So sorry for the lateness in updating. Although I've got a rough idea of where I'm going with this story, it's kinda hard to actually write it. Anyone who's wrote anything I'm guessing may understand my problem.
I'd also like to say that Jack's death came out of no where for this story. I'd intended to write something as an outtake... but it just sort of happened.
Some notes for this chapter: Alex's school is based off what my school is like. We have "academic tutoring" although it's just the year 7-11 classes that have to come in on the evenings – us Post 16 students get the day off instead and only come in to talk to our tutors for about 15mins. Woo.
→ MFL stands for Modern Foreign Languages. So any "foreign" languages take place in that building – Spanish and French. We don't do German. Sorry.
→ In the UK, at the end of year 9, you get "choices" and you get to pick up three classes and drop a load of others. Maths, English, Science, Tech (although being in top set, I was put into Electronics in year 10), P.E and Citizenship are compulsory choices. In other schools, they may not do Citizenship, and instead are forced to take R.E/R.S (Religious Ed/Religious Studies) or maybe you're taught both.
→ Some of you may be counting that, and realising that that's only nine subjects, not the eleven I mentioned in here, and that's because for me, in year 10 and 11, I had three separate science teachers – one for Bio, one for Chem, and one for physics. Alex has to visit with all of them.
→ I don't know if elsewhere they say it, but in my school, even if a teacher is called "Mrs so-and-so" we still just call her "Miss" to her face – we're not being disrespectful, but it's just easier and quicker. I've never been told off for it, and I don't know anyone who has.
→ At academic tutoring, you're rated out of five for three separate things – classroom behaviour/attitude, homework standard and attitude towards work. You're also given a grade (year 7-9 often in numbers, so, for example, the highest being a 7a, the lowest being a 3c – which is Primary school standard. You reach this grade, and you'll be taken out of some classes and given more help in the big three – Sci, Eng and Maths. Years 10-13 in letters only – A* being the highest, U being the lowest. D grade and below is a fail.)
→ Better Off Ted is a US tv show that has unfortunately been cancelled. However, although I'm often quite to say that most US "comedy" shows are quite crap, this one I just howled at all the way through. Bravo to whoever created it. I sincerely urge you to check it out if you can in some way. If not, just check out some clips on YouTube, especially any to do with Veronica. My God is that character the best ever created.
Fav quote, "The new sensors don't detect black people because light doesn't reflect off them?"
"Yes Ted."
"But that's racist."
"The company's position is that it's actually the opposite of racist. It's not targeting black people, it's just ignoring them. They insist the worst people could call it is indifferent." Lmao.
The clip of it is here: www . youtube . Com/ watch?v=CJ1TaYwU394
Hope this info helps with what's in the story.
Anyway, on with the story.
Chapter 18
-8-
Unfortunately for the boy, as soon as the gunman stepped inside, he didn't even get the chance to defend himself before the gun was swung in his direction, and the butt of it slapped straight into the side of his face. Although the cramped space in the car meant there was little power to the swing of the man's arm, it still hurt.
And Alex, after a moment of confusion, slowly felt his head slip forward onto his chest, and darkness descended.
-8-
The next time he awoke, he was in a dark, damp and cramped space, unable to see his hand in front of his face. It was obvious to him instantly that he was underground somewhere, as what he could feel from where he lay was all concrete.
Of course, he couldn't feel much – his left hand was chained up to the wall, and it only really allowed him to move no more than a shuffle in any direction. He didn't even know where the door was – for all he knew, it could be above him as opposed to built in on a wall.
He was slow to come around, his eye and nose and cheek all burning with pain from where he'd been hit. Probing his face with his fingers, he reassured himself that nothing was broken; his nose was still there, thankfully, and his cheek, although hurting, wasn't too painful when he poked it and moved it.
He knew he could escape – he had all the items needed to do so, but as he didn't know anything about his surroundings, both within the underground cavern and the above areas, not to mention the person – or even people – who had taken him, he didn't dare leave until he had more information. After all, for all he knew there was fifty people above him that could easily take him out.
So no, for now, he was fine with staying where he was.
