Captive (14 page)

‘I’m meeting the French president, not going into battle. Although . . . some of these trade negotiations can get very bloody. I’ll be careful. Don’t you worry about
me.’

There’s a knock on the suite door. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ Dad says with an apologetic wink and goes to open it.

On the TV screen, Wile E. Coyote has just run over the edge of a cliff. His legs propel him forwards for a few seconds until he realises there is nothing below him. Then, with a look of
resignation at the camera, his legs stop moving and he falls down the gorge. Dad’s voice cuts through the closing credits. ‘Ah, Michael, hello, come in.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘No, Bobs is here but we’re just watching cartoons. You wouldn’t be—’

‘I need to talk to you right now. Alone. It’s that bastard Fletcher family. Sniffing around again. The son this time.’

‘Okay, well, calm down. Come in and we’ll have a chat.’

‘We need to do more than that. They’ve got some journalist involved. She’s got the whole damn story. Jesus Christ. This is such a mess.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t always come to me with this, Michael. I can’t be seen to—’

Michael says something too quietly for me to catch.

Dad’s voice again. ‘Come in, then, but make it snappy.’

Dad stalks back into the room, with Michael right behind him. A handful of papers are clutched in Dad’s fist.

I am already sliding off the sofa. ‘Something’s come up. I know. I’m going.’

‘We’ll catch up in the morning before your flight, I promise.’ Dad’s voice is tight and he doesn’t take his eyes from the papers in his hand. Michael barely even
nods at me.

As I slip my shoes on, popcorn spills out of the tub clutched under my arm. He flings his jacket down on one of the dining-room chairs.

‘For God’s sake, Robyn!’ Dad snaps. ‘Be careful.’ He kicks the popcorn into a pile with the toe of one shoe. The papers in his hand flutter forward with the
movement. Dad snatches them to him, but not before I see the words ‘You have blood on your hands’ scrawled across the top in red ink.

The light bulb snaps on, spilling light as loud as a drum over me. I have been sleeping fitfully. I half sit up. For a second, I am in the hospital in Paris, stretched out
under a blanket on the couch in the nurses’ station. It’s very early in the morning, and I’m refusing to go home. I will not leave Dad until I know he’s going to be okay.
Until I know that he’s going to live . . .

I blink – and I’m back in my white box.

Talon is standing over me. ‘We’re going outside,’ he says.

My eyes flicker to the tiny window. Grey cobwebs of sky signal that it is early, very early. But who cares? I haven’t seen the sky in nine days. I am wide awake now and scrabbling out of
bed.

‘You have to promise me you won’t run,’ Talon says.

Lying only takes a second. ‘I promise.’

The air is brittle and pierces my throat with every breath, but it is the most wonderful sensation ever. I am alive. I am breathing fresh air again. I don’t care that it
is pre-dawn and freezing cold. I’m outside, with hard-packed earth below me and a sky as clear and white as fresh snow above me. It is something I never thought I’d do again.

Talon tied my hands behind my back, thankfully with a strip of fabric and not those horrible flexes. My wrists are still tender and bruised from them. After walking up the now familiar staircase
from the basement into the kitchen, we headed down the corridor and out of the front door, which opens on to a gravel driveway that disappears into a fence of trees. I was reminded again how
different everything might have been if I’d turned left instead of right all that time ago.

Now Talon leads me around the side of the house – a large, two-storey, white-stoned cottage, washed slate grey in the half-light. It is ugly and unkempt, with tiles missing from its roof.
Grass and weeds push up between the stones of the tiny driveway, which is overhung on all sides by trees and hedges. Through a narrow gap between them I can just make out a road. The hedges
continue around to the garden at the back of the house, beyond which are the beginnings of a wood. Bracken-covered paths weave through trees that are intricate black stencils against the lightening
day.

No wonder no one has found me here. Why would anyone look in such a tiny, remote place?

We enter the wood. The first few trees are spread apart, but they quickly grow so closely together that there is barely any space between them. I try to listen for the sounds of cars that would
suggest a road is nearby. There is nothing except for the odd tweet of the birds in the shrubbery around us and our own breathing.

