Fire Lines Read online

  Fire Lines

  Cara Thurlbourn

  Bewick Press Ltd.

  Unit 1, Hall Barn Road, Isleham

  Cambridge, CB7 5RJ

  This edition was published in the UK by

  Bewick Press Ltd in 2017.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Cara Thurlbourn

  The right of Cara Thurlbourn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.

  ISBN: 978 0 9957266 2 8

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Mum and Dad

  Contents

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Also by Cara Thurlbourn

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  One

  On the other side of the door, my mother’s shallow footsteps drift across the living room. No one in the Red Quarter sleeps through the night, but she doesn’t even try. She spends the hours between sunset and sunrise rearranging our meagre possessions, moving them this way and that, until they’re just right. Sometimes I want to burst out of the bedroom and scream at her to be still. Other times, I’d like to wrap my arms around her bony frame and whisper in her ear:

  “Everything will be alright.”

  Tonight, as with most nights, I do neither. I lie in the dark and listen. Outside, the congealed night-time air squeezes all signs of life out of the Quarter. The streets are motionless. The lamps have been extinguished. Everyone is waiting. Everyone is wondering if it’s their turn to suffer an inspection.

  In the three years we have lived in Red, we’ve endured twenty-eight inspections. At first, I tried to spot a pattern. I kept track of when the Cadets visited our neighbours, how long they stayed, how many there were. But I know now that there’s no way to predict when they will knock; the Council instructs them to vary the times, the streets, the order, so there is never even a glimmer of complacency.

  It’s different in the upper quarters, of course. When we were Greens we would receive a polite tap on the door, usually in the middle of the afternoon, and the Cadets would be in and out within minutes. Here, inspections take place largely at night. The Cadets slip silently through the shadows in their neatly pressed uniforms. They wait until they’re right outside your door, then they hammer their fists and blow their whistles and everything quakes as though the world is ending.

  Ma says the relentless anticipation of this skull-splitting noise has shredded her nerves. I can’t remember a time when her nerves were un-shredded, even from before we were downgraded, but I’ve never said this to her. My father was always the strong one – the one who took care of things. At least, that’s the way I remember it.

  The summer months here are the worst. Even with the windows open, there is no breeze. The congested streets trap the heat, encouraging it to swell until, eventually, a bone-rattling storm shatters the tension and it starts all over again. I’ve become quite prophetic at forecasting the rain; the day before it comes, the air shifts and my skin begins to tingle. It’s a useful talent to have, but not one you want to shout about – there’s a fine line between intuition and magick.

  We’ve always had to be careful. Even in the upper quarters you learn to edit your actions so that no one can accuse you of harbouring hidden abilities, or yearning for the days before the wall. But, like the weather, everything is amplified when you’re a Red. So I don’t tell anyone about the tingling.

  The day we left the Green Quarter we dragged our trunk down to the canal, where a huddle of Reds waited to board the ferry back home. A rotund woman in a short-sleeved tunic and long brown waistcoat helped us up onto the deck.

  “Call me Nor,” she told us, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. “You two have a place to stay?” My mother simply shook her head, unable to stop worrying at the scarlet sash that now pinched her upper arm. Nor pretended not to notice. “My brother Junas has a flat. I’ll take you there but he’ll want to see what’s in the trunk – he won’t want any trouble.”

  That was when I knew things would be different.

  From the ferry station, Nor marched us through side streets teeming with noise and smoke and people. She warned us to keep our heads down and move quickly. Ma did as she was told, fixed her nervous gaze on her feet and hurried as close to Nor as she could. But I couldn’t help staring. At school, the Red Quarter was used as a cautionary tale to keep us on track and out of trouble – but I never imagined it would be so different. In Green, everything was neat and ordered. Here in Red, sprawling streets are crammed with flats, taverns, stores and rubbish. At first, I thought it was rain water running in miniature streams down the pavements, but I soon realised it was sewage. For the first two weeks, I refused to empty our bucket into the street. Each day, I carried it to the patch of scrubland behind the flats. But eventually, like everyone else, I gave in.

  Junas’s flat turned out to be the top floor of what had once been his parents’ house. When my mother realised it was comprised of just two rooms, with no kitchen and no bathroom, she pinched my arm and whispered, “Émi, we can’t live here.” I told her we should take it for the night and look for something better the next morning. As it turns out, there wasn’t anything better. I was fourteen then. Next month, I’ll be seventeen and here we are – still living in our two concrete rooms. Ma has promised she’ll find regular work to help me pay the rent, but the upper quarters won’t hire the wife of a convict and she can't bring herself to work in a tavern or a laundrette. So, for now, my wages are all we have.