In the mean time, he didn't have much he could do, and so his mind drifted to places he didn't want to think about; Jack's death.
We'd had a new English teacher for the last month, and when year ten academic tutoring came around at Brookland, it meant that teachers who taught any classes to year tens were asking for what time their students wanted to meet with them on the evening of the 18th of May. Jack had always wanted to be there first, and to be out as soon as possible, so I always tried to ask for the earliest times of five o'clock. In year ten, it meant that I'd dropped many subjects that I'd been studying from years seven to nine, and as a result, Jack and I could be at the school for less than an hour if I played my cards right. Each "appointment" with the teacher lasted roughly for five minutes a piece, sometimes more, sometimes less, and on the table I'd been given with the three columns of "Subject", "Teacher" and "Time," for my other ten teachers I'd managed to get times to fit in before six.
For English, though, my teacher, Mrs. James, had three separate year ten classes, and on Tuesdays, the day I was given my tabled sheet of paper, I had the subject last. This was problematic for two reasons: one, English was situated in the farthest building away from the MFL building as possible – of which I'd just had a Spanish lesson within, and two, this resulted in me being five minutes late to my lesson.
Mrs James was roughly 45 years old, and although quite stern, was very understanding in why her students were often late. Although if they didn't arrive for more than seven minutes after the bell went, then she would mark them late in the register – no matter what the excuse. I was one of the last to enter the classroom, and already Mrs James had dealt out many times to the students in this class. She only had the later times left – her earliest being at 7.25pm. Five minutes before it was scheduled to end. I moaned aloud when she told me that after I'd enquired as to when her earliest time was, and told her that I would take that time slot. I was sure that somebody would turn up late for an appointment with her, and I could just sneak in with Jack and say we had no one else to see.
She'd understand, I was sure.
When she in turn asked me my who would be accompanying me, I'd instantly answered "Jack." All of the teachers who'd been at the school since I was eleven knew that she was the one who came – knew that I didn't have parents, and my uncle Ian was barely, if ever, at home.
"Mr. Jack Rider, got it." She'd replied. I'd hastily corrected her.
"Um, no. Jack Starbright, Miss."
"Oh," I'd surprised her. "And what relation is she to you?"
"She looks after me." I'd stated.
"Hmm, I see. And what about your parents?"
"They died when I was small. Jack's looked after me since I was seven. She always comes to the appointments."
"Right, well. I'm looking forward to meeting Miss Starbright."
I didn't think much of it – she was new, and didn't understand my background.
The following Thursday was the day of academic tutoring, and Jack and I were bored. Each teacher had commented on mostly the same things, "When he's in, he works to as high a standard as possible. Of course, he's behind in a few areas, as I'm sure you'd understand, Miss Starbright. Let's hope Alex's current good bill of health stays that way, shall we, hmm?" and "Ah yes, Alex. Behind right now, and he's still got a few homework and coursework assignments to hand in, the deadlines are catching us up, Alex. We need those in now! Otherwise, I'd rate your classroom behaviour as a five – very good. Coursework and homework at a 3, I'm afraid. Get the rest in, and I'll be sure to bump it up."
I was working as hard as I could, damn it! It took over three hours just to write up a good piece of coursework, and it was hard to work on them every single spare hour of the day. I wanted to shout at them, tell them that. I wanted to shout at MI6 for forcing me into going away and dragging me into the spying world. But it wouldn't do much. Nothing could erase the past.
Jack and I had seen all of my teachers barring one – Mrs James.
We'd tried to sneak into a different time slot with her, but she constantly had different students hovering around her allotted desk.
At 7.30, a full one hour and 45 minutes since our last appointment, we were finally seated in front of my teacher. Finally.
Jack wasn't happy. She'd missed Emmerdale, was going to miss Coronation Street, and there was also a slight chance of missing Better Off Ted. I tried to assure her that she could watch the episodes online, but she wouldn't have it. To her, it was better to watch it on a 36" screen in real time than on a 16" one. Not to mention all of the buffering and the sometimes fuzzy imagery when put into full screen mode.
