I Am Margaret (49 page)

“Yep. Should reach the Channel Bridge in about two hours.”

A knot of icy fear twisted in my belly. The Channel Bridge. Far, far more dangerous than going to a private school on the outskirts of York, changing into uniforms and boarding a coach for a supposed school trip. Marian Forbes, a teacher who claimed she wanted to go to Vatican State anyway and wasn’t this an easy way to do it, was with us on the coach, but... Lord, protect that brave headmistress?

Bane and Father Mark had filled in all the forms themselves, but Mrs. Clayton had told them exactly what to write. She’d even donated the cost of the coach. In cash. But forged travel application or not, if they asked her to make the Divine denial...

“How much money have we got left, come to think?” I asked.

“The Resistance donated the ration packs and foil blankets, I just had to pay for the camping stuff, the admin fees and a few other things. We’ve enough to get us to Rome, ‘specially walking.”

I shuddered – looked out the window again. Another factory farm. A square concrete building all too like the Facility. Happily our meat back home came from the Fellest, stored in the butchers’ freezers after each yearly round up and cull. But the big cities of the south didn’t have our huge forests and couldn’t waste crop space on animals, or so they said.

I’d been determined not to miss any of the counties we’d passed through, since who knew if we’d ever be back – I’d slept through quite a few, all the same.

“Don’t you dare let me miss the Channel Bridge.”

“You’ve only said that a hundred times.”

“Okay, sorry, but I’ve only seen the sea once. And I’ve never seen the largest bridge in the world.”

“Me neither. But I’ll be waking you so you can pretend to be asleep.”

Excitement at the thought of the mighty bridge abruptly washed away in a wave of terror. I swallowed hard – he saw it in my eyes and gathered me close, cupping my face between his hands. Spoke low and intent.

“I’m going to be sitting in the row ahead, okay? And I here and now swear on... on my life I will not let them take you again, okay? I will do whatever it takes to save you from them.”

I think I know what you mean by ‘whatever it takes’ and it’s not something I can condone... But my cowardly mouth stayed shut.

“Don’t you go overreacting to anything,” said Jon darkly from the other end of the seat.

“I’m not an idiot,” Bane retorted.

“No, just hot-headed, which in this case is almost worse.”

“Oh, shut up.”

They bickered – fairly good-naturedly – for a while...

...Huh? Father Mark stood in the back of the coach – we were stopped in a lay-by. Must’ve dozed off.

“Everyone back here had better get organized,” he was saying.

Bane moved to the row in front and several other girls joined me and Jon on the back row. As – arguably – the most recognizable, we sat in the two darkest corners – the coach had a solid back wall. During our brief visit to the school Bane and Jon had, with equal reluctance, allowed their hair to be cut very short, to make the distinctive coal black and autumny russet less noticeable. My own brown hair had been dyed blonde.

“It’ll start growing out quite quickly,” Bane had said, “but it’ll be so much less noticeable. You’ll just have to wear a hat.”

Now Rebecca peeled off the plasters on my forehead, Harriet carefully applied makeup over the cuts and Caroline arranged a bit of hair casually over that, spraying it with hair spray to try and make it stay – then Father Mark was calling for everyone to get in their positions...

Bane had a cap pulled over his face; he would also pretend to be asleep. With his hair covered, his skin would pass as tanned. Jon would be sleeping as well, with Emily dozing on his shoulder to keep male eyes away from his face. Speaking of...

Jane sat down beside me and crossed very long bare legs. She’d taken off her school socks and rolled up her skirt until it was little more than a belt. Her school blouse was unbuttoned to a dangerous depth, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders.

“Don’t you worry, Margo,” she told me rather smugly. “They won’t be looking at you.”

“No, they’ll be looking for an excuse to impound the coach for the day,” said Bane. “Don’t be too obvious, right?”

“I’m not going to throw myself on them,” sniffed Jane.

“Couldn’t imagine that.” Jon’s dry comment was almost, but not quite, inaudible. Jane shot him a scowl.

My body was beginning to shake. Oh no, I’d give myself away.

Father Mark bent to look me in the eye.

“Hey, Caroline and I are at the front with the two remaining nonLees, okay? Any trouble and we’ll shoot our way out. Just relax and enjoy the view.”

Lying through his teeth. Shoot our way across the Channel Bridge in a coach with two nonLees? The Resistance had allocated fast trucks, five bazookas and an arsenal of small arms along with a coordinated strike by the French Resistance on the Continental checkpoints.

But I smiled and nodded at Father Mark – he straightened and headed back up the coach, calling, “Places, everyone. If you’re supposed to be sleeping, start doing it now...”

Bane climbed half over the back of his seat, kissed me hard on the lips and got back down into his sleeping position as the coach moved off. I did the same, half concealed against the curtain. Jane adjusted the stiffened hair and laid a jacket over me, further shielding my face.

“Now, don’t move!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Emily stop fussing with Jon and drape herself on his shoulder. Also showing a lot of leg. Was that a faint stab of... jealousy? Oh, for goodness’ sake, Margo! Be nice if he and Emily did get together.

Okay, keep breathing. Just say a rosary. Concentrate on that. Hail Mary... My fingers twitched slightly as I tried to keep count. Hail... hail... what came next?

The coach slowed down and drew gently to a halt. Father Mark wasn’t a bad coach driver. I tried to draw deep, steady breaths, keeping my eyes closed.

The door hissed open.

“Hello.” Marian Forbes’s bright voice. “D’you need to come on?”

“We need to see your travel documents. Are you a school group?”

“That’s right. Heading for Venice.”

“We need your group pass, then.”

“Of course. Here you are.”