‘Can you hear it? There’s a bird – a sparrow, I think. Up in the tree behind you.’

‘You said you couldn’t take me outside,’ I say.

‘I changed my mind.’

We stop when we come to a partial break in the trees. There is a fallen log and Talon gestures that we should sit down. Then he frees my hands. I flex my wrists to get the blood circulating.

The trees are less dense here and I can see a clearer way through them. I can now make out the dim distant buzz of car engines.
This is it, Robyn. This is your chance to run.

Talon lets go of my arm to take the rucksack off his back.

Move, Robyn.

Talon’s eyelashes are so long that they make shadows on his cheeks as he undoes the straps of the bag.

COME ON! MOVE!
My body won’t cooperate.

Talon looks up. I know he is smiling just from the crease at the corner of his eyes. He hands me an apple and a chunk of cheese. ‘Hungry?’

I take the food from him. I sit down next to him. I don’t run.

There is a sudden snap of wings nearby and I jump. Talon laughs. ‘Wimp,’ he says.

‘Can you tell what they are?’

‘From their wings flapping? Er . . . no.’

‘Call yourself a twitcher.’

‘Actually I’m a birder.’

‘A what?’

‘Have I taught you nothing over the last week or so? A bird-watcher just watches birds. They don’t really seek them out. They don’t care that much what they see. Whereas a
birder is more picky.’

‘Like a connoisseur of birds.’

‘I’m going to ignore the sarcasm in your voice. We care about the environment and preserving it for future generations of birds.’

‘Both sound like stupid hobbies to me.’

Talon smiles quickly, then says in a serious tone, ‘I want to tell you something. I’ve been thinking and, well, maybe if you know why I got involved in all this, then you might talk
to your dad for me. I have no right to ask that, but I believe you’re a good person and if you knew what had happened to me, you might understand all this a bit more. You might help
me.’

He takes a photograph out of his pocket and flattens it out. It shows a dark-haired boy with a cheeky grin and green eyes, like Talon’s but not as bright. ‘That’s my brother.
It was taken about four years ago, so Jez would have been around ten. It was just before he got sick that last time. We’d gone to the beach for the day. Mum took that photo. She wanted one of
both of us, but I kept ducking out of the way. See, there’s my head.’ He unfolds the corner of the photo to reveal a blur of dark hair.

I lift the photo up so I can see it better. The boy – Jez – is grinning, chin pushed out in an exaggerated but real smile. ‘He looks nice.’

‘He was. You remember me telling you Jez got sick and died?’

‘I remember.’

‘Well, it wasn’t as simple as that. He had NFS, a kidney disease. He was born with it. It’s hereditary. My parents were carriers, but it was recessive or something. Basically,
neither of them knew they had it. “A genetic lottery,” the doctors called it. There was like a one-in-four chance of their kids getting it. I don’t have it. Jez did. It meant his
kidneys didn’t work properly. He was twelve when he died.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No, listen. He didn’t die of the disease. The disease was bad, yes, but he was doing okay. Amazingly okay. He had to have dialysis and it was shit, but he was going to get a new
kidney. He and I were a perfect match. I was going to give him one of my kidneys and he would have been all right.’ He takes the photo back from me; the edges crumple as his hand fists.

‘Then . . .?’

‘My brother didn’t just die. He was murdered by the head of Bell-Barkov, Michael Bell – and your dad helped cover it up.’

The two men go into Dad’s study. Dad’s face is white. I can’t get those words out of my mind:
You have blood on your hands.
It is the only excuse I
can give for what I do next. After waiting a few minutes to let them get well and truly into the conversation, I creep down the hall beside the study and into the bathroom on the other side of it.
Then I open the window and pray that Dad hasn’t shut the one in his office.

Michael is speaking. ‘. . . journalist sniffing around for weeks. We got the police on to her. Restraining order, the lot. The coppers have been very good about that sort of thing since
that fire last year. This time it hasn’t done any good. She’s still been hanging around, hassling my staff and asking all manner of questions, about our animal-testing programme and our
work in Nigeria. How much do we pay those who volunteer for testing over there? Are they fully aware of the risks involved? Now, she’s got wind of that incident a few years back. Even got
hold of the voicemail message I left you. Sent this ridiculously incendiary photo of a kid and a rabbit. Going on and on about our drugs’ testing procedures, how we use animals and this that
and the other. Inadequate staffing. The lot. We are about to get regulatory approval for the drug to go international. I can’t have anything messing with that. I need you to do something. Put
pressure on someone.’

