Resist

ashamed, will she let it go? “So you did meet her,” Niamh says. “And instead of killing her, you took pictures. What the hell’s going on?”

“I met her, yes. But she’s no threat. She’s living like a drifter, and she’ll die out there. I couldn’t kill her in cold blood, Niamh. I just couldn’t. Could you?”

I mean it to be a rhetorical question because I don’t think Niamh has it in her to kill anyone, but she jabs Bea’s picture with her finger. “Anyone who contributed to the riots and Daddy’s death deserves to die. I’d knife her if I got the chance,” she says. Her face is steel.

“Dinner?” Wendy asks. She is trembling, and I should be, too.

I have to move Bea and the others, and I have to do it soon because if Niamh gets a sniff of who she’s living beneath, we’re all done for.

46 BEA

We’ve been cooped up in Ronan’s attic for a week, and it’s already taking its toll on the group. None of us have showered, and the occasional buckets of water Wendy sneaks in for washing quickly turn brown. The smell is acrid. Conversations are turning into debates, debates into arguments, and Harriet and Gideon are constantly forced to mediate over sleeping spaces. I keep to myself and focus on training.

Today Ronan is late, and when he arrives he’s in a hurry. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Niamh’s only gone down to the store to get a shake. I can’t stay,” he says. He won’t look at me. Is there something he isn’t saying?

“One of the girls is sick. She’s been on the bucket all day long,” I say.

“Gideon told me. I’m going to try to bring up some loperamide later.”

“Thanks. I was worried about her.” I turn to make sure no one’s listening. “Can I take a shower?” I ask.

He looks at me uneasily. “Downstairs?”

“I need to get out of here,” I admit.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I wring my hands. “Please.” I sound desperate, and I can’t help it.

He looks down the stairs and taps his index finger against his chin. “I have an en suite bathroom,” he says.

“Perfect.”

His bedroom is larger than the entire apartment I used to share with my parents. He has a monstrous wall-mounted screen at one end facing a set of sofas and easy chairs, and a huge bed at the other end. The adjoining bathroom contains not only a mammoth shower, but also a Jacuzzi tub and double sink. I’m irritated by the extravagance. It doesn’t fit Ronan’s character. But this is his life.

“Towels are in the cupboard,” he says.

I take a quick, hot shower, and when I emerge, Ronan is sitting on his bed rooting through his nightstand. He waves me over. “I have something for you,” he says. I sit next to him and he hands me a printed picture of me with my parents. I trace my finger across their faces. My mother’s sweet, haggard smile, and my father’s unshaven chin. Their frayed shirts and too-tight clothes. I press the picture against my chest.

“Where did you get it?” I wipe the corners of my eyes with my knuckles.

“I went to your old place,” he says.

“You never stop surprising me,” I say. He is not only a better person than I thought he could be, but he’s my friend, too.

“I looked for one of Quinn, but I couldn’t find any and didn’t want to rummage through your stuff,” he says.

I close my eyes, so I can imagine Quinn as Ronan launches himself at me. He throws me onto the bed and covers my body with his own. He presses his face against mine. My instinct is to struggle, but when I hear a voice, I know he’s protecting me.

“Ronan, we need to—” It’s Niamh. “Ronan?” She laughs. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Have you heard of knocking? Get out!” he yells. I bury my face in his pillow. There’s a scuffle and a couple of hard bangs. “She’s gone.” I sit up and he turns the lock on the door, which he should have done when we came into the room in the first place. I deliberately wipe my mouth with the cuff of my sweater. Was there no other way to stop Niamh seeing me?

“Sorry,” he says.

“You didn’t bother locking it?”

Ronan sits on the bed and turns me so I’m looking straight at him. “I’m said I’m sorry. And I’m not them. That’s not what this was.”

“I know,” I say. But every fiber of my body has stiffened anyway.

“You can’t leave until she’s asleep,” he says. I nod and he smiles. He hands me the screen’s remote control and stands. “Watch something trashy. I’ll get us some drinks.” He heads for the door. “Lock it behind me.”

I look at the door closing then retrieve the photo from the nightstand. The girl in the picture is smiling, believing anything is possible. She looks like me, but that girl is dead. And maybe it’s just as well; this world needs a new girl. Someone who doesn’t blame anyone else for her lot.

I don’t wait. I go to the door and peek outside. The chandelier in the hallway dashes the light in all directions. I hold my breath and listen for Niamh, but the house is still, so I tiptoe my way to the staircase. The first step creaks and I pause, putting as much weight as I can on the bannisters. Nothing moves. I take another step, and another, creeping my way to the top. When I reach the door, I knock gently. No one responds. I try again. Maybe everyone is asleep.

I hold my fist a few inches from the door and knock more loudly. Ronan appears at the bottom of the stairs holding a bottle. “What are you doing?” he whispers. I wave him away, irritated that he’s followed me, and knock a last time. And as I do, the door to the attic opens and a grinning man appears. I stare down at Ronan. Did he plan this? Is that why he wanted to keep me in his room?

It’s too late to find out. A sweaty hand drags me inside and knocks me to the floor.

Everyone is standing at the far end of the attic with their hands in the air, and a row of stewards have their guns aimed at the Resistance like a firing squad. Some of the younger teenagers are sniveling. I am towed by my heels to the opposite corner of the room. Harriet looks down at me and catches my eye. She is trying to convey something, but I don’t know what it is. The tall, thin man laughs. I recognize him from Ronan’s description: Lance Vine, the new pod minister. Then Niamh steps out from behind him. She is carrying a small handgun and points it at me, closing one eye as though ready to shoot. “Bea Whitcraft?” she says. She looks mildly pleased and then, as her mind makes the connection between what she’s just witnessed in Ronan’s bedroom and me standing here now, her eyes bulge.

Vine rubs his hands together as though he’s about to be served a large meal. “This is getting better and better,” he says.

Niamh stares at me for a long time, then, remembering herself, shakes her head a little and goes to a heap of blankets. She picks one up between two fingers and, keeping it at arm’s length, studies it. “This is one of Wendy’s, I think,” she says. She doesn’t sound convinced.

Vine scratches his chin. “Isn’t it just your brother whose thumbprint will read for this room?” Niamh has her back to everyone. She bites her bottom lip. It would take an idiot not to guess Ronan’s involvement. And Niamh is not an idiot. But it takes her a moment to find a defense for her brother.

“Wendy has access to the whole house, Pod Minister,” she says, which has to be a lie.

The stewards use the barrels of their guns to nudge the Resistance members toward the staircase, where they stand in a line, but they leave me where I am. I pull myself onto my feet and rest against the studio wall.

The door opens and Ronan marches in. The stewards aim their guns at him. “What the . . .” he says angrily. He waves at the stewards, who keep their guns trained at him. “Lower your weapons and someone tell me what’s going on.” The Pod Minister’s expression is inscrutable. Niamh looks doleful. Neither of them seems to know