by Andrea Hicks
‘Where to, love?’ the taxi driver asks, switching the sign on the front of the cab to “Hired”.
I think about it. Do I really want to hang around a station platform wondering when the next train to take me into London will arrive? Those out of the way stations are notorious for poor services and I can’t take the risk. Plus, it’s Christmas Eve. It’ll be mayhem and they might cut trains. ‘How much to Lambeth?’
‘Bloody ‘ell, gel. You could’ve said you wanted to go that far.’
I frown at him in the mirror. ‘Why? Does it make a difference?’
‘Yeah, it does. I wanna be home before Father Christmas flies across the rooftops. Are you gettin’ my drift?’
‘So, charge me extra. I don’t care. I just want to get there as soon as I can, then you can go back to your mince pies.’
He huffs and puffs then sighs. ‘Ang on. I’ll ‘ave to work it out.’ I watch him as he thinks about it, his face implacable, not giving anything away. Not much working out going on. He’s going to pluck a figure out of the air, and because it’s Christmas Eve, double it. He looks into the mirror and I wonder if he’s trying to weigh me up to see if I’m good for however much he wants. ‘’Undred and fifty.’
‘What?’
‘Look, love, it’s Christmas Eve. Everyfing’s more expensive come Christmas, you know that, and to be honest, this was gonna be my last fare before I went ‘ome to the kiddies, like. I thought I’d be going a few miles down the road, not Timbuktu.’
‘We’re going to Lambeth, not the Great Wall of China.’
‘Yeah, well, if you wanna get to Lambeth, that’s how much it’ll cost yer.’ I roll my eyes and nod. So far getting forty odd miles away from Cain has cost me a hundred and ninety quid. I shrug to myself and settle back in the seat. It’s not my money. Why should I care? Cain’s paying for this. Maybe. I hadn’t considered it might not be his money. If it isn’t, who does it belong to, where has it come from and why was it there?
These thoughts accompany me on my way to Lambeth. I pull the Parka around me. It’s getting colder and I can feel the drop in temperature even in the back of the cab. I rub the condensation from the window with my cuff as a fine sleet begins to fall from a black sky and it occurs to me that I don’t yet have anywhere to stay. I need to put that right as soon as I get into London. I don’t want to be out for too long on a night like this, and I need the sanctuary. A good meal and a hot drink would go a long way too.
‘Where do you want to be dropped off?’ asks Mr Charisma.
‘Er, know any decent hotels near Canary Wharf?’
‘I know loads. Decent prices an’ all.’
I close my eyes for a moment. All I want right at this moment is somewhere to have a hot shower, a good meal, and a bed for the night where I can rest my head...and make a strategy for how I’m going to approach Cecily Cunningham. If the place isn’t to my liking for whatever reason, I’ll go somewhere else in a couple of days. ‘You choose, but I don’t want anything flashy. Just reasonably priced, and it would help if it was clean, y’know, no bedbugs.’
He frowns at me in the mirror, and I can see he’s curious. ‘Ain’t you got no family to go to? It’s Christmas Day tomorrow for fuck’s sake.’
I pull a face. ‘And?’
‘Oh, alright, feisty knickers. ‘Ow about Point A Hotel. Three star, right where everything is. It’s in Tower Hamlets. Very popular it is. And not expensive. The youngsters love it.’
I shrug. ‘Yeah, whatever.’
He drops me off outside the hotel and I hand him the hundred and fifty. ‘Have a nice Christmas,’ I say, not without a hint of sarcasm.
He looks at the money in his hand. ‘What, no tip?’ I pull a face. ‘Stay safe, gel,’ he calls after me as I go through the glass doors of the hotel. I raise my hand to acknowledge his words. If he only knew.
