The Assembly: Divinity Laws, #3

By PJ King

Clara is out of prison, out of Broc and finally home. Now that she is officially a Code Red deviant, she has to rebuild her life—which isn't as simple as it sounds. There are exams to take, enemies to avoid, family to protect and a criminal record to drag around with her.

Life as a Code Red is looking rather bleak.

And then an anonymous letter arrives.

The letter contains six names. Six names of six people Clara doesn't even know—but which will force her to make yet another life-changing decision. A decision with higher stakes and greater costs than any she has faced before.

And suddenly, life as a Cod Red is looking rather dangerous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PJ King
• Release date: Jan 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386428930

PJ King

PJ King is a hatcher of stories; nurturer of manuscripts; and parent to the fledging Divinity Laws series… ‘Fly my pretties! Fly!’ Also a fan of extended metaphors.

Book preview

With my sincerest thanks to:

Paul Clark @ PS2—for generously using more of your design genius to create a third fantastic cover.

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A.M.—for editing all three books in The Divinity Laws series. I owe you a life-time supply of post-it notes and excitingly-shaped paperclips.

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My family—for continuing to be the loving and supportive people you are – and have always been. I couldn’t have finished these books without you.

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My comforting Counsellor— who is with me always...

(John 14:16-17)

Chapter One

Inspector Deacon Draxton stood on the overgrown front lawn and stared up at the narrow semi-detached house with a steady, pensive eye. To an outside observer he appeared distracted, with one hand tipped away from his body, holding his open notebook, whilst the other hand hung limply at his side and idly twiddled a pencil. His flat face was tilted back, as if something in the second floor window had caught his attention. His slight frame made him look like a boy in a suit he hadn’t quite grown into yet; but his hair was almost completely grey and there were firm creases of experience at the corners of his eyes and along the broad expanse of his forehead. His eyes, which were too far apart and gave the impression of an alert bird of prey—always looking to the side and never straight ahead—travelled slowly from the top floor window to the open front door and then to the garden gate, where a police officer stood.

A man in a dark suit briskly approached the gate and flashed an ID badge at the officer, who allowed him into the front garden with a reluctant air. On seeing that the suited man was heading directly for him, Draxton half-turned, without changing his stance or expression.

Inspector Draxton? the suited man asked him in a blunt, crisp tone.

Yes, Draxton said, glancing at the ID as it was flipped open and noting the name and symbol of the Divinity Division. How can I help you, Agent Hants?

Do you have a confirmed identity for the victim? Hants asked.

Draxton looked at him calmly; took in the cool, green gaze; noted the hard tone of his voice, the assured line of his shoulders and the slickness of his overall appearance; and guessed he was a senior agent from the Division—a special operative, who wouldn’t be here if his questions could be asked by a lackey or the answers could wait until the inquest. It wasn’t like the Divinity Division to take an interest in ordinary police cases; they only ever popped up if a Divinity Law had been broken—so this agent had to be here for something deviant-related.

Draxton glanced back at the house, with its ordinary exterior, and thought—as he had done a minute ago—how shocking it was that such a mundane little place should contain what it did. He wasn’t shocked by much these days, but he had never come across anything quite as peculiar as this before.

Perhaps you’d better come inside, he said to Hants, And see for yourself.

Hants gave a nod of agreement and walked beside Draxton to the front door. As they stepped over the threshold the sound of careful, soft movements reached their ears: the rustling of papers, the pad of footsteps, the gentle opening and shutting of doors and drawers; and, punctuating it all, the click of cameras. But more noticeable than any of these sounds was an acrid and immediately offensive smell. Draxton barely flinched; it had been worse when he first arrived. An hour or two on the premises had accustomed his senses to the charry, stinging odour. Hants, however, couldn’t help but grimace, and cover his nose and mouth with his hand.

Draxton directed the agent to the front room, where the smell was at its most pungent and where there was the lingering sweat of smoke on the walls. The wallpaper had been lightly scorched and had started to crack and peel where moisture had been sucked out of the walls. The thin carpet and few items of furniture were covered in a fine layer of ash. A single investigator was photographing the furthest corner of the room and she paused when Draxton and Hants entered.

