Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman (historical books to read TXT) 📕

been a bomb. But Callum didn’t do that. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

But he knew.

‘Mother! Oh my God!’ I jumped to my feet and raced towards the car park across the street from the shopping centre.

I was almost across the street when I remembered Callum. I turned around.

But he was gone.

fifty. Callum

I’d barely got the key in the lock before the front door was flung open and Mum pounced on me.

‘Where’ve you been? You look terrible. Are you all right? Where’s Jude? Isn’t he with you?’

‘I thought he was here,’ I said wearily, closing the front door behind me.

‘No, he left almost as soon as you did,’ said Mum. ‘What happened?’

‘Didn’t you hear?’ I asked, astonished.

‘Hear what?’

She should’ve heard the explosion from here. But then again, maybe not. Our house was right across town from the shopping centre.

‘It hasn’t been on the telly?’ I turned to the TV, perplexed. The news wasn’t on, just a rerun of some ridiculous detective programme where practically every low life in it was a nought. I recognized this episode. A cop was chasing a nought scumbag who’d shot and killed his partner.

‘Callum, talk to me. What happened?’

‘Mum . . .’

‘We interrupt this programme to bring you a newsflash,’ a voice suddenly declared.

My head whipped up. The telly’s most popular newsreader appeared, his expression grim. My heart began to thump in a crazy way that made me feel physically sick.

‘Please don’t let it be something bad about us noughts,’ Mum breathed.

‘Just under thirty minutes ago, a bomb exploded at the world-famous Dundale Shopping Centre. At least seven people are known to have been killed outright with scores more wounded. Casualties are being taken by ground and air ambulances to the local hospitals. All hospitals in the immediate area have been put on full alert. A warning was received from the nought group calling itself the Liberation Militia only five minutes before the bomb actually exploded.’

‘That’s a lie,’ Jude said.

Mum and I turned as one to see Jude standing in the doorway with Dad beside him. We turned back to the TV screen as Dad shut the front door.

The newsreader’s face was replaced by a TV camera at the scene. It swung around this way and that, filming the carnage of people lying on the ground, windows shattered, blood on the concourse. There was no voiceover to accompany it. No voice echoing sorrow at the devastation. No voice filled with indignation. No sound at all. Just silence.

Which made it worse.

The camera focused on one woman sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth, blood running down her forehead and into her eyes. On to the next atrocity. The camera moved in a jerky fashion as if the person holding the camera was shaking, trembling, which he or she probably was. A child knelt by a man’s side. The child was crying. The man was still. The camera was only on them for a second or two, but it was enough.

The Prime Minister appeared on the screen, his expression angry and forbidding.

‘If the Liberation Militia think this cowardly, barbaric act of terrorism is going to win over the vast population of this country to their way of thinking, then they are very much mistaken. All they’ve done is strengthen our resolve not to give in to such “people” or tactics.’

‘Dad . . .’ Jude whispered.

‘Shush.’ Dad focused on the telly and nothing else.

The newscaster’s face re-appeared. ‘A senior police officer on the scene believes that the bomb was planted in a café bin inside the shopping centre but stated that it was too early to speculate. He did promise however that the perpetrators of this crime would be brought to swift justice. There will be more information about this in our main news bulletin after the current programme. Once again, a bomb has gone off in the Dundale Shopping Centre, killing at least seven people.’

The detective programme returned just as the cop gave a flying tackle and brought the killer nought to the ground.

‘Dad? What happened? You said . . .’

‘Shush, boy,’ Dad admonished, looking at Mum.

Mum used the remote to switch off the telly. Then she turned to look directly at Dad. ‘I’m going to ask you something, Ryan, and I want your solemn promise that you’re going to tell me the truth.’

‘Not now, Meggie.’ Dad headed for the stairs. Mum instantly moved to block his way.

‘Yes, now. Did you or Jude plant that bomb?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Damn it, Ryan, don’t treat me like a cretin. Promise me you had nothing to do with this business.’

Dad didn’t speak. He regarded Mum, defiance in every bitter twist and turn of his expression. ‘What I did or didn’t do is none of your business,’ Dad said at last.

I’d never heard Dad speak to Mum like that before. The pinched, angry look on Mum’s face was an indication she’d never heard that tone of voice from Dad either. Mum and Dad regarded each other, their expressions setting harder and harder. They were standing perfectly still and moving further and further apart. Mum deliberately turned her back on Dad to face Jude.

‘Jude, did you plant that bomb? NO! Don’t look at your father. I asked you a question – now answer it.’

‘We . . .’

‘Jude, keep your mouth shut, d’you hear?’ Dad ordered grimly.

‘Jude, I’m still your mother,’ Mum said very, very quietly. ‘Answer me please.’

Desperately, Jude looked from Mum to Dad and back again.

‘Jude . .?’ said Mum.

‘We had to, Mum. Our cell was ordered to do it. Some of us set it up last night, but they said they’d phone through with the warning an hour before it went off. I swear they did. They said that everyone would be evacuated in plenty of time.’ The verbal waterfall tumbled from Jude’s mouth.

‘You killed, you murdered all those people . . .’ Mum whispered, appalled.

‘Dad said they would phone through with a warning. That’s what he said. I don’t understand.’ Jude