One of the journalists hits my window, making me jump. “Give us a smile, Robyn,” someone shouts. Another yells, “Glad to be home?” A third voice, louder and clearer than the rest, adds, “How do you feel about the shocking revelations about your dad and Bell-Barkov?”
My fingers clutch one another tightly, and I have to suck in the breath through my nose.
“Steady, miss,” the officer beside me says. “Almost there now.”
It feels like we will be swallowed up by the plague of journalists. The light inside the car darkens to night as bodies press up tighter and tighter against it.
At last we are through the gate and it is closing behind us, shutting the press pack on one side and us on the other. My breath unhitches. My lungs expand. We draw up to the curb of Number 10. Externally it is exactly the same as it has been for the last two hundred and something years. How many thousands of secrets have been hidden behind these thick brick walls? How many decisions have been made here for “the good of the nation”?
• • •
An officer follows me across the famous black-and-white-checkered hallway of Number 10. The place is even more chaotic than usual. Aides and secretaries fly about, gathering together files and the other paraphernalia of my dad’s occupancy. Somewhere in the background the shredder is working overtime, probably destroying any other little secrets that my dad doesn’t want anyone to find out about.
Just as we reach the stairs, a woman comes through the adjoining door to Number 11, smacking right into me. The papers she is carrying flutter to the floor. She swears. Recognition fills her eyes as she looks at me. She opens her mouth. It hangs like that for a couple of seconds while her eyes become little round Os.
The officer clamps a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Upstairs we go, miss,” he says. “Your mother is waiting for you.” The woman finally remembers her manners and closes her mouth. I sense her eyes on me as I begin to climb the stairs. I will not miss this place. I will not miss constantly being watched, monitored, and gossiped about.
Mum is sitting on the top step of the first landing. Something about her posture makes me think she’s been there a long time. On seeing me, she stands. Then it’s like there’s something wrong with her legs, or she’s just forgotten how to use them, because she’s falling. I run full tilt to catch her. And as my arms go around her, I accept that it’s over.
I’m free.
We hold each other for a long time.
I’ll never again say that I’m too old to be hugged. I don’t even mind when she starts crying because of my hair.
“It’ll grow back,” I say. “You hated my fringe anyway.” We pull apart from each other, and she sees the bandage on my hand. “It’s nothing. Honest.”
“None of this is nothing,” she says, a steely tone in her voice I’ve never heard before. “But you’re home now. That’s all that matters. Dear God, when that man took you . . . You have no idea. I wanted to be with you the second they found you, but they wouldn’t let me. Protocol or some such rubbish. I will not miss all that, I must say. I can’t wait to get back to Kensington and get everything sorted. Oh, my darling, I wish we could have taken you straight there and saved you all of this.”
“I wanted to come back To say good-bye.”
“Your father told you about Michael and Bell-Barkov and that little boy? I just can’t believe it. It’s too awful.”
“Well,” I say, “at least we don’t have to live here anymore.”
“No. No more Goldfish Bowl for us.”
This place has been our prison and our protection for four years. I have hated the high walls and the barbed gates and the constant surveillance, and yet I have hidden behind them. Soon they’ll be gone, and we’ll have nothing then to shield us from the questions and the camera bulbs.
“It’s not over, is it?”
“No, Robyn, I think it’s only just beginning.”
• • •
Poppy is lying on her bed, legs up against the wall, so that she doesn’t get varicose veins. She turns her head as I enter her room, and we stare at each other, my best friend and me. So much has happened to me in the last thirteen days that I wonder how I will ever squeeze back into my old life. Then Poppy smiles. “Hello,” she says, her voice thick. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. You’re just back and you’re leaving again.”
“No space in Downing Street for a corrupt PM. The British public are funny like that.” It’s a stupid thing to say, and Poppy doesn’t laugh. Instead she opens a drawer in her bedside table.
“They retrieved this from the car. Your mum gave it to me to look after.”
I take my beloved SLR from her. “Did she? Why?”
“I don’t think she wanted to look at it anymore, in case . . .”
In case I didn’t come back.
She is pressed up against the bed, her arms wrapped around herself. “You missed a great party at Millie’s. Can’t believe you made me go alone.”
I flick the camera on, and Poppy’s face smiles up at me. It’s the photo I took on the day I was taken.
“And again my nose looks massive,” Poppy says, coming to stand behind me so she can stare at the camera screen.
“I told you—the camera never lies.”
Poppy rests her head on my shoulder, but not before I see her eyes bright with unshed tears. I can’t cry. Not yet. I put my arms around her. Her tears drop onto my shoulder, salt mingling with the jasmine scent of Poppy’s hair.
