by Andrea Hicks
‘Like I said,’ I begin, shovelling a potato I don’t want into my mouth to look like he hasn’t bothered me. ‘If it gets heated, I’ll get out of your hair. I promise. You won’t even know I’m here.’ Paul clicks his tongue patronisingly and leaves the room. Levi shakes his head in anger and Jacob looks down, embarrassed. I wish I could save them from this. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper to Rochelle.
She runs a hand across my face like my mum used to. ‘Ignore him. He’s trouble on two legs.’ She leans forward to make sure Paul’s not listening, and Camille gets up and closes the door. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m going to ask him to leave, so don’t think you’ve made it any worse. The kids hate him.’
I turn to look at them. Sadness runs through me because I know how much they miss their father who died when they were young, and how much they dislike Paul. ‘Hasn’t it got any better?’
‘Worse,’ says Levi, who seems to be the spokesman. ‘And he’s too fond of Camille.’
Camille puts her hands over her face and when she pulls them down her face is wet with tears. Rochelle runs towards her and enfolds her in her arms. ‘My baby. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry, Camille.’
‘Just ask him to go, Mum,’ says Camille, almost begging. ‘Please.’
Rochelle nods. ‘I will. I promise. Now. It’s Christmas. Jacob. Get that game down, you know the one where Grandpappy farted when he bent over that year.’ I start to laugh because the word, well, the word farted...it’s just funny, and I need something to laugh at.
‘Twister,’ shouts Jacob. ‘Yay, my favourite. And Camille must play too, even though she thinks she’s too grown up to play it.’
‘I’ll play,’ she says, a smile replacing the tears.
We take the game into the dining room and play Twister for hours, collapsing into laughter and shouting to each other to get out of the way. Levi accuses Jacob of ‘doing a Grandpappy’ in his face, and Jacob swears he didn’t. This is the family I remember, the one who love one another, who weather the storms, love the laughter and mean the words on the Welcome Home mat. The thought that Rochelle has found some strength and is prepared to get rid of Paul fills me with a happiness I haven’t felt in months.
Later, Rochelle draws me to one side. She lights a cigarette and gives me a hard look.
‘So, what’s this about?’ She says it in a way that means she’ll brook no fudging or faffing about. She wants the low-down, the real deal, and I’m certain she won’t accept anything else, and really, I’ve got nothing to lose. She needs to know...just in case.
‘It’s something to do with my blood.’ She inhales hard and looks down, a stream of smoke from the cigarette she holds in her fingers ascending to the ceiling then disappearing. The smell reminds me of my dad. I’m sure she smokes the same brand. ‘They tested my blood when I was taken into hospital after a bad fix,’ she closes her eyes and shakes her head in disgust, ‘and they found something in it that they wanted to explore further. When I was well enough to leave the hospital, they wouldn’t discharge me. They took me somewhere else in an ambulance, a place I now know was a government facility called Plan Bee, and they took my blood and plasma over and over. There were even some minor operations, testing this and that, I never got the full story.’ Then I tell her about Cain.
‘This Cain.’ I nod. ‘What’s his story?’
I shrug feeling stupid because I really should know, made the effort to find out. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You said he’s a scientist.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, he works there. Wears the white coat, you know how these people are.’
‘And you’re sure he’s a scientist?’
I stare at her. ‘He was at the facility. He works with the dorks. They know him.’
Rochelle pulls a face. ‘The dorks?’
‘The scientists, the ones who took my blood. I didn’t see anyone else apart from them, until they took me into an office one day and told me why they were keeping me there.’
‘Did you ask to leave?’ I nod. ‘But they refused?’
‘Cain said I needed to take my life into my own hands because I was a threat...to the government and to the pharmaceutical companies. He said...he said they would probably kill me because they wouldn’t know what to do with me. I still don’t know how word got out to the newspapers. Cain said it could have been someone working at Plan Bee.’
Rochelle frowns and stubs her cigarette out in a saucer. ‘Is that likely? More than their jobs worth I would have thought.’
