I Am Margaret (43 page)

“Margo, you all right? You’re all white and shaking...”

“
Fine. Come
on
.” I grabbed her wrist and pretty much dragged her from the gurney and to the door, gun in hand again. “Here, take the card.”

That left me both hands for the gun. Jane unlocked the door and out we went. Three steps along the passage and the door at the boys’ end of the corridor slammed open behind us.

“Hey, you…!”

No, I’m not the Captain
. I shot the guard before he could get further than that and we ran.

“HEY!”

A glance over my shoulder showed me two more guards standing over their fallen comrade, drawing their guns. Damn. I paused to fire at the closer of the two. He went down in a heap. I was already aiming at the other one. But my gun gave a feeble beep and the man showed no sign of keeling over. A wild glance at the power gauge showed it empty. Damn. No wonder these things hadn’t taken off!

I bolted, diving through the stairwell door behind which Jane hid as she held it open for me. I snatched the card from her and raced across the stairwell as she shoved the door closed. As soon as Jane was through, I shut the next one and raced after her across the gym. Slamming the gym door as well, I put my head down and sprinted as I never had before.

Jane had a few stride’s head start and I couldn’t catch her. Sand flew under my feet and my leg muscles bunched, driving me forwards with every scrap of power terror and adrenalin could draw from me. The gate… reach the gate. Through the gate and there’d be covering fire. I just had to reach the gate…

It floated towards me in peculiar slow motion, considering I was running faster than I’d ever run in my life. Almost there, almost…

The gym doors banging and a harsh oath barely penetrated my mind. Almost there…

Something about the size of a coin slapped the center of my back and a black tunnel dropped over me. I saw Jane race through the gate and away, then the sand hit my cheek and my silent scream was swallowed by blackness.

***+***

27

I AM MARGARET

A harsh voice was speaking.

“And have you regained control of your entire domain?”

A familiar voice I couldn’t place drawled, “All is as secure as it can be in the circumstances, sir. Once my full complement of guards is available to me again, clearing those yobs out of the towers will be short work. Though I doubt it will be necessary. They’ll get bored and leave soon enough.”

There was something around my wrists and ankles and I seemed to be lying flat on my back on a very hard surface. My head ached.

“Why don’t you blow them to h… pieces?” demanded another voice.

“Blow up my own towers?” exclaimed Major Everington. That’s who was speaking. “Whatever for!”

“
To kill those scum who blew up our helicopter and
…”

“Calm down,” said the first voice, the harsh and haughty one. “We will get ourselves a new helicopter and the, er, scum, will certainly pay. You—dismantler—how much longer do we have to wait?”

Doctor Richard’s voice... everything came rushing into my mind. For a moment terror almost whited out all thought.

“I was just waiting for an opportunity to inform you, sir, that the subject is awake. Though pretending otherwise.”

Oh, Lord! Needing a few archangels to assist my puny self about now…

I opened my eyes.

On my right waited Doctor Richard and Sidney and their three minions, all hunching subserviently. One look to my left showed why. There stood the Minister for the British Department, the Head of the EuroGov Genetics Department and, gulp, Reginald Hill, the Minister for
Internal Affairs
, as they termed it. Major Everington stood at the foot of the gurney, between the two groups, looking as unruffled as ever.

“Ah, you’re awake, you bitch,” snapped Mr. British Department. He was the angry voice.

I couldn’t even remember his name.
My mouth was so dry my tongue tried to stick to its roof. I licked my lips and stared up at him, struggling to think through the terror.

“
What did I do to
you?”
I came up with at last.

“
You wrecked my big speech,” he hissed, leaning over me to put his face close to mine. “
Wrecked
it, you and that Resistance boy of yours.”

“
Your speech?” I echoed, startled out of some of my terror. “What
speech?
You were only introducing the Chairman and you’d finished that by the time… um…” I trailed off—better not incriminate myself. Mr. British Department turned purple and the Major gave a tiny smile.

“It’s a bit late for that, my dear,” said Reginald Hill, speaking for the first time. His face was hard and lined, but his voice was deceptively soft and gentle. “Unless, of course, you deny writing this book?”

He turned to the tall, medical-looking man, the head of the EGD—the haughty one?—who opened his briefcase, took out a hardback book and displayed it to me. I stared at the utterly incriminating object with a mixture of fascination and fear. The cover showed a stylized Facility in black and red, with a pair of eyes staring from an upper window. I AM MARGARET it said across the top, and at the bottom SUSAN CROFTON. It was a good cover.

“Do you deny writing this book?” inquired Reginald Hill, his voice so very, very soft.

I bludgeoned my brain, trying to stir it to action. No doubt they’d be delighted if I denied writing the book. They’d trot me out to repeat it to the press and suddenly no one would take I AM MARGARET seriously any more. And they’d never let me get away with it without making the Divine denial. And then they’d dismantle me in a year and a half anyway.

“It doesn’t seem to be my name on the front,” I said.

Reginald Hill leaned over me. “Did you write this book?” he demanded, his voice suddenly hard as iron.

I stared around as I tried to gather my thoughts—and my courage. Doctor Richard and his group studied me avariciously, their eyes taking a silent inventory of my parts and their likely condition. The three government heads stared through me as though I were something in their way that needed removing, clearing up, dealing with. The Major stared down at me impassively, and I had the strangest feeling he was the only one in the room who was really seeing
me
at all. Margaret, a person.

