The Daughter

by Michelle Frances

  ‘I’ve told you: I can’t just not turn up. It’s the interviews. It’ll look weird. Suspicious.’

  ‘Tell him you’re sick.’

  ‘I’d just have to reschedule.’

  Tim exhaled, his frustration threatening to boil over.

  ‘What’s he going to do? In broad daylight?’

  Tim took her hands. Pleaded. ‘Look, Kate, this isn’t about me wanting you to stop for my own sake. It’s not about me wanting a family. I care about you.’

  Kate looked across at Iris, who had tactfully turned away. ‘This whole thing has been about Becky,’ she said softly. ‘Doing something for my daughter and being the mother I’m supposed to be. Keeping my promises. I’ll take it to wherever it goes. I will not quit.’ She looked up at him. ‘And I’m not scared. I might have freaked out there, when I got that thing in the post, but I am not scared.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Adam sat in the chair, his hands lightly clasped in his lap. His boss, Roger Harris, was sitting a few metres away, watching him. Roger’s boss was in another wide leather chair on the right-hand side of the room, also watching him. Adam glanced over at her; she was younger than Roger and dressed in a severe grey suit, which she wore with a tie. He’d only met her twice since she’d joined the company and he didn’t think she’d remembered who he was. And yet . . . here she was at this meeting. Neither of them said a word.

  There was another man present, one he’d never seen before. He was the only person in the room who wasn’t watching him; instead he was sitting at a desk, engrossed in some task with a mobile phone. The man’s face was bent over, concentrating, and all Adam could see was that he had a long moustache. On the desk next to the phone was a knife, something Adam found odd and disconcerting.

  He looked back to the silent Roger. Adam had been summoned to his office first thing that morning and he had no idea why. Despite the modern room’s air-conditioning, he felt a bead of sweat break loose and run down the side of his face.

  Roger suddenly spoke, making Adam jump. ‘Thank you for coming up. We thought it was a good time to have a review of where we were with things. More specifically, our commitment to company confidentiality.’

  All eyes were back on Adam again, scrutinizing him for a reaction. The silence was excruciating but Adam kept the pleasant and nonchalant expression on his face and waited.

  ‘I just wanted to make sure that everybody here knew that confidentiality was something to be taken very seriously,’ said Roger.

  Adam crossed his legs. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear, but I think we need a little more reassurance. You see, we all hold a very privileged position working here and sometimes we may see documents that are not meant for us. And that can get the imagination going. And sometimes people from the outside world might like to know what’s in those documents and might try and approach us. Wheedle it out of us.’ Roger smiled.

  Adam felt his stomach fall. They knew about Kate coming to see him. He kept his composure. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  They were still staring at him. The screech of a piece of Sellotape being pulled from a roll startled him and he looked over to the moustached man who had the tape between his teeth. The man’s eyes were now also on Adam as he bit through the tape. Then he started to cover a mobile phone box with wrapping paper.

  ‘That’s good to hear, Adam,’ said Roger. ‘Because we take breaches of security very seriously. Very seriously indeed.’

  Roger’s boss suddenly got up out of her chair and left. Adam stared open-mouthed at the closing door.

  ‘And we would have to act immediately and with great severity if we were to find any staff member had broken their NDA,’ added Roger.

  From the other side of the room, there was the sound of a piece of fabric being cut. Adam looked over to see the moustached man slice through a piece of blue ribbon with white polka dots, using the knife that had been on the desk. He then started to tie the ribbon around the gift-wrapped box.

  ‘Do we understand one another?’ asked Roger.

  Adam swallowed down his anger and fear. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We do.’

  Roger stood. ‘Well, that’s terrific. Glad to hear it.’ He went over to Adam, slapped him hard on the shoulder then left the room.

  Adam stared after him. What the . . .? Why had he been left alone? He heard the dull thud of a knife in wood and turned to see the moustached man sitting back in his chair with his feet on the desk. In front of his shoes was the knife, sticking upright from the desk. Adam’s eyes flicked from the knife to the man.