‘Well, someone told them. Anyway, I went to Cain’s place, but because I wasn’t sure if I trusted him, I left when he was at Plan Bee, pretending not to know anything about my escape. I came to London to see Cecily Cunningham. She’s head of Plan Bee, but she also heads up MI5.’
Rochelle takes a step back. ‘What the fuck! MI5! You’ve got yourself into some shit, girlfriend.’
I sigh, the old moroseness returning. ‘You don’t have to tell me that. I just don’t understand how it happened. How the hell did my blood get like they’re saying. Mum died of cirrhosis, so she didn’t have these...antibody things in her blood, so why have I got them? I don’t get it.’
Rochelle’s expression changes and she zones out, deep in thought, rubbing her chin as though considering something, then smiles. ‘Well, you’re here now. And you’re safe. You can stay here as long as you need. Don’t pay any heed to what Paul says. This isn’t his house and you’re family.’
‘Do you love him?’
The smile leaves her face. ‘It’s complicated.’
Rochelle makes up a bed in Camille’s room which suits both of us. There’s safety in numbers and over the next few days I begin to get comfortable in my aunt’s home. The boys and Camille are great; now they’re older we all have more in common and we banter and bicker as if I’m their long- lost sister. Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake to come here. They are my family after all.
When Rochelle and Camille go to work, and the boys are at school and college, I make myself scarce by holing up in the bedroom. It’s the only thing I’m worried about, that Paul will think it’s okay to come home from work and take the same liberties he tried to take with me before. No wonder Camille is so upset. He’s such a misogynistic arsehole.
Today I’ve decided to write down everything that has happened to me. There’s a computer on the landing that everyone uses, so I can safely use it and log out without anyone knowing. Rochelle likes to know what they’re all up to, so they don’t have their own devices. If I hear anyone come in, I can just quickly go back into the bedroom and lock the door until I know who it is. If it’s Paul I don’t want to be alone with him. It’s awful to live like this, but I know how much worse it could be. I could be on the streets. Writing everything down in an online diary means if anything happens to me there will be a paper trail. I can email it to Camille, and she can do with it what she thinks best.
The computer is switched on. Unusual. I know how Rochelle feels about using to much energy. She always insists that Camille and the boys turn everything off when they’ve finished with something. One of her mottos is, “No blue lights here”. I push the mouse and an email programme opens. I feel kind of bad because the last thing I want to do is to snoop into someone else’s email, but there’s no choice because I need to switch it off. Then I see it. It’s an email from Paul Clements to cunningham@bees/government.5.org. What the hell! The bastard’s handed me in.
Below me the front door opens then slams shut.
‘Nina!’ Something in my gut told me it would be Paul. I’m trapped. There’s nowhere for me to go unless I dive out of the window. Camille’s room is at the top of a Victorian house. There’s no way I’d be getting up again. ‘Nina. Can you come down here please?’
Shit. I run to the window and look out. The three Mercs parked on Lavender Hill look imposing against the Corsas and Renaults. How on earth do they know where I am? I go out onto the landing and look down the stair well. Paul’s standing in the hall waiting
for me to go downstairs. There’s nothing I can do, nowhere for me to go.
I run back into the bedroom and lock the door, even though I know it’s useless. Even I could kick my way through it. He shouts for me again. ‘Nina.’ He’s getting angry. I recognise the voice, the growl, the threat of violence that laces every word.
I unlock the door and go out onto the landing. ‘What d’you want?’
‘You need to get down here.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
The doorbell rings and I hear the door being opened. Someone says Paul’s name in a low voice, and he confirms it. Then there’s a thump, and another thump, and I hear Paul scream out, ‘No...’
I take a breath and hold it in my chest. I feel disorientated because I don’t know what’s going on and I’m too scared to go downstairs. Suddenly, I hear Paul making a keening, wailing noise. He sounds like an animal in pain, then his voice like I’ve never heard it before, begging, cajoling, pleading...for his life. ‘No, no, don’t...’ There’s a dull ‘oomph’, then another... then silence. After a few seconds the front door slams. I run into the bedroom and look out of the window. Six men, two for each Merc return to the cars. They’re all dressed in hoodies and joggers, as if they’re on a casual day out. One of them turns at the front gate and looks up to the bedroom window. My breath gets caught in my throat and I take a step back. They guy has a mocking grin on his face, and he lifts his hand.