A little beep as the guard scanned the group pass and the list of names appeared on his hand scanner. All real New Adults, safe in their beds somewhere in Yorkshire. The defection of most of the boys had called for some last minute amendments – Miss Forbes and Mrs. Clayton had taken care of that whilst I was being carted half-conscious through the Fellest.

“Forty-five students?”

“That’s right.”

“We must perform a headcount.”

“Of course. Come aboard.”

The heavy tread of someone mounting the stairs... I tried desperately not to tremble, not to gasp for breath, not to squeeze my eyes too tightly shut. Miss Forbes stayed silent until the footsteps were perhaps halfway up the bus, then began to talk again, presumably to a guard who still stood by the door. Hoping to distract them just that little bit more?

“Must say, I’ve been on quite a few school trips to the continent and this is the first time the barriers have been down on the bridge. Is it because of that escape? Looks like you’ve had some trouble.”

“Just a precaution,” was the noncommittal reply.

The footsteps reached the back of the bus – a slight pause about the length of two long pairs of legs and they retreated again.

“Forty-five,” confirmed the guard.

“Glad to hear it!” laughed Miss Forbes.

“I’m sure you are,” said the voice, tolerant but rather bored. “On you go, have a nice trip.”

“Thanks. Have a good afternoon.”

The door hissed closed. The coach eased forward.

“I don’t know about joining the Sisters of Revelation, you should go to Hollywood,” said Father Mark. Miss Forbes laughed rather hysterically.

Easing my eyes open a crack, I looked out the window as the barrier slid past. Rows of holes scored the concrete walls of the checkpoint booth and over by the side of the bridge a patch of freshly scorched and bubbled tarmac suggested something large had been blown up. An armored vehicle?

The Resistance were supposed to have gone through here three or four hours ago, about the time we’d left York, making very sure to be noticed. They’d done that, all right. Luckily for us. Knowing – or so they thought – exactly where their quarry now weren’t, the EuroGov had promptly relaxed the checks on those travelling through and exiting the British Department.

The coach sped sedately on – sitting up and opening my eyes properly, I stared out at the channel. Grey blue, stretching away to the horizon. The mighty supporting arches of the bridge towered above us.

Bane took Jane’s place and slipped his arms around me.

“There, we did it,” he said, feeling me trembling. “And getting off the island was always going to be the hardest bit, wasn’t it?” He put on a confident voice – I rested my head on his shoulder and didn’t mention one and a half thousand kilometers still to go.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” I said instead.

“Is it just. One sec...” Gently detaching me, he moved along the aisle, opening all the roof windows. “Smell the sea, Jon?”

Jon stared into space with an intent, entranced look on his face.

“Thanks, Bane. I’ve never been to the sea.”

“Well, you’re over it, now.”

The Resistance had gone to town on the French checkpoints. Only one booth left standing, bullet holes and blistered tarmac everywhere, and a group of engineers were still trying to winch in a tank which had smashed through the thick bridge wall and dangled precariously over the channel. No barriers left to put down – the lights were green anyway. The horse was gone, why cause tailbacks by shutting the stable door now?

I peered grimly at it all from behind the curtain.

“I wonder how many guards they killed.”

Bane said nothing.

“Perhaps they ran for it,” said Jon.

“There’s nowhere to run,” said Bane.

“Did you know about this?” I asked him.

“They said the Frogs would distract the checkpoints when they reached the other side, that’s all.”

“You knew what they were packing, though.”

“Yeah, but if you’re going to try and run the Channel Bridge by force, you don’t leave the bazookas at home, do you? They weren’t going to use more than they had to. Didn’t look like they had, at the other end. But I didn’t speak to the Frenchies.”

“S’pose not.” He’d a point. From the look of the crumbled remains of the booths, most of the bazookas had come from the landward side.

Bane’s face lightened slightly.

“I’d love to hear the story behind that tank, though!”

“What tank?” asked Jon.

A massive gantry screen hung over the traffic on the main autoroute out of Calais. My breath caught in my throat – three photos displayed there, six meters high. Me. Bane. Jon. Beneath, it simply said ‘Wanted: call 112 immediately’.

“How’d I make the three most wanted?” muttered Jon, after Bane filled him in.

“You’re too easy to spot,” Bane muttered back. “They figure if they find one of us three, they find us all.”

Everyone’s eyeballs pretty much rolled up in their heads as the sign went over us.

“Margo,” demanded Rebecca, “why do they want you? They were after you back at the Facility, weren’t they?”

“What did you do to piss them off so badly?” asked Jane, eyes narrowed.

“Look in that bag, Marian...” Father Mark’s voice came quietly to us, “that’s right. Pass that book back to Jane and Rebecca.”

A shiny new copy of ‘I Am Margaret’ arrived in Jane’s hands – she stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“You wanted to know where the stories went. There they are,” I told her.

“The winning postSort novel,” said Bane proudly. “Ignore the name on the front, that’s just some treacherous tart back in Salperton – Margo wrote that book.”

“It’s all about Sorting,” said Jon, equally proudly. “They published it ‘cause they thought it was fiction, then Margo told the world she wrote it and it’s all true and now the EuroGov have developed this terrible thirst for her blood.”

Jane opened it wonderingly, her brows drawing together as she skimmed lines here and there. She looked up at me at last with a troubled gaze.

“Margo... what exactly did they do to you in there?”

My insides dissolved as the memories flooded me – the pain, the terror, the helpless hopeless helplessness...

“Nothing.” I grabbed Bane, burying my face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around me – I could feel him shaking his head at Jane and no doubt glaring at her.

We drove on until we began to see signs for the town of Omer, by which time I’d stopped shaking and disentangled myself from Bane enough to look out the window again. Father Mark left the main autoroute and drove into the forest. All very flat forest, here, nothing rising on the horizon. Fields, once?