Hants noted details of the scene quickly and objectively: the smashed doors of a glass-fronted bookcase, containing only a handful of tattered books; the brass clock on the mantelpiece, still tocking loudly; a photograph of a seascape above the period fireplace; a wilted spider plant on the windowsill; a pair of slippers, separated across the floor; and the way the coffee table and sofa had been violently pushed to one side to clear a space in the middle of the room. These all gave him brief, pathetic details about who had lived here and what had happened to them in this house, less than twenty-four hours ago. He noted all of this quickly and with a cursory scan of the scene, but his attention was almost instantly stolen away by the centrepiece of the room.

Hants wasn’t a detective. He had seen merely a handful of murder scenes in his career and most of them only in the past few months; so he hadn’t yet adjusted to the rush of adrenaline they gave him. It wasn’t a rush of excitement or intrigue or horror—it was a rush of unexpected anger. He knew humans were cruel. There were plenty who would point the finger at him for possessing a heartless, even sadistic streak, and he had no qualms about admitting that. But this was different. It wasn’t that a life had been taken—Hants had nothing against professional assassination, killing in a fair fight, or in self-defence—but he did have a problem with the unnecessary brutality of a cold-blooded murder where someone killed simply because they felt like it and they could. 

Draxton observed Hants’s disgust as they stood side by side before the sight.

Strange, isn’t it? the Inspector said. Seems an odd way to go about it.

Hants pushed his emotions down and, drawing on the clinical part of his being, walked slowly round the body like he would a suspect. There was little to identify it as a body, except for the shape—blackened and charred, but unmistakeably human. Hants tried not to dwell on the fact that the smell forcing its way up his nostrils and into the back of his throat was burnt human flesh.

What’s it... he... tied to? he asked, reluctantly slipping his hand from his face.

Not entirely sure yet, but it’s been bolted to the floor. It must have required some fairly sophisticated equipment to create a—

Stake, Hants finished for him. It’s a stake.

Yes, Draxton agreed, That’s what we think.

The crime scene investigator came forward, pulling her facemask down and indicating the body with professional dispassion. They tied him with chains. We assume it’s a he—though we won’t know for sure until we check the dental records. It is most likely the tenant.

No one saw him leave the house after he returned home last night, Draxton explained.

And then they used papers from the study and some of the smaller furniture to build a pyre of sorts, the investigator continued. Not a nice way to go: burnt alive.

Not a particularly efficient way to kill someone either, Draxton added. A lot of effort and time. And they haven’t exactly tried to hide the crime.

Why put out the fire before the body was completely consumed? the investigator added. Why not burn the entire house down and destroy the evidence of a murder?

It’s not a murder, Hants said, It’s an execution. And they wanted us to know it.

You don’t seem surprised, Draxton said. I’m guessing you suspect the victim was a deviant.

Hants shifted his gaze from the body to the investigator, who was now looking at him with raised eyebrows. Hants looked at Draxton: Let’s go to my car, he suggested and walked out of the room, out of the house and across the lawn.

He waited at the gate as Draxton followed at an unhurried stroll. Then in silence they crossed the street and walked down to Hants’s car. Draxton slid into the passenger seat and waited as Hants hooked a Slate on to the dashboard and opened up a file.

Mellard Reeve, Hants said, as a photograph of a middle-aged man appeared on the screen.

Draxton looked at the face—fringed with curly hair and a thick beard; non-descript eyes peering through thick glasses—and felt a twinge of pity.

A Code Red, Hants continued. Been Red for nearly twenty years. He changed his name to Mel Ricer and, after a few relocations, settled here eleven years ago to work as a senior clerk for an energy company. That’s literally all we have on him.

Except that, pending formal identification, he’s been murdered—executed—in his own home, Draxton added. He looked quietly at the face on the screen. People do get killed—even deviants. Why the urgent interest in this case?

In response, Hants opened a second file and displayed a photo of a woman in her late fifties. Helen Foughton. Code Red. Released nearly twenty-five years ago. Married late. Had her own small, but relatively successful restaurant—her husband was the chef.

