Free Split Second by Sophie McKenzie Page B

just ran off along the street. I got back home as Dad –
grey-faced and pink-eyed – was leaving.
    ‘Gotta get to the garage,’ he muttered, hurrying outside.
    Feeling more disgruntled than ever, I retrieved my bowl of cereal, added milk, then trudged up the stairs back to my room. Mum always used to insist that we sat down together for a roast lunch
on Sunday. She would have the radio on in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables or made gravy with me and Jas. Sometimes Dad would wander in when a dance tune was playing and sweep her round the
floor. Mum would laugh and scold him that we ‘wouldn’t be eating till five at this rate’. Jas and I would watch, rolling our eyes and giggling, before arguing over whose turn it
was to peel the potatoes or lay the table. Lucas – who inevitably stayed out on Saturday nights – would turn up just in time to eat, sometimes with a pretty girl on his arm and always
with a little bunch of flowers for Mum.
    It was obvious to me that Lucas had picked the flowers from passing gardens and window boxes and I was pretty sure Mum realised this too. But she was still delighted every time, her eyes shining
as Lucas hugged her and told her she was the best mother in the world. On days like those, the house had been full of chatter and laughter: lots of happy noise. Now it was so quiet you could hear
yourself breathe.
    I chucked my jacket on the floor and took a big spoonful of cereal. As I sat down on my bed my phone rang. I registered the sound dully, not sure I could be bothered to answer. Except . . .
wait. The sound wasn’t coming from
my
mobile. The ring-tone was completely different.
    I set down my cereal bowl and fished my handset out of my jeans. It definitely wasn’t ringing, yet the trill of a phone still filled the air. I looked across the room. The sound was coming
from my jacket on the floor. I sped over and put my hand in the pocket. My fingers closed on another phone. Heart thumping, I pulled it out. It was a basic model, with ‘number withheld’
flashing up on the screen.
    The phone rang a third time. Where had it come from? It definitely hadn’t been in my pocket when I left to buy milk earlier. The only person I’d passed had been that jogger.
    The mobile rang again. There was nothing else to do but answer it.
    ‘Hello?’ I said.
    ‘Hello, Nat.’ It was a man’s voice: smooth and slightly amused.
    I started. ‘How do you know my name?’
    ‘I’m a friend of Lucas’s. We were in the same organisation together.’
    There was a long pause. I sucked in my breath. ‘What do you mean?’
    Silence.
    ‘Are you . . . are you talking about the League?’ I stammered.
    ‘The League of Iron? No,’ the man said.
    I waited, but he didn’t elaborate.
    Was this some kind of trick? I had seen Lucas’s texts about the bomb. The League of Iron had claimed responsibility for the explosion. How could Lucas not be part of their group?
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘I will explain when we meet,’ the man went on.
    ‘Meet?’
    ‘Yes. Now. Come to the bandstand in the park where you played football last weekend.’
    ‘How did you know I—? Who are you? Why are you—?’
    ‘I’ll answer your questions later,’ the man said firmly. ‘Now get your laptop and bring it to the bandstand. One p.m. Don’t be late.’
    ‘Wait, tell me—’
    But the man had rung off.

Charlie
    The drizzling rain matched my mood as I hurried along the pavement towards Jas’s house. It was Sunday and I’d just had to sit through a proper, sit-down family
breakfast with Gail, Brian and Rosa. The conversation had revolved around their holiday last year, which of course I hadn’t been a part of. Gail tried to draw me in by talking about the
upcoming memorial service for Mum and the other bomb victims. She seemed to think it would be a great way for everyone to pay their respects but I could just imagine how fake it would be: full of
smiling strangers pretending to grieve for people they