I get a single room with a TV, Wi-Fi and the usual works for just under forty-five quid. I won’t be able to stay here long; if I can’t get into my flat it’ll be hostels until I can get something sorted, or maybe Rochelle can put me up for a couple of days, but for now it’s what I need. I strip my clothes off as I go into the room, click on the TV and make for the shower. Standing under the hot water is heaven on earth and I spend longer underneath than I usually do, but it’s like a comfort. As I come out of the bathroom wrapping my hair in a towel I hear a newsreaders voice talking about a national crisis. I turn up the sound and go across to the dresser to switch on the kettle for a much-needed coffee, when I hear my name. I stop dead in my tracks and turn towards the TV. The screen is filled with a photograph...of me. I sit on the end of the bed, unblinking, astonished at what the newsreader is saying about me.
‘Nina Gourriel is a fugitive. She escaped from a government installation and is now being hunted by MI5 as she is regarded as a threat to national security. It is suggested that she should not be approached by members of the public as she is considered to be highly dangerous. We’ll go across to our security correspondent, Damian Todd, who is outside the MI5 building, Thames House, in Millbank, London, and who has been speaking to Cecily Cunningham who heads up the government installation holding Ms. Gourriel for activities threatening national security. Damian, what more have you learned?’
‘Yes, Nina Gourriel was arrested three months ago and was being held at a government installation in Lambeth. She has been interviewed regarding her activities in which MI5 have shown an interest. It is suspected that Ms. Gourriel received assistance for her escape from the installation. Members of the public are requested not to approach her, but to contact the police immediately.’
‘Have there been any sightings of Ms Gourriel so far, Damian?’
‘There have been no reports, but MI5 and Cecily Cunningham suspect she’s being helped by another party. She may be lying low until she can get out of the country. All airports and ports have been put on alert and her photograph has been circulated to all police forces in the country.’
‘Many thanks, Damian. Now the rest of the news. It has been reported that King Charles is to make a trip to...’
I grab the remote and switch off the TV. My body feels like stone, the comfort from the shower forgotten. I feel distinctly uncomfortable. And terrified. Why am I a threat to national security? What the hell did I do?
I try to get up from the end of the bed, but I can barely stand I’m so shocked. Am I a fugitive? I’ve done nothing wrong, yet not only is Cecily Cunningham looking for me, but also MI5. Acidic bile travels from my stomach to my throat and I make it to the bathroom just in time.
I sink down onto the bathroom floor, then lay down, pressing my sweating forehead against the cold tiles. How can this be happening to me? Should I turn myself in and try to explain that I don’t know what I’ve done? Should I run, but where would I run to, and why should I? I’ve not committed a crime. Anyway, it looks like they’ve got everywhere covered. They’re looking for me, no stone unturned. Realisation dawns on me. The taxi driver. Will he think I’m the one they’re looking for? What about Cain? Will he turn me in because I ran out on him? My guess is not. He helped me escape and he’d be in a shedload of trouble if they find out what he did. The guy at the market? Hopefully too stoned to have recognised me. The woman I asked for directions, the people at the taxi rank. Too many for comfort. Far too many.
I wonder how much time I have before someone works out I’m Nina Gourriel. I crawl into the bedroom and on to the bed. I must sleep, need to, at least a few hours. If I have to run, I’ll run. But not yet. Not yet...
Chapter 6
I wake with a start. The room is in darkness and my mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage. I’m not in bed, but sprawled diagonally across it, a towel still wrapped around my head. I lean up on my elbows wondering about the time. Then it all comes back to me. The last thing I did last night was to watch the news. The dreams I had are testament to that, people with shadowy faces, running to get away from them, entrapment in a room, a basement with...spiders,
webs complete with dead flies; you get the picture? I swallow, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth and I realise I didn’t get around to having that coffee I promised myself.
I sit up and pull the towel off my head. My hair sticks up and I roll my eyes. I’ll have to wet it again to make it behave. I want to turn on the TV. I’m scared to but how else will I know what the time is? I click it on and pull myself to the end of the bed opposite the telly. It’s just gone six a.m.