"Hello Alex," Mrs James smiled when I sat down in the chair opposite her. "And this must be Jack Starbright?"
"Nice to meet you, Mrs James." Jack had replied. "Now then, how's Alex been progressing in your class?" She asked.
"Well, from what I've seen of Alex for the past month, he's dedicated to his studies, and works hard in lessons." She praised. "However, as I'm sure you're aware, thanks to Alex's illnesses, it has put him behind slightly in terms of coursework and many linguistic terminology that he'll need to know for his exams, especially in English Language."
"Why so in that lesson?" Jack frowned, worried that I was further behind than she'd thought.
"His GCSE exam for that is in July. In Literature and Media he has until next year to pull his terminology, theory and structuralism into a more acceptable form, and indeed improve on them, but this is his final year for English Language I'm afraid. I need the coursework in by the end of this month, too. 31st of May is the deadline, remember Alex?" She addressed me, looking into my eyes.
"Yes Miss James." I'd nodded.
"We have after school sessions running for an hour on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You just need to turn up, and I – or one of the other English staff – will help you with whatever help you need. I'd like to encourage that you do so." She looked at her watch, noticing that it had been over five minutes since our appointment had started.
"Well, I'm sure you'd like to be off – I know I certainly would like to be!" She laughed.
Jack and I stood up, my guardian reaching out to shake her hand. I looked around us, noticing that there was only a few people left in the hall. Twenty-four people. Many teachers had left, their appointments over with, and the few that remained were either gathering their things up or still talking to students.
I turned to look at Jack and my teacher, just as this finished shaking hands. I turned around to step away from my chair, just as Jack did the same. We collided, bumping into each other.
And that's when I heard it – the sounds unforgettable for however long I lived. First there was the catch of the safety being removed. Then was the pull of the trigger. The third sound was the release of the bullet from the gun, the noise echoing in the domed room. And finally, there was a scream.
A woman's scream.
An American's scream.
Jack's scream.
Jack had stepped into my way when we'd bumped, and I'd fallen forwards into my chair as she fell slightly across my back.
Mrs James pulled the trigger right at that moment, when Jack was in between me and my teacher.
Me and my sniper.
Me and the woman who was supposed to kill me.
Jack fell.
I dived.
I hit.
I collided.
I kicked.
I knocked out.
I took.
And finally, I felt. For a pulse, for a sign of life. For anything. Anything to prove to me that Jack, lovable Jack, was still savable.
She was. Just. Her pulse was slow, but to me, I'd take it. Take anything.
I pressed into her wound, her stomach, the area that had been hit. Kept in as much blood as I could.
I ignored everything else around me, whispering to Jack, begging her to stay with me. I cried. I never had before, not for anything. Not during uncle Ian's funeral. But for Jack, my Jack. My almost sister, my friend, the person who had stuck with me through thick and thin, I cried for.
I couldn't lose her. I couldn't.
Someone tried to drag me away from her. I hit, again. Lashed out, my emotions so raw. The pain in my chest – the bullet wound nothing compared to this. Jack was still, immobile. Barely breathing.
They tried to pull me away again, and again I resisted. Four arms this time. Two people. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.
The arms, they pinned me down onto the carpeted floor. I kicked again. Screamed, again.
Paramedics were with her, their green and yellow jackets easy to recognise. They pushed on her chest. Up and down, up and down. Breathed into her mouth. A pulse, another one. A breath. They placed her on a stretcher.
My holders let me free, and I rushed to her. Held her hand. No other thoughts but her.
I didn't even notice we were in the back of the ambulance so suddenly. Didn't notice when we were rushing through corridors. Didn't notice the smell of antiseptic, a smell I'd know anywhere.
I did notice, though, when I was held back, again. Pushed away as she was sent into the OR, and I in turn to a waiting room.
I didn't notice anyone in the room, nor the television – if there was one.
All I could think of was Jack. The blood surrounding her chest. The blood soaking through her many clothes, despite the hot weather lately. The blood finally finding its way to that carpeted floor in the domed hall with those twenty-four witnesses and that fake teacher – for she must have been fake. Why would a teacher, after all, want to shoot Jack.
