The outrage, p.15
The Outrage, page 15
Huxley steps over.
“Take your time,” he says to my dad. “We’ve got a few hours before they realize the van hasn’t arrived.”
The sergeant gives a nod and walks back to stand over the unconscious Rakes.
“Dad, what’s happening?” I ask. My gaze returns to the second van and a memory, half buried, stirs in the back of my mind. “The morning they took me…you said something about lives being at stake, about something you should have told me. What did you mean?”
“Well,” he smiles his sad smile, “the reality is, you don’t read as many banned books as I do and not want to fight against all this.”
It’s hard to describe, that moment when the person you’ve known all your life asks for you to look at them in a totally different way. I guess it’s a bit like when you realize your infallible parents are only human beings after all. This feels like that, only in reverse.
“Dad.” I stare at him. “Are you involved with the Resistance?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, it’s not that impressive.”
But it is. My softly spoken father is in the freaking Resistance! Okay, so in peaceful old Westwick we don’t hear much about the “terrorist scum” (as the Yellow Jackets call them), but their bombing of railway lines and robbing of Protectorate assets has made these freedom fighters into legends, to people like me anyway.
And now a lot of things begin to make sense: my dad taking a job with access to printing materials, a job that allows him a home phone line, and then there’s his plan to get me and Albert to Ireland. I thought it was some crazy romantic scheme. Maybe not.
“And I called us the Rebels,” I murmur, glancing over at the guys.
“Oh, you mean your movie club?”
“Wait. You know about that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Seriously, Dad, are you like…” I hesitate because it still sounds insane. “Are you a Resistance mastermind or something?”
He laughs out loud and shakes his head in the direction of the second van. “I’m very glad my colleagues didn’t hear you say that. No, Gabe. Thankfully I’m just an incredibly small cog in a very large machine.”
“But how long have you been involved?”
He whistles through his teeth. “Since I was about your age, I guess.”
“Seriously?” And then the obvious strikes me and I look down at his legs. “So that story about the railway line?”
“A railway was involved…” He pauses. “I made a bad mistake and here we are. It’s also the reason I’m now tucked away in Westwick.” He rakes his fingers through his thinning hair. “Imagine – I was a young man with a child on the way, and the last thing I wanted was for him to grow up in a world like this. You know,” he prods me gently with his stick, “I think you’d be surprised how much I was like you back then. Sensitive, reckless and just a bit too hot-headed for my own good. But what I came to realize was that my temper would probably end up getting me killed, and so your mum and I decided to leave London.”
“Mum?” I stare at him. “Mum knew?”
He looks deep into the rows of drifting corn. “Your generation isn’t like ours, Gabe. The Protectorate is all you’ve ever known. But when we were very young, we had a glimpse of what the world used to be, before the Outrage. There’s a beauty in freedom, you know. I actually think it’s the most perfect beauty there is, to be able to think freely and to be who you are. But it’s a beauty that can demand a very high sacrifice.”
I nod. If the librarian’s films have taught me anything, it’s this.
Dad takes a breath. “Your mother was always one of us. That’s how we met, at a Resistance meeting. I wish you could’ve seen her back then. She had my anger, but she was clever enough not to let it control her. My Mags. She was so focused on the idea of ending the Protectorate, I was surprised she agreed to come with me to Westwick. But by then, she’d found something she loved even more than the fight.”
“You.” I grin.
“No, Gabriel. You.”
For a few seconds, I find it difficult to speak. “But, Dad. She never once… She was always so—”
“I know,” he says. “I know. Your mother had been through a lot in her life, and being part of the Resistance hardened her too. But believe me, she did love you. She does. Very much.”
I shake my head. All I can think of is the woman I know – stern, unsentimental, never there. Tears prickle and I blink them away. “Dad, she left us.”
He swings his cane, thrashing at the corn stalks. “Your mother left because she was asked to.”
“By the Farmer.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t you remember how it happened? The Farmer came to Westwick to inspect the agricultural storehouses. Your mother was working a late shift and, as head of inventory, she took him on a tour. He became infatuated with her, started sending gifts to her work, love letters. Word got back to the Resistance. They reached out to organize a meeting.”
“You mean they asked her?” I feel sick. “So that she could spy on him. And Mum agreed?”
I remember the night my mother left, the antique Bentley waiting outside our bungalow, uniformed men carrying her cases out the door. Dad sitting quietly at the kitchen table while I screamed and shouted at him: “Talk to her! Make her stay!” And that anguished look he gave me, as if he wanted to tell me something. My hand on her arm, trying to drag her back from the kerb. Mum, please, don’t.
This is my choice, Gabe. I want this. Her eyes cutting to the bloated figure in the backseat. The man she’d only known a couple of weeks, waiting for her, entitled and silent. You’re better off with your father. He understands you. Like two peas in a pod, my boys…
“She fed us intelligence for over a year,” my dad says. “Vital information that saved lives. But in the end, her unhappiness became too much.”
“The drinking,” I say. “The pills.”
He casts me a desolate look. “And now she’s trapped playing her role. She plays it well.”
