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  Claire said, “Why don’t you just hand yourself in?”

  The cut was deep, searing, needling, piercing. “I can’t,” Alex gasped. “They’ll torture me. The kids.”

  “Kids?”

  The antiseptic wipe lifted away. “The Ackersons aren’t violent, they only want to protect people, innocent people from the cops. If I get caught the cops could find the kids. I won’t let that happen.”

  “So, you’ll just keep fighting each other?”

  Alex leant back in the chair, panting.

  Claire thumped Alex’s leg, making her gasp forward. “What’re you planning?”

  “Umph. I don’t know. I don’t know yet, but we’ll think of something. Something peaceful. I promise.” Alex waved Claire back. “We have to.”

  The wheelchair pressed in close, Claire holding a bandage down on the wound.

  “Alex, I’m going to sew up your arm. Then you’re gonna get out of my flat and forget we exist. Got it?”

  Alex flinched from Claire’s pressure. “Thanks.”

  Claire pushed down harder, cruelly. “I don’t want your thanks. Never coming back here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes!”

  2 - The Policeman

  Smoke trailed from Inspector Defoe’s fading cigarette, wafting around the iron bars of a vacant cell. The familiar deep thrum of steel toe caps on the iron bars calmed the vein throbbing in his forehead. He settled in his favourite post-raid hidey-hole, away from the volatile streets and the Commander’s line of sight. Capturing an illegal never felt complete until he was here, in the urine-stained depths of Hell, puffing smoke. He needed that winner’s high, not the quips he’d get from the other Inspectors about losing Alex Jenkins again. At least he still had one successful strike to report to the Ambassador.

  These vacant cells should be filled with illegals. No matter their crime or affiliation, all of them end up here eventually. The police compound was a fortress and it was empty for one reason - the guards. They were commanded by pussy-footed Deputy Commander Remea, someone Defoe reluctantly tolerated. Two of them sat at the foot of the stairs just inside the cell block, having a snooze. These were not Defoe’s pals. If he kicked the nicotine habit he would come down here just to thump the bastards awake.

  Defoe’s last gasp of rich tobacco smoke released into the air and the stubby filtered end of his cigarette fizzled out. He flicked the hot remains into the nearest cell, pushed past a guard and grunted as he ascended the staircase. Knocking on the prison’s outer door, Defoe saw a dark stain absorbed into the top step. He sighed as he reminisced. How many times had he thrown a particularly troublesome illegal down here? The buggers were thieving, murdering rats and a little bit of roughing up was needed. He smirked when he saw the matching dark marks on his scraggy boots.

  Shoes shuffled on the other side of the dented door. Keys jangled against the lock. A sluggish, greying guard peered through the bulletproof glass peephole. Defoe’s stomach was at the level of the murder hole and he subconsciously sucked it in. The door creaked open and Sergeant Mort stepped aside for Defoe to pass. Defoe caught his bitter retort about tardiness in his teeth, not wanting to compromise future ciggy breaks. Ruffling his thick, dark moustache he moved into the light corridor beyond.

  The transition between the depravity of the cells and the clinical starkness of the prisoner registration room brought Defoe’s focus back to his duty. He had successfully brought in an illegal, had a rewarding ciggy break and now he needed to get back on the prowl. No such luck - he had to check in and write another case report.

  Sunlight flashed across Defoe’s eyes as he stepped into the parade ground. Police cadets wheeled in squares in front of the prison, circuiting towards the barracks and past the labyrinthine office block that Defoe was walking towards. The whole compound was positioned on the highest point of the city with amazing panoramic views. Pausing on the edge of the parade ground, Defoe glanced through a gap between the barracks and the office block at the rare view over the city wall at the green wasteland on the other side. This was one of two places in the city where the wall was not the limit of the world. Beneath all those wild trees and bushes were the broken remains of the old city suburbs, all destroyed to eradicate the guerrilla activist populations living outside the city’s control. Every cadet heard the stories, saw those ruins and knew the illegals caused that.

