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

gutted like a fish wriggling for its life on a slab. I was out of Heathcrofts.

And I was never coming back.

THE TRIAL . . .

sixty-five. Sephy

I hesitated for only a moment. Steeling myself, I knocked on my sister’s bedroom door.

‘Go away!’

I walked in, darting to my left as a pillow came hurtling towards me.

‘Don’t your ears work?’ Minnie fumed. She was sitting up on her king-size bed, scowling like it was going out of fashion.

I wanted to giggle but I knew that might make her suspicious. Anyway, it would be a cider-induced giggle, not a real one. I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know that much.

‘Minnie? I want to ask your advice about something.’

‘Oh yes!’ My sister raised a sceptical eyebrow. She’s very good at that. She’s going to be a Mother-clone when she grows up. Just like me, I guess – if I didn’t do something about it.

‘What would you say if I told you that I’m thinking of going away to school?’

I instantly had her full attention.

‘Where?’

‘Chivers.’

‘The boarding school?’

I nodded.

Minnie looked me up and down until I began to feel really uncomfortable. She asked, ‘What does Mother say about it?’

‘She said no, but . . .’

‘But then she would,’ Minnie finished for me.

‘So what d’you think?’ I repeated.

‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Which is why I asked Mother the exact same thing a few weeks ago.’ Minnie smiled dryly.

‘You did!’ I was astounded.

‘You’re not the only one who needs to get out of here.’

I sat down at the foot of Minnie’s bed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Sephy, you and I have never got on, and I’m sorry about that,’ Minnie sighed. ‘Maybe if we’d been able to count on each other, we’d have done better. Instead we’ve both tried to get through this on our own.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Come off it, Persephone. You drink to escape, I become more bitchy and spiteful. We each do what we have to do.’

Flames shot through my body. ‘I don’t drink . . .’ I denied.

‘Oh?’ Minnie scoffed. ‘Well, unless you’ve taken to wearing cider perfume, I’d say you’re into booze big time.’

‘Cider isn’t alcohol.’

Minnie started laughing.

‘Not like wine or whisky or something,’ I said, furiously. ‘And I just like the taste . . . That’s the only reason. I’m not a lush.’

Minnie shuffled towards me as I spoke before she put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Who’re you trying to convince? Me or yourself?’

And then I did the last thing either of us expected. I burst into tears. My sister put her arm around me then, allowing my head to rest on her shoulder – which just made me feel worse.

‘Minerva, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to, before I explode.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m working on it with Dad.’

‘Yeah, for yourself. But what about me?’

‘No, I’m working on Dad for both of us,’ said Minnie. ‘I keep telling him that we both need to get away from the atmosphere in this house.’

I pulled away from Minnie to ask, ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

‘I think so. I’m wearing him down.’

‘How come you didn’t tackle Mother?’ I had to ask.

‘Because she cares too much,’ Minnie replied.

‘Whereas Dad doesn’t care at all,’ I said, bitterly.

‘Not true. Dad does care in his own way.’

‘Just not as much as he cares about his political career,’ I added. ‘He only moved back so it’d look good for the McGregor trial. And he’s meant to be back but we hardly ever see him.’

‘D’you want to see more of him then?’ Minnie asked.

I considered. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Then be careful what you wish for,’ Minnie told me. ‘Don’t worry, Sephy. Come September, you and I will both be out of this madhouse.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I promise.’

sixty-six. Callum

I sat up high in the packed public gallery. Far below me and to my right, I could see my father. Just the bruised left side of his face. It was only the second time I’d seen him since the police had crashed into our lives. The judge was droning on and on at the jury, telling them what the case was about and what it was not about. Twelve good men and women and true, hanging on the judge’s every word. Twelve good Cross men and woman, of course. How else could justice be served? My stomach churned as the clerk of the court finally stood up and faced Dad.

‘Ryan Callum McGregor, on the charge of Political Terrorism, how do you plead – Guilty or Not Guilty?’

‘DAD, DON’T DO IT!’ I couldn’t help it. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I was doing more harm than good but how could I just sit idly by and watch this . . . this farce of a trial.

‘Any more outbursts from the public gallery and I will have all members of the public evicted from this court. I hope I’ve made myself understood,’ Judge Anderson threatened.

He was glaring at me – as were all the members of the jury. Mum put a restraining hand over mine. Dad looked up and our eyes met. He looked away again, almost immediately. But not before the image of his battered face had burnt its way into my mind. His split lip and his bruised cheek and his black eye. But there was no condemnation on his face, just a sweeping, intense sadness. The clerk repeated his question.

‘On the charge of Political Terrorism, how do you plead? Guilty or Not Guilty?’

Silence.

Silence that went on and on and on.

‘The defendant will please answer the question,’ Judge Anderson said brusquely.

Dad glanced up at Mum and me again.

‘Not guilty!’ he said at last.

A collective gasp broke out from every corner of the courtroom. Mum squeezed my hand. Whispers and inaudible comments flew around the room. Dad’s lawyer turned around and smiled briefly at us. She was careful to wipe all trace of her smile off her face before she turned back to