Captive (24 page)

Most often, though, I am in that wood alone. When I reach for Talon, his patch of crumpled grass will be warm, as if he has only just left me.

Nine months later

Granny and Grandpa’s house looms ahead of me, a squat grey slab that has been in Mum’s family since her great-great-great-great-grandfather (give or take a few
‘great’s) built it on a strip of land gifted to him by the king in fifteen hundred and something. It’s the second of January and freezing. Ten centimetres of snow fell over
Christmas. It’s beautiful, but even I am getting bored of it now. There are only so many photos of white-covered stuff that you can take before snow blindness sets in. Plus, the heating broke
in Granny and Grandpa’s house yesterday so it’s even colder here than usual. But the estate in Cheshire is the only place where we can be quiet and alone, without the constant flashing
of camera bulbs and the never-ending questions. I sometimes feel like I had more freedom when I was a hostage.

We fled here the week before Christmas and no one’s mentioned going back to Kensington yet. We’ll have to soon, though. School term starts next week and I’ve got GCSE mocks the
week after that. I’ve been trying to do some revision, but I’m pretty much screwed. No one’s admitted it yet, but we all know I’m going to have to repeat the year. In some
ways I don’t mind. I mean I wouldn’t want to actually repeat the year, event by event, but maybe by redoing Year 11, I can somehow eradicate the last twelve months.

I can’t believe it was exactly a year ago that we were in Paris. I’ve had a very different sort of start to the year. Grandpa is still really pissed at Dad, but Granny is mostly just
‘disappointed’, which is worse somehow. Grandpa blusters and curses; she is silent and withdrawn, and she has suddenly started looking every minute of her seventy-two years.

After cutting across the front lawn, I trudge around to the side entrance to the house. My camera case bumps against my hip. I haven’t taken any pictures this morning. There wasn’t
anything to capture, just endless whiteness. I didn’t even hear any birds. Yesterday I spotted a couple of robins making a nest down by the lake.

I fling my wellies off in the pantry, stopping when I’m halfway across the flagstones to go back and line them up properly. I don’t want to add to Granny’s stress and anxiety
– mess of any kind makes her crazy. It’s lucky I did because she’s in the kitchen, stirring porridge on the Aga.

‘Nice walk?’ she asks.

‘Cold walk.’ I line my mittens up on the radiator to dry. ‘You look tired. Can’t Marion do that?’

‘Marion always burns it. And I can just about manage to make my own porridge. Not in the grave yet.’

I kiss her leathery cheek. ‘Is Dad up?’

‘Blue Room. With your mother. Writing his letters.’ Granny sounds like she is sucking on a mouthful of lemons.

‘It’s a good thing, Granny.’

‘A good thing would have been him not getting us into this mess in the first place. But there, I’m an old woman. No one takes any notice of me.’

I grin at her and go out into the hallway to peek through the open door to the Blue Room, which is the long narrow living room at the front of the house. Dad is sitting in the large armchair by
the window, his head back, his eyes closed and a blanket over his knees. He looks like an old man. His shoulder hurts more in the cold and, over the last few months, he seems to have increasingly
lost the use of his arm. He is in near constant pain now. The doctors can’t explain it. They’ve suggested that it might be a damaged nerve and have advised all sorts of treatments. Dad
resists most of them. ‘It’s my past sins catching up with me,’ he says. ‘If you go up into Grandpa’s attic, you’ll find a ravaged painting of me. All the evil
I’ve done in my life visible on that portrait.’

To which Mum always laughs and says, not unkindly, ‘The evil you’ve done isn’t hidden in the attic. It’s reported in the press on a daily basis.’

‘. . . There’s another letter from the chief medical officer at Bradford General,’ Mum says now. She’s perched on the chair beside my dad. ‘All his patients which
received Amabim-F had bad side-effects that included shortness of breath and a rash.’

Dad met Talon’s mum a few months back to apologize personally for delaying the truth coming out. Now he and Mum are looking to set up a charity that supports all kidney-disease sufferers
and their families. I want them to call it the Jeremy Fletcher Foundation. I wrote to Talon in prison to ask him what he thought, but he never replied. I’ve written him a letter every week
since I last saw him. He hasn’t replied to any of them.