A lot of things suddenly make sense: my dad’s generosity to the wife that cheated on him, his willingness to forgive her. Because, of course, he had nothing to forgive.
“You could’ve told me,” I say.
“Gabe, you were so young.”
“So you let me hate her instead?”
It’s too much. With everything else that’s happened today, I can’t think about what this new idea of my mother means to me. I have to change the subject.
“Those guys in the van? They’re Resistance?”
Dad nods. “After what your mum gave up for them, I thought they owed us.” He looks at me for a moment and whatever he sees – the fear, the pain, the anxiety of the past few weeks – it drains the blood from his face. “We would’ve come for you sooner, Gabe, but the Green Jackets’ headquarters are impenetrable. This was our first opportunity.”
My dad turns and calls Huxley over. The sergeant’s gaze is alert and intense, nothing like the lazy bulldog stare I’ve seen before.
“So you’re Resistance?” I ask as he reaches us.
“Undercover for the past fifteen years.” He holds out his hand, but even now I’m reluctant to shake it. “I understand,” he responds. “Difficult to change your mind about someone in a single morning.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you. If I objected to your treatment it would’ve looked suspicious. It’s just unfortunate that little sicko came along when he did.” He casts Rakes a bitter glance. “I’ve spent years sapping the energy out of the local Jackets, dragging my heels on investigations, letting evidence get misplaced, then Rakes and Dufresne show up. You know,” he strokes his chin, “it’s a lot of work being this lazy.”
I reach out to shake his hand. “Thanks.”
He nods, and we shake. “Pity I didn’t know about the disc. Pity all round really.”
The sergeant wanders off again and Dad taps my foot with his stick.
“I’m sorry, Gabe. It’s time we move things along.”
Still reeling, I follow him back towards the Rebels.
“When the transport fails to arrive at the enforcement court, they’ll send out a tracking team. They’ll find Rakes and Huxley tied up on the roadside. This gives you and Albert a three-hour head start. The Resistance won’t…” he catches himself, “can’t offer you transportation. Vehicles are precious and they feel they’ve already repaid their debt.”
“So rescuing me makes up for everything Mum sacrificed?” I shake my head, wondering for the first time about these people I’d always revered. “In what world can that be right?”
“War brutalizes us all, Gabe,” my dad says quietly. “Even heroes.”
It’s a crappy answer and I can see by his expression he thinks so too. I can also tell that it’s the only answer he can give me, so I try my best to stamp down my anger.
“So the guys know all about this?” I say, nodding ahead.
He chuckles. “I risked telling them. I knew they’d want to say goodbye.”
“Okay, but why is Albert still here? Why didn’t he leave the day they caught me?”
“Well, after you were taken, I did start making plans for him to escape to Ireland, but there was one difficulty I hadn’t counted on.”
“What difficulty?”
“His affection for you.”
I glance over at the group: Ben and Grace holding hands, their backs against the Pansy Wagon; June and Liz with arms around each other; and Albert, always a little to one side, always separated.
“He wouldn’t leave without you,” my dad goes on. “He tried to make it sound more practical than noble. Said you were stronger than him and that he’d need your help along the way.”
When we join the others, I notice that Albert’s eye still hasn’t completely healed from Patrick’s attack outside the swimming pool. The faintest pink haze remains. He smiles at me, his pale lashes practically transparent in the daylight.
“Hey, Gabe.”
I don’t say anything. I just pull him into the biggest hug. And then everyone’s piling in and my dad’s laughing.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “They didn’t come for you?”
“We were questioned,” Liz says with a shudder, “but they didn’t have anything concrete to link us to you and Eric.”
“And we’ve hidden the films,” Ben puts in. “Stashed them in one of the empty buildings in Old Town, just in case Eric—”
“He hasn’t said anything,” I say sharply. “He wouldn’t.”
“Gabe—” June begins, but I cut her off.
“How’s Totes?”
“Mrs Lebbon has him.” Dad nods. “Daft apeth’s already torn her sofa to pieces.”
A lump hitches in my throat. “You’ll say goodbye to him for me? Give him a cuddle…? All right then,” I breathe, “what now?”
“The plan’s the same,” Dad says. “Ireland. I’ve gone over the route with Albert.”
Albert takes the backpack from his shoulder and pulls out a large Ordnance Survey map. Flattening it on the ground, he follows a faint pencil line with his finger from a point just below the city of Oxford, south-west to the northern shores of Somerset.
“The Resistance has arranged for a boat to collect you from a bay east of the town of Watchet,” Dad says. “You need to be there in four days’ time. That’s an average of just under thirty miles a day. It’ll be hard going, but it should be doable.”
If I hadn’t spent the past few weeks being beaten and starved, yes. But there’s no point in saying anything, I can already see the doubt in his eyes.
“It’s the only window the captain has to take you,” he says. “It’s this one chance or nothing.”
He goes over to the black van and returns with a backpack identical to Albert’s. Inside I find a stack of rations, Albert’s forged travel passes, a water bottle, a change of clothes, a blister pack of antibiotics, a first aid kit and my old walking boots. Hunched over the bag, I take out the boots and run my finger along the initials carved into one of the soles – E–G.
