P.N.E. (The Wolfblood Prophecies Book 4) (9 page)

‘Had?’ Quinn’s voice was sharp. He’d noticed the past tense. Jo could have kicked herself. ‘What happened to me?’

Jo really did not want to remember the terrible sight of Quinn’s body being pulled out of the canal at Camden Lock, but his piercing gaze demanded an answer. ‘The VMN drowned you,’ she said reluctantly.

Quinn roared with laughter. He grabbed one of the women in a rough embrace. ‘Better practice my breast-stroke,’ he leered, and the men joined in the laughter.

Jo was embarrassed, and struggled gamely on. ‘Mirabel’s got a soft spot for Titus and somehow she stops him growing old. He looks about fifty but really he’s ancient.’

‘This is better than the television!’ chuckled Reg. ‘Go on, girlie.’

‘I’ve been to a deserted fairground on a Native American reservation where Titus built a machine to control the weather; there’s an old gunpowder factory on the Essex marshes where Smokey held Titus prisoner… After he was rescued he repented and dedicated his life to God…’

Smokey’s voice was incredulous. ‘Titus dedicated his life to God? Would that be the same Titus who has outlawed religion and tortures and executes priests? And if I ever did imprison him – I wish – then who’s the idiot who rescued him?’

Jo’s voice was very small. ‘It was me, actually. Plus Reg, Mum and Dad.’

Smokey gave a snort of incredulity. ‘Was that before or after I shot Lethe Lacuna?’

‘You shot her first,’ said Jo, struggling gamely on. ‘She was just about to escape in a helicopter – Sebastian was the pilot – and he let down a ladder and she was climbing up and you shot her.’

‘Did I finish her off?’ Smokey was openly laughing now.

‘Obviously not,’ said Jo haughtily. ‘After all, she’s still alive. But you wanted her dead. After what she did to your mother, then getting Bridget to work for her…’

‘Bridget? My sister? Work for that bitch? You must be insane.’ Smokey was suddenly very angry. His laughter stopped abruptly. ‘That’s it. You’re either a witch, or a spy or you’re crazy. Whichever way, you’re trouble. I say we shoot her, Reg.’

‘I don’t remember asking you, Smokey,’ said Reg sharply. He was deep in thought. He spoke briefly with Quinn, who shrugged his shoulders.

Reg studied Jo carefully. His whole demeanour softened and when he spoke his voice was kind. ‘I think this poor lass, whoever she is, is telling the truth when she says her dreams and her memories are all muddled up. She’s not all there. Not right in the head. We don’t shoot ill people down here, Smokey. We leave that to Titus and his cronies.’

Jo wasn’t exactly thrilled to be seen as a harmless lunatic, but had to concede it was preferable to being shot. She took comfort in the fact that whatever she said was going to be treated as delusion, so she wouldn’t have to tell any lies. She could stick to the truth, which, morality aside, she always found easier.

Reg turned to one of the women in the group. ‘Brenda – I want you to take care of Jo. She can give you a hand. Maybe she can conjure up this healing lotus malarkey Smokey’s says she’s got. But as far as I’m concerned, if she can keep the patients’ wounds clean, tie a bandage, get a drop of soup down them and remind them that life is better than the alternative, then that’s enough to be going on with. God only knows there’s enough poor sods in the infirmary that could do with some healing. But before that, Bren, you need to tell her about Ali.’

‘So what do you know about
me
?’ asked Brenda. She had just made a cup of tea. Jo couldn’t stop shivering. Brenda wrapped her in a scratchy woollen shawl.

Jo struggled to keep a grip as feverish thoughts swirled in her head. ‘I know Reg depends on you completely.’ Brenda looked pleased as Punch. Jo thought for a moment, and went on carefully. ‘In one of my memories, your sister runs into some trouble, and you adopt her little girl, Josie, to help out.’

‘That sounds about right,’ said Brenda drily. ‘My sister is a bit wild. But as far as I know she’s not pregnant. Yet. This is weird. It’s like talking to a time traveller. Any words of wisdom from the future for me?’

Jo felt like she was skating on thin ice. She remembered how Titus managed to twist Brenda’s loyalty and discover the plans the Righteous were making. Brenda was completely unaware it was happening. ‘Don’t trust Titus,’ she said finally. ‘He’s really clever at getting into your head. Before you know it, you’re chatting away and he’s pumping you for information.’

Brenda laughed. ‘If I ever get close enough to have a cosy chat with that murderer, I’ll put a bullet in his brain.’ She looked at Jo shrewdly. ‘You’re running a temperature, dear. You’re all flushed. Not to mention talking absolute tripe! This should help.’ She poured out a spoonful of lurid green medicine and watched as Jo swallowed it down. ‘Just the job. Now let’s get you into bed.’

‘Then will you tell me about Ali?’ asked Jo.

Brenda didn’t reply. She took off Jo’s top, and was just about to slip on a fairly clean night-shirt, when she gasped out loud. ‘What happened to your skin?’

Jo felt defensive. ‘It’s a genetic thing. Blaschko lines. Because my twin died in the womb and I absorbed their DNA…’

‘No – not that. Seen them before. I mean these bites!’

‘It was something in the bed,’ mumbled Jo. ‘Fleas, I think.’

‘You’ve never had the flea-fever jab?’ Jo shook her head. ‘And you’ve not built up any immunity. Wherever have you been, Jo Lakota? If that’s who you are… Some of these bites are getting infected. No wonder you’re away with the fairies.’

