Liberation (I Am Margaret Book 3) (18 page)

Frankie...

Isabella...

Wilbur...

Svenja...

So many... I was so tired, and it was so late, but there were so many... so many doomed... unsaveable... Tears were running down my cheeks, I scarcely noticed.

Janet...

Carol...

Lina...

Roberto...

Benno...

A soft tap-tap-tap drew me from the names. A hand found my shoulder.

“Margo? Aren’t you going to bed?”

“I...” I swallowed, trying to clear the tears from my throat. “I haven’t quite finished...”

“Margo, what’s the point in having an entire prayer team if you’re going to stay up all night yourself? Come on. You know Bane won’t go to sleep until you’ve gone and said goodnight.”

“I usually have to wake him up to say goodnight.”

“Look, he made me promise I’d get you to bed if I had to pick you up and carry you. So are you going to come quietly?”

I knew he was right – they both were.

“Well, I don’t much fancy having my head bashed on every doorway between here and my room.” I laid the lists back down in front of the altar – people came and went, picking up a page for a while, providing extra prayer support – then stood up and went quietly.

I’d taken to giving the newspapers a quick glance over before getting my breakfast – get it over with. They couldn’t actually repeat anything I’d written, not without being up on a charge of Sedition, but my name crept onto that front page with embarrassing regularity – ‘Raid on BlogShop – 10,000 M. V. PrintArounds seized’ or ‘Bounty on M.V. raised to Ệ3 million’
– that sort of thing.

After I’d revealed Bane was behind the Liberations the EuroGov raised the bounty on him until it matched what they were offering for me – but it hadn’t been long before they decided they still hated me more. Eduardo had asked me not to leave the Citadel or even walk around on the battlements with my forehead uncovered. Almost all the Gozitans were either in the Underground – technically not illegal in Malta – or very sympathetic but three million Eurons was an awful lot of money.

This morning... I stopped dead, then took a couple of quick steps up to the table and snatched a paper. At random.

Every single one had the same picture on the cover.

Me
.

***+***

16

THE FACE OF THE UNDERGROUND

Me. Kneeling at the side altar, praying. The lists were clutched to my chest, the names visible, my scarred forehead was bare and the tears on my cheeks gleamed in the candlelight from the altar. The background was carefully blurred, only the safely anonymous crucifix and candlesticks in focus, though a black censorship box had been placed over the centre of the cross. I looked like some sort of tragic angel.

My cheeks caught fire. My entire face caught fire. I grabbed a couple more,
maybe it was a different picture really
... nope, same one. The most strictly controlled papers were running articles about the foolishness of prayer and the irrationality of objecting to Sorting, but there I was, my tearful eyes gazing soulfully into the beyond.
Who
?

My fingers clenched around the paper, crumpling it.

“
Eduardo!
” Nothing got off this island without his say-so!

I spun around, searching the room. A lot of faces looked at me, but they all wore startled expressions.

“
Eduardo!
” I shouted again, heading for the door.

“
What?
” bellowed Jon, following me. My anger wavered guiltily – must’ve been ignoring him... I almost turned back – then caught sight of Eduardo in the hall outside and I was across that canteen like a dog after a rabbit.

“Eduardo, did you take this picture, you... you
toad
!”

He stared at me.

“No, Brother Marcel took the picture. I asked him to keep his eyes open for any good shots. That was clearly a good one. The press seem to agree.”

“
The press seem to agree!
How dare you! You didn’t even ask me! Are you trying to turn me into... into some sort of
saint
or something? Leave the bloody spin-doctoring to the other side, can’t you?” I was spluttering with rage.

Not a flicker of remorse showed on Eduardo’s face.

“You were praying in front of the altar, weren’t you?”

“Yes...”

“Then where’s the spin-doctoring? I didn’t ask you to
pose
...”

“I was
praying
– that’s private, you bastard...”

A slight expression actually crept onto Eduardo’s face. A pissed off one. He plucked the paper from my hand and waved it at me, crumpling it further.

“Don’t you
understand
? This is a photograph of someone
praying
. Praying is on par with murder – as far as the punishment is concerned – and praying in public is
worse
. And this photo is on the front of
every
newspaper in the EuroBloc –
every single one
. This is worth ten Liberations, or ten of your blog posts, maybe a hundred of both! And you’re upset about your
privacy
!”

