Captive

by A. J. Grainger

  Beside me, Dad draws a long, deep breath. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it? When all this is over, I’d like to build a garden just like this one.”

  I sense him trying to catch my eye, but I stare resolutely ahead. I agreed to listen to him. I didn’t agree to believe him, or to speak to him.

  Dad starts to talk. “The day you were born was one of the best of my life. You were a tiny, scrunched-up creature, lying on your mother’s chest as she slept. I picked you up and I took you over to the window and I held you up so you could see out across the city. And you smiled. People have told me a hundred times since that newborns can’t smile. I don’t care. They weren’t there. It was only you and me, and you smiled at me.”

  I break my silence. “Dad, did Michael know that the drug Jeremy Fletcher took was dangerous?”

  “The regulatory authority had granted approval for it to be used on patients. We’re talking about a tragic death—”

  I sigh. Dad is still trying to spin the truth. “Did Michael know that there was a problem with the drug or not? Dad, come on. You promised the truth this time.”

  He rubs his temples. “Yes. As I understand it, Bell-Barkov took some shortcuts during earlier testing phases.”

  “To save money.”

  “To expedite the drug’s release on the market. Some side effects of Amabim-F emerged with trial patients, but only when the drug was given at higher dosages. Swelling and the like. A monkey had also died, apparently, but who knows if that was related?”

  “But a guy died too,” I say, remembering what Talon told me.

  “Did he? I don’t know about that.”

  “So what happened about Jez, I mean Jeremy?”

  “Michael left the voice mail I told you about in Paris very early one morning, and it was a while before I was able to call him back. When I did get hold of him, he was hysterical. He said that the situation was much worse than first suspected. The company commissioned to carry out the drug trial on the boy had reported inadequate staffing levels. The consultant on duty had called in sick the previous night, leaving only a skeletal and inexperienced staff to carry out the trial. It should have been canceled the moment the senior doctor was unable to attend, but it wasn’t.”

  “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”

  “There is a very real possibility that if the proper medical care had been given, the boy might not have died. This company, Glindeson, was solely to blame on that front.”

  “He has a name, you know,” I say. “He is not just ‘the boy.’”

  “You are very angry, Robyn.”

  “I have every right to be. I was kidnapped because of what you did.”

  “The AFC are terrorists. There is no justification for what they’ve done.”

  Talon wasn’t a terrorist. He was just desperate to be heard.

  Dad is still talking. “Michael genuinely believed that these little issues had been resolved. They had delayed stage two of the clinical trials, where patients with the disease are treated, for more than six months while they worked to identify what was causing these adverse reactions. ‘They were fixed,’ Michael kept saying. ‘I swear to you, Stephen, that they were all fixed. We haven’t had a single problem with the drug since then.’”

  Until Jez.

  “With one thing and another, I didn’t speak to Michael for the rest of that day,” Dad continues. “When I called the following morning, he was chirpier. It now seemed likely that the child”—he catches my eye and corrects himself—“that Jeremy died of some underlying health issues. Michael said he’d found a pathologist willing to write a report clearing Amabim-F. The words ‘willing to’ should have rung alarm bells, but they didn’t. I was busy, and I’d heard what I wanted: Michael’s company wasn’t to blame. I didn’t ask any questions. I told him it was great news, and I moved on with my day.”

  Dad pauses. The garden is very still. The only sound is a bird building a nest in the tree beside us and occasionally tweeting at its mate.

  “I have gone over that conversation in my mind so very many times in the last week or so. If only I had listened more carefully! ‘How easy it is to judge rightly after one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly.’ I swear to you on my life and all the lives I hold even dearer to me, I did not know that Michael’s drug caused that boy’s death.”

  Do I believe him? I don’t know.

  “So when did you find out?” I ask.

  “A few weeks after the fire at Bell-Barkov last October. You may remember that your mother and I went up to stay with the Bells. We wanted to show our support for them. Michael behaved very strangely the whole time. He was drinking heavily and was clearly very agitated about something. Finally, on the Sunday, over a round of golf, I got it out of him. He confessed that the problems with Amabim-F had not been fixed prior to Jeremy’s death. He also told me that he had paid someone to set fire to the company headquarters.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, it’s true. He’d grown increasingly paranoid. The boy’s father was sending letters, a journalist was onto him, and the AFC were issuing death threats. ‘There was evidence,’ he kept saying. ‘I didn’t want them to find it.’ He didn’t specify who they were.”

  “You knew all of this and you said nothing?”

  “Michael is my oldest friend.”

  “He set fire to his own offices. He killed a kid. There was clearly something wrong with him!”

  “It isn’t as simple as that. I ordered him to come clean. I threatened to report it myself. But he was crying and begging and even threatening to hurt himself. It—it scared me. I have known Michael nearly all my life. He’s been there for me so many times, and now he needed me. I agreed to give him some time. A few days at first, and then I agreed to a week. Then the week became a month became two. For the first time in my life, I was paralyzed, unable to make a decision.”

