“It didn’t happen like that!” Isidor protested. “They were trying to kill us!” I glanced round at Murphy and he was looking blankly at the TV, his sharp blue eyes showing no emotion whatsoever. “They’ve obviously manipulated the film,” Luke said bitterly. “But why?” I asked. “To make us look like we’re the killers. To make people fear us,” Murphy said, and his voice was flat. I turned back to the screen to see a mug shot of Potter. “Oh for god’s sake!” Potter snapped. “Why did they have to go and use that picture? Of all the pictures they could have shown on T.V. why they have to go and use that one? I look like a pervert!”

Ignoring his vain complaints, Luke said, “The whole thing just makes us look like ruthless cop killers.”

“And that’s exactly what they want!” Murphy said, now sounding angry.

“Who does?” Potter asked.

“Them!” Murphy snapped, pointing at the T.V.

I turned to see Phillips seated behind a long table at a police press conference. He was dressed immaculately in police tunic, which now had three silver pips on each shoulder.

“Somebody’s gone and got themselves a promotion,” Potter said and made a whistling sound through his front teeth.

Phillips’ thick silver hair was combed to one side, he was clean-shaven and looking sleek apart from the scars that ran down the side of his face. I could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he sat before a throng of reporters, lapping up the attention. There was a mass of microphones attached to the podium. Around each microphone was fixed a smaller collar with the names of the television crews in attendance. Present was the BBC, ITV, Sky News, CNN, FOX and many others – it seemed that almost every country in the world was represented.

“You were right then, Luke. Phillips did survive,” Isidor said. “I didn’t doubt it,” Luke whispered as if to himself. “And so did your friend, Kiera, what’s-his-face,” Potter said and pointed at the T.V. screen. As I looked and in the background, I could see Sparky, dressed smartly in his police uniform. Snatching up the T.V. remote, I pressed the volume button and increased the sound level as Phillips addressed the nation.

“As you know, several major incidents have occurred across England in the last twenty-four hours. As of yet, we are not fully aware of the true nature of these incidents. On early investigations, it would appear that some unknown wild animal or animals went berserk on the London Underground...”

“That lying -” Potter started to say.


“Shhh!” Murphy ordered. “I need to hear what he has to say.”

“…yesterday morning,” Phillips continued. “Early enquires revealed CCTV footage of these people acting suspiciously on the Underground minutes before the attack.”

As Phillips lied to the country, along the bottom of the screen, our faces appeared and the words ‘Suspected Fugitives’ flashed past.

“I ain’t no fugitive!” Isidor grumbled as his face flashed across the screen. “Shhh!” Murphy said again. “These five suspects have quickly been identified as James Murphy, Sean Potter, Luke Bishop, Isidor Smith, and Kiera Hudson.” “Is it true, Chief Inspector Phillips, that four of these suspects are police officers?” one reporter called out. “Were police officers,” Phillips corrected the reporter.

“Is it true that the female – Hudson – is also wanted in the connection of the missing persons from Havensfield?” another asked and a series of cameras flashed.

Phillips laced his hands together on top of the table and looked grimly into the sea of flashing cameras. “Yes, I can confirm that Kiera Hudson is wanted in connection of those persons who have gone missing from Havensfield.”

“Why has it taken so long for you to apprehend her?” another reporter yelled off camera. “Doesn’t this show police incompetence? Or perhaps it’s because she is one of your own that you have been so slack in apprehending her?”

“Not at all,” Phillips smiled confidently. “The previous investigating officer has been reassigned to another case -” “I bet he has,” Potter cut in. “Who have you appointed in his place?” yelled another reporter. Phillips almost seemed to pause before replying, and then he grinned into the cameras and said, “I am very grateful to the newly-appointed Superintendent Jessica Reeves from our Special Tactics Unit, who will now be leading the enquiry not only into the missing persons, but also the attacks on the London Underground.” Then standing, Phillips looked to his right and held out his arm to welcome the new superintendent to join him at the table. I couldn’t help but think how he reminded me of some second-rate T.V. game show host, as they greeted the contestants onto their show.

The superintendent stepped up to the table and my heart stopped. Stumbling backwards into a nearby chair, I threw my hands to my face, I watched my mother take her seat next to Phillips at the press conference. I remembered how Phillips had told me that my mum had changed her surname to Reeves when undercover in The Ragged Cove.