“Did you write this book?” demanded Reginald Hill. “I suggest you think very carefully about your answer. Dismantler, show her some of the tools of your trade.”

Doctor Richard and his team helpfully displayed a grisly procession of scalpels, razor-sharp saws, drills, pliers, clamps and a horrible spoon-headed contraption that made my eyelids flinch shut.

“Now, we are being very patient with you,” unusually so, his tone implied, “but we must have your answer. Did you write this book?”

I stared up at the ceiling, avoiding their eyes.
Lord, Uncle Peter always said you’d never let any of us face a trial beyond our strength. So I must be able to do this. But it’s so hard.
So
hard.

A hand gripped my hair; yanked my head around so I looked into Reginald Hill’s lined face.

“Did. You. Write. This. Book?”

The Major still stared. His steady gaze almost seemed to whisper, ‘Just say no.’

“Yes,” I said. “I wrote that book.”

“You are aware precisely what you are confessing? This book convicts you of membership in the Underground, to say nothing of disrupting a certain speech and the minor matter of a million eurons worth of fireworks.”

“I don’t admit to disrupting his speech,” I retorted. “He wasn’t speaking at the time and it wasn’t a speech, it was a lousy introduction. Yes to the rest.”

The Major looked like he was trying not to smile again. Mr. British Department stepped forward and struck me across the face, snapping my head back against the gurney. The fading ache returned with renewed intensity. Doctor Richard made a slight sound of pain.

“
Whatever is the matter with
you
, dismantler?” demanded Mr. EGD, disdainfully.

“Forgive me, it is merely my zeal for my work, sir. Her cheeks, see what fine cheeks they are, someone will be very glad of them, but they cannot be transplanted, you see, if they are bruised… forgive me, I should not have…”

“
No, you shouldn’t. Keep your mouth shut in future.” He turned to Mr. British Department. “
Do
calm down. It wasn’t a speech, it wasn’t interrupted and it is not the issue here.”

Mr. British Department glared at him, but stepped back from the gurney. Reginald Hill stepped forward, his voice gone soft soft again.

“
Let me make things very clear to you. You have just confessed to
Personal Practice of Superstition
, furthermore, you have just confessed to
Inciting and Promoting Superstition in the General Population
through the publication of this seditious book. I, Reginald Hill, Minister for Internal Affairs, hereby sentence you to the full penalty of the law. You are to undergo here, at this time, Full Conscious Dismantlement. Do you understand what that means, girl?”

Oh yes
, said the sick cold fluttering of my belly,
I know exactly what that means, the Captain has seen to that
. I could not speak.

“
Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Due to the nature of your crime, the law stipulates a full pardon to be given in the event that you choose to categorically deny the existence of any so-called Deity. So I suggest you do so now. Because as you are probably aware, it will not be possible for you to save yourself once the execution is in progress.”

That fact was supposed to be the ultimate threat, the ultimate terror. Save yourself now or when you want to, you won’t be able. Father Mark called it a blessing, though. ‘You see, it means all you have to do is hold out just
long enough
,’ he’d told me. ‘And then you can’t give in. You literally
can’t
.’

Suddenly I really understood what he meant. I just had to hold firm long enough.

“All you have to say,” Reginald Hill was whispering in my ear, “is ‘there is no God’. And you don’t die today.”

No, I’d be trotted out in front of the media to make the denial over and over again.
See how little these superstitious idiots actually believe
… It would be worse than if I’d never written the book at all.

“It’s just four words. What do four little words matter, against your life?”

“
Vade post me, Satana,” I whispered.
Uncle Peter, pray for me now…

“Perhaps I should describe the process to you. They start with the skin. All the biggest sheets of it. In fact, with someone of your age—the dismantler’s right: you have very fine skin—” he caressed my unbruised cheek with one forefinger, “they’ll take pretty much all of it off. It’s the eyes next, I imagine that’s particularly horrible, and then you’re blind for all the rest, though that won’t be your chief concern by that point…”

Cold sweat was trickling down my brow and my stomach churned as though filled with crushed ice. I was shaking and couldn’t stop. Reginald Hill went on and on and Uncle Peter’s execution played in my mind, I couldn’t blot it out. He only shut up when I finally lunged up against the restraints and was violently sick down his trousers and all over his ten thousand euron shoes.

“I believe,” said the Major blandly, as Reginald Hill swore vilely and did a wild trouser-shaking dance, “that the accused has already witnessed an execution and knows the process… a little too well, shall we say?”

“Vile bitch,” snapped Reginald Hill, suddenly sounding rather like Donald. “How dare you!”

“What the hell do you mean, how dare I?” I yelled, losing it entirely. “I didn’t ask you to make me sick, you swine! Why don’t you just shut up and go away?”

His hand clenched and for a moment I thought he was going to inflict more damage on my fine cheeks. But iron control re-established itself: his hand relaxed again, and his face assumed its previous emotionless lines. He stepped back to accept the ministrations of a minion with a handful of paper tissues and Mr. EGD stepped forward, grabbed me by the collar and smacked my head back into the gurney. So much for subtler means of persuasion.