Song of Bees

by Andrea Hicks

  Finding the females isn’t difficult. Finding the right female is. The majority are all European types who could come from any part of Europe...some look Latin which I could get away with apart from the slick, shiny hair which mine definitely isn’t. Then I spot her, Leonora Churchill, nice name but I can see on opening the file it doesn’t suit her. Her photographs show someone who is edgy, sassy, a girl who knows what she wants. Someone like who I used to be.

  I hold the photograph up close, then turn towards the mirror and hold it next to my face so I can compare. She’s mixed race there is no doubt and her hair is short and pink, she couldn’t have made it more difficult for me, but everyone changes their hairstyle occasionally so I could probably get away with it. I might have to do something drastic, cut my hair and dye it, I don’t think I’m going to find a better match facially, so I go through the box in case there’s anything else I can use. Oh, and there so is.

  Cain has a gun.

  I stare at it, my stomach dropping because I’m in shock. Oh my God, what do I do now?

  I sink down into the clearly very expensive duvet on Cain’s bed and stare at the gun in the box. Part of me just wants to lie down and go to sleep, the virus is still in my system but there’s no way I can do that. I’m curious about Cain. Worried. He’s into to something no question, but what? And why did he spring me from Plan Bee? I know from bitter experience that when someone takes a risk like he did there must be something in it for him. And all of this stuff in the boxes, all these files with what seems to be fabricated back stories for the people documented inside them. And a handgun? I mean, I don’t know him. He could be anyone. He is anyone, someone who just happened to be there when I was being held by the dorks at Plan Bee. And how do I know he’s not spinning me, telling me what I want to hear? And Cecily Cunningham. I’ve only got his word she’s out to get me. Maybe if I contact her and tell her she’s got nothing to fear from me, that all I want is a simple life and I’ll just disappear if that’s what she wants. I would be so happy to do just that. I don’t want all this crap hanging around me. I’ve had enough already. I just want to move on and get on with my life. Quietly and without interference from people I don’t even know...who I don’t want to know.

  The thing I’ve realised is...I’m alone. I think of Dylan and the “I’m sorry” present of the fix that got me into this in the first place. Did he know it was cut with something else, something toxic? Is that why he gave it to me? I stare off, shaking my head. Would he really do that? There’s no way I can turn to him for help. I just don’t trust him. I never did really. Then it dawns on me. There’s one other person I could go to, Dad’s sister, Rochelle, who I haven’t seen for years, not since I was about eighteen. She was great when my Mum died, even tried to find Dad for me, but her new partner didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual, so I stopped going to see her because it wasn’t fair on her. He was clearly someone who didn’t like mixed-race, said we should be one thing or another. I remember him saying, ‘I don’t do hybrids.’ But that didn’t stop him feeling me up and trying it on with me. I hated him, he was a bastard, and I always thought Rochelle could do much better.

  I get up and wander round the room a little, trying to marshal my thoughts. I need a plan, a strategy, a timeline of things I can do to make my situation better. The thing uppermost in my mind is Cain and why he helped me. I don’t know him, don’t know what he’s about, and from what I’m seeing hidden in his bedroom there’s more to him than he’s letting on. My first thoughts are fronting Cecily Cunningham. To do that I need to go back to Plan Bee, but I must find it first.

  I look at the gun in the box with the files. There’s also a key, a small brass one with a number on it. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand. What if Cain is telling the truth? What if the government is out to get me and will do anything to stop me from escaping? I don’t want to be imprisoned again. If they try to capture me I will do anything to get away. And I mean anything, because now I know how it feels to be held captive against your will. You might as well be dead. I stick the key in my ticket pocket at the front of my denim jacket, then, before I change my mind, I grab the gun and stick it in the inside pocket. I don’t intend to use it. It’s more of an insurance policy, and if I put everything back the way it was Cain doesn’t even need to know I have it, not yet anyway, and by the time he finds out, I’ll be long gone. Now I need to find out where Plan Bee is.

  I go back downstairs. There’s a laptop in an alcove in the dining room, and I’m guessing Cain will have stuff relating to Plan Bee on it, unless everything is encrypted. When I open it, it immediately goes to the last thing Cain was looking at. He’s either forgotten I’m here and more than capable of opening a laptop, or...he doesn’t care because there’s nothing on it he’s worried about. And the address is there under the logo. Lambeth. Near the river. I start to read what’s written underneath, thinking the more I know the more armed I’ll be, but it’s just marketing speak, something you’d read on a business card about diversity, conservation and jobs available. I hear a noise outside, so I go quietly across the room thankful I left it in darkness and carefully open a couple of the Venetian blind slats at the window. It’s Cain, standing on the path in front of the house, talking to another guy. This is it. I can’t stay here any longer. If he thinks I plan to leave I’m sure he’ll try to stop me. It’s a conversation I don’t want.