Dead?

Found hooded and hung in the kitchen freezer six weeks ago.

Executed, Draxton mused dryly.

And another, just a few months ago.

Another execution? Ex-deviant?

Stoned to death.

Sheesh!

I’ve got three other Code Reds who have died in the last two years in suspicious circumstances: either apparent suicides or suspicious accidents. All of them were released from prison twenty to thirty years ago.

Accidents to executions: you have a theory then? Draxton asked, giving Hants a keen look.  What is it? Serial killer with a penchant for older deviants?

That’s what we’re still trying to ascertain, Hants replied, without even trying to hide the fact that he was obviously lying to evade Draxton’s question. Deviants are being targeted and we need to know how, who and why, before too many more are killed.

Draxton raised an eyebrow. He agreed with Hants: the murderer or murderers had to be caught and stopped, but he found it strange that the Divinity Division would be so interested in what were still only homicide cases. If a serial killer had a thing for doing away deviants, it was a case for the police to solve.

Isn’t it a little unusual for the Division to be protecting deviants? he asked. Surely this isn’t really your area?

Hants gave him a thin smile. What would you do, he said simply, If a vigilante suddenly started knocking off all your drug lords, car thieves and psychopaths?

I’d be pretty upset, Draxton admitted. We serve justice—delivered before a jury of peers, and a judge who ensures fairness and equality across all cases. I wouldn’t want that undermined by anyone taking the law into their own hands.

Exactly, Hants agreed. The Division upholds the principle that deviancy can be corrected. If the idea that deviants have to be killed to be cured gains support, then so will the idea that the divine is a real and tangible threat. And once people start thinking that, the Divinity Laws will be undermined. We will have chaos on our hands: there’s nothing more tempting, desirable, and dangerous than an idea that people end up dying for. We don’t want to create martyrs.

What do you want me to do? Draxton asked. He sensed there was a motive behind revealing so much information.

I need you to keep the investigation out of the media as much as possible and limit who has access to the details. Hants was instructing rather than requesting. And I need to be informed of all developments in the case, however insignificant they might seem. I’ll be in touch with my details.

Draxton realised, with mild surprise and amusement, that he was being dismissed. It was a rather abrupt end to the conversation, made with the usual arrogance of Divinity Agents, who always automatically assumed compliance with their wishes. He gave Hants a last contemplative look and nodded politely. Good luck with your investigation, Agent Hants, he said and, opening the car door, stepped on to the pavement. He closed the door and watched as the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the road.

Draxton doubted that Hants needed much luck; there was someone with a mission—a private, intense mission that was driving him, most likely, to an untimely end. Draxton could see that, despite the cold, hard exterior, Hants was burning inside with a relentless obsession; and if it existed, then only divine power could help whoever got in his way.

Chapter Two

Clara shut the classroom door behind her, looked up and down the empty corridor, and then walked stealthily to the door at the far end. She slipped through it on to the top of a narrow staircase and lightly descended it, wincing at each creak and strain of the boards. Another door at the end let her into a hallway, which she hurried across to the arched doorway of the main hall.

The hall was empty and warm, sunlight spilling on to the gleaming wooden floor from the tall windows. Clara’s footsteps echoed softly as she crossed the space. She lingered for a moment in the middle to take a long look around her. Her eyes travelled over the wooden wall panels, bleached pale by the summers that had poured in through the thin glass, to the dust swirling in the air just above the floor, like a host of ghostly fireflies. The whole place smelt of age and polish. The floor was buffed every night, but no amount of wax could disguise the scuffs and scrapes caused by generations of schoolchildren: the criss-crosses of compass points scratched against the grain; the drag marks from chairs and black skid marks from hardy school shoes; and the worn, smooth patches where bottoms had wriggled during long, dreary assemblies.

