Nought Forever Read online

  ‘Are you going to let me clean the wound now or should I wait for you to pass out first?’ asks the woman. What did she say her name was? Eva? ‘You need an ambulance.’

  ‘NO! No ambulance. Promise me—’ Jesus! If she calls an ambulance, the moment they see the bullet hole they’ll alert the police, and then I’m done – as in, stick-a-fork-in-me done. Out here, at least I have a chance. Once I’m a police cell, the odds on me seeing the sun rise tomorrow are non-existent.

  Eva frowns. ‘I’m not going to sugar-coat it. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to go to hospital.’

  Her words are like a metal-booted kick to my already sore side. I feel as weak as a kitten. I hate having to ask for help, always have done, but I’ve no choice.

  ‘Please, Eva. I may be dying but if you call for an ambulance I’m dead for sure.’

  I look her in the eye. An overweight middle-aged Nought woman, auburn hair streaked with grey, and cold, hard, dark brown eyes. Old before her time. God, my head is spinning. The flashes of light are taking over again.

  ‘Please, Eva. No ambulance. No police. Promise—’

  Eva, the kitchen, the whole world pitches like a ship being tossed around in a storm.

  ‘Promise me. Please?’

  ‘I promise,’ she says reluctantly.

  I slump forward.

  Dan, don’t pass out.

  Don’t pass—

  Don’t—

  Four. Eva

  Dan slowly slides off the chair and collapses in a heap, out for the count. I take a step forward, then stop. He’s bleeding all over my tiled floor. For the first time I take a long, hard look at him. My first assessment was correct. He is little more than a boy. Seventeen? Eighteen at most, I’d say. And he’s in a bad way. Without help he won’t make it through the night.

  First things first.

  That gun, then, promise or no promise, phone for the police.

  I edge forward, waiting for Dan to spring up, grab it and cry, ‘April fool!’ or some such. Slowly, carefully, I reach for the pistol. Dan doesn’t move. Using my thumb and index finger I pick the thing up by the grip or whatever it’s called. I certainly don’t want it decorating my house. No way. But where to put it?

  I look around. I need to hide it until the police get here, but it can’t be anywhere obvious. Less than a minute later the gun is safely salted away in my washing machine. Dan is lying on the floor, just as I left him, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. I carefully pull off his hooded jacket and contemplate his blood-soaked long-sleeved T-shirt. There’s no way I can pull that over his head. Nor do I want to. I collect my plant scissors from the window sill and head back to cut open Dan’s shirt. No need to pull it off now. Retrieving the damp tea towel from the sink, I wipe the blood off his head, then his shoulder and side. The head wound is the result of a blow, probably by a fist wearing rings – or a knuckleduster. There’s a hole in Dan’s shoulder which springs with fresh blood every time I clean it. He’s been shot. I roll him slightly to check above his right scapula. There’s a hole on the other side. The bullet went straight through. Looks like it missed the bone, which is extremely lucky for him. I wipe his side and check that. A flesh wound. It may have been caused by a bullet but it only grazed him. It didn’t enter his body. I look at his hoodie. Sure enough, there are bullet holes at the waist and shoulder. The bullet must’ve nicked his side and carried on out through his jacket. That one is no biggie. However, his shoulder needs urgent attention. The wound needs to be sealed or he could bleed to death. I get two compact surgical sponges out of my home-prepared first-aid kit and place them in the syringe dispenser. My kit is made up of a few high-end odds and sods ‘acquired’ from the hospital where I used to work. These surgical sponges are like mini, sterile, anti-bacterial tampons. Injected into a wound, they expand from the inside out, effectively sealing it and helping to fight any infection. Dan needs two of these, front and back. Once they’re in place, I clean his shoulder of blood and then bandage it. It’ll need careful monitoring. Then, cleaning the wound on his side, I get some gauze and tape it.

  And in all this time he still hasn’t moved. Not once.