The three Mercs drive off at speed and the street is quiet again. I go out onto the landing and look down the stairwell. The hall is empty, and the house is too quiet. I take each step down the two flights with reluctance; I’m scared of what I’m going to find when I get to the ground floor. When I reach the bottom step I look around the finial and shudder. Paul is laying on the kitchen floor, his arms and legs splayed awkwardly. There’s a dark puddle of blood spreading slowly from his head across the white tiles. I’m transfixed and all I can think of is, why? Why did they do this to him? Isn’t it me they’re after?
I step closer to Paul with my breath held. I don’t know what happens when someone is shot. Is there a chance he could still be alive? I edge nearer and bend over him, listening for any sound. There’s nothing. His lips are blue and the skin on his face is waxen.
Paul is dead.
The mobile phone in my back pocket buzzes and I pull it out and look at the screen. Unavailable. It buzzes again and keeps buzzing.
‘Hello?’
‘You okay, Nina?’
I breathe his name with utter relief. ‘Cain?’
‘Can you find somewhere else to stay?’
‘I have to move on again?’
‘Probably best.’
‘Do you know what’s happened? Paul’s dead. Someone shot him.’
‘He made a big mistake.’
‘I don’t understand, Cain. He turned me in. Aren’t they looking for me?’
‘I can’t discuss it, Nina. I’m not sure this line is secure. You’ve heard of hacking.’
I nod, then remember he can’t see me. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it.’
He swiftly moves on. ‘Can you go today? Now?’
I look around, searching for an answer to that question, then my eyes fall on the body. ‘What about Paul. I can’t let Rochelle come home and find him shot. And me gone. She’s not his greatest fan right now, but she wouldn’t want this. And what about Camille and the boys?’
‘Leave now. It’ll be sorted, but you must leave now.’
The phone goes dead. That’s it. A fait accompli. I don’t have a choice. I must leave regardless of what I really want. I’ve liked being here; felt so safe compared to the last few months, but my head is reeling with what has happened. I’m asking the questions to which there are no answers as I run up the stairs. In the bedroom I gather up the clothes and underwear Camille gave me, stuff she’d got for Christmas, and shove them into a backpack, and it’s breaking my heart that I’ve got to leave again. I don’t want them to hate me, or think that I’m not loyal to them, because I am. I love them. They are good people, and now I’m older I can appreciate them for who they are. I hope with all my heart they love me enough to understand why I’ve left without saying goodbye.
Chapter 10
I find myself walking down Lavender Hill, passing the chichi restaurants and shops. Things have changed since I was last here and I feel like an alien. The only good thing about London is that if you want to be anonymous, if you want to disappear, you more or less can, unless you’ve got MI5 looking for you, then it’s a whole different matter.
Cain said I needed to get out of Rochelle’s house, but he didn’t give me any clue of where I was to go to be safe. He didn’t invite me back to his. Let’s face it, he doesn’t want me there, not until Luna has returned to her life, whatever and wherever that is, and maybe she won’t. Maybe she intends to stay, and that will definitely curtail the things he does. Luna? Tut. She sounds like an upper-crust bitch. I wonder if she knows about the cupboard with the boxes of passports, drivers’ licences, and money in different denominations and currencies, and the files he keeps on other people. I’m guessing she doesn’t. It sounds like she has a lot to say for herself. I’m not sure she would approve. And why does he have those files? And the gun, which he doesn’t have. Because I’ve got it.
