knew exactly what she meant. Pity and promises weren’t what they needed. But first things first…
“This is what’s going to happen,” she told them. “Sam is going to walk down the middle here and I want each of you to look into the camera and state your name, age and where you’re from. Speak up nice and clear – you’ll be famous the world over.”
Again the hiss sounded at the back.
The reporter liked whoever that was. At least one of these kids had some fight left in him. She’d get to Nike boy soon, but first she told Sam to start. She knew it was of vital importance to get a record of the kids. Heaven knows what the real intention of the Ismus was, but it certainly wasn’t to give them a fun weekend. She’d stake her life on that.
As Sam moved down the coach, they heard the noise of another vehicle approaching. Kate stared out and saw a second coach driving up the forest road.
“More rejects,” Jody observed.
It turned into the compound and parked close by. Again eager parents came piling out first. Kate saw more wretched young faces left behind in their seats.
Sam concentrated on the task at hand. The older kids gave their names grudgingly; the ones of around ten and eleven did it with stilted shyness. Most of the youngest stood up to do it, with emphatic nods. Others had to be prompted to speak louder.
“Daniel Foster, nine and a quarter, Weymouth.”
“Beth McCormack, Marlborough, twelve.”
“Patrick… Patrick Hunter, eight… ummm Horsham – twenty-three Elm Tree Grove.”
“Christina Carter, I’m seven and a half and… I’ve forgotten.”
“Never mind, honey,” Kate reassured her.
“Jody, fourteen, Bristol and you’re wasting your time.”
“Mason Stuart from Ashford, eleven.”
“Brenda Jenkins, ten, Epsom.”
“Rupesh Karim, Upton Park, nine.”
The next child was a thin, frail-looking boy with an ashen face. There was a large bruise on his forehead. Sam made sure the camera picked that up. The boy stared dumbly into the lens, like a startled baby bird.
“And what’s your name, little buddy?” Sam asked.
The boy mouthed something inaudible, then murmured a bit louder, “I’m seven.”
“Tell the folks in the US who you are,” Sam coaxed.
The boy took a breath and the bruise crinkled as he frowned with concentration.
“I think I was called Thomas Williams,” he began in a bewildered, faltering voice. “But now… now…”
“Now? What do your mom and dad call you?”
“Punchbag.”
Sam choked. He laid the camera down and put his arms round him. Other children craned their heads round the seats to see. From their envious stares, Kate realised they were completely starved of affection and had forgotten what a hug felt like.
She clenched her teeth, but banked the anger for later. She’d seen and heard enough. The crass PR stunt that Ismus creep had planned to pull today had blown up in his arrogant face. What good press was he hoping to wring from these abused and neglected kids? One thing was certain, they weren’t going to spend another day in this malignant, twisted country. She’d get each one of them out somehow.
“It really is Julie Andrews time,” she said, taking out her mobile. “I’m calling Harry. He’ll know who to yell at or put the squeeze on to cut through the red tape and BS. We’re out of here, Sam, and the kids are coming with us – if it means sending in the goddamn marines.”
She found her producer’s number in New York and pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for it to connect. Suddenly a shrill squeal filled the coach and she dropped the phone as if it had bitten her. The screen went blank, no signal – no nothing.
“Sam,” she urged. “Get your cell. Call Harry.”
The cameraman obeyed hurriedly. The same piercing shriek blasted from his mobile.
The younger children stared at them. Jody grunted and muttered under her breath. At the back of the coach the hiss was replaced by a mocking snort.
“Has anyone got a cellphone?” Kate begged. “I need to speak to people who can get you out of here, away from this.”
Several hands rose slowly. Then, at the back, the trainers withdrew and the angry face of a black youth reared up from behind the seats.
“What is wrong with you?” he shouted at the reporter. “You terminal stupid or something? They won’t let you call nobody. They’ll burst every phone you try.”
“He’s right,” Sam said. “They’re jamming us. We can’t call out – we can’t contact anyone.”
Kate clenched her hands. She should have expected something like this, but even in the most remote places of the world she’d always managed to get her reports back to the network. Still, she wasn’t overly worried yet. She should have been.
“Thanks,” she addressed the boy at the back. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t need my name, lady and I ain’t interested in yours, cos you and Spielberg there are the biggest fools I seen in a long while. What you even doing here? You’re a couple of turkeys who don’t know it’s Christmas. You don’t know nothin’!”
Thumping the headrest, he dived back on to his seat, pushed in his earphones and turned up the volume of his MP3 player.
“My laptop’s in the hire car,” Kate told Sam. “I’ll go email Harry and get things moving.”
“You think they won’t be jamming the Internet as well?”
“That’s what I admire about you, Sam, always so positive. If they’re doing that, I’ll just have to drive till I’m out of range.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, stay here and finish what you’re doing. Then get over to that other bus and do the same. It’s important.”
She clapped her hands. “Listen up, kids,” she said. “I need to leave for a little while, but I’ll be back. Sam is staying and I want you to start talking to one another and make friends. OK? You’re in this situation together now. You have to pal up and begin looking out for one another. You hear me?”
The muted responses were not encouraging.
“Oh my days!” Jody observed sharply. “What Top Shop travesty is assaulting my eyes out there?”
She was staring out of the window at the second coach, where a teenage girl dressed in a pink and white leather outfit was looking expectantly about her, searching for the news crews and smiling widely for any cameras.
“Tanorexic Barbie spawn,” Jody commented. “With an IQ lower than the dead animals she’s wearing. What plastic planet is she on?”
Kate Kryzewski was too focused on composing the urgent email she was going to send to even look. She turned to hurry back to the door. Then she halted and drew a sharp breath.
There was the Ismus. His lean, velvet-clad frame ascended the two steps into the coach and he broke into a crooked grin. The younger children shrank down into their seats.
“Welcome, my pretty pigeons,” he greeted. “Time for you to fly into the sunshine and see what delights and marvels have been prepared. Such fun you shall have.”
He prowled closer to Kate and brought his face uncomfortably near. “We wouldn’t want them to miss a moment of what’s in store for them, would we?” he said, breathing dead, stagnant air upon