Of all the times for the nightmare to haunt me again, it had to return today, dammit.
I glance at the far wall for any sight of a waiting message, but there’s none. Come on. I can’t move until I’ve downloaded the permit, and the Explorers Administration promised they’d get back to me noon latest.
I’ve spent the last few days finalizing preparations. I’ve studied the submarine’s control manual nonstop, memorizing the vessel’s details over and over. Tabby’s been back and forth to the submarine, loading it. The cash prize is proving really handy. The sub itself is ready to sail. All the necessary programs have been installed and triple-checked over the last couple of days, including Theo’s latest modification—an anti-tracking device. Everything is coming together for me to leave this evening.
New Year’s Eve is my best bet at sneaking out of London unnoticed. Everyone’s always distracted by the New Year celebrations, and this year they’ll be huge because it’s not only a new year, but a new century. The authorities will be stretched throughout the night.
Jojo’s already at the hangar with Grandpa and Theo. We’ve gone over the plan countless times. I’ll leave via Dartford Tunnel, the shortest, relatively safest way over the borders.
“Anywhere but Epping Forest.” Tabby’s warned me repeatedly, the others immediately agreeing. “It’s bloody well dodgy, and we’re always advised to stay well clear of it.”
Once across, I’ll head to Grandpa’s cottage at King’s Lynn where I’ll be safe until I know my next move. The entire time I’m on board the submarine I mustn’t contact anyone unless it’s absolutely unavoidable, Theo explained. More than likely, all communication conducted by the twins and Grandpa is being monitored, and any contact between us could draw the authorities to the vessel’s location. But I’m more concerned about getting them into trouble. Once I reach Grandpa’s cottage there’s a secure line there, and I can communicate with everyone again.
Blackwatch’s intensified surveillance of me is hard to miss. The subs are no longer discreet about following me, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to shake them off. At least I haven’t seen Ari anywhere; Gramps finally saw sense and sent him away, I think. I don’t need anyone watching me.
I wrap Mama’s soft pashmina tighter around my shoulders. The faintest scent of jasmine and musky attar still lingers in its silk and wool fibers. My grandmother sent it all the way from Kabul, in Afghanistan, as part of a huge wedding parcel when Mama was getting married. The corners of my mouth lift.
The waters can’t halt human connections. The desire—the sheer will, to reach out, to anchor one another, is too stellar. People will always find a way to keep from losing one another—from losing themselves. The human spirit didn’t drown. It was swept up and carried along; it flows still, the stream coursing its way through everyone’s lives.
I just have to find a way to beat the dread, that’s all.
I walk over to the album wall to download the pictures but can’t resist glimpsing a few first. I swipe them into view, one by one.
There’s an image of Mama and me, in Kensington Gardens—her favorite place in London. At the time, it was “winter” in the never-ending indoor gardens. Mama has me in her lap. I wave past the image and pause instead at one of my favorite pictures of my parents.
I wasn’t born yet, and they were living in a single room, only able to afford basic amenities and tasteless reconstituted food. Despite their struggles, though, their expressions are blissful. Papa was studying at the time. Mama was the creative one, painting and taking photos.
In one image, Papa’s surprising Mama with their tiny room transformed into the closest thing to a studio he could create for her. In another, they’re huddled together under a woolly blanket wearing silly grins as they point to Mama’s first portrait painted in the new “studio.” It’s of my great-grandpa Kasim McQueen—an American who visited Afghanistan and fell in love with both the country and my great-grandma and never went back. The painting is striking. So was Mama. She always carried an expression of sheer wonder and exuberance.
What would she say to me now if she were here? I wrap my arms around myself. What’s it like to receive a hug from your mama? I gaze once more on both parents’ faces, then download the images and delete the album. I jump when the communications wall springs into life. It’s time for the Great Briton of the Day. The solemn voice lists off the lessons learned from the Battle of Waterloo as Lord Horatio Nelson’s face fills the wall. The broadcast is interrupted by a message alert: the Explorers Administration. At last! I play the message:
“Miss McQueen, we are greatly honored that this year’s London Marathon champion has expressed an interest in joining the ranks of so many pioneering Britons before her. You have nothing to prove so far as navigational skills go. And so it is with deep regret we inform you that on this occasion your Explorer Permit application has been rejected. We received a request from the authorities to deny you this undertaking. Captain Sebastian felt it was asking too much of somebody in a situation such as yours, what with your father’s unfortunate circumstances. . . . Please do accept our most humble apologies. Good day, Miss McQueen.”
I stare openmouthed at the wall.
No permit.
I have to leave now, and I don’t have the means to travel legally. I shiver.
How dare he? I hate Captain Sebastian so much. Why deny me? Exactly what he is up to? It’s all I can do to stop bursting into tears. I can’t give in now, I just can’t.
There’s only one thing for it: I’ll just have to hope and pray security forces or border patrol never stop me.
All I know is I’m not spending another night in London. If they come for me, Papa is lost to me forever—I’m certain of it.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth, and I try swallowing it away. I close my eyes, and all I see is a vast and terrible unknown ahead of me. An endless abyss of monstrous creatures and earthquakes and the all-destructive Anthropoids. And now I can add to that the threat of being stopped and discovered traveling illegally.
Can I really do this?
My insides heave. I scramble to the bathroom and hurl, throwing up the little I’ve eaten since last night. Damn the trembling in my legs. I take deep breaths. I must conquer the fear; I’ve no other choice. I have to leave this place so that I have some chance of finding Papa.
I wash and pray, asking for guidance and success for my trip. Retrieving any files I want to keep, I then activate Theo’s deletion device and wipe away the rest. Within minutes everything is gone. As if I never even existed here. I gulp at the air. Focus. I can do this.
I check the flat for the final time. I mustn’t leave a single thing behind that might lead anyone in my direction. The compact space is empty. And not at all like home.
Goodbye, flat. Wish me luck.
I open the front door and, stepping out, close it behind me. Ignoring the thumping in my chest and the quivering in my legs, I press on down the damp and dismal corridor. The tiny bells in Mama’s anklet jingle with each step. It feels right to wear it today. I tug at Papa’s “Christmas” jumper wrapped around my shoulders like a snug shawl and don’t look back.