‘
Like who? What do you want me to do?
’
Dad sounds incredulous.

‘Come on. You’re up to your neck in this, Stephen, just like me. Do you think the public will be impressed to learn that you knew about the issues with this drug and did nothing
because you needed some extra cash?
’

I have been resting on the windowsill, and I’m so shocked by what Michael’s just said that I lean too far out. In my scramble not to fall, I knock the flowerpot off the sill. It
turns over and over, spraying petals, and then smacks against the tarmac on the courtyard below.

‘
What was that?
’
Michael says and, before I have time to duck back inside, he is at the window next to me. He looks quickly down and then right, at me. His face masks into
a purple rage and I duck back inside. Every instinct is telling me to run, not to let him catch me. After tugging open the bathroom door, I scoot down the corridor towards my room, but Michael is
fast. There is a hand on my shoulder. Michael spins me round, digging his hands into my upper arms.
‘
You little bitch, you were listening!
’
His face is red with rage and
each word is punctuated with spittle.

‘
I – I – I . . .
’

He shakes me.
‘
Tell me what you heard!
’

Dad
’
s voice thunders down the corridor.
‘
GET AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!
’

Michael steps back, his skin already turning white. He looks at his hands as if he can
’
t believe what he has just done. Dad puts his arms around me, but I push him away. I
don
’
t know why, but I
’
m angry and scared.

‘
I think it
’
s best if you go, Michael,
’
Dad says.

Michael nods. He is so white now I
’
m afraid he will pass out. Using one hand to steady himself, he stumbles down the hall like a drunk.

‘You took money from Michael.’ I am so angry my hands are shaking. ‘For what? What drugs is he talking about?’

‘You need to calm down.’ Dad takes a step towards me.

‘Don’t come any closer!’ I yell. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near me!’ I don’t understand what’s going on, but instinct tells me that Dad has
done something wrong.

His eyes narrow as the politician replaces the father. ‘You will calm down this instant. You are hysterical. You had no right listening at doors. No right, whatsoever. Now, get back to
your room.’

‘No. Tell me what you were talking about.’

‘Robyn, I am your father and I am the British prime minister and I am telling you not to meddle in things you do not understand. You have no idea what you are getting involved
in.’ His skin is mottled white and pink, contorted with so much anger that I don’t even recognise him.

I back away from him, because for the first time in my life, I’m scared of what my dad is capable of.

‘Sorry,
what
?’ My voice is very small, like the tinkle of glass when it breaks.

‘Jez was killed by Amabim-F, Bell-Barkov’s new wonder drug for treating kidney failure. Only it wasn’t wonderful. It was poisonous. It was early on, during the clinical trials.
His doctor said there was this new drug that would somehow fix Jez’s kidneys. I thought it was bullshit, but my parents – and Jez – they wanted to go for it.

‘Jez was the sweetest kid ever. He hated the thought of me giving up my kidney for him. He wanted to try . . .’ Talon’s eyes are misty and he swipes his hand quickly across his
face. ‘He wanted to try it. I begged him not to. Who really knew what that shit would do to the body? He was a stubborn bugger, though. Insisted. And . . . and . . .’ His eyes fill
again and this time he doesn’t bother to wipe the tears away. ‘He died. Anaphylactic shock.’

‘But Jez was sick. You said yourself that there was no cure. It was an accident. Not murder.’

‘Bell-Barkov
knew
there were side-effects. Jez wasn’t the only one that got sick. Bell-Barkov had messed up the trials from the beginning. A lot of the animals they tested on
suffered allergic reactions. And a monkey actually died, but no one took any notice. Or they turned a blind eye. Blamed it on the fact that animals have a completely different genetic make-up to
humans; testing on them can only prove so much. That’s one of the reasons Feather is so against animal testing. It doesn’t give the results scientists say it does, so the animals are
just being tortured for no reason.’