Resurgence (6 page)

‘People of Martindale, we know you have Silver Blackthorn. You have ten minutes to hand her over or you will face the consequences.’

There is another squeak as the Kingsman removes the device from his mouth. Before anyone can say anything, the giant screen hanging from the ceiling in the village hall switches itself on.
Usually it broadcasts mundane choreographed news pieces and public information.

As well as hosting the annual Reckoning, the hall is used to register births, deaths and marriages. At some point everyone in the village has visited. The picture is fuzzy, but as it becomes
crisper, anxious murmurs ripple around the room as we realise we are looking at ourselves.

I peer back outside the window and notice cameramen hovering behind the Kingsmen. The images on the screen flitter from one shot to another as the banners scroll, telling viewers I am trapped in
my village’s hall. Is this why they left it standing? Was it a trap all along to draw me here? If it was, I not only fell for it but brought a hundred or so people in with me too.

The camera pans along the row of Kingsmen, standing menacingly as one, ready to act. It stops to focus on the grey figure in the centre. He is a brute of a man, at least six inches taller than
any of the others, with fixed dark eyes, a solid square jaw and clenched yellowing teeth. I have never seen him before. He is chewing on something efficiently, rhythmically, each movement of his
mouth another second counted down.

On screen, a clock has appeared in the top corner and is now showing under nine minutes. I expect the larger men to storm across, pick me up and throw me outside, giving me up for the sake of
the others here.

It is what they should do.

Instead the people who are healthy call me away from the window. I am ushered into the centre of a group of villagers. I recognise them all but don’t know everyone’s names. They have
formed a protective circle around me.

One of them turns to another: ‘How can we get her out?’

He shrugs and pouts out a bottom lip. ‘There are Kingsmen at the back of the hall and more by the side windows.’

I cough, wanting to make myself heard. ‘I should give myself up.’

They look at me disapprovingly and one of them shakes his head in annoyance, making me feel like the teenage girl I am. He may as well have said ‘don’t be stupid’.

‘What weapons do we have?’ he asks.

The other one shakes his head. ‘Almost nothing. We grabbed a few knives from the rubble and we have a few sticks. It’s not going to make an impact on their swords.’

‘Numbers?’

Another shake of the head. ‘There’s probably a few more of us but that won’t last long. They have armour, swords and knives.’

The first man winces and turns to me, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.’ I’m unsure how to reply, not knowing if I
deserve this, but his next statement takes me by surprise. ‘You’re much more important to everyone around the country than you think.’

Two of the rebels we met outside Windsor, Knave and Vez, wanted me to act as a figurehead for the resistance. At the time I didn’t want to but the myth built as we moved through the
country. Now I realise I have no choice. Whether I am comfortable with it or not, I have somehow become the symbol of everything unhappy citizens want to rally behind.

Another loud squeak echoes through the building before the Kingsman’s voice roars around us again. On screen we can see a close-up of him but the movement of his lips is slightly out of
sync with what we’re hearing.

‘To prove we are serious, we have something to show you.’

The picture changes to a row of gloomy bricks where the Minister Prime is standing rigidly. He is dressed entirely in black, staring threateningly into the camera. Even though a banner scrolls
across to tell us they are live at Windsor Castle, I can sense his presence as if he is next to me. My ankle twinges, a memory of the way he punched it the last time I was there. Many would have
tried to fight, to stab or to slash, but he knew what he was doing by trying to stop me walking.

The angle widens to show a hooded figure on his knees at the Minister Prime’s side. As the cover is pulled away with a flourish, I gasp, recognising the battered, slumped and bruised shape
of Head Kingsman Porter. He attacked the Minister Prime from behind and is the reason I escaped, helping all of the Offerings to flee with me. At the time I thought he might have been safe because
the Minister Prime never saw his face.

‘The Minister Prime is called Bathix,’ I tell the people around me. Very few people know his real name. A few of the men turn to me, confused, but I understand even if they
don’t. It humanises him if they know what he’s really called.

