Joe Craig - Jimmy Coates - Revenge

While Jimmy was trying to fathom out how he felt, Felix reached across and swiped the gadget from his open palm. He clicked the lights on and off a couple of times.

“Cool,” he muttered under his breath. Then he asked, “Do you think we’ll, you know, see her again?”

Jimmy didn’t answer. His gut was telling him that he hoped they would. But, at the same time, he could hear a stern voice in his head. It told him that if he ever did see Zafi Sauvage again, it could only mean that he was in trouble.

Jimmy, Felix and Georgie didn’t bother going back to bed. There was no way any of them would have been able to sleep anyway. They were buzzing with adrenaline from Zafi’s visit. Instead, the three of them took their duvets down to the living room. Felix turned on the TV.

“Chris will go ballistic when he hears about what happened tonight,” he said.

“Do you think he’s OK?” Georgie asked Jimmy. “And Saffron?” There was no reply. “Well? Do you?”

Jimmy exploded with frustration. “I don’t know, do I? How is any of us meant to know?”

“All right, calm down, psycho.” Georgie threw up her hands.

Jimmy mumbled an apology. He could picture Christopher Viggo’s face as the man had driven off into the darkness the night before. With him had been his girlfriend, Saffron Walden, dying from an NJ7 bullet. Jimmy had already gone over and over it in his mind – hospitals were out because they were covered in security cameras, and they’d report a bullet wound to the police straight away. So unless Viggo knew a surgeon nearby who was also a so-called ‘enemy’ of Britain, Jimmy had no idea how Saffron was going to survive.

He curled up on the sofa, wishing his morbid thoughts would go away. Saffron and Viggo had done so much to help Jimmy. Viggo used to be an NJ7 agent himself, but he’d fled thirteen years earlier because of the evil of one man: Ares Hollingdale. From being Director of NJ7, Hollingdale had risen to become Prime Minister – but an undemocratic one. He’d used NJ7 to secure his position at the head of a dictatorship. And the population did nothing to stop him.

Sometimes, it seemed like Viggo and Saffron were the only sane people in Britain – at least, the only ones who were fighting for democracy.

Gradually, Jimmy’s attention returned to the TV.

“The new Prime Minister, Ian Coates, is about to land in Washington DC to meet with the American President, Alphonsus Grogan.” The newsreader was a woman with a vacant stare and a half-smile permanently on her lips. “The first item on their agenda will be American support for Britain in any possible military action against France, following French incursion into British airspace yesterday afternoon.”

With every mention of the Prime Minister, Jimmy felt something rumble in his belly. He forced it down and told himself it was hunger.

“Ian Coates will first meet with the President at the White House,” the newsreader went on, “before touring the cities of the East Coast of America. He will address the UN Security Council in New York in four days’ time to present the case for Britain’s legal right to retaliate against France.”

Usually, the last thing Jimmy would have wanted to do was watch the news. But everything had changed. Now it was urgent that they all knew what the Government was doing. This was their enemy.

“I can’t believe that’s our dad,” Georgie muttered.

Jimmy didn’t answer. Not ‘our’ dad , he thought. ‘ Your’ dad . He felt a sting in his throat and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. When he looked up, he saw his own face on the TV screen. It was the same old school photograph that Jimmy had seen on TV the day before.

“…still thought to be behind the murder of Ares Hollingdale,” the reporter was saying, “and still on the run.” The camera zoomed in on Jimmy’s eyes.

“It’s all right,” Felix stated calmly. “You don’t really look like that.”

“It’s all right?” Georgie exclaimed. “How is it ‘all right’ that they’re telling the whole country that Jimmy murdered the last Prime Minister?” Jimmy shrunk into himself. He just wished they didn’t have to talk about it.

In the last few weeks he had learned not to trust what came out of the TV. He could almost see the puppet-strings attached to the limbs of the newsreaders, and Miss Bennett somewhere, just out of shot, dictating every word that was said.

“Anyway,” Georgie piped up again, furious, “NJ7 knows Jimmy didn’t do it – because they did it.”

“What?” Felix asked. “You think Miss Bennett sent someone from NJ7 to kill their own Prime Minister?”

“Maybe. Hollingdale was sadistic and cruel and probably crazy. Maybe they’d had enough and wanted Dad to take over.”

Hardly realising he was speaking, Jimmy cut in. “He had it coming,” he snarled.

All three of them looked at each other, shocked at what Jimmy had said, even if it was true. Was it him or his programming that was spitting out such venomous thoughts? Jimmy couldn’t get any more words out of his mouth. He could feel his lips trembling, but there was nothing more to say.

The only sound was the drone of the television and the incessant ticking of a clock.

The British Prime Minister stepped out of the White House’s Oval Office to rejoin his assistants and his head of security, Paduk. The look on his face was far from optimistic.

“The President is considering our position,” he announced.

“What does that mean?” Paduk asked. “You were in there with him for over an hour. It’s not rocket science. Either he’s on our side or he isn’t.”

Ian Coates’ advisors huddled together in debate. He ignored them and threw himself into a chair of plush red velvet beneath a portrait of Hillary Clinton. He leaned his elbows on his knees and held his head. The quiet of the corridor was stifling and the cream walls seemed to be closing in on him. He felt like he was trapped inside a giant trifle. Somewhere, a clock ticked too loudly. Next to him, Paduk itched at his shirt collar.

“He can’t keep us waiting like this,” he grumbled. “Where’s the respect?”

Ian Coates shook his head. “It’s natural,” he explained, trying to stay calm. “We’re asking for their army to come and fight a war with us against France. That’s not a decision that can be hurried.”

Paduk grunted. “I remember when Americans were grateful to fight alongside us. Now they’ve forgotten everything. Most people in this country don’t even know where France is.”

“Most of them don’t know where Britain is either, Paduk.”

Suddenly, a door opposite them opened. They both shot to their feet and instinctively straightened their jackets. But it wasn’t the President who emerged, merely one of his aides. She was a woman in her early thirties, with brown hair tied back in a tight knot. The shoulders of her business suit were just a little too wide to be stylish and there was too much red lipstick lining her fake smile.

“Current US policy is not to intervene in foreign conflicts,” she announced. Her voice was clipped, with a clean mid-American accent. “But the President places great importance on the historical friendship between our two nations. Therefore, he would like to offer you a package of the finest military hardware the US industry has to offer.”

“Weapons?” Coates spluttered. “You’re offering me weapons?”

“Well, yes,” replied the aide. “As well as hardware of all other types – trucks, planes, missiles—”

“I know what military hardware is,” interrupted the Prime Minister. “So how much will this package cost?”