  I clutch the blankets more firmly around my shoulders. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “I told myself the drug was a good one. It would save so many people with kidney failure. Maybe that child’s death had been unrelated. And besides, Michael was my friend, my oldest and closest friend. I owe him so much. Could I really destroy him like this? And what about me? Questions would surely be asked. How much did I know? Why had I waited so long to tell the truth?”

  “So you were just thinking of yourself.”

  “And you and your mother and Addy. Can you imagine the scandal if it had come out?”

  “Did Michael pay you to keep quiet?”

  “No! I did this out of friendship, not for money.” He is indignant.

  “But Michael has lent you money. You told me about it in Paris.”

  “That was a loan.” He draws a deep breath. “I didn’t lie to you about that. But yes, I was aware that it would look bad if anyone found out I knew about that child’s death.”

  “It would look like a bribe.”

  He nods. “I was nearly mad with worry, and so the only sensible thing seemed to be to put the whole sorry problem out of my head. This was in December of last year. It was nearly Christmas. I decided to give myself the festive season to think it all over, and I would make a final decision in the new year. Then we went to Paris, and Michael told me about the letter from the journalist. I knew then that I couldn’t tell the truth; it was too late. Too much was at stake, so I kept quiet. And after the shooting, I felt justified. These people were killers. I was trying to protect you when I lied, Robyn. You and Michael.”

  And yourself.

  “I almost don’t care that you lied to me,” I say. “I care more that you didn’t tell anyone the truth. Jeremy’s brother was one of my kidnappers. Did you know that?”

  “He was a very sick little boy. He would have died anyway. And his parents knew of the risks involved in a clinical trial.”

  “So it’
s their fault?” I stand up angrily, my chrysalis of blankets falling to the ground. “How can you say that?”

  Dad picks up the blankets and tries to wrap them around me again, but I yank them away from him. He collapses back on the bench and drops his head into his hands.

  “You’re still trying to spin it. To make yourself look better.”

  “I know.” He stares up at me, and for once his eyes are just one shade. No sprinkling of gold, no flecks of green—just large brown disks that glisten in the light. Is my dad crying? It surprises me so much that I sit back down again.

  “I have paid for my part in this. Losing you. That second video, when that woman cut your finger. I can’t . . . And then it slowly dawned on me that it was all connected—that you were suffering because of me. It has been . . . well . . . no hell could be worse.”

  “When did you accept that my kidnapping wasn’t just about freeing Kyle Jefferies?”

  “The police spoke to him on the day you were taken. It took a while, but when he learned the full extent of his sister’s plans, he withdrew his original statement. He said he wasn’t to blame for shooting me. It had been his sister, Feather. For some reason, he’d been protecting her. Eventually the whole story of his sister’s vendetta against Bell-Barkov emerged. He said he suspected that she wasn’t working alone. There was a man who lived with them, he said, whose brother had died after taking Amabim-F.”

  “What’s going to happen now?” I draw my knees up so I can rest my head on them. The sun is brighter and the garden smells of sunshine. There was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever see the sun again, didn’t think I’d ever see anything except for four white walls and a tiny slice of sky through a high-up window.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will you tell everyone about Michael and the drug and how you kept quiet about it all?”

  “I already have. There’ll be an investigation and probably a trial. Bell-Barkov will be investigated, as will Michael and Glindeson, the company that oversaw the drug trial Jez was involved in. Criminal charges will probably be brought against Michael for the fire, but the police will want to establish how many other people were involved first. There’ll also be an inquiry into Jeremy’s death. His parents will finally have justice.”

  “Talon’s dad is dead. He—he killed himself.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that. Another tragedy that could have prevented had I acted sooner. He was kind to you, was he, this Talon, while you were in captivity?”

  “Yes. He shouldn’t be tried with the others. Feather and Scar were horrible. Evil. But Talon was . . .” I have no words to describe what he was. “He tried to help me, and he let me go, when the others were away. I would have escaped if I hadn’t run into Scar on the way to find help. All of that should be taken into account. He should get a lesser sentence or whatever.”

  “He is still a kidnapper.”

  “But he did it for his brother! And his dad. You said yourself they deserve justice. Maybe that could start by not sentencing Talon in the same way as the others.”

  “It is impossible for me to think about what you have suffered these last couple of weeks. I am grateful that someone treated you with respect and kindness, but it is only what you deserved. These people stole you from your family in the most violent way possible, and then they kept you locked up. You must not equate a simple gesture in an extreme situation with . . . with anything more real. In a terrifying situation, even the most basic of humane treatment can feel like something special.”

  The sky is the metallic gray of predawn, a red glow illuminating the horizon. In the mess of bushes around me are the furtive rustles of tiny paws and snouts, while in the branches above, a bird trills in the new day. It is joined by the birds in nearby trees, until the whole wood is singing. The light in Talon’s green eyes. My trembling fingers clasping his. The warmth of his body so close to me.