I watch for five minutes, then make a coffee and pull on my clothes. There’s nothing. It’s all about Christmas. Of course, today is Christmas Day. A wave of sadness curls over my head and passes, shivery, across my skin. After Dad disappeared and Mum died, Christmas meant little to me. It was okay at Rochelle’s, she really tried because she’s got three kids, all younger than me. She’s dad’s baby sister, that’s what he used to call her. She would slap him on the arm and tell him not to be so daft, but I know she liked it. There was a real closeness between them that I envied in a way. Being an only child, I never got to know what it was like to live in a noisy home full of kids running here and there, getting into trouble for this and that. Dad was always working, paperwork and folders. He would spend the evenings pouring over textbooks and making notes. When I asked Mum what he was doing, she’d say he was studying. It was important and I had to be quiet to let him get on with it, so that’s what I did. I wasn’t even allowed to have my friends at home because of it. Then he disappeared. I never saw him again.
Now I must decide what to do. I can only go with my original plan and find Cecily Cunningham. At least then I can explain that I have no idea what they’re on about and why I’m such a danger to everyone. I hope the fact that it’s Christmas Day will work in my favour. Everyone’s doing something else and I doubt I’m the most important thing on their minds right now. I must find out whether I can risk staying here another night. I’d prefer not to be hunting around for another hotel room on Christmas Day, but the taxi driver is worrying me. He dropped me off here, even suggested the hotel. If he recognises me he’ll know exactly where I am. It was a rooky mistake; one I won’t make again. She won’t be at Plan Bee today, so I think it’s a good day for me to go and look for it. I’ve got the address on a piece of scrap paper in my pocket, and as scared as I am to go outside, I’m a sitting duck here.
I push my hair into the beany hat, shrug on my Parka and pull the hood up. I have to hope the receptionist at the hotel doesn’t recognise me. Maybe I should put on an accent. My thoughts go to the picture of the girl in the passport. Pink hair. I might have to.
When I get downstairs theirs a dopey looking guy on reception. He just looks up and nods and I do the same. Outside, the street is empty. the windows in the buildings look black, there are no lights on, like eyes in a person who has lost their soul. The buildings are impressive, huge London houses with lots of rooms, the kind of house I expect Cecily Cunningham lives in, but the address I have is by the arches, the not so nice part of Lambeth. This is where Plan Bee is situated. I pull the mobile I found in the box at Cain’s out of my pocket. I need a map. There’s no way I’ll find it without one, but I’m worried it could be traced. Think, Nina. Think.
He’ll only trace it if he knows I’ve taken it. And I swapped the files around a bit in the boxes, shifted phones and money from one box to another, so...hopefully it’ll confuse the issue. I take a deep breath and switch the phone on. It’s a burner phone, never been used and doesn’t have a password. Accessing google maps is easy. The Albert Embankment is just a fifteen-minute walk from here, so I use the SatNav and let the dulcet tones guide me.
The weather is crap, snowing quite heavily now and I’m walking into it, but I’m determined to see this place. When Cain sprung me, he bundled me so fast into the back of the van I didn’t see anything, but today the direction I take is in my own hands.
Plan Bee isn’t difficult to find. It doesn’t advertise itself, quietly imposing among the shops and beauty salons; the arches are popular for small businesses, but I know the Plan Bee unit isn’t what it seems. It’s vast with intertwining corridors, state of the art offices with banks of screens linked to the holding cell and for security. I saw at least fifty people working there, so the façade is hiding something.
There’s hardly anyone about. It’s Christmas Day. I’ve got to stop thinking like that. It’s just the same as any other day. Remember that Nina, and in a few hours it will all be over. I can’t wait for the hours to go by. It can’t go fast enough as far as I’m concerned.
The front of Plan Bee is all glass with the logo etched in white. I’m wondering what they pass themselves off as. I can’t imagine for a moment that anyone working in any of the business around it know that I was kept prisoner in there for three months. I peer through the glass and a movement catches my eye. It’s a security guard, sitting at a desk with screen in front of him. Damn. If he sees me, I’m done.
I inch back from the glass. As I step back, I bump into someone.
‘Thought you’d be here.’ Cain. I go to run but he grabs my arm. ‘Not so fast, Nina. Why’d you run? I was helping you.’
