Knife Edge (4 page)

Darling Callie,

There's so much I want to say to you. So much I need to explain. So much I want to share. It frightens me how much I'm beginning to care about you. You're just two days old and I feel like . . . like your heart and mine are somehow knitting together. Does that make sense? Probably not. When you read this you'll probably think your mum is talking fanciful nonsense. Words about personal things, words that tell the truth, they're so hard to say. If I used words that meant nothing to me at all, then they wouldn't tear off pieces of me as I wrote them. I read once that when a bee stings, it tears its body apart trying to get away from its victim. That's what the truth has done to my life.

And here's some more truth.

Callie, I want to be honest with you – always – but this isn't easy to say. When I was pregnant with you inside me, I hated you. You were alive and Callum, your dad, wasn't. I hated you and me and the whole world for that. But now that I have you here, against my heart, I feel the beginning of peace. Like this was meant to be. Strange that I should feel such strange calm. Maybe it's just an 'eye of the storm' calm. After all, I'm about to be chucked out of my flat, my money is almost gone and I don't have a pot to pee in. I should be panicking. But I'm not. We're going to be all right, I think. I hope. I pray.

I sit on my hospital bed with you in my arms and I watch you. Just watch you, absorbing every line, every curve of your face. You have your dad's eyes, the same shape, the same quizzical expression, but your eyes are dark, dark blue, whilst his were stormy grey. You have my nose, strong and proud. You have your dad's forehead, broad and intelligent, and you have my ears – and yet you don't look like either of us. You're new and unique and original. You're a lighter brown than me. Much lighter. But you're not a Nought, not white like your dad. You're a trailblazer. Setting your own colour, your own look. Maybe you're the hope for the future. Something new and different and special. Something to live on whilst the rest of us die out, obsolete in our ignorance and hatred. We'll be like the dinosaurs, dying out – and not before time either. And yet I can't help worrying. You have to live in a world divided into Noughts and Crosses. A world where you will be biologically both and socially neither. Mixed race. Dual heritage. Labels to be attached. Tags to be discarded. Don't let the world stick markers and brands and other nonsense on you. Find your own identity. I hope and pray you find your own place and space and time.

But I can't help worrying.

I watch you and I can't stop tears rolling down my face. But I don't want you to see me cry. I don't want anything bad or negative in your life. I want to surround you with love and warmth and understanding. I want to make up for the fact that you'll never know your dad. His name was Callum Ryan McGregor. He had straight brown hair and solemn grey eyes and a dry sense of humour and a mountainous sense of justice. He was very special. I'm going to tell you about him every day. Every single day. I'll sit you on my lap and tell you how the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he laughed. How a muscle in his jaw twitched when he was angry. How he made me laugh like no one else. How he made me cry like no one else. I loved him so much. I still do. I always will. He's not here any more. But you are. I want to hold you tight and never let you go. I'll never let anything or anyone hurt you. Ever. I promise.

How strange, but before I had you, I always thought of myself as a pacifist, as someone who'd never be able to deliberately physically hurt anyone. But I look at you and my feelings have already changed so much, it frightens me. For you I would die. But more scary than that, for you I would kill. In a second. I know it as surely as I know my own name. I won't let anyone hurt you.

Not anyone.

My feelings terrify me. Loving you so much terrifies me. I've only ever loved one other person the way I love you and that was your dad, Callum. And my love for him brought him nothing but misery. Love is bad luck. At least, mine is. And now I'm lying here feeling so sorry for myself because Callum's not with me. And I know that you're here with me, Callie Rose, but I miss your father.

I miss him.

With every breath and every heartbeat, I miss him.

I sat opposite her house in my newly acquired car for I don't know how long, just watching and 'waiting. Though if you'd asked me what I was watching and waiting for, I wouldn't've been able to tell you. A glimpse of her. Just a sight to see she if was all right. This, my most recent car, was around five years old – a black, four-door saloon. I'd gone into a car park across town, barrelled the lock and hot-wired it. I never stole new cars, they were too conspicuous. A five-year-old car wouldn't get too much attention. I needed to blend into the scenery, especially sitting outside her house. Did she know how much I missed her? Could she sense me watching her front door?

I tilted back my head, still watching Mum's house, willing her to look through a window or open the door and see me. This whole situation was bizarre. I'd thought that more and more often over the last few months. I was a boat with no oars and no sails, drifting where the currents swept me. I even missed Morgan's regular company. But we were both better off this way. I had no friends, I had no home, I didn't even feel safe belonging to the Liberation Militia any more – not whilst Andrew Dorn was the General's right-hand man. My life had moved past unreal into surreal. At least that's how it felt a lot of the time. Most of the time. But then I'd remember the sight of my brother swinging on the gallows, and painful reality whipped back at me with enough force to knock me off my feet.

Callum McGregor, my brother. Callum, who was like my good reflection. He was the one in the family who was meant to make it. Get out. Get on. Get ahead. But he hadn't. And if he couldn't make it, what hope did the rest of us have? If it's possible to truly loathe and love someone at the same time, then that's how I felt about my brother. He had it all.

And it killed him.

