The Minivers Fight Back Book 2 Page 4

  Gibraltar obeyed. For a moment, there was total silence inside the car. In the last few weeks, Rosamund and Emily had been through every conceivable kind of danger. They had cheated death and won through, against the odds, to be reunited. Now they were facing a threat they had never, in their wildest fears, anticipated.

  Rosamund broke the silence.

  ‘So, now we know,’ she said. ‘We thought Madame was up to something, and we were right. Madame’s stolen our home. She’s attacked our friends and destroyed our career, and now she’s trying to blacken our names. But she’s not going to get away with it. She’s not going to take away who we are. This time, the Minivers are going to fight back. As far as I’m concerned, this is war.’

  4

  Delinquent Central

  Jiona Bertram had always been well-behaved. She was sensible and honest, and knew how to say ‘no’ to other people. Fiona had never been in trouble at school, and at home she was the one who stopped her mother, Brenda, doing silly things. Everyone who knew Fiona said she was a good girl. It had never even occurred to her that she might one day find herself in serious trouble.

  Now, heading out of town in a paddy wagon with a blanket over her head, Fiona could scarcely believe what was happening to her. It was just like the TV news. Only that was different. That was about real criminals who robbed, cheated and killed, not a lonely schoolgirl who was being locked up for helping a friend. Fiona stole a look at Primrose, the guard from Miniver House who was sitting opposite her. She was the hardest looking woman Fiona had ever seen and, despite the blanket, the expression on her face made Fiona feel cold with terror.

  The paddy wagon drove swiftly until it reached the outskirts of Artemisia. It crossed a railway line, turned through a gate in a barbed-wire fence, and ran along a service road until at last it pulled up outside a long concrete building. Fiona was dragged out and thrust up a flight of steps. As they passed through a heavy door into a corridor, she read a brass name plate at the entrance to the building:

  Two women, who looked like Primrose’s older, meaner sisters, were waiting inside. They took the blanket from Fiona’s head and opened a letter Primrose gave them. Cards were stamped and forms filled in. One of the women put a metal tag around Fiona’s wrist. It was marked with the letters QRH and a number, like a dog’s registration tag.

  ‘Don’t take that off,’ the woman warned Fiona, ‘or you’ll be disciplined. You’ll be in P1. That’s where we put the worst offenders,’ she added, in a voice that made Fiona shiver. ‘Give her some blues, Margery, and take her through.’

  To Fiona’s relief, Primrose departed. The second woman, Margery, took Fiona to another room where she was made to change into a drab blue shirt and skirt. The clothes were too small and the sneakers that went with them were too big, but nobody seemed to care about that. Fiona was given a toothbrush, a nightdress, two sets of grey underclothes, and a change of clothes identical to the ones she was wearing. When she finished changing, Margery threw Fiona’s own ragged shorts and top into a bin and took her out into a long passage that smelled of disinfectant.

  Margery unlocked and refastened a series of metal gates. Clang, went the first gate. Clang. Clang. Clang. Each time a gate closed behind her, Fiona felt something inside her shrivel. In this place, she knew she could expect neither sympathy nor mercy. Fiona tried to think of her friend Emily Miniver, who was her age and had gone through far worse than this. It was because of Emily that Titus had sent her here. For Emily’s sake, she had to keep quiet.

  At the very end of the passage was a door numbered P1. Margery unlocked it, sneering slightly.

  ‘Welcome to your new home,’ she said. ‘Good luck. You’ll need it.’

  Four pairs of hostile eyes looked up from inside the room. Margery shoved Fiona forward. The door slammed shut behind her and Fiona Bertram, schoolgirl, of 27 Boronia Drive, Woodside, was a prisoner without hope of escape.

  In the darkness on her front verandah, Livia Wallace rocked back and forth in a hammock. Livia always slept outside. During the day she worked in the gloomy basements of the City Archives and she hated feeling shut up in the dark. But tonight, even sleeping outside was not enough. Every time she closed her eyes, Livia smelled the acrid smoke of the bonfire burning in the street and saw the melting faces of Miniver dolls amongst the flames.

  Livia was not a Minivers fan. Until recently, she had never given Rosamund and Emily a single thought. Now they seemed to have taken over her life, and she had no way of knowing when, or if, the nightmare was going to end. Livia was not even sure whether she liked the Minivers very much. Emily was at least sweet-tempered, but Rosamund took everything Livia did for granted. Since she had been famous all her life, this was hardly surprising, but Livia still resented it. That Rosamund Miniver, miniature celebrity, might one day soon become Queen of Artemisia, was a prospect she found completely horrifying.

