Joe Craig: Jimmy Coates: Power

“Prime Minister.”

A firm voice broke through the hubbub. It was Miss Bennett. Her icy tone forced everybody back into their seats and commanded their attention. “Clearly you won’t be dissuaded from this ridiculous plot, and I can see the logic in it, but I must urge you not to rush into this. A disaster like this will certainly pull the country together and distract people from Internet rumours, but it does seem a little…clumsy.”

“Clumsy?” barked Coates.

“Yes. Like sending a torpedo to kill a mosquito.”

“It would do the job,” mumbled William Lee.

“It would also do the job to give an NJ7 team a little more time to shut down or reframe the necessary websites and spread counter-information. Meanwhile we’ll continue to hunt Jimmy Coates. We know he’s in London. There isn’t a square millimetre of the city that’s not covered by cameras or real-time satellite imaging—or both. We’ll find him and kill him by the end of the day.”

“A day is too long,” Coates rasped. “The operation is already under way.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Miss Bennett shrugged. “So my objections are over-ruled?” The Prime Minister nodded. With a flourish, Miss Bennett unclipped her hair and let it tumble about her shoulders. She tapped her hairclip on the table and with a broad smile announced, “You’re a fool.”

There was general shock around the table, but Ian Coates looked close to smiling too.

“We’re blowing up a tower block,” he insisted quietly. Then he pounded his fist on the table and roared, “We’re blowing up the tower block on Walnut Tree Walk! If anybody has any problem with that they can leave the room now!”

Mitchell looked up and down the table. Nobody made eye contact. The only noise was the soft shuffle of people shifting in their seats. Mitchell knew that if anybody left the room now they would never make it to the street. Miss Bennett was simply watching calmly. The Prime Minister broke the silence.

“We all agree that Neo-democratic principles are vital to the strength of this country, don’t we?” There was a reserved murmur of agreement from his Cabinet. “And that it is our duty to protect Neo-democracy whenever it is threatened.” Again, people nodded and muttered, slightly louder this time.

“Then the British public has nothing to fear from the people in this room. We’re protecting them.” Coates’ voice rose steadily and started to quiver. “The danger comes from beyond Britain’s boundaries. If people don’t know that then it’s our duty to show them.” He pushed himself to his feet and supported himself on the table. “Their fear will protect the system, and it’s the system which is protecting them. If they question the system then they’re not afraid enough!” Mitchell watched, astounded, as the Prime Minister swayed more violently, then staggered backwards, knocking his chair to the floor. “Don’t they realise there’s a foreign country only thirty-six kilometres away across the English Channel, and that it’s full of French people?!” The PM was staggering about now, blinking frantically and unable to balance himself. Every member of the Cabinet, except Miss Bennett and William Lee, rushed to try and support him. Like a feverish bear, he swiped them away.

“There are horrors on our doorstep!” he wailed, his words slurring into each other. “If people are sleeping so soundly at night that they can spread the cankerous filth of an ignorant, traitorous boy…” He rocked to one side and threw his arm out towards the mantelpiece to catch himself, but missed and sent a huge vase crashing to the floor.

Suddenly, people were rushing everywhere to the sounds of screams and desperate shouts for help. Mitchell was transfixed. He felt like he was watching everything in slow motion: the Prime Minister’s eyes rolled back in his head. His arms shuddered and his upper body twisted like a snowflake in the wind. Finally, his legs seemed to melt away from under him. He swivelled and collapsed forwards on to the table, smashing his forehead into the wood. His outstretched fingertips were centimetres from Miss Bennett’s hairclip.

Jimmy hurried away from Waterloo Station. It hadn’t been hard for him to stay unnoticed by the commuters bustling their way to work. They kept their grim faces downcast unless they were squinting up at the departures board. Jimmy was more worried about keeping his face off the surveillance cameras. With facial recognition software, he’d be picked out of the crowd in seconds.

Fortunately, that also worked in his favour. It meant that nobody would be monitoring the camera feeds personally, and there was no software that knew to look out for a boy wandering through the streets alone.

On the train journey he’d managed to find out a little more vital information from a leaflet he’d found behind the snack bar. It was the train operator’s guidelines on emergency procedures, and it confirmed what he’d thought: the only major hospitals left in the country were in the big cities. It set out clearly that in the case of a significant incident at Waterloo, the nearest hospital with the facilities to cope was a place called St Thomas’.

Jimmy didn’t want to risk going anywhere else. If the other hospitals weren’t big enough or well enough funded to cope with more than a few casualties, there was no way they’d be any help with Jimmy’s radiation poisoning. He’d be putting himself in danger for nothing. No—he had one shot at going to a hospital so it had to work. It had to be St Thomas’.

Jimmy had only been to hospital once before, and he’d been too young to remember now which hospital it had been. He’d fallen in an adventure playground and his mum thought he’d broken his arm, so she’d taken him for an x-ray.

All Jimmy remembered was sitting in the waiting room for hours and hours, only to be told that he was fine. It was almost funny now to think of the way his body had developed. Since his powers had kicked in, it took a lot more than falling down to break his arm. All those cuts and bruises he’d suffered while he was growing up—those days were over. Jimmy knew that it was extreme danger that had awakened his programming early, but he wondered whether there was anything that could possibly make it go away again. He quickly told himself to put thoughts of the impossible out of his mind. His programming couldn’t be switched off. It was part of him.

Jimmy prowled through the streets towards the River Thames. He reckoned the streets were safer that the tunnels of the Underground system, and he’d memorised the map from the train leaflet to guide him to St Thomas’. But within minutes he saw that he had a problem. Armed policemen were blockading the roads and pavements.

Jimmy slipped into the doorway of a café to hide, feeling a surge of anger at himself. How could he have hoped to walk to the hospital? They’ve already set up a ring round the station , Jimmy realised. He’d been counting on it taking a little longer for NJ7 to work out he’d been on the train, not in the wreckage of the helicopter.

There was nothing for it but to turn round and walk back in the direction he’d come. Retracing his steps increased his chances of being recognised, so he chose a different route, while still making his way back towards Waterloo Station. All the time, he was racking his brains. If he couldn’t get to the hospital on foot, it was obvious NJ7 would have the Underground platforms monitored as well—that’s if the trains were running at all.

By now Jimmy was feeling like every thought had to fight its way through a veil of tiredness and hunger. He didn’t dare try to remember the last time he’d slept for more than a couple of hours at a time, and his stomach was aching for some kind of breakfast.