“What does it say then?” her mother asked.
“Um – it – it can’t be right. It says I’m pregnant.”
“What?” her father said, jumping to his feet. “Let’s have a look at that.”
“You haven’t …” began her mother before tailing off.
Antimone rubbed the back of her neck. “Oh don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”
“It must be faulty then,” her mother said. “I’ll take it back tomorrow and get a replacement.”
“Bloody cheap crap,” her father added before realising what he’d said. “Actually, bloody expensive crap. Look, we can exchange it for something else if you want.”
“No, it’s okay, Dad,” Antimone said, chewing a fingernail.
“Why don’t I try it on?” suggested her mother. “It might give us a clue as to whether it’s faulty or not.”
Antimone slipped the watch off her wrist and handed it over.
Helen Lessing tightened the strap and inspected the dial. “Heart rate eighty-five but no exclamation mark.”
“That’s a bit fast,” her husband replied.
“Well, I’m a bit bloody stressed,” she snapped. She clicked the same button that Antimone had pressed, but the only things to be displayed were her blood sugar level and a green tick. A quick consultation of the manual revealed that the tick was an indication she was not in her fertile window.
The room descended into silence, the unopened presents forgotten on the table.
Chapter 11
Friday 21st May 2032
The following morning, Helen Lessing was ready to leave the house before seven o’clock. It was too early to phone in sick, but she had every intention of letting her employers know she was feeling too unwell to work as soon as the reception staff arrived. She had persuaded Antimone to accompany her on the trip to Cambridge city centre where she had originally bought the watch. The plan was to depart early enough to beat the morning rush hour and be there by the time the electrical goods store opened at nine o’clock.
The previous evening she had grilled her daughter about her sexual activities despite the vociferous protests. It was only when Antimone screamed at the top of her voice that she had not even kissed anybody in the last six months, let alone had sexual intercourse, that her mother finally relented. “It must be faulty, then,” she had stated as if announcing a court verdict, reluctantly accepting that her daughter was telling the truth.
“Call me when you know anything,” Dominic Lessing said as the two women departed the house into the dull grey morning. Helen helped Antimone enter the small red autonomous car, collapsing the wheelchair and placing it in the boot. She selected their destination on the central navigation screen and waited while the onboard computers performed their start-up checks. After a few seconds, the vehicle exited the short driveway and smoothly edged onto the quiet residential street. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts as it navigated itself along the already busy roads towards the Grafton Centre car park.
“Let’s have breakfast at one of those coffee bars while we’re waiting for the shop to open,” Helen suggested when the car announced it had reached its destination.
“I’m not hungry,” Antimone said, but her mother insisted she needed to eat something. They found an empty table at a Coffee Station restaurant and ordered a hot drink and a croissant each.
“It’s got to be faulty. There’s no other explanation,” Helen said, grasping her daughter’s hand across the table.
“Yeah, I know, but I’m still allowed to worry aren’t I?”
Time dragged as they watched the minute hand slowly edge around the clock face. At ten to nine, they left the coffee shop and began the short journey to the Gadget Gangsta store where Helen had bought the watch the previous week. As they arrived, a man dressed in matching red trousers and shirt was busy raising the security shutters.
“We’ll just be another minute or two if you’d like to wait,” he stated cheerily. He completed the task then held the door open for them, smiling brightly. “How can I help you?”
The man seemed puzzled as Helen explained their problem. “I have to say these watches are pretty reliable,” he said, “but if you want to try another one I’ll just go and fetch one.”
He hurried away to the stock room and returned a minute later carrying a box identical to the one that rested on the counter. “Here, put this on.”
Antimone slipped the chunky black watch over her wrist and adjusted the strap. The dial displayed the calibration message. This time, the heart rate read ninety-two. Her eyes homed in on the top right corner where the exclamation mark had appeared. Nothing. She exhaled loudly and turned the watch face so her mother could see. Helen’s pallor turned an ashen white as her eyes met her daughter’s. In confusion, Antimone glanced down a second time and spotted the flashing yellow icon.
“Oh Christ,” she said in a low whisper.
The man’s gaze flitted between mother and daughter. “Um, on rare occasions I have heard of … um … inaccuracies with this type of technology. You could always go to the chemist for a more reliable test. So do you want to return it, keep that one or take the original?”
He had barely finished speaking when Helen said, “We’ll keep it,” snatched up the empty box and hurried towards the door pushing her daughter’s wheelchair from behind. Under normal circumstances, Antimone would have objected violently to being pushed, but her mind seemed to have turned to mush, and she allowed her mother to propel her forwards.
“Okay, well have a–” The man stopped when he realised he was talking to a closing door.
Helen hurried along the concourse past the brightly coloured shop fronts until she spotted a familiar green cross. Several customers and staff watched in interest as mother and daughter raced down the aisles. Finally, they came across a shelf stacked with five different brands of pregnancy test kit.
