by Andrea Hicks
I can feel someone behind me standing close to me, so close I can feel his warm breath on my neck where my coat and hat don’t meet. I inhale, then scrunch up my face, waiting for him to do something, to shout, to point, to let everyone know who I am. Or stick a blade in between my ribs. Or push me off the platform into the path of the train I can hear rumbling down the tracks. I’m trembling now. I want to vomit. For Christ’s sake, if you’re going to do something get it over with.
‘Don’t. Turn. Around.’ His voice is low and resonant, like a breath, a warm breeze flowing into my right ear.
I swallow all the saliva that jetted into my mouth when I thought I was going to vomit. ‘What?’
‘What are you doing here?’
I bent my face down and slightly over my shoulder. ‘I’ve got to find somewhere. I’m going to my boyfriend’s place. Well, he...used to be...my boyfriend. In Putney. That’s where he lives.’
‘The key.’
‘What key?’
‘The one you have in your pocket. It opens a safety deposit in Oxford Circus. You need to return what you took.’
‘Which was?’
‘The passport, driver’s licence...and the firearm.’ He says the last two words in a whisper. ‘You have it with you?’
‘No.’
The train rumbles into the station like a dragon breathing fire. I can’t wait to get on it and get away from this crazy who thinks he can tell me what to do.
‘Why should I?’
There’s a pause. ‘It’s in your best interests. There will be money. You can take it, but you must return what you stole, and leave directions to your father’s whereabouts. This is important. It will ensure you continue to live.’
‘I don’t have it. Why do you think I have it? He could be dead for all I know.’
He chuckles quietly. ‘I know you’re lying.’
‘What happens if I don’t do as you say?’
‘Then you have a death wish. If you’re waiting for him to save you, he won’t.’ I frown. ‘He has other fish to fry.’ I go to turn my head. ‘No! Do not look round. Just get on the train and go.’
Who does he mean, Cain, or Dylan? Not Paul, not now, anyway. He would have killed me and handed my body over to them for a price. ‘You know the year your mother was born, yes?’ I nod. ‘Don’t forget it. You need it.’
‘How do you know about this? Who told you? What’s it got to do with you.’
‘This is bigger than you. There are certain...connections, correlations you don’t need to know. You would do well to do as I say if you want to survive. If you refuse I can drop you right now. I can do it any time of my choosing. Don’t take the risk.’
The train has offloaded its tidal wave of passengers and the people standing on the platform press forwards, decanting from the platform into the suffocating tube of odours that follow them in; a mixture of colognes, perfumes, body odour, and something else indicating that one of the passengers had a bad curry the night before.
‘Who are you?’ I ask him. He doesn’t reply and I turn. He is gone...into the crowd, maybe into the train. I’m assuming it was the guy who was watching me, but I don’t know. I don’t know if it was him. It could be anyone, even the guy I’m now pressed up against as the train rumbles out of the station. I didn’t get a seat. I never get a seat.
I look for him, over the tops of people’s heads, through the tangle of arms, legs, bags, kids, even a Great Dane on a lead, expertly swaying as the train sways. The guy I thought I saw doesn’t appear to be here, not in this car anyway. I’m confused, sick at heart, and very, very scared. The phone in my pocket buzzes and I pull it from my Parka and glance at the screen. Cain. Who else?
‘What?’
‘Where are you?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Nina, you need to get off the streets.’
‘Well, I know that don’t I? Your messenger just gave me the heads up.’
‘Messenger?’
‘Come on, Cain. He told me what to do. He knows I have the...’ I inhale and glance around at the other passengers, all appearing to mind their own business, but are they? They could be listening to every word. Any one of them could be one of Cecily Cunningham’s people. ‘The, you know what. He told me take it to,’ I whisper into the mouthpiece, ‘Oxford Circus and leave it in a safety deposit.’
‘I didn’t send a messenger. Why would I do that? No one knows I sprung you from Plan Bee.’