“If you haven’t done anything wrong,” I yelled, “then why the hell didn’t you just ask me first?”

“You were in bed...”

“Oh, it was so urgent it couldn’t wait till morning!”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not being
ridiculous
! This is a violation and you damn well know it!”

Eduardo drew breath, then let it out suddenly and bowed. I turned around and bobbed as well.

“Goodness me, you two,” said Pope Cornelius, “whatever is the matter?”

“Did you know about this, Your Holiness?” I snatched the paper back from Eduardo and thrust it under his nose. He took it, smoothed it out and held it at a distance, peering at it.

“I say, that is a beautiful photograph. Very... very emotive.” He glanced up to the top of the page. “Lord Almighty, this is a mainstream newspaper!”

Eduardo threw me a look that said ‘
see
’.

“I sent the photo to the papers, Your Holiness, to see if they’d print it. Margaret... seems to think I shouldn’t have.”

“I think you should’ve
asked
!”

“Ah,” Pope Cornelius held up his hands for peace. “Come, let’s take this in here, shall we...” He ushered us into a nearby common room and shut the door on everyone except Jon, who slipped in behind me.

“Now we’re no longer providing public entertainment, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly. Eduardo, you sent this photo to the press?”

“Yes.”

“Without Margaret’s permission?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

“I thought she might be awkward about it.” He shot me a look. “I can’t imagine why.”

“In other words, you
knew
I’d mind!”

Pope Cornelius sighed.

“You two, really!”

“That photo is almost without value for our cause,” persisted Eduardo.

“And my privacy apparently has no value at all!
In your eyes!
”

“Enough, enough,” said Pope Cornelius gently. “The problem is, you are both absolutely right. The photo is priceless but Margaret’s privacy has most definitely been violated. You went too far, Eduardo, and I think you owe her an apology.”

Eduardo frowned slightly.

“I apologise,” he said stiffly.

I glowered at the floor, barely mollified.

“I was rude too.
Sorry
.”

“Well then,” said Pope Cornelius cheerfully. Added more seriously, “There is nothing else can be done, I’m afraid, Margaret.”

“He could promise not to do it again.”

“Ah, yes. Eduardo, next time you must ask Margaret, you understand?”

Next time? My face tingled.

“She’ll just say no,” Eduardo objected. “You can see how she is about it...”

“There won’t be any next time!” I cried, “How would you like it, you...” I managed to swallow the last word as Jon found my hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Margo, calm down. So... there’s been a picture published, right? Is that... so bad?” I almost yanked my hand from his, but... he wasn’t siding with anyone, he looked genuinely perplexed. “You... uh... you’ve been writing about yourself... quite frankly and openly, as far as I can see. What’s so different about a photo?”

He genuinely didn’t get it. Oh, he’d some vague intellectual concept of what a picture was, what seeing was, but he couldn’t truly conceive it. He just knew I was upset and couldn’t quite understand why.

“It’s not the same...” I floundered for an explanation. “I mean, firstly,
I
write the blog, so it’s up to
me
, and secondly... a photo... it’s so... narrow. It’s just a split second in time. It doesn’t present a very complete image of someone. So everyone’s going to see this and think this is me.”

“It is you. Isn’t it?” Jon looked like he was getting a headache.

“Yes, but it’s not
all of me
. People could spend the rest of my life thinking of me as Saint Margaret, praying and weeping in full colour, thanks to this!”

“Hmm...” A look of amusement crossed his face. “Well, next time Bane insists on overdoing it and you throw a bunch of grapes at his head, we must make sure there’s a photographer there to capture it, just to balance things out, how about that?”

I blushed and tried not to look at Pope Cornelius.

“Eduardo wouldn’t even send it to them. That’s the point. He’s manipulating how people see me.”

“You’re the face of the Underground,” said Eduardo, “I don’t think praying and weeping is far from the truth. Perhaps we should get a picture of you all cammed up with your nonLee at the ready, if you really want to balance it out.”

“I said
no
!”

Pope Cornelius cleared his throat.

“You two, I want you to go off in separate directions and have a good think and pray. Margaret, go and think about how you would feel about this photo and the good it can do the world if it wasn’t
you
in it, if it was someone else.

