Split Second
Authors: Sophie McKenzie
Other teen novels by Sophie McKenzie
Girl, Missing
Sister, Missing
Missing Me
Blood Ties
Blood Ransom
THE MEDUSA PROJECT
The Set-up
The Hostage
The Rescue
Hunted
Double-Cross
Hit Squad
LUKE AND EVE SERIES
Six Steps to a Girl
Three’s a Crowd
The One and Only
THE FLYNN SERIES
Falling Fast
Burning Bright
Casting Shadows
For older readers
Close My Eyes
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS company
Copyright © Rosefire Limited 2013
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Sophie McKenzie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road
London
WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-47111-597-4
E-BOOK ISBN 978-1-47111-600-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
www.sophiemckenziebooks.com
For Joe. And the time that is given.
London, the near future
Nat
I glanced at my phone. It was almost three p.m.
Three p.m. was when the bomb would go off.
I raced along the street, my heart banging against my ribs. I
had
to find Lucas.
Canal Street market
. That’s what the text had said. That was where Lucas would be. My
lungs burned as I gasped at the cold air. I ran faster, pushing through the crowds.
The covered market was packed with shoppers, most of whom were heading for the food stall run by the Future Party. Since the cutbacks had really set in last year, unemployment had risen fast.
Now people who would once never have dreamed of taking a handout queued for free food from the only political party in the country that seemed to care. I hurtled past the queue. Most people were
staring at the ground as they shuffled along, avoiding eye contact.
There was no sign of Lucas.
I kept running. The bomb wouldn’t be here, anyway. Why would anyone want to bomb people so poor they had to queue for food? The next few stalls all sold ethnic clothes – a mix of
bold African prints and soft Thai silks. I turned the corner, past the section of the market specialising in baby stuff. No. No way. Neither Lucas nor the bomb would be here. Not where there were
babies
, for goodness sake. I ran on, panting, past the market clock. It was just four minutes to three. There was hardly any time left. I looked up. The market had a first floor full of
cheap toiletries and household goods. Should I go up there or check more of the ground floor?
A security guard strode past. I stared at the radio that hung from his belt. I’d been so focused on finding Lucas I hadn’t thought about everyone else in the market. There were lots
of people milling about. Lots of children with their mums and dads.
I chased after the security guard. Grabbed his arm. ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You need to clear the market. Get everyone out.’
The man turned. His face filled with suspicion. ‘What did you say?’
‘There’s a bomb,’ I said. ‘I don’t know exactly where, but it’s in the market and it’s going to go off in a few minutes.’
The security guard frowned, a look of disbelief on his face. ‘What makes you think that, lad?’ he said.
‘I just do. You have to believe me.
Please.
’ Heart pounding, I caught sight of my reflection in the shiny Future Party sign that pointed the way to their free food stall. My
hair was messed up, my eyes wild and staring. No wonder the security guard was looking at me like I was crazy. ‘You have to clear the whole place.’
‘Wait here,’ the guard said with a sigh. ‘I’ll go and get the site manager.’
‘No, there’s no time.’
But the security guard was already striding away, heading towards the stalls I had just passed. As I turned to the next aisle, intending to run on, I caught a glimpse of a black leather jacket
on the stairs up to the first floor. Was that Lucas? I strained my eyes, but the jacket had disappeared, lost in the crowds.
I swerved to the left and raced towards the stairs. I sped past a stall promising fifty percent off piercings and tattoos. A girl about my age stood in front, arguing with a woman. She was
gesticulating wildly, her face flushed.
‘Why
not
, Mum?’ she was shouting.
Even racing past at top speed I could see the girl was pretty, with a mass of wild, honey-coloured curls cascading over her shoulders. But there wasn’t time to take a second look. I took
the stairs up to the first floor, two steps at a time. It was two minutes to three. And I still hadn’t found Lucas.
Mum shook her head. She reached out to smooth a curl off my face. I backed away, furious.
