Checkmate by Malorie Blackman

  Paying my penance.

  seven. Meggie

  'Anything else, Mrs McGregor?'

  I took another quick glance around the shop, 'willing any items I might've missed to spring off the shelves and hover in mid-air to jog my memory.

  'I don't think so, Mr Aswad,' I replied after my quick scan. 'Anyway, I don't think I could manage anything else.'

  I struggled to hold up the various carrier bags in both hands to show him.

  'Last-minute Crossmas shopping?'

  'Last, first and every minute in between at the moment,' I sighed. 'I'm shattered.'

  'I know what you mean.' Mr Aswad nodded. 'I did all my Crossmas shopping last weekend. Two hours on the bus it took me to get home. Two hours!'

  I frowned. 'What happened to your car?'

  Mr Aswad shook his head sadly. 'I sold it, Mrs McGregor.'

  Now that surprised me. Every time I came into his shop, Mr Aswad blathered on and on about his precious WMW. I didn't even know what WMW stood for, although the nickname for the car amongst us noughts was 'white man's wheels'. Any nought with money always bought a WMW. I had to admit the car did look good – if you were into that sort of thing, which I wasn't – and definitely deserved its luxury status, along with the healthy price tag to match.

  'How come you sold it?' I couldn't help asking. Mr Aswad would rather sell his shop than his car and that was no lie.

  'I had to, Mrs McGregor. Not a week went past without the police stopping me and asking me to prove the car was mine. In the end it just wasn't worth it. I'm waiting for delivery of my new car but they told me I won't get it till after Crossmas.'

  'What car are you getting?'

  Mr Aswad told me the make of a nothing-special, ten-a-penny car which from his expression obviously wasn't his cup of tea at all.

  Mr Aswad leaned over the counter towards me and lowered his voice even though we were the only two in his shop. 'I was telling one of my regular Cross customers why I decided to sell my WMW and d'you know what she said to me?'

  I shook my head.

  'She told me the police don't do that sort of thing.' Mr Aswad straightened with righteous indignation. 'I'm telling her what happened to me practically every other day and she still refused to believe it. "The police don't do that sort of thing"! I ask you!'

  The door opened, followed by the electronic chime which alerted Mr Aswad that he had a customer if he was out the back.

  I turned my head. A young Cross man wearing jeans, a fleecy jacket, rimless glasses and a single earring came into the shop and marched straight up to the counter.

  'A packet of cigarettes.'

  'Which brand?' Mr Aswad asked.

  'Don't care,' the man said.

  Mr Aswad turned and picked up the closest to hand. He told the man the price. We both watched as the man dug the money out of his jacket pocket and counted out the exact amount. The man dropped the money onto Mr Aswad's hand rather than placing it there. That was another of Mr Aswad's bugbears – Crosses who couldn't bear to touch his hand when they handed over their money, so instead they dropped it anywhere from a couple of centimetres up, to the length of half a ruler. I really didn't have time to hang around and hear the shopkeeper complain about that as well, so I decided to use the Cross's presence to make my escape.

  'Nice talking to you, Mr Aswad,' I said, heading for the door.

  'You too, Mrs McGregor. Mind how you go.'

  His cigarettes in his hand, the Cross man scooted past me to get out of the shop first. I was obviously not going fast enough to suit him. As I stepped out of the shop, I shivered, pulling my long, woollen coat even more tightly around me, the carrier bags in my hand, bumping into my body as I did so. The winter wind bit at me, making my bones ache. In spite of my coat, gloves and hat, I was freezing. It was already getting dark and the wind was trying to freeze my lips together. Being cold always put me in a bad mood. Did the weather match my mood? Or did my mood match the weather? Well, at least I had Jude's Crossmas presents now. That was something after all this walking about. Another year, another plain shirt, another patterned jumper. Not that I ever saw him wearing any of my presents.

  I really don't know what happened next. One moment I started to walk off, minding my own business and the next moment my legs went out from under me and I went down on my backside, then flat on my back. Mr Aswad was straight out of his shop and at my side in an instant. The next thing I knew, I was surrounded by people, all trying to help me back up onto my feet and asking the same ludicrous question. 'Are you all right? Are you all right?'

