Transferral

by Kate Blair

  I wonder who they are. Perhaps it’s a shoplifter. Or someone convicted of trespassing. It’s unpleasant, receiving a Transfer. I hope it’ll give them a shock, enough to realize they’re on the wrong path, make them reconsider. It’s nice to think my disease might turn someone’s life around.

  I check the news on my phone. The polls are worse than last week. Dad is eight points behind Sebastian Conway’s party. No wonder the team is so low.

  I wish I’d brought a book. I miss my social media accounts. But I had to delete those once Dad became party leader. Every time I logged in I found a load of disgusting threats from the criminals that oppose him. So I play games on my phone instead.

  When the Transfer is done, the beeping brings the nurse back in. My head is clear, and my throat is wonderfully normal. The nurse checks me over and asks if she should call security to escort me out. I shake my head. Dad would want me to, but it’s nine-fifty-six and I don’t have time to wait for the guard. I head back to the lift and press the glowing circle of the ground-floor button.

  The lift doors open and I step out into the echoing space of the foyer.

  It’s too quiet. The click of my low heels is the only sound in the hushed entrance. I take in the still tableau by the coffee shop to my right: people frozen, paper cups halfway to their lips. I follow their gaze.

  A man stands inside the main door. A meat cleaver gleams in his hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ST. BARTS HOSPITAL, LONDON

  TWENTY-FOUR DAYS LEFT

  THERE’S THIS THING CALLED normalcy bias. Basically, we’re so used to everything being okay that if something awful suddenly happens, it can take about eight seconds to clue in. That’s much longer than it sounds. People die in earthquakes when they have plenty of time to get to safety. They stand there as the masonry falls around them, trying to process what’s happening.

  I learned about normalcy bias the hard way, four years ago.

  And now, just like back then, I can’t move. All I see is the cleaver, clutched between dark brown fingers. The wide blade reflects the clean marble of the lobby.

  Meat cleaver. Hospital. Madman. I try to make sense of it.

  The atrium springs back to life around me, sound swelling into the vacuum of silence: chairs scraping, voices shouting, the squeak of shoes on the polished floor. But I’m stuck, staring at the black man as he lurches further into the lobby like Frankenstein’s monster.

  My heart is jammed in my throat, cutting off my breath. I try to remember my self-defense lessons. How are you meant to defend yourself against a man with a blade the size of your head?

  I take a few steps back toward the café, trip over a chair, and stumble against a rickety table. I watch as an abandoned coffee tips and the brown liquid arcs through the air, splashing onto the floor.

  The man is between me and the front doors, advancing. People are running past him. Has anyone called the police, or security? Where are they? I thought there was a shoot-to-kill policy at hospitals.

  That’s when I see her. Rebecca. My dead sister, come to life.

  She’s standing behind the madman with the cleaver. Where did she come from? I feel as if a part of my brain has disconnected. I try to force the scene to make sense.

  Madman. Blade. Rebecca. Is history repeating itself?

  No. It was a gun last time.

  And my heart clenches. It’s not Rebecca. Not at all. She’s about the same age, but her eyes are green, her skin darker. How could I have mistaken her?

  The girl cries out, and the man stops and turns to face her.

  You notice more details at a time like this. The glisten of sweat on the man’s skin, his chest heaving. The thin crack that threads across the floor of the foyer, connecting me to the girl.

  I can get out now. The man’s attention is fixed on the girl. I glance around for her family. Where are they? Everyone is flowing away from the two of them, running out the doors or up the stairs.

  The girl is frozen, mouth open, as the man lumbers toward her. She starts waving her arms and I wonder what she’s doing. Then I realize. She’s calling for help.

  From me.

  The man is close to her now. She’s shouting, but I can’t hear what over the rush of blood in my ears.

  I can’t let this happen again.

  It’s time to move. He’s armed. I need a weapon too. I kick off my heels and stand steadier on the smooth floor. I can save this girl. It can be different this time.