Helen grabbed one of each, dropping them on Antimone’s lap and rushed towards the checkout. She quickly retrieved the boxes, placed them in the scanning area then waved her card at the machine, not even bothering to check the amount. No sooner was the transaction confirmed than she tossed the selection of kits back to her daughter and swept out of the store.
“Mum, wait,” shouted Antimone. Her mother stopped pushing, her breathing coming fast and ragged. “Just calm down. We need the loos. They contain little sticks that I need to wee on. Look there are some toilets over there.” She indicated a corridor with a large sign above it. “And by the way, I can push myself.”
“Okay, sorry. Shall I carry some of those?”
“No, I’m fine. Just make sure I don’t drop any.”
Antimone guided the wheelchair into the ladies toilet area. She found a stall reserved for the disabled, and both she and her mother hustled inside. As she transferred herself to the seat, her mother opened one of the boxes with fumbling fingers and handed a tester to her daughter.
After losing bladder control as a consequence of her injury, the surgeons had fitted Antimone with an implant that warned her when she needed to urinate and controlled the flow using fingernail sensors. She tapped out the correct combination and held a strip in the stream.
“It’ll say on the display,” her mother said, her face a mask of tension.
Both mother and daughter studied the indicator at the end of the short white stick. Within five seconds, the word ‘Pregnant’ was clearly visible.
***
The small vehicle pulled into the staff car park at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. They had tried another pregnancy kit just to be sure, but the result was the same. Helen Lessing had contacted a work colleague and arranged to visit her employer’s maternity department to get a final confirmation and an estimate of how long since conception. She was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that her daughter had no inkling how she had become pregnant.
“But you must have some idea,” she said in exasperation.
Antimone sighed. “Mum,
if I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you? It’s not the sort of thing I’d be likely to forget, is it?”
“When we know how far along you are, that might give us a clue. Let’s just pray it’s less than four weeks.”
Silence fell between them as they hurried down the brightly lit corridor. No sooner had they entered the maternity reception area, than a woman in her early fifties with greying hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a blue nurse’s uniform rushed over to greet them. Her face was etched with concern.
“Thanks for doing this, Angie,” Helen said.
“No problem.” She stared down, but Antimone avoided her gaze. “I just hope … Anyway, follow me, and we’ll start the tests. So you have no idea how this happened?”
Antimone shook her head. The nurse glanced towards her mother for confirmation.
Helen shrugged her shoulders. “Apparently not.”
“We’ll need to take a urine sample. I’ll take a blood sample too, just in case. We should have the results in about half an hour if I rush them through.”
The nurse led them to an examination room containing a single hospital bed. A door opened into a cramped bathroom. “I just need you to wee in here,” she said handing a small plastic container to Antimone. “Just screw the lid on when you’ve finished.”
“Do you need any help?” Helen asked.
“Jesus, Mum. I think I can pee in a jar.”
When Antimone returned to the room, she handed the specimen bottle over. The nurse wrote on the label then asked her to roll up her sleeve. She fitted a rubber tourniquet just above the elbow then inserted a needle and withdrew a vial of blood. Once again she recorded the details.
“That’s it,” she announced brightly. “I’ll take you back to the waiting room, and we’ll have the results shortly.”
***
Antimone glanced at her wrist before remembering she was no longer wearing a watch, having removed it to try on the one given to her for her birthday. Instead, she turned her attention to the large clock dial on the wall. It was now forty minutes since they had left the examination room. Her eyes roamed across the room. Only two of the seats were occupied. On one of them sat a woman with long dark hair who appeared to be in her mid-thirties and was clearly pregnant. She was engrossed in the display of her phone, her fingers performing intricate manoeuvres above the screen. The other seated a woman with mousy shoulder length hair, leaning forward, her head in her hands. It wasn’t clear from her outline whether she was pregnant, but her demeanour told another story.
Antimone and her mother both looked up sharply as the sound of footsteps signalled the nurse’s return. Her face gave nothing away.
“Sorry, that took a bit longer than expected. Let’s go back to the examination room.”
Antimone’s heart hammered in her chest, and her breath came in short bursts as she propelled herself along the corridor beside her mother. This must be how a prisoner felt before learning whether the judge was about to pass a death sentence.
The nurse closed the door and turned to face mother and daughter. Helen rested an arm on Antimone’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry to say, but you’re definitely pregnant. Unfortunately, the tests indicate that you’re six weeks along which means it’s too late to consider a termination. I’m really sorry.”
Antimone gasped. A rushing sound seemed to fill her head. Her ears burned, and her face felt flushed. She had only nine months left before she died – no, less than that – seven and a half months.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Helen asked, her voice quivering. “Can you run the test again?”
“I already ran it twice, which is why it took longer than I said it would. Do you need some time alone? I can arrange counselling if you’d like.”
“No,” Antimone said. “I want to go home.”
