Renegade (19 page)

Opie shakes his head. ‘You can’t blackmail me.’

‘Want to bet?’

‘What do you want?’

‘A piggyback. You’re all big and strong and male. I’m a little girl. Look at me.’

‘I’m not carrying you all the way home.’

I smile, knowing I am winning. ‘You don’t have to take me
all
the way back – we’ve already come some of it.’

‘I’m not taking you the rest of the way. It’s too far.’

‘Think of poor Imp. He might be your brother but he looks at me like a sister. Who’s he going to fight with if you leave me here?’

Opie shakes his head and starts walking away. I run the grass between my fingers, plucking individual blades and counting under my breath. I get to eight before he turns and screams my name. It
echoes around the vast open space as he runs back towards me, throwing himself onto the ground as we roll around, giggling uncontrollably. His big arms are wrapped around me as I cradle my head
into his neck.

‘You’re a menace, Silver Blackthorn,’ he says.

‘I’m
your
menace,’ I correct.

I twist and flail around until I am on top of him and then lean in.

It is a day I will never forget – we are fifteen and he is the boy I have always loved. The boy I teased, tormented and bullied. My first kiss.

The grass feels fresh and prickly between my fingers and the day smells of sun and summer. Everything is perfect until he eventually stands. He heaves me onto his shoulders and walks the entire
way back to Martindale, putting me down only when we are outside my front door.

‘Goodnight, Silver Blackthorn,’ he says, leaning in to kiss me.

I slap him softly across the face and smile. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

As I lie on my front at the top of the bank overlooking the town, I remember his aggrieved face before he gave me that smirk of his. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said.

Now, Imrin is lying next to me, the six of us in a row. ‘There’s no way we can just walk in during the day,’ he says.

Between us, we have counted six separate Kingsmen patrols, with two guards in each unit. The only time I have seen this many people in black was on the last Reckoning day but that was because
people from other towns had been brought in to make the adulation of the King seem a lot more fervent in front of the cameras than it actually was.

These Kingsmen are here for me.

‘It could be as bad at night,’ Hart says. He is desperate to see his parents again and has twice pointed across to their house.

‘If anything happens, it’s easier to run and hide when it’s dark,’ Imrin says.

‘Your parents might be hiding too,’ I tell Hart.

He shakes his head. ‘They’re old. Even if they got your message, they wouldn’t have been able to go anywhere quickly.’

‘Other things could have happened . . .’

I don’t want to say the words but Hart shakes his head again. ‘The reason you’re so sure your mum and brother are safe is because they would have appeared on screen if they had
been caught. It’s the same for mine – if they had been arrested, it would have been broadcast. My parents have grey hair, my dad walks with a stick, my mum has a stoop. It’s not
going to go down well if the Kingsmen hurt them and show what they have done. They’ll be at home but someone will be watching in case either of us tries to make contact.’

His logic is relatively sound. For all the atrocities committed, the one thing of which the King and Minister Prime are careful is that everything is either blamed on somebody else, or that it
happens to someone who looks like they deserve it.

‘How are you going to see them then?’ Pietra asks.

Nobody speaks for a few moments until I push myself up and peer across to Jela and Pietra. ‘I need a volunteer,’ I say.

‘I’ll do it,’ Faith says.

‘Sorry, it’s got to be one of you two,’ I add, indicating the other two girls. ‘It’s going to be dangerous.’

‘It’s my turn,’ Pietra says with a confidence I can tell is forced, although it is admirable at the same time.

‘Do you want to know what it is first?’

Pietra smiles knowingly. ‘I’m not going to like it either way, am I?’

* * *

We wait until late in the evening, watching the lights of patrols skirting around the village. It is at least heartening that I can’t see anyone other than Kingsmen on the
streets – no one who knows me has formed a capture squad. Hart and I talk Imrin and Pietra through the layout of the streets as best we can, asking them questions over and over until their
knowledge almost matches ours.

When it is time, Imrin and Pietra head to one end of the village as Hart and I go to the other. I expect one group of Kingsmen to be devoted to circling my old home but as we arrive on the
street, we can see nothing other than the faint glimmer of candles through people’s windows. Tonight is one of the many without electricity.

