Off-Target, page 26
Isaiah 64
‘Where … is … it?’
Fingers drill into my neck. The room begins to blur. I hear the ringtone again: faint, like an echo.
My lips make the shape of words. ‘Don’t … know.’
Pain explodes under my ribs. Instinct commands my body to double over, but I am pinned by the throat.
‘“Know that the Lord Himself is God; it is He who has made us, and not we ourselves.”’ His lip curls back in a snarl. ‘“We are the clay, and He is our potter, All of us are the work of His hand”…’
Pricks of light detonate in my eyes.
I think of that first scan, her twilight hand lifting in a wave.
He squeezes harder, spit foaming his chin, hot wafts of breath and sweat. ‘Children are begotten, not designed. We will purge the rot, and restore Adam’s line.’
Darkness swoops. I strain every nerve and muscle to hold on.
I’d give my life for hers, willingly.
But I cannot protect her if I’m dead.
More than 400 children and adults killed and 700 people injured in brutal attacks over Easter weekend.
By Emma Jimenez and Robin Brown, CNN
At least 223 children and 206 adults have been murdered and 761 people injured after a shocking surge in anti-intervention terror that has left twenty-one nations reeling.
The killings are believed to have been coordinated by a right-wing extremist group calling themselves ‘Adam’s Holy Warriors’ (AHW) who planned the deadly attacks across Europe, the US, Australia and South America.
The worst hit city was New York, where there were 35 victims from shootings – twenty-two fatal – including 19 children, 3 of whom were babies, the New York Police Department said. The killers targeted homes, playgrounds and restaurants where families were celebrating the Easter holiday. London suffered the next highest death-toll, with 20 fatalities, including 13 children.
‘These murderers deliberately targeted innocent children,’ said the UK’s top counter-terrorism police officer Miriam Hasan. ‘AHW is an extremist far-right group that advocates violence against the providers and users of genetic interventions during pregnancy. Their online radicalisation campaigns foster wild conspiracy theories intended to incite persecution, and now murder.’
AHW claims that gene editing of human embryos is part of a global conspiracy by a wealthy elite who are engineering a ‘super-race’ to control and ultimately destroy ‘unenhanced’ humans. Police now believe that AHW have links with those responsible for the illegal hacks and mass dump of fertility patient data two weeks ago.
The Genome Defence Alliance (GDA), which coordinated last week’s anti-intervention protests, has strongly denounced the attacks.
The UK’s prime minister condemned the attacks as ‘appalling and horrific’ and said the government will deploy soldiers on Britain’s streets after the threat level was raised to critical.
Bram Klopp, INTERPOL secretary general, said: ‘These are monstrous, cowardly crimes targeted at defenceless children and their parents. AHW hijacks Christian scriptures to support its hateful ideology and misinformation campaigns. Far-right violent extremists are exploiting Christianity to radicalise the anti-intervention movement, foment divisions and mobilise acts of terror.’
Klopp continued: ‘We are working with the global law enforcement community to track down these killers and bring them to justice.’
CHAPTER 68
ZUREL
I shuffle along in the crowd, my bouquet in one hand, Dad’s palm in the other. It’s dark now, but not cold; the air smells of matches and flowers. My head is swimming; I couldn’t sleep last night. Nor could Dad. I think I heard him, when it was just getting light, on the phone. I think he was crying.
There must be hundreds of us here, but the only sounds are our feet, and hushed whispers, as though people are even afraid to talk. Families hug each other; the group next to us are holding hands in a line, as if they’re about to sprint into the sea. The lady nearest me clutches a knitted giraffe, her face wet with tears. I glance up at Dad, but his eyes are fixed straight ahead, like those mothers in China. Staring, but not seeing.
There are police here, too. Lots of them. They’re the only reason Dad eventually gave in to my nagging and agreed I could come. Some are wearing bright-yellow jackets, others have bulky black vests and are carrying guns. Dad said two of them are here to look after me.
An image from the news breaks into my head, and I stumble. Dad catches me.
‘Zurel, are you sure about this? Maybe we should go back?’
I shake my head. He sighs, and we march on.
We reach a big square of grass, and stop. The cathedral is lit in a golden glow, as if it’s Christmas. But it’s not Christmas, it’s Easter: when Jesus supposedly rose from the dead. My fingers tighten around the flowers. None of those families on the news are coming back.
A platform’s been set up in front of the cathedral, with a microphone. I gaze up at the stained-glass window with a star in the middle, surrounded by a circle of smaller windows, like the petals of a flower. People hold up torches. Some have banners: no dishes with knives. Lots of hearts, with names. And pictures of children.
Love, not Hate
God loves us all
‘Let the little children come to me’
And what about the mothers? Where are they supposed to go?
Dad squeezes my hand and asks if I’m OK. I wipe my eyes and nod.
A man in a suit with a gold chain across his chest steps up to the microphone. He taps it twice and clears his throat, and the whispering stops. He welcomes us all, and thanks us for coming, as if it’s some kind of party. He praises the police and the ambulance service for their bravery. Says how sorry he is for all the children and adults who were hurt or lost their lives; not just here, in Exeter, but all over the world. Then he tells us we mustn’t let the terrible people that did this make us afraid. That we should carry on with our lives and help one another, no matter what we believe. Because there is no place in our community for hate and division. Those are the things the terrorists want. Instead, we must come together and forget our differences, to make things right.