Mum, I'm still here. I haven't abandoned you. I hope there's some way you can feel my thoughts and know that I'm thinking of you. Does she get my money? I don't send it every week and the amount varies according to how much I can afford but at least I try. Mum, I wish I could step out of the shadows and knock on your door like any other person would, but I can't. I'm wanted – by all the wrong people. The government, the police – and some within the Liberation Militia. But I'm still here, Mum. I still think about you – in spite of Jude's fourth law:
Caring equals vulnerability. Never show either.
But you're all I have left in the world, Mum. And that means something to me. I wish it didn't, but it does. So here I am, sitting in a stolen car outside your house, watching and waiting and wishing all our lives had turned out differently.

I'd better go before someone spots me. It wouldn't surprise me if they're still watching your house, hoping I'll turn up. Hang in there, Mum. And don't worry. I only have one desire, one ambition left. I'm going to make them all suffer.

I'm going to make them all pay.

Wait. Her door's opening. She's bringing out a rubbish bag.

Oh my God! She looks so old. When did she get so old? Head bent, shoulders drooping, shuffling like an old woman. But it's only been a few months. A few years. A lifetime. Look what they've done to you, Mum. Look at the state of you. She's looking up – straight at me. Can she see me? Of course she can. What am I thinking? I have to get out of here. I must've been mad to come here in the first place.

She's calling my name. For God's sake, Mum, don't do that. You don't know who's watching or listening. What was I thinking? She's dropped her bag and is running towards me now.

Move the car, Jude. NOW!

Get going.

Go.

Mum, don't cry. Please don't cry.

Sorry.

It was a mistake.

I'm so sorry.

I'd broken Jude's first cardinal rule.

Never, ever allow yourself to feel. Feelings kill.

Darling Callie,

Whilst you were sleeping:

I thought of Callum.

I phoned three quality newspapers and used my credit card to put a birth announcement in each of them. If Dad thinks I'm going to disappear into the woodwork now that I've had you, he's got another think coming. I hate his guts.

But I thought of Callum.

And I kissed your forehead. And breathed you in.

I thought of Callum.

I chatted to Meena in the bed next to mine. She's had a girl too and she's going to call her Jorja. That's a pretty name, isn't it? Jorja.

I thought of Callum.

I had a quick shower because I didn't want to be away from you too long. Not that I could linger, even if I wanted to. The queue to use the showers is always horrendous, so you have to be fast on your feet and slip in and out before some irate woman bangs on the shower cubicle door, hurling abuse because the hot water is in danger of running out.

And I thought of Callum.

In that order.

I sat in the Golden Eye bar, tucked away off the High Street, sipping at my lager. This wasn't the kind of place I usually frequented – a bit too consciously cool-chic for my taste – but it was off the beaten track and I needed a drink and an hour or two to myself. The Golden Eye was almost three quarters full of revellers enjoying a drink after work. Mostly noughts but quite a few daggers. It was one of those places where daggers could come for an hour or so once a week and try to fool themselves into thinking they were liberal and not prejudiced because they actually drank in a place where noughts were drinking next to them and not just serving. I took another sip of my drink and looked around. The bar sure was busy. But then they did serve the best beer I'd had in months.

The place should've been called the Wooden Eye. People stood on the beer-stained wooden floor, propped up the wine-stained wooden bar, sat on barely-upholstered wooden benches, stools and chairs. And I was one of them. I sat at a table, opposite a canoodling nought couple who had eyes for no one but each other. I could've sprouted another head and I'd've still been invisible to them. So I sat and sipped, and sipped and sat. But I was tired of my inactivity. I was tired of running and hiding and living from day to day. Slamming my bottle of lager down on the table before me, I decided I'd sat on my backside for long enough. It was time to get some purpose back into my life. I couldn't rely on the
L.M.
for support – not when someone, probably Andrew Dorn, was out to get me. And my mum could do nothing for me. The only person I could rely on was myself.

The first thing I had to do was get money. Lots of it and quickly. And if I could stick it to the Crosses at the same time, then so much the better. There were plenty of banks and building societies and jewellery shops that needed someone like me to help keep their profits on a more manageable level. So really, I'd be providing a public service. I smiled, imagining that defence in court. Who knows! If they ever caught me, I just might try it.

'Hi. A seat! A seat! My kingdom for a seat! Is this seat taken?'

I looked up, then scowled up at the Cross woman standing before me. She wore her hair in thin braids tied up with an orange ribbon. Her silk shirt was also flame orange and her wraparound skirt was dark, either black or blue – it was hard to tell in this light. Couldn't she find somewhere else to sit? I glanced around but it did indeed look like every seat was taken. Tough! I didn't want one of them sitting next to me. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two coppers enter the bar – one a nought, the other a Cross.

'If you'd rather I didn't,' the woman shrugged. And already she was turning away.

'No! No, that's OK. It's all yours,' I said quickly. I even managed to squeeze out a smile.

The Cross gave me another hard look before deciding I wasn't an axe murderer. 'Thanks,' she smiled as she sat down. 'I'm Cara.'

Jeez! What made her think that the invitation to sit down meant I wanted to talk to her? But the coppers were still in the bar and I couldn't afford to take any chances.