‘Someone does. And, Cain...I’m done. I’m through with this stuff. Don’t ring me again. I don’t want to know who you are or why you did what you did, or why you’ve got boxes of files with dozens of passports and driving licences and God knows what else. You’re all fucking with my head and I don’t know which way is up. I’m going to a friend’s place, then I’ll do what the guy told me to do because he made it clear if I don’t, I’m toast. Then I’m going to disappear, and I don’t want you to get in touch or look for me. Got it?’
‘You can’t disappear, Nina. It can’t happen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there are eyes on you, everywhere you go. It’s impossible for you to vanish when you’re of so much interest, which is why you need me...someone to look out for you.’
‘You’ve done a lousy job so far. Don’t give up the day job.’
‘Don’t tell me where you’re going. I’ll find you.’
‘I have absolutely no intention of telling you where I’m going. And don’t bother to look for me...’ I end the call and the screen fades as the train pulls into Putney station. As the other passengers disembark I make sure I melt into the crowd, allow myself to be pulled along by everyone else. They nudge and they jostle, but it’s fine. I need to be part of them, to be one of many, to not be so alone. To be as alone as I feel. So utterly alone.
Chapter 11
Dylan’s flat is in a seedy part of Putney. He could afford something much better, but the monthly allowance he receives from his parents goes up his nose or in his arm. He comes from a good family; his father an eminent surgeon, his mother an ex-supermodel. Dylan is gorgeous, was...gorgeous. His habit is slowly leaching away his good looks. As this “thing” I’m in has continued, I’ve realised I should have helped him more...persuaded him to ditch the stuff and get on the right path. I will...I’ll show him a different way to live his life. It’s the promise I make to myself as I run up the steps to his building.
The outside hasn’t changed much, if at all. The broken steps leading to the building and the one to the basement flat are strewn with crap; McDonalds wrappers, plastic bottles, cigarette butts and the odd syringe just lying waiting for some poor kid to pick it up. There’s the carcass of a dead bird squashed up against the lower step, and a rustling in the rubbish outside the basement door tells me there’s a rat digging about in there somewhere. What a way for humans to live. When I came here before I was imprisoned at Plan Bee, none of this bothered me. It bothers me now. The waste of life is unacceptable. I was wasting my life, trying to forget what happened to me, filling my veins with toxicity so I could be transported to another world where my mind didn’t replay the one thing that really changed my life. It wasn’t my dad’s disappearance or the death of my mother that changed things so radically for me. It was what happened at university, the unthinkable, the destructive, the humiliating. I can’t help but revisit it as I run up the steps and through the door of Dylan’s building, because this place is where I came when I couldn’t cope, when crying and quiet raging wasn’t enough. It was here I came to find a way out. And I found it, in a little packet of white powder. A few sniffs and the rage and the humiliation and the devastation disappeared. I found peace, and I found Dylan, the boy who was there for me at University College when no one else was. It was a co-incidence that I found him, a shock that he was living like this, but at the time none of that mattered. He sold me my first hit, and when I recognised him and realised who he was I felt like it was meant to be. Also, he had money and I did
n’t, and when things got bad, I would leave my rented studio-flat with the bed that sunk in the middle and come here. It was the only place I could go where I knew I wouldn’t be judged.
The flat is on the second floor. The interior of the building is as gross as the exterior, worse in some ways because it’s in here you can smell people. And it’s not a good smell. It’s difficult to describe, but the nearest I can get to it is the stink of body odour mixed with the smell of greasy fish and chips. Nice. Most of the flats are occupied by people like Dylan. The only difference, they might have an excuse. Dylan doesn’t.
I tap on the front door.
‘Dylan,’ I call quietly, not wanting to rouse any of the others in the block. I know for a fact they’d sell their own grandmothers to get a fix, so if they see me, they’ll know they’re on to a good thing. ‘Dyl, are you in there?’ I push the door, my eyes widening when I realise it’s not locked, not even properly closed. I take my hand away from the door, too scared to go in, terrified of what I might find. ‘Dylan?’