  Her mouth distorts as she cries out, her eyes fixed on the brute staggering toward her. Tears gleam on her cheeks. There’s no time. He’s almost reached her, the cleaver tightly clasped in his right fist.

  My gaze falls on the café chairs. I lunge toward one and latch on to the metal bar at the top of the backrest. I swing it off the ground. The chair’s heavy, but I have momentum on my side. My muscles stretch but I keep my grip as I careen forward, getting closer to the bulk of the man’s back.

  The reek of him hits me before I’m even close — an animal stink of sweat, of soiled clothes. The dark brown of his scalp shows through his thinning hair. My target.

  With a grunt, I swing the chair around, heaving it up as high as I can toward his skull. I close my eyes and pray it will connect.

  It does. Hard. The impact knocks the chair out of my grip and it flies off to the side. I duck as it clatters to the floor. The man falls, legs folding beneath him. His head hits the ground with a dull thump. I’m frozen in a protective half-crouch, hands still trembling from the reverberation of the metal when it hit him.

  The man lands face down. A trickle of blood leaks from behind his ear, pooling on the white marble. I stare, the anger evaporating.

  Oh God, have I killed him?

  But the girl is okay. She looks up at me. There are tears on her cheeks. A long moment passes between us.

  Before I can move she turns and runs for the doors. I’m about to follow when the man groans and his arm flails toward the cleaver. He’s alive.

  I kick the blade away from him as the wail of sirens builds outside.

  The police station is over-air-conditioned. Even if it were warmer, I’d still be shaking. At least I have something to blame it on. The shock has kicked in, and goosebumps run along my skin. I jump at raised voices, at doors slamming, even at people talking to me.

  The police brought me here. I gave my name to the first officers on the scene, and they whisked me out of there before the press got wind of it. I couldn’t reach Dad. He was probably in the middle of the brunch. I managed to get hold of Piers. I didn’t make much sense, but I told him which station they were taking me to.

  “Did you find the girl?” I ask the blond officer who has been assigned to me. She’s sitting opposite me at a desk, finishing up her notes from my statement.

  “Not yet.” She gives me a sympathetic smile.

  The girl was gone when the police burst in. She wasn’t Rebecca, didn’t even look like her. It was only the shock that gave that momentary illusion. She had darker skin, and her face was thinner, like a little fox. But for a moment as we stared at each other, that didn’t matter. For this girl, I moved fast enough. I wasn’t too late.

  “Where could she have gone? Where was her family?”

  “We’re looking into it. We’ll let you know as soon as we have some information.”

  “The streets around St. Barts aren’t safe. She was scared, vulnerable.” I grab hold of the officer’s arm. “What if she’s wandered into the criminal slums of the Barbican?”

  The officer looks down at where I’m holding onto her. I let go.

  “Maybe we should take you to an interview room. It’ll be safer. Keep you out of the public eye. This way.”

  She shows me into a room with a gum-stained floor, and gestures toward a plastic chair. In the quiet, the adrenaline drains from my system, leaving me shaking.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks.

  I want to say yes. It’s something to do with my trembl
ing hands, at least. But instead I burst into tears. The officer looks frightened.

  “Are you okay?”

  I can’t stop crying. I try to say I’m fine, but it comes out in an inaudible mess of snot and tears. The officer approaches me warily, then puts an arm around me.

  “There, there,” she says, patting my back. “You’re safe now.”

  I know that. I want to stop, but the blubbering continues, accompanied by back-shaking sobs. She must think I’m so pathetic. Finally I’m able to get myself under control, and stop the tears. We stand awkwardly for a moment, her arm still around me, before I pull away. She looks at my face, and from her expression I can tell it’s a mess. I’m not wearing waterproof mascara.

  “I’ll get you a tissue, and that cup of tea,” she says.

  “Thank you so much,” I manage. After she goes, I try to clean myself up a little with my sleeve, leaving black streaks across it.

  A few minutes later the officer comes back in with my cup of tea, a handful of tissues, and my dad.

