The Territory (8 page)

Everyone started talking immediately and for once the teachers let us. The conclusion bubbling round the hall was that the Opposition deserved to die. All of them. Every Opposition member deserved to die.

Someone tripped over my feet and it was only then that I realised that I was still sitting on the floor, so lost in my thoughts that I’d forgotten to even stand up. I’d always admired the Opposition. Never planned to join them, I like being alive too much for that, but I’d admired their courage, their conviction. Jack, next to me, had his head in his hands. Someone spat on him as they walked past.

He looked up at me, his eyes confused and sad.

The rest of the day seemed to drag on and on and I was exhausted by the time I got home.

Dad got back from work before Mum. He saw me curled up on the sofa and came and gave me a big hug. I told him about the Bulletin and he got so angry. At first I thought he was angry at me, but it soon became clear that he was mad at the school, for showing the Bulletin that is. ‘Completely inappropriate,’ he kept saying. ‘Could give kids nightmares.’ I kept protesting that I’m not actually a kid anymore, but it’s like Dad’s got weird eyes that distort all images of me into those of a ten-year-old girl.

‘But how could they do that?’ I asked. ‘How could they think it was OK to kill all those babies?’
That was the one question I couldn’t get out of my head. Dad looked around and then started to whisper. I think it was just a reflex reaction as no one thinks they’re actually bugging flats yet.

‘Did you see the people arrested, Noa?’ I nodded. ‘Well, did they look like normal members of society? Did they look like the sort of people who could source and store explosives and a lorry and drive to a highly guarded facility without appearing on any CCTV cameras or attracting police attention? And think about what you saw.’

I shuddered. That was the last thing I wanted to do.

‘No, try, baby. Really think about exactly what you saw. Think of colours and objects not emotions.’

I closed my eyes and the images came back as if they were burned onto my retinas.

‘Did you actually see anything other than damaged metal and red liquid?’

I shook my head. I hadn’t. I actually hadn’t seen any … well
anything
.

‘So ask yourself,’ he continued, ‘could it have all been faked?’

And there it was: a ray of hope.

Maybe it was all a lie – just a Ministry ploy to make everyone hate the Opposition. No babies had been harmed. No blood had been spilt. I had to call Jack. I had to tell him.

Dad didn’t seem so keen. A look of panic came over his face. ‘Best not, love,’ he said, trying to give out an air of calm. ‘You never know who’s listening. Oh, and don’t tell Mum what I said. She’ll go mad if she thinks I’m filling your head with this stuff. These are the kind of ideas that can get you killed.’

Jack said it was time to cash in my modelling promise, so I went over to his to get it over and done with. The added bonus was that I got to share Dad’s theory with Jack pretty quickly and it was so nice seeing him take it all in. It was as if worry lines had been rubbed out on his face. But almost instantly they reappeared. I could see the cogs turning behind his freckled forehead.

‘What?’

‘Think about it. If they can do this, what else can they get away with?’

I had been so caught up with feeling relieved that loads of babies probably hadn’t actually been killed that I hadn’t really considered this side of things. We both literally shuddered.

Then we caught each other’s eyes again and started laughing. It was sometimes all so horrific you had to just laugh at the horror, like trying to exorcise a ghost or something.

‘Right – take your jumper off,’ Jack commanded, reaching for his sketching stuff. ‘Get ready to be drawn like you’ve never been drawn before.’ I must have looked taken aback as we both seemed to query for a sec whether that was some sort of dodgy innuendo or not. ‘OK. Forget that, please. That came out a bit unfortunate. Try and do a lunge, like this.’

I attempted to copy. ‘What about my face?’ I asked. ‘Should I be angry or happy or scared or…’

Jack interrupted. ‘Don’t worry – I’m not going to draw your face,’ which I actually found massively insulting. I mean, I know I’m not as hot as Daisy or anything, but surely I’m not so rough that my face has to be left out? I don’t even have any spots at the moment.

Jack must have caught my expression as he said, gently, ‘It’s not like that. You know I … like your face. It’s for your sake that’s all. In case it’s, the picture that is, is … misinterpreted.’

I had to stand still, in a slight lunge pose with my left arm raised for over an hour. By the end, I had thigh cramp and my arm had severe pins and needles.

‘Tense your biceps,’ Jack instructed at one point. ‘I want you to look powerful.’ I did and then Jack repeated himself.

‘I am tensing it, you idiot,’ I replied laughing. ‘This is as tense as my biceps get!’ And then Jack sprang forward and grabbed my arm, doing an over-exaggerated examination from wrist to shoulder to check.

‘Noa Blake, you are really, really weak!’ he concluded and then picked me up and started twirling me around over his head, like I was some sort of ball and he was a sports jock, which I suppose he is. We collapsed on the floor laughing.

And then there was this one moment when we looked in each other’s eyes and his arms were around me and I felt so safe that I nearly kissed him and then I didn’t and then the moment passed.

