I'm back...after a couple of weeks of study leave and exams, here's the new chapter! Hope that you enjoy (and also thank you to everyone who has reviewed, you guys are amazing!)

VIII

Quickly, quietly, I shut the door behind me. And before I could stop myself, I threw myself at Patrick and hugged him, hard. He had a cut on his forehead, his hair was tousled and there were touches of bruising round his face, but apart from that, he appeared to be fine. I sat back, a mixture of shock, worry and wonder seeping through me. "What happened to you? Are you all right?"

Patrick nodded, pulling himself up to a better sitting position. "I have been better, but I'm alive." He gave me a slight grin. "What are ye doing here, Vanessa? I thought that maybe you hadn't made it back alive."

I smiled, because even though he may have been be bruised and battered, he was here, damn it, I'd found him, and he seemed to be OK.

"Well, I did. And, the thing is–" I floundered, not sure of how to go on. "I've been thinking about you, and just wondering if you were all right, and then I had a nightmare and decided to go for a walk, and found a man called Mr Creedy talking to another man about you, and they said you were in London, so I went looking for you." I paused, taking a deep breath.

Patrick smiled. "It's nice to know that someone's looking out for me." Then, he sighed, and his face set into a more somber expression. "I guess I should tell you everything."

"Wait." I held up a hand. "Before you do, what about your parents? Are they still alive?"

He bit his lip and looked at me. "I don't actually know. Me guess is that they would have been warned somehow, and escaped somewhere to hide out, but otherwise…" His voice trailed off.

"Oh." I didn't say anything for a moment. Then, I sat back, and gazed at him, willing him to tell me everything that had happened since we had last met. Which he did.

After we had said goodbye at the hotel room, Patrick had made his own way to Nottingham. He had hidden the backpack of explosives near the bottom of an alleyway, underneath a dark flight of stairs, before taking the train from Oxford to Nottingham. How he managed to pass unknown through the station, he had no idea. But when he arrived at Nottingham, at the place where he had arranged to meet his parents at the Cophaven Hotel, there were no sign of them.

Patrick waited. And waited. Finally, he decided that he would go and look for them, to see if they had already gone ahead with blowing up the Galleries Of Justice museum. If the building was still intact, they wouldn't have arrived yet, and would have been held up. But Patrick's biggest worry wasn't if they had been held up, it was rather, had they been caught?

Just as he was approaching the large stone building, which was still very intact, the wail of police sirens demanded his attention, coming closer towards him with every second. He darted into one of the doorways, and held his breath, praying that he wouldn't be found and black-bagged. The police van stopped in front of the main entrance, and a dozen or so men in uniforms and bullet-proof garments leaped out of it, guns at the ready. Patrick could only hear bits of what was going on, but, as a couple of uniformed men were shouting into two-way radios, he picked up on the fact that someone, had tipped these men off about the plan to blow up the building. It seemed, as soon as one of the members of the rebel groups, like Patrick's own parents, showed up, they would just shoot them dead on the spot.

And Patrick knew that since his name was already associated with the Nottingham train incident, the consequences for him would be far greater.

So he waited, biding his time, until the streets were clear enough for him to slip quickly down the dark streets, when all of the policemen had gradually moved further away. He went back to the hotel, packing his things up, and taking as much food as he could from the kitchens without being noticed. As soon as the next day dawned, he spent the last of his money on a train bound for London, then looked for a place to hide out, where it was unlikely he would ever be found by police officials. The cut, he told me, had been from when he'd been forced to break a window to get into the building in the first place, but he'd been able to unlock the door from the inside.

And that was when I came looking for him, a couple of days later.

I couldn't think of anything to say. Apart from, "Oh God. It's lucky you got away."

"I know."

"Who do you think told the officials about the plan to blow up the Galleries Of Justice?"

He shrugged. "Me guess is that it would have to be someone who was in the rebel group with us. We'd all been sworn to secrecy, and anyone who dared not to keep quiet knew the consequences." A hard edge crept into his voice. "Seems like someone got scared, and ran off to the authorities to squeal to them about what we were doing. I swear, if I ever find out who that person was–" He didn't bother to finish his sentence.

Instead, he turned towards me. "What about you?"

I wanted to tell him everything, about V and Evey, and living in the Shadow Gallery, but at the same time, I didn't want to tell him. I couldn't, not just yet, anyway.

So instead I told him about Gordon Dietrich's show, and how I've been hiding out in London, away from home (after all, it was sort of true). Eventually, we just sat there in silence for a few moments.

"So what are you going to do now?" I asked Patrick, breaking the silence.

"Probably stay here." he replied, glancing around the empty room. "I'll be safe enough."

A wild inspiration suddenly seized me. "Look, Patrick," I pleaded, "you could come back with me, to where I'm hiding out. They won't find you there. You'll be perfectly safe."

He shook his head. "I can't, Vanessa. I don't want to put you in any more danger than I have already."

