'It's not your fault, Uncle Jude,' I said.
Uncle Jude sighed again. 'I had no idea Callum was so filled with . . . rage against your mother and all Crosses. I should've taken him under my wing. I should've insisted that he worked with me for the betterment of everyone in our society. I had no idea—'
Uncle Jude's voice broke off, distressed. We both sat in silence for a while. I watched a runner across the park jog on the spot as he talked to another runner who'd approached from the opposite direction. I wondered what they were talking about. Noughts and Crosses? Men and women? Truth and lies? Or their latest trainers? Did any of it matter? It was all so trivial, so pointless.
'Callie, I was given a letter that your dad wrote to your mum just before he died,' Uncle Jude said reluctantly. 'I'm not sure if you should see it . . .'
I turned to Uncle Jude. 'What does it say?'
'It doesn't say nice things . . . but it does tell the truth.'
Uncle was holding a piece of paper in his hand. It was a browny-yellow colour, folded, and looked like it might crumble into dust at any moment. But as Uncle said, it held the truth – and that's what I craved right now. Good or bad, I didn't want anything else.
'D'you want to read it?' asked Uncle. 'I think you're old enough to handle it, but just say if you're not
I held out my hand. Uncle Jude reluctantly passed me the letter. I swallowed hard, then opened it carefully – and read:
Sephy,
I'm writing this to you because I want you to know the way things really are. I don't want you to spend the rest of your life believing a lie.
I don't love you. I never did. You were just an assignment to me. A way for all of us in my cell of the Liberation Militia to get money – a lot of money from your dad. And as for the sex – well, you were available and I had nothing better to do.
You should've seen yourself, lapping up every word of that nonsense I spouted about loving you and living for only you and being too scared to say it before. I don't know how I stopped myself from laughing out loud as you bought all that rubbish. As if I could love someone like you – a Cross, and worse than that, the daughter of one of our worst enemies. Having sex with you was just my way of getting back at your dad for being a bastard and your mum for looking down her nose at me all those years. And now you 're pregnant.
Well, I'm ecstatic. Now the whole world will know you're having my child, the child of a blanker. That if nothing else is worth dying for. Whether you come to my hanging or not, I'm going to announce to the world that you're having my child. MINE. Even if you do get rid of our child, everyone will still know.
But no one will know how much I despise you. I loathe the very thought of you and now when I think about all the things we did when we were alone in the cabin, I feel physically sick. To think I actually kissed you, licked you, touched you, joined my body with yours. I had to think of my other lovers the entire time to stop myself from pulling away from you in disgust. God knows, I'm disgusted with myself but the object of the exercise was your total humiliation – and at least I can console myself with the knowledge that that's what I've achieved. Did you really in your wildest dreams believe that I could love someone like you? . . .
I carried on reading until the end of the letter. And when I'd finished, the poison in each sentence had turned my body so deathly cold, the swelling in my throat had gone down and my eyes were no longer stinging. I re-read it one more time – the whole thing from top to bottom. And then I stared at the words on the piece of paper, stared without blinking.
My dad . . .
'You can keep it if you like,' said Uncle Jude.
I thought about it, then decided I had to. It was my legacy from my dad. But I couldn't bear to hold it any more with those awful words jutting out like shards of broken glass. I folded it up and placed it deep inside my trouser pocket. I didn't need to keep it open to remember what was in it. I'd remember every word until the day I died.
'I just thought it would be better for you to know the truth,' said Uncle sadly. 'Was I wrong?'
I shook my head.
'I don't think you should tell anyone about the letter. It'd be better if you didn't mention it at all,' said Uncle Jude. He added reluctantly, 'And I found out something else. When Callum was arrested and sentenced to hang, your grandad Kamal told your mum that he'd spare Callum's life if she had an abortion – but she didn't. She had to choose between you and Callum and she chose you. I guess that's why your grandad slammed the door in your face.'
'But why did she have me? Why didn't she . . . just do what Grandad wanted?'
'I don't know. Maybe it was her way of getting back at Kamal?' Uncle Jude suggested. 'Or maybe she just hated Callum so much by then that she wanted to see him hang?'
I nodded. I couldn't speak. I understood so much now. Dad hated Mum and all Crosses, Mum hated me for reminding her of Dad. My grandad hated me and Mum. Mum and Meggie hated each other. Everyone hated everyone.
And now so did I. It was frighteningly easy.
And I was just a beginner.
But I'd get better with practice. Uncle Jude slid along the park bench until he was sitting next to me.
'Callie Rose, we could use someone like you in the L.M.,' he said softly, putting his arm around me. 'Someone like you could really make a difference.'
I turned to look up at my uncle. Once, I would've asked questions. A difference to what? Working where? Doing what? Why?
But now I didn't care.
'OK, Uncle.' I shrugged. 'I'll do whatever you say.'
seventy-two.
