Breakdown (25 page)

They march me straight out of the hut, out of the village, down a long lane that must've once been a farm track. Packed earth, patched in places with broken-up rocks. Line of weeds growing down the centre. On the hills ahead I can see the fence outlined against the sky.

Think of something.

But I can't. A long, slow ache starts, as if everything that ever meant anything is draining out of me. Nan. Tarquin. Lenny. It's no use planning for tomorrow. Tomorrow isn't going to be any different from today. We are stuck in the underworld. No torch to light the way. The Valley of Shadows has won.

We turn a corner. The flag is flying over an old manor house. Barns turned into garrisons. So this is where the General stays. We march on. The soldiers are suddenly quiet. The girl's face haunts me.
Golden hair. Frightened eyes. Once so beautiful. One eye black and swollen.
Tramp of boots. One of my laces snaps. What to do about it?

Nothing.

They escort me to the back of the manor house. Tradesmen's entrance. They shove me into the kitchen. Worn, uneven flagstones. Low ceilings with thick, darkened beams. A wooden table stretches down the centre, big cooking pots line one wall.

They tell the woman, ‘You're to oversee her now. She's not to be touched. Not one bruise. You know the drill. You're to set it up, leave the room and pack for him. He's looking forward to seeing her before he leaves. He's going straight from here to Andover. MoD business, he says, so pack formal.'

The woman makes some kind of noise in her throat as if she's completely put out.

‘After that, put her to work. Give her freedom. Don't break her spirit. He likes to do that himself.'

‘As if I don't know,' says the woman.

My days! They're all in it together.

They leave. I sit on a stool, stare at the door, like I'm catching my breath, about to make a run for it.
You better think quick, girl. Better come up with a good plan.

‘Don't even try,' she says.

I look at her.

‘There's five miles of nothing but radiated scrub before the fence. It's patrolled. You won't get over it, nor under it, nor round it. If they catch you it's going to be even worse for you.'

Can it be? I doubt it. But I don't say a word. I don't know who she is. I don't know whose side she's on. Probably her own. She isn't going to help me, anyway. She's the one it's probably going to be worse for.

‘What d'you get anyway?'

‘Two years.'

‘Two years is going to pass,' she says, ‘a lot quicker than ten.' She starts chopping up tomatoes.

Ten years. Tarquin. I wish my brain would work.

I look at the table. On it is a plate piled high with some kind of flat baked biscuit. Something is cooking too in the pot on the range. It smells good. My mouth waters. I try not to let it.

‘Think about it.'

‘Where do they take children?' I ask.

She snorts. ‘They don't make any allowances for kids, except less rations.' She places the knife on the table, piles up the chopped tomatoes.

‘But where?'

‘Probably on seed picking,' she says. ‘Little fingers, nimble hands. They send them there.'

Poor little Lenny.

‘It's not that bad,' she says. She must've seen my face. She sluices off the chopping board – thick, solid marble. Lays it beside the knife on the table.

And I think what little Lenny's been through: his mum gone, the ghetto and the Limehouse gang and Careem. And now separated from Tarquin.

It
is
all that bad.

He didn't deserve it. He's tried to be happy and kind and hopeful. I think of his worried little face. His blackberry crumble. A hole opens up inside my heart.

And I think of Scotland, and even if we did two years and we left a note for Tarquin telling him we're going on ahead, and we'd wait for him up there by Hadrian's Wall, who's to say we wouldn't get caught by the next patrol and do another two years at the next place?

And anyway, there's no cottage in Scotland.

I'd almost forgotten that.

Scotland is made up of bareness and radiation and no hope.

It
is
that bad.

I sink into a chair.

‘It isn't them you should be worrying about, anywise,' says the woman. ‘It's you.' She pulls a skewer out of a drawer, tests the meat that's cooking in the pot, lays the skewer beside it on the range.

So she knows about Tarquin and Lenny? I sigh. She's going to be annoying.

‘I'll put you straight. I'm his aunt, Marcy, and I run his house. I'm not fond of you girls.'

She goes to a cupboard and removes a hammer from it. She crosses over to a chair and hammers at its seat. ‘Loose nail,' she says. ‘Keeps catching when you sit down.'

So she's a relative, called in because he can't trust anyone else?

‘He's going to use you up and wring you out like a rag.'

‘Can I have one of those biscuits?'

‘Last girl was good looking like you. She went to the quarry pit.'

‘Quarry pit?'

‘Threw herself off the top into the old stone quarry.'

Great. Very cheerful.

‘Couldn't stand any more.'

‘I see.'

‘And I don't blame her. I've no time for that side of things.'

With that she reaches over, passes me a biscuit and goes out, leaving me sitting there in the kitchen.