As I listen to him, I think of Gary’s mum, and the protestors outside the lab; the strangers pushing things through our door. And I wonder if it’s possible for people to come together and forget. Because they don’t like it if you’re different. It frightens them. And everyone’s been angry with each other for so long.
And then another man, with a grey beard, steps up to the microphone. A silver cross dangles over his purple shirt. I remember the woman outside school who was horrible to Mum, and my throat tightens.
‘Our community is strong,’ he says. ‘Stronger than those who try to spread their poison of fear and hate.’
There’s something about his voice that calms me.
He opens his arms wide. ‘Let us come together. People of all faiths and beliefs. To support one another in our grief at these horrific crimes.’
The man in a red turban standing next to him nods.
‘Safe in the knowledge that, ultimately, love triumphs over hate. Good over evil.’ His words get deeper and slower. ‘Life over death.’
Music starts playing – the sad kind that doesn’t have words, and the man bends over a big candle. His cross swings forward as he lights it, and I’m worried it’s going to knock the candle over, but it doesn’t.
‘This flame symbolises the light that burns for all eternity in peace and love. Let us honour those who were taken from us.’
Dad slips his arm around my shoulders. The woman next to him starts to cry. I watch the flame flicker and think of Mum.
The man says a prayer for the injured and dead children, then the mums and dads, then the police officers and other brave people who gave their lives. Dad’s eyes are shut, but mine stay open. I’m watching the police, who are watching us. My eyes dart across the rows of bowed heads.
I wonder if any of them are here.
The ones who want to kill children like me.
Everyone starts clapping; the noise echoes round the cathedral grounds like gunfire, and I suddenly want to leave. Dad and I push our way through the mass of people, back towards the black-and-white houses with small window panes. One of the houses has blue-and-white tape around the front saying:
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS
The pavement outside is covered with flowers. There must be hundreds of bunches, so many they spill onto the cobbles below. As we move closer, I see messages written on cards, toy bears and dolls; wiggly drawings of rainbows and butterflies.
And I feel bad, because I didn’t bring a painting of my own.
On the kerb, right in the middle, is a tray of sand, filled with tea lights and candles, all lit up like a shrine. I stare at the picture of two girls with pretty brown eyes cuddling a woman with black hair. A brown rabbit with floppy ears sits one side, a white rabbit the other.
Dad pulls me close and I squeeze his hand.
I lay our flowers near the candle box, on the cobbles. Dad let me choose them. I picked the same colours as those cottages on the seafront, at Lyme. The lady in the shop told me the flowers’ names.
Mum would have known.
I kneel on the hard stones. A breeze carries wafts of wax and honey.
I screw my eyes shut and say a silent prayer of my own.
CHAPTER 69
SUSAN
Someone touches my arm. I flinch.
‘Hey there, soldier. It’s me, Carmel. Are you awake?’
My brain fumbles for a response. I probe my mouth with my tongue and swallow.
Big mistake.
I gasp, which is worse.
‘Don’t try to talk, honey. Just give my hand a little squeeze.’
Magma sears my throat. I try to focus. Blue curtains. White panels.
Each breath is agony. As if my chest’s in a vice.
Carmel’s face swims into view. ‘You’re in the hospital, Susan. It’s OK, you’re safe.’
Memory unlocks. One question consumes me.
I grip her arm.
‘Here…’ She passes me a screen. ‘Use this.’
The pen lumbers over the keys:
—Zurel?
‘She’s safe, Susan, I promise. She has full protection. She’s still with Steve.’
Thank God…
I clasp the screen.
—They can’t go home.
‘We know. The police are sorting out accommodation, somewhere secure. In the meantime, they’re staying put.’
I let my eyes rest for a second. The moment I do, his face appears.
My fingers slide up to my neck. It’s lumpy and swollen.
‘That’s going to feel tender for a while…’ Carmel swallows. ‘There’s quite a lot of bruising…’
She leans closer. Tears glisten. ‘They got him, Susan,’ she whispers. ‘That monster’s in custody, thanks to you.’
A bitter taste fills my mouth. I remember the hate radiating from him, like a shock wave. The fever in his eyes.
—Who was he?
Her face pinches. ‘They call themselves “Adam’s Holy Warriors”. They’re terrorists.’
It comes in flashes: the tapered cross on his arm. The bible quotes…
‘It … it wasn’t just you, Susan.’ She hesitates. ‘Hundreds of people have been killed, hundreds more injured … The whole world is in shock.’
I stare at her.
‘And you know, those bastards … they targeted the children.’
I grip the sheets and think of Zurel. This is the life I’ve bequeathed to my daughter. A fanatic’s target, constantly having to check her back.
‘The government called a COBRA meeting. Things can’t be allowed to escalate any further.’
My head sinks into the pillow. It dizzies me: how could anyone do such a thing?
—Does Zurel know?