I push the door open wider and peek around it, then push it as wide as it’ll go. The flat is totally empty. All the old furniture Dylan had gathered around him has gone, the kitchen is clean, actually squeaky clean and smelling of bleach. I run from the living room into the bedroom. The double bed is still there, the blankets folded on the end of the bed. The pillows are propped up against the wall. They’re covered in dark brown stains that make me wince. I go to the window and look out wondering what happened to him. I want to ask the neighbours, but one is a junky who is always out of it, the other an old woman with dementia who lives alone and who shouldn’t be. There’s no way I’m going to find out anything from them.
Why has Dylan left? Unless... Jesus, I hope he didn’t die. My thoughts go to the pillows in the bedroom. The browns stains look a bit like blood, and I know there’s only one way for me to find out if they are, and that’s sniff them. Oh, God, I so don’t want to.
I go into the bedroom and gingerly retrieve one of the filthy pillows from the bed between finger and thumb. I hold it at arm’s length pulling a face. Come on, Nina, just do it. I grab it with my other hand and pull it nearer and nearer to my nose until I can smell the deep iron odour of blood. I fling it away from me then retch over and over. When I’m done, I squat down and try to steady my breathing. Something happened in here, something bad. To Dylan? Was it because of me?
I sit on the floor and close my eyes. I can’t go on like this. I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to help me escape. Cain said there are eyes on me, so it’s possible someone knows I’ve come here, probably knew about Dylan. Is that why he’s not here? Have they done to him what they did to Paul?
Nothing that’s happened so far adds up. Cain helped me escape from Plan Bee, yet he was a scientist working there and must have known what it meant to the government and the pharmaceutical companies to have someone like me locked up. I get that what I meant to them was something different. To the government and Cecily Cunningham and MI5, I’m a threat. They think if the pharma companies get hold of me, they’ll use my blood to make antidotes to all the illnesses that provide natural selection among the global population. Everyone knows it’s due to this natural way of culling the population we survive, and our food chain is under threat and has been for years. The destruction of bees and their habitats have meant food shortages, even in the west, something no one thought would really happen, even with all the publicity and the marches highlighting the danger we were in. It’s been a gradual thing, but the world has changed, life has changed. Nothing is certain anymore. The world has been on a precipice for a long time. Am I the person who will drive it over the edge? And why is my blood so different from everyone else’s? Is there no one else like me, or am I the only one? Cain mentioned that he and his colleagues almost joked about finding someone like me, so it would seem it’s something they just didn’t expect to find, yet here I am. And Cain? He’s someone I’m really worried about. His intentions are unclear. He helped me escape from Plan Bee, yet when his girlfriend turns up, he turns tail and leaves me to my own devices. Why would he do that if he thinks I’m important enough to put his job on the line? Not getting it. And he knew about Paul; knew he was murdered...or assassinated. It’s the only word for it. He was assassinated, and it was because he’d contacted a government email because of me. He was telling someone he knew where I was, and it looks like whoever it was he told didn’t take kindly to it. But why? If Cecily Cunningham knew she would have wanted me to be arrested, so, I can only assume it wasn’t under her orders Paul was killed. So, who ordered it?’
I look around at Dylan’s flat, the damp infested walls, the filthy bed and blood-stained pillows. The kitchen is clean, but it’s been bleached to within an inch of its life. On television crime procedurals, they always say that if bleach has been used it’s to cover up something gross. My stomach does a somersault. I had thought I would stay here. At least it’s under cover and I don’t know if anyone knows I’m here, but there’s no way, not now I’ve discovered the blood, Dylan’s blood probably. My instinct has gone into overdrive and I’m almost certain something has happened to Dylan. I need to find out what.
I look down at the phone in my hand. I told Cain I didn’t want his interference, but it’s his bloody fault I’m on the run. He needs to put his money where his mouth is. I pat my top pocket. At the thought of money I realise I’ve already taken a wad from him, but it’s not the point. I click the emoji that comes up when he calls me, and I wait.