I nibble at the biscuit, chewing each bite and pushing it around in my mouth. The whole kitchen is brimming with food. Large baskets line the far wall: carrots, onions, tomatoes, parsnips, turnips, cabbages. Jars of pickles and sauces and preserved fruit stacked up on the dresser. And meat too, simmering in that pot. Not dog. I poke it with the stirring spoon. Looks like tender breast of chicken or duck and sliced up side of bacon.

I'm not going to starve.

Quickly I cross to the baskets. I pick out two carrots, a round red tomato and a handful of lettuce. I take three more biscuits. I fold the lettuce and crunch into it. I pierce the side of the tomato and suck out the sweet pips and inner flesh and, as I finish it off, I tuck the carrots into my pocket. Then I cross to the pot, pick up the skewer, hook out a whole leg of chicken. I pass it from hand to hand, blowing on it, until it is cool enough to bite into.

As I chew and swallow tomato, chicken, lettuce, I feel energy return. Then I pick up the knife from the table. Sharp as a razor. I test it with my thumb.

Don't know if that woman was trying to give me a hint.

Maybe the last girl went to the quarry pit.

This one has a different plan.

Slowly I put the knife down again. So what exactly
am
I going to do? I look around, trying to make up my mind. Flagstones, cooking range, crockery, cast-iron pans. There's one there, right on the sideboard. I could grab it. I could smack the General over the head with it and bust his skull.

In fact the kitchen's full of things I could use. My first thought is to grab one.

Such a choice. They're all laid out before me: sharp knife, marble block, skewer, iron pan, hammer. My eyes flick from one to the next. But there's something very wrong about it. Like it's somehow staged. Why would you put a girl like me, who you're just about to abuse, and who you
know
can stab you up – I remember the safety pin and smile – in a kitchen with so many weapons? Are you crazy?

That General is definitely not crazy. He may be vile and revolting and a sadist, but he's not stupid. You don't get to be a general if you're stupid. I've looked in his face too and seen his intelligence – all depraved and simmering there at the back of his eyes. Only stupid people arm desperate victims.

So is Marcy stupid? I think about that. She didn't look it. And if she is, why hasn't she been fired by now? This isn't the first time he's played this little game, is it?

So what
is
going on?

What was it that officer said to Marcy? ‘She's not to be touched. Not one bruise. You know the drill. You're to set it up, leave the room and pack for him. He's looking forward to seeing her before he leaves.'

What was that all about?

The General's coming to see me, as soon as he's done at court, before he goes to Andover. He's coming to check out his latest little toy.

That's it. I'm a toy.

So what's his game?

‘You know the drill. You're to set it up and leave the room.'

Marcy was laying weapons out. I didn't take much notice while she was doing it. But she put the knife on the table, then the marble slab, then the skewer by the range, then the bloody great big hammer.

‘You're to set it up and leave.'

So that's his game. Give pretty little Melissa a fighting chance.

Is that how the game works?

But why? He can do what he likes with me. All he's got to do is call a few soldiers and I couldn't do a thing. But maybe that'd be too easy for him. I remember him saying he liked them ‘spirited'. I remember his words at the court. ‘This is going to be fun, isn't it?'

And what's the fun if there's no fight? He's a general and a general's a soldier and soldiers fight.

He wants a fight.

He gets off on beating the shit out of his enemy.

He's into submission.

So that's the kind of game he's going to play with me. I try to remember the girl who staggered out of his room in London. The one with the beautiful blonde hair. She'd lost the game. Hadn't she. Because she was a beginner and he a veteran. Because he's been playing this game for a long time. What're the rules then? He played it with her. But remembering her face gives me no clue.

Think
.

I pick up the blade from the table again. It's very sharp. It's very heavy. One stab with that and I could finish him off forever. But if Marcy has ‘set it up', he'll know I've chosen the knife the minute he walks in. He'll have prepared for that. He'll have his own little knife-defence strategy going on. All ready and waiting. He's playing a warped war game, isn't he? One in which he is always the winner.

I get it. Choose your weapon. Let's see if you can win. A duel. A weird, sicko, twisted duel.

He wants to see what I'll choose and that will determine the kind of game he plays. He'll have some kind of defence for each one of them.

Sick bastard.

I'm not going to play his game. He's not going to be in charge of this fight. I don't need his choice of weapons. He's in for a shock. Because if he wants a fight, he's going to get it. And I'm going to be the one calling the shots.

I'll play a game with him, all right.

A game he's never played with any girl before.

I think back to the streets of London. Back to Nan, who said: ‘Grow tough, then grow tougher.'

Quickly I cross the room. I get two kitchen towels, the woven kind. I bind them round my forearms. I don't really need to, but it puts me in the right mood. My fighting mood.

When the towels are tight enough, and I feel I'm ready for the streets, I roll my sleeves back down and sit at the table.

I know what I'm good at. I know the fight I can take to him.

I'm good at fighting dogs.

He enters. A smug look on his face. I watch him carefully. I see his eyes flick from knife to block to skewer to pan and hammer. I was right. He's planned it. He looks across at me, confused. As if he expected something different. Expected I would be more spirited, disappointed I'm not.