Dad leans forward to take the letter from Mum’s hand, wincing in pain as he does so. Mum presses her hand to his forehead. ‘Do you need more pills?’ she asks softly.

Dad shakes his head and Mum kisses him lightly on the cheek.

I creep quietly away before either of them sees me. Unbelievably, Mum and Dad are closer than I’ve ever seen them. I’m pleased that something positive has come out of all this, but
it hurts too. There’s a distance between me and Dad these days, and I don’t know how to close it. In fact, there’s a distance between me and everyone now. Even me and Poppy. She
tries to understand, but she can’t. No one can. No one knows what I went through. No one except Talon, and he won’t reply to any of my letters.

Talon, Feather and Scar are in prison. Feather and Scar got the longest sentences – fifteen years. Eight for kidnapping and seven for attempted murder. In a bizarre twist, it turns out
that my father wasn’t the target in Paris. Feather had been aiming for Michael, with the bomb threat and the bullets. Michael’s room had been near our suite in the hotel and Dad had had
his coat over his head when we ran for the car. It seems that Dad has his friend’s ridiculous taste in clothing to thank for his shoulder injury.

The shooting, or rather the media storm that came after it, was what led to my kidnapping. During her trial, Feather revealed that after seeing the scale of the coverage on the shooting in
Paris, she knew that when it came to getting her brother released, she had to switch focus from Michael to my dad. But she didn’t want to kidnap him – it was too problematic, not least
from a logistical point of view. I was less well-protected and arguably a better victim anyway. I was an ‘innocent’
and
the PM’s daughter. The press would go crazy for the
story, not only in the UK but around the world. Plus, my father actually had the power to release Marble, or at least influence the decision.

The judge was lenient with Talon, after all. Perhaps something I said registered with someone. He’s serving four years. They reckon he could be out in two for good behaviour. Two years
still seems like a very long time.

Marble has been released. All charges dropped.

The trials of Michael Bell and Bell-Barkov are due to start in the New Year. Michael’s facing charges of gross negligence and manslaughter. Bell-Barkov will probably be fined, along with
Glindeson, the company that oversaw the drugs trial. Amabim-F has been taken off the market.

I’m heading up the stairs to find Addy, when my mobile phone rings. I left it on the table in the hall. I tuck my hair behind my ear – it’s chin-length now – before
answering it. ‘Hello?’

A voice I could never forget says, ‘Hello, Robyn.’

I slide down on to the floor. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello.’

‘Hi,’ I say again.

‘You said that already.’ It’s funny how you can hear someone smile. ‘There’s a robin that sits on the fence when I’m doing outside exercise. It makes me think
of you.’

My knuckles are white from gripping the handset.

‘Robyn? Are you still there?’

I make a noise that is somewhere between a cry and the word ‘yes’.

‘I got your letters.’

Come on, Robyn. Formulate an actual sentence.
‘You . . . you didn’t reply.’

‘No.’

‘But you’re calling me now.’

‘Yes.’

I remember the last time I saw him, how I held him as he cried and whispered,
‘Forget me. Forget me.’

‘I can’t,’ I rasp now.

‘Can’t what?’

‘Forget you.’

There’s a thumping in my rib cage like something’s trying to escape.

‘Me neither,’ Talon says.

‘So what do we do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I could . . . I mean . . . if you wanted me to . . .’

‘We don’t have a future, you know that. I mean, how could we?’

‘I know,’ I say, thinking of his hands in my hair.

‘You should really just move on, even if I can’t.’

‘I know.’ His breath on my neck.

‘Find someone else.’

‘Definitely.’ His mouth on my lips.

‘So . . . you’ll come and see me?’

Dad says that words are a powerful weapon. A single one can change a destiny. Imagine what two could do.

‘You bet.’

I love reading authors’ acknowledgements because it reminds me how long it takes to write a book and how many people are involved. I can’t tell you how exciting it
is to be writing my own.

A lot of tea, biscuits, angst and far too many tears went into writing
Captive
and I couldn’t have done it without the following people.

Thank you to:

My husband, who supplied the tea and biscuits, listened to the angst and mopped up the tears. Adam, this book is dedicated to you because it wouldn’t exist without you.