For a fleeting moment, I felt something else but despair – anger. But just for a moment, before the more dominant feeling rushed back into my system.
I didn't know how long I sat in that awful, dreaded room before a doctor came in to see me – but it must have been hours.
He sat next to me on the floor – a young man.
"Hello son, I'm Dr Sineed. What's your name?" He asked.
"Alex." Right, Alex. We've worked on your..." he left the sentence open for Alex to answer.
"Guardian."
"Right, we've worked on your guardian. The bullet went straight into the lower part of her stomach. Do you understand what that means, Alex?" He said softly. Spoke in plain English – for once.
"That she'll live?"
"I can't make any promises right now, son. I'd like to, but I can't. We operated on her stomach to remove the bullet, and had to remove a part of her organ, which should be fine, but there was a lot of internal bleeding. We've sent her up to radiology for a scan to see how things are looking inside of her. Hopefully, nothing else was damaged – we didn't see anything, but the scans will confirm it."
"When can I see her?" I asked.
"Not for a while yet, I'm afraid. There was a waiting list for radiology, and she won't be back down on the ICU ward for at least another hour. And even then the nurses need to settle her in."
Anger coursed through me again at the thought that something inside Jack could be killing her, and she'd have to wait over an hour to be scanned before the doctors would be able to treat it. An hour, and she could be dead.
But I didn't have the strength to do anything about the anger – defeated. Resigned. Those weighed me down too heavily to feel anything else.
The doctor was hesitating, I could sense.
"What else?" I prompted.
The doctor sighed.
"Have you got any relatives we can call, Alex?"
"No. There's just me and Jack now."
The doctor sighed again. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to call social services, Alex."
"What, why?" I cried, my anger finally being released.
"Because you're still a child, and with no one to look after you. They'll more than likely ask a friend of yours if you can stay at their house until Jack... well, I'll be blunt with you - until she either becomes well enough to go home and look after you, or the alternative." The doctor shook his head sadly.
"I'm staying here, with Jack." I responded.
"I'm afraid that isn't an option, Alex."
"Well, make it an option!" I exploded. "Jack's all I've got left. If she, if she... if she-" I sobbed. Still crying. I couldn't say it – say those words. "I want to be there. Until she- I can't be away from her."
"I'm sorry, Alex, I really am."
He stood up, looked at me, with my head bent down on my knees, my jeans dark where my tears had landed, staining them, and left the room.
I forgot about his words almost instantly – Jack's face had taken up residence in my mind again, and she took up all thoughts.
I thought back to what I shouldn't have missed. Mrs James in the English classroom. I'd referred to Jack only as "Jack". I'd never said Jack was a woman, and yet Mrs James had said "And what relation is she to you?" 'She' I missed it. How could I have missed it? All my fault. My fault. Should have known. Too relaxed after having no trouble with MI6 or Scorpia. Relaxed my guard. My fault, all my fault.
A woman was the next to visit. A woman with a large hand bag and a leather case at her side. A woman from social services. Many hours had passed since the time the doctor had left and she arrived. Light had crept into the room from the window behind me. A new day – hopefully, with the sun shining as it was, it was a good omen. For once in my life, a good omen. Please. Please.
Please.
She spoke, and I responded.
I gave her my details – name, address, age, no family. Jack's information. What little I knew. Friends – Tom. Tom's details. Shouted at her. Told her I wasn't leaving. Tom came. His mother came. Told the social worker what she wanted to know in a monotone voice. I couldn't muster up any energy to even try to hide details. She asked, I gave. Autopilot, that's what they called it in books. Being on autopilot.
Tears. Lots and lots of tears. In Tom's eyes, in his mother's eyes, in my eyes. Not in Jack's eyes. Maybe never in Jack's eyes again.
Jumbled thoughts. Always about Jack, though. Always. Chest hurt, again. Always hurting. Wouldn't stop until Jack was safe.
Doctor came in again – forgotten his name. Not important.
Told I could visit with Jack. Important.
He helped me to stand. Walked me to her room in the ICU.
