Checkmate (16 page)

If Mum thinks I'm going to even look at her, let alone speak to her, then she's got another think coming. I'll just sit this out. I can do that. And eventually Nana Jasmine will tire of playing silly buggers and open the cellar door. Besides, I know Mum did this. Nana Jasmine might've locked us in here but I bet Mum put her up to it. And after bashing into the door like they do in films in an effort to break it down, all I had to show for it was an arm that felt like it'd been used as a punch bag by the world heavyweight champion.

'Callie Rose, I promise I didn't tell your nan to lock us in here,' said Mum.

'I don't believe you,' I shot back.

'Why would I lie, love?'

'Don't call me that,' I said, stung. 'Don't ever call me that.'

'Why does it bother you so much?' Mum asked quietly.

'Because you don't mean it,' I snapped back. 'So why bother saying it? It's just more lies.'

Mum sat silently watching me for moment after long moment. I wondered what she was thinking. It was so hard to read her expression, to read her moods and her face – not like Nana Jasmine and Nana Meggie. I knew where I was with them.

'Callie, d'you remember when you were about seven and we were having breakfast together one day and I told you what you could do if we were in a plane crash together?'

Vaguely. I frowned at Mum. 'Why?'

'What d'you remember of our conversation?' asked Mum.

My frown deepened. Why was she bringing that up now? Why bring
up something that happened nine years ago? But I remembered more and more
about that morning as the seconds slunk by. That morning began to play in
my head like a film.

Mum kept looking at me in a odd way. A very odd way. I sat at the table, eating bran flakes with warm milk and a sprinkle of demerara on the top and Mum sat opposite me, eating purple grapes. One individual grape after another, not handfuls at once the way I liked to eat them. Anyway, I looked up from my bran flakes 'cause I sensed I was being watched. And I was right.

'Yes, Mum?'

'Rosie, if we're in a plane and it crashes onto a snow-covered mountain and everyone stops looking for us 'cause they think we're already dead, well if I'm dead and you're alive, you have my permission to eat me to keep yourself alive,' said Mum. 'I'd recommend the muscles in my thighs and my arms first. They're not too fatty.'

Tears sprang up from nowhere, watering my eyes before escaping down my cheeks.

'What's wrong with you?' Mum asked, surprised.

'Don't talk about plane crashes. I don't like it.'

'I was just saying,' said Mum. 'Talking about it doesn't mean it's going to happen.'

'Stop talking about it.' I raised my voice.

'OK, OK. I didn't mean to upset you.'

'Well, you did,' I said, wiping my eyes. 'I don't want to talk about you in a plane crash any more.'

Mum pulled another purple grape off the stem before her. 'I was just saying,' she shrugged, before popping the grape into her mouth.

I picked up my dessertspoon and shoved it down into my bran flakes. Then I rammed the full spoon into my mouth.

'Rose, love, there's no need to bite the bowl off the spoon. I said I was sorry,' said Mum. 'And change your expression. You've got a face like a smacked bum at the moment.'

I carried on chewing, although I did slow down a bit. But I
was still upset. What a thing to say to me. Mum picked up her grapes and went
into the kitchen. I watched her walk away from me, wondering why on earth
she'd started talking about planes crashing. I couldn't figure it out.

Even now I didn't know what that was all about. At seven I had just thought she was very weird. But then, to my mind, she always had been. I've lost count of the number of times we'd be watching TV or I'd be lying on the living-room floor, reading, and I'd look up to find Mum watching me. And always with the same, strange look on her face. And sometimes I caught Mum watching me and Nana Meggie watching Mum.

That was our house, everyone watching everyone else.

'What d'you think Nana Jasmine will do?' I asked reluctantly, admitting, 'I'm worried.'

I risked a glance at Mum without moving my head.

'Your nan will be fine,' Mum dismissed.

'Not if she messes about with the carrier bag I brought with me,' I said.

'Why? What's in it?'

I didn't want to tell her but what could I do? I had to get out of here. If Nana Jasmine took my windcheater out of the bag and fiddled around with the switch . . . With the stone walls and the thickness of the door, we'd probably be safe from the blast here in the cellar, but Nana Jasmine— It didn't bear thinking about.

'What's in it, Callie Rose?'

'Something . . . dangerous if you don't know what you're doing. And Nana Jasmine doesn't.'

'I see.'

I doubted it.

'It's a bomb, isn't it?' said Mum quietly.

I stared at her.

'Answer me, Callie Rose.'

I nodded, then cursed myself for doing so. Mum's tone had momentarily cast me back at least ten years. I was a little girl again, cowering in her angry wake. Mum pushed herself up onto her feet and headed for the locked door. She banged on the door as hard as she could. I saw her wince as her fists made impact with the door but she only stopped banging on the door for long enough to shout, 'Mother? Can you hear me? Mother?'

Silence.

My mum tried again. 'Mother, open the door. Mother?'

Still nothing. Mum turned to look at me, her eyes like lasers, searing into mine. But she blinked and blinked again and behind her anger, I could see something else: wide-eyed anxiety.

'What will Nana Jasmine do with my carrier bag?' I whispered.

'Is the bomb hidden?'

I lowered my head. 'Not particularly. I packed my windcheater full of explosives and the switch is in the windcheater pocket.'

'Does Mother know what's in your carrier bag?'

'I . . . don't know,' I admitted. 'I think she suspects . . . something. What will she do?'