She reached into a drawer, and took out a small bottle. She unscrewed the top, poured a little onto the corner of a handkerchief and dabbed gently at Jo’s rash. ‘Like gold-dust, this stuff. Medical supplies are so scarce. The buggers just issue the bare minimum. As for toiletries and cosmetics – forget it! Some of the girls find bits of make-up thrown away at Mirabel’s place, but that’s slim pickings.’ She paused, checking to see if she’d missed any spots. ‘Job done. Soon have you right as rain.’

Jo was amazed how quickly the itching subsided. The relief she felt was like a cold shower on a burning hot day. Although her head still throbbed, she made herself concentrate.

‘Thanks, Brenda,’ she smiled, adding quickly, ‘And now will you tell me? About Ali?’

‘It’s not good news, pet,’ said Brenda carefully. ‘Ali – well, she’s the best we’ve got. She may be the Queen’s twin but she’s nothing like her. She never wanted to be a part of the Elite, but after the Rainmaker rose to power, the twins’ good looks and charming manner were exactly what he needed to create a poster family for the new royalty. But unlike sweet Ali, Lethe has a ruthless ambition and one of the things she set her heart on was one of ours. You see, Paul Lakota used to be one of the Righteous. He’s a direct descendant of the Lakota Indians, and his father Grey Wolf grew to prominence as a campaigner during the numerous nuclear testing disasters by the Rainmaker, or Titus Stigmurus as he was known back then. Young Paul was destined to become a great peacemaker in his own right, until Lethe set her sights upon him.

It was horrible to watch; between Lethe’s seduction and Titus’s corruption, he became a twisted mockery of his former self. Before the red rain he had this special power of finding lost things, but even that’s been corrupted into making him their best spy catcher. The ‘Traitor Locator’ Reg calls him. But for years Ali has had him fooled. She operates in the very heart of the Royal Court while informing for the Righteous. She’s fed us information on everything the Vermin get up to, or at least she did. I don’t know what’s happened, but she hasn’t checked in for over a month now. The media have reported her as being unwell and under intensive care which sadly means that she’s either a prisoner or...’

Brenda saw Jo’s face fall and quickly added, ‘But we won’t stop trying until we find her and bring her back.’

It was no use. Jo felt utterly bleak, despite Brenda’s attempt to comfort her. As if this sick world wasn’t rotten enough, her poor sweet mother wasn’t here either, and, between exhaustion and despair she slumped into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Jo awoke as if no time had passed. She rose empty hearted and shuffled on the filthy coveralls without batting an eyelid, then, with a stomach full of butterflies, she stepped into the grey and gloomy corridor. The infirmary was housed in two rooms used as dormitories in World War Two.  Metal sprung bunk beds lined the walls – men and boys were in one ward; women and girls in the other.

Most of the invalids sat or lay quietly, often staring into nothing with, empty eyes and haunted expressions, but a few were chatting quietly. Occasional cries of pain, or low moans could be heard, but as soon as Jo walked through the door, the noises died away, leaving only a watchful silence.  Some of the patients stared at Jo; others turned away as she approached. Only one or two of the children returned her smile. She felt completely at a loss. What was she meant to do here?

To her intense relief Brenda bustled up. She was wearing a navy dress and a spotless white apron. The apron was the cleanest thing Jo had seen since her arrival. It was almost dazzling. Jo wondered how Brenda managed to keep it so white. 

Brenda smiled. ‘Oh, Nurse, she said, ‘just in time. Come into my office and I’ll sort you out a uniform, then give you a briefing before we do our ward round.’

Jo obediently followed and found herself in a surprisingly well-stocked medical centre. Brenda saw her looking. ‘Left over from the Second World War,’ she explained as she sorted out a uniform for Jo to wear.

‘This place was originally equipped for twelve thousand people, though in practice it catered for about eight thousand. More or less the same in the other seven shelters. That’s a lot of beds. Once the nuclear wars began, there were so few survivors you’d have thought we’d have had enough for everyone. And we did, for a while. People pulled together at first and worked hard picking up the pieces. But along came the VMN, and before you know it there’s a group of rich bastards, pardon my language, pet, running things the way they like. And what they like is to live in luxury surrounded by specially chosen pretty people who they treat as entertainers, whores and lackeys. And it’s all made possible by slave labour. So some of us who didn’t fancy being lackeys or slaves, or whores, come to that, went under the radar and came underground.’

‘Does the VMN know you’re here?’

‘’Course they do. They have a whole department dedicated to us –
Destitutes and Dissenters
, they call us. Out of the goodness of their black and wizened hearts they supply us with the absolute basics. ‘Course, we nick the extras we want. Well, the Ferals do. We were ordered to set up some factories down here in return, and the department’s always banging on about targets and quotas. It’s mostly metal-working and heavy industry. They don’t trust us with food production and vehicle maintenance which means they’re not completely clueless. I wouldn’t want to eat food prepared by someone who hated me or drive a car serviced by my mortal enemy.  They keep threatening to do spot inspections, but they never follow through. They daren’t come down here on account of the cholera.’

Jo looked horrified. ‘Cholera?’

Brenda winked. ‘So they believe. And we don’t disillusion them. Keeps them well away, believe me. Nothing like a nasty dose of
diarrhoea
and
vomiting
to put a crimp in things. ‘Course, it cuts both ways. If they don’t come down here, we’re forbidden to go Overground. They want us to keep our germs to ourselves.’