‘I’ve already told you, Callum didn’t . . .’
‘You didn’t set out to get pregnant either, did you?’ Dad interrupted harshly.
‘It’s too late to get rid of it. I’m too far gone,’ I pointed out.
‘There are ways, drugs to take care of that.’ Dad pointed to my stomach. ‘Then they’d induce labour. It’d be relatively painless for you.’
And lethal for my child.
‘If I say no, what will you do then?’ I asked. ‘Kidnap me like the noughts and force me to get rid of my baby?’
Dad stared at me. ‘I know we’re not close, Persephone, and I know that’s my fault, but I would never, ever do a thing like that.’ His voice held such incredible hurt that it got to me, in spite of myself.
‘But what you’re doing is no different,’ I cried. ‘You may not be using direct force but you’re pressuring me into having an abortion. It’s the same difference. Callum’s life or my child’s. You’re trying to coerce me into making a decision. Your decision.’
‘That boy’s life is entirely in your hands.’ Dad stood up. ‘It’s up to you. I know you’ll make the right choice.’
And with that he left my room. I locked my diary and put it in its hiding place, moving around my bedroom on auto pilot. I wanted my brain to shut down so I wouldn’t have to think, so I wouldn’t have to decide. But it didn’t work that way.
If I had an abortion I’d be saving Callum’s life. He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life in jail, either. I’d work every hour of every day for the rest of my life if I had to, to make sure that he was released from prison. And if he came out . . . when he came out, we could be together again. We could have more children. It was the chance of some kind of future together against no future at all. But if we were together would we be able to live with the fact that our first child died for us? Or would the ghost of our child eventually drive us apart?
Callum’s life or our baby’s? That was the choice.
Oh Callum, what should I do? What would you do?
And then just like that, there was no choice. I had my answer. I knew what I was going to tell my dad. God help me, I knew.
LOSING MY RELIGION . . .
one hundred and sixteen.
Callum
‘Jack, your mind isn’t on this game, is it?’
Jack throws down his cards. ‘I don’t want to play any more.’
‘I thought I was the one who was meant to be temperamental and moody, not you?’ I say dryly.
‘Sorry.’
I gather up the cards. Poor Jack! This is almost as bad for him. Almost! Bless him! He’s the one who’s kept me up to date with what was going on in the outside world. He’s the one who told me that since my farce of a trial, Sephy has spoken out publicly against the guilty verdict and has openly declared that I didn’t rape her. She’s told anyone prepared to listen that the authorities refused to let her testify on my behalf. And apparently even some of the national papers are beginning to question the death penalty being given in my case. I’m hoping that Kamal Hadley doesn’t emerge from this one smelling of roses, the way he always does.
A prominent psychiatrist stated in one of the so-called quality papers that Sephy was suffering from Kidnapper Empathy Syndrome. Some psycho-babble about the captive taking on the ideals and beliefs of the captor, to the extent that he or she begins to empathize with them. In Sephy’s case that’s just so much nonsense. If I could’ve spoken to Sephy, I would’ve told her not to say anything on my behalf. Once I’d been found guilty nothing on earth could’ve made the judges overturn the verdict. The reason is simple. I’m a Nought who’d dared to fall in love with a Cross. And worse still I actually made love with her. And even worse than that, she’s pregnant with my child and doesn’t care who knows it.
Poor Sephy! She never could tell when she was fighting a losing battle. I knew I was going to hang before the jurors were even sworn in.
And now I’ve come to my last day on this earth.
And I don’t want to die.
‘What time is it, Jack?’
‘Ten to six.’
‘Ten more minutes then.’ I shuffle the cards. ‘Time for a quick game of rummy?’
‘Callum . . .’
I throw down the cards. ‘It must be catching. I don’t feel like playing myself now.’
Silent moments tick by. I don’t want to spend my last ten minutes in silence.
‘D’you ever wonder what it would be like if our positions were reversed?’ I ask. At Jack’s puzzled look, I continue. ‘If we whites were in charge instead of you Crosses?’
‘Can’t say it’s ever crossed my mind,’ Jack shrugs.
‘I used to think about it a lot,’ I sigh. ‘Dreams of living in a world with no more discrimination, no more prejudice, a fair police force, an equal justice system, equality of education, equality of life, a level playing field . . .’
‘Good grief! Is that a thesis or a fairy tale?’ Jack asks dryly.
‘Like I said, I used to think about it a lot.’
‘I’m not sure I share your faith in a society ruled by noughts,’ Jack tells me, thoughtfully. ‘People are people. We’ll always find a way to mess up, doesn’t matter who’s in charge.’
‘You think so?’
Jack shrugs.
‘You don’t believe that things get better? That they have to, one day, some day?’
‘When?’
‘It takes a long time.’
‘But they do?’ asks Jack.
‘They do.’
But not for me. A long silence fills the gap between us. Until at last, I open my mouth to speak but Jack gets in first.
‘Your girl, Persephone