  I wipe the blood off my floor and strip my table. My lace tablecloth is bloody ruined. Thanks! After chucking it on top of the gun in the washing machine, I feel Dan’s forehead. Cool and clammy. He’s in shock and not yet out of the woods, not by any stretch of the imagination. Making myself a coffee, I contemplate the boy lying on my floor. He’s lost a lot of blood but he’s young and strong and should pull through – if he gets the proper medical treatment. What I should do now, of course, is call the authorities. But I can just picture it – the endless questions, the suspicions and accusations, with the police assuming that this boy is something to me, or that I had something to do with his injuries. We Noughts are always presumed guilty until proven and certified innocent. The price of a paler skin. And I remember the absolute fear and desperation clouding Dan’s eyes as he pleaded with me not to call the police or for an ambulance.

  I don’t need to be a genius to realize that he is probably on the run – an audience with the police is the last thing he wants. Hmm! I shouldn’t just leave him on my kitchen floor, but there’s no way I can carry him upstairs to my spare bedroom, or even lift him onto the chair again. Besides, why should I do that? I don’t owe him anything. He waved a gun in my face, for Shaka’s sake!

  Phone the police? It’s a no-brainer.

  That’s exactly what I should do.

  So why am I hesitating?

  I miss my baby. I miss my Avalon.

  Avalon had nothing to do with this boy. They were about the same age, but that’s all they have in common. Except for their lack of judgement. But my Avalon was … special. She tried to see the good in everyone, only to crumble when she realized that not everyone was good. This boy is straight up trouble. The fact that he had a gun told me that much.

  Enough with the wavering. I owe this boy nothing – and especially not my promises. As I turn to retrieve my phone from the hall table, where it lives when I’m in the house, an image on the TV catches my eye. Shock jolts my body as I recognize the face being broadcast.

  And in that moment everything changes.

  Five. Dan

  I can’t bear this! My body is burning up like I’m on a pyre. Especially my shoulder. The pain there is raging. My side feels like it’s been kicked by a horse. I swear, my whole body has been used as a trampoline. Slowly I open my eyes. Where am I? Lying on my back. Staring up at a ceiling. I’m on the floor. There’s something soft and padded beneath me. I turn my head. I’ve got what looks and feels like a duvet beneath me and folded over on top.

  ‘I couldn’t lift you, so that was the next best thing,’ says a woman’s voice. ‘I had to roll you onto it. Nearly broke my back.’

  My head whips round at the sound. Even that movement makes my shoulder flare with agony.

  Eva.

  She’s sitting on a chair, watching me. In the corner of the kitchen a small TV I didn’t notice before is on, the volume low.

  ‘Are you Dan Jeavons?’

  My heart starts to ping all around my body like one of those super-balls that, once you chuck them, won’t stop bouncing.

  ‘Wh-where d’you get that name from?’ My mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.

  ‘Your face has been all over the news,’ says Eva. ‘I searched through your pockets while you were unconscious and found your phone. I’ve dismantled it and stomped on the SIM card. I suspect that’s how your mates outside my house were able to track you so quickly.’

  How does she know about SIMs and tracking? Who is she?

  ‘Your friends are still hanging around, by the way,’ says Eva. ‘You want I should go and get them?’

  ‘NO!’ The word explodes from me.

  I catch the gleam of satisfaction in Eva’s eyes. With one word I’ve confirmed every suspicion she has about me. I purse my lips, telling myself not to say anoth
er word. Then I mentally shake my head. That’s called locking the stable door after the horse has long since chilled.

  ‘Where’s my gun?’ I whisper.

  ‘Somewhere you’ll never find it, so don’t even bother looking. Can you stand?’ asks Eva. ‘I can help you up, but don’t expect me to lift you.’

  I nod, pushing myself up on my good arm. My head begins to whirl but I take long, slow, deep breaths. As deep as the pain in my side and shoulder will allow. I want my gun, but I don’t have the energy to argue or threaten. All kinds of thoughts are rushing through my head, like: Why is this woman helping me when, before, she wouldn’t have peed on me if I was on fire? And how did McAuley’s minions find me so quickly? Was Eva right about the phone? McAuley had given me the mobile, just as he’d paid for the clothes on my back and the food I’d put in my stomach over the last few years. Everything I was and did since I was thirteen was thanks to him. That’s when I started working for him – running errands, delivering verbal messages at first, then physical ones. As long as I looked out for McAuley and did as I was told, he looked after me. And now he’s gone. If his remaining crew get hold of me, I don’t doubt they’ll take pleasure in thanking me for that in person.