We edge towards the front window of my house and I peep quickly through, before ducking back out of sight. I can’t see anyone, so we move to the back of the building. My bedroom faces a
narrow cobbled alley that is often teeming with rubbish. It is as quiet as ever and I use a thin piece of wire from the ground to unlatch the window.

‘You look like you’ve done that before,’ Hart teases, helping me in.

With all my early-morning trips to the gully and the woods, I quickly learned how to get in and out of my room without having to go through the front door.

Hart clambers through the window and we pull it shut behind us. I am almost overcome by the smell of home: the aroma of my mother’s cooking, the dried mud from the shoes under my bed, the
soap my mum uses. I breathe it all in, before composing myself.

‘I want to check for clues to where they might have gone.’

‘Wouldn’t the Kingsmen have already checked?’

‘Probably, but they might not have known what to look for.’

We move into the main part of the house but everything seems as it was the day I left. The dining table is laid for two and the chairs arranged around the heater for the rare night it offered
warmth. The sink and draining board are empty, with everything tidily packed away in the cupboard. If the Kingsmen have been in, it must only have been to look for people, not for clues.

I have a quick glance around Colt’s room but it is so messy that a Kingsman may as well have thrown everything around. Typical of my younger brother.

‘Anything?’ Hart asks.

‘No.’

I head back to my room, ready to leave, when I remember our conversation in the snow and move back into the kitchen. There, I open the cupboard above the cooker, reaching to the very back and
pulling out my jar of jam, which is still half-filled. A dim moonlight glints through the kitchen window and as I unscrew the lid, my fingers tremble in anticipation, knowing that any clue would be
here. I run my finger around the inside of the glass, expecting some sort of note hidden within the mixture.

There is nothing, but as I lick my finger clean and go to screw the lid on, I see three words written in clear letters – my mother’s handwriting.

I say the words out loud, hoping that hearing them will help me make sense of their meaning – but I cannot come up with anything. In the bedroom, I show the lid to Hart but he shakes his
head slowly.

‘What’s out all day?’ I ask.

He shrugs: ‘The sun?’

‘It depends on the day. Plus, what would that mean? Do you know anywhere called the sun?’

‘Is it a saying?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard.’

Hart shakes his head again and takes a step towards the window. I know he is desperate to see his parents.

‘Five more minutes,’ I assure him, checking my watch.

Outside, we wait in the back alley for a small group of people to pass and then dart across the street, keeping to the shadows until we are close to Hart’s parents’ house.

I check my thinkwatch again as we wait in silence, sheltering in a gloomy corner in between two houses. Pietra and Imrin each have one of the thinkwatches we took from the Kingsmen and, almost
exactly on time, I hear the commotion in the distance. Hart takes a step forward, edging into the light, but I grab him until he is back in the shadow with me.

‘Wait,’ I say firmly.

He seems annoyed as the noise continues towards the town hall. Around a minute later, the door of the house opposite Hart’s parents’ house opens. Two Kingsmen bound onto the street
before heading in the direction of the disturbance.

Hart now seems chastened but I give him a shove and follow him around the side of his house before he reaches the front door. He taps gently on the window three times before ducking down next to
me. At first there is a scratching and then the front door opens a crack. Hart doesn’t need to say anything before the door is pulled open. We both dive through but Hart can barely wait for
the door to be closed before he has his arms around his father.

I close the door for them and turn to see the pair with tears rolling down their faces. The walking stick belonging to Hart’s father has been abandoned on the ground as his son crouches
and holds him. ‘Son,’ the older man whimpers.

Hart’s mother is in a rickety old rocking chair. She has wild grey hair that shoots off in all directions and is holding two knitting needles, her fingers click-clacking back and forth
seemingly without her realising as she stares at her husband and son with tears in her eyes before turning to look at me.

‘You brought him back,’ she says to me.

‘It wasn’t just me,’ I reply, but she drops the needles and wool into her lap and waves me over.

