Resurgence by Kerry Wilkinson Page B

voice shudders and his arm is trembling. Anyone can see his terror.
    I pull Opie towards me but he is staring open-mouthed at the screen. Hart has made his way from the table at the other end of the hall and is holding Pietra’s hand as Jela clutches onto
her from the other side. The five of us close together as silence ominously echoes around the room.
    Opie’s voice is low and disbelieving. ‘He said he was going to find a weapon . . .’
    The Kingsman in grey speaks again: ‘Where is Silver Blackthorn?’
    Opie’s father gulps before replying. ‘We’re not handing her over. You have no right to do this to our village.’
    Back and forth the camera switches as if it has been choreographed. The Kingsman’s face cracks slightly, the corners of his lips turning upwards in a smirk of arrogance. I know these
pictures will be watched all around the country. How will they see this? As a group of oppressors terrorising a community like theirs, or as a gang of rebels getting what they deserve?
    The Kingsman’s voice doesn’t match the humour of his smile. ‘If you will not hand her over, we will take her.’
    Evan takes a step forward. ‘I was the biggest supporter of the King. I lived through the war and came out the other side. I thought he was the best thing to happen to this country, but
this . . . this is wrong.’
    The merest nod from the Kingsman in grey sends four men in black scurrying up the stairs. Evan holds his hands wide into a crucifixion pose, showing he is unarmed. He refuses to fight as two of
the guards pick him up by the scruff of his neck. His legs don’t flail and his body goes limp.
    ‘She’s just a girl,’ he shouts and then the screen goes blank. I know that what comes next would only sit well in the towns and cities around the country if they believed Evan
deserved it. Someone must have decided that cutting down an unarmed man trying to defend a teenage girl is not going to play well to the masses – even if that girl is an apparent traitor.
    I have been so transfixed by the bravery of Opie’s father that I have almost forgotten our predicament. Opie is staring at the blankness of the screen. I want to say something supportive
but there is someone tugging at my sleeve – an older woman who is so short she barely comes above Hart’s waist. She has grey curly hair and drags a leg as she walks. ‘Come with
me,’ she hisses, pulling me harder.
    I stumble over a reply, not wanting to be rude. There is blood seeping from a spot above her hip, drenching her dusted overalls. ‘I can find someone to help you,’ I say.
    She continues to yank me, unconcerned about the apparent hole in her side. The sickest people who were on the torn-up scraps of canvas have been moved into the centre of the room along with the
children, surrounded by the men and women ready to fight. I want to guide the woman there but she is insistent, yanking on my sleeve so firmly that I think it may rip.
    I follow, largely because I have little choice. Opie clenches my hand tightly as there is a gasp from the people closest to the window.
    We both know what it means for his father.
    The woman stops and points at Hart. ‘You! What’s your name?’
    ‘Hart.’
    She continues to jab a finger in his face. ‘What you said reminded me about you leaving. It was a sunny day, wasn’t it?’
    Hart is as confused as me. ‘Yes . . .’
    ‘It was really hot.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When you were going to the train, everyone wanted to shake your hand. They all tried to touch you because you were so famous.’ There is a tinge of red in his face as he stumbles
over a reply but the woman doesn’t let him get a word in anyway. ‘I held my hand out with all the others. They tried to push me away but you took my hand and said goodbye.’
    Hart shakes his head slowly, not remembering, but the woman doesn’t mind. For Hart, it was one of many people he said farewell to; for her, it was something that stuck. She is a Trog, used
to