  Of course I wasn't all right. I'd just embarrassed myself on the high street. Plus my backside was sore. A middle-aged Cross picked up my shopping bag and chased after my potatoes which were rolling about on the icy pavement. He packed them in my bag before handing it back to me.

  'Thank you,' I mumbled, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. 'It's very kind of you.'

  'Mrs McGregor, are you sure you're OK?' asked Mr Aswad. 'You took quite a tumble there.'

  'I'm fine, Mr Aswad,' I told him, adding under my breath, 'My arse broke the fall.'

  'Really, Mrs McGregor!' smiled Mr Aswad as he shook his head. 'And you a God-fearing woman at that!'

  I stared at him. 'Bat ears!'

  The crowd around me began to disappear when they saw I was now upright and mobile. Thank goodness.

  'Would you like to sit down for a while?' Mr Aswad offered. 'I could make you a cup of tea.'

  'No thanks. I just want to get home and have a nice hot bath,' I said.

  I headed off before he could argue. Halfway up the street, I turned round to see Mr Aswad sprinkling liberal amounts of salt on the icy pavement outside his shop.

  Much too little, far too late, I thought with annoyance.

  I carried on home, rubbing at my upper thigh. No doubt an impressive bruise was forming already.

  eight. Sephy

  'Mum! Mum!' Rose ran into the room at full pelt with Tobey close behind.

  'What's the matter?' I asked, looking up from my newspaper.

  'The sky is having sex!' said Rose with great excitement.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'The sky. Look at the sky,' Rose urged.

  Frowning, I got up and opened the living-room curtains. The sky was already dark even though it was still early evening, but by the light of the orange street lamp outside, I could see myriad snowflakes swirling and twirling in the semi-darkness. The snowflakes looked more amber than white under the street lamp's glow.

  'See!' Rose said, almost indignant that I'd doubted her word.

  I looked from Rose to Tobey and back again. Why did I smell one of Tobey's stories behind this?

  'I still don't understand,' I said carefully. 'What've the snowflakes got to do with sex?'

  'You mean you don't know?' Rose said astounded. Then she grinned at me, pleased to know something I didn't. 'Well, what happens is, the sky and the ground have a big snog and have sex and the snowflakes are all the sperms hitting the ground. And all the blades of grass are the babies.'

  'And where did you get that from?' As if I didn't know.

  Rose looked puzzled. 'Tobey told me.'

  I stood up. 'Tobey, I'd like a word with you.'

  One look at the thunderous look on my face and Tobey bolted.

  'I've got to go home now. Bye.'

  'Tobey, come back here.' I went after him but he was out our front door and at his house before I'd cleared the hall.

  You'd better run, boy, I thought sourly. You'd better run.

  'Mum?' said Rose, her head tilted to one side. 'What are sperms?'

  nine. Meggie

  So much for my non-existent baking skills. Why was it that I could cook anything savoury, but introduce just one sugar crystal and my food became a disaster area. About the only thing I could make containing sugar which didn't go wrong was a cup of coffee. I glared down at my chocolate cake, which had sunk in the middle and was burned around the edges. It look
ed like a bowl. I'd followed the recipe exactly, I know I had. I couldn't take this effort into church. I could just imagine the pitying looks when my friends saw it. Maybe if I smothered it with chocolate icing and filled the middle with sweets or something . . .

  Out in the hall, my mobile phone rang. I headed out of the kitchen, glad to get away from the cake, which mocked me from every angle. Digging my mobile out of my handbag, I checked for the caller ID, but there wasn't one.

  'Meggie McGregor.'

  'Hi. It's me.'

  Just three words had my heart skipping. I took the phone back into the kitchen and closed the door, before replying.

  'Hello, son. How are you?'

  'Same as ever, Mum. And how're you?'

  'OK, I suppose. I had a nasty fall a few weeks ago.'

  'Are you OK?'

  'Yeah, I'm fine now.'

