Seven. Jude

I sat opposite her house in my newly acquired car for I don't know how long, just watching and 'waiting. Though if you'd asked me what I was watching and waiting for, I wouldn't've been able to tell you. A glimpse of her. Just a sight to see she if was all right. This, my most recent car, was around five years old – a black, four-door saloon. I'd gone into a car park across town, barrelled the lock and hot-wired it. I never stole new cars, they were too conspicuous. A five-year-old car wouldn't get too much attention. I needed to blend into the scenery, especially sitting outside her house. Did she know how much I missed her? Could she sense me watching her front door?

I tilted back my head, still watching Mum's house, willing her to look through a window or open the door and see me. This whole situation was bizarre. I'd thought that more and more often over the last few months. I was a boat with no oars and no sails, drifting where the currents swept me. I even missed Morgan's regular company. But we were both better off this way. I had no friends, I had no home, I didn't even feel safe belonging to the Liberation Militia any more – not whilst Andrew Dorn was the General's right-hand man. My life had moved past unreal into surreal. At least that's how it felt a lot of the time. Most of the time. But then I'd remember the sight of my brother swinging on the gallows, and painful reality whipped back at me with enough force to knock me off my feet.

Callum McGregor, my brother. Callum, who was like my good reflection. He was the one in the family who was meant to make it. Get out. Get on. Get ahead. But he hadn't. And if he couldn't make it, what hope did the rest of us have? If it's possible to truly loathe and love someone at the same time, then that's how I felt about my brother. He had it all.

And it killed him.

Mum, I'm still here. I haven't abandoned you. I hope there's some way you can feel my thoughts and know that I'm thinking of you. Does she get my money? I don't send it every week and the amount varies according to how much I can afford but at least I try. Mum, I wish I could step out of the shadows and knock on your door like any other person would, but I can't. I'm wanted – by all the wrong people. The government, the police – and some within the Liberation Militia. But I'm still here, Mum. I still think about you – in spite of Jude's fourth law: Caring equals vulnerability. Never show either. But you're all I have left in the world, Mum. And that means something to me. I wish it didn't, but it does. So here I am, sitting in a stolen car outside your house, watching and waiting and wishing all our lives had turned out differently.

I'd better go before someone spots me. It wouldn't surprise me if they're still watching your house, hoping I'll turn up. Hang in there, Mum. And don't worry. I only have one desire, one ambition left. I'm going to make them all suffer.

I'm going to make them all pay.

Wait. Her door's opening. She's bringing out a rubbish bag.

Oh my God! She looks so old. When did she get so old? Head bent, shoulders drooping, shuffling like an old woman. But it's only been a few months. A few years. A lifetime. Look what they've done to you, Mum. Look at the state of you. She's looking up – straight at me. Can she see me? Of course she can. What am I thinking? I have to get out of here. I must've been mad to come here in the first place.

She's calling my name. For God's sake, Mum, don't do that. You don't know who's watching or listening. What was I thinking? She's dropped her bag and is running towards me now.

Move the car, Jude. NOW!

Get going.

Go.

Mum, don't cry. Please don't cry.

Sorry.

It was a mistake.

I'm so sorry.

I'd broken Jude's first cardinal rule.

Never, ever allow yourself to feel. Feelings kill.