  I turn over, away from the door, and try to find a spot on the mattress where the coils don’t dig into my side. A persistent drip, drip, drip is coming from outside the open window. The guttering is probably clogged with something dead or dying because the dripping is beginning to smell, but Junas won’t even contemplate investigating it until we’ve paid him the rent we owe. Reluctantly, I unfold my creaky limbs and climb up onto the window ledge. In our old house, we could open the shutters on nights like this and calming whispers of air would soothe the walls, and the floors, and lull us to sleep. Here in Red, as I lean my upper body out into the street, the heat seems to magnify. Instantly, a film of sweat springs out on my forehead and I have to resist the urge to wipe it away for fear of losing my balance. I use one hand to grip the top of the window frame and, with the other, reach up into the guttering. My fingers squelch into something moist that sends a shiver of nausea down into my throat. I move my hand through the sludge until I come across something a little more solid. I stretch upwards and pull it loose; flies and stench and blood come with it. As I suspected, a dead rat. It probably got stuck and drowned in the last rain storm. Poor thin
g. For a brief, horrendous moment I find myself turning the rat over in my hand and wondering whether it is too far decayed to be edible. Then I come to my senses and toss it down to the street below.

  At the very same moment the rat hits the ground, the knocking starts. The block of tenements on the opposite side of the street has been chosen. Sometimes the Cadets inspect just one, but tonight they are descending ruthlessly on the entire building. I step back so that I’m hidden from view as men, women and children are herded out onto the street. At least ten Cadets have entered the building. As they light their lanterns and begin to search, their silhouettes jerk up and down like vicious shadow puppets. Outside, the remaining Cadets are dividing the Reds by family group and lining them up in order of age – youngest first. Barefoot, and in the mandatory grey tunics we are forced to wear as pyjamas, the Reds stare blankly ahead, waiting for it to be over.

  Callous laughter booms out from the open windows of the tenements; the soundtrack of the inspection is reaching its crescendo. Drawers and wardrobes are emptied, possessions clatter to the ground. The entire episode lasts just minutes, but feels like hours. The first time I saw an inspection like this, I cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I shook uncontrollably long after the Cadets had gone. Tonight, I clench my fists so tight that my nails draw blood from my palms. I hate that they are all just standing there, letting this happen. I hate that, if it was my turn, I’d do the same thing. And I hate that for so much of my life I had no idea what it was like here.

  When the noise stops, the Cadets who inspected the building file back onto the pavement and I shudder as I notice who’s in charge: Falk, a blonde from the Silver Quarter who has mottled acne scars on his cheeks and thick cabbagey breath. At least once a week I have to avoid him on my late-night walks back from the ferry. Falk clears his throat and orders the Reds to present their paperwork. One by one, he studies their permits and ensures their red sashes are tied correctly, forcing them to present their left arms so that he can scrutinise every minute detail, from the knot to the position above the elbow. I hold my breath until he reaches the very last person, and then slowly unclench my fists. It’s over. The Reds turn back to their dismantled homes. Then:

  “I’d like to speak to Jennyfer Kray… Jennyfer?”

  Falk is smiling. My skin begins to prickle. From the back of the crowd, a middle-aged woman with tendrils of matted brown hair steps forwards.

  “I’m Jennyfer,” she croaks.

  Falk bobs down to Jennyfer’s level, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “I found something of yours, Jenny, and I wanted to return it to you – in person.”

  He reaches out his hand, offering her something small and round. I grip the windowsill, begging under my breath, “Don’t take it, don’t take it.”

  For a moment, Jennyfer hesitates. She glances over her shoulder at the crowd but everyone is looking at the floor instead of at her. She doesn’t know what to do. Falk is still smiling at her, so she returns a crooked, grimy smile and hastily takes the object from him.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ha!” Falk shouts, jabbing a finger into the air. Jennyfer stares wide-eyed at whatever she’s holding. “So, it is yours?” he demands, planting his hands on her shoulders and giving her a shake.

  “I… no, sir… I…”

  “But you accepted it from me. It must be yours? Otherwise you would have said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, you’re mistaken…’ Would you not?” His words come out quickly, blurring into one another. She doesn’t have the chance to keep up.

  Jennyfer looks wildly from Falk to the object and back to Falk. “Please, sir, I never seen it before. I promise.”

  Falk grimaces, as though he is finding all of this very upsetting. “Oh, Jenny. I would love to believe you – I would. But you know that magick is banned here in the City of Nhatu, don’t you?”

  Jennyfer nods. I feel my stomach tighten.

  “And you know that when the wall was built to keep Mahg and the evil forces at bay, the Council decreed that anyone caught with magickal paraphernalia should be punished?”

