Captive

by A. J. Grainger

I turn back to the desk. I’m not leaving here without seeing Talon. Thomas mentioned that he was in a holding cell. There must be a map somewhere. I pull open a couple of the drawers in the desk. I doubt very much that any map I find is going to say Terrorists stored here, but at least it might give me some indication as to where I am now and in which direction I should head first.

  The double doors slide open as I am searching the third drawer. Two men enter. I duck behind the desk and then crawl on my hands and knees until I can peer around it to watch them. Thankfully they don’t hesitate but head straight for the door I just ran through. “Distress signal came from down here,” one says. The other man nods, and the two of them disappear through the door.

  I count to twenty, to make sure they aren’t coming back, and then stand slowly and resume my search of the desk. The third drawer contains only pens, paper, and endless appointment diaries. The sound of footsteps coming from the web of corridors reminds me that I need to hurry up. I shove everything back into the drawer, and my fingers run over something smooth at the bottom. A piece of paper has been taped there. It is a map of fire exits.

  One corner rips as I tear it out of the drawer. I lay it on the desk, pushing back the curling corners. The building is immense, and the map is complicated. There are so many different wings. Corridors lead to more corridors. Panic is beginning to set in. I will never find Talon in this place. And then finally I spot the words “holding area.” They have been handwritten in fading blue pen on a large gray box that looks like some sort of basement or cellar. A holding area could hold anything, but I have a feeling that what it contains at the moment are Talon, Feather, and Scar. Besides, it’s the only clue I have, and I’m not prepared to admit defeat yet.

  According to the map, there should be a lift down to the basement at the end of one of the hallways off the reception area. A woman in uniform appears through a door to the right of me just as I am deciding which corridor to take. Her cry of “Hey! Stop!” leaves me no time for any extended decision making. To the sound of her stamping feet chasing me, I flee down a hall that I hope will lead to the lift and Talon.

  The corridor bends sharply to the right, and I risk a glance back as I make the turn. A man in uniform has joined the woman, and the two are gaining on me fast. I force myself to run harder, nearly smashing into the wall as I skid on the shiny floor. The corridor branches out, to become two forks. I make a snap decision and take the left corridor and immediately regret it when I see that it leads to a set of double doors that are most definitely not a lift. My hands are shaking so much that I can’t get a proper grip on the door. “Wait!” The woman lunges for me just as I manage to turn the handle.

  I dance away, spinning out of her hands, and fly through the open door. The officers are right behind me. As I kick the doors shut, there is the howl of fingers caught. They pull free, and I’m able to shut the double doors. If I can just secure them somehow, I will have a chance. There is nothing, though. . . . No rod, no . . . Wait. Bolts. Four of them, two on each door, one that can be driven into the ceiling and another for the floor on each side. I slam the top two home. My breathing eases as I secure the bottom two. The bolts are strong, but so are the police; four bolts won’t keep them out for long, but a single second is a bonus now.

  I hurry down the stairs behind me. The corridor beyond is empty, so I creep out and jog to the end of the hall. To the right is the lift. It is an old service one, with cagelike doors. I race to it and press the call button; there’s a screech of metal as it descends.

  I take the lift down to the basement. It comes to a stop, and I slide the gates open to reveal a large room, its bare concrete walls illuminated by fluorescent strip lighting. Racks of shelves fill the enormous space. They run for what seems like miles in all directions. Each shelf is crammed with containers, as well as what look like piles of syringes, all sealed in plastic, scalpels, and other medical equipment. There is a single metal door opposite the lift. A rusted sign above it reads TO THE HOLDING AREA.

  After getting out of the lift, I leave the door open, partly because I don’t have the strength to do anything else and partly because I have some notion that these sorts of lifts can’t be called to other floors if their doors aren’t closed.

  People are always talking about a sixth sense. That feeling you get, when you just know. I just know as soon as I enter the dark, grim corridor beyond the door marked TO THE HOLDING AREA that I am going to find Talon at the end of it. Rotting cardboard boxes, old filing cabinets, and other junk block my path, as if someone is keen to make you think that this is a disused corridor. It leads to nothing, so best just turn around and go back the way you’ve come. I don’t turn back. I stalk through the darkness, swearing and yelping as my body bashes into the debris piled up here.