Bathix’s voice spits menacingly from the screen. ‘This man is Head Kingsman Tay Porter. He has committed high treason against the King. For that there is only one
punishment.’

Even though he saved me and I worked with him every day, I never knew Porter’s first name. Suddenly my thought about humanising someone by knowing what they are called comes back to strike
me. We shared a moment where Porter told me what it was like in the early days after the war. He was the person who gave me the idea that there was a resistance. Without that, I would never have
found Vez and Knave and would have had no idea what to do outside the castle walls. I should have spent more time getting to know him but now it is too late.

The last time I saw him, he had aged dramatically but now he looks even worse. His face is smeared with cuts and dribbles of dried blood. One eye is black and completely closed.

Bathix pulls what’s left of Porter’s hair back, showing the camera the full extent of the brutality inflicted upon him. ‘Do you confess to your crimes?’

Porter opens his mouth, gasping for air. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and painful. ‘The only crimes committed against this country are by . . .’

Before he can finish, the Minister Prime backhands him across the face, sending a mixture of spittle and blood flying out of shot. I wince too but Porter turns back to the camera defiantly, his
one good eye blinking rapidly until it closes. Bathix steps backwards and picks up an axe with a long handle. Two Kingsmen reach forward and force Porter into position. Any fight from him is long
gone as he allows his neck to be pushed forward onto a block. I want to look away but my body won’t obey what I’m telling it. Even my eyelids refuse to close.

The Kingsmen step backwards after tying Porter into place and the rest happens in slow motion as the Minister Prime crashes the axe down. Opie must have noticed what was happening because he
stands in front of me, his big shoulders blocking my view. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. When he moves aside, the screen has reverted back to showing the outside of
Martindale’s village hall and there are just over five minutes left on the clock. There are even more Kingsmen lining up, meaning we are outnumbered on top of our disadvantage due to lack of
weapons. This is entertainment for the masses. A game. Amusement.

The men around me are looking blankly at each other and I have no ideas other than giving myself up. From the far end of the room, there is a bang – Hart is standing on top of a solid
wooden table. He stamps his feet loudly and everyone turns to face him.

His voice is deep and powerful, the change in his demeanour since I injected him with the medicine barely believable. ‘My name is Hart and I was this village’s first Elite. I left
here more than two years ago. You stood in the streets, clapping and cheering. It was the proudest day of my life. I thought I was going to serve the country, to help us recover and make sure that
no one had to go hungry again. Instead, all of us Offerings were killed one at a time in Windsor. We were at the mercy of the man you call our King. He’s not the person we thought he was but
somehow I survived.’

He pauses for breath as a ripple of discontent flitters around the room. For most people, this is the first time they have had anything confirmed.

‘I was resigned to my fate,’ he continues. ‘I knew I was going to die in the castle and that my parents would never know what happened to me. The reason I’m here, the
reason I got to see my parents again and have them tell me how proud they were, is because of her.’

His arm shoots out, a finger pointing directly at me. The men at my side part to let everyone else have a view. I suddenly feel tiny, cowering under the pressure of their stares.

‘That’s Silver Blackthorn. She could have taken those still standing away from here – we would have been miles away by now. Instead, she spent the whole night pulling people to
safety. I owe her my life but so do some of you. You all knew my parents – they have lived here for all of their lives. They’ve seen you grow up. Whatever you might have thought of the
King before,
he
did this. He sent the planes that bombed and killed my parents.’ He jabs his arms towards the windows. ‘I dragged them out of the rubble last night and had to
stand in here as the Kingsmen burned their bodies. That’s who
they
are. We need to show them who
we
are.’

He stamps his foot again as a small cheer erupts.

‘I don’t know about you but there is no way any of them are going to lay a finger on Silver. Whether we run or fight doesn’t matter. What is important is showing them –
showing everyone – that they can’t do as they please.’

Another cheer goes up and I feel a lump in my throat. I don’t feel as if I have done anything to save these people. If anything, my presence is what drew the plane here.