Clara had always found the hall a wistful and sad place. Before it had become the playground of learning and lecturing, it had been the Great Hall of the Manor, where guests had been welcomed to elegant balls and hundreds of feet had pounded the boards—their echoing rhythm underlined by music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. And perhaps, once, it had been the place where the owner had come down the grand staircase, on a sunny afternoon, and gazed out through the windows on to the quiet stretch of lawn that surrounded the house. But now the lawn housed the new Science Block: all glass and steel as it towered over an immaculate, winding path studded with bins, benches and lunchtime debris.

After all the splendour of the past, there was now only a faded nostalgic grandeur that kept the hall from being converted into a more practical space. The last time it had been used for an assembly was three years ago, and even then they’d been crammed in, cross-legged and fidgety, in stifling rows. Clara remembered staring at the sweat patch on the cotton shirt in front of her, and picking at the rubber sole of her shoe, whilst the Head of House, Mrs Monk, had rushed through the notices and a pep-talk as if she was delivering them in a burning building. For the past few years the space had been used for impromptu drama lessons, noisy group work, or clubs for the socially awkward students who needed a respite from bullying during lunchtimes.

Clara gave the hall a parting glance and then continued out of a smaller arched doorway and into another hallway. She pushed through a set of double doors and walked quickly down a corridor, passing the muted sounds of lessons behind each classroom door, resisting the temptation to glance through the glass panel of each one. It was appropriate, she thought, that History was the only subject still taught in the Manor. But she didn’t think about it too much, in case it made her remember Mr Summers and where he was now, and where she had been three months ago.

The corridor took Clara through a final set of double doors and out on to a patio, which ended in a gentle grassy slope that joined the field. The grass stretched away to a distant line of trees—tempting a stroll across the well-groomed green, or a cushion on which to lie and watch the clouds ponderously form, tear and drift away in the blue sky.

Clara had a view of the field at lunchtime from her upstairs window, as it quickly filled with clusters of students. The big boys always took the centre football pitch, whilst the smaller ones played on the edge by the path, creating their own goalposts with their bags and jumpers. The smokers could always be found on the furthest edge of the green, by the woods, where they had a good view of the duty staff and could move off before anyone got too close. There was always a member of staff fruitlessly chasing them from one corner to the next in a bizarre game in which the hound never caught any hares.

The younger girls camped out under the few broad, spreading trees, just beyond the cricket pavilion—huddled secretively in the dappling shade and occasionally chasing each other in bursts of excited giggles. The sunniest, flattest spots of the field, which were not too far from the Manor but far enough away to avoid close scrutiny by teachers, were always dominated by the older girls. Their skirts were usually hitched up as high as they dared and their shirts were knotted up off their pale stomachs as they stretched their legs and leant back on their elbows—lined up in rows facing the sun, as they exchanged idle chatter, videos and music. There were always a few boys hanging around there too. And moving lethargically between all these different groups, there were always two or three students, each with a bin liner and litter stick, fulfilling their community service detention. Their steps were dogged by a member of the senior leadership team—usually Mr Daniels, who would sip a cup of coffee and yell sarcastic comments at anyone who caught his eye for the wrong reason.

Clara had once been part of a cluster on that field, picking at the grass as she listened to the conversation of her friends and watched the litter-pickers with distant pity. She had never had a lunchtime duty, or detention, or even a negative behaviour point for missed homework; but for the past few months, she had watched the litter-pickers with envy. You could only perform community service if you were part of the community—perhaps a let-down to it, but a part of it all the same. Being hounded across the field by Mr Daniels, over and over again, until there wasn’t a speck of a wrapper, packet, or crumpled tissue left on the immaculate grass, was preferable to sitting secluded in a stuffy attic room—watching your old life from afar and knowing there was no going back. Not now that she was an ex-con. Ex-deviant. It was hard to concentrate on exams when you had to rethink your entire future based on those labels. Her criminal record would now follow her through life. Even though she hadn’t yet figured out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, she had already slashed her options by half.

Clara brushed the despair aside and tried to focus on something positive. She was out, when she had never expected to be. She was home and back with her family. She didn’t have to wear sherbet lemon, jump at a buzzer, or set eyes on another token ever again; and today was her last day at school. Lessons were behind her and exams lay ahead. A few weeks of revision and it would all be over; she could start her life again.