  Damn Tobey!

  He’s the one who said yes to delivering a package for me – and that’s how all this began. No one twisted Tobey’s arm. No one put a gun to his head or a knife to his ribs. It was his decision. How was I to know that there was a body part in the package? And then, because Tobey couldn’t keep his mouth shut, his girl got shot. That was nothing to do with me either. Not my fault. In revenge, Tobey played the Dowds and Alex McAuley against each other like a chess grandmaster – till it all went pear-shaped. I should never have stepped in to help him.

  Now death is breathing down my neck.

  Being dead is nothing.

  It’s the dying part that scares the hell out of me.

  ‘D’you want me to phone your family or something?’ asks Eva.

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t have any family,’ I whisper. Mum won’t even notice I’m gone, and my brother, Tom, is better off without me. He’s too ready to follow in my footsteps as it is. Even if I get everything else wrong, I’m determined to do right by my brother, even if it means turning my back on him and walking away. He won’t understand. He won’t forgive me for deserting him, but I don’t need his forgiveness. What I need is for him to make better choices than his older brother. The way things stand, Tom is my only hope for a better future.

  With Eva’s help, I finally make it onto a chair. Taking a glass out of an eye-level cupboard, she then heads for the sink and turns on the cold tap. Once the glass is full she hands it to me. I eye it, then take it from her, careful not to touch her hand. Once I start drinking I can’t stop. I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty.

  ‘Another?’ Eva asks as I drain the glass.

  I nod.

  As she refills it, I notice that the kitchen blinds are down. She turns, then follows my gaze.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, eh? We don’t want any prying eyes.’

  Said the spider to the fly.

  Except which one of us is the predator and which one the prey?

  Moments turn into minutes as we regard each other. This woman has got me completely baffled. She’s looking at me like I’m something nasty she just stepped in or coughed up, so why isn’t the room teeming with armed police – or at least McAuley’s buddies, who are swarming on the street outside? I don’t get it.

  ‘Why’re you helping me?’

  Eva places the glass of water on the table in front of me. ‘They say on the TV that you killed Softly McAuley. Alex McAuley, the underworld butcher. Is that true?’

  That makes me start. Softly McAuley?

  ‘How d’you know his nickname?’ I croak. ‘Only those who work for him know him … knew him by that name.’

  Eva shrugs. ‘Heard it somewhere.’

  No, no, no. Heard it somewhere, my ass.

  What’s going on here?

  Who is this woman?

  Six. Eva

  Dan Jeavons is looking at me like he’s in a horror movie and has just realized he’s trapped with the very thing he’s been trying to escape from. Not as stupid as he looks then. I allow the ghost of a smile to play over my lips. Proof positive, as if I needed it, that he’s an innocent in spite of all he’s done. Still full of breast milk and starry-eyed ideals.

  ‘How d’you know Alex McAuley?’ Dan asks again.

  ‘Drink your water,’ I say, pointing at the glass on the table. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to rest and replenish your fluids. You probably need a blood transfusion. Have you changed your mind about me calling for an ambulance?’

  Dan looks at me but doesn’t answer. He gets the threat.

  ‘So what were you?’ I ask. ‘One of McAuley’s pawns? Or did the Dowds send you to McAuley to do their dirty work?’

  Whatever McAuley didn’t run in Meadowview, the Dowd family did. They are dark-skinned Crosses, determined to get their slice of the Meadowview pie. And they’re just as ruthless as McAuley, carving their way up the status pole one ruined and wrecked body at a time.

  ‘I don’t work for the Dowds,’ Dan protests, scandalized. ‘I’d never work for a Cross.’

  ‘Working for one low-life scumbag is pretty much like working for another.’

