Darkest Hour (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 3) Read online

  DARKEST HOUR

  Rachel Churcher

  www.TallerBooks.com

  Notes

  NOVEMBER

  Prologue

  Dreams

  Promotion

  Learning

  Profiles

  Hostility

  Questioning

  Photos

  Frustration

  Navigation

  Connections

  Family

  Insult

  Delivery

  Conversation

  Rendezvous

  Captured

  Fear

  Debrief

  Dangerous

  Location

  Running

  Invitation

  Forgiven

  Drink

  Flying

  Threats

  Journey

  Expendable

  DECEMBER

  Exile

  Evidence

  Superiors

  Elizabeth

  Online

  Traitor

  Birthday

  Footage

  Neesh

  Loss

  Grief

  Absence

  Tribe

  Note

  Fighting Back

  Chapter 1: Targets

  Chapter 2: Preparation

  The Battle Ground series

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Darkest Hour (Battle Ground #3)

  Notes

  Margie’s name is pronounced with a hard ‘g’, like the ‘g’ in Margaret: Marg-ie, not Marj-ie.

  Leominster is a town in Herefordshire, UK. It is pronounced ‘Lem-ster’.

  NOVEMBER

  BEX

  Prologue

  I’m lying in the dark, hidden and silent, the gun shaking in my hand while Ketty tears the room apart, searching for me.

  My knees press against the line of boxes, my body twisted and curled to keep me hidden. My hands grip the gun, finger trembling on the trigger.

  She kneels down. Lifts the valance. Glances under the bed.

  I won't go with her. I won't go to London.

  She reaches out for the box, tucked against my knee.

  She lied, and she used my family to bring me here. I'll shoot if I have to.

  I aim the gun, willing my hands not to shake.

  The box begins to move.

  NOVEMBER

  (ELEVEN DAYS EARLIER)

  Dreams

  Bex

  We’re shifting boxes again. The morning delivery is in, and Dan and I are stacking the goods in the store room. Neesh is taking the delivery – we’re staying out of sight. Our pictures are all over the news again, and we can’t risk anyone seeing us. We’ve been doing this for weeks, and we’ve turned it into a slick operation. No more asking where each item goes. No more stacking stuff in the wrong place. We know what to do and we put our heads down and get on with it. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can have breakfast and figure out what else needs doing today.

  Someone slams the delivery truck doors, and there’s the sound of the engine starting up. The truck drives away, and Neesh walks back inside.

  “All clear, you two. Thanks for making a start on this. There’s a couple of pallets outside the door – can you handle the rest?”

  Dan assures her that we’ve got it in hand, and she heads back to the shop.

  I stand up and lean backwards, stretching and straightening my spine. Dan rolls his shoulders and leans against a stack of boxes.

  “You OK, Bex?”

  “Yeah. Just aching from the heavy lifting.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  I turn to look at him, at the look of concern on his face.

  “I didn’t, did I?”

  “Twice. Woke us all up with the screaming, but when Charlie checked on you, you were still asleep.”

  I can feel the blush rising on my face. “I’m so sorry …”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault. We just … we worry about you.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.” I lean against the boxes, next to him.

  “Was it Saunders?” He asks, gently.

  I have to think for a moment. What was I dreaming about last night? Which nightmare woke everyone up this time?

  “I think so. Saunders and Margie. Leaving people behind.”

  It’s always about leaving people behind. Jake, Amy, Saunders, Margie, Dr Richards. There’s always someone I can’t take with me. There’s always someone I can’t save, and it is deeply, horribly upsetting. Sometimes it’s people I know are OK, and I think I’m losing them, too. I’ve dreamt about Dan before, and Mum and Dad. People I could still lose. People who could still suffer from my mistakes.

  Dan puts a hand on my arm.

  “Come on. The truck’s gone. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  My hands are shaking as we walk back to the loading bay. Dan grabs two hoodies from the hook next to the door, and we put them on, pulling the hoods up to hide our faces. Bright lime green, with ‘Morgana Wholefoods’ printed across the back, the hoodies aren’t subtle, but most people will be paying attention to the colour rather than the people wearing them.

  We step outside. The service road is empty, so no one will notice if we’re not working. The sun is just rising, and the clouds are streaked in orange and pink, with deep, purple shadows. It’s beautiful, and it’s wonderful to be able to stand in the open air, just for a moment.

  *****

  I start climbing the stairs back to the flat. Dan cracks open the back door of the shop and gives Neesh a wave, keeping his face hidden, and she waves back. The delivery is stacked. The pallets are leaning against the wall, the hoodies are back on the hook, and we’ve closed the shutters on the loading bay. Time for breakfast.

  Charlie lets us in, toothbrush held between her teeth as she negotiates the locks on the door.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Good.”

  “You thirsty? Kettle’s on.” She grins, and waves a hand at the kitchen as she walks back to the bathroom. “Mine’s a tea, thanks!”