  ‘Queen Rosamund II of Artemisia.’ Livia tried the title out. She could not really imagine Rosamund ruling Artemisia when Papa King died, but it seemed as if that was what he intended. On her fourteenth birthday, Papa King had given Rosamund his half of the key to the hidden room in the Archives where his will was kept. Everyone, even Gibraltar, agreed that this must mean Papa King intended Rosamund to be his heir. Madame certainly thought so. It was the gift of the key that had sparked off her relentless campaign to destroy the Minivers, and seize the throne for herself. Livia was under no illusions about her cousin. Madame was a mean-spirited, untrustworthy miser and she would make a terrible queen. Yet how could anyone think Rosamund Miniver would be a better choice?

  Livia sighed. There was no answer to any of these questions and even thinking about them made her head ache. The front door gave a soft click and Gibraltar emerged from the house, carrying his backpack. Livia sat up in her hammock, alarmed.

  ‘Ssh!’ Gibraltar put a finger to his lips. ‘Emily and Rosamund have finally gone to bed. They’re tired and upset. I don’t want to disturb them.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Livia agreed. She hesitated, then asked the question she had been wondering about all night. ‘Gibraltar. That stuff they said on the radio. About Rosamund’s shoes, and that boy. Was any of it true?’

  ‘Some of it was,’ said Gibraltar. ‘Unfortunately, that’s why it’s going to be believed. People don’t think: they just believe what they see on the news and read in the papers. A twisted truth is always easier to accept than a straight-out lie and it’s going to be very hard to undo the damage. If I’d known, I’d never have brought Emily and Rosamund back to the city. I’m starting to think we should take them out of Artemisia completely.’

  ‘When?’ Livia tried not to sound too hopeful.

  Gibraltar shook his head. ‘Not straight away. There’s something else I’ve got to do first, and it might take me a couple of days. Tell the girls they must be patient and lie low until I’ve come back.’

  ‘All right,’ said Livia. ‘I’ll tell them. Good luck, Gibraltar.’

  ‘You too.’

  Gibraltar went lightly down the front steps into the summer darkness. Livia watched him go, then lay back in her hammock feeling bereft and confused. She did not notice the small face at the bedroom window behind her, or realise that Emily Miniver had been listening to every word. She only knew that for all the hardship they had brought her, without the Minivers she would never have met Gibraltar. It was a thought almost too awful to be borne.

  Fiona stood with her back to the locked door of P1. In front of her was a dreary room with only one barred window. Two naked electric globes burned on the ceiling, and even they were imprisoned in cages. Four of the toughest girls Fiona had ever seen lounged about on narrow bunks with grey blankets and thin flat pillows, staring up at her, as if she had no right to be there.

  Fiona took a step towards the nearest bunk. Its occupant, a scowling girl with a cloud of curly black hair, jumped up and stood threateningly in front of her. A big hulking girl detached herself from a clump at the back of
the room and swaggered up to them. Though she was probably not much older than Fiona, she was as tall as a grown-up, and looked like the most brutal sports teacher Fiona had ever known.

  ‘That’s Mo’s bed,’ said the large girl. She nodded to the black-haired one, who was glaring as if she was planning something unpleasant. ‘And that there is Mo. She’s in here because she tried to murder her sister. Of course, Mo says it was an accident, but she’s got a very bad temper, so I’m not so sure.

  ‘I’m Bridget. I held up a chicken shop with a replica pistol. And this here –’ Bridget pointed to a girl of about twelve with spiky hair and a cheeky expression, ‘is our famous cat-burglar, Tania. Tania can steal anything. In fact, she probably already has.’ As she spoke, Tania took a grey object out from behind her back and waved it in Fiona’s face. Fiona clutched her pile of clothes and realised that the nightdress was missing from the top. ‘Up the back, with the pony-tail – that’s Carla, our resident anarchist. Do you know what an anarchist is, new girl?’

  ‘No.’ Fiona was scarcely able to speak. Bridget looked at her with satisfaction.

  ‘I didn’t either, until Carla came here. Go on, Carla. Tell her what you do.’