  ‘I’d never work for a Cross.’ Dan’s cheeks redden as he repeats his statement. Wincing, he pulls up the sleeve covering his uninjured arm. The words Nought Forever are tattooed on his forearm, black writing on a fluttering white flag inside a red heart. I stare at him, surprised at how surprised I am to see his tattoo. So it’s like that, is it?

  ‘You know if you’re caught with that tattoo it’s a year in jail – minimum.’

  ‘I’m not going to deny who or what I am or what I believe. I don’t care who knows it,’ says Dan.

  Yeah, right. Then why the long-sleeved T-shirt? Members of Nought Forever are hard-line terrorists. They bomb, murder and maim indiscriminately. As long as their targets are Crosses, that’s all they care about. I’ve seen them and their rallies on the TV, guarded by the police while decent people – Nought and Cross – shout abuse at them, but it’s the first time I’ve actually met one in person. So that’s who Dan is, or at least who he aspires to be.

  I shake my head. ‘I should’ve known. You lot are all the same.’

  ‘You lot?’ Dan bristles. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? You’re a Nought too.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m a Nought who thinks for herself – unlike you wannabe gangsters. You wanna know who “you lot” are? You, who could do so much more with your lives? You think real power is wrapped up in guns and knives and following the path others have drawn out for you? Hell no! That’s such limited thinking.’

  ‘And where does real power lie then?’ Dan sneers like I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  ‘Economic power,’ I tell him straight. ‘We Noughts need to have our own businesses, our own politicians, our own economic base. We need to be able to make our own wealth and to function independently of the Crosses. Beat them at their own game. Then and only then will we get an equal seat at the table. You destroy your own while those who give you the orders watch as you beg for scraps from the master’s table like a whining dog. They control your thinking and you don’t even realize it. You play their game and you don’t even know you’re playing, let alone that you’re never gonna win.’

  Dan frowns at me but says nothing. I know I have his attention though.

  ‘And, worse still, people like McAuley and the Dowds have got you all convinced that the guy from the next street or the next postcode is your enemy. They keep your thinking small. Hell, they keep it microscopic. That way they can rule you without question.’

  ‘My mind is my own,’ Dan insists quietly.

  ‘Really? When did you leave school?’

  ‘As soon as I could.’

  ‘Why?’
/>   ‘It didn’t pay,’ Dan informs me.

  My questions are pissing him off but I don’t care.

  ‘Did McAuley tell you that? One of McAuley’s minions? Did they regale you with stories of all the money you could be making if only you’d be smart and ditch school?’

  Dan’s cheeks flush red. I’m spot on. The knowledge brings no satisfaction. My smile is lemon bitter as I contemplate him. ‘They said the same thing to my daughter, Avalon. Told her she belonged with them instead of falling into the Cross way of being. Told her she owed it to herself and her family to start making money as soon as possible. And when they’d hooked her on lies and promises and drugs, when they truly had her, she was passed around like a party favour on McAuley’s orders.’

  Dan stares at me. ‘Where is she now?’ he asks at last.

  ‘Six feet under—’ I choke on the reply. A ball of razor blades squats at the centre of my heart, spinning slowly but inexorably. ‘Avalon took her own life and left me her journal. Placed it on my bed with a single red rose while I was at work—’ I have to stop, close my eyes, take a breath before I can continue. ‘Then she took an overdose. Her journal told me all I needed to know about McAuley and the life she had been dragged into.’

  And so much more. Tears prick at my eyes. I turn my head, not wanting this boy to see my tears. He doesn’t deserve them.

  ‘You could be so much more. McAuley told you what you were and what you are and what you will be and, instead of thinking for yourself, you chose to believe him. Because letting someone else do your thinking for you is easier, less work, less effort.’

  ‘That’s not true—’ Dan protests. He tries to raise his injured arm to point at me, but he’s barely raised it a centimetre when he winces, then groans, his hand dropping back down to his side. Flashes of agony mould and twist his face as if it were wet clay.

  ‘That’s not true,’ he whispers again as the pain in his shoulder subsides.