Knife Edge (21 page)

How should I answer that? Because I can't trust my own judgement. Because the whole thing brings too much pain. Because I've just had the child of someone who hated me. Because something in me has switched off and I can't find a way to switch it back on. Because what I feel inside is so deeply buried that it can't break out of me. Because I haven't cried since Callum's letter. Because nothing reaches me any more – not even my own daughter. Which answer would he like?

'Because I'm just not ready,' I repeated, eventually.

'Well, just remember, I'll be here when you are,' Sonny told me.

We regarded each other for a few silent moments.

'Come on, you two,' Jaxon called out.

'So how's your songwriting coming on?' asked Sonny as we carried on walking up to the others.

Puzzled, I looked at him. The abrupt change of subject had thrown me, but I realized that Sonny wanted to keep what we'd just said private. Just something for the two of us. As we joined the others, my teeth worried at my bottom lip. I liked Sonny, but I certainly didn't want to go out with him. And if what I'd read in his eyes was correct, he cared about me a great deal. Love rearing its ugly head again. All I could do was hope that if I didn't encourage Sonny then he'd lose interest and look elsewhere. A relationship with anyone – Nought or Cross – wasn't a road I was in a hurry to travel along again.

'OK, Meggie. What d'you think of this?' Sephy asked.

I suppressed a smile as she cleared her throat. A fragile peace had broken out between us at last and I didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. Sephy was talking to me again. We were talking to each other. It wasn't much, but we had to start somewhere.

She began to read:

'Above the wide blue nowhere
I dance upon clouds of dreams
And when the music fades away
My world is only beams
Of light.
The endless night
Stretches on
Lost in a heart
Of words . . .'

'Er . . . what does it mean?' I interrupted, unable to take any more drivel in my ear holes.

Sephy was obviously startled by my question. I saw her frown down at the piece of paper in her hand. Silence. This time I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing out loud. How should I say it? What was the kindest way to put it? Sephy's first attempt at songwriting needed a lot of work.

'It's about . . . it's about dreams.'

'Is it?' I asked. 'I'm afraid I wouldn't've guessed that if you hadn't told me.'

'Well, what did you think it was about then?' Sephy asked.

'I wasn't sure. But surely the point of a piece of music or a song is to communicate a thought or a feeling or an emotion to the person listening?'

'Yeah? So?'

'What d'you think your poem, song, whatever is saying to me?' I asked.

Sephy looked down at it again. 'It's saying I'm a pretentious twat,' she sighed before scrunching it up in her hands.

'It's not that bad, Sephy,' I tried.

'Yes, it is. In fact it's worse. I'll try again.'

Sephy picked up her pen from the floor and her notepad from her lap and started writing. I watched her with a smile. There it was again. That will not to give up. My smile faded. Sephy hadn't given up on anything in her life – except my son, Callum. Not a day passed when I didn't think about that hateful letter he was supposed to have written. But I would go to my grave, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that Callum loved Sephy more than logic, reason or life itself. If only I could convince her of that.

She looked up and caught me smiling at her. She tentatively smiled back, looking suddenly shy.

'What's the matter?'

'I . . . I have written some other poems,' Sephy began, almost reluctantly. 'Private poems. About me and . . . Callum.'

I felt like someone trying to feed a timid bird or a doe. One wrong word on my part and she'd skitter away and close up like a telescopic umbrella. I kept my mouth shut.

'I haven't shown them to anyone. Not even Jaxon,' said Sephy.

'D'you want to show them?'

'Yes and no. I want to but I'm a bit . . . anxious about doing it.'

'Well, Sephy, you have to make a decision. Show them and the rest of the world be damned. Or keep them to yourself but then never get any feedback and never share them.'

'It's not that simple,' Sephy sighed.

'Yes it is. It's entirely that simple. Sephy, you have to make up your mind which one you want to do – and then do it. Either poo or get off the pot!'

Sephy started laughing. After a moment, I joined her.

'The things you come out with, Meggie,' said Sephy. 'You always could make me laugh.'

'How d'you confuse a nought? Lean three shovels against the wall and tell him to take his pick.'

The studio audience cracked up at that one. I turned to look at the TV. So did Sephy. The so-called comedian Willy Wonty (what a ridiculous name! Whose idea was that?) stood like a damn fool basking in the audience's laughter. The nought arse was too stupid to realize that the studio audience were laughing
at
him, not
with
him. I shook my head as he grinned into the camera like a complete imbecile.