We stood up a bit awkwardly, neither wanting to acknowledge what hadn’t quite happened and then I resumed my stupid pose and Jack picked up his charcoal again.

When he’d finished, Jack didn’t want to let me see what he’d done and even started to roll the paper up. But there was no way I was going to let that happen. I pounced, unrolled the paper and then just stood there, motionless, like a calcified denser. He’d drawn a person (me with added biceps) standing defiantly whilst morphing into a robot. The head was unrecognisable, but you could clearly see a node on the neck and a wire connecting it to an out-of-shot Port. Metallic structures replaced hands and feet and the eyes were red LEDS.

A look of horror crossed my face.

‘Jack … you can’t. Not for the SAM.’

‘I thought you’d like it. I mean it’s meant to be challenging.’ His face melted from certainty into a puddle of doubt. ‘I mean the whole point of Art is to make you think, isn’t it? To question? And the Ministry did introduce the SAM so they must be looking for that, right?’

‘What did Mrs Foster say?’ I asked, quietly. ‘About the idea I mean?’

‘I haven’t really talked it through with her. I wanted to surprise her.’

I really hope Mrs Foster can talk some sense into Jack. I mean if Mr Daniels finds a sketch of a dog too challenging, what the hell is the Ministry going to make of a none-too-subtle metaphor for freakoids?

‘Promise me you’ll really think about this one, Jack. And show it to Mrs Foster soon OK?’

He promised.

Some people just have rubbish luck. You know when you hear a Priest going on about how everything happens for a reason or how people deserve what they get ’cos they must have done some massive sin, well, they’re just talking rubbish. If I met one I’d tell them to ‘stick it up their jumper’. That’s Daisy’s and my new phrase. Daisy’s aunt is really anti any form of swearing and would literally have an epi fit if someone said something as lame as ‘damn’ around her. So she makes up her own swear words and this one’s so bad it’s good.

Anyway, Jack is one of these super-unlucky people. His dad leaves when he’s six and is then shot dead by the police, and his mum, who cares more about her boob size than her son, shacks up with a random bloke who also cares more about her boob size than her son. And now, just when everything was looking a bit hopeful, this happens.

We had double Art straight after lunch. Jack had brought his portfolio with him as promised, so that he could show that picture to Mrs Foster and (I desperately hoped) get some feedback about the massively controversial direction he was taking.

We knew something was wrong as soon as we walked into the Art room. Mr Daniels was perched on the desk next to the biggest neek you’ve ever seen and there was no sign of Mrs Foster.

Mr Daniels pompously motioned for us to sit down with a wave of his fat hand and then introduced, ‘Mr Dreakin,’ our ‘new Art teacher’. Mr Dreakin nodded hello from behind his blue-tinted glasses. Super seedy. And who, other than a complete paedo, wears blue-tinted glasses anyway? His clothes were AWFUL as well. Black rubbishly cut suit, dark purple shirt and black tie. He looked like the sort of person who would wear a t-shirt with a silver spaceship on it at the weekend.

‘Where’s Mrs Foster?’ Barnaby asked, voicing all our thoughts.

‘She’s left to focus on her own creative projects,’ Mr Daniels replied, his lie as shiny as his over-polished front teeth. No teacher leaves just before the TAA, certainly no teacher as nice and committed as Mrs Foster.

I reached over and squeezed Jack’s right hand. He was sitting to my left, as always in Art, and I could see his eyes begin to glaze over and the muscles in his right hand begin to twitch. I was terrified that he was going to do something stupid. I only let go of his hand when Mr Daniels was safely down the corridor.

‘Who’s going to help with my SAM now?’ Jack asked quietly.

‘Maybe Mr Dreakin’s actually really good.’ I replied, trying to inject hope into my voice. ‘Inspiring, even.’

Then Mr Dreakin set our first assignment – a scale drawing of a chair using set squares – and Jack seemed to collapse into the bench, his massive frame looking small for the first time ever.

To my surprise Raf came up to Jack at the end of the lesson. He patted his arm and said, ‘I’m really sorry, mate. I know how important she was to you,’ with real, totally non-sarcy concern in his voice.

Jack looked at him with such a look of pure hatred that even I drew back slightly.
‘I’m not your mate. And get your freakoid hand off me,’ he said as he pushed past into the corridor.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to Raf. ‘It’s just this is a really big deal for him.’

Raf nodded, his eyes filled with compassion. He’s really the most non-freakoidy freakoid I’ve ever met.

‘At least he’s got you,’ Raf continued.

‘Yes, we’re really good
friends
,’ I replied, blushing furiously as I realised that I’d put way too much stress on the word friends.

And then Raf smiled and the smile widened his jaw and narrowed his eyes and he looked like a really sexy wolf.

As I walked out of the classroom, I saw Jack’s latest sketch screwed up into a ball and dumped in the bin. After making sure no one was looking, I quickly removed it from the bin and stuffed it into the bottom of my bag to take home and burn.