  I close the door and reset the locks, then follow Dan into the kitchen. He’s pulling mugs and teabags from the cupboard, so I lean into the fridge and pull out the milk. The fridge shakes as I push the door closed with my knee, and the biscuit tin on top rattles.

  The biscuit tin that holds two handguns and a pile of bullets. Our desperate attempt at buying ourselves a last stand, if the government tracks us down.

  I take the milk to Dan.

  Amy walks in, still in pyjamas, still yawning. She walks over to me and gives me a warm hug. When she pulls back, I see that her eyes are puffy and red.

  “Was it Joss? The dreams?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, closing my eyes. Amy’s the only one who knew Saunders’ first name. In all the time I knew him, I never thought to ask.

  She hugs me again, and this time I hug her back.

  “We’ll get through this, Bex,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault.”

  *****

  We didn’t talk about the night at the bunker. Not until we got here. Not until we felt safe again.

  On our long walk north, each of us lived with what had happened alone. We walked. We split up to walk through towns, we joined up again on quiet country roads. We slept under bridges and in disused buildings. We kept ourselves out of sight, and we kept walking, putting more miles between us and the farm. Between us and Saunders, who died protecting his friends. Protecting us.

  We didn’t have a destination in mind. We just want
ed to get away. I thought we might cross the border into Scotland, but we realised it would be too dangerous to try. The guards on our side of the border would catch us, and we’d be handcuffed and sent to London for questioning. Used to get to the people who took us in.

  But someone was watching. Another resistance cell tracked our progress, and when they had the chance, they picked us up and brought us here. At first, we thought we’d been found, that the government had tracked us down. Two cars pulled up, blocking the country lane, and when we turned back, two more drove up and stopped behind us. We all reached for the guns, buried in our backpacks, but before we could get to them we were surrounded. The rebels searched our bags, and questioned us at gunpoint until they were happy with our story, then they bundled us into their cars and drove us to Newcastle. Not Scotland, but far enough away from Makepeace Farm to offer us some comfort.

  Neesh’s health food business is the front for their operation. The money they make subsidises their safe houses. Five of us share the top-floor flat above the shop. Neesh lives in the flat downstairs, and Jo and the others from the bunker are in other safe houses, elsewhere in the city. We work when we can, and we do what we can to help – but our faces are on the news, and on Wanted posters across the country, so we’re mostly stuck in the loading bay and the flat. The hoodies are useful, but we can only use them in the service road, out of sight of the street.

  So we learn to live together, in each other’s pockets. We learn to do what Neesh and Caroline ask us to do. And we try to ignore the locks on the door, and the handguns in the kitchen. I don’t want to think about what happens if we’re traced here. I think the nightmares will seem tame if we have to fight, trapped in our tiny safe house. And I don’t want to lose anyone else.

  *****

  “You know what we need?” Dan pushes away his empty cup, and stands up.

  Amy laughs. “You think you’re the king of this kitchen, don’t you?”

  “I am!” Dan puffs out his chest in mock offence.

  We’re crowded round the small table – two chairs, a kitchen stool and a couple of packing crates to sit on. Charlie’s come back to drink her tea, and Jake snuck in while no one was watching.

  Dan walks to the fridge and throws open the door, and looks upset when we drown out his announcement by shouting over him.

  “Sandwiches!”

  “Breakfast sandwiches,” he corrects us. “Bacon and sausages and eggs and … what else do we have?”

  He peers into the fridge, and starts pulling out packets and boxes, passing them behind him without looking. Amy and I jump up and ferry the ingredients to the worksurface, and then we’re all helping. Opening, chopping, mixing, frying, while Dan stands behind us, slicing bread at the table.

  I find I’m blinking back tears. I don’t know what I’d do without these people. They’re holding me together, after the camp and the bunker. After Ketty and Jackson and Bracken. They’re reminding me that I haven’t lost everyone. That I can still get up in the morning, eat sandwiches with Dan, be useful to the group, laugh, watch the sunrise.

  That this didn’t end with Saunders. That we’re still walking.

  Promotion

  Ketty

  Early meeting this morning, so I’m up and out of the tiny rooftop flat by seven, checking my khaki Service Uniform in the mirror by the door before I leave. After a week in the job, I still can’t resist a smile at the Corporal stripes – Brigadier Lee might want to leave me as an RTS Senior Recruit, but someone else in the Home Forces wants me and Bracken in London. No argument from me – I’m out of the Recruit Training Service, I’m out of Camp Bishop, and I’m not going to waste this promotion. I just need to keep Colonel Bracken sober enough to do his job.

  Down five flights of stairs, painkillers and the elastic support bandage on my knee controlling the limp in my stride, and out onto the street. It’s a short walk to the office at the Home Forces Building, and I want to be at my desk before Bracken gets in, ready with coffee and this morning’s briefing. There’s a chill in the air as I walk, and the thin slice of sky between the buildings is striped with orange clouds. It takes getting used to after life at camp, this feeling of being hemmed in by buildings. No training fields and woodland here. No one to train, and no one to discipline, either. No Lead Recruit job. I’m at the bottom of the ladder in London, and so is Bracken, but if we work together we can climb our way up.