  'Why didn't you tell me?'

  'What could you have done?' I asked. 'I was several shades of purple up and down my leg for a while, but I'm fine now.'

  Jude didn't answer.

  'Where are you now?' I asked.

  'The Isis Hotel.'

  I sighed. Jude was at his regular haunt when he was down this way, but it was still only a cheap hotel. He should have had his own home by now. When was he going to stop living out of a suitcase?

  'I'm phoning because I'm going abroad tomorrow for a while,' Jude continued.

  'Why?'

  'Fundraising.'

  'Where?'

  'Anywhere where there are L.M. sympathizers. I'm following the money.'

  'You told me you weren't in the L.M. any more. You told me you didn't—'

  'I'm not part of the active body, Mum. I'm not a soldier. I just fundraise and work on the administrative side,' said Jude impatiently.

  Relieved, I started to breathe again. 'I'd like to see you before you go,' I told him.

  'I'm a bit busy . . . but OK,' said Jude.

  'Where should we meet? At a pub or—'

  'At the hotel. It's safer. I'll order room service,' said Jude.

  He gave me his room number, then rang off. Jude didn't believe in long drawn-out conversations, whether on the phone or in person. I pulled off my apron, my thoughts now totally wrapped around my only remaining son. His prison sentence was long over but the bitterness inside still held him prisoner. If I could only get him away from his L.M. colleagues. I was convinced they were the ones filling him with hatred and poisoning his soul. I'd never give up hope of showing my son that the Liberation Militia were not the way forward. At least he wasn't an active member, so that was something, but I wanted him out of that organization completely. There had to be a way to reach him, I just had to find it. I'd never stop believing that.

  And I'd never stop trying.

  ten. Sephy

  'I'm off out,' said Meggie, popping her head round the door. 'Don't bother leaving dinner for me.'

  'Where're you going?'

  'I'm having dinner with a friend,' said Meggie tersely.

  I know I shouldn't've been surprised but I was. I could count on the mittened fingers of our garden gnome the number of times Meggie went out for a meal. She was definitely not a 'lady who did lunch'. Or dinner come to that. Meggie looked around with a frown.

  'Where's Callie Rose?'

  'At Tobey's house.'

  'So late?'

  'It's not late, Meggie. I'm going to give her another fifteen minutes then go and get her.'

  'Will you . . . will you be all right without me?' asked Meggie, her eyes anywhere and everywhere but on me.

  Why don't you just ask me the question you really want to ask?

  How long were Meggie and I going to dance around this?

  'I'll be fine. Why wouldn't I be?' I challenged.

  'If you need me, just phone.'

  'Meggie, I'm quite capable of putting my own daughter to bed,' I said patiently.

  'I didn't say you weren't. Oh, by the way, don't let her watch the TV this evening though,' said Meggie, her voice grim.

  'Why?'

  'There's a programme on at eight o'clock about the history of the Liberation Militia. They might mention

  'I see.' Now I sounded just as grim as Meggie. Every time the Liberation Militia were mentioned on the TV, my blood ran ice-cold. I was probably over-reacting; after all, Callum's name had only been mentioned in a documentary once – at least, that I knew about. That was part of the reason I'd finally decided against giving Callie Rose her dad's surname. And that was something over which Meggie held no sway and had no say. But that didn't stop the panic rising whenever the L.M. were mentioned. I didn't want my baby to hear any of that. I didn't want my baby to know . . . Not yet. Plenty of time to tell her the truth when she was old enough to deal with it, to understand it. But it wasn't just the ashes of past sins that I was afraid of being stirred up. Each time the L.M. came on the TV, I waited with bated breath to hear Jude's name.

  'Have you heard from Jude recently?' I asked.

  The colour drained from Meggie's face, then a slow curtain of red began to rise, covering her neck, her cheeks. She looked away from me.

  'No. Why?'

  I frowned at Meggie. Why was she so embarrassed? No, it was more than embarrassed. She was lying.

  'If you had seen him, would you tell me?'

  'Why would I hide it?' Meggie looked me in the eye to say, 'And why ask me about him now? You haven't mentioned his name in ages.'

