by Kate Blair
“Her mother’s dead, and her father is a dangerous criminal.” I pause, the memory of Jack’s face, pleading, coming back to me. “I’m sorry he’s in such trouble though. I really am.”
“Sorry? You hit him with a chair.”
“I … I thought he was going to hurt Tig. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” I don’t know why I’m trying to explain myself to this boy. It’s his stare, like he can see right through me. “They told me he’s a drug dealer, that he’s violent.”
I know I’ve said the wrong thing as soon as it comes out. Galen’s nostrils flare; he’s pulled himself up to his full height, and for a second I’m afraid. But he shakes his head.
“You saw a big black man and made assumptions. But he wasn’t a drug dealer. He was a doctor.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Well, he was a medical student. But he dropped out because he didn’t want to just patch up injuries or transfer diseases. He believed in the Hippocratic Oath. He actually treated the sick; with aspirin, herbs, any medicines he could find or grow. Those were the drugs they’re charging him with ‘dealing.’”
My mouth opens and closes. I can’t imagine the man I met in Quarantine doing any of that. I guess I did cause brain damage.
But that wasn’t my fault. I thought he was going to kill Tig. What was I meant to do? How could I have known? Anger swells in me.
“So he tried to make criminals better? Illegally reduce their sentences?”
Galen’s green eyes glisten. “He treated sick people! People whose only crime was trying to feed their families, trying to look after them when they were abandoned by society, used as a dumping ground for the diseases of the rich!”
I take a step back. “If he was such a great guy, what was he doing waving a cleaver around?”
“You don’t understand!”
I put my hands on my hips. “Explain it to me, then.”
He pokes a finger at me. “It’s none of your business. You think you’re entitled to know all about our lives, but you haven’t got a clue what we’ve been through. I can’t believe I tried to help you. I was so stupid.”
“You tried to help me? I’m the one who went up against an armed man. I made Tig famous. Social services will find it easy to get a good home for her, a good family, now.”
Galen snorts. “If social services could do that, I’d have taken her here myself. Can’t you see why I wanted to keep her away from this?” He’s staring hard at me, as though I’m an alien species he finds repellant, but doesn’t understand.
“I’ll tell my father about the homes. He’ll sort this all out. Make them better.”
He laughs. “Good luck with that.”
“He will! He’s a good man!”
“He’s a rich man. They don’t care what happens to us.”
“Dad’s not like that —.” The sound of a slowing car comes from behind me. A door clicks open, and Mike is at my side, shoulders squared. “Do you need help?”
“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”
Galen steps away from me, toward the children’s home. “I should go inside. Tig needs me.”
“Dad will make things better.”
“Yeah, right.” Galen opens the door, and goes inside. I watch him stride through the chaos toward Tig.
“Ready to go?” Mike asks.
I nod. Galen doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look back through the glass. Mike opens the car door for me and I slide into the back seat. There’s a hollowness inside me. But I’ll speak to Dad. He’ll prove Galen wrong.
We’ll fix this.
CHAPTER NINE
PENTHOUSE FLAT, BANKSIDE, LONDON
SEVENTEEN DAYS LEFT
I WAIT AT THE flat for Dad to come home. This afternoon he’s flitting from meeting to interview: a factory, a shopping center, and a school. After four-thirty is meant to be daddy-daughter time. But it’s already five, so I message him. He says he’ll be back soon.
It rains steadily, the water smearing down the windows, distorting the light in the apartment. I sit on the floor in the sitting room, thinking about the children’s home, the Barbican, Galen, Tig, her father and all she’s lost.
When the front door clicks open, I jump to my feet and run to Dad. I wrap my arms around him and the wet of his coat soaks through my shirt.
“Talia,” he says. “What’s this all about?”
“I’m pleased to see you,” I say, my voice muffled against his chest.
He laughs, and pulls away. “At least let me take off my coat.” He shrugs it off his shoulders, and water splatters onto the hardwood. Footsteps and conversation come from behind him, and the clack of a cane.
“Who’s that?”
He avoids my gaze.
They’re coming around the corner now. Piers and Alison. So much for daddy-daughter time.
“There was a crisis in Eastbourne,” Dad explains. “Our candidate got caught drunk driving. It’s too late to replace him, so we’ve got to figure out if we’re going to back him or make him step down and throw our support behind an independent.”
Piers nods on his way in. Alison tries to give me a hug, but I move to the side and apologize, as if I thought I was blocking her way.
“How did it go today?” Piers asks as he takes his coat off. “We could use a media distraction.”
“Not good.” I point toward the sofa. We file in together and sit down. I take the place next to Dad quickly, before Alison can get there. She slumps onto the armchair opposite.
Dad pats my knee. “I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie. Wasn’t she pleased to see you?”
My gaze drops to the cream fabric of the couch. “Not exactly. There were so many children, so few adults, there weren’t many toys, the place was ….” I’m searching for the right word. “Tatty,” I say. I’m finding it hard to express what was so bad about it.
“For most of the kids, it’s only temporary,” Dad says. “Just while their parents are in Quarantine. And many of the others get adopted or go to foster homes.”
“The woman there said people don’t adopt the older kids. They find them too difficult.”
Piers pulls out his laptop. “People don’t want to take on teenagers with criminal records. But if they’re good kids, there are homes for them.”