‘Helping yourself you mean.’
He looks both ways up the street. ‘We need to get out of here. We’re lucky Donovan’s on today. He never checks the security screens.’ Grabbing my arm, he pulls me past the bridges and up Leake Street, where there’s a café open. ‘Sit,’ he says, pushing me down onto one of the mismatched chairs making up the rather eclectic décor of the café. ‘And don’t move.’ I scowl at him. ‘I mean it, Nina.’ He lowers his voice. ‘I don’t think you realise how much danger you’re in.’
‘Oh, I do. I saw my gorgeous face on TV last night. What the hell is that about? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘It’s not about what you’ve done. It’s about what you are.’
I go to say something, but he holds up his hand to stop me. ‘Coffee first, and bacon sandwiches, then we’ll talk.’ He goes to the counter then turns back to stare at me. ‘Do not even think of running. You won’t stand a chance.’
I sigh heavily, pull of my beany and take off my Parka. So far, he hasn’t mentioned the gun and the phone. And there’s no way I’m going to. He puts the sandwich in front of me. I haven’t eaten for what feels like days and I demolish it in a few mouthfuls.
He smiles. ‘Hungry, are we?’
I wipe my mouth with my hand. ‘Just get on with it, Cain, and stop treating me like a child. If you don’t give me some answers I will run, even if you keep trying to stop me, I’ll try again and again, and I reckon you’ll get so sick of me you’ll be glad to see the back of me.’
He nods, looking serious. ‘The reason you’re in danger is because there’s a price on your head. It’s not just Cecily Cunningham who wants to know where you are. The pharmaceutical companies are shitting themselves because they think you’re going to synthesise a product or products from your own blood which will put them out of business. They all want to be the ones to do it. It will mean millions for them, and they’re all out to find you. Believe me, if any of them get hold of you, your life will be no better than a lab rat.’
I’m suddenly aware that the bacon sandwich I just shovelled down is threatening to make a comeback. I swallow hard before I speak, willing everything to stay put. ‘So, what’s the deal with Cecily Cunningham? She’s government, isn’t she? Or something like that? Why does she want to find me?
‘She’s not just government, Nina, she’s MI5. No one has said as much, but we all know. The lab was in chaos yesterday. She was barking out orders to everyone, threatening everyone with dismissal if we don’t find you, and find you fast.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s the head of Plan Bee and the buck stops with her. And believe me she’s totally aware of it and will do anything she has to, to make sure her reputation stays intact. Plan Bee isn’t just a front office with a pretty glass window and a fancy logo. It’s the lab working with laboratories around the world to sto
p the degeneration of the bee population. And guess who’s in charge of it all? Guess who has instructed everyone who’s anyone to be on your tail.’
‘Cecily Cunningham.’
‘Right. This thing is serious. How many years have they been talking about this, saying that bees are more important to us than anything on the planet? If the population continues to increase and the bee population continues to decrease, we’ve all had it.’
I frown because I was sure I’d read it was all fixed. ‘I thought they’d found a way of pollinating crops so that we didn’t have to rely on bees to do it.’
Cain nods and smiles. ‘Panic limitation. Cecily got some copywriter to put together some articles to be sent to all the right places. They were syndicated across the globe, telling the population that they could calm down, that everything was fine. It had been dealt with.’
‘And hasn’t it? Been dealt with I mean.’
‘Not in the way Cecily wanted the world to think. Yes, we’ve found a way of setting up pollination programmes, but they’re not wide enough. It can’t be done on the scale it needs to be done to feed the planet. They spent millions looking for a way to do it, but actually it all proved to be useless.’
‘Right. I get that. But what has all that got to do with me?’
‘In a nutshell, the pharma companies want you alive and held by them because they can make millions from you. Cecily wants you dead because saving the population from disease means killing the planet. Natural selection will be a thing of the past. Even the pharma companies don’t mind if you’re dead, as long as they’ve had a chance to get something from you before that happens. They won’t want to waste the opportunity take samples of your blood to keep in obeyance should they need it.’