He is interrupted by another screech and then the amplified voice of the Kingsman outside. ‘You have sixty seconds.’

On the screen above Hart, the timer pulses through the seconds. I remember the old-fashioned clock which sat above the cooker in our old home. Somewhere it is now buried or crushed under the
rubble. I can hear it in my head. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Some of the survivors reach for the few weapons they have but the resources are even more meagre than I feared. One of the men scrapes the blade of a knife against another to sharpen it but he
must know it will have no effect on a Kingman’s armour. One of the women starts stamping on the wooden remains of the frame in which the King’s picture was once housed. She forms two
spear-shaped objects, each with a sharp point. They may do some damage to the unprotected parts of a Kingsman but will offer little defence against the weapons they have.

On the screen, the Kingsmen unsheathe their swords and take a step forward. There are ten seconds to go. The leader in the middle is still chewing hard, eyes fixed on the village hall. Together
they stride purposefully in unison, their steps in time to the countdown. Around me people are massing, men and women, older and younger than me. I want to tell them to stop, that I don’t
want them to do this on my behalf, but I can’t get a word in over their murmuring. One of the bigger men pushes me backwards, away from the doors.

The image on the screen changes to where someone is filming from the grass bank we emerged onto yesterday. The steeper angle offers a view of the whole village: the piles of wreckage, the giant
crater, the burning row of bodies – and the ring of Kingsmen that circle the village hall.

‘We’re surrounded,’ someone says near the front. I see people’s bodies tense ahead of me as they ready themselves for a fight.

The camera shifts again to the one in front of the Kingsmen. They continue to march as one until they reach the bottom of the steps just as the timer ticks to zero.

I am so far back in the crowd that I hear the doors being opened without being able to see them. On tiptoes, I peer over the nearest villager but only in time to watch the tops
of the doors slam shut again. The screen is a blur of movement as whoever is filming tries to turn around.

A voice blares from outside: ‘Who are you?’

Everyone has turned to watch the big screen where the Kingsman in grey is framed tightly. His features don’t appear to have changed, his eyes staring firmly ahead, jaw rigid. As the image
erratically pans around to the top of the steps, finally coming into focus, there is a gasp from the people around the room.

I turn, clutching onto Opie to support him as we stare up to see his father standing by himself in front of the huge doors of the village hall.

‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ he replies. His voice shudders and his arm is trembling. Anyone can see his terror.

I pull Opie towards me but he is staring open-mouthed at the screen. Hart has made his way from the table at the other end of the hall and is holding Pietra’s hand as Jela clutches onto
her from the other side. The five of us close together as silence ominously echoes around the room.

Opie’s voice is low and disbelieving. ‘He said he was going to find a weapon . . .’

The Kingsman in grey speaks again: ‘Where is Silver Blackthorn?’

Opie’s father gulps before replying. ‘We’re not handing her over. You have no right to do this to our village.’

Back and forth the camera switches as if it has been choreographed. The Kingsman’s face cracks slightly, the corners of his lips turning upwards in a smirk of arrogance. I know these
pictures will be watched all around the country. How will they see this? As a group of oppressors terrorising a community like theirs, or as a gang of rebels getting what they deserve?

The Kingsman’s voice doesn’t match the humour of his smile. ‘If you will not hand her over, we will take her.’

Evan takes a step forward. ‘I was the biggest supporter of the King. I lived through the war and came out the other side. I thought he was the best thing to happen to this country, but
this . . . this is wrong.’

The merest nod from the Kingsman in grey sends four men in black scurrying up the stairs. Evan holds his hands wide into a crucifixion pose, showing he is unarmed. He refuses to fight as two of
the guards pick him up by the scruff of his neck. His legs don’t flail and his body goes limp.

‘She’s just a girl,’ he shouts and then the screen goes blank. I know that what comes next would only sit well in the towns and cities around the country if they believed Evan
deserved it. Someone must have decided that cutting down an unarmed man trying to defend a teenage girl is not going to play well to the masses – even if that girl is an apparent traitor.