Carmel takes a breath. ‘Steve tried to shield her from the news, but … it’s virtually impossible.’ Her gaze lifts to mine. ‘I spoke to him, earlier this morning. He wanted to know how you were, if you needed anything. They both did.’
My throat constricts. I welcome the pain.
I was always so obsessed with the dangers to her, on the inside.
—I want to see her so badly…
‘I know, sweetheart, I know.’ She sniffs. ‘But you need to get better first. Best give yourself some recovery time.’
My eyes meet hers.
—How bad is it?
She sucks in her lip. ‘Well, put it this way, I won’t be entering you for beauty contests any time soon.’ She manages a weak smile. ‘Your nose is bruised, but not broken. Your eyes are a bit red, but I’m reliably informed that a few burst capillaries are nothing to worry about.’ Her gaze drops to my throat. ‘They don’t think there’s lasting damage, but … you might want to invest in some scarves.’
She cuffs away a tear.
‘The important thing is that the brain scan was clear. Which just leaves your ribs … He cracked two of them.’
The punch. That explains it. Why breathing hurts.
Carmel’s face crumples. ‘I’m so sorry, Susan. So very sorry…’
My fingers stretch across the sheet, still rusty with blood. Carmel folds them into hers.
‘That call saved your life, the officer said. Just a few minutes later…’
A pinging noise starts in the next cubicle. Carmel glances round.
‘I should probably fetch one of the nurses. Let them know you’re awake.’ She nods at me. ‘Then the police will want to take a statement from you. If you’re up to it.’
I give her a thumbs-up.
‘OK.’ She pats my arm and smiles. ‘Won’t be long.’
Carmel scurries off to the nurses’ station, and I quickly pull up the news.
My tears slide down the screen.
Shootings, stabbings. Hit-and-runs.
Babies. Toddlers … It’s a massacre.
I feel a tingling in my hands and feet. As if I’m standing at the edge of a very high cliff.
A few minutes.
A failed connection.
A different answer.
That’s how close we came.
CHAPTER 70
ZUREL
I wander from room to room, Lola trotting behind me, her ears flat, asking: what’s wrong? I try the breathing trick the nurse showed me, count my breaths in and out. Lola watches intently; when she catches my eye, her tail gives a low wag.
Mum will be here in ten minutes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in more than three weeks. She hasn’t visited our temporary home before. That’s what Dad calls it, because he doesn’t know how long we’ll be staying. It’s a bit like our holiday cottage in Lyme, but without the holiday. Everything’s very modern and tidy, but it’s not home.
I read Mum’s messages again this morning. Afterwards, I played my favourite audio files from Lyme. The waves sucking pebbles and slapping rocks. Gulls squawking round the fish-and-chip stand. Ropes tinkling against masts in the harbour, as if they’re desperate to launch back out to sea.
Each night in the cottage, while Dad rattled around downstairs, I’d listen to the waves and try to imagine all the beaches they’d visited. And I’d think about the sand, and the rocks it came from, that were made when dinosaurs were still alive. I pictured those dinosaurs’ shells and bones getting squished in the mud, moulding fossils that I would find one day. And it helped me sleep, imagining it all carrying on over millions of years, despite asteroids colliding, and the oceans freezing over. Because, if our world could survive that, then surely, we could survive this?
Dad looked so sad when he left. I felt like I was letting him down. It’s as if he’s been hit by his own personal meteor: smashed into tiny, icy pieces. And, like Humpty Dumpty, he can’t put them back together again.
I wonder if I should tell Mum about how he stays up for hours after he thinks I’ve gone to sleep. That distant look he gets, like he’s not in the same room, when he is.
The way his back goes stiff, sometimes, when I hug him.
The doorbell rings. I check the camera, like Dad said, even though he’s just across the street, and the security men are close by.
It’s definitely her, but it doesn’t look like her. The scarf’s new.
Lola barrels past my legs and paws at the door. She’s missed her too.
My fingers hover over the bolt as my tummy spins.
The door opens, and Lola nearly knocks Mum flying.
Mum bends down and strokes Lola’s head with both hands, her hair blowing. Then she looks at me. And everything I’d planned to ask vanishes.
SUSAN
My eyes race over her. She looks older. Thinner. As if the little girl I brought home from school that day left for the seaside and didn’t come back. There’s something so fragile about her. I remember that scan where I saw her bones through her skin. Like those deep-sea creatures: if you shine a light, you can see their organs.
She lets me hold her, and I breathe in her warm, buttery scent, ignoring the ache in my ribs.
I think of those other mothers. And fathers. The daughters and sons.
And I thank God we are here.
ZUREL
Mum smells of perfume and arnica. She runs her fingers through my hair as Lola dances round our feet.
I notice the greeny-yellow blotch poking out from her scarf.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she whispers.
All she can do is whisper. She warned me about that.
Dad didn’t tell me, not straight away. After I read the posts, he didn’t have much choice. I begged him to take me to that vigil. That was when things changed.
It had been easier to shut her out. As if not seeing her would make things better. But it didn’t. And when that man nearly took her from us, for good, I knew. Despite all the hurt.