“That’s Jessica Reeves - Hudson,” Murphy gasped as he recognised her from the time they spent working together at The Ragged Cove.

I nodded my head numbly, not believing what I was seeing. Not understanding what I was seeing. Without question I knew it was my mother, her dark raven black hair, high cheekbones, and bright hazel eyes, which were just like mine.

“Gee,” Potter whistled, “I never remembered her looking that hot!” “Potter!” Murphy growled viscously. “Shut your mouth!” “What is she doing on there?” I whispered breathlessly. “She’s my mum!” “It seems impossible,” Luke said, hunkering down beside the armchair and taking my hands in his. “Why?” I asked, fearing the truth. “Why is she with Phillips?” I looked into Luke’s eyes, hoping that maybe he had the answers. My heart was pounding in my chest and I felt as if I was going to be sick. But before Luke had the chance to say anything, someone shouted from behind us, “Right, you goddamn freaks…move and I’ll shoot the lot of ya!”

Chapter Eight

I turned around to find myself looking down the long barrel of a shotgun. The man holding it was fat and balding, with a bushy grey beard that swarmed around his chin and neck. His hair looked unnaturally black and I realised I’d been right about him dying his hair.

“I know who you all are!” he roared angrily. “The news reporter said that you had last been seen in the area and we should keep all our windows and doors locked.”

That’s why he took his wife and child away tonight – he wanted to protect them from us, I thought to myself. And knowing that I’d been right about that too, didn’t bring me any comfort – not tonight.

“We’re not who you think we are, Mr. Kenner,” Murphy said.

“How do you know my name?” he almost seemed to squeal.

“Ask sweet-cheeks over there,” Potter said, striking a match and lighting-up a cigarette. “Your wife doesn’t like Beyonce by any chance, does she?”

Glaring at Potter, who was only making the situation worse, I said to the man with the shotgun, “It’s not like you think…”

“Keep it shut, lady, you ain’t fooling me!” Kenner barked. And waving the gun at us, he said, “Move over there. All of you stand against that wall.”

We did as he ordered and stood by the fireplace, which snapped and hissed behind us. “And put that cigarette out!” he ordered Potter. “Who said you can smoke in here? This is my house!”

“No problem,” Potter said, drawing deeply on the cigarette and blowing streams of bluey-grey smoke through his nostrils and mouth. Then, flicking the half-smoked cigarette at the farmer, Potter said, “Here, catch!”

Instinctively, Kenner raised his arms to protect his face, and in doing so he accidentally fired the shotgun. The cartridges tore into the ceiling, sending down a shower of plaster all over our heads. Before I even realised what was happening, Potter had flashed across the room in a spray of black shadows and disarmed Kenner of his gun. The first he knew about what had happened was when he glanced up to see Potter pointing his gun at him.

“You need to calm down, soldier, or you’re going to end up hurting someone,” Potter said. “So sit down and stop getting so excited.”

Throwing his hands into the air and sounding petrified, Kenner screamed, “Don’t hurt me! Pleeeease don’t hurt me!”

Crossing the room, Murphy took the shotgun from Potter and placed it on the floor. “No one here is going to hurt you, Mr. Kenner,” Murphy said, “you have my word about that.”

“Please don’t hurt me! I have a wife and child. Pleeeease...!”

“Like my friend said, no one is going to hurt you,” Luke tried to reassure him.

“But I saw you all on the T.V…they said you were…”

“We’re not killers,” Isidor said, sliding his crossbow over his back.

“What’s your first name?” Murphy asked him.

“Tom…I’m called Tom.”

“Well, listen to me, Tom. Whatever you’ve seen on the T.V. about us…it isn’t true. We aren’t going to hurt you…we’re not the enemy,” Murphy tried to reassure him.

“But on the T.V…I saw you…” he blustered as he glanced fearfully at Potter.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to believe everything you see on T.V?” Potter asked, as he lit another cigarette.

Seeing this, I couldn’t help but wonder why Potter had to be so difficult. Then realising that he might be of some use, I said, “Potter, take off your coat.”

“Easy, tiger,” Potter grinned. “This isn’t the time or the place, sweet-cheeks, maybe later -”

“Just take it off!” I yelled at him.

“I never had you down as the dominant type…” he started.

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