  'He's in the L.M., isn't he?'

  'Not any more,' said Meggie.

  'Who told you that?'

  'Jude did.'

  'When?

  'The last time I spoke to him.'

  'And you believed him?'

  'Jude wouldn't lie to me,' said Meggie, drawing herself up.

  Was she serious?

  'Jude does nothing but lie,' I told her. 'He killed that Cross hairdresser, Cara Imega, and he boasted about it.'

  'I don't beli— That's not true. Jude says he didn't do it and I believe him,' said Meggie.

  In the battle of 'he said, she said', Jude was the clear winner. I trailed in a poor, weary second.

  'Besides, if he did say that, he probably only said it to . . . to . . .'

  Couldn't Meggie hear herself? Didn't she hear the ridiculous excuses she was making for her demon incarnate son.

  'Yes?' I prompted. 'Why would he say such a thing if it wasn't true? To wind me up? Or maybe just to rub my nose in the fact that I helped a stone-cold killer escape justice? Which reason sounds more plausible to you?'

  'Jude didn't kill that girl,' Meggie insisted.

  This was an entire waste of my time and my breath. 'If you say so, Meggie. Enjoy your dinner.'

  I turned my attention back to the TV. Meggie stood still for a few moments, then headed out of the room and out the house. Only when I heard the front door slam did I allow myself to relax completely.

  I found it very hard to relax in Meggie's house, sitting in Meggie's chair with Meggie's things all around me. And impossible to relax around Meggie. She saw everything her way and no one else's. And she didn't trust me. Not even close. But how could anyone in full possession of their faculties really believe that Jude wasn't a member of the L.M. or that he didn't have anything to do with Cara Imega's murder.

  Cara Imega . . .

  That name would haunt me till the day I died. For a long while, I thought that all the terrible things that happened to me after Cara's death were my punishment. The fates tearing me to pieces for my culpability. But that was before I realized that I didn't need the fates or divine retribution or any other external source to punish me. I was doing a first-rate job all on my own.

  Jude was a murderer.

  But by helping to hide his guilt, what did that make me?

  By not coming forward when I had the chance, what was I? I already knew the bitter answer.

  I stood up. Time to get my daughter. Time to lose myself in her smile and forget the past. Just for a while.

  eleven.
Rose is 8½

  Hello, Daddy,

  How are you today? How is heaven? Sunny, I bet. It's sunny down here on Earth as well. A toasted teacake kind of day. Mummy is in the kitchen washing up and her face is shining. The sunlight glowing on and around her face makes her look like she has golden edges. She looks like an angel. Yeah! Exactly like the angel we put on top of the Crossmas tree each year. I love Mummy. And she loves me – and you, Daddy.

  Isn't that wonderful?

  Can you smell the soup Mummy made for our lunch? I love that smell. It smells like warm and full and safe. I bet you're jealous you didn't get any. Ha! You should've made your ghost appear when we were eating round the table. I would've given you a spoonful of soup with all the best bits in it – if you hadn't scared me too much first.

  Talk to you later, Daddy.

  Byeee.

  twelve. Sephy

  The dazzling sunlight was getting on my last nerve. I tugged down the blind in front of the open windows, but at first it wouldn't budge. I pulled harder until it gave. Luckily for me it didn't come off the wall, bringing down half a ton of plaster with it. I'd certainly pulled it hard enough. I stuck my hands back into the washing-up liquid, scrubbing away at the big saucepan I'd used to make our home-made vegetable and pasta soup for lunch. Scrubbing pots was like pounding pillows or beating cake mix. Goodness only knew I got enough practice. Meggie had succeeded in winding me up. Again. 'Mummy, can I help you do the washing-up?' I turned and smiled at Rose. 'It's all right, sweet pea, I've only got this pan left to do.'

  Rose frowned at the dishwasher. 'Why don't you just stick it in there like everything else?'

  'This pan's got a copper bottom and a wooden handle and wood and copper don't react very well with the chemicals you use in the dishwasher to get the dishes clean.'