  “Look who I found out in the corridor,” she says. She’s trying to be lighthearted, but it must be weird dealing with the man who may soon be your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss.

  I stand up, and my father hurries over, almost knocking the tea from the policewoman’s hand. He throws his arms around me and squeezes so tightly he forces the air out of me.

  Over Dad’s shoulder I see Alison and Piers enter the room. Dad holds me for a minute, then pulls away, looking at my face.

  “Oh, Talia,” he says, then hugs me again. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, quietly, into my ear. “I should have been there. Again.”

  “Are you okay?” Alison asks. I nod and she exhales. “Thank God.”

  “I’m not hurt.” I’m glad Dad didn’t see my blubbering. He’s worried enough already. Hopefully I cleared most of the wreckage of my makeup off my face.

  Piers is leaning on his stick and grinning, at me. I’ve never seen him doing that before. It’s kind of weird. I thought he’d be mad that I pulled them away from the Knightsbridge brunch.

  Dad turns back to the officer, already his usual composed self. He’s still pale, but it could be the fluorescent light.

  “Ah, tea,” he said, peering at the mug she’s holding. “For my daughter, I presume?” He takes it from her and passes it to me. “Thank you so much.”

  I clutch it and the warmth seeps through my hands.

  “Can I get you anything, sir?” she asks, still clutching the tissues.

  “If it isn’t too much trouble, I could use a tea myself. Just a drop of milk, no sugar.”

  Dad never remembers to eat or drink unless something is put in front of him, so I know he’s trying to get rid of the policewoman, politely. She practically bows on the way out.

  Dad waits until the door has clicked shut, then turns to me. “What were you thinking, Talia? You could have been killed.”

  “Did they tell you about the girl?”

  Piers limps forward. “They couldn’t stop talking about it! They said you saved her life. This is going to play so well in the media. I could hug you, seriously.”

  Dad rounds on him. “This isn’t a PR stunt, Piers.” He turns back to me. “You should’ve called security to escort you out. What were you thinking? This is the second time I’ve almost lost you to criminals.” He shakes his head. “It’s not safe out there.”

  “You’ll fix it,” I say. “Make the whole country safer. As soon as you’re prime minister”

  “It’ll take time, Talia. But you have to look after yourself.”

  “I couldn’t leave the girl. She was waving to me for help. She was the same age as Rebecca.”

  Dad stiffens. “I see. Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. She ran away. We have to find her.”

  “Calm down. You’re getting worked up.”

  “No, I’m not.” But I’m speaking too fast. “She can’t have been older than nine or ten, and she was all alone at a hospital. It’s not right.”

  “She’s not Rebecca. You can’t bring her or your mother back.”

  I shrug his hand off. “I know that, Dad. I just need to check that she’s safe. She looked so frightened, so small.” I gesture, forgetting about the tea I’m holding, and a wave of it sloshes over the rim and splashes on the floor.

  “Talia,” Dad says, in his warning voice. He takes what remains of the tea from me and places it on the table. “I’m sure the police are looking into it. I’ll ask them to keep us in the loop.”

  I want to ask for more, want to demand he find her, now. But a little muscle in his cheek twitches, and I know better than to push him. To my surprise, it’s Piers who steps in.

  “She’s right, Malcolm. We have to find her. We’ll hold a press conference, tomorrow, and you can launch an appeal. I’m sure she wants to thank Talia for saving her life, and we could get two days of headlines from this, at least. It could be exactly what this campaign needs.”

  Piers leans his stick against the wall, limps over, and to my surprise, really does hug me.

  Dad and Alison’s phones start ringing before we even leave the station. I wonder if it’s Piers or the police who leaked it. The story breaks on the lunchtime news, and is the top item by the evening. I’m on the cover of most papers the next morning. The tabloids have a field day with it. One calls me “the hero daughter of our next prime minister,” then phones Alison and asks if I’ll pose topless when I turn eighteen. Dad looks like he wants to punch something when she tells us.