  I run across the living room and through the door that leads into the kitchen. The garden door is locked and bolted, but the key is in a pot on the windowsill. I retrieve the key and stick it in the lock. It turns easily. The bolts are a different prospect. They seem to be stuck fast and I struggle to push them back so I can get into the garden. Jesus, doesn’t he ever open the damn door? I push and push the bottom one and finally it scrapes across the wood. I’m sweating but I’ve still got the other one to contend with. I pray Cain and the other guy keep talking as I reach up and push the thing up and down, up and down, trying to screw it out of the lock. Finally, it springs out of the metal casing with a clang just as I hear Cain’s key at the front door. I open the garden door and run outside into a courtyard, a small patio area where there’s the usual garden stuff, a table and chairs, some pots with the remnants of plants that look like they died years ago. Something I know about Cain at last. He’s no gardener.

  After closing the garden door as gently as I can, I crouch down by the kitchen window as Cain goes into the house from the front door then calls up the stairs.

  ‘You okay, Nina?’ Time for me to go I think. I stay low to the ground and make my way towards the gate at the back of the garden. I have no idea where it’ll take me, but if it’s away from the house it’s all I care about right now. As I reach the gate and slide the bolt back I hear Cain again. ‘Nina. Nina. For fuck’s sake, where are you?’

  I close the gate, then run down an alleyway that edges the back of the houses in Cain’s terrace. I need to get off of it because no doubt it’s the first place he’ll look. I turn to my left and run as fast as I can to the end of the alleyway. At the bottom there is an old-fashioned streetlamp. The yellow glow puddling on the damp pavement is just enough to walk without bumping into a person coming the other way, but it’s quaint, really nice. Not what I’m used to that’s for sure. The quaintness of it strikes a chord with me for some reason and I feel really sad. Tears well up and for a second a surge of deep despondency goes though me and I can’t work out why. I have no memories of ever being in a place like this, no lingering reminiscences of happiness in another place to remind me.

  When I get to the streetlamp I take a right turn because I think it’s probably where there will be more life. Everywhere is the same as Cain’s street and I can see glimpses of light coming out underneath blinds and through cracks in the curtains. One of the windows I pass has no blind and I can’t help but glimpse in as I run by. Oh my God, there’s a gorgeous decorated Christmas tree next to a fireplace where there’s a roaring fire. It’s Christmas and I didn’t
even know. Maybe that’s why I feel so sad. Instinctively I knew there was something special going on. I’ve been locked away for so long I’d forgotten. And I know if I’d stayed with Cain I’d have been locked away again, told what to do, pulled this way and that. Good decision, Nina.

  I can hear traffic noises and the tinny sound of music. I was right about the direction I chose. This is the way to the town centre. Which town I have no idea, but if there’s more people there it’s going to be easier for me to get lost, to be anonymous. I put my hand up to my jacket pocket to feel the pack of money I took from Cain’s cupboard. The thought occurs to me that I didn’t just take the money, I stole it. The last thing I stole was a pack of steak from the supermarket when I was living on my own in the flat after Mum died and I had had to leave Rochelle’s to get away from Paul, her boyfriend. Luckily, I’d held onto the front door key, just to remind me I once had a home with my parents I suppose. I had no money, was ravenous and I had to have something. At the time, my hunger was more important than my morals. I just walked into the supermarket, slipped the pack inside my jacket and walked out. No one stopped me, and because it had been so successful, I was able to return, with money this time, without getting collared. I smile to myself at the memory. Look, I don’t feel great about stealing from Cain, but what choice do I have. I need to get away from all of them, and no one can do anything without money. Anyway, somehow, I can’t see him reporting me to the police, not with all that paperwork he’s got hidden away.

  The closer I get to the centre the busier it gets. I put my hand in my pocket to retrieve my phone to find out what the time is, but then realise I don’t have it anymore. I haven’t seen it since I was in the hospital, so I need to get one. This is clearly a market town. There are stalls lining the main street and the vendors are calling out to the crowd about what they’re selling and how much they’re selling them for. I’m attracted to a bakery stall and buy myself a huge meat pasty which will hopefully keep me going if I can keep it down. There’s a coffee stall too, so I get a takeaway cappuccino and find a bench by the green so I can eat and rest. And from here I can see the street that I ran down to get to the centre. If Cain follows in my footsteps, I’ll see him before he sees me. And he mustn’t see me.

  When I was seventeen, I got a job as a secretary working for an export firm in Piccadilly. The manger was a monstrous old woman called Mrs Palmer-Drayton whom I was fairly sure wasn’t really married but wore a wedding ring and used the Mrs moniker to give herself some status. I always thought that if there was a Mr Palmer-Drayton I felt very sorry for him, being married to a woman who was a harridan who hated younger women; me included. The under-boss was a Mr Drysdale. He was early fifties, paunchy; in the warm weather he would take off his jacket and his shirt stretched so tight across his stomach the fabric strained at the buttons to be free of them. He had a strange, nasally voice. He clearly had something wrong with his sinuses which seemed to be permanently blocked, and a wet mouth that I did my best not to look at because it made me feel sick. The job was okay, boring in the way of some office jobs, but the part I like most was where the office was situated, right in the middle of a street with amazing buildings from centuries past. It was like living in another time until I got into Oxford Street to get the tube home. I always liked history. Maybe I should have studied it instead of trying to get a law degree. Look where that got me.