Mum shook her head. 'I don't know. I hope that when she sees what's in it, she'll put the windcheater somewhere safe and away from here, then phone the police and tell them where to find it.'

'Then she'll come back here and give me a long lecture about the way my life is going,' I said with disdain.

'If you're lucky,' Mum shot back. 'Who was the bomb for? Or didn't you care?'

I didn't answer.

Mum banged on the door one more time, her frustration evident, before she turned back to me. She took a step, only to stop abruptly. I watched myriad discernable expressions pass over Mum's face as she looked at me, glared at me, stared at me. 'You . . . you were really willing to maim and kill innocent people? You were prepared to do that?'

I said nothing.

'Do you really have so much rage inside that you're ready to kill yourself and others?'

Not rage, Mum. Something else. But not rage.

Mum walked slowly back to her previous place away from me and sat down.

'Callie Rose, what the hell are you doing? Does your life mean so little to you?'

'My life is my own,' I told Mum, adding pointedly, 'No thanks to you.'

We regarded each other.

'I see,' Mum said at last, nodding slowly. 'I see.'

And I knew she did.

No thanks to you . . .

Who told her? Mother? No, it had to be Meggie. Who else? How long had she known? I suddenly felt very sick. I pulled my thick-knit cardigan more tightly around me. It was one of my favourites, purple with white flowers embroidered onto it. The cardigan had been a present from Mother, who had impeccable taste. Although I was wearing a long skirt and a light-knit lilac jumper under my cardigan, I could still feel that the cellar had moved from distinctly chilly and graduated to downright cold. I risked a glance at Callie Rose. Her black short-sleeved T-shirt and thin, black fashion jacket weren't doing much to keep out the chill.

'Would you like my cardigan?' I asked.

'No. I don't want anything from you,' snapped Callie.

Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your entire face. I could see my daughter shivering from across the cellar but she'd rather turn into an icicle than take anything from me. I stood up and walked over to her. She watched my approach with a malignant frown. I pulled off my cardigan and held it out.

'Take it, Callie Rose,' I told her.

'I just said—'

'I don't care what you said,' I interrupted. 'Take the cardigan. Then you'll have the pleasure of watching me freeze.'

Common sense battled rebellious defiance on Callie's face. I could read every advance and retreat each side made. Finally common sense won out and Callie raised a reluctant hand to take the cardigan. Careful to keep my expression neutral, I handed it over and headed back to my corner of the room.

Now that my cardigan was gone, the cold was even more oppressive. When did Mother plan to let us out? Our plan, such as it was, didn't seem to be working. And to make things worse, Meggie had told my daughter what'd happened when she was a baby. I'd suspected as much for a while but suspicions weren't the same as direct confirmation. What exactly had Meggie told her?

And when?

And why?

Or was I being totally naive? The why was only too obvious. And as far as Meggie was concerned it was mission accomplished. I watched Callie, making no attempt now to hide what I was doing. She wore my cardigan over her jacket. Her arms were wrapped around her bent legs with her head resting on her knees. Her long braids draped like a curtain across her face as she looked to one side.

Do something, Sephy. You might not get another chance. Do something.

But what? A wave of hopelessness washed over me. Suppose nothing I said or did at this point made the slightest bit of difference? Well, if that was the case, what did I have to lose?

'D'you want to see a photo of your dad?'

Callie's head snapped up. Shocked, she stared at me.

'You've got a picture?'

I nodded. 'D'you want to see it?'

'Which photo is it?'

'The only one I've got of me and your dad together.'

Callie was on her feet and halfway towards me before she even realized what she was doing.

'It was taken just before I went to Chivers boarding school,' I told her as I got to my feet. 'I was around fifteen and your dad was sixteen or seventeen. I think that's right. Maybe I was fourteen. It's hard to remember exactly.'

Callie stood before me. She stretched out her hand. I dug the photograph out of my left skirt pocket and handed it over. Callie looked down at it for the longest time. When she looked at me I was taken aback by the fury on her face.

'Callie . . . ?'

'This is the photograph I found hidden in your wardrobe all those years ago, isn't it? The one you nearly hit me for looking at?'

'I didn't—'

Callie Rose tore my photograph in two. Then tore it again and again.

'Noooo.' I tried to snatch the photo away from her but she stepped back and carried on ripping. I tried to catch the pieces as they fluttered to the ground but their erratic, irregular dance eluded me and I caught only a couple of fragments. I fell to my knees, scooping up the pieces as best I could, but the scraps were slippery and slid under my fingers. It was futile. The last – the
only –
photograph I had of Callum and me was gone. I looked down at the pieces, each fragment evoking a memory. The years since the photo had been taken rolled back in an instant.

I was a girl again, screaming with laughter as I ran from Callum as he chased me on the beach. Callum and I doing schoolwork together, sharing answers and smiles. Our picnics in Celebration Park, followed by the inevitable food fights. Exchanging Crossmas presents on the beach. The look on Callum's face when I gave him the best astronomy book I could afford for his thirteenth birthday. I was young again, still a teenager and watching Callum die, wishing I'd done as my father told me to save my love's life. If I could've found my dad in the crowd as they placed the hood over Callum's head, I would've got down on my knees and begged for Callum's life. I would've promised Dad anything he wanted.

I looked up at Callie Rose, tears tumbling down my cheeks.

'How could you?' I whispered, my voice cracking. 'How could you be so cruel?'

'Easy,' Callie Rose replied. 'You taught me.'