  ‘I start revolutions,’ said Carla, in a deep husky voice. ‘Riots, anyway. I want to end civilisation as we know it.’

  ‘So, that’s us,’ said Bridget. ‘What about you, new girl? Why have they sent you to Delinquent Central? It must be pretty bad, if they’ve put you in P1.’

  Fiona’s face, which was always pale, had gone almost completely white. She made a funny noise in the back of her throat and backed away from Bridget until she hit the metal door. Carla jumped off her bunk and walked towards her with her hands on her hips. Mo made a sort of hissing noise like an animal, and Tania the cat burglar sidled up beside Fiona and wrapped one sinewy arm tightly around her neck.

  ‘Can’t hear you,’ said Bridget.

  ‘The Minivers.’ Fiona’s voice came out in a sort of dry, fluttery whisper. ‘I’m here because I helped them escape.’

  ‘I helped the Minivers escape.’

  Fiona repeated the words. As she did, her voice and the conviction that she had done the right thing grew stronger, and she realised with surprise that the four girls were staring at her. Mo stopped hissing. Tania released her hold on Fiona’s neck, and Carla, the anarchist, leaned forward intently. Fiona looked at Bridget and saw that her meaty hands were clenched into fists like a boxer’s. She clutched her clothes to her chest and squeaked with fear.

  Carla gave Bridget a shove. ‘Bridget! Don’t frighten her! Don’t you see, she thinks you’re going to hit her?’ She pushed Bridget aside and stared at Fiona with dark intense eyes. ‘You know the Minivers? Are they all right? Are they alive?’

  Fiona drew in a deep breath. ‘They were the last time I saw them,’ she said. ‘That was two weeks ago. But I think they must still be safe. It was because I wouldn’t tell their enemies where they were that they sent me here.’

  A loud whoop sounded. Somebody clapped, and then the room was full of cheers and shouts of joy. Fiona stared in amazement. Bridget was crying, and Carla, Mo and Tania had flung their arms around each other and were punching the air in triumph. A moment later, Fiona was in the midst of the crush, being kissed and hugged and congratulated. It was unbelievable. For the first time in her whole life, she was a hero.

  ‘Wait!’ Fiona cried. ‘Wait! You have to listen to me!’ With difficulty, she pulled herself free from the press of bodies and raised her voice as loud as she dared. ‘Listen! It’s obvious we’re all Miniver fans here, but there’s more to this than I’ve told you. The Minivers are in the most terrible danger. I don’t know where they are now, but there are people, the same people who put me in here, who want to kill them. They’re powerful and cunning, and they’re planning something really terrible. I don’t know what it is, but it’s called Phase Two –’

  ‘Phase Two? You mean all that stuff in this evening’s paper?’

  ‘What stuff in the paper?’ Suddenly fearful, Fiona pushed forward, and saw Carla pulling back a mattress. She produced a copy of the Artemisia Telegraph with a photograph of Ron’s son, Alex Burton, on the cover. Fiona took one look at the headline and snatched the paper from her.

  ‘It’s not true!’ she cried, as she skimmed the story. ‘It’s a lie! It’s just not true!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t true,’ said Bridget scornfully. ‘Do you think we’re stupid enough to believe what’s written in the newspaper?’

  ‘No way!’ said Tania. ‘You should have seen the rubbish those journalists wrote about me!’

  ‘Even the weather report’s a lie in Artemisia,’ said Bridget. ‘We only get the papers for the photos of Rosamund and Emily. I’ve got a hundred and seven pictures of Rosamund in my scrapbook. She’s my favourite Miniver, you know,’ she added proudly.

  Fiona was a little reassured. ‘But how do you get newspapers in here?’ she asked. ‘Surely it’s not allowed?’

  The four girls exchanged glances.

  ‘We’ve only just met her,’ said Tania. ‘Can we really trust her?’

  ‘Looks like we’re going to have to,’ said Carla. She lifted her eyebrows at Bridget, who cleared her throat and reluctantly nodded.

  ‘All right.’ Bridget turned to Fiona, looming over her in the same menacing way that had been so frightening a few minutes before. ‘Swear. Swear that you won’t tell anyone inside or outside Delinquent Central what we’re about to show you. Swear it – on your own life, and your favourite Miniver’s.’

  Fiona swallowed. ‘I swear,’ she whispered. ‘On my own life, and Emily Miniver’s.’