Chapter 12
Friday 21st May 2032
The policewoman peered sceptically at the father, mother and daughter who sat before her on the other side of her desk. Karen Atkins, or Kat as her friends and colleagues knew her, was a senior investigator for the Maternity Crimes Unit, more commonly referred to by its abbreviation, MCU. The division was established to investigate allegations of rape and to put a stop to the activities of the backstreet abortionists who offered their services when the government-appointed health professionals announced that a pregnancy was too far advanced to operate. Kat professed a particular hatred for the charlatans and criminals, who in practically every case, ended up terminating the pregnancy but also killing the patient at the same time.
The unit had been formed eleven years earlier, and she had been appointed to her position following a successful career in the Metropolitan Police Service. After more than a decade of seeing the depravity wreaked upon women by men, many of whom still professed to love their partners, Kat thought she had seen it all, but encountering a victim who had no recollection of the crime was a new one for her.
She wore her straight brown hair just over her ears, although at the age of fifty-one, its uniform colour owed much to the contents of a bottle. The room was a couple of degrees too warm, which caused the collar of her white shirt to chafe at her neck and the black skirt to feel sweaty around the waistband. She adjusted her position on the chair and resumed her questioning.
“So let’s go back to the beginning again. You’re six weeks pregnant, but you’ve no idea who’s responsible?”
Antimone shook her head. “No.”
“And you can’t remember how it happened?”
“No, but I think it must have been when I was at a friend’s party.”
“When was the party?”
“It was the tenth of April, just under six weeks ago.”
“And whose party was it?”
“Jason Baxter invited me. He’s the son of Rosalind Baxter. She’s the owner or something of this big biotechnology company.”
Kat made a mental note. She knew exactly who Rosalind Baxter was. Rich and powerful people generally wanted to protect their privacy in situations such as this and were often prepared to flex political or financial muscle to ensure it happened. This case would have to be handled sensitively.
“So what makes you think you got pregnant at the party?”
Antimone paused before replying. “Well, um … a group of us were sitting in the corner – I mean I was in the wheelchair, but the others were sitting on the sofa. Jason went to get a refill for the fruit punch and shortly after that … um, I couldn’t get my words out, and then I fell asleep.”
“So you think the drink was spiked?”
“Yeah, it looks like it.”
“You never mentioned that before,” Dominic Lessing interjected.
“Please let her continue,” Kat said. “Do you know if it had any alcohol in to start with?”
“No I don’t think so, but after he came back, it tasted slightly different.”
“In what way?”
Antimone thought for a second. “It’s difficult to describe, but there was a bit of a funny taste to it.”
“Was anybody else drinking alcohol?”
“No, I don’t think so. Jason made a joke about only getting the alcohol out when his Mum wasn’t around.”
“So his mother was at the party?”
“Well, I saw her when I arrived, but then she received a telephone call and left the room.”
“And afterwards?”
“I eventually woke up about an hour later. All the others were still asleep on the sofa. I think it must have happened while I was unconscious.”
“Why are you only telling us this now?” interrupted her father angrily.
“Sorry Dad,” Antimone replied, “I didn’t think it was important – well at least not until I found out I was pregnant.”
Kat raised her hands. “Mr Lessing, please let your daughter tell me what happened.”
“Well, I was feeling a bit sick and wanted to splash water on my face so I started heading towards the bathroom. Then I heard
a shout outside so I went into the garden and saw one of Mrs Baxter’s security guards jump out of a broken window and chase after a man who was running away.”
“Did you see the man, the one being chased?”
“No, but somebody told me he had a beard and was wearing a woollen hat of some sort. I think I saw him arguing with Mrs Baxter earlier.”
Kat scribbled on the pad in front of her, preferring the old-fashioned pen and paper method of taking notes. “And you don’t know who this man was?”
“No … although I think I may have seen him at the athletics track.”
Antimone continued to explain about the training session and how she thought she had seen the same bearded man in the stand.
“What happened next at the party?” Kat asked.
“I phoned my Mum, and she came to collect me then took me home.”
“Okay. Well, we’ll need an official statement, and I’m going to talk to Mrs Baxter and her son. We’ll also take a blood sample so that we can do some paternity tests. I know it’s not much of a consolation, but we’re going to find the person who did this to you.”
Kat walked around the desk and shook hands with Antimone and her parents. “I’ve got your details. I’ll be in touch in the next day or two. Thanks for coming in.”
She waited for the door to close then returned to her chair. She picked up the phone and dialled a number. After a few seconds, somebody answered.
“I’ve got an interesting one here.”
Chapter 13
The girl winced as the needle slipped into a vein on the inside of her elbow. She had been scared of needles since the age of four when a staphylococcal infection had resulted in her being hospitalised and hooked up to a drip containing powerful anti-bacterial drugs. Even now she could remember her childhood terror when the doctor first inserted the shiny needle. What had helped to sear the memory in her mind was the trauma of the nurse ripping off the anaesthetic patches afterwards, two from each arm. Ironically, they had been put in place to numb the area where the needle would be inserted but had been left on for so long that each one came away attached to a rectangle of skin.
Decimation: The Girl Who Survived Page 6