  Jennyfer begins to tremble. I am gripping the windowsill so hard it feels like it might crack.

  “And when I showed you this object, this forbidden object, you accepted it from me willingly. Didn’t you? So what am I supposed to do? The law says you must be punished. There is no way around it. We cannot allow magick within the City walls.”

  Falk clicks his fingers and stands aside. Two green-banded Cadets take Jennyfer by the arms. She starts to buck against them. Still, no one looks up. No one helps. The Cadets are trying to drag her down the street but she is digging her feet into the ground.

  “No, you can’t take me, you can’t!”

  Falk strides after his colleagues. When he reaches them, he grabs Jennyfer’s hair and tugs. Her head snaps backwards and she releases a throaty groan. Then he drives his steel-toed boot into the middle of her back and she crumples like a rag doll.

  Standing above them, a complicit observer, my hands begin to shake. The tightness in my stomach has turned to heat and it’s spreading through my chest, into my throat and down my arms. Suddenly, there is a crack, and a pop, and sparks of light jump from my window into the street. My heart is thundering. Was that me? It can’t have been me? What was that?

  From below, Falk is shouting. “You! Up there! What are you doing?”

  Too late, I duck down to the floor, staring at my hands. Was that me? It can’t have been…?

  Falk yells at his Cadets, “Get over there… A girl… Find her!”

  The window ledge is singed black. My mind is whirring and my hands sting. Quickly, I grab the lantern and lighter fluid from my bedside table. I soak the wick, spill a little fluid on the floor and wrap the lantern in a blanket to muffle any sounds. Then, I jab at the lantern until the panes of glass break into splinters.

  Footsteps are charging up the stairs. The Cadets are pounding on the door.

  “Émi… Émi, what’s happening?” Ma’s trembling voice calls from the other room.

  Working quickly, I shake the glass loose, scatter it onto the windowsill and the floor, and set the lantern on top of the burn mark, on its side. Then, my mother lets them in.

  Three silver-banded Cadets charge into my room, the force of their urgency almost prising the door from its hinges. A Cadet I don’t recognise grabs my shoulders and shoves me away from the window so that I’m standing beside the bed. The other two return to the living room and I hear my mother pleading with them to tell her what’s happening. I wish she would be quiet. I wish she had refused to let them in and barricaded the door. I wish she was like my father, and then I hate myself for wishing it. If she was like him, she’d be gone too.

  Falk saunters through the smashed-open door as though he’s walking into a tavern. His steely eyes graze all the way from my collarbones down to my spindly legs, and back again. The Cadet who shoved me gestures to the windowsill and Falk swipes his gnarly index finger across it. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

  “Miss Fae. Would you care to explain what happened here?”

  “I must have used too much fluid,” I reply, gesturing to the shards of glass.

  “The lamp?”

  “Just went…” I fling my fingers outwards into star shapes to indicate an explosion.

  Falk moves his gaze to the street below. The Reds are back inside. Jennyfer is nowhere to be seen. He makes an mmm noise with the back of his throat. “And you were lighting your lamp in the middle of the night, because…?”

  I step away from my bed and point to the small, battered writing desk in the corner of the room. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d use the time to do some work.”

  Falk stares at me, unblinking. I force myself to add, “Sir.”

  He moves over to the desk and beckons for his colleague to bring him a light. He sifts through my papers, deliberately sending my charcoals and paints clattering to the floor. He studies the pictures, then scrun
ches them violently in his fist and whirls around to face me. “This is work?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Last time we spoke you didn’t mention you were an artist, Miss Fae. You told me you worked in…” He rifles through his memory. “A cafe in the Green Quarter. Isn’t that right?”

  “I do both. I waitress at The Emerald but I do some sketches for the Council too – for the posters.” I glance out of the window at the billboards on the building opposite, as though Falk wouldn’t know instantly which posters I am referring to. Slowly, he pulls the stool from underneath my desk and sits down, legs spread, elbows on his knees. I hate that he is here, in my room. I couldn’t give a jot about the drawings. He can tear them into a thousand pieces and throw them down there with the rat for all I care, but I hate that he is making me talk to him. When we’re inspected, we usually wait outside. We don’t have to interact. My skin burns with irritation, but when the same heat that caused the sparks begins to swirl in the bottom of my stomach, I force myself to breathe deeply. If I created that flash of light, and if Falk finds out…

  “So, Miss Fae. You woke up, you couldn’t sleep, you thought you’d do a little night-time sketching, and when you went to light your lantern, it exploded – poof! – just like that. Am I right?”

  I nod a little quicker this time, and try to widen my eyes. He likes it when we’re scared of him. In my most genteel voice I add, “I’m so sorry if I alarmed you, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt…”