Clara turned the corner to the front of the Manor and saw Tendry Jones coming up the steps of the patio towards her. He was wiping his mouth on the back of one hand and there was water splashed down his front from his mid-lesson trip to the water fountain. His eyes met Clara’s and it took him a second to really see her. Clara saw the moment of recognition as his smile turned to a leer and a perverse curiosity dilated his pupils. Clara gave him a wide berth as they passed on the steps, but a tug on her rucksack jerked her to a halt and she spun around, the fingers of her right hand half-curling behind her back.

Tendry hovered playfully above her: one foot on one step, the other on the step above, ready to stay or ready to dart back. Heard you were back, deve.

Clara said nothing. They’d been in the same Geography class for nearly three years, but she doubted he knew her name, even now. His curiosity overrode the awkward silence.

Did you really do it? he asked, partly hopeful, partly sceptical.

Clara tilted her head as she looked at him, wondering if he was talking about her conviction or some new crime that rumour had her guilty of. She was aware of a few tales circulating with the imaginative detail that was typical of the school playground.

Probably, she replied carefully. She wanted to turn and leave, but could see Tendry hadn’t finished yet and was overexcited by the encounter. Instead, she shifted her rucksack patiently.

All of it? Tendry prompted.

Clara hesitated, confused by the generality of the question, and resorted to her first answer. Yes. Probably.

Seeing that she was serious and, even worse, unashamed, Tendry’s scepticism turned to disgust. What’s wrong with you? he said. Why would you do all that stuff for nothing? Only a stupid person would bother breaking the Divinity Laws. Are you sick or something?

I’d love to answer that, Clara said, But it’s against the Laws. She turned her back on his protest of Didn’t stop you before..., and sticking a hand in the air gave him a dismissive wave goodbye. She got some satisfaction from knowing she had pissed him off, and the nostalgia she had been feeling only moments ago abruptly vanished.

Tendry wasn’t the first to have offered an opinion on her past illegal activity. Even though she was only on the school premises for a few hours each day, and in isolation during that time, it had been impossible to avoid all contact with her peers. Mostly she just got snide asides and dirty looks; but there had been a couple of times when students had been a little more direct about their feelings. Once, she had emerged from the back staircase and nearly collided with a group of girls who were walking three abreast in the hallway. Lottie Rish had been in the centre of the trio and had pulled them up short in front of Clara.

Don’t step on the deve; you’ll ruin your shoes, she had said.

The other girls didn’t even titter—they just looked at Clara poker-faced, and made a point of leaving plenty of room between her and them as they passed.

Clara had been friends with Lottie since they’d started at Greylinghurst Secondary School. She had gone to Lottie’s birthday sleepover, just eight months ago, where they had braided their hair and stayed up until 3 a.m. chatting and laughing.

Clara had heard from Carver that there had been a huge Divinity Laws drive when the academic year had started: the same time she had begun her sentence. Special assemblies, posters and timetabled classes had been utilised to highlight the heinous crime that deviancy was: it was an act of rebellion against the State, civilisation and social harmony. Carver had been right when he had warned her: a lot of people saw deviants as carriers of a disease—a direct threat to their personal health and happiness. Even ‘cured’ ex-deviants were considered permanently contaminated.

Clara was glad to trail down the shady school drive and out on to the sunny, lonely lane. Her bike was broken, so she had a peaceful mile-and-a-half ahead of her, listening to the birds busy in the hedgerows and the breeze brushing through the long grass in the fields. She was about half a mile from the village when she heard the strain and hiss of the school bus coming up the road behind her. She stepped up on to the overgrown verge, her skirt catching on a bramble, and watched as the vehicle wobbled past her. She caught a glimpse of a face trying to peer at her from the upper back window, and recognised Jena’s pale complexion and dark hair. And then the bus took a steep turn round the corner and she was on her own again.

