C. Daugherty: Fracture

After the long walk on the dark road, the town’s bright streetlights were blinding and the traffic noise startling, but it wasn’t a particularly big place and Allie knew if she walked towards the centre eventually she’d find what she was looking for.

Sure enough, a few minutes later an old-fashioned wrought-iron sign pointed her to the train station. It was nearly empty – the next train wasn’t due for quite a while. The waiting room was locked tight, along with the ticket office, so she lowered herself on to a cold, metal bench on the platform and waited. The night air was freezing; her breath puffed out in little clouds and for a while she amused herself trying to make smoke rings of steam.

But that was only so much fun. And soon, shivering, she gave up, burrowing further into her coat, yanking the collar up to her ears.

She must have dozed off because the train woke her with a start as it roared into the station. The long red carriages were packed with well-dressed commuters coming home from a day in the office. Allie watched blankly as they hustled down the platform without even a glance in her direction, hurrying to their waiting cars, their warm homes and happy families.

She was so absorbed in watching them, wondering what it would be like to be them, she didn’t hear the boy sneaking up behind her.

‘Do you have permission to be here, miss?’

Jumping to her feet, she launched herself at him with such force she nearly bowled him over. Her hat flew off her head, landing on the platform a foot away.

‘Mark!’ She hugged him tightly, breathing in the faint but not unpleasant scent of cigarette smoke that always clung to his clothes.

He’d dyed the ends of his dark hair blue and mussed it into a swirl of black and blue; a tiny gold hoop earring peeked out through the tangles, matching the one in his eyebrow. While she’d been away his pimples had cleared up – he looked more grown-up. But his clothes were the same – tonight he wore torn jeans and a faded black T-shirt with ‘Revolution’ on it in mirror writing.

Clearly surprised by the force of her greeting, he hesitated briefly before hugging her back. ‘What the hell, Allie? What am I doing here in –’ he paused to watch the last commuters in suits and high heels make their way out of the station – ‘wherever the hell we are?’

At that moment she must have stepped into the glow of a security light, because she saw him notice the scar at her hairline – the doctors had shaved her temple to keep the wound clean. The hair was growing back but the jagged red line still stood out starkly.

He whistled admiringly. ‘That’s a nice scar. Who hit you?’

She grew serious. ‘It’s a long story, but it’s why I called you. I need your help.’

‘No kidding. You look like crap, Al.’ She saw him noticing with growing concern the circles under her eyes, her thinness and pallor. ‘What’ve they done to you?’

The station was empty now. Behind them, with a groan and a screech, the train began to depart. But Allie lowered her voice anyway.

‘Some people tried to… to kill me. And now I can’t…’ She stopped. How could she explain this? Mark knew nothing at all about what had been happening in her life since she left London. Nothing about Cimmeria or Night School. Nothing about Nathaniel or murder. He was utterly outside that world.

‘Look, let’s just get on a train and get out of here, Mark,’ she said, grabbing his arm with sudden urgency and dragging him towards the station timetable. ‘I’ll tell you on the way. The next train to London, when is it?’

Her mood change seemed to catch him off guard and he held up his hands. ‘Whoa, hang on. Look at the board.’ He pointed at the lighted schedule near the door. ‘The next train’s not for two hours. This is the back of beyond, remember?’

Allie’s face must have fallen because he scrambled for an alternative. ‘Let’s go and get a drink and find somewhere to talk. We got plenty of time.’

Glancing longingly back at the quiet rails behind them, she gave in and let him lead the way out of the station. What other option did she have?

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But let’s just… be on that train.’

‘Where should we go?’ Mark said as they emerged on to a dark street. Ahead of them, Allie could see the lights of the high street. ‘What’s in this town anyway?’

Mark had been her closest friend before she came to Cimmeria. They’d been arrested together several times, tagging bridges and schools. He’d shown her a side of London girls like her rarely saw – a world of rebellion and anarchy.

The main thing they’d had in common in those days was anger.

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never really been anywhere but the hospital.’

When his eyebrows winged upward his piercing glittered. ‘Well, come on.’ He pulled her with him towards the lights. ‘Let’s find an offie and a place where you can tell me all your troubles. I want to know more about those battle scars.’

Allie nodded and followed him down the street. ‘Right-o.’

‘Right-o?’ Mark imitated her accent with open incredulity. ‘ Right-o? ’

‘Oh shut up,’ Allie laughed, giving him a shove. She hadn’t realised her accent had changed so much while she’d been at school.

After that she tried to sound less posh.

The high street was lined with expensive-looking boutiques. Mark shot the piles of silk and cashmere in the shop windows bilious glances and grumbled under his breath about ‘snobs’ until they found an off-licence in a side street.

‘I’ll go inside and see what’s on offer.’ His eyes swept over Allie’s decidedly underage features. ‘You better stay here. If we go in together they might get curious.’

She waited in the cold, stomping her feet to keep warm until he reappeared a few minutes later carrying a plastic bag. She could hear the cans rattling inside it.

‘Right,’ he said, looking around. ‘We need a venue.’

For nearly ten minutes they trudged up and down the quiet streets looking for a drinking spot until Allie spotted a narrow cobblestone lane leading to a quiet churchyard.

The ancient church building was surrounded by spotlights illuminating its crenellated bell tower but the graveyard around it was ghostly and dark. They found a damp wooden bench sheltered beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree and settled down.

Pulling out two cans of cheap cider, Mark handed her one. He popped his own can open and took a deep draught then sighed with pleasure. ‘That’s better.’

Allie followed his lead. The fizzy, apple-flavoured alcohol went down easily, warming her insides. After a while she stopped shivering. Maybe sitting outside wouldn’t be so bad after all.

After they’d drunk a little, Mark turned to face her. ‘Now. What happened to your head?’

There was no way for him to know how huge that question was. How long the answer could be.

She took a long, deep gulp and let the fire of the alcohol burn through her veins.

‘There’s this group,’ she said, ‘at my school. I’m in it. It’s all secret. We train in lots of weird stuff…’

‘What weird stuff?’

Crumpling an empty can, Mark tossed it into the grass. Instinctively, Allie winced. But she told herself to get over it. Mark was the way he was.

She needed time to think. So she up-ended her own can, finishing it off in a few swallows, then gave a loud belch.

‘Nice one,’ Mark commented as he opened a fresh can.

‘Thank you,’ she said primly. ‘Weird stuff like self-defence. Martial arts. How to kill people with your hands.’

His can half open, he stopped and stared at her. ‘What? Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’ Shoving the empty can back on the bench next to her she held out her hand for a new one. With a puzzled frown he handed one to her. ‘All the kids in this group are from super-rich, powerful families. And there’s this man who wants to take over that group and the school and… me.’