‘What?’
I feel a curl of anger in my chest unleash flames into my throat. ‘Don’t fucking what me. Where’s Dylan?’ Silence.
‘You went there?’
‘Er, yeah, where else?’
‘He...overstepped the mark?’
‘What d’you mean, overstepped the mark? What mark?’
‘He went to the papers.’
My breath catches in my throat. I can hardly believe what he’s saying. ‘It was him?’
‘Yep. Thanks to him you now have a questionable fan-club of loonies who think you’re their saviour, and a group of vigilantes who are out for your blood. And not for purposes of saving those in need. They want you dead. They’ve worked out that you could be the cause of Armageddon, which is why, Nina, I helped you escape from Plan Bee. None of this is your fault, but you’re on the wanted list, and not just by Cecily Cunningham and her cronies.’
‘Is Dylan dead?’ I’m so angry with Dylan, but I don’t want anything to happen to him. He was probably coerced into giving the newspapers information about me. His parents have all but abandoned him and I know what that’s like. Maybe he thought it was his only way out.
‘No, but he’s in a bad way. He put up quite a fight. Unfortunately, those who took him are skilled at what they do.’
‘Who took him?’
‘We...did.’
‘We? Who’s, we? I’m not getting any of this.’
I hear Cain sigh. ‘Admittedly it’s a game changer, as was the murder of your aunt’s husband. We make sure than everything that happens means something and isn’t carried out gratuitously.’
Suddenly I’m aware that Cain is totally immersed in whatever it is that’s going on. He avoided my question, so I press him on it. ‘Who’s “we”, Cain?’
‘You and I need to meet.’
‘I said, who’s we? Why are you avoiding the question, and why haven’t you told me about your involvement before now, because you’re clearly in it up to your neck?’
‘I didn’t think it would be necessary, but...now it is. I don’t want to go into any detail. Phones are dangerous. They can be hacked, and I’d like you to dump the one you have when you leave Dylan’s flat.’
‘Dump it? Dump it where?’
‘Anywhere...waste bin, restaurant waste incinerator, down a grating into the sewers. I don’t care, just get rid of it. I’ll give you another when we meet.’
I shake my head in frustration, then remember he ca
n’t see me. ‘Have you any idea how scared I am?’
‘On a scale of 1 to 10, I should think you’re at about 20.’ He pauses and sighs. ‘I get it, Nina, honestly, I do, but I must be careful, and so must you, and maybe when I tell you why, you’ll understand better.’
We meet at a café on the Kings Road, an Italian inspired place that smells of spaghetti sauce and the deepest, darkest coffee. Beautiful, expensive and authentic. I hope Cain’s paying.
The front of the café is framed with shutters made to look shabby, painted in a Tuscan blue with terracotta pots outside the front door. Some might say it looks a bit cheesy, but it does the Tuscan thing well. As I walk by the picture window I glance inside. Cain sits at one of the tables in the dark middle of the café, and he’s not alone. If I’m not mistaken, the person with him is the beautiful Luna. My stomach flips. This I don’t understand. I thought he wanted to keep me away from her. Or her away from me. Whatever, it’s a turnaround. Yet again, Cain does the opposite of what he says.
I go inside. The café is half-full, the other tables set for lunchtime diners. Neither Cain nor Luna greet me as I sit at their table.
‘You’re late,’ says Cain.
I sit back in my chair and roll my eyes. ‘Give me a break. You said you wanted to speak with me. Can we get it over and done with? I’ve got to find somewhere to stay tonight. I’m not planning to spend any more time at Dylan’s flat. It’s gross.’
Luna turns her beautiful head to look at me. Her eyes are bright blue, sparkling and alert. Her hair is perfect, blonde, soft, and hanging in waves across her shoulders. ‘You don’t seem grateful to Cain for getting you out of Plan Bee. You would probably be dead by now if he hadn’t.’ She has an accent, Italian I’m guessing, which is why we’re in here no doubt. Shit, the woman is perfection on a plate. I hate her.