  Eventually, the hallway widens. I take another step forward, and a row of strip lights flashes on above me. The space is wider here, brighter, cleaner. In the middle of this area is a bank of desks. Blinking computers sit among piles of paper. I come upon what looks like a small galley kitchen. A female police officer is in it, humming to herself and making a cup of tea. Very quietly, I shut the door and prop one of the chairs under the handle to keep it closed. I hear a muffled female voice say, “What the hell?” followed by banging. At the end of the hall, to the left, I discover the cells, little more than crevices carved out of the walls, with iron bars running across each one.

  The first two are empty. In the third, I find a shirtless Scar doing push-ups. I recognize him instantly, even though I have never seen him without his mask. The stitches on a couple of his fingers have burst, and blood congeals on the concrete beneath him. “Knew you couldn’t live without me, Princess,” he says, without looking up. If he’s surprised to see me here, he doesn’t show it. After grinding out another push-up, he stands up. “Miss me?” he asks.

  “Good-bye, Scar,” I say, walking away. It is Talon I have come for. Scar can rot down here, for all I care.

  I find Talon, three cells down, and the sight of him stops my heart. He is lying on a cot, staring up at the ceiling. There is blood on his collar, presumably from the knock to the back of his head, and a bruise on his cheekbone. He rolls out of the bed slowly when he spots me. I open my mouth to speak. No words come. His hands slide over mine as I grip the bars, and for a while I have no idea if I am holding him up or he is holding me.

  “I’m sorr—,” I begin.

  “You came for me,” he interrupts.

  I grasp his fingers tighter. “I’ll always come for you.”

  His eyes are bloodshot; the green light in them dimmed, almost gone.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” As I say the words, I realize I mean it. I didn’t come to say good-bye. I came to set him free, because the police won’t believe him and he’ll never get justice for his brother if he stays locked up. “I’ve got a map. We can find a secret way out.”

  “You shouldn’t get yourself into trouble for me. I deserve this, Robyn. I need to be punished for what I did.”

  There’s a sound of splintering wood from farther up the corridor. “We don’t have long,” I say.

  “Will you do me a favor and just see if Feather is all right?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Please, Robyn. I know what she’s done, but she was in a bad way and—and she was my friend once. And she’s Marble’s sister. I owe it to him.”

  Feather is on the floor of the next cell, her back against the wall. Her eyes are closed, the lids heavy and dark, and there’s a bandage around one of her arms. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without the mask. What I notice first is the white patch of hair on her head. It looks like feathers, just as Talon said it did.

  I hate this woman. She took me from my family because she wanted to get her brother back, and she never thought, not once, about what the kidnapping would do to me. Because of her, I have learned that everything I believe
d is wrong, and I have no idea how to begin again with what I have. I step away from her cell. Who cares if she lives or dies? She wouldn’t care if it was the other way around. Still, I draw a deep breath, already knowing that I can’t just walk away.

  “Talon wants to know if you’re okay.”

  “Been better.” She struggles to stand up, grimacing in pain. “Little Bird is out of her cage, then.”

  “And Little Bitch is in hers, where she belongs.”

  “Grown claws then since I last saw you, or should I call them talons.” Her laugh becomes a hacking cough that racks her whole body. “Is this a rescue mission? If he tells you to save me, don’t bother. I’d rather die than be saved by you.”

  “Good,” I reply. I’m about to walk away when she says, “It was me, you know. I shot your father. I wish I’d killed him. He is just as guilty as Michael Bell.”

  My hands are trembling with anger. I march back down the corridor to the desks. None of the cells have locks, and that means the doors must be controlled centrally somehow. I wiggle the mouse of one of the computers, and the screen lights up and asks me to enter a password. I don’t even bother trying to guess. I open a few of the drawers in the desk beneath it. Most of the drawers are empty, apart from the usual stationery supplies. Then I rummage around on the next desk, after which I bend down to peer under it. No secrets there, just smooth wood. I check the other desks, and on the fourth one, I find it: a control panel, with red dots and beside them buttons, matching the layout of the cells behind me. I press one. There’s a whirl and a click and then the bars on Feather’s cell slide down.