  Bridget relaxed. ‘So you’re an Emily fan,’ she said conversationally. ‘I thought you might be. So is Mo. The rest of us prefer Rosamund, but of course we all really like them both.’ As she spoke, the other girls carefully and silently pulled one of the bunks out from the wall. There was nothing unusual about the wall behind it, though the skirting board was surprisingly scuffed. Tania knelt and pushed at something. Suddenly, with almost no noise at all, a section of the plaster came loose, and a hole the size of a large dog flap appeared in the wall.

  Fiona was amazed. ‘A tunnel?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bridget proudly. ‘It goes through the wall, past the hospital, then out under the carpark to the railway line. We’ve been digging for nearly six months. We broke through to the surface last Friday.’

  ‘Only Tania can get out at the moment,’ said Carla. ‘The gap at the end of the tunnel is too small for the rest of us to squeeze through. But it won’t be long until we all get through, and when we can, we’re going to escape.’

  ‘You too, if you’re prepared to help,’ said Tania.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Fiona. She looked at the others, her fear gone. She had just realised that sometimes, what seem to be the very worst things in life, turn out to have happened for a good reason. Fiona had always been more frightened of Titus than anybody in the world. She knew that he had no heart and no conscience; that he enjoyed tricking people into doing things they did not believe in or want to do, and that when they suffered, he found it fun. That was why he wanted to control Madame, because through her he could deceive the whole of Artemisia. Titus had sent Fiona to Delinquent Central to grind her down and break her spirit, but for once he had miscalculated. Instead of frightening her into doing whatever he wanted, Titus had placed Fiona among friends.

  ‘Emily and Rosamund have been prisoners too,’ Fiona said. ‘But they’re not like us. They don’t have a secret escape tunnel. All they have are the people who love them. Us. We Miniver fans might have been driven underground, but we can help Rosamund and Emily, by putting a stop to this.’ Fiona threw the newspaper onto the floor and gave it a contemptuous kick. ‘What do you say? Are we going to let the Minivers’ enemies get away with this? Or are we going to tell the truth?’

  ‘The truth!’ said Bridget, Tania and Carla together. Mo hissed, an
d the five of them joined hands. The Minivers Underground had officially been born.

  5

  Uncertainties

  Emily woke under crisp cotton sheets to the smell of lavender and potpourri. Warm sunlight washed into the room under Livia’s chintz curtains, and she could see the comforting shapes of the silky-oak dressing table and the moon-shaped mirror on the wall. On the bedside table, a little gold travelling clock ticked on into the morning. Emily lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. Beside her Rosamund slept on, with dried tears on her cheeks. From time to time Rosamund grimaced, as if she were being troubled by an unpleasant dream.

  Emily did not want to get up. There was nothing to get up for, only the morning newspapers, and after last night, Emily felt sure these would be better left unread. Part of her still hardly believed what had happened. The riots and the news report had been so horrible, it was as though they were about someone else. And yet, as Gibraltar had pointed out, what had been said was, in essence, true. Even the fifteen thousand dollars worth of chocolates had been bought for a special giveaway. A sick feeling rose up in the pit of Emily’s stomach and she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

  It would all come out. Every bad or embarrassing thing that had ever happened to them, every stupid thing they had ever said. Every bit of mortifying film footage would be dredged up. The sheer awfulness of this, the unfairness, was almost more than Emily could stand. How could people go from adoring you to hating you, overnight? Could it really be that love – the love of their fans, which she had taken for granted all her life – was so easily destroyed?

  ‘We’re not really like that,’ said Emily to herself. ‘Are we?’ She thought back to Ron’s son Alex. It would have been so easy for them to do something for him. Even the wretched radio-controlled car would have been picked out by one of their PR assistants, probably Penny, the really dopey one, who would never have thought how awful it might look to send a toy car to a boy who had just been hit by one. Emily couldn’t even remember signing the card, and the very thought made her want to run away forever. Yet, even though Gibraltar was thinking of taking them out of Artemisia, the fact that Millamant was still Madame’s prisoner made Emily determined to stay. Milly had looked after her and Rosamund when they were tiny babies. She had taught them to walk and talk, had comforted them when they were sad and cared for them when they were sick. Above all, she had loved them, and her love was not the kind that would be swayed by lies or rumours or false reports. In a world gone mad, Millamant was constant and unchanging, and Emily would not, could not, abandon her without a fight.