  At the end of the street I wait for a bus to drive past, then cross the road to the HQ building. I flash my pass at the door, walk through the scanner, and wait while the guard checks my gun and searches my bag. The document case is hardly large enough to smuggle anything into the building, but it gives the guards something to do every morning. I push the gun back into the holster on my belt and pick up the bag.

  Past the lifts and up three flights of stairs, pushing my knee and building the strength back up. I will not be limping forever, and the more I use the muscles, the stronger they get. I push the pain to the back of my mind and keep climbing, one step after another.

  Bracken’s outer office has space for a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet on one side, and a leather-upholstered bench on the other. There’s a map hanging over the bench – strategic locations across England, Wales, and Northern Ireland; Scottish border posts; ports, roads, and rail links. Major towns are marked, and there’s a grey shaded area where Leominster used to be. Behind the chair, there’s a window that looks out onto a narrow light well, and a view of other office windows. Everything in here is old – the worn dark green carpet, the dark wood furniture, the vertical blinds at the window – and there’s a dusty smell that never goes away.

  But it’s better than a hut in a field, and a flat of my own is better than the Senior Dorm and the Medical Centre. Lead Medic Webb isn’t here to hand me crutches every time I stand up, and I don’t need Woods’ permission to talk to Bracken. I’m Bracken’s assistant now, and I get to decide who comes in, and who gets sent away. It’s also up to me to keep him sober, brief him with what he needs to know, and get him to meetings on time.

  I drop the document case on the desk, and head out down the corridor to the coffee machine. I put two cups of coffee on a tray, and stop at the document drop on the way back to the office. The Private on duty hands me Bracken’s briefing folder, and I carry everything back to my desk.

  Before I check the documents, I pick up the phone and dial a number I know by heart.

  “Nevill Hall Hospital, High Dependency Ward.”

  “Corporal Ketty Smith, calling about Liam Jackson. Do you have an update for me?”

  There’s a pause while the nurse rustles some papers.

  Come on, Jackson. Pull out of this. Don’t let the terrorists beat you.

  “Sorry Corporal – no change. He’s stable, but there’s no improvement.”

  “You’ll call me if he wakes up?”

  “It’s on his file, Corporal. We’ll let you know.” She sounds impatient, like the nurses every morning.

  “Thank you,” I say, and hang up, as I do every morning.

  *****

  When Bracken arrives, the paperwork is ready and I’ve finished my coffee. Not long to go before his first meeting of the day, so I need to make sure he’s briefed and alert. I give him a few minutes to hide his whisky bottle in the filing cabinet, then let myself in and put his coffee down in front of him.

  “Thank you, Ketty. Have a seat. What’s waiting for us today?”

  He looks exhausted. With one elbow on the desk and his forehead resting on the fingers of his hand, he looks as if he’s shading his eyes from the light in the office.

  “Coffee, Sir,” I say, jokingly, indicating the cup with my pen. “And then a meeting with the big boss.”

  Sober up, Sir. I need you to do your job.

  He takes a sip of coffee and makes a face. “That’s today, is it?”

  I make a show of checking my watch. “In about ten minutes, Sir.”

  He sits upright in his chair.
“Right. Right. So what do I need to know?”

  “The agenda says you’re talking about tracking the terrorists. Specifically Ellman and her friends from the bunker.” He nods, and drinks more coffee. “And then there’s the prisoners. Questioning of William Richards and some of his co-conspirators. And there’s still the mystery of the women from Makepeace Farm.” I look up. “Apparently they haven’t responded to interrogation yet.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Tough women,” he says, with a note of respect in his voice.

  Very.

  I remember the prisoner at Camp Bishop. How she sat in silence and looked right through me, even after Jackson and I had used our fists to persuade her to talk. If her friend is anything like as tolerant of persuasion, it could be a while before we learn who they are, and what they know.

  “What’s the latest on the bunker group?”

  “Still missing, Sir. No trace of them after we tracked them through Skipton.” I flick through the papers. “Some rumoured sightings of Ellman and Pearce, but none near their last known position, and none together. Ellman’s been reported in Kendal, Durham, and …” I look again at the report. “… Margate.”

  “That seems unlikely. They were heading north from Makepeace.”

  “Yes, Sir. And there are reported sightings of Pearce in Birmingham, and from agents in Edinburgh.”

  Bracken shrugs. “So we haven’t found them yet.”

  “No, Sir. But we’ve got units on alert all over the country. It’s only a matter of time.”

  He drinks the last of his coffee. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “It says here that the interrogation of William Richards is scheduled for this week.” He nods. “Can I assume that we’ll have access to the recordings?”

  “I’m going to push for access to the interrogation, live. I want to see what he’s hiding.”