Callie Rose is 13
I placed my head on my folded arms, resting on the table. The library was quieter than usual. I was one of only about five people in it. Everyone else was outside enjoying the warmer than usual spring sunshine. But I didn't want to go out. The weather didn't match my mood. I spent most of my lunch breaks in the library now. My friends were getting really fed up with me. Rafiya, Audra and Sammi, my best friends, said I was turning into a real misery. I wasn't into the same things as them any more. I didn't read teenage magazines about make-up and boys. I didn't believe soppy love stories where the woman met Mr Right, had an orgasm, got married and lived happily ever after. What a load of crap! I read up on all kinds of things I hadn't been particularly interested in before except maybe in an abstract way: civil rights, the Liberation Militia, all the people hanged in the past for political terrorism – of which ninety-nine point nine per cent were Noughts. It wasn't just someone else's history any more, it was my history – my past, my present. It felt like until now I hadn't known anything about anything. Not real stuff. Not important stuff. Who cared which king married which queen from across the sea over five hundred years ago? I couldn't care less about kings and queens and dukes and earls. They didn't make history. Ordinary people did. Kings and queens and the privileged few had a vested interest in keeping the status quo. The only reason we'd moved forward at all was because ordinary people had fought for every step. I hadn't known anything. But I was definitely learning.
'Hello, Callie.'
I didn't even notice him until he plonked himself down at my table. I sat up, then sat back. I closed the books before me on the table and started stuffing them back into my school bag. There were plenty of empty tables in the library. I'd just find another one, that was all.
'Callie, can't . . . can't we be friends again?'
'You really want to be my friend, Tobey?'
Tobey nodded.
'Go back to the day you told me about my dad and this time keep your mouth shut. Or get into my head and rub out all memory of what my dad really was and what he did and the way I found out. Then we'll be friends again. Can you do that?'
Tobey bowed his head.
'Didn't think so.' I went off to find another table.
seventy-three.
Meggie
I'd been in Jude's favourite room in the Isis Hotel a number of times, but now I found myself noticing things that ha
d never registered before. The sealant on the right side of the window behind Jude had a blue stain on it, like ink. But just on the one side – at child height. And the carpet beneath the table Jude sat at was particularly worn, almost frayed. Is that why they'd put the table over it? From the bathroom, there came the steady 'plink' of water droplets where a tap hadn't been quite turned off properly.
Jasmine sat on the bed looking at Jude. Jude looked from her to me. But I was a mere spectator. I spared Jasmine no more than a glance. I could just see her hand at home in her pocket. I knew what was in there and I didn't doubt for a second that unless I could convince her otherwise she'd press the switch to get my son. What to say? What to even think? I just stood there, staring at my son throughout the seasons of his life. A season of colic and sleepless nights. A season of laughter and hugs. Of all my children, Jude had been the most affectionate, the most openly loving.
But as he grew older, awareness caught up with him. Awareness and idealism were such a dangerous combination in my oldest son.
Awareness of the misguided attitudes and false perceptions and cruel condescension of others. And the love was still there, but the laughter wasn't as free and easy. And then Jude was ten or eleven. And my goodness, how he loved to read. And write. And study. He'd run to me with every new word he learned, eager to share its sound and meaning, happy to put it in a sentence to show me how it worked in context. Most of the fancy words I know came from Jude. The written word was his best friend and he was so desperate to learn more, to stay on at school and devour the words out of every book he studied.
But I lost my job and that was the end of that. We couldn't afford it.
I still remember Jude's face when his dad and I told him that. I don't even have to close my eyes to see his grief set hard into icy anger.
'Why can't I stay on at school?' he pleaded. 'Why can't I?'
'We don't have the money, son,' Ryan tried to explain.
'But you could get it,' Jude insisted. 'Work for it.'
'We've always worked, Jude. And you know I can't get another job right now.' My words came out as a snap – which I didn't mean. I really didn't.
'So why can't I stay on at school?'
'Jude, noughts aren't allowed to go to school past fourteen anyway.'
'Why not?'
'Because that's the way it is,' said Ryan.
'But most of my friends are staying at school,' Jude protested.
'Most of your friends are Crosses,' I pointed out.
'Mike is a nought and he's staying on at school.'
I wondered when we'd get to Mike.
'He can stay at school because his family have got pots of money and he's going to one of the two schools in the country which take noughts – if they can pay.'
'How come Mike's family have money and we don't?'
'Because Mike's mum invented the spray-on tan for noughts,' I snapped. 'With so many noughts trying to look like Crosses, it's no wonder Mike's family are so rich.'
'Well, can't we ask them to help . . . ?'
'Never.' Not whilst I had breath in my body.
'Why can't we just pay the school fees then?'
Jude just didn't get it.
'Are you deaf?' I shouted. 'We don't have that kind of money to waste on your education. Get your head out of the clouds and come back to reality.'
'Meggie . . .' Ryan warned.
I really hadn't meant to be so bloody, but what Jude felt went way beyond disappointment and I was going through every moment of it with him.
And hating it.
And hating myself because I couldn't do any better.
And resenting Ryan – because he couldn't do any better either.
I had to watch helplessly as all the open-mindedness and love Jude had inside him curled up and slowly but surely withered away after that.
And now just the shell of my son sits over there, watching me.
'Mum,' said Jude quietly. 'What're you doing here?'
'Jasmine phoned me from the foyer before she came up.'