  Somewhere out there Defoe’s sister was guarding workers on the arable fields that fed the city. He didn’t miss her, not really. Before she went into the fields they’d seen each other once a year, maybe twice, across the parade ground. There was no need to reminisce. Defoe was three years old when he last lived with her, when their parents were still alive. He didn’t remember that happy little family.

  Defoe let his feet lead him into the office block, through the security scanners and the guards waved him on. In the foyer, wanted pictures lined the walls and the faces of active illegals stared back. The prison was different. Back there were the haunting faces of the captured and dead, like William Ackerson, Henry Erikssen and Joshua Monmouth. They were names he learnt as a kid. Three martyrs who unwittingly started the largest activist groups in the city. Everything changed after that.

  This city felt like a different place to the city Defoe’s great-great-grandparents were relocated to. Nobody was transferred into the city anymore. Whatever existed outside the walls was myth and legend. Maybe that was because the wastelands were as toxic as they were told or maybe the Tamerians didn’t want to risk more people adding to the illegals problem.

  The activists threaten his city, his streets. Well, the Ambassador’s streets. They’d belonged to the Tamerian Empire for the last two hundred years, since the bombs. Those bastards were brutal, barely human, fully deserving the punishment they got. There are no juries for them anymore; no trials, just the noose. They brought it on themselves.

  The Commander waited. Defoe was about to speak to one of the most powerful men this side of the Great Ocean Ridge. This man was the Ambassador’s Pitbull. He was born and bred in the service, entering the ranks about ten years before Defoe and his sister were adopted into the barracks. The chief knew Defoe’s history, he knew every one of Defoe’s in-service faux pas and childhood slip-ups, but none of that wrinkled Defoe’s belligerence in his presence.

  Defoe passed between interlocking police and council offices. This space held most of the security services. A shopping centre in Central held the civil administration and intelligence agency offices, rather than keeping those services out here on the northern edge of the city. Ahead of him, Defoe saw two prim, statuesque guards decorating the entrance to an aristocracy suite. His boots sank into the plush carpet as he entered the blood-red waiting area. The room was home to a handful of dark green leather armchairs where two policemen peeped over their newspapers. A soft perfume pumped from the secretary’s desk at the opposite end of the room. Next to it a heavy filigreed door stood in a golden archway. Defoe waved at the bob-haired secretary. He waited his turn.

  The newspapers on his designated coffee table were full of old news, especially to a man like Defoe who lived off the street. He ignored the papers and started people watching. Honing this skill was his job and one of his fondest hobbies. A person’s face revealed their darkest secrets. The young copper sitting opposite him was sweating, tapping his foot and shaking all over. Even a novice detective could tell this was the first time the officer was presenting a case file to the Commander. Poor bugger. The other occupant was the boy’s officer, an Inspector that Defoe avoided at all costs. The man was a waste of space. Had he really managed to capture an illegal?

  Bored of that game, Defoe’s gaze passed over a Victorian Era oil painting of a beautiful park in the island’s capital city. The park was gone now, of course. That city was first to fall to the nuclear bombs. The pretty scene of little ducks grazing on bread, the little boy fishing in the pond, even the cyclists circuiting the rose garden, they were all wiped out in a blaze of heat. What
use was a duck pond, anyway? Inside this city they needed housing, industry and commerce. The farming camps outside the city walls were the only open spaces they needed.

  The secretary, catching his eye, waved Defoe through the door. He got the blatant message that he was jumping the queue. He whipped passed both coppers and stepped through the large, gold-encrusted doorway, then through another metal detector and he was relieved of his pistol by a heavily protected elite guard. He stepped into the Fung Shui office of Commander Swanson, the Chief of the Police and Keeper of the Ambassador’s Peace.

  Commander Swanson’s office blazed with light, exuding extreme power from every pore of the mahogany furniture. The man behind the desk was brutish, square jawed and a good example of an angry, frustrated senior civil servant. Commander Swanson focused on a pile of forms and reports. Defoe sidled up to the desk and gave a lazy salute, showing an equal regard for his senior.

