Northern Spy Berry, Flynn (books for 9th graders .TXT) 📖

“Not well,” she says. The bouncer’s name is Aidan, and the older one is Donal. “They’re waiting for someone to interview us. I don’t know how long that will be, it could be a few days.”

“Have you signaled for help?” I ask, nodding at the tracker in her filling.

“Yes.”

“Then it’s fine. Eamonn will send in a team.”

“They should have come by now,” she says.

Maybe they’re already here. Officers might be in the woods at this moment, they might have the house surrounded.

Marian moves around the room, studying the baseboards, the ceiling, the window, and the metal grate soldered to its frame. On the ceiling is a brass fixture, but they’ve removed the light bulb.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“I told you about this place,” she says. “This is the farmhouse.”

The wooden table in the kitchen is where she built bombs. The tiled counter is where she stood, after being hunched over a device for hours, and stretched her back, and made tea.

In the summer, she tells me, she often swam in the river behind the house. The river is frozen now, but in summer the water is warm, flowing slowly between grasses and overshot wildflowers. She’d paddle past dragonflies and kingfishers, with only her head above the surface.

Marian is telling me this as a sort of punishment for herself, she’s allowing me to hate her, or that version of her, a terrorist swimming naked in the river behind the house where I might now be killed.

But I can’t be angry with her. I don’t have the energy, not while I’m trying to work out how to escape.

When the room grows dark, we lie down on the two single mattresses on the floor. The men dragged the mattresses up to this room. I want to know where I was while they prepared this room for us, how long I’ve been walking around with this place waiting for me.

The sheets are new, the fabric stiff from never having been washed. One of the men went into a shop and picked them out. I picture him standing in front of a shelf, considering the different options, knowing what they would be used for. The ones he chose are sky blue.

—

Marian has fallen asleep. Outside, the moon is bright enough to stain the sky around it green. On the other side of the clearing, wintry trees stretch away for miles. No lights. No pylons. I wonder how long we’d have to walk to reach the nearest house.

Somewhere, people are trying to find us. The detective will have told my mam that I’ve been taken. I remember her one evening last week saying, “Do you and Finn want to take a walk with me?” and me saying, “Not tonight, mam, I can’t, I’m so tired from work.”

I regretted it then, too. I pictured her going for a walk on her own, or staying at home on the sofa, carefully reading a catalogue, folding down the pages. I should have said yes.

I lie on the mattress and consider the different rooms in the house, the different ways a raid might play out. Our guards have automatic rifles. If there is a raid, we might die.

Though the operators MI5 sends in will be experienced. The Special Forces specialize in hostage rescue, their officers have two years of instruction before even deploying. They might have run hundreds of simulations in a house like this, with the same number of hostages and terrorists. They will know how to enter the rooms. We aren’t in a fortified compound, we’re in a farmhouse in South Armagh. I wish there were a way for me to talk to them, to tell them where we are in the house, to receive instructions.

I try to picture us being hurried outside by officers after a siege, but can’t. If there is a raid, we might never leave this room.

At some point in the night, I move to the floor. I have an image of the two of us lying on the mattresses, our blood soaking into the sky-blue sheets, so I kneel on the floor, like if I can change one part of the image, it won’t happen.

I end up on Marian’s mattress eventually, and fall asleep with her arm tucked around me.

—

At dawn, a man steps inside the room, holding a chair. It takes me a moment to recognize him. His faded red hair is brushed to the side, and he has on a tweed blazer over a blue shirt. He sets the chair on the floor and sits down facing us.

“Seamus,” says Marian with relief. “You need to help us.”

“Well,” he says. “That will depend on how this goes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I need both of you to answer some questions.”

“You’re not on internal security.”

“I am, actually,” he says, and Marian’s face sags.

“Fine,” she says. “You and I will talk, but Tessa shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, I disagree,” he says, rubbing the knuckles of his long hands. “We’ve a bit of a problem.” He rests his ankle on his knee and clasps his hands on his lap. “A sniper was meant to assassinate the justice minister during her speech, but someone warned her. We think you told Tessa, and she told Rebecca Main.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of any of this, Seamus. You know we weren’t involved in that operation.”

“No, but someone told you about it. I have their word.”

“Who?”

Seamus turns his attention to me. “You’ve been quiet, Tessa.”

“Because this is mad.”

“But you’ve met Rebecca Main, haven’t you? She was a guest on your program.”

“Politicians come in every week. Do you think I’m friends with all of them?”

“Do you have a personal phone number for Rebecca?”

“No.”

Seamus reaches down to brush some dust from his shoe. “Do you know how many of these interviews I’ve done?” he says. “Can I tell you something? Innocent people get restless. They move around. And neither of you has shifted an inch since I came in.”

Marian laughs. “Is this a witchcraft