“And most of those people are auxiliaries. They’re your people,” Quinn adds.
“How can we warn the Ministry without getting killed?” Abel asks quietly, pretending this is the first he’s heard of Vanya’s plan. If I had time, I’d call him out on it because if Jo knew about it, so did he. But it isn’t worth wasting my breath.
“I’ll speak to my father,” Quinn says. “He’s on our side.”
“What if he isn’t? You saw what he did to The Grove. What if Bea’s wrong about him and Ronan Knavery?” Dorian asks.
“So maybe I’ll be arrested. But by then my father will know, and he has nothing to lose by being prepared.”
“I’ll go with Quinn,” I say. A baby lying in Maude’s arms squeals. She puts her knuckle in its mouth and it settles.
“I’ll go, too,” Silas says. “The rest of you help Maude and Bruce find the respirators and keep the others alive. You’ll have to carry two kids apiece.”
“Not a problem,” Song says.
“Then it’s settled,” Silas says. “Now let’s get some sleep. We’ll leave at first light.”
I drift toward the group of benefactors, looking for Lily, when Abel stops me. “The Ministry won’t welcome you. And what if Maks catches you before you get to the border?” I look deep into Abel’s eyes, wondering what it was I ever saw in him. He’s dangerously close to being a coward.
“Maks will make you pay,” Jo says. She has been quiet for most of the trip, but if there’s one thing she can speak to, it’s Maks’s vindictiveness.
“Not if I make him pay first,” I say. It’s bravado; I’m terrified. Taking a risk is all very well, but not when the odds are stacked so high against us. The rate things are going, we’ll all be dead in weeks.
And I can’t help feeling that I’m going to have a notable part to play in everyone’s destruction.
45
RONAN
After spending my second day helping Jude drill the soldiers at the gymnasium, I’m exhausted. I want to have some dinner and go and see Bea, but when I get home, Niamh is pacing the kitchen. Wendy, who is cooking dinner on the stove, shoots me a look I can’t translate as Niamh storms toward me. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“No, it is not.” Niamh has my pad in her hands, which she thrusts at me.
“Were you trying to contact me? I forgot it.” I look down. She’s managed to get into it. But what did she see? I haven’t been sending any incriminating messages or pinging anyone I shouldn’t. I’ve been very careful. “How did you open it?”
“Your password has been the same for years, Ronan. Picasso. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, why do you have a picture of Bea Whitcraft on your pad?”
I freeze. She’s right. At the station I took a photo of Bea, and she told me to delete it. Why didn’t I?
Wendy is stirring the pot furiously. “Anyone hungry?” she asks.
“Well?” Niamh says, prodding me.
I step back and open the photo application on the pad, then scroll through trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “That’s weird. Probably from school or something.”
Niamh snatches the pad from me and pulls up the picture. Bea’s fretful face is vaguely distinguishable—an orange sunset and ramshackle buildings behind her. “I checked the date and location. You took it when you were in The Outlands. Don’t bother lying. You met Bea?” I stare at Bea’s picture, not saying anything. If I look suitably ashamed, will she let it go? “So you did meet her,” Niamh says. “And instead of killing her, you took pictures. What the hell’s going on?”
“I met her, yes. But she’s no threat. She’s living like a drifter, and she’ll die out there. I couldn’t kill her in cold blood, Niamh. I just couldn’t. Could you?”
I mean it to be a rhetorical question because I don’t think Niamh has it in her to kill anyone, but she jabs Bea’s picture with her finger. “Anyone who contributed to the riots and Daddy’s death deserves to die. I’d knife her if I got the chance,” she says. Her face is steel.
“Dinner?” Wendy asks. She is trembling, and I should be, too.
I have to move Bea and the others, and I have to do it soon because if Niamh gets a sniff of who she’s living beneath, we’re all done for.
46
BEA
We’ve been cooped up in Ronan’s attic for a week, and it’s already taking its toll on the group. None of us have showered, and the occasional buckets of water Wendy sneaks in for washing quickly turn brown. The smell is acrid. Conversations are turning into debates, debates into arguments, and Harriet and Gideon are constantly forced to mediate over sleeping spaces. I keep to myself and focus on training.
Today Ronan is late, and when he arrives he’s in a hurry. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“Niamh’s only gone down to the store to get a shake. I can’t stay,” he says. He won’t look at me. Is there something he isn’t saying?
“One of the girls is sick. She’s been on the bucket all day long,” I say.
“Gideon told me. I’m going to try to bring up some loperamide later.”
“Thanks. I was worried about her.” I turn to make sure no one’s listening. “Can I take a shower?” I ask.
He looks at me uneasily. “Downstairs?”
“I need to get out of here,” I admit.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I wring my hands. “Please.” I sound desperate, and I can’t help it.
He looks down the stairs and taps his index finger against his chin. “I have an en suite bathroom,” he says.
“Perfect.”
His bedroom is larger than the entire apartment I used to share with my parents. He has a monstrous wall-mounted screen at one end facing a set of sofas and easy chairs, and a huge bed at the other end. The adjoining bathroom contains not only a mammoth shower, but also a Jacuzzi tub and double sink. I’m irritated by the extravagance. It doesn’t fit Ronan’s character. But this is his life.
“Towels are in the cupboard,” he says.
I take a quick, hot shower, and when I emerge, Ronan is sitting on his bed rooting through his nightstand. He waves me over. “I have something for you,” he says. I sit next to him and he hands me a printed picture of me with my parents. I trace my finger across their faces. My mother’s sweet, haggard smile, and my father’s unshaven chin. Their frayed shirts and too-tight clothes. I press the picture against my chest.
“Where did you get it?” I wipe the corners of my eyes with my knuckles.
“I went to your old place,” he says.
“You never stop surprising me,” I say. He is not only a better person than I thought he could be, but he’s my friend, too.
“I looked for one of Quinn, but I couldn’t find any and didn’t want to rummage through your stuff,” he says.
I close my eyes, so I can imagine Quinn as Ronan launches himself at me. He throws me onto the bed and covers my body with his own. He presses his face against mine. My instinct is to struggle, but when I hear a voice, I know he’s protecting me.
“Ronan, we need to—” It’s Niamh. “Ronan?” She laughs. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Have you heard of knocking? Get out!” he yells. I bury my face in his pillow. There’s a scuffle and a couple of hard bangs. “She’s gone.” I sit up and he turns the lock on the door, which he should have done when we came into the room in the first place. I deliberately wipe my mouth with the cuff of my sweater. Was there no other way to stop Niamh seeing me?
“Sorry,” he says.