'D'you know, a good friend of mine came up to me yesterday, really sad and down in the dumps. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. "My family is a mess," he told me. "My wife has left me for another woman, my dad has gone senile, my youngest son is in prison, my daughter has just had a mixed-race child and my eldest son has just become a Member of Parliament. How will I live with the shame?" So I told him, "Tell everyone your eldest son is a bank robber instead."'

'Why are you watching this crap?' Sephy said, glaring at me, then at the TV. 'And I don't appreciate having my daughter equated to being in prison or someone going senile. And I certainly don't appreciate having her likened to being an MP. Was that joke meant to be funny then?'

'I didn't write the joke, Sephy,' I told her. 'I think the man is just as big an arse as you do.'

'I doubt it,' Sephy sniffed.

'I can guarantee it,' I told her firmly. 'Hearing jokes like that from a Cross is one thing. Having a nought tell jokes like that is something else again. He makes it seem like it's OK to poke fun at us and it's not.'

'Can we turn it over then?' Sephy asked. 'That moron is turning my stomach.'

I pressed the button on the remote to change the channel. The news was on. And then I got the shock of my life.

'Earlier today, the police announced a significant breakthrough in their hunt for the murderer of hairdressing salon owner, Cara Imega. They are now looking for this man, Jude McGregor, to help with their inquiries. The public are asked to keep their eyes open for this man. If he is seen, please contact the police immediately. The police warn that he should not be approached under any circumstances as he is known to be dangerous and possibly armed.'

The photo of Jude when he was eighteen seemed to burn its way through the TV screen and head straight for me.

'Oh my God . . .' Sephy breathed.

I couldn't say a word. Jude. My son. Wanted for murder. It couldn't be true. Jude was a freedom fighter, not a stone-cold killer. He wouldn't do something like that. Beat a poor girl to death. No one in their right mind would do a thing like that. Jude didn't do it. Did he . . ?
Did he?

Sephy's looking at me. Well, let her look. My boy may have done lots of things I'm not proud of. I know he's not a saint. He's in the Liberation Militia and calls himself a freedom fighter. Freedom first – that's their motto. And as a member of the
L.M.
he must've done some things, terrible things. But that was and is for a cause. And I know that doesn't excuse it and I know that doesn't make it right, but he is fighting for something he believes in. To kill that girl, though, in cold blood . . . A hairdresser, for heaven's sake. And someone who employed noughts and Crosses on an equal basis. He wouldn't do that. But they think he did. And now they won't stop until they catch him and have him and, oh God, hang him.

I can't lose my last child.

Please don't let me lose my last child.

OH GOD, PLEASE, PLEASE, DON'T LET ME LOSE MY LAST CHILD.

'Please, God. Please don't let me lose my last child . . .

'Please God, please . . .'

New for Old
Old for New
Changing, Rearranging
Absence of Passion
Human Nature
Mother Nature
Sticks and Branches
Sharp
New Shoots
Creativity
Revelations
The Beginning of the End
The End of the Beginning
Flexing
Olive Khaki Lime Sage Leaf Grass

THE DAILY SHOUTER Friday 27th August Page 8

Pottersville,
the nation's favourite soap, is to get its first nought family. Catherine Burdon, the show's executive producer, told the
Daily Shouter,
'We're really excited about the prospect of a nought family joining our cast of regulars. Having a nought family in residence will bring a whole new dynamic to our show.
Pottersville
is number one and our new family will bring us an even wider audience.'

Details of the new family are still being kept under wraps but we can reveal that the family will be called the Slotters and will consist of a grandparent, father and mother and four children.

The night air had a surprising bite to it. So much for summer. It seemed to be passing me by. I zipped up my jacket and thrust my free hand further into my pocket.

'Hang on a minute, Morgan,' I said into my mobile phone.

I looked around, nervous as a rabbit in a fox's den, but I was in no danger here. The city centre was practically deserted and the few people who were milling around didn't want to linger too long because of the chill in the air.

'So did you do it?' Morgan asked again. 'Did you kill that girl like they're saying on the news?'

'How many times do I have to say no before you believe me?' I snapped.

'I wouldn't put it past you, Jude,' said Morgan.

'Thanks.'

'I mean it. You scare me sometimes and I know you. It wouldn't surprise me if the woman looked at you sideways twice and that's why you did her.'

I stopped walking and took the phone away from my ear at that. At that moment, if Morgan had been standing in front of me, I'd've decked him.