My family but especially my parents (all four of them). An extra dollop of gratitude for my mum, who thinks I am the best at absolutely everything and is always at the end of a phone to tell me
so, and my dad, for all the advice over the years.

My friends, but especially Natto, Ellie and Caro (my social media experts), Fran, Chezzie, Lucie, Lucy-Tim, Yusur, Gemma and Non.

My UK agent, Jane Finigan, for always knowing the right thing to say (which is frequently ‘don’t worry’) and everyone else at Lutyens and Rubinstein, but especially Daisy
Parente, Juliet Mahony and Gillian Fitzgerald-Kelly.

My US agent, David Forrer at InkWell Management, for being my champion across the Pond.

My publisher, Simon and Schuster, both in the UK and in the US. I have been lucky enough to have not one but two amazing editors: Elv Moody and Christian Trimmer. I’m very grateful for
their intelligent and thoughtful comments. This book is so much better because of them. A thank-you also to their brilliant assistants, Catherine Laudone and Rachel Mann, as well as the rest of the
editorial teams, but especially Ingrid Selberg, Jane Griffiths and Becky Peacock. My thanks also to S&S UK’s amazing PR gurus, Lorraine Keating and Elisa Offord. And Paul Coomey for
creating such a brilliant cover.

The team at Walker Books (my other publishing home!), but especially the fiction department, who are all brilliant and I love working with them.

Extra special mentions most go to Gill, Mara, Denise, Maria, Kate, Jack and Linas.

My advisers: Captain Philip Evans, for all the army-related info, Tim Found and Wendy Foster, for advice on sentencing and secret trials, Doctor Yusur Al-Nuaimi, for helping me to understand
kidney disease and also creating a drug to cure it, and April Henry, (read her books; they are ace!), who so kindly suggested some wonderful revisions that stopped me from looking like an idiot.
All mistakes are my own.

And lastly you, the reader, for reading not only
Captive
but also this loooooong list of thank-yous. I really hope you enjoyed my first book.

Captive
tackles some very weighty issues, such as global terrorism and corruption in the pharmaceutical industry. What inspired you to write about these
topics?

I am interested in politics and current affairs, but I didn’t sit down and think ‘I must tackle these huge issues’ in a book for young adults. In fact, I was
nervous about introducing such big themes – were they appropriate subject matter? Did I know enough about them? I considered distancing myself from them by setting
Captive
in a
dystopian future. However, that seemed wrong. Everything I was writing about – terrorism, government cover-ups, cronyism, corporate irresponsibility, the destruction of the environment and
animal testing – are realities in modern Britain, and it seemed a disservice to the reader to present them in any other way.

I am no expert on these topics, but I do live in a world where they exist. If my book gets people talking about these subjects, then that’s great. We all have a responsibility to take an
interest in the world around us and to speak up for what we believe is right. Ultimately, though, this is Robyn’s story. She is the one I wanted to write about, and the one I hope readers
will want to read about.

Robyn is a brilliantly wilful character. Who are your female role models?

I am humbled by Malala Yousafzai’s bravery and courage in standing up for a woman’s right to education. She reminds me that we can all make a difference and that we
are never too young to try.

Also, Audrey Hepburn, for her sense of style and her compassion. After a successful career as one of Hollywood’s most iconic and beloved actresses, she then became a UNICEF ambassador.

And my mum, who is definitely responsible for my empathy and belief in the importance of helping others and being kind. (She is also responsible for my tendency to be melodramatic, which is a
less good quality, although it amuses my husband!)

If you were famous, like Robyn, what would you like to be famous for?

I guess I’d have to say for being a writer, but I am very happy not being famous. With the glamorous lifestyle comes the paparazzi (although you’d have to be a
very
famous author for cameramen to start following you around!). The press can be so cruel to celebrities. I don’t believe you waive all rights to privacy just because you are in the
public eye. Constant media attention must be especially hard when you haven’t chosen to be a celebrity, and are only famous because of your parents. How do you form an identity of your own
when the world’s media are comparing you to your mum and dad? How can you be free to make mistakes when everyone is watching you? Robyn struggles with both of these things in
Captive
.
I like to think that by the end of the book she is more aware of who she is and so is better able to cope with the press.