  I shudder thinking about it and decide not to. What I need to do is get to Lambeth and Plan Bee, so I can speak to Cecily Cunningham. Once I’ve done that, I can clear up this mess and just disappear, maybe go back to the flat and get it back to the way it was, depending on how bad it is.

  ‘Chilworth,’ says a guy of about forty-odd, wearing a khaki jacket and Dr Martens. I’d asked him about transport into London. ‘You need to get to Chilworth Railway Station.’

  ‘How far’s that?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, you’re young ain’t ya, you could walk it. There’s a coach what leaves from the Town Hall every hour or so. That’ll take you to the station. Or a taxi. That’s the quickest way if you can afford it.’ He looks me up and down and I see something in his face I don’t like. ‘What you want with London this time. Most people are coming ‘ome from there this time of the evening.’

  ‘What time?’

  He struggles to get a mobile phone out of his pocket, clearly stoned out of his mind. ‘Quarter to seven. This lot’ll be packing up soon.’ He gestures towards the market stalls. ‘Christmas Eve see. They’re making the most of it, trying to sell everything before the Christmas break. That’s why I come here at this time. Everything’ll be reduced in half an hour or so. You should hang around. You might get some free stuff. And I could take you for a drink after.’

  I smile and turn away. ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve got an appointment.’

  ‘Up-yerself bitch,’ I hear him say as I walk away, but I don’t respond. I’ve been called worse.

  As I make my way to the Town Hall from where Christmas carols are being relayed over two huge speakers next to a stunning Christmas tree that must be twenty-five feet high, I spot Cain. He’s looking for me, but he’s trying to come across as though he isn’t; hands in pockets, slowly meandering through the crowd, but he’s surveying everyone who comes within six inches of him. The fact that it’s so busy at the market has done me a huge favour but seeing him has made me realise that I need to be cleverer than I’ve been. Talking to the stoned guy wasn’t clever because I virtually told him where I was going. What if Cain asks him if he’s seen me, or for all I know he might know him. Shere isn’t a big place, I can tell that from the size of the market square. It might be one of those places where everyone knows everyone else. I need a taxi. I’d planned to go on the hourly bus, but I have to get out of here, and fast. If Cain is looking for me he has reasons. If he didn’t care he’d be at home, sitting in front of the TV with beer and a bunch of snacks. He needs to find me. I just don’t know why.

  In front of me is a stall selling Parkas, scarves, hats and gloves. The only jacket I have is a denim one with frayed cuffs, built for fashion not warmth. I was wearing it when I was taken to hospital then Plan Bee which was back in September, and it’s absolutely useless in winter temperatures. I go for a regular khaki Parka with a fur trimmed hood and a knitted beany hat. Much to the stall holder’s surprise I bundle my hair on top of my head and shrug the Parka on in front of him, doing it up to the neck. Apart from keeping me warm, Cain is expecting to see a girl in a short denim jacket and cropped jeans, with crazy hair hanging down her back. The coat and hat completely change my appearance.

  Keeping one eye on Cain I hunt for a taxi rank. I call across to a woman with a buggy. Another connection I didn’t want, but I don’t think I have a choice if I want to get away quickly without Cain seeing me. She points to a street that veers off to the side of Town Hall and I can see a line of people waiting for taxis, snaking around to the left behind the building. Crap! I need to be at the front of that line. I run through the market towards the line and when I get there, run past everyone in the queue. When I reach the head of the queue I survey who’s about to get into a cab. It’s a couple, laden down with bags and looking like they’ve had enough. I approach them, gently, with a smile.

  ‘Excuse me.’ They both look up but don’t say anything. I widen my smile which is unreturned. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but I’ve got an emergency and I wondered if I could jump in front of you.’

  The guy eyes me with some scepticism and turns away, shaking his head. ‘I think that’s a no,’ the woman says, looking at me with unhidden annoyance as if I’d got two heads. ‘Honestly, some people.’

  ‘Look, I wouldn’t ask only...’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says turning his face to me with a snarl. ‘You’ve got a fucking emergency. What is it, late for a date? We’ve all got emergencies, love.’

  I can hear the queue behind us getting restless, and murmurs of dissent. ‘Who does she think she is, just walking to the front like that
and expecting to be let in?’

  ‘Must be an American,’ says another. ‘They don’t queue like we do.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we all want to get home.’

  I fish some of the money I took from Cain’s out of my pocket. ‘Twenty quid, if you let me jump in the next cab.’

  They guy stares hard at his girlfriend. ‘What d’you think?’

  She rolls her eyes and pushing him back leans towards me, lowering her voice. ‘Make it fifty and you got yourself a deal.’ Her boyfriend laughs and rubs his chin, clearly impressed by her chutzpah.

  ‘Thirty. I’ll give you thirty, my final offer.’ A taxi wheels around the corner and draws up at the front of the taxi rank. She nods and holds out her hand. I peel off a twenty and a ten and crush them into her palm before jumping into the black cab to cries of derision from the waiting queue. I want to open the window and call out, ‘Up yours, suckers,’ but I think I might have already pushed my luck as far as it’s going to go.