‘I can’t stand very well,’ she says, pulling me towards her. I kneel and allow her to hug me close. ‘I knew you’d be back,’ she adds. ‘I just knew
it.’ She calls louder, so her husband can hear. ‘I told you, didn’t I, love? I told you she’d bring him back.’

She lets me go as Hart replaces me in his mother’s arms.

‘You’re all anyone’s talking about,’ his father says after I hand him back his walking stick. He looks as if he has aged dramatically since I left; the wrinkles in his
face have grown into one, his hair receding until it is barely there. ‘All everyone out there wants to do is talk about what they’re saying on the news.’ He settles into a chair,
rubbing his back as Hart lets his mother go and joins me on the floor between his two parents. ‘You didn’t try to kill the King, did you?’ Hart’s father adds.

Hart and I exchange a glance. ‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘Although, in fairness, he tried to kill us first.’

We don’t have long but Hart quickly tells them what it actually means to be an Offering: the abuse, the degradation, the way you think each day could be your last just because you cough at
the wrong time or laugh at the wrong thing.

His mother keeps repeating, ‘I knew it. Didn’t I always tell you that King was no good?’, while his father replies, ‘I don’t remember you saying that.’ On and
on they go, a double act they have no doubt been replaying over and over since the day they were married.

We leave most of the details out but tell them enough to let them know that we’re not the people we’ve been made out to be.

‘I knew it,’ his mother says one more time.

‘I’ve got to go, Mum,’ Hart finally says.

Before we leave, I take the jam jar out of my pocket and unscrew the lid, showing it to both of Hart’s parents.

‘Do you have any idea what it means?’ I ask.

‘Out all day,’ his father repeats, scratching his chin. ‘Have you ever heard of that, dear?’ he calls towards his wife.

‘What?’

‘Out all day?’

‘Who’s out all day?’

‘No one, that’s what I’m asking you. What does it mean?’

Hart offers me an apologetic grin and whispers in my ear: ‘They’re always like this.’

After everything we have seen and done over the past few months, it is nice to hear two people still together after all this time.

‘Your mum might be right,’ I say as a thought pops into my head.

‘How?’

‘We were asking, “What’s out all day?”, but it could be “Who”?’

Hart looks at me, puzzled. ‘Well, who is out all day?’

‘I know. Wait here – I’ll be right back.’

I open the front door and slide through the gap before hurrying through the back streets until I reach the inn. There is no one outside but light flickers through the windows and there is a
faint hum of activity. I sneak carefully around the side of the building until I reach the narrow rubbish-filled back alley that is similar to the one which runs along the rear of my own house. The
inn blocks the moonlight, clouding the area in darkness. I hold my hands out, using them to feel my way around until my eyes gradually become acclimatised.

‘Mayall,’ I hiss. There is a faint rustling from what I assumed was a bag of rubbish close to the back door of the inn.

As I crouch next to him, the town drunk rolls over and growls at me. ‘I ain’t got no money.’

‘Mayall, it’s me, Silver Blackthorn.’

‘Who?’ His voice echoes around the alley and I shush him harshly.

‘Mayall, do you remember me? It’s Silver.’

He shunts himself up until he is resting against the wall. He is wearing a thick dark coat that comes down to his knees, with a pair of woollen socks covering his legs. On his feet is a pair of
tatty mismatched shoes, each with holes in. His breath reeks of alcohol.

‘Oh yeah, Silver. I remember – that weird girl?’

I snort involuntarily. ‘I suppose.’

‘With the stupid hair.’

‘All right, all right,’ I reply, a little put out.

‘And the mud hands.’

‘Um . . . With the what?’ I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

‘You were always with that other one, the big one, what’s his name?’

‘Opie?’

‘Yeah, that Dopey kid. It was raining and you had this dirt on your hands. You were looking for somewhere to wipe them but there was nothing in your pockets. So you went over to him and
patted him on the back. You were all like, “Hi, good to see you, Dopey”, and all the time you were wiping the mud on him.’

As Mayall finishes his story, I realise that he is telling me something I have long since forgotten. I had been out in the woods and tripped on my way back. I had dirt all the way up my arms but
didn’t want to let my mum know what I had been up to.