true. Well, it felt true. I didn’t have to think about what she said to understand it, is what I mean, not in the way I did when Dad was talking. There was no jigsaw to do, no challenge to face – the image was already there. ‘Believe me,’ she said. ‘You’re not in any trouble.’
I watched her plug in the machine and prod at its buttons, while I held my fingers against the pulse on my neck, willing it back to a normal speed. I managed to get a sentence together. ‘Do your parents know you have this?’
‘Of course they do, stupid,’ Clementine said. ‘Where do you think I got it?’
I shook my head. I didn’t know.
‘Dad got it for me, didn’t he? From work.’
Which made no sense. I take it back – this particular picture she’d given me did need fitting together. And there were jigsaw pieces missing. Herr Hart was merely the telephone engineer at Dad’s office and would have had absolutely no access to anything like that. I decided it was theft. Terrifying theft. Or more likely, because this was the Harts we were dealing with, terrifying flakiness.
Then Clementine produced the CD in its plastic sleeve.
‘Ta-da!’ she announced, shoving it right into my face. The name
Jay Acker
was written in marker-pen straight onto the rainbowed silver, and underneath, the song title,
Feeling Free
. I jerked backwards.
‘Oh, Jessie,’ she laughed. ‘You’re so funny.’
I knew what I had to do. I was back in control.
My hand twitched for the Waitrose carrier in the pocket of my school bag, but I was certain that Clementine wouldn’t just hand over the contaminated item. This was a hostage situation. I needed to
isolate, contain, evaluate, negotiate
.
I got up from the floor, shaking still, but doing my best not to show it. I closed Clementine’s bedroom door. I went back and sat beside her. I had my palms on show – nothing up my sleeve.
‘My dad says we must hand those in,’ I told her in the flattest tone I could manage. (
When in a hostage negotiation keep your voice normal and calm, whilst working towards building a rapport.
)
Clementine wrinkled her nose. ‘Why are you talking like that, Jessika?’
She slipped the CD out of its sleeve and placed it into the mouth of the player. It sucked it up, licked its lips. I could imagine the radiation travelling across Clementine’s hands now, up her arms, making for her brain.
‘My dad,’ I said, slower this time (
repeat your information until you receive verbal confirmation that your message has been understood
), ‘says we must hand those in.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Clementine whipped her head around at this. A string of her blonde hair caught me on the cheek. Stung me. We had seen technicolour images of radiation on the People’s Television, and now I was imagining a slick of it across my face, spreading, mutating. She was smiling and angry. ‘And who is your dad to be saying that?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Who is your dad to be saying that?’ she repeated. ‘I’m interested. Really. Who is he?’
Silence. Horrible silence.
‘What do you mean?’ My voice was papery, like someone had their hands on my throat.
‘I mean,’ Clementine went on, ‘what is it that your dad actually does?’
There was great emphasis on the ‘actually’. She stood up, put her hands on her hips. I think that she wanted a fight – hands and fists and everything – which was silly of Clementine because we’d been taught how to deliver a swift downward strike to the brachial plexus at the BDM session straight after her parents had stopped her from attending. I didn’t want to use my pressure point attack on Clementine. It really hurt. Erica Warner had been my partner for the exercise and she had located the agony of that nerve with her first blow.
I didn’t even want to stand up and face Clementine. But I did.
‘My dad is an auditor!’ I tried to sound defiant but it came out sounding stupid.
‘And what does that even mean?’ Her face was
I watched her plug in the machine and prod at its buttons, while I held my fingers against the pulse on my neck, willing it back to a normal speed. I managed to get a sentence together. ‘Do your parents know you have this?’
‘Of course they do, stupid,’ Clementine said. ‘Where do you think I got it?’
I shook my head. I didn’t know.
‘Dad got it for me, didn’t he? From work.’
Which made no sense. I take it back – this particular picture she’d given me did need fitting together. And there were jigsaw pieces missing. Herr Hart was merely the telephone engineer at Dad’s office and would have had absolutely no access to anything like that. I decided it was theft. Terrifying theft. Or more likely, because this was the Harts we were dealing with, terrifying flakiness.
Then Clementine produced the CD in its plastic sleeve.
‘Ta-da!’ she announced, shoving it right into my face. The name
Jay Acker
was written in marker-pen straight onto the rainbowed silver, and underneath, the song title,
Feeling Free
. I jerked backwards.
‘Oh, Jessie,’ she laughed. ‘You’re so funny.’
I knew what I had to do. I was back in control.
My hand twitched for the Waitrose carrier in the pocket of my school bag, but I was certain that Clementine wouldn’t just hand over the contaminated item. This was a hostage situation. I needed to
isolate, contain, evaluate, negotiate
.
I got up from the floor, shaking still, but doing my best not to show it. I closed Clementine’s bedroom door. I went back and sat beside her. I had my palms on show – nothing up my sleeve.
‘My dad says we must hand those in,’ I told her in the flattest tone I could manage. (
When in a hostage negotiation keep your voice normal and calm, whilst working towards building a rapport.
)
Clementine wrinkled her nose. ‘Why are you talking like that, Jessika?’
She slipped the CD out of its sleeve and placed it into the mouth of the player. It sucked it up, licked its lips. I could imagine the radiation travelling across Clementine’s hands now, up her arms, making for her brain.
‘My dad,’ I said, slower this time (
repeat your information until you receive verbal confirmation that your message has been understood
), ‘says we must hand those in.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Clementine whipped her head around at this. A string of her blonde hair caught me on the cheek. Stung me. We had seen technicolour images of radiation on the People’s Television, and now I was imagining a slick of it across my face, spreading, mutating. She was smiling and angry. ‘And who is your dad to be saying that?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Who is your dad to be saying that?’ she repeated. ‘I’m interested. Really. Who is he?’
Silence. Horrible silence.
‘What do you mean?’ My voice was papery, like someone had their hands on my throat.
‘I mean,’ Clementine went on, ‘what is it that your dad actually does?’
There was great emphasis on the ‘actually’. She stood up, put her hands on her hips. I think that she wanted a fight – hands and fists and everything – which was silly of Clementine because we’d been taught how to deliver a swift downward strike to the brachial plexus at the BDM session straight after her parents had stopped her from attending. I didn’t want to use my pressure point attack on Clementine. It really hurt. Erica Warner had been my partner for the exercise and she had located the agony of that nerve with her first blow.
I didn’t even want to stand up and face Clementine. But I did.
‘My dad is an auditor!’ I tried to sound defiant but it came out sounding stupid.
‘And what does that even mean?’ Her face was
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