“I’ve an old friend who lives out past Bristol,” my dad says. “She’ll be able to give you a bed for one night and maybe even… Gabe, what is it?”
I stand up, feel the world roll under my feet.
“I can’t do this.” The others exchange glances. “Eric. He didn’t know what he was saying. You get that, don’t you?” Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes as I sweep every face. “He didn’t have any other choice. They interrogated him, probably for days, and…and I just can’t, okay?”
“Gabe,” June murmurs.
I turn on her. “If this was Liz, if she’d said this about you, you’d forgive her. Because you love her, right? Well, I love him. There has to be a way we can get a message to Eric. The Resistance could help with that, couldn’t they? Huxley, maybe. We’d only need to wait a day. Just a day.”
It’s Albert who tells me. “Eric has finished at Mosley Grammar, Gabe.”
“What?” I laugh. “But he’s got his exams next year and then—”
“They’ve made an exception. He’s joined the accelerated officer programme.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No way. He wouldn’t.”
None of them wants to be the one to say it. In the end, it’s my dad who grips my shoulder.
“He’s publicly denounced you, Gabe. Eric is now the youngest constable in the Green Jackets.”
I survey my domain. Not bad. My bed’s made with fresh sheets; the last of the chipped mugs has been taken to the kitchen; there isn’t a crusty sock in sight. And then the doorbell rings, and everything immediately looks terrible again.
“I’ll get it,” I shout, tumbling into the corridor.
There’s a mirror hanging by the door, and of course my candyfloss hair looks particularly pubey tonight.
God, Gabe, get a grip, he sees your hair every day.
Still, I lick my palm and furiously pat down my curls.
“Hey,” I say, breathlessly opening the door. “You’re early.”
“And you’re…” His smile turns into a frown. “Gabe, what’s going on with your hair?”
I roll my eyes. “What can I say, Dufresne? Parts of me just stand on end whenever you’re around.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Eric steps inside. Straight away I get the warm, soft smell of him mixed in with the breath of the forest. We spend most of our time there now, either by the river bend or at the hill overlooking the valley, climbing trees and playing tag like little kids.
“Here he is!” my dad says through the open kitchen door. “Joining us for a bite, Eric?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, thank you for having me, Mr Sawyer.”
“Stop being polite,” I tell him. “He’ll expect it all the time.” I guide Eric down the hall to my bedroom door, where I puff out my cheeks. “Okay, prepare to be seriously underwhelmed.”
It’s the same thing I said to him when I first showed him around Westwick, and like then, I mean it as a joke. Except of course it isn’t. Eric’s house is this huge gated mansion on the posh side of town, all white-gravel driveways and not a broken window in sight. I’ve never seen inside but I can’t imagine my cramped, cluttered bedroom will be anything compared to his.
He makes a slow circuit of the room, picking up odds and ends as he goes: a snow globe containing a very mischievous Christmas elf; a swimming trophy from when I was twelve; a couple of banned books hiding behind my nightstand; the framed picture of me and my dad trying to balance his walking sticks under our noses and cackling like loons. He picks up the picture and smiles.
“You guys are so close… And I guess your dad drew all these too?”
His gaze slips across the posters tacked to my wall. Brilliant, dynamic drawings of my favourite heroes from fiction: Sherlock Holmes fighting the nefarious Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, Captain Nemo piloting the Nautilus, Dorothy Gale facing down the Wicked Witch of the West. They’ve been up there for years, and I guess they’re a bit childish, but I love them and I don’t have the heart to take them down.
“Oh!” I dart over to my wardrobe and start hauling out armfuls of clothes. “Here’s something you can have, if you want.”
I slide out a rolled-up poster and hand it to him. He goes and sits on my bed, unfurling it carefully while I scoot up behind him, planting my chin on his shoulder.
“What do you think? I remember you said your mum liked these stories.”
It’s another of my dad’s: a haunting, dreamy picture of the villain from the Narnia book The Silver Chair. The mysterious Lady of the Green Kirtle looks out at us from her enchanted throne, her jade skin scaled like a serpent.
Eric turns to me and, holding my face in his hands, kisses me. Kissing has become a regular thing since that night in the woods when he showed me his scars. That first kiss was a way for me to comfort and reassure him, and there have been many different kinds since, but this is the first he’s instigated. When I look down, I see his fingers twisting his shirtfront. His fingernails aren’t so red and raw any more, and he continues to promise that he isn’t hurting himself, but still I place a calming hand over his.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “We’re okay.”
As gently as I can, I pull Eric with me onto the bed, holding him so that we’re lying face to face. I take a breath. “Scarecrow, do you think you might be ready to tell me?”
Scarecrow. One afternoon in the forest we started talking about nicknames. I had Monkey because of my supreme – according to Eric – climbing skills, but what about him? I tried out a few schmaltzy possibilities before he told me, “I think maybe something like…Scarecrow?” I wanted to talk him out of it, it seemed so hurtful, but he insisted. “It feels like a step, Gabe. I know that sounds stupid, but maybe if I can own that name then…” He was right. Scarecrow already means something different to us, though he still refuses to tell me about his scars.
