THE MILES GO BY, and since I’m trapped in the truck, there’s finally nothing to stop me from thinking: Freja, and that kiss. I had to kiss her. I wanted to.
But I still have this feeling like I’m doing wrong—like I’m cheating on Shay—and that’s completely crazy. She left me: she lost the right to say who I do or don’t kiss.
Yet it’s not quite as simple as that, is it? It’s me who feels this way—who feels totally messed up in the head. Maybe it’s not so much that I feel like I’m cheating on Shay but more that I feel like I’m cheating myself, and worse: if I feel this way, then I’m cheating Freja too. And that doesn’t make any kind of sense.
Anyway, I’m sure Freja has Angus and Maureen wrong: they’re good, decent, salt-of-the-earth type people. They’ve believed what the authorities have told them—they’ve had no reason not to—but they’ll listen to sense. And they’d definitely want to help Azra and Wilf. They’ve lost their family, children, grandchildren. They need each other.
By the time I get to the farm, I’ve made a decision: I will sound them out about taking those two in. I’ll be careful what I say until I sense their reaction, but there is no doubt at all in my mind: it is the perfect solution for everyone.
It makes far more sense than trying to ship them hundreds of miles away, even to a good guy like Patrick. Anyway, I’m not convinced he hasn’t made some connections—with Multiverse and Alex—that he’ll later regret.
Even though it’s dark and very late now, by the time I pull in front of the farm, Angus is outside, waiting. He must have heard the truck approaching.
I wave a greeting and open the door, get out and stretch my stiff arms and legs.
“It’s a bit late, lad. Have you got good news for us?”
“The tanks are full.”
He clasps my shoulder. “Excellent! From the base?”
“Yes. And there’s more there if you should need it.”
He’s peering at the truck. “Where’s Freja?”
“Well, we’ve found somewhere we can get online, so she stayed, and I’m heading back in the morning. I’m sorry, but we’re moving on.”
“I see.” The disappointment in his voice is strong. “Well, come inside. Maureen’s up too; she’s making tea.”
The kitchen is warm—wood burns in the stove. Maureen is in her dressing gown; she smiles when she sees me, but her smile falters when her dad tells her what I said, that we’re not going to stay.
She shakes her head at Angus. “The two of us rattling around here on our own isn’t so good.”
“It’s you I worry about, girl. I’m not likely to hang around for too many more years. You can’t run this place on your own. Even if you could, you shouldn’t be alone.”
“Would you be open to other options?” I ask. “There may be something, well, someone. I mean…”
“What is it? Spit it out,” Angus says.
“We found a couple of kids who are on their own. They need somewhere to go.”
“Really?” Maureen’s face brightens. “How old are they?”
“There is a boy about twelve. A girl fifteen, I think.”
“Brother and sister? Immunity often runs in families—just us two in our family were immune, though.” A shadow falls across her face: thinking of her own children.
“No, they’re not related.”
“How’d they end up on their own? Why didn’t they leave with the other immune families when they were cleared out?”
I hesitate, unsure what to say—but I started, so…“Well, they’re not immune.”
Angus frowns. “How on earth did they manage not to catch it? It was everywhere around here.”
Maureen makes the leap before I can decide what to say next. “Do you mean…are they survivors?” She must read the answer on my face. Her eyes go wide with shock, dismay.
“Listen to me, please,” I say. “They’re just kids who need help. Normal kids who need a hug and a hot meal now and then.”
“Survivors aren’t normal,” Angus says.
“They’re not exactly like us, if that’s what you mean. But they’re decent kids—I’ve met them, I know. And I do know this: survivors aren’t carriers.”
“That’s not what they say—them on TV. The reporters and doctors and government officials,” Angus says. “Why should we believe you?”
“I’ve known survivors to be around people and not pass it on. What the officials are saying isn’t true.”
“Even if that is so—and I’m not saying it is—there are all the other things that are wrong with them. And anyway, they’re illegal. We’re not harboring criminals.”
“They’re kids. They haven’t done anything wrong; it’s not their fault they got sick and didn’t die. Look, this isn’t something you have to do; it’s just that they need help—and you need help too. I thought it was a good idea.”
“You thought wrong. I think you’d better leave.”
I stare back at Angus’s closed, angry face, and I’m bewildered. How could I have gotten things so very wrong? As I head for the door, I can hear Maureen pleading with her dad to listen to me, to take a chance. The desperation in her to have children in the house is painful to hear; it’s greater than her fear of survivors. But he’s not having it.
I start to unload the bike from the back of the truck; Angus comes outside again. His face is like thunder.
“It makes sense to me now, what you said—that you’ve known survivors. That Freja is one of them, isn’t she? That’s why she never had the tattoo. You lied to us, and you brought her into our home.”
He says it like she’s a poisonous snake.
I don’t answer him. I start the bike and head up the road.
As I go, I’m replaying what happened, the things he said, and I’m stunned. Even Maureen. The thought of survivors horrified her; she might have been willing to take them in, but only because having no children horrifies her even more.
How can they be so prejudiced about people they don’t know, that they know nothing about?