  I bunch my hands into fists.

  “Robyn,” Talon calls as I stalk past his cell. “Don’t! She isn’t worth it.”

  Feather comes out smiling. “All right, Princess.”

  I punch her in the face, my knuckles connecting with her jaw. Her head slams back against the bars of her cell, and blood sprays out. She laughs. “That all you got?”

  She may be small, but she’s fast. Her hands come up and seize my throat, pushing me into the wall behind me. No matter how hard I bat at her arms and face, she doesn’t let go. Her hands tighten around my neck. This is it: This is how I’m going to die. A thousand memories swim in my head. Addy, Dad, Mum . . . Talon’s hand in mine.

  The inside of my lids is red and warm like a fire. I leap into its brightness. It wraps itself around me, like a warm hand. I am lying under the bush in the wood. Nearby, a bird cries to its mate as it builds a nest.

  Talon smiles down at me. “Hello, you. Did you miss me?”

  I. Am. Not. Ready. To die. With my last ounce of strength, I kick her hard in the shin. She gasps in pain, and I head-butt her. My forehead smashes against her nose. Her hands fly to her face, and I gasp air. Feather recovers quickly and starts to slap me around the head. I collapse under her blows, and she takes the opportunity to run down the corridor. She’s opened the doors to all the cells before I’m on my feet.

  Talon comes out first. Scar is right behind him. He stretches, a carnal grin spreading across his face as he walks slowly toward me. Talon goes to punch him, but Scar knocks him to the ground. He kicks him in the gut, in the chest, and finally in the head. Talon lies still. From down the corridor, Feather laughs.

  No!

  I have no weapon and Scar is at least twice my size, but I fling myself at him anyway, fists flying and legs kicking. He swipes me away as easily as if I were a fly. I land heavily against the bars of one of the cells, winding myself. Scar crouches over me, catching my hands and holding them above my head. I scream as he begins to run his hands over me, but he is just looking for the map. He pulls it free of my back pocket and stands up. “Be seeing you, Princess.” He walks over to Feather, who grins and takes the map from him.

  What have I done? By coming here, I have helped two violent criminals escape and got Talon badly hurt.

  I try to stand, but my legs have forgotten what they are for. All I can do is watch as Feather and Scar head for the exit. Then there is a sound of cracking, and the policewoman finally breaks out of the kitchen. “Stop right there,” she yells at Scar and Feather.

  “Chill out, lady,” Scar says. “There’s no problem here.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” The police officer is at the bank of computers now, and she picks up a radio. “This is the holding area. Request immediate assis—”

  Feather hits her once on the side of the head and then again and again until the woman falls to the floor. Move, Robyn. Move. It is as much as I can do to crawl over to Talon; my fingers snag in his hair. I close my eyes, trying to gather my strength.

  I open them again as I hear shouting. Six figures in black gear pour in to surround Feather and Scar. There are more yells: “Hands up or we will shoot!” Then comes the rapid fire of a gun, followed by a whooshing noise, and the room begins to fill up with smoke.

  There are human shapes in the haze. Someone bends over me. I hear the snicker-suck of breath through a mask. Something is passed over my head and secured. My eyes clear, as do my lungs, and I can breathe again.

  Then Talon is dragged away from me. I scream into the mask and lash out. The masked figure falls back, startled. I get my arms more securely around Talon and pull him up into my lap, clamping my arms and legs around him. No one is taking him away from me. Not this time. I brush his hair back gently from his face. The fog—tear gas, I guess—is still filling up the room. After taking a deep gulp of air, I take the mask off and put it over Talon’s face. Breathe, Talon. Breathe. Breathe.

  I hold on for as long as I can, but finally I have to take a breath. The gas immediately fills my lungs again. I keep stroking Talon’s hair. A man is walking toward me. There is something shiny on his feet. Something polished. Shoes. He crouches before me and murmurs something. I lean forward. What? My name. He is saying my name.