Clara stepped off the verge, the bramble pulling out a thread on her skirt before it released her, and let her bag slip from her shoulder to the ground. She stared for a second at the bend in the road ahead of her, where the tops of the trees on either side met in a leafy tangle. She half-turned and looked back over her shoulder at the bright stretch of tarmac behind her, which disappeared down into the surrounding green countryside, and briefly considered the parallel with her feelings about her current situation. Then with a resigned sigh, she swung her bag back on to her shoulder and started her determined trudge again.

She was only a hundred metres from the village sign when she saw a figure coming towards her—a figure with an unmistakable, confident gait and a lazy slope of shoulder that was nonchalant and easy-going. Clara felt a smile spreading on her face and a sense of relief lightening her steps as the distance closed between them.

Hey, she said, as they stopped just a couple of feet from each other.

How does it feel to be free? Again? Flinn asked.

She lightly kicked his foot and gave him a wry smile. Hilarious. What are you doing here?

Heard your bike is broken.

Carver?

Yeah. Tez let me go early.

Slacker.

So, how are you going to celebrate? Burn your books? Cut up that uniform?

Not until exams are over.

Ugh! He made a face of disgust.

Don’t you have some of those coming up? she asked.

Thanks for the reminder. But seriously—you’ll cut up that uniform? You look wrong in it.

Thanks!

You know what I mean. You always look scruffy.

"The compliments aren’t getting better. Besides, what student doesn’t look scruffy in a uniform at the end of the day?"

Jena. Flinn’s answer was rather abrupt and Clara gave him a sideways glance. Spoken to her yet? Flinn asked.

No.

She’s going to want to speak to you.

I hope she doesn’t, Clara said quickly, I wouldn’t know what to say. She started walking again and Flinn fell in next to her. She’ll think I’m... fixed... and I can’t tell her I’m not. I don’t want to lie to her. Clara gave a dismissive shrug. I’m not likely to see her now anyway. Tomorrow’s muck-up day for everyone else and, knowing Jena, she’ll be studying twenty-four seven from then on.

Flinn changed the subject for her. I remember muck-up day.

I bet you do.

Flinn gave one of his smiles to say that what she was thinking he wasn’t going to deny.

The crickets in the canteen was your year, wasn’t it? Clara asked. Was it a good day?

Yeah, he admitted, casting her a thoughtful look. But when you look back on it, it’s not as big a deal as it seemed at the time.

Clara gave him a doubtful but grateful smile.

Want me to sign your shirt? Flinn asked.

Before I cut it up?

Flinn stopped short and dropped his bag to the ground. Got a pen?

You’re not serious? she protested, as he pulled her rucksack from her and rummaged for her pencil case. I’ve got to wear school uniform for my exams...

You’ve got a spare shirt, right? he said coolly, as he took out a pen, dropped the case back in her bag, and grabbed her wrist.

Clara shuffled awkwardly towards him as he pulled her closer and took the pen lid off with his mouth. She stood strangely still as Flinn bent his head—one hand holding her arm whilst the other tickled lines on her shirt. For some reason, she couldn’t draw her eyes away from his fair head, tilted tantalisingly close to hers. The movement of the pen through her shirt sleeve sent a tingle along her skin, up to her neck.

Dear Clara... Flinn paused for a moment, as if thinking. His blue eyes sent a quick glance up at her and she raised her eyebrows questioningly. He dipped his head again, scrawled some more and, releasing her arm, stepped back.

Clara held out her arm to read the message, upside down:

Dear Clara.

Flinn.

Very profound, she half-laughed. Not even ‘good luck’?

You don’t need it, he said, giving her a look that suddenly made her feel awkward.

She covered her unease with another laugh. If only that were true.

She picked up her bag and he followed her example and handed back the pen. They continued their walk into the village, Flinn watching her as she tried to find her pencil case, put the pen back and zip up everything again in her typically clumsy manner.

So, how are you going to celebrate? he asked.

Celebrate? Clara looked surprised. Finishing school? She shrugged. I’m not really.

Let’s do something then. I’ve got a study day tomorrow—we could meet on the halfpipe.

Shouldn’t you be studying?

He ignored the dig. You up for it?

In the day? Clara asked doubtfully.