  ‘You can go,’ said the man impatiently.

  Adam turned and walked stiffly away.

  Once he’d gone, Janković leaned back further in the chair, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled.

  ‘Yes, it is all done.’ He surveyed his handiwork on the desk. ‘I’ve put a pretty bow on it and everything.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  It had been back-to-back interviews ever since she’d arrived. Every so often Kate snuck a glance at Greg, who was sitting to her right in the large conference room, and still found it hard to believe he could be in any way involved in Becky’s death. It seemed absurd, fantastical.

  The last candidate, a young man from Wales, who had been offered a place at Exeter to read journalism, was just finishing up. As with all three of the bursary finalists, Kate had been struck by how passionate and determined each of them was, how each wanted to make their mark in the world.

  Maddie, Greg’s PA, led the candidate away. The conference room suddenly seemed too big for just Kate and Greg. She looked over and realized she was nervous.

  ‘He was very impressive,’ said Greg, referring to the student they’d just interviewed.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Do you have a favourite?’

  ‘I think I need more time,’ said Kate.

  ‘Sure. Do you want to email me? Maybe later this week?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And are you still on for our little celebration next month? We can take a picture of you and the winner and have our PR department write a piece for the press.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ said Kate.

  ‘And talking of celebrations . . . I’ve got you a little present.’ Greg had a boyish grin on his face as he opened up his briefcase, then paused for a moment, with the gift hidden behind the lid. Then he brandished an envelope. ‘Happy birthday!’

  It was totally unexpected. ‘Thank you,’ said Kate. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  He brushed away her embarrassment and waited for her to open it. She untucked the envelope flap and inside was a cardboard wallet emblazoned with the British Airways logo. Mystified, she lifted the flap and pulled out two first-class tickets to the Bahamas and details for a week’s stay in a hotel tantalizingly called Turtle Bay.

  Her mouth dropped. She let out a small, incredulous laugh. ‘Oh my God . . .’

  ‘So now you get to try the lounge where they absolutely won’t let you get lost, although I can’t guarantee they’ll spray your feet with mineral water at the hotel,’ said Greg.

  She handed it back to him. ‘Greg . . . this is too much. I can’t accept this.’

  He swept aside her protestations. ‘Nonsense. You can pick your own dates by the way, you just need to call them, and they’ll rearrange for you.’

  ‘Seriously, I can’t—’

  ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’

  Kate was still staggered by the generosity of his gift – and how he’d remembered their conversation during her first experience of airports. Was this what he did? Blindside you with kindness while all the while sending you death threats?

  ‘Have you ever been yourself?’ she asked.

  ‘Where? The Bahamas?’

  She shrugged. ‘The Caribbean.’ Anguilla.

  He laughed. ‘More of a Seychelles man. At least, my ex-wife used to drag me there, but I’d only stay a week then leave her to it. I got itchy feet. But
my excuse was always that something needed urgent attention at work. Which, to be fair, was often true. Still is. So, how are you going to fill your time now that the bursary is almost up and running? Other than our little ceremony, this is it now – at least until next year.’

  Fill her time? My God, if only he knew. Maybe he did. She shrugged. ‘Back to the day job.’

  A sharp rap on the door made her jump. It was Maddie. ‘Your lunch appointment’s arrived,’ she announced.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ said Greg, dismissing her.

  Kate started to gather her things.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Greg. He reached back down into his briefcase.

  Kate’s eyes widened as be brought out another gift. ‘No . . . no . . . enough now.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He slid the present across the table to her.

  She was adamant. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Go on. Don’t make me return it.’ He pushed it a little closer to her.

  Kate looked at the gift, a small wrapped package tied with a blue bow with white polka dots.

  Sighing, she pulled it closer and then unwrapped it. Inside was a brand-new mobile phone.

  ‘No cracks,’ he said.

  ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘See it as a thank you. For bringing certain things to my attention.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘The trucks. We’re a safer, better company because of you. I’ll always be grateful.’

  ‘He was normal,’ she said to Tim when she got home.

  She’d found him sitting in the living room watching daytime TV, which was unusual for him.

  ‘Normal?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, he didn’t do anything weird.’

  ‘So, you trust him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Kate sighed. ‘I need a tea,’ she said, heading for the kitchen. ‘Fancy one?’

  She stopped dead. Sitting on the kitchen floor was a large duffel bag, packed full. It was Tim’s. She heard him switch off the TV and come up behind her.

  ‘I think it’s for the best,’ he said quietly. ‘For now, at least.’

  She spun around. ‘You’re moving out?’

  He nodded tightly.

  ‘But . . .’ What should she say? That she didn’t want him to go? Yet, even as she tried to form the words, they sounded selfish. She’d kept him waiting for so long, kept him hanging, and, deep down, she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to give him what he wanted – what he had a right to want.

  ‘If anything happens, you call, right?’ said Tim gruffly.

  She could stop him, she should stop him, but somehow her arms and mouth weren’t working. She watched as he picked up his bag. He hesitated for a moment, but still she said nothing, just remained in a sort of stunned, immobilized state. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Then he walked out of the room.

  A few seconds later she heard the front door shut.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Kate looked across the help desk at the bald, fat man in front of her and tried to remain patient.

  ‘You need fifteen-millimetre compression olives,’ she said.

  He looked downright scornful. ‘Are you sure, darlin’?’

  ‘No. I just made it up because I wanted you to get drenched in water.’

  ‘Really?’

  She sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘I’d like to see you drenched in water,’ he said, his eyes making a beeline for her breasts, clad in the company T-shirt.

  ‘Oh, you’re irresistible.’

  He grinned.

  ‘Not. Do you think that is even the remotest bit appealing? You making suggestive comments? Because it’s not. It’s sexist and rude and makes me want to puke up all over this desk,’ she snapped.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on,’ he said, clearly annoyed and a little alarmed. ‘You’re a bit too thin for me, anyways.’

  ‘That’s lucky, because you’re a bit too thick for me.’

  His face puckered in indignation and then he walked away, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to appear manly and unfazed.

  Kate gritted her teeth and forced herself not to throw something at the back of his head. She didn’t want to be at work today. In fact, she hadn’t been herself ever since Tim had left. Her first boyfriend had come full circle and become her first break-up. And it bloody hurt. It was hard to get up in the mornings and stand at this desk talking to partially evolved human beings like the one she’d just encountered.

  Tim had texted a couple of times since he’d moved out, to check she was OK, that no more unpleasant deliveries had arrived, that she was locking the door at night. But each of his messages had been to the point: practical, functional missives that were signed off simply with his name. She missed his warmth and easy humour. God, she missed him. She pulled her new phone from her trouser pocket again, to give it a sneaky check, just to see if he’d been in touch. They weren’t allowed phones on the shop floor, but Kate had taken to breaking the rules. She was feeling mutinous.

  Her heart leapt as she saw there was a message, but it was from Grace, not Tim. Kate had sent one to her a couple of days ago, asking how Arnie was doing. She quickly opened the reply.

  ‘Not so great. He’s got severe graft vs. host disease. Grafted cells attacking his liver. He’s back in critical care.’

  Kate stared at the screen, reeling. Critical care? When had that happened? Everything had been fine – fine. Surely, he’d be OK? Wouldn’t he? Wasn’t the match a nine out of ten or something? People didn’t die from a transplant as good as a nine out of ten.

  She checked the time of the message – it had been sent just over two hours ago. Kate dialled Grace’s number – but it went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, Grace, it’s me, Kate. I’m so sorry to get your news. I—’ She paused, not knowing what to say. ‘If I can do anything, anything at all, let me know.’

