Читать книгу Underdogs - Chris Bonnello - Страница 15

McCormick opened the door to the cellar and descended the steps with a hand on the bannister. His feet were trembling too much for him to trust his balance. When he arrived in the cellar, which doubled as the Underdogs’ armoury, he saw Ewan already prepared. Clothes, weapons, everything. The assembly time was ten o’clock that night, another five minutes away. But knowing Ewan, he must have wanted some time away from the others. For a leader, he needed a lot of moments to himself.

McCormick could not see Ewan’s face as it fixated on the Memorial Wall, now twenty-one names long. The dead Underdogs had outnumbered the living for a while.

‘What was that thing you used to say to Thomas?’ Ewan asked without turning around. ‘You kept saying it to him after Beth died.’

‘I said plenty of things to that boy after he lost his mum. Could you—’

‘It was something about how missing her would be painful but not a bad thing…’

McCormick nodded, and made his way to Ewan’s side. Before he spoke, he took a look around the cellar for Ewan’s sake to make sure they were alone. No doubt the lad had established that nobody was in the farm next door or the generator room, but it was best to double-check. Finding nobody, McCormick repeated the words as he joined his lead soldier in staring at the Memorial Wall.

‘The pain of missing someone is always worth it for the joy of having known them. Always.’

‘Yeah… that was it. Where did you hear that?’

‘I have to admit,’ McCormick said with a smile, ‘I made it up myself. It was a lesson I learned after Barbara died. As much as it hurt to lose her, I’d take that pain all over again. If mourning is the natural cost of love, then it’s a cost worth paying.’

When he looked towards Ewan, he saw his disengaged expression. Maybe the lad couldn’t apply positive thought to the deaths of his family. Or Charlie.

‘Why,’ McCormick asked, ‘what are you thinking?’

‘Right now I’ve reached Ben Christie,’ Ewan answered. ‘I need to remember something about him.’

McCormick gazed at the Memorial Wall, and found Ben towards the bottom of the list. Only Rachael Watts, Daniel Amopoulos and Charlie Coleman had died after him.

‘How come?’ he asked.

‘Because a few weeks ago I watched my best friend become nothing more than a chiselled name in a slab of rock,’ Ewan said, pointing a twitching finger at Charlie’s name. ‘And once I saw it, I realised how easy it’d be to forget who these people really were. So now, every time I look at this, I read down the list and try to remember something about each person.’

McCormick knew that smiling wouldn’t be the reaction Ewan wanted, but he found his young friend’s attitude touching. He hid the smile as well as he could, as Ewan pointed to the top of the wall and reeled off some memories.

‘Sarah Best used to help Kate when she got anxious in French. They weren’t even friends but she helped anyway. Callum Turner came up with the Oakenfold Code… “the problems are not the person”. We all adopted it, and the teachers were proud of him for coming up with it at the age of twelve. Joe Horn always joked about being best in the school at chess club, even though he never reached a semi-final. Then there’s Elaine, Arian and Teymour… they deserve to be remembered for more than just dying on Jack’s generator mission.’

Ewan turned to McCormick, revealing the redness in his face.

‘Remember a few weeks ago,’ he snarled, ‘when I yelled at you for not adding the Rowlands? Three good people died in New London helping us get out of the Inner City, and they didn’t even become chisel marks. They didn’t become bloody anything. And I don’t want to forget them either.’

‘If they mean that much to you—’

‘It’s too late now. You’ve already added Charlie, and he died after them. I’m scared about what’s going to happen next.’

Scared. Have I ever heard him use that word before?

‘You’re taking a stupid risk,’ Ewan said with watery eyes, anger and love blending in his voice. ‘If Lorraine’s hand twitches at the wrong time, your name’s next on this list. Whether you die on the operating table, or somewhere in New London with your stitches ripped open. If you meet a clone that’s faster than you, your name’s next on the list. If…’

Ewan’s sentence collapsed. McCormick tried to take advantage of the silence, but couldn’t find anything to say. His lead soldier was absolutely right.

‘Don’t you dare become just a chiselled name in a bloody rock,’ Ewan managed to continue. ‘Other than my dad, you’re the only man I’ve ever trusted. You’re not allowed to mean that much to someone just to die on them. Don’t you dare do that to me.’

McCormick closed his eyes. As a mathematician, he knew the logical response. As a human, he didn’t want to hurt a young man who meant so much to him. But as a leader, he knew there were some situations that were impossible to get right. He chose to be honest.

‘Ewan, I will keep myself on this planet as long as I can, for you and the others. But if it ever came down to a choice between staying alive for you or dying for millions of prisoners, you understand that I have to choose the greater good. That’s why we’re fighting this war.’

