying and it hadn’t even rated a comment.

Yanking off her shoes, she heaved them at the door. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How stupid to get myself caught and put him at risk. Supposing he died because I wasn’t there to look after him? The knot in her gut twisted. You’re over-reacting, the saner part of her said, but her heart ached with guilt.

She didn’t know how long she strode the room, but eventually came to rest by the window and leaned her throbbing head against the pane. Snow had settled on the outside sill. From out of a black sky, snowflakes continued to swirl. Nature was coating the twinkling city in white. Comfort, warmth, food - most of the capital’s twenty five million inhabitants would take those things for granted. Reluctantly, she looked towards the North West: fewer lights, little comfort, less warmth, less food.

She stayed a moment longer, then rolled into bed, pulled the covers over her head and prayed that the brother she’d left there was safe.

Seven a.m., Skye decided, should be banned. Someone should come up with a method of starting the day at ten. She opened one sandpaper eye. The monitor on her bedside table was playing the national anthem, the president’s face on the screen. She groaned. Bet he was still tucked up with his wife. Bet he got breakfast in bed. Bet he’d get a rise out of knowing some sadistic guard had programmed his fat moosh to get us up before dawn. Her neck wouldn’t work well enough to lift her head. A thin line of dribble had run from her mouth and dried on her arm. Well hell. That’s what you got for lying awake stressing half the night.

She raised herself on one elbow, held back her hair with one hand to squint at the glass, rammed her finger on the, I do bar and fell back relieved when the image blinked off. ‘As if anybody bothers to read the stupid allegiance crap anyway,’ she muttered.

Two fixers and a hot shower later she felt almost human, although her reflection in the bathroom mirror was not encouraging. It was then she remembered it was Saturday. Immediately, she brightened. Saturday was the one day a week when they got their communicators back to contact the outside world. Yay! She’d make the call, satisfy herself he was fine and her stomach would stop tying itself in knots. It was also a Hunter-free day. Double yay!

There was already quite a mob of kids hanging around outside the main office when Skye got there. King, flanked by some of his mates, was chatting up a dewy-eyed girl with a cat-walk body and a cloud of silver hair. By the soppy expression on his face she didn’t think he’d welcome an intrusion. Amongst the general buzz of voices, she heard Chloe mouthing off to her cronies, but apart from shooting Skye a look, she left her alone.

A blonde girl she didn’t know elbowed her in the ribs and pointed a finger at the window. Her nails were so pointed she could have used them as toothpicks. ‘Snow, hey look snow.’

‘It’s white.’ Skye replied with no real enthusiasm. ‘White, wet and cold.’

‘It’s beautiful. Just beautiful.’

Skye raised her eyebrows. Nobody in their right mind thought snow was anything but a pain. ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked, already guessing by the upper class accent and top of the range clothes. She’d probably been in the girl’s parent’s house at some point during her recent activities. Her conscience gave a slight twinge.

‘Bethnal Green.’

Yep, right on the money.

‘Daddy usually takes us all skiing every year, but I’m going to miss out…’ Her rosebud mouth puckered and for one awful moment Skye thought she was going to burst into tears, but she rallied and shot a watery smile. ‘I deserve it. I mean, I so totally deserve to be locked up. I’ve been such a spoilt cow; such an absolute pain in the bum for years.’

‘Yeah, I bet.’

‘I think I like you,’ she said on a sudden laugh. ‘Rose. Rosie Fitzpatrick.’ She held out a hand.

‘Skye Forrester.’

‘My boyfriend was totally annoyed when I was arrested…again.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘We’d planned a weekend; he was mega-pissed off. Guys, what can you do?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Don’t bother with them.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Nope.’ It was the truth. She’d learned the hard way; loving people led to pain. They hurt you, left you, one way or another. With the exception of her brother, her heart was solid ice. Sure, she appreciated the wrapping – she was only human – but as far as anything deeper went… Not even the Titanic, she’d decided long ago, ploughing into her iceberg heart, would budge it an inch.