There won’t be anyone there.

Muck-up day is only a half day.

Everyone goes in to town.

And if they don’t? Clara stopped and looked up at the sign on the side of the road: Greylinghurst. Underneath there was a straggly bunch of flowers in a rotting wooden container.

You know that everyone who cares already knows we’re friends, and everyone who doesn’t care can’t see the ‘Convicted Deviant’ sign on your forehead? Flinn said.

That doesn’t mean you should be seen hanging around with me, Clara said simply. The Divinity Division are watching—it’s what they do. You’re already on their watchlist, Flinn. You can’t afford to pique their interest further.

Flinn gave her one of his infuriatingly confident smiles. It’s not illegal to be friends.

It’s not, Clara agreed, smiling despite her genuine anxiety. But it is suspicious.

Flinn’s smile broadened. You might not have realised, but it’s pretty suspicious for a nice middle-class girl like you to be hanging around with a Boarder anyway. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what got you in trouble in the first place.

That’s not the same, Clara replied, starting their walk again. But fine. On your head be it. Don’t expect any sympathy from me when the Double D lock you up for six months.

Six? They only double the sentence for those who try to escape, Flinn teased.

And Boarders who ought to know better, Clara sneered in return.

Prison really brought out the snark in you, didn’t it?

She gave him a smile that was so typically Clara-ish that it completely undermined her words: You have no idea, Raize.

They continued at their naturally casual pace, absorbed in their light exchange and always side by side, even when the pavement only had room for one. In this manner they soon found themselves outside Clara’s house. Clara automatically perched on the garden wall, scuffing her heels against the brick as Flinn stood facing her.

Is Greg down this weekend? Flinn asked.

Clara shook her head. He’s gone on one of his trips today—officially checking out some community project or something.

Do you think he’ll give it up soon?

Knowing Greg? No, Clara said with a soft smile. He loves it too much—though he leaves us all on edge whilst he’s out of the country. She mentally pushed the anxiety that surged up her insides back down, and gave a dismissive shake of her head.

He knows what he’s doing, Flinn reassured her.

Clara nodded silently. It had been a revelation to learn that Greg couriered for the Assembly to three other underground movements around the world, carrying messages, aid, documents and anything else they required. The charity that employed him was completely legitimate: building orphanages, training medics and assisting poorer communities with various projects; but it also doubled as a cover for a network of assemblies around the globe. Clara’s parents lived in a state of nervous limbo whenever Greg was out of the country, and there was a tendency to panic every time the phone rang during that period. Clara coped by retreating into her previous ignorance and pretending that Greg was just on an ordinary charity mission and wasn’t at risk of being blackwashed as a deviant.

See you tomorrow then? Flinn said pointedly.

I suppose—if I’ve got nothing better to do.

Flinn grinned. You know you’re going to get a hard time later for that answer. Are you ever getting your board back?

I don’t know. They took it as evidence. Asking for it back feels like I might as well call up Hants and say, ‘By the way, I’m still skateboarding—and breaking the Divinity Laws’. She smiled, but Flinn’s patient stare warned her that he saw beyond her flippant tone and would one day call her out on comments like that. For now, he just converted his serious gaze to a leer and stopped one of her swinging legs with his foot.

Well then, I’ll have to charge you extra to borrow a board. 10:30—tomorrow.

11?

10:30, Flinn said, starting to back up the road. Don’t stand me up, Slade.

Clara watched him walk to the top of the street and then swung her legs over the wall. She dragged herself to the front door, let herself in, picked up the post from the mat and dropped her bag by the foot of the stairs. Walking into the kitchen, she put the post on the side and poured a cold drink from the jug in the fridge, before heading into the lounge and out to the garden. She sat herself in the swing seat just as Carver let himself in through the gate. He plopped next to her on the swing and offered her a strawberry lace. They sat in silence whilst Clara downed her drink and deposited the glass on an upside-down flower pot. Carver watched her coil the lace for a moment and then he jerked the swing against the gentle rhythm they’d started. Clara looked up at him with a surprised grin and nudged her elbow into his ribs.