  What I feel for Talon is special. It is not some syndrome, no matter what anyone says. But there is no point arguing with my dad.

  A thought occurs to me. “How will you carry on as prime minister after all of this?”

  “I won’t. I tendered my resignation yesterday morning.”

  And he’s only just telling me. Of course he is. Same old Dad choosing what truth he shares and when.

  “You’ll be heading back to Downing Street this afternoon,” he explains. “I won’t be coming with you, at least not today. The police want to take me in for questioning.” We are walking slowly back to the main building. “They agreed to give me a chance to talk to you first.”

  “What made you tell the truth now? You could have kept hiding it. Lying to me. To everyone.”

  “After everything you’ve been through, I think you deserve the truth, don’t you?”

  Or is it that he suspected I would already know the truth by the time I was released?

  When we reach the entrance to the building, Dad pauses before going inside. “I will most likely face charges for my part in this. I may even go to prison. My life—our lives—will change dramatically. There will be a lot of press attention, even more than before, if that’s possible. And none of it will be pleasant.”

  A nurse wants to come through the doors, and Dad moves to let her pass. She eyes us both curiously, turning back to look at us again as she hurries down the path. I watch her go, wondering what she’s thinking. “Does the public know yet?”

  “There’ll be a press conference later today. The deputy PM will lead it. There have been murmurings among journalists, of course, but so far they’ve been preoccupied with the story of your safe return.”

  “Will you go to the conference?”

  “I’ll give a statement. The party feels it might be better if I keep a low profile for a while.”

  “No one wants to be seen with you.”

  “No. I will have to face the journalists eventually, but I will put that off a little longer if I can.”

  “What will you do, now you’re not PM?” I ask.

  “I honestly don’t know, Bobs,” he says. “I just don’t know.” With his head bowed, I can see a bald patch on the top of his head that I swear wasn’t there at Christmas. I wonder when my dad got so old, and when did I start to notice? Before, my parents were just that, parents. They told me when to go to bed and what to eat and what time to be home and to do my schoolwork. The world has shifted. I’ll never take what Dad says at face value again just because he says it. From now on, I’m going to ask questions and make my own decisions about things.

  “We should go inside,” he says. “They’ll be waiting to take you home. Your mother is dying to see you. I shouldn’t hold you up any longer.”

  “Politics isn’t everything.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. And, hey, maybe now you’ll spend some actual time with your family, for real, rather than just for the cameras.”

  “That was always real. I’m aware I haven’t always been the greatest of fathers and that living in Downing Street has not been easy on you all. I have made some bad choices. This is by far the worst of all. So many people suffered for it. . . .”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to spend every waking minute for the rest of my life putting it right. And I’m going to apologize, loudly and to everyone.” He half smiles. “There’s a first time for everything, after all.”

  I hesitate, one hand on the glass door that leads inside. “I reckon we’re going to be all right, you know.”

  “I hope so.” His eyes have teared up again. “I really hope so. Go on now. The car is waiting to take you home.” Then he smiles. “I know that look. You’ve got something more to ask me.”

  There’s only one other thing that matters now. “Where’s Talon?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dad and I are flying to Paris in an hour. Mum comes
into my room just as I am packing my new denim skirt, the one Mum says is too short, but I think goes great with thick tights and my gray biker boots. I scrunch it up and ram it deep into the folds of my duffel bag. I needn’t have bothered, though. She isn’t looking at me. She sits down on my bed, running her fingers over my eiderdown, a smile tattooed on her face. “I want you to have fun in Paris. Don’t get caught up in your father’s mad schemes, and don’t get stuck in the hotel while he works. Get out and see the city. Who knows when you’ll get another chance. Be your own person. Don’t . . . don’t become a clone of your dad. Promise me. Promise me you’ll make your own choices, and not the ones he wants you to make. If—when—the time comes, remember what I’ve said. Don’t be him, Robyn. I want something better for you.”

  • • •

  Millbank is packed with tourists. The police motorcyclists have to flash their sirens to clear space. Neither of the two special-ops officers in the car has said a word since we left the hospital. As we turn onto Whitehall, I shift uncomfortably in the seat. My body finally realizes what it’s gone through. Everything is hurting, like I’ve been through a spin cycle and my skin has shrunk. It’s hurting my insides to have blood pumping through my veins.

  The paparazzi are out in force today, packed hungrily around the Downing Street gates. I wonder if the press conference has just finished. Armed police officers try to force them back onto the pavement. “Be through in a minute,” one of the officers in the car says. I don’t answer. I stare straight ahead. The paps will be pressing their cameras up against the dark glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the daughter of the disgraced PM. I won’t show any emotion.

  The car slows, and the journalists swarm over us like insects. They slam their fists on the car roof and shove their cameras up against the windows. My fingers whiten with the tension in my hands. Do not cry, Robyn. Do not cry. I retreat into my head, conjuring up the silence of that wood behind the farmhouse in my mind. The sound of the birds’ cheerful chirps and Talon’s whistling. The mud soft under my fingers.