‘God,’ Rosie said, giving her an incredulous look. Lowering her voice, she leant in closer. ‘Don’t suppose you know where I can score round here?’

‘Sorry, not my scene.’

When the office door opened everyone surged forward.

‘Back! Back! Everyone stand in line.’ A grim-faced guard waved a hand and they fell into a ragged queue. He tapped a finger on an e-board and started calling names.

‘Rosalind Fitzpatrick.’

Skye’s new friend squeaked. ‘Gosh, that’s me. First up to bat.’ She shimmied forward and was handed a gold-edged klip which she immediately activated. ‘Twelve,’ she remarked before rushing off. ‘Twelve effing messages from my mother, not a bloody one from my bloke. God.’

Eventually, Skye was handed her ancient wrist unit. It was like being reunited with an old friend, moulding to her body as soon as she clipped it on. ‘Display message bank. Audio.’ she said, the moment she got back to her room. ‘C’mon, c’mon.’ Impatient, Skye gave it a couple of taps with her finger just to help it along, and after two or three false starts the battered screen flickered to life. ‘You have two new messages.’ It went on to say they were both a week old, both from her waitressing girlfriend Ashleigh. They could wait till later, she thought, she needed to call a number.

Butterflies hatched in her stomach as she waited for the connection to be made. At last, after what seemed like an age, her brother’s angelic face filled the tiny monitor. ‘Transfer visual to wall screen,’ she ordered, and sagged onto the bed with relief.

‘Lex, you okay?

He lifted a shoulder. ‘Guess so.’ The initial pleasure at seeing her faded from his enormous grey-green eyes. ‘When’re you coming to get me?’ Plaintive, as only a six year old could sound, his little eyebrows pulled together.

She swallowed hard, pasted a bright expression on her face. ‘I’ve got things to do for a while yet, but I’m doing everything I can to get there soon. Is Mrs Abbott looking after you okay?’

‘Mmm-hmm. But I have to sleep with Mitch and Tommy and Mitch says he doesn’t like me much and his feet smell like dog’s poo.’

‘That can’t be good. Are you getting enough to eat?’

‘We don’t get soy burgers or fizzers. Mrs Abbott says you didn’t leave enough dollars for fizzers.’ He scrubbed a fist over the tangle of blonde curls which, like her own, refused to be tamed; Lexie always looked as if he’d just got out of bed.

‘Aw, I’m sorry. Are you going to school every day like you promised?’

He nodded. ‘But some boys don’t come anymore. Timmy Barnes hasn’t come for a whole week. His mum came though and she’d been crying. I knowdest she’d been crying ‘cos her face was all red and wrinkled. She took his things away and she was crying then.’

Something prickled at the back of her neck. ‘Lexie, you feeling okay – you don’t feel ill or anything? You still taking the Preventix I left for you?’

Her brother’s solemn eyes, that never failed to tug at her heart, narrowed to slits as he considered the multiple questions; his lips pursed. After a few mind-numbing seconds, during which Skye’s heart stalled, he shook his head. ‘I don’t feel sick, but Pretend-it makes me sneeze.’

She let out the breath she’d been holding in. ‘Good, that’s good, Lex. Not the sneeze,’ she clarified as his brows knit again. ‘The spray tickles your nose I know, but it stops you getting really, really bad illnesses.’

‘Like daddy?’

‘Yep,’ she managed. ‘Daddy didn’t have any Preventix.’ The medical shield against most known diseases had been an unattainable luxury in their house. ‘So he got something the doctor’s couldn’t fix.’

‘Like Mummy.’

The fact their mother had died giving birth to Lexie was something she dreaded having to tell him. One day he’d have to know she’d slipped through the system, but that was in the far distant future; it was too much weight for a child to carry. She took the coward’s way out. ‘That’s right. Look, I have to go, Lexie.’

Watching his eyes begin to swim, she blew him a kiss. ‘It won’t be long now, Lex, I promise. Love you. Be good. Keep that klip in a really safe place so I can call you next week.’

She broke the transmission and cried herself out.