‘Come on, sweetheart, we’ve been over the reasons,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘It’s just a tattoo,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not going to get anything outrageous. Or big. Maybe a butterfly, or that yin-yang symbol thing.’
Mum pursed her lips and shook her head again. ‘You don’t even know what that symbol
means
, Lottie.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ I snapped. ‘You said I could
choose
what I did with my money. I’ve been saving for ages.’
Mum sighed. I turned away, so angry I wanted to scream.
It wasn’t just the tattoo or Mum using her old name for me. It was
everything
: all the ways that Mum tried to stop me growing up. Dad died when I was very small and Mum and I had
been on our own for years. This was great when I was little and had all her attention. But I would be sixteen in a few months and she needed to let me make my own decisions.
‘As I’ve already explained . . .’ Mum said with another sigh. ‘You can’t have a tattoo because it’s permanent – you’re basically mutilating
yourself for life. And it’s a waste of money we don’t have.’
‘It’s
half price
here,’ I hissed. I know I sounded like a spoilt brat but I was so fed up of us having to count every penny, every day. On my last birthday we
hadn’t even had a proper cake. ‘And it’s just a fashion thing. I’m not going to have one anywhere obvious. Maybe on my shoulder or—’
‘And it’s
painful
,’ Mum added. ‘It will really hurt.’
‘So what?’ I said. ‘Childbirth’s painful. That’s what you always say. But you put up with that. I can—’
‘Childbirth was worth it,’ Mum said. ‘A tattoo isn’t. Come on, love, there are lots of better things you could do with that money. A tattoo isn’t exactly a
practical choice.’
‘
Please
, Mum?’ Tears sprang into my eyes. Just a few years ago, when Mum still had a job, before her war widow’s pension was stopped in the government cuts, there had
been plenty of money for impractical things. Mum reached for my arm. Her hands were red and rough from her part-time work at the factory. She worked nights but had got up this morning to come to
the market for the free food bags. Her face was lined and worn. Once she had used eye make-up and nail varnish. Now she looked old and dowdy.
Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the Asian woman running the tattoo stall watching us. She saw me looking and turned back to the TV where the Mayor of London was speaking direct to camera
– another appeal for support for the austerity cuts. I was filled with loathing at the sight of his fat face and sleek, dark hair. He looked like an overfed rat. Just like the last Mayor
– and the past two Prime Ministers – he kept telling the country that we were ‘all in it together’, that more cuts were necessary.
I turned back to Mum. It was obvious from her expression that she wasn’t going to change her mind.
‘I hate you.’ The words shot out of me. I wish I could say that I didn’t really mean them, but in that moment I did.
Mum fixed me with an unhappy look. I’ve often thought back to that moment, the last time I saw her properly. In my memory I can still hear the drone of the Mayor of London’s voice
behind us, but what I remember most is Mum’s expression: part disappointment, part hurt, part weariness.
‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ she said, her voice low and even. ‘You can have a tattoo when you’re eighteen, when you’re free to make your own decisions. But as long
as I’m responsible for you it’s not going to happen.’ She paused. We were still looking at each other. I remember the slant of her eyes, just like my own; the curve of her lips,
pressed together. ‘Now, let’s go down to the free food stall. There’s already a queue and the meat always runs out fast. I was hoping they might have some lamb. We haven’t
had that for ages.’
‘We haven’t had
anything
for ages.’
Mum bit her lip. ‘I know, but—’
‘I’m not coming.’ I folded my arms. I knew I was being childish but I couldn’t stop myself. I was too hurt, too angry. ‘I’m going to look at the clothes
stalls.’
‘Okay,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll come and find you when I’m done. Don’t go far. And don’t buy anything until I get back.’
She walked away. Her coat – long and leaf green – swung around her as she headed to the Future Party’s stall where a large crowd of people was already queuing for the free food
bags that were handed out every Saturday. A second later Mum disappeared into the crowd.
I glanced over at the tattoo woman. She was still watching the TV. The Future Party’s leader, Roman Riley, was speaking now, his handsome face alive with conviction.