Strolling through the streets I know I have to decide where I’m going. There is literally nowhere...unless. Dylan. I could go to the café and ask Laura to put me up, but she’s got a toddler, and after what happened to Paul I can’t get her involved. I’m still reeling from shock. His is the first dead body I’ve seen. When Mum died I was ushered out of the room by concerned medical staff, who assured me it was peaceful because she was drugged up to the eyeballs and it was the kindest thing. She was already in a deep sleep when she passed. But Paul. His death was incredibly violent. To see a human being in that state, even if I hated him; it’s not the image you want behind your eyes, because every time I close my eyes now it’s his body I see, his blood I watch spilling out onto the kitchen floor like a red stain that just keeps on getting bigger. It was as if his life’s blood was leaving him. I shake my head as I walk, trying to rid myself of the thoughts I know won’t do any good, but I’m terrified. If they’ll do that to him, what the hell will they do to me?
For the first time, which I know is incredible, but for the first time since all this began I’ve realised how much danger I’m in. I think it’s because before I found Paul’s body, it all felt like a kind of dream, like it wasn’t real...a bubble of surreal happenings that would eventually stop and I could go back to my old life at some point. It was a bit like when you bang your elbow on something and it goes numb, but gradually, gradually, the feeling returns and you can’t help but know what has happened. And now...now I know. I know how ruthless Cecily Cunningham is, and that her men will do whatever she tells them. The thing I’m struggling with is, why was Paul murdered? He’d obviously turned me in, probably because he was aware there was a price on my head. He’s never been a fan of mine because I resisted his dirty fumbling and left before it got nasty. I should have told Rochelle, but I didn’t think he’d try the same thing with Camille. I feel bad about that. If I’d told her what he’d been doing maybe she would have got rid of him sooner, and Camille wouldn’t have had to go through all that. I just didn’t want to hurt Rochelle, the one person in my life who’d been so good to me, who cared about me. It was a mistake, but Paul Clements has paid the ultimate price for being a sleazy, greedy bastard. Sometimes people get what they deserve.
I must get off the street because every second I'm out in the open is a moment when I can be seen. There is only Dylan's place. Even if the apartment hadn't been razed to the ground I can't go back there. It must be Dylan's. It's the only place I can go where I have a chance of being safe, and no one knows about him, that is, no one who matters. I heft the backpack on my shoulder, pull my hat down over my brow and make my way to the underground station. I've still go
t money enough to take care of myself for a while.
There's one of those light box things on a stand with a map to show tourists where they are. I need to get to Clapham Junction and take the underground to Putney I think it only takes about 10 minutes on the Tube. I run down the steps to the ticket floor. It's busy which is great. No one looks at you, no one bothers, they’re just not interested. Anonymity is easy here and I'm feeling confident when I get to the booth to buy my ticket. I hand over my money, and as I collect my ticket my eyes drift over the shoulder of the vendor. Behind her is a poster, black and white, stark, brutal, which has an unflattering photo of me, and some print warning the public that should they recognise me to approach me at their own risk, but better to inform the police and receive a reward.
I pull my chin down into my coat and I try not to make eye contact with anyone, shuddering as I think of Paul again. I grab my ticket and my change and run to the escalators, leaning against the handrail and willing the damn creaky thing to get a move on. If anyone recognised me from the poster, they could be contacting the police right at this very moment. When I reach the bottom I run towards the platform and squeeze my way into the crowd. I’m desperate to get a seat because standing on a train makes me feel like I’m under scrutiny which is the last thing I want. While I wait for the train, I study my feet, willing myself not to study the crowd, although the temptation is almost overwhelming. I know people just want to get wherever they’re going and probably haven’t even acknowledged my presence, but it doesn't stop me feeling like I'm being observed, that sensation that someone has their eyes on you. I can't help but look up slightly and turn my chin to the right. My eyes meet with a pair of dark brown ones watching me intently. He’s in his early 30s, Oriental looking, dark hair trying to escape a pull-on hat. I look away, trying to appear nonchalant as my heart leaps into my mouth with fear. I stare down at the platform again, but I must know where he is, so I look to my right again, expecting him to be staring me down, but he’s not where he was standing before. I search for him, frantically trying to find him which is virtually impossible because of everyone moving about. Oh, fuck, where is he?