  Despite all the Commander’s work to protect the populous, the soft, bloated man sat at the desk was the most hated man in this tomb of a city. His was the face of authority here. There was the hand that signed every death sentence. It was his voice that ordered food and water rationing. Those were the shiny shoes that stamped curfews on their streets... metaphorically speaking.

  Defoe huffed impatiently. Why did Defoe have to go through this every time he caught a flagged citizen? Defoe thought back to the poor lad waiting in the red room for his first audience with the Commander. Twelve years ago, Defoe’s first audience here had been traumatic. He had just celebrated easily bringing in his first illegal, Llinos Jenkins. She had been cooking in her tiny flat in a Middle Meadston high rise. Pots were bubbling away on the stove and her kid was scrubbing potatoes at the sink. She was completely unaware that the Ambassador’s spies had tipped off the police. Defoe was just a Sergeant then, so what his Inspector said was gospel. What an easy win. It turned out that they were supposed to take the six-year-old too, but Defoe and his senior officer left the bawling girl behind. When the father arrived home the child disappeared.

  The Commander glanced at Defoe, eyeing his slouched posture and impatient manner. “Defoe,” he grunted.

  Permission to speak given, Defoe began, “Here to report the capture of Heather Appleby from building Seven-Twenty in Middle Meadston, sir. Three minor injuries from our side. Also, to report the death of Robert Appleby, another sympathiser, sir, who presented arms, sir.” Defoe shuffled uncomfortably.

  The Commander caught the movement and looked up. “What type of arms?”

  “Knife, sir.” Defoe’s pace quickened.

  “Really... What type of knife?” Suspicion flickered.

  Defoe continued, “A kitchen knife.”

  The Commander accepted this and moved on, allowing Defoe a silent sigh of relief. He did not want to explain that poor little new boy ‘Dilly’ Danny Montford had shot a guy for holding a blunt table knife whilst sat masticating at the dinner table. His wife had a flick knife in her pocket, which was enough evidence to arrest her.

  The Commander threw a photograph on the desk. A face from wanted posters everywhere. The Commander released a bear-like guttural rumble, stabbing the photo with his finger. “Martyn Davidson. The smug kid that revved up the Ackerson group five years ago. Now he’s found ways to avoid street DNA beams. They know where raids will be before they happen and they know how to access our prisons. How? How do they turn respectable citizens into an elite vigilante group?”

  Defoe was bored of repeating himself. “Sir, there’s no new intelligence about the Ackersons. Their leader is extremely capable. His father taught him a few military tricks. As for the others; there’s a mixed bag of skills in that group. They know how to hide well.” He scratched his nose along an old scar line that ended under his thick moustache.

  Swanson hit the desk. “Tell me something else.”

  Huffing unguardedly, Defoe nodded. “I brought in two illegals off the street, and...” He continued before the Commander could interrupt, “I have information that could lead to the capture of Alex Jenkins.”

  Swanson smirked, not quite allowing himself a full smile, and he flexed his chair backwards. “Hywel Jenkin’s daughter. An Ackerson council member’s daughter. That would be a prize. There’re rumours she’s in a relationship with Davidson.”

  “Scouts describe him as her exact opposite, but I heard the relationship rumours too. It’s possible we could snare all three of them together - Davidson, Hywel Jenkins and Alex Jenkins.” Defoe tested the waters. Maybe Swanson would let him lead the strike.

  The Commander leaned backwards into his chair. “We’ll see. She’s only seventeen. The relationship could breakdown at any moment. Even if we can snare the girl, these illegals relocate at the drop of a hat. We’ve got a leak.”

  “I’m sure Remea is investigating,” Defoe said. He swivelled the photo of Davidson on the desk for the Commander to see it more clearly. “I’m working with another Inspector on this plan. He tested the snitch this morning. We were given information about where to find Alex Jenkins and I took two strike teams to Middle Meadston, expecting the intel to be false.”

  “You missed her.”

  “We’ll catch her next time. Sir, the Ackersons aren’t the worst of the lot by a long mile. Last week six policemen were blown up by Erikssen and Monmouth activists.”

  Swanson scratched his bald pate. “You’re right, but what is the point in pinching down on the aggressive groups if the Ackersons just release them again?”