'It's nice to know who my friends are,' I told him pointedly. I still hadn't forgotten how Morgan had shacked up with my girlfriend, Gina. I didn't care about her so much, but I did care that he'd done that to me. Friends don't do that to other friends. Which just went to prove Jude's law number eight:
There are no such things as friends. Just acquaintances who haven't let you down yet.
With maybe a little of rule number three chucked in for good measure –
Watch your back.

'I am your friend, Jude. You might not believe that, but it's true.'

'Is that right? So how's Gina?'

Morgan sighed. 'If it really bothers you that I'm with her, then I'll move on. Just say the word.'

He sounded like he meant it.

'You have to make up your own mind about what you want to do,' I told him. I certainly wasn't going to salve his guilty conscience for him. I didn't have enough salve to go around.

'I'll do that,' said Morgan. 'Look, did you know Cara Imega?'

'I might've done,' I replied.

'D'you know who killed her?'

I didn't answer.

'Well, whether or not you did it, you'd better keep your head lower than your heels for the next few months,' said Morgan.

'Now tell me something I don't know,' I said, irritated. 'And Morgan, just for the record – I didn't do it.'

And with that I ended the call. I kept telling myself that I'd done nothing wrong. I'm a freedom fighter. Sometimes we have to do whatever is required by any means necessary. But each time I tried to convince myself of that, the words rang out loud and hollow, clanging like a relentless bell. I looked around again. Ever since the police had issued a Photofit of me and announced my real name to the world, I'd been like a cat dancing on hot coals. I knew it was only a matter of time before they matched up the fingerprints found in Cara's house to the fingerprints they had of me on file. But the delay in announcing my involvement with Cara had foolishly raised my hopes. I'd begun to think that I might just get away with it. I should've known better. So now I'm having to keep my head not just down but out. Out of the spotlight. Out of everyone's gaze. I was holed up in a cheap hotel and I lived like some kind of bat, only coming out at night to lurk in doorways and shadows where my face couldn't be seen.

Which suited me just fine.

Cara was yesterday. I still had today and tomorrow to sort out. For all my plotting and planning and scheming, I was still no closer to exposing Andrew Dorn for the blanker traitor he was. I hadn't even worked out how to do it. I couldn't let them catch me now. I still had so much to do. After pushing my mobile phone deep into my jacket pocket, I rubbed my hands together. Strange, but no matter what I did these days, I was always chilly. Even though it was late summer and supposed to be quite warm, my hands and feet were frequently unpleasantly cold.

'Hello, Jude . . .'

At the sound of my name, I swung round, groaning inwardly a split second later when I realized I'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book. My hand flew towards my jacket pocket – but I was too late. At least eight armed dagger cops sprang out of the doorways and from behind cars and I was surrounded.

'HANDS IN THE AIR. DO IT!'

I stood still, wondering how many of them I could take out before they blew my head off. There was a gun in my jacket pocket; it was on the inside and my hands were on the outside. Could I do it? Should I go for it?

'LIE DOWN ON THE GROUND. NOW!'

Maybe I could get the three directly in front of me, and with luck the one to my left. With an inner sigh, I decided that it was unlikely I'd even get my gun out. I reluctantly knelt down on the ground.

'HANDS IN THE AIR. LIE DOWN. WE WON'T TELL YOU AGAIN.'

Slowly, I raised my arms to about shoulder height. I lay down by falling forward, but making sure my hands hit the ground first. Immediately about four of the daggers jumped on me, wrenching my arms behind my back and handcuffing me. Someone kicked me in the side for good measure. Hands were all over me, searching my pockets, moving up and down my legs and taking both the gun and the knife I kept in its sheath in my left sock. The handcuffs were tight. My arms were being pulled back so hard I thought both my shoulders were going to dislocate. I was yanked to my feet and bundled into the back of a police car with a dagger cop on either side of me.

'You're going to swing for this, McGregor,' said the cop to my left. 'Just like your raping, murdering brother. Must be something bad in your blood.'

'Sod you,' I hissed at him.

He punched me in the mouth, wincing almost as much as I did. I could taste blood in my mouth where he'd split my Up. I watched with appreciation as he had to rub his hand afterwards. The pain in my Up was almost worth it.

'This one will definitely hurt you more than it hurts me,' he said. And he pushed my head forward before punching me in my side – the same side that one of them had kicked just moments earlier. I groaned, much to his satisfaction.

'That's enough, Powell,' said the dagger on the other side of me.

'He deserves it.'

'That's for a court to decide, not you,' the other dagger said.

'You're such a bleeding heart,' Powell said with disgust.

The other dagger turned to look out of the window. I leaned back, knowing that this was it. They'd caught me – and I was as good as dead already.