  As my last wisp of oxygen is swallowed up by the gas, I look up into his face. My own eyes stare back at me. Eyes that are sometimes brown and sometimes green and sometimes gold.

  “Dad,” I whisper. “Dad.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I wake up tucked under a duvet in a long, narrow room. Late-afternoon sunshine pours through a large window to the left, its panels making lines like the bars of a cage across the bed. Dad is seated beside me, a newspaper in his hands. He folds it when he sees I’m awake. “You slept for a long time. How do you feel?”

  Like I’ve been microwaved.

  “Water,” I gasp.

  He guides the straw from a plastic beaker to my mouth. “They released tear gas into the cells yesterday. We had no idea you were in there. Idiots. The whole thing was badly bungled.” He replaces the cup on the bedside table. “We’ve missed you so much. You have no idea—”

  “Where’s Mum?”

  “At home. I wanted to make sure you were in an acceptable state before she saw you. She’s been very worried. We both have. . . . And your hair. Oh, Robyn, what have they done to you . . . ?” He trails off. “Can I get you something? More water? Something to eat?”

  I shake my head and gingerly push myself up to a sitting position. My body is made of porcelain; the smallest bump and I’ll shatter.

  “Careful, careful,” Dad says, trying to help me, until I put my hand up for him to back off. He sits back down in the chair. “You are rather bashed up. It is going to take a long time for all of this to heal.” He isn’t just talking about my bruises.

  I want more water, but this time I reach for it myself and take a long, long gulp. My head is clearing, and with the warm sun on my face, I start to feel less like something that belongs in a rubbish bin.

  “Where am I? They wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I’m sorry about that. When you ran during the rescue on Saturday afternoon, it confused everything. There was some panic and some ludicrous notion that you might have become a terrorist.” He gi
ves a humorless snort. I don’t even smile. “You’re in a detention center. You’ve been here since yesterday.”

  Everything comes back to me in a rush. Talon in that cell. Scar. The police officers bursting in. And the gas.

  The clock on the wall ticks through the seconds. Dad is looking at me, his hands steepled like he’s praying.

  “You lied to me. In Paris, after the shooting, you said that Jez—Jeremy Fletcher wasn’t killed by Michael’s drug. That wasn’t true, was it?”

  “No.” His sigh seems to hold the whole world.

  “You promised me.” But I’m not talking about Jez anymore. “You promised after you got shot that everything was okay. You said nothing bad would ever happen again, but it did. They took me, and you didn’t do anything to stop it. Ten days I was there. Ten days, and where were you?”

  “I did everything I could. Robyn, darling, please,” he says, reaching toward me.

  I shove his hands away. “Not enough.”

  “I can explain. Everything. Truthfully this time.”

  “I don’t believe you. All you do is lie.” I push the duvet cover off and stand up. “I want to go home. I want my mum and my sister. You don’t give a shit about me.”

  “I do. I do. Robyn, calm down, please. You need to rest.”

  “I’ve been so scared. You don’t know what they did.” My voice breaks and my shoulders heave as the tears come, and my legs give way beneath me. I fall back against the bed. He sits down beside me. He smells of aftershave and brandy and the cigars that he isn’t supposed to smoke.

  “Will you let me explain? Will you listen to me?” he asks.

  • • •

  “I should have trusted you with the truth in January,” Dad says. We are sitting—I’m wrapped in about three hundred blankets—in a miniature courtyard somewhere in the bowels of the building. It is surrounded on all sides by high brick walls with a green gate.

  Dad hadn’t wanted to come outside. He’d been worried I wasn’t up to it, but I have been stuck inside for too long. I want to feel the sun on my face and have the air ruffle my short hair. Sunshine breaks through the heavy cloud, making everything golden. Talon would love it here. Suddenly I am back in that smoke-filled room, coughing and spluttering on the gas and fighting with everything I have to hang on to Talon. I wasn’t strong enough. They took him away again, and I haven’t seen him since.