I considered. 'I'll tell you the truth or I won't say anything at all – how's that?'
'Fair enough. Are you a member of the Liberation Militia?'
Wow! Nana Jasmine wasn't mucking around. Straight for the jugular. I didn't answer. But then I thought, Why not? What possible difference could it make now? My life was my own – no one else's.
'Yes, I am,' I said, lifting my chin.
'I thought so.' Nana Jasmine nodded thoughtfully. 'How long have you been a member?'
'The last two years.'
'I see. When did your uncle first get in touch with you?'
'Four or five years ago. I can't remember exactly.'
Nana's look of shocked surprise was quickly masked. 'Did you . . . did you have anything to do with those terrible things that happened last weekend?'
No way was I going to answer that one.
'I see.'
Did she see? What did she see? Too much or too little?
'This appointment you're in a rush to get to – has it got anything to do with the L.M.?'
No answer.
'Very well. Don't worry, Callie, I won't pry any more.' Nana Jasmine stood up. 'Before you go, could you help me with something?'
'What?'
'I need a few bottles of wine up from the cellar. That'll give me a chance to decant my red wine properly and make sure the white is properly chilled,' said Nana Jasmine.
'Is that all what you called me over for then?' I said.
'Yes, dear. And that was dreadful grammar, by the way,' said Nana evenly. 'You're . . . you're very close to your uncle, aren't you?'
Although Nana Jasmine's tone was even and non-confrontational, she still managed to sound like she was accusing me of something. I really had no idea how she did it. Her expression was carefully neutral, there was very little inflection in her voice and yet she managed to convey her disapproval of Uncle Jude in a way that left very little room for doubt. Well, I wasn't here to talk about Uncle Jude.
'I'll help bring up the bottles from the cellar but then I really must go,' I said.
'You're not going to help me prepare the rest of my lunch?'
'I haven't got time, Nana.'
'Fair enough. After you've brought up my wine, I'll phone for a taxi to take you to wherever it is you want to go.'
I nodded. And then it hit me. This would be the last time I saw Nana. The last time I spoke to her. The last time . . .
NO! Don't think like that. Don't even think. I was going to do something worthwhile. My whole life had been leading up to this day and I wasn't going to shrink away like a coward now. Like Uncle Jude said, I was going to make a difference.
A sudden, strange, sad fatigue swirled round me like a gossamer shroud. I stood up abruptly.
Shake it off, Callie Rose. Get it together.
'Are you all right, love?' Nana Jasmine frowned.
I nodded. 'Just got one or two things on my mind, that's all.'
'Well, help me bring up the bottles from the cellar and then I'll leave you in peace,' smiled Nana. 'Give me a hug first.'
I was about to argue – why did I need to hug her before bringing up a few wine bottles? But then I remembered . . . How could I have forgotten? Nana Jasmine stood up and put her arms around me. For once, my arms didn't dangle at my sides like overcooked spaghetti. I hugged her back, breathing her in.
Saying goodbye.
Leaving my bag on the floor, I let Nana lead the way across the kitchen and down the stairs to the cellar. My bag would be safe enough with both of us in the cellar together. The cellar door was already unbolted. Nana Jasmine pulled on the handle with both hands, her lips a thin line with the effort it cost her to move the heavy door. I placed my hands beside Nana Jasmine's and opened the door with her. It didn't creak or groan. The door, like the rest of Nana Jasmine's household was too well oiled to make any kind of vulgar protest. To squeak would've been 'bad grammar'. And Nana Jasmine wasn't into that. The door itself was solid oak, nearly three metres tall. Snaking, almost sneaking across the door from the wrought-iron hinges, was black iron scrollwork. Nana Jasmine stood to one side so that I would walk past her.
'So where are these bottles?' I asked.
'The Chateau D'Azonama 'ninety-five is at the other end of the cellar,' said Nana. 'Four. . . no, five bottles should be enough. Let's go and get them.'
I headed down the narrow aisle between rack upon rack of vintage wine on either side of me. The racks were lined up like elemental soldiers, with the wine bottles lying prone. But as I approached the far end of the cellar, I got the shock of my life. Someone came out from behind one of the tall racks of wine. I recognized her even before she turned to face me. I stopped abruptly. What the hell was she doing here? I'd sworn never to even stay in the same room as her again and I meant it. I spun round, ready to make for the door – only to stop abruptly for the second time.
Nana Jasmine was pushing the cellar door shut.
'Nana . . . ?'
'I'm sorry, love, but I can't let you do any more of Jude's dirty work,' said Nana Jasmine as the door continued to close. 'I love you, Callie Rose McGregor. Don't ever forget that.'
And in the next instant the cellar door was closed. I sprinted for the door, practically diving for the door handle just as the bolts were being slid home from the outside. The sound of the bolts was more final, more resounding than the peal of funeral bells.
I was too late. Panic rose up, searing and unstoppable like erupting lava.
'NANA JASMINE, OPEN THIS DOOR!' I pushed down the large metal handle, then pushed at the door, but I was wasting my time.
'LET ME OUT!' I screamed.
Beyond the door, I could hear nothing but silence. Not even footsteps walking away from me. The door was too thick, too solid. I spun round to glare at the woman I hated most in all the world.
My mum.
This whole thing was a set-up. A ridiculous scheme to stop me from following Uncle Jude's orders.
Uncle Jude's orders . . .
A groan ripped through my body as something worse occurred to me. Here I was, locked in Nana Jasmine's cellar with a woman I despised – and my carrier bag and its contents were out there, on the other side of the door.
Out there with Nana Jasmine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
'Few writers can sustain a plot as well as Malorie Blackman' Sunday Telegraph
'Blackman is becoming a bit of a national treasure'
The Times
MALORIE BLACKMAN is acknowledged as one of today's most imaginative and convincing writers for young readers. Her first book about Sephy and Callum, Noughts & Crosses, won the Children's Book Award, the Sheffield Children's Book Award and the Lancashire Children's Book Award, whilst the second, Knife Edge was described by the Guardian as 'relentless in its pace and power . . . devastatingly powerful'. Her other books for the Random House Children's Books lists include Hacker, Thief], A.N.T.I.D.O.T.E., Dangerous Reality, Dead Gorgeous and Pig-Heart Boy, which was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal and adapted into a BAFTA-award-winning TV serial. Both Hacker and Thief! won the Young Telegraph/Gimme 5 Award – Malorie is the only author to have won this twice – and Hacker also won the WH Smith Mind-Boggling Books Award in 1994. She has also written a number of tides for younger readers.
Malorie lives with her husband and daughter in Kent.
CHECKMATE
Can the future ever erase the past?
Callie Rose has a Cross mother and a nought father. But she knows virtually nothing about her father . . .
Until she is a young adult and unexpectedly discovers the truth. And how her father's family is tied up with the fight for equality for noughts.
Now Rose is drawn into a dangerous, deadly game – a game of very high stakes that can have only one winner. . .
A dramatic and intensely moving novel, the third in the award-winning Noughts & Crosses trilogy for older readers.
Available now in Doubleday hardcover
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Malorie Blackman, Knife Edge
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