Behind me, there is a squeak, and then I feel Addy barrel into my legs. I lift her up, clutching her between us while Mum hovers in the doorway, pretending that she isn’t crying. And with my best friend’s arms about me and my little sister’s legs wrapped around me, I know that it is going to be all right. There are some things that never change no matter how far you go. There are some things you can always find your way back to.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There are three guards in the corridor outside his room. Each one looks at me long and hard as Gordon explains who I am and why I am here. As the third one steps out of my way, Gordon presses a hand lightly on my back. “Ten minutes.”
How can I say good-bye in ten minutes?
I push open the door and go in. The room is painted a dirty cream, with faded striped curtains. It is ridiculously early, a little after seven in the morning. We are hoping to avoid the press. He’s reading a book, but he puts it down as soon as he sees me. “You came.”
At the sound of his voice, a thousand memories fill my head. So much has happened between us. How can we ever fit all the pieces together?
“Yeah.” My hand is still on the door handle.
“Are you leaving again already?”
“I shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m glad you did.”
My hand is slick with sweat.
“How are your mum and sister?” he asks.
“Coping.” Barely. Moving out of Downing Street has been a nightmare—the constant press intrusion, the endless police questions, the packing, the unpacking. And Mum is like a zombie. She hated being the PM’s wife, but she hates being the wife of a disgraced ex-PM even more. Dad has been with the police a lot, “helping with their inquiries.”
Talon thumbs the pages of his book, looking uncomfortable. This is my last chance to see him. I don’t want to waste it.
“When are they moving you?” I ask, crossing the room to sit down on the chair by his bed. Talon has been refused bail. He is considered a flight risk. As soon as the doctors are happy that he has no brain injuries from the knock to the head the police gave him, he will be taken straight to prison to await trial.
“Tomorrow. How did you get permission to come here?”
“Gordon brought me.”
“Gordon?”
“My dad’s bodyguard. He called in a favor with his old frien
ds in the police to get me in here. I should go soon.”
“So you keep saying. I didn’t ask you to visit me.”
My skin burns crimson. Why did I assume he’d want to see me? What is left to say? Even though I’m free, he will always be my kidnapper.
I stand up and move over to the window. It is chilly for April, and a misty haze fogs up the glass. I wipe it away. There’s a morning frost, a delicate lace arching over the leaves and bushes outside. The ice makes the trees, even the road running between them, look fragile, vulnerable, as though one harsh breath could blow it all away.
I press my palm flat against the glass, leaving my handprint, remembering too late that I am not supposed to have been here. This is my only chance to talk to him. I will remember this conversation for the rest of my life. Why am I wasting it? I don’t want to regret anything. I turn to face him. “Do you remember when you said you wished we’d met under different circumstances?”
He nods.
“We never would have met, and that means I can’t regret everything that’s happened to me.”
“Then neither do I.”
“Even if it means going to prison?”
“I deserve to go to prison, Robyn.”
“But it’s not fair.”
He smiles at the petulant tone in my voice and holds out his hand. I take it, closing the distance between us in less than a heartbeat. His fingers lace with mine, drawing me closer still.
The clock on the wall says 7:05. Five minutes left. The bruises on his arms and neck are pulpy and black like rotten avocado. Movement is painful for him.
“You might not have to go to prison, you know,” I say. “I spoke to Gordon. He said that if you were willing to testify against Scar and Feather, your punishment would be reduced. They would take into account your age, and they may be more lenient.”
It is a long time before Talon responds. My hand looks tiny, like a small bird, in his. “They’d never keep their word. They’d still send me to prison.”
“But they might not! You could get a suspended sentence.”
He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be right. No one forced me into it. I’m not a kid. I’m nineteen. I knew what I was doing and I did it anyway. I kidnapped you. I bought the chloroform. I helped pack the ropes. No one forced me to do any of that. I deserve to be punished.”
The fledgling sunlight streams through the window. “Dad says a small humane act in a terrifying situation can mean more than it should.”
“Robyn, I am going to prison. You have to forget about me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then you’re an idiot.” But he is smiling. “I can’t do it. I can’t give up Feather for my own gain. And what good would it do? You and me, we couldn’t . . .”
I sigh, my body expelling the used air and my faded hope at the same time. “I know, but let’s pretend that we can. Just for a little while.” There’s something I have to say, and I’m afraid if I don’t do it now, I won’t be brave enough. “I never questioned him, my dad, not properly. About anything. I didn’t think enough about what him being prime minister meant and the sorts of decisions he would be making. Mum tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.”
“You’re only sixteen—”
“That’s no excuse. I was suspicious in Paris. Something was wrong, but I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask.”