  But by the next evening the polls show Dad’s popularity is rising. We’re back on track.

  I even get an invitation to appear on Sharpe, Marcus Sharpe’s show. Piers and I convince Dad to accept. I’m nervous, but it’ll be a softball interview and it could be a huge boost to Dad’s campaign. If it goes well, Dad might take me on the campaign trail once Parliament is dissolved. I’m suddenly an election asset, after all.

  But I’m agreeing because of the girl. No one has come forward, not even after Dad’s press conference, and now I’m worried. And what better way to find her than an appeal on national television?

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHARPE STUDIOS, HORSEFERRY ROAD, LONDON

  TWENTY-ONE DAYS LEFT

  “SHE CAN DO HER makeup herself,” Piers says.

  The girl stops, brush poised over my face. I watch the two of them reflected in the brightly lit mirror backstage at the Sharpe studio.

  “The lights in the studio …,” she starts to say.

  “Will wash her out,” Piers interrupts. “She knows. She’ll apply more than usual. It’s not rocket science.”

  The makeup girl looks like a deer caught in the headlights. The brush is still inches from my cheeks, laden with pink powder.

  “Why don’t you take a break? I’m sure you’ve been working hard.” Piers puts a hand on her back, and turns her toward the door, the blusher brush still in her hand. He follows, leaning on his walking stick. As soon as she’s through the door, he closes it gently.

  “What was that about?” I ask

  “We need some time to talk,” Piers says, limping back over. “And she’s used to doing makeup for tarty celebrities. You need a more natural look. You can do that, right?”

  With the array of brushes and colors in front of me, that shouldn’t be a problem. I pick up the tube of foundation closest to my skin tone and try it on the back of my hand.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “What you’re going to say in the interview.” Piers leans on the back of the chair. “Normally, I’d have given you some proper media training, but we didn’t have time.”

  The shade is a match. I dab it under my eyes and on my chin and nose, then blend it in with a sponge.

  “I know what to say. Dad and I have been playing ‘interview’ for years. The Government is a bunch of crooks, and Sebastian Conway and the Democratic Justice Party will go easy on criminals and reintroduce vaccines. Who wants
them sticking needles in the arms of children and babies?”

  Piers pats my shoulder. “Those are all great points. But there’s a special message you need to convey to the public. And only you can do it.”

  That’s when the door bursts open. The two of us turn as Alison rushes in, breathless.

  Great. Who invited her?

  “Sorry I’m late,” she puffs.

  “Late?” Piers says. “I thought you were in meetings with Malcolm.”

  “He sent me,” she says. “He wanted me to make sure Talia is comfortable with this.”

  I pick up the powder brush and sweep it across my cheek. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Good.” Alison says.

  Piers turns his back on her to meet my eyes in the mirror again.

  “You’ve seen the CCTV footage?”

  I nod. He sent it to me earlier. It’s terrible resolution, but I do look good in it. Sadly, the girl isn’t much more than a grainy black-and-white figure, her back to the camera.

  “Excellent,” he says. “I was a little worried that might upset you.”

  “We don’t want anything upsetting you,” Alison chips in.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “She’s not a child,” Piers says.

  I scan the colors in front of me and select a natural-looking brown for my eyeshadow. I don’t want to go too “celebrity” with my colors. Piers bends down, closer to my ear. He speaks in a low voice.

  “We need to address the Rebecca issue.”

  Alison leans in to eavesdrop. “Malcolm wants to avoid that.”

  I fill in the crease of my eyelid and address Piers. “What Rebecca issue?”

  “The public knows you as the survivor of a double murder. They see you, they think of your sister and mother. You saved a girl Rebecca’s age. Sharpe will want to talk about that.”

  That didn’t occur to me. “What should I do?”

  “Play it up,” Piers says. “It generates sympathy. Reminds people that Sebastian Conway wants to go easy on criminals, putting us all in the kind of danger you faced.”

  “This isn’t about manipulating voters,” Alison says. “This is real.”