'Steve,' I replied without even blinking.

'Hi, Steve,' Cara the Cross continued. 'This place is jammed tonight. It's not usually this busy during the week.'

'I don't really come here that often,' I said.

'I thought I hadn't seen you in here before.'

Shut the bloody hell up! I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to sit next to you. I don't want anything to do with you. But I smiled and was careful to keep my true feelings off my face. I'm good at that. Years of practice around Crosses. I've lost count of the number of times a dagger has told me what he thought of me and 'my kind', usually followed by 'But I don't mean you! You're all right!' And what did I do when daggers spouted their nonsense? I smiled and said nothing. Or at least I used to, when I was younger. No-one's tried to talk to me like that for a while. Now I choose not to hide my feelings unless absolutely necessary – and maybe it shows.

'Those two are enjoying themselves, aren't they?' Cara nodded at the two in front of us, who were still kissing like there was only a minute left before the world ended.

'D'you think if I shouted fire, they'd stop?' I asked wryly.

'I doubt if they'd even hear you. So d'you live around here then?' asked Cara the Curious Cross.

'No. I'm just visiting my sister. She lives a couple of streets away from here.'

'What's her name?'

'Why?'

'Maybe I know her, if she comes in here a lot,' said Cara.

'Lynette,' I replied without hesitation. 'My sister's name is Lynette.'

Cara frowned. 'Doesn't ring a bell.'

I shrugged. Cara smiled. I glanced around the room. The cops each had a couple of sheets of paper in their hands and they were looking around.

'So, Cara,' I smiled, moving closer to her. 'D'you work around here then?'

'Yeah, in Delany's Salon, the hairdresser around the corner,' said Cara.

'Who's Delany?' I asked.

'That's the name of the shop,' Cara explained. 'Delany was the woman who used to own the shop but she packed up and moved on ages ago. It's had two or three different owners since then.'

'Who owns it now then?'

'I do,' Cara smiled. 'In fact . . . I own a chain of Delany's Salons nationwide.'

'How many?' I asked lightly.

Cara sipped at her drink and looked at me almost apologetically. 'Seven at last count. Not many yet, but I'm planning to expand in the future.'

Who did she think she was fooling with the false modesty act? Not me, that was for damned sure. But she owned shops. Going concerns. Money-making propositions. That could be useful.

'That's unusual.' I pointed at the necklace she was wearing. The cops were getting closer and closer.

'It was my mum's,' said Cara.

It was a silver or platinum fine-link chain with two overlapping circles inside an oval.

'Does it mean anything?' I asked.

'Love and peace,' Cara told me. 'They flow into each other and renew each other. Anyway, that's the idea.'

'Sounds deep!' I said sceptically.

Cara smiled. 'It isn't. It just means love and peace – that's all.'

'I'll drink to that,' I said raising my bottle of lager.

The cops were only a table or two away now. They were flashing photos at everyone they passed. Could they be the photos of Morgan and me that the cops in the car park had shown?

'You're very beautiful,' I whispered to Cara.

And I kissed her, feeling sick to my stomach. The cops walked past me. It took every gram of strength I had to stop myself from pulling away until the cops had well and truly gone. Across the bar someone shouted out, 'Oi, you lot! What's with that table? Get a room! Get two!'

I pulled away slowly. Girls like that. It makes it seem like you're reluctant to stop.

'Is this where I get my face slapped?' I asked.

'I dunno. Tell me what that was all about and then I'll decide.' Cara's eyebrows were raised but she had an amused smile on her face.

'I couldn't resist,' I said. 'I hope you don't mind.'

'I should, but I don't,' said Cara, adding melodramatically, 'I'll just tell myself that once again a man found me
irresistible!'

I smiled, then took a swig of my lager to wash the taste of her lips off my mouth. 'Can I get you a drink?'

'OK,' Cara smiled. 'I'll have what you're having.'

You wouldn't last five seconds if you had to have what I've got, I thought scornfully. But I smiled and stood up. I knew that she was just being friendly when she chatted to me, but then she'd let me kiss her. She could've pulled back, she could've protested, but she hadn't. Stupid Cross slapper. I turned and headed to the bar. Once my back was towards her, I surreptitiously wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. Two more lagers bought and paid for, I headed back to my table.

'Thanks,' Cara replied, reaching out for it.

'Any time,' I replied. 'After your drink, d'you wanna get out of here?'

'I don't think so . . .'

'Fair enough. It was just an idea . . .'

We both took a sip of our respective drinks.

'Where would we go?' Cara asked at last.

'Anywhere you want,' I said. 'To see a film, for a walk or maybe you could show me your salon – you name it.'

Cara scrutinized me. It was quick but thorough.

'OK,' she said after a moment's hesitation.

'Which of the above d'you fancy then?'

'All of them,' Cara laughed.

I sipped at my lager. Cara finished hers in double quick time. 'Ready?' she smiled.

'Willing and able,' I added, standing up.

Cara might've been a stupid Cross slapper, but she'd fallen into my lap. And I was never one to pass up an opportunity. I needed money and fast, and Cara was going to provide it for me – whether she wanted to or not.