"But–" I paused. "What if you get found here? They'll kill you, Patrick. And where I live now, the chances of being found are one in a million."

He shook his head. "I think that armed officials looking for freedom fighters and terrorists have better things to do than look in old buildings condemned for demolition." He looked me right in the eyes. "I promise ye, Vanessa, that they won't find me."

I sighed, knowing I was beaten. "All right, then. I just want you to know that if you do change your mind, here I am. But I'll be able to bring you food and stuff, so if you need anything, just tell me."

He smiled at me. "Thanks, Vanessa. Any chance you could bring a TV in here?"

I laughed, then stopped as I realized that the sky outside had suddenly grown lighter. I'd better get back before V finds me missing for a second time, I thought, although of course I didn't say this to Patrick.

"I have to go." I told him, gazing out the window again. "I have to get back before I get found, but I'll come and see you later." I got to my feet.

Patrick nodded, lying back on the ground. "I'll see if I can get a decent radio signal and get some information about what's going on. Maybe I can stay alive for just one more day." A faint smile flickered across his face.

On impulse, I leaned down towards him, and kissed him on his forehead, right where his cut was, before heading towards the door. "Maybe I will, too."

During the week, in the Shadow Gallery, I couldn't help but notice that something seemed to be different. Maybe it was the fact that I knew Patrick was alive and well, and that I had another ally who I could trust, besides V. Or maybe it was the fact that V himself seemed different. So much more different than when I first knew him. Twice a day, he disappeared to a secret location, not telling me where it was he went. When he returned, he seemed subdued, almost, and it would be at least half an hour before I could muster up the courage to even talk to him. If he noticed anything unusual, like food disappearing from the kitchen (which I had taken to Patrick, for fear that he would starve) he didn't say anything.

One ordinary afternoon, sometime in mid August, the two of us were sitting together in the living room. I noticed, with some satisfaction, that V had stuck the picture I had drawn of him right beside where he usually sat. He appeared to be watching the news, and once again, I found myself drawing. Or rather, attempting to draw. But, as I stared at the piece of blank paper, I couldn't think of anything that came to mind.

"….panic caused by rebels who have recently taken to the streets and used the art of graffiti in protest." The TV screen showed a shot of a large white wall, with black, spray-painted letters spelling, 'PEACE' across it. "Extreme measures are being taken to stop this vandalism, but it is unknown how far these groups are intending to go." The shot moved to show one of the large black vans, defaced this time by white spray paint that read, 'DOWN WITH NORSEFIRE'.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see V glancing at me. I turned my head to meet his gaze, puzzled. "What?"

"It's strange how art comes in many forms, doesn't it?" It was more of a statement than a question.

I stared at him. "But that's not what I'd call art." I gestured toward the TV screen, which was now showing the weather report. "When I think of art, I always think of pictures, and paintings, not words."

"Yes, but your idea of art and another person's idea of art may be very different. Tell me–" V sat forward in his chair, his invisible gaze locked on me, "have you ever heard of a man called Banksy?"

I nodded. "I did a project on him last year, for Art at school."

V seemed satisfied, as he got up from his chair and swept over to the large wooden bookshelf that occupied a corner of the room. "You might be interested in taking a look at this." He found the book, and handed it to me.

"Banksy, Wall and Piece." I read, flicking the book open and slowly turning the pages, curiosity getting the better of me. I glanced up at V. "He was political, too."

V nodded. "His works are, indeed, inspirational." Taking a seat back in his chair, he continued on. "Have you ever wondered why the authorities have extremely little respect for graffiti artists?"

I shook my head.

"It is because they are afraid. Afraid of their good image being tarnished, but mainly, they are afraid of the truth. The sort that can only come out of a bottle of spray paint." He indicated my drawing on the wall. "When I first looked at that picture you drew, Vanessa, it was as if I was seeing myself for the very first time. And I also knew that you, my child, are extremely talented. One day, you could be an artist."

It was the nearest V had ever given me to a compliment, and I felt startled and surprised, but also pleased.

"Thanks." My voice came out quieter than I had intended it to. "But V, why are you telling me all this now?"

"Because, Vanessa, you have a gift." I could feel that the face behind his mask was looking at me again. "And it may not seem like it, but it is indeed a powerful one. One that could, potentially, set off a spark and set the whole rebellion alight. Evey's father said that artists used lies to cover up the truth. But you, Vanessa, are an artist, one who uses truth to uncover the lies." The dark holes that represented his eyes seemed to smile at me. "Use it well."

I glanced at the Banksy book, lying open on the table, showing a stenciled graffiti picture of a maid, pulling up a fold of wall with a dustpan in one hand. And slowly, an idea started to form in my mind, and a smile started to spread across my face.

To be honest, that did feel quite short (although there only were two scenes in the whole chapter) but I hope that you enjoyed! Reviews are always welcome :)