Jude started with surprise. He turned narrowed eyes towards Jasmine. 'Your quarrel is with me, not my mum. She has nothing to do with this. Let her go.'
Jasmine raised one eyebrow. 'Finer feelings, Jude? Meggie is free to leave whenever she wants.'
I could hardly see Jude's irises after that, his eyelids were so close together. And I could feel his uncertainty as he looked from me to Jasmine and back again. I moved further into the room to sit across the table from my son.
'What's going on? Why're you here, Mum?'
I glanced at Jasmine, my gaze sliding back to my son. 'I'm trying to save you.'
'I see.'
'D'you see, Jude? D'you really?' I asked. "Cause I think you can't see for looking. That's always been your trouble.'
'I'm still waiting for the punch line.' Jude's tone was growing icier. And then he clicked. 'You! You told this woman where I was, what room I was in . . .'
Not a question, not a statement, but somewhere in between the two.
'I had to,' I tried to explain.
'Why?' Jude still couldn't believe it.
'Because she needed my help,' I replied.
Jude shook his head slowly. He got the what, but not the why. But then, how could he?
'Jude, do you . . . is there anyone special in your life?'
'Why d'you always ask me that?' Jude said with hostility. 'Like who?'
'I don't know. A special woman?' Hell, at this point, I'd even settle for a special man!
Jude didn't answer, but he couldn't stop the sweep of puzzlement that brushed over his face. He still hadn't figured out why I was there in the room.
'No, Mum. There's no one.' He frowned.
I could read his face so easily. And he was right, it was a strange place to discuss his love life. But it was now or never. And if not here, then where?
'When was the last time you were in love, Jude?'
Did I imagine that flicker of pain across his face? Whatever it was, it came and went as quickly as a flash of summer lightning. I waited for his answer but Jude kept silent. He began to fidget in his chair, shifting restlessly whilst still seated. His right hand rubbed at his calf, then his shin, before returning to the arm of the chair.
'Have you ever been in love, Jude?' I asked.
'What's the point of all this, Mum? That murderous' – Jude bit back the word he was about to use – 'woman has enough explosives on her to blow us into permanent orbit and you're asking about girlfriends?'
'Was Cara Imega your girlfriend?'
The fidgeting stopped abruptly. 'I told you before, I had nothing to do with her death,' said Jude harshly.
'That's not what I asked you,' I pointed out. 'Was Cara Imega your girlfriend?'
Jude frowned. 'Yes. For a while.'
But that wasn't what Jude had said before. It was obviously so long ago that he couldn't even remember what he'd told me. But I could remember every word.
'I knew her . . . She was a good friend . . .'
He announced that on the TV when he was protesting his innocence, when he was telling the world that the real killer was some man called Andrew Dorn.
When had she gone beyond a good friend and become his girlfriend?
'Jude, tell me the truth. Did you kill her?'
'Mum, I didn't kill anyone . . .'
That's what he said to me all those years ago when I asked him the same question. A statement and a promise.
'Mum, I didn't kill anyone . . .'
'What possible difference could it make now?'
Not the answer I was looking for, but maybe the one I should've expected. Jude was angry with me. How ironic!
'No, I didn't kill her,' Jude said, exasperated.
I took one last look at Jude as the boy he used to be. I closed my eyes and counted to three – one number for each of my children – then re-opened them. I forced myself to see Jude for the man he was.
If only he'd let himself love som
eone, anyone. If only he'd allowed himself to be loved. Then maybe that love would've drowned out the cacophonous, clamouring hatred that filled his heart. But then again, maybe it wouldn't've. If only I could turn back time like the hands on a clock. If only I could go back to when Jude . . .
I allowed myself a tiny smile.
Those two words would be my epitaph – if only . . . Jude's life was Jude's choice, I had to start believing that. But it was so hard.
He was still my son. And no matter what he did, that would never change. And he was the only child I had left. And now his fate, the fate of everyone in this room, rested in my hands.
Sephy versus Callie Rose
seventy-four.
Callie Rose
The cold of the cellar just highlighted the chill between Mum and me. My last question still echoed between us.
'You really think I tried to kill you?' said Mum sombrely. 'What did Meggie say to you?'
Mum was looking directly at me now. No more sideways glances. We watched each other, only blinking when we absolutely had to. Well, if she really wanted to know, then I would tell her.
'Nana Meggie said that when I was a baby, you were ill and no one realized how bad it was,' I said.
'I had post-natal depression. Puerperal psychosis, to be precise.'
That stunned me. Nana Meggie never told me that. 'So what's puer-whatsit psychosis?'
'It's like a severe form of post-natal depression. You can feel fine for a few hours or days but then the depression comes back. It took a bit longer to manifest itself in me apparently. Usually it's detectable within a few weeks. Mine wasn't apparent until a few months had gone by.'
'Why not?'
'No one was paying much attention,' said Mum.
'To you?' I surmised.
Mum nodded. 'Everyone was focused on you, including me. I couldn't figure out what I was thinking or feeling half the time. And I felt so guilty because I wasn't coping. I was failing miserably and was so desperate not to fail that I got it into my head that you'd be better off without me, without all of us.'