“Eduardo, go and think how you would feel if you were praying in a place of sanctuary, among people you trusted, your guard down after a long, hard day, and someone intruded – and allowed millions of other people to intrude too. Come back here in fifteen minutes and see if you can’t make up.”

A quarter of an hour later Eduardo murmured a genuine apology and I reluctantly said he could publish more photos – on the condition he cleared them with Pope Cornelius first. I’d be too reluctant to let anything past; Eduardo was obviously far too ruthless. Pope Cornelius promised to consult me about anything really intrusive and Eduardo and I managed to shake hands and exchange the kiss of peace with reasonable sincerity. And we all went to breakfast together.

When Jon and I went into Bane’s room after eating we found Bane admiring the front page of a newspaper.

“Look at this beautiful picture Kyle brought me.”

I grabbed the newspaper and chucked it across the room.

“Hey! I want that. I’m going to put it on the wall.”

“You are not!”

“Am too.”

“As your best mate, I must advise you to shut up now,” said Jon solemnly.

“Huh? Can you get it for me, Jon, it’s two metres to your left. Lovely picture, wish you could see it.”

“Seriously, mate, she’s just had a knockdown, drag out row with Eduardo about this. The Holy Father had to break it up. I suggest you let it go.”

Bane’s eyebrows went up.

“Seriously?” He lowered his voice slightly. “Well, uh, just pick the paper up and, er, stick it in a drawer or something, would you?”

“I’m not deaf, Bane,” I sighed. “Thought you didn’t like seeing me in tears, anyway.”

“Well, you look so beautiful. And so...
you
. Eduardo couldn’t have chosen better.”

Jon winced. I scowled. Bane eyed my face.

“Uh... well,” he said hastily. “Have you got time to hang out for a bit? I hardly seem to see you at the moment.” He held out an arm invitingly.

I settled on the bed beside him and let him put it around me.

“I really don’t think I can be long,” I said glumly.

“Workaholic.”

“We’re all turning into workaholics.”

“Welcome to New Adulthood,” said Jon, taking out his notebook.

Eduardo was waiting in the hall when I left the canteen the next day, actually frowning slightly. Huh? We’d settled the whole picture thing, hadn’t we?

“Margaret.” He nodded as politely as ever. “Could we... go up to Bane’s room?”

“What is it?”

“Let’s just... go up there first, shall we?”

My stomach clenched. What was going on?

I took Jon’s hand, though he didn’t need help on the stars any more.

“Margaret,” said Eduardo, as we walked along the upstairs corridor, “I’m sure you know you can’t trust the EuroGov. Anything they say can be a lie.”

“Usually is,” remarked Jon.

My heart was pounding against my ribs. Something was up. Something he thought I might need my fiancé around for.

“Oh, hi Eduardo...” Bane trailed off and frowned. “Eduardo? What is it?”

Eduardo shut the door firmly and circled the room with a bug sweeper just as he or one of his men did before each planning committee meeting.

“We’ve had a letter for Margaret,” he said at last. “Obviously we opened it and examined it to ensure there was nothing dangerous about it. But the ink’s not poisonous – only the words. The guys try not to read the post, Margaret, but it’s difficult. When they realised what it contained they passed it to me. Here. Just remember the EuroGov usually lie.”

I licked dry lips and accepted the envelope, unable to muster any crack about how come letters warranted an attempt at privacy. Pulled out a single page.

EuroGov

EuroHouse, EuroSquare, Brussels

Margaret Verrall (1764584)

c/o Underground

African Free States

30th December

Dear Ms Verrall,

I expect you’re wondering why your parents haven’t written to you. You must be getting quite worried about them. So I’m sure you will be relieved to hear that they are safe and well, and currently residing in a Detention Facility – you must forgive us if we don’t tell you which one.

Unfortunately, as you might well have anticipated after the publication of your seditious novel, they have both been convicted of
Personal Practise of Superstition
and are liable to be executed at any time.

Therefore I’m delighted to inform you that the Chairman has signed an Exceptional Warrant to delay said execution indefinitely. The sole condition of the warrant is that you, Margaret Verrall, immediately cease writing the seditious blog known as ‘The Impatient Gardener’ or any equivalent seditious writing.