I sit there, fold my arms across my chest so I can feel my bound forearms. I'm watching. And I'm ready.

I stand up. ‘Shall we play then?' I say.

He looks even more confused. His eyes flick from block to carving knife to skewer again.

‘Well,' he says. ‘I think I'd like to sample the goods – which, by the way, I've already paid for – before I'm off to Andover. Just a taste, so that I can look forward to savouring you, at my pleasure, when I get back.'

‘Go for it,' I say. ‘Come and take a little taste, Mr Bigshot.'

He advances. I stand up. I turn to face him. He hesitates. He's used to people running, crying, cringing, begging. Instead I take my stance. I place my feet about a pace apart, and I crouch, watching.

His eyes travel again around the kitchen, as if he's sure I must have armed myself with something. He doesn't know I prefer my bare hands. I wedge my foot against the cooker. I stare at him. And I wait.

He's baffled. All his little manoeuvres are of no use. He's got to think on his feet now. At last he shrugs as if he doesn't care. He's hungry for his ‘little taste'. He glances at his watch. He hasn't got that long.

I crouch down a little lower. I stare a little harder.
He's just a dog, like the rest of them. Bigger, cleverer. Still a dog. You can do it, Melissa.

He moves round the table towards me. He doesn't care about my crouch. He doesn't care about the staring. Maybe the sight of me makes him aroused.
You've survived countless dog fights.
He doesn't even try to meet my gaze.
You can take him out.
He doesn't waver. He just lets out a short little laugh.

I crouch lower and shake my head in a sideways motion, like a bull before a charge. The General hesitates, stops. He flicks his eyes around, suddenly notes my stance. He laughs again. My shaking head worries him though.
Good. You should be worried. Arsehole. I'm going to break your neck.

He rubs his hands together. He's still worried.

I grind my teeth, bare them at him, growl softly.
Just another dog.
Focus on that. Get it absolutely right.

He springs towards me, fist ready to punch me out.

I grab his outstretched arm. I twist it sideways, rip it at an unhealthy angle to his body. I feel his shoulder joint jolt. With a scream, he goes down on his knees.

But he's heavy and I'm light. I can't hurl him to the flagstones.

He lunges back at me. Grabs my left arm. I shift, wedge my foot more firmly against the range.

I raise my right hand, feel around for that pot of hot stew. Can I do it? My arm's well wrapped. I've taken precautions. I shift the pot towards me, get a hold on the handle, and quick as lightning I smash the pot right at him. Boiling stew, searing, scorching pain. But he feels it most. My arm is wrapped in five layers of towelling. His isn't.

Good. Get up now. You tosser.

Hold your ground, Melissa. Wait for the right moment.

He staggers upright, screaming.

And before Marcy bursts in, I kick him in the nuts. Hard.

Marcy calls for soldiers.

Soon they're crowding in.

I know when I'm outnumbered. I know when the dog pack is too big for me, so I step back. ‘OK,' I say. ‘You win.'

The General's writhing in pain. ‘Don't let the soldiers in, you
idiot
,' the General hisses, furious with Marcy. ‘Send them away.'

I want to laugh. Oh my God. He's embarrassed! His latest little toy was too much for him! Don't let the troops know!

Marcy sends the soldiers off, whips around the kitchen putting the implements away, and stands there not knowing what to do.

The General drags himself to a chair. ‘Fetch a bowl of water, you imbecile,' he bellows at Marcy.

She brings him the bowl. The General thrusts his burned arm into it.

He looks at me, as if he's about to fetch a gun and shoot me. I don't push my luck. He's in no shape to attack me again. Not right now. Marcy faffs around until the General can move, but he still can't stand without groaning.

‘I'm late,' is all he mutters.

When he can walk, Marcy helps him out of the kitchen. I douse my arm in cold water too, but even though my skin is fiery red it's going to be OK. The towels did their job. Then I set about mopping up the spilt stew. I keep all the bits, the chicken and the vegetables. I swill them off with water, eat as much as I can and hide the rest.

Before long the General's back. He is in charge of himself now, as if nothing has happened. Nothing except a bandaged arm and second degree burns. He's got a clean uniform on. But he moves very gingerly. He smiles politely. Marcy's carrying his dispatch case. One hand's in his uniform pocket. And as he steps across to me, I can see he's in pain.
Good. Serves you right, you sicko
.

He tries to reach out with his good hand, to touch my cheek. I flinch and step back.

‘As for you, my dear,' he hisses, ‘I'll be back very shortly. Getting to know you is going to be a lot more exciting than I first thought.' He draws back his lips from his teeth in an ugly sneer. ‘But make no mistake, I won't underestimate you a second time.'

I don't bother to reply. He's run out of time.

‘Oh no. You've had your fun,' he blusters.

He taps his crotch in the most disgusting manner.

‘It's my turn next.'