  She hung up, still shaken. Everything Arnie had been through, and now this. It wasn’t fair. Angry tears sprang to her eyes. He was just a child, six years old for God’s sake, and other people, a chain of faceless politicians, corporations, scientists, had decided his fate for him.

  She put her phone back in her pocket and pinched the bridge of her nose. She shouldn’t cry on the shop floor. She quickly glanced around in case any customers were heading her way and saw a mother pushing her trolley down the aisle across from her desk, her young son sitting in the child’s seat. He was clutching a brightly coloured child’s watering can, something the shop had on as a promotion. The mother was browsing the garden products and Kate saw her pick up a bottle of weedkiller and read the front label with its reassuring claims of ‘quick action’ and ‘targets roots’, and how it would make your garden so beautiful, so perfect by killing the weeds. The mother placed a bottle in her trolley.

  Kate stepped from behind the help desk and walked over to the woman. ‘Excuse me?’ she said as she plucked the bottle of weedkiller from the trolley and put it back on the shelf. ‘I really wouldn’t recommend this stuff.’

  The woman looked bemused. ‘But I need it,’ she said and placed it back in again.

  ‘No, honestly, you don’t,’ said Kate, putting the bottle back, more firmly this time.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said the woman, plonking the bottle back in.

  ‘Maybe you don’t understand. This stuff kills people.’ Kate turned the bottle over, indicating the back label. ‘Glyphosate. There are numerous reports about it being carcinogenic to humans. I just worry . . . it’s not great to chuck it all over the garden when you have little kids outside.’

  The young boy, who’d been getting more alarmed at Kate’s behaviour, began to cry. His mother picked him up, along with her bag, and started to walk away. ‘You’re bonkers,’ she said. Kate didn’t even watch her go. She ran her arms along the shelves, sweeping bottles of weedkiller off the shelf and into the woman’s abandoned trolley with a crash.

  ‘Kate?’ said a smooth, corporate voice in her ear.
She ignored it.

  ‘Don’t make me have to call security.’ It was Martin, her manager. She stopped, out of breath.

  ‘Shall we have a little chat?’ said Martin.

  ‘You can’t let your personal issues affect your work,’ said Martin in his ‘calm voice’, the one she suspected he learned on his ‘staff management and morale’ courses. She looked at him. He was only in his twenties, but already heading towards being overweight, and he liked to gel his thinning hair, which actually made it look even thinner. He was sitting on a low chair next to hers with an air of self-importance about him, of stoically bearing the extra responsibilities management brought.

  She considered getting up and leaving his office, but that would probably just inflame matters.

  ‘There should be a clear dividing line between what goes on at home and what we do here.’

  ‘You are poisoning our customers and their children,’ said Kate.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She spoke clearly, as if he were having difficulty understanding. ‘A large proportion of domestic weedkiller products contain glyphosate, a highly contentious ingredient that has been labelled by the World Health Organization as being probably carcinogenic.’

  He looked uncomfortable, as if he had not received the latest memo from Head Office.

  ‘We should not be selling it,’ said Kate.

  ‘I see.’ Martin quickly turned to his computer, tickled a few keys. ‘It’s on our stock list,’ he said, emphatically.

  She stared at him, incredulous. ‘Is that what you follow? Stock lists? Is that how you make your decisions?’

  ‘But it’s one of our biggest sellers,’ he added, bemused by her tone.

  ‘What about thinking for yourself? What about your humanity?’

  Martin turned away from the screen, placed his hands on his knees. ‘I’d like you to go home and cool off.’

  She was already standing, grabbing her bag. ‘Oh, I’m going—’

  ‘And don’t come back un—’

  But she didn’t hear the rest as she’d slammed the door behind her.

  Kate let herself into her quiet, empty house, threw her bag on the kitchen table and slumped into a chair, head in hands. What a mess. What a goddamn awful mess she’d made of everything. She glanced up in futile hope at the kitchen window, but of course there was no longer any Iris across the close.