Ewan turned back to the wall with a cold expression on his face. McCormick heard other people’s footsteps at the top of the stairs, and realised how little time he had.

‘Ben Christie was a terrible singer,’ he said. ‘He used to randomly burst into song, and whenever Thomas told him to shut up he’d smile and sing louder.’

Ewan gave a barely-visible smirk, and nodded. McCormick watched as Ewan’s gaze dropped to the last three names – Rachael, Daniel then Charlie – and then relaxed himself.

Truth be told, Ewan seemed more relaxed than McCormick.

How do we know this wall won’t have all of our names on it one day? McCormick thought to himself. Is there truly a chance of anyone here becoming more than ‘a chiselled name in a bloody rock’?

No, this war won’t end like that. We won’t let it. One way or another, t his Memorial Wall will never be full.

The voice of defiance buoyed him, but McCormick knew it was only guaranteed to be true because there would be nobody left to chisel the final name.

The Oakenfold crew came down the stairs. It didn’t take long for all seven students to ready themselves, with everything from assault rifles and knives to radios and lighters. It may have been a mission that impacted them personally, but it was encouraging to see them driven by vengeful enthusiasm rather than fear. The comms team, Alex and Shannon, joined them in the crowded circle, and they all linked hands around the Memorial Wall.

‘To honour those who gave everything they had,’ said McCormick, ‘we will give everything we have. To honour the dead we will free the living, united by our differences.’

‘United,’ came the response. But it sounded different to normal.

Some of the students, including Mark and Raj, had said it emphatically. Like they were preparing for a fight to take their whole world back. Ewan and Kate had barely whispered, and McCormick noticed that their eyes had glanced towards him. They were afraid of what would happen to him once they left.

It was an unusual feeling, having his worries reciprocated. Normally when his soldiers left, he would hope and pray that he was not saying a final goodbye to any of them. This time his young fighters feared the same for him too.

Nine Underdogs went into the exit tunnel, with not one word spoken between them. Simon gave a worried look towards McCormick, and Raj gave a hopeful thumbs up. Gracie looked like she was trying to avoid the sight of him altogether. They were gone a moment later, leaving McCormick in a Spitfire’s Rise he did not recognise: one that lay completely silent.

In order to break that silence, the first place he visited was the living room. Thomas was there, spread out on the empty sofa with his face buried into the backrest. He should have been in bed an hour earlier, but McCormick didn’t mind. The boy had spent the entire day processing the news of the operation, and still needed more time.

‘Thomas,’ he said.

‘What?’ came the nine-year-old’s whisper.

‘I’m going to the clinic in a few minutes. I just thought I’d say good night.’

‘Good night.’

There was no expression in Thomas’ voice. He was giving the response expected of him; the next line in the script.

Once in a while, he would leap at McCormick and cling onto him like some kind of cuddly leech, keeping his thin arms wrapped around his chest until he had been told to let go at least three times. It was problematic for an ageing man, but on principle McCormick never objected. At that moment, a hug attack from Thomas would have been most welcome. McCormick was frightened. More frightened than he wanted any of his Underdogs to know.

But there would be no hugs that day. Thomas, like most of the crowd in the cellar, despised him that day. McCormick sighed, and walked to the foot of the stairs.

‘I love you, Thomas. And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Mum used to say that.’

It wasn’t worth pushing the issue. McCormick left the living room and made his way up the stairs.

If only to delay the inevitable, he opened the trapdoor to the attic and pulled down the ladder. There must have been enough time to see Barbara.

He would forever be thankful to his old friend Polly for letting him lodge in her house after Barbara’s death. She couldn’t possibly have predicted her home would become a place like Spitfire’s Rise. McCormick’s most treasured possessions had been in Polly’s attic long before Takeover Day, just metres above a houseful of people who had no idea he had any prior link to the house at all.

He found the cardboard box in its place next to the boiler and, as always, picked out the Anglesey honeymoon photo first.

When he knelt down to grab it, his arm brushed past a second cardboard box. Momentarily distracted, he checked inside it to see if the envelopes were still there, and counted eleven as expected. He wondered how many would remain when the time came to hand them out.

He brought his attention back to his late wife. There was surprisingly little to say to her. On the brink of going under the knife, in a house where all the occupants were angry with him, only one topic came to mind.

‘That’s the worst thing about leadership, Barb,’ he began. ‘They can train you to teach, and they can train you to guide people. But they can never train you to deal with the loneliness.’

He kissed the part of the photo which held Barbara’s face, and returned it to the cardboard box. Once it was back in place, he had run out of excuses. It was time to face Lorraine.