“You’re asking now. Do you remember what I said in the wood?”
It takes a whole lifetime of decisions to make you who you are.
I nod.
“I think on the whole you haven’t done too badly. In fact, I’d say you were pretty damn special.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Will your dad face trial?”
“They don’t know yet. It could be months before they gather the evidence.”
“What will you do, you and your mum and sister?”
“Live in Kensington. Try to avoid the press. I’ll go back to school. I should hate my dad for what he’s done. But I don’t, and I don’t want him to go to prison. It’s so unfair. He’s no longer prime minister and yet we still don’t get him back. I’m sorry. I sound pathetic saying that after everything you’ve lost.”
“One loss doesn’t trump another. Anyway, it’s working out. I’ve been in touch with my mum. She is getting better, slowly. And there’s going to be a full investigation. We’ll finally get justice for my brother.”
But Talon won’t be there to see it. He draws my straggly, ratty hair through his hands. “You know it kind of suits you like this.”
“Hostage chic?”
“Well, maybe you should get a professional to cut it. But I like it shorter. You can see more of your face.”
I put my hand on my hair. “I want to grow it a bit, but yeah, I agree. I don’t think I’ll grow it long again. Maybe to my chin or something.”
I sit back then to take in his eyes, the freckles on his nose, the curve of his cheekbones. I will never see him again. His hand tightens around mine. Don’t think about the future, he seems to say. So I don’t. I bend in and kiss him tenderly and slowly, as if we have the rest of our lives together instead of barely four minutes. He draws me closer to him, kissing me harder and longer. I slide down on the bed, resting on my elbow, so he doesn’t have to twist his neck to kiss me. He flinches as I accidentally knock his ribs.
“It’s just a twinge. It’s nothing.” He grins. “Don’t stop. This is . . . nice.”
“Nice? Is that the best word you can think of?”
“I’ve had better.”
“Oh, really?” I flick him in the ribs. I barely touch him, but he cries out. “Talon. God, I’m sorry.”
He tugs down a few jerky breaths. “It’s okay. It’s okay . . . just . . . give me a second.”
Scar beat him up. And he was hit over the head by a police officer. There’s also going to be an investigation into the special forces’ handling of the hand-over. Dad said he didn’t know anything about them deciding to use a fake Marble. Do I believe him? I’m not sure. Anyway, the man who shot Feather could face prosecution.
“Feather is still here somewhere too. Some infection from that gunshot wound.” I hope her arm falls off.
“I know.”
“You’ve seen her?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “One of the nurses . . . I asked her to find out what was happening.”
“Oh, right.”
“It was her who shot your dad. I thought maybe she was bluffing in the cell. I can’t believe she let Marble take the blame. She had this messed-up idea that she’d be a hero when she got your father to release him in exchange for you.” He looks like he can’t believe it, even though he knows it’s true. After a moment or two, he says, “Lean against me again. It was . . .” He pauses and grins. “Nice.”
“Apart from the searing pain in your ribs.”
“Yeah, apart from that.”
I lie back down again, careful not to go anywhere near his rib cage this time. “I’ll keep visiting you, if you like, while you’re here. I can come again tomorrow morning, before they . . . before they . . .”
“I won’t be here tomorrow.” A tear slides down his cheek. I brush it away with my thumb, but another follows it and another and another. There are too many for me to catch.
“I’ll come every day, even when you’re in . . .” Prison. “I will. I will.” And I whisper it over and over, as though that will somehow make it come true, as though my words will sweep away all the obstacles between us.
He drops his head on my chest. His tears are flowing freely now, his body jerking as he cries silently against me. He is murmuring something, and I lean in closer to hear it. “Forget me,” he whispers. “Forget me.”
• • •
The wood is dark. The special ops are chasing us, but in here, in th
is cave of leaves and branches, it is quiet and still. Talon’s eyes drop to my lips, to my eyes, and back again. My hands are shaking as they slide around him and up his back. I love you. I love you. I love you. . . .
In my dreams I am forever in that wood, my fingers scrunching in the dirt as I listen to the goldcrests and the sparrows and the robins chatter in the tree above. Sometimes Talon is with me, lying stretched out on the grass and laughing or else making his funny animal calls. Sometimes—and those are the best dreams—I am in his arms. We are so close that we are breathing into each other, our lips millimeters apart.
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
CHAPTER TWENTY
Granny and Grandpa’s house looms ahead of me, a squat gray slab that has been in Mum’s family since her great-great-great-great-grandfather (give or take a few greats) 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. Six inches 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’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 12, I can somehow eradicate the last twelve months.
Captive Page 18