She was all wired up – wires everywhere. Up her nose, in her mouth, on her wrists, under her gown. There'd be more, he knew. Monitoring everything about her. Good. Know everything that happens with her.
I sat in one of the chairs after dragging it to her bedside. Laid my head down on top of the bed after grabbing one of her hands in my own. Colder than normal, but warm. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead notdead . Alive.
Scans came through. Doctors worried again. Something wrong. Something not right. I'm taken from the room again, and so is she. Dumped back into waiting room. Tom. Left Tom behind. Arms around shoulders.
Jack hasn't come with me. She's gone elsewhere. They've taken her elsewhere.
Hours pass, again. Waiting. Social worker comes again. Ignored. Mrs Harris answers many questions. Tom stays with me, I know.
At just after five, the doctor comes back in again. Kneels in front of me. Takes my hands in his own.
"I'm sorry, Alex. So sorry, but she didn't make it. One of the stitches came loose when we transported her, and the internal bleeding started again. Her blood started to clot, Alex. Too much of it. We tried to operate, but nothing could save her."
Stiffness. Everywhere.
And at his words, at his apologies, everything comes back into focus. Jack. Gone.
Nothing else keeping me here in England, but them. They'll send me someplace, use me. Have to get away. Only Jack could stop them before, and now she's gone.
She wouldn't want me anywhere near them.
Past tense.
Wouldn't. Doesn't – not any more.
I stand up, ignoring Tom, Mrs Harris and the social worker.
Someone asks me where am I going.
"Need some fresh air."
They let me go, but only after shared worried looks.
Fresh air. Yes. I'll get that on the way home. On the way back to the house where we both used to live, and now where no one will live for a while.
A lock clanging brought me out of my memory. To the right of where Alex was, and higher above. He could hear footsteps coming down the stairs slowly – twelve times feet hit stairs before they hit concrete.
Light had poured in from the doorway above, and for a moment Alex was blinded. Just as his vision was starting to adjust to the new light, a torch was shoved into his face, and he raised his free hand to protect his eyes from the blinding light.
"Ah, so the boy is now awake?" His captor asked.
"Mmm," Alex said, realising only now that his throat was parched.
He coughed, and tried again. "Yes," he croaked out.
Something was thrown at him, and it landed in his lap.
"Drink up, child. It will be the last you are, ah, receiving for a while," something else was thrown at him. A bag of crisps. "Same with food." The man's was was heavily accented, a born and raised Frenchman, Alex had no doubts.
The man started to retreat up the stairs after Alex had taken a gulp of water.
"Wait!" he shouted. "What do you want me for?"
"Don't worry kid. We won't kill you – yet. That is all you need to know." He carried on up the stairs, and Alex sipped his drink again. He wasn't going to waste it. The crisps, though, he ripped open, and within a few minutes, were gone.
When the door had opened, Alex had listened for other voices. He'd heard some – perhaps two or three, although for all he knew they were on the television, and not in the rooms beyond.
Alex debated within himself as to whether or not he should try to escape, and decided against it – MI6 and the SAS weren't going to get him here, he thought. And for now he had water, and had just been fed. If he wasn't fed again within the next twenty-four hours, then he'd leave.
Resigned – he hated that word – he waited. After a few hours thinking back and worrying about James, but knowing that he was safe somewhere, his eyes drooped, and he slept.
-8-
Yeah, so, like I said, I never actually meant to dive into what led him to escape... only it sort of happened.
I also have never been given "bad news" from doctors, so I have no idea how they'd tell someone the problems with their patients and/or how they tell someone their family member has died.
I also don't know any medical jargon, so I left it out as much as I could... my bad.
Furthermore, please note my sincere apologies for any spelling/grammar mistakes. It's just turned 2am herein the UK, and I cba looking back through it. All wrote within two hours. Yay!
Anyway, please review, and tell me what you think. I was kinda disappointed in SR with how Mr AH switched to a sort of outsider POV with Jack's death scene, so I didn't feel any of Alex's pain, and couldn't really believe that she was gone as Alex had.
Do you feel Alex's pain in this chapter... or should I just avoid death scenes in the future?
Well, let me know :)