Only half a day to go, she said cheerfully.

I’m tempted to pull a sickie.

You’ve got to get your shirt signed and spray silly string on the newly carpeted corridors, and let off stink bombs in the canteen and terrorise the year sevens with water guns.

What’s the point?

It’s your one opportunity to run riot and break the rules.

Haven’t we done that already? Carver replied dryly.

Clara gave him a sideways look and a half-smile. Ok then, you get to break the rules and not go to prison for it. She popped the coil of lace in her mouth and abruptly pulled herself up on to the seat of the swing. She was taller than the height of the swing arms, so she ducked backwards under the top bar, folded her arms across it and rested her chin on them.

Carver quickly followed her up and they balanced tentatively as the seat wobbled beneath them.

We’ve got to get you back on a skateboard, Carver said.

Clara looked at him with mild suspicion.

Sore point? Carver teased. You love skating. I bet you dreamt of that halfpipe for six months.

Clara stared ahead of her, as if she might find something to distract her from the conversation.

Carver dropped his teasing tone. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you shouldn’t let it stop you from carrying on with your life.

Clara turned her head again and gave him a quiet look.

Carver sighed. "I know. I’ll shut up. I’m a total hypocrite.

I’m fine— Clara began.

Don’t lie, Carver cut her off. You don’t have to be fine. Just try not to suffer in silence.

I’m not—

Don’t, Carver warned.

Clara looked pensive for a moment. Okay, she said finally. Thank you.

For what?

Being my neighbour.

Carver made a face. Well, it was just my luck that having left my deviant past behind me I moved next door to a whole family of deviants. So, how are you celebrating tomorrow?

Celebrating?

"Yeah—you’re technically free now: no more lectures, homework, school uniform, or maths. You have to do something to celebrate." He awkwardly clambered down from the swing, hitting his head on the top bar as he went.

You’re as bad as Flinn, Clara said, following him down with graceful ease.

Carver sniggered. We’re just making up for the fact that you have no girlfriends to nag you.

Not only is that remark sexist, Clara replied wryly, It’s also inaccurate. I have girlfriends—they’re just in prison or on the run from the law.

Carver tutted at her as he leapt over the gate. You are the company you keep!

Right back at you... she shot back, before she slipped into the house and up to her room.

Clara slumped on her bed, kicked her shoes off, and curled up on her side. She stared at the patch of daylight framed in the window and listened to the quiet ticking and clicking of the house. It was hard, in silent moments like this, not to let her mind drift back to the iron bed in her cell, where she’d spent a few minutes, before the morning buzzer sounded, staring at a small barred square of sky. That window had been her only reminder that there was a world outside the prison walls—and that she was missing precious months of it. Six months. Half a year. Two school terms. One birthday. One Crissmass. One hundred-and-eighty days. In the larger picture of things, it was a relatively short period of time. But it was a short period of time that seemed to have got its claws in her and was stretching its existence well beyond her release date. Two-and-a-half months later and she still couldn’t shake it off. Getting ‘back to normal’ wasn’t a concept she could get to grips with. Nothing was normal anymore.

Clara found her eyes drooping and her body sinking further into the mattress. She knew she was developing a bad habit, but she couldn’t fight the drowsiness that always caught up with her in this quiet hour before her mother got home. It was the only way she could catch up on sleep. She had actually slept better in prison. It was the rhythm of survival: eat, work, sleep, don’t get in trouble—with anyone, for whatever reason—and do it all again the next day. Every day. For one-hundred-and-eighty days.

But now that she wasn’t in a routine and there was no need to survive, she had become unbalanced. Night was the worst time. Her mind would unravel in endless spirals, merging memories and fears in unexpected ways, and leaving her suddenly awake and groping for reality in the darkness. Mostly she awoke thinking she was drowning; and then she cursed Stryton, Broc and herself for letting it get to her, until she eventually fell into a shallow slumber.

By the time late afternoon came round, she couldn’t resist the lure of drifting off into the only sleep that wasn’t broken by terrors. It was only an hour, but it was keeping