Blemished, The by Sarah Dalton

empty stacks – the goods from these warehouses had been emptied years ago and shipped off to London. From my angle I could just see from their feet to their torsos. I had to move closer. I took a deep breath and wriggled under the door.
    I stood and immediately ducked behind one of the stacks. The shelving units were compact and climbed all the way to the ceiling. As I surveyed the area I saw people camping on the lower shelves, using them like bunk beds. Sleeping bags and pillows were strewn messily on the cold, concrete floor. I had no idea that people lived like this and felt ashamed that I’d taken my house and my dad’s privileges for granted.
    I looked deeper and saw a group of people, mostly men but with some women, in the throes of an intense discussion. I held my breath, it was the Resistance. My dad stood with a tall man in a leather coat. He had a short crop of dark hair and nodded along to whatever it was my dad was saying. I had to get closer if I wanted to be able to hear.
    I moved silently through the stacks without attracting any attention, placing my feet quietly on the cement floor, padding like a cat. Luckily the Resistance were in heated debate and unlikely to be easily distracted. As I moved closer I heard phrases like “It’s too soon” and “we need to do something” but couldn’t piece them together. In between two stacks, a few feet away from the group, I saw a pile of boxes and made my way to it. I crouched down behind them and watched.
    The first thing I noticed was how few people there were: perhaps twenty or thirty. If Daniel was right and it really was a Resistance meeting, this was poor. I’d always assumed them to be a dangerous and formidable group of militants – purveyors of organised chaos – not a group of tired looking people talking to each other with their arms folded. I concentrated my attention on my dad and the dark haired man.
    “Everything is set up, you just have to tell me when,” the man said. I saw him in profile now and that he was perhaps in his early thirties, good-looking and well built. He watched my dad with a nonchalant curiosity, almost arrogance.
    “A few months, maybe more,” Dad replied.
    The man tipped his head to the side. “That long? You know you need to get to him before they do.”
    “She’s not ready yet,” said Dad. “But you have the arrangements in place?”
    The man rested a hand on my dad’s shoulder. “What did I tell you, Brother? Relax and I will take care of everything.”
    I shifted my weight on the floor, relieving a growing cramp in my leg and inadvertently bumped one of the stacks, knocking an empty tin can to the ground.
    “What was that?” said Dad, looking around him.

16
     
     
     
    I t wasn’t just Dad who heard the noise – they all did. Oh crap, this is bad, I thought to myself. I had seconds before they found me and had to move fast. On the other side of the warehouse I saw several boxes piled up high in one of the stacks. If I concentrated hard enough, maybe I could move them like I did with the trestle table at school. But first I needed to conjure that same anger, the kind that flashed through my muscles and made my fingers tingle. It was easy this time. I just thought of my dad.
    The boxes tumbled to the ground and the Resistance turned away, distracted. Making the most of my opportunity I ran towards the exit , but in my haste I knocked over an old gas stove which clattered loudly against the concrete. A man with sandy hair and glasses saw me as I darted through stacks. 
    “There’s someone getting away! Look!” he shouted and pointed.
    I felt their eyes on me. All I could think about was how much trouble I would be in if Dad found me. I had to get out. I kept moving.
    “Stop!” someone shouted.
    They were pursuing me – I heard their footsteps. My breath came out ragged and my heart pounded. But I was still fast.
    “Matthew, follow her. Don’t let her leave.” A different voice this