  Defoe tapped his index finger to his temple. “So, we put the Ackersons down first.”

  Swanson stabbed a pen into the desk. “We’ve already amped up propaganda against them. I want them to feel watched, betrayed, hunted. Alex and Martyn are the start of a new generation. Put them down.”

  3 - The Waitress

  Business was regular on the cobbled parade of Drayton’s Cafe District. Sweet custard and toffee smells swirled through the constant mellow throng of coffee and earl grey, urging customers inside the little shop on the corner of Madison Lane. Latte glasses, splattered saucers and leaf-soiled teapots teetered on a carefully balanced tray. A teenage waitress jostled out of the kitchen, cursing loudly.

  Today the Ambassador would visit Drayton Palisade. It was going to be a big news day. The Tamerian Empire was so close to taking control of South Opeia’s capital city. So close! What would her friends say if Nina missed news like that? And from the Ambassador’s own lips? His amazing voice, the power and control behind it, if she could hear him in person it would feel like they had won the entire World! Was any job worth missing that?

  The idea fluttered to the ground at the sound of a customer rapidly clicking their fingers at her. “Hey Miss. Two cappuccinos, a langoustine salad and a roast beef baguette.”

  Nina pulled out her notebook and jotted down the order, smiling in a practiced air all the while. “Certainly, sir. Would you like your beef medium rare?”

  The man snapped his menu shut and passed it to her. “Of course.”

  Nina took the menu and stomped away.

  At the greeting desk, the menu slid into its rack and she gave her mother a sideways look. Yet another customer was waiting to be seated. Nina never got to go! The Ambassador always came to speak at the Palisade on the first Saturday of the month, but she always had to work. Her friends had seen him in that dashing mask of his and told her of his passion and pride. She wanted to hear his legendary stories of all the amazing things the Empire was doing overseas. This measly little island owed everything to his country. The Tamerian Empire could have left the people living in the radioactive dust after the Nukes fell, but instead they built amazing cities for us, like this one. They were alive because Tameri helped them.

  After tapping the order paper onto the coffee bar for her cousin, Michelle, to make up the cappuccinos, Nina scuttled into the kitchen. Rhianna Morgan, Nina’s youngest aunt, was busy at the stove. A worn-out computer ticked over mournfully on the bowed desk in the corner of
the room. Looking down into the dregs of the cold espresso cup, Nina could see clumps of consolidated sugar in the bottom.

  “She’ll be back in a minute, Nina.” Rhianna called from her pots, pushing back threads of her tousled hair. “But your Mamgu doesn’t have time for your hissy fits now.”

  Nina scowled at her critical aunt. “It’s none of your business. Where is she?”

  “Nina!” Sophia Delorianata, Nina’s spry, wizened grandma slid around the garden door, pooling a fog of smoke behind her. “Not so loud.”

  “Mamgu, it’s really quiet today...”

  Sophia laughed. “Busy enough for you to be on the work rota.”

  “Why can’t I have just one day off?” Nina whined.

  “You had Tuesday off,” Rhianna said.

  “Shut up.”

  The cook tutted at her angrily. “Nina!”

  Nina slumped down at the table. “Mamgu, just hire a waitress to help with the restaurant.”

  Sophia stubbed out her cigarette and closed the door. “And I thought you were my hired waitress.” At times like this she yearned for agency workers who never back-chatted or guilt-tripped her. “Nina, the Ambassador’s events can get riled up. I don’t want you getting involved with that stuff.” She cut-off Nina’s reply. “And yes, I need you here.”

  Nina goggled at her. “But he’s the Ambassador! He’s the most important man in the city! What could happen at an event held for him in Drayton?”

  Both older women scoffed at her. “I am glad you are too young to know,” her aunt said.

  “I’m not too young,” Nina said. “My friends are there. They don’t have to work in their family’s stupid restaurant to get pocket money.”

  Rhianna ladled out soup into two bowls. “Your Mam should never have sent you to that posh school. You got ideas and a bunch of snobs for friends. They don’t need to help in a shop because their parents are loaded. Wait a few months and they’ll drop you.”