“I’ll ask around,” Dad says. “Maybe I know someone who’ll adopt the girl you saved.”
I smile at that, and Dad puts an arm around me.
“But I promised the woman there that I’d talk to you about it, get you to help.”
Alison leans forward from the armchair opposite. “And you have. You’ve kept your promise. You should be proud.”
I ignore her. “Can’t you do more, Dad?”
“We have limited resources. We’ll do what we can, but not everyone can live like we do, honey.”
“I’m not asking for them to have a place like this,” I gesture around our huge flat. “Just somewhere nice.”
“It’s not just the money, Talia, although raising children is expensive. Ideally, we want them to stay with their families, right?”
“Well, yes …”
“Parents want the best for their children. So if we spend too much, make the children’s homes too nice, parents will abandon their children there. They’ll think they’ll have a better life there than they can give them. We don’t want that, do we?”
I shake my head. Galen did say he’d have taken Tig to social services if he thought she’d be better off.
Piers is smiling. “This stuff is gold, though. You visiting the home, being appalled at the conditions. We can do a whole piece on how the current government let them slide, and how Sebastian Conway’s party might make further cuts.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. That’s not really …”
“And maybe we can buy them some toys, some treats,” Piers says. “Not from Government or party funds, of course. A personal donation, from you and your family. Don’t you think they’d like that?”
“Well
, yes, but …”
Dad pats my knee. “It’s a start though, isn’t it? And when we win, we’ll increase the funding if we can, okay?”
I look into Dad’s eyes. There is concern there.
“They need more than a little increased funding.”
“Go to Hamley’s tomorrow,” he says. “Pick out whatever you think they’d like. Take my credit card. And I’ll speak to my advisors about longer-term solutions. Children are important. We’ll find room in the budget.”
I think of what Galen said, about hundreds of kids being raised in the Barbican.
“What about the others?”
Piers raises an eyebrow. “What others?”
“The children who don’t go into care. The ones in the Barbican, for example.”
Dad starts opening his briefcase. “We can’t take away everyone’s children, Talia. That’s wrong.”
“I’m not saying that. It’s just that it’s so horrible ….” I stop myself. I’m not meant to have been there, after all. “I mean I’ve heard it’s horrible. All smashed up, with people sleeping rough everywhere and using the corridors and stairways as loos.”
Dad pulls out some notes, and starts skimming through them. “The Barbican is an architectural marvel. People like that are lucky to have housing provided.” He spits out the word “people” and I know he’s thinking of Thomas Bryce. “It’s not our fault how they treat it.”
Piers jumps in. “These are criminals we’re talking about, Talia. We give them a place to live for free, and benefits. More than they deserve.”
“If they’re good people who made a mistake, they can get jobs,” Dad says. “Get out of there, get a better life.”
I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling. I want to talk about Galen, but I can’t let them know I’ve been to the Barbican.
Dad laughs. “You know, you still scrunch up your face when you’re thinking. You have done that since you were a small child. It’s adorable.”
I frown, wanting to be taken seriously. Alison is smiling indulgently, but Dad catches my expression.
“Okay, okay, I’ll speak to my advisors about the Barbican too. We’ll see what we can do to improve it when we’re in power, make it safer for any children who live there.”
I pause, trying to phrase the question I want to ask next. “Want to play interview?”
“We don’t have time for this,” Piers says.
“We’ll make time,” Dad growls at him.
“We have to talk about Eastbourne …”
But my hand is already in a fist, holding the invisible microphone in front of Dad.
“What would you say to those who claim we’re using the poor as a dumping ground for the diseases of the rich?”
“That’s propaganda,” Piers says. “This isn’t about rich or poor. It’s about right and wrong.”
“Quiet, Piers,” Dad says. “This is my interview.” He turns back to me, and his voice is soft when he speaks. “In the end, some people are going to be ill. It’s not nice, and we don’t want anyone to suffer. But we only sentence criminals to diseases. Isn’t that better than having innocent people go through illness? Than having innocent children die?”
I don’t know what to say, but Dad continues.
“That’s why we have the justice system. That’s why we have due process. So it isn’t about rich and poor. It’s about criminals and law-abiding citizens. And yes, criminals are more likely to be poor. Some people don’t want to work. They’d rather steal, use drugs, or drink — sponge off the rest of us. And that’s how they end up in places like the Barbican.”
“Is that all better?” Alison’s got this awful, deeply concerned expression on and I want to hit her. What does she care?
I shove the invisible microphone in her face. “What’s going on with you and Malcolm Hale?” The question comes out before I think about it.
Alison freezes. I hear Dad’s intake of breath from beside me, but I don’t take my eyes off her. Her mouth opens and closes like a beached fish, and she looks to my dad for help.
“Talia,” Dad starts. But I don’t need to hear it. The answer is right there in the look that passed between them, in the pause before he spoke.
My hand is still clutched tight around my imaginary microphone, fingernails digging into the palm of my hand. “How long has this been going on?”
“A few months, Talia.” Dad rubs at his forehead. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. We were waiting for the right time to tell you. But we’ve been keeping it secret. It wouldn’t play well in public because of the age difference.”
Alison looks down at the floor and bites her lip.
“I am not the public.” I run out of the sitting room and up to my room before he can say another word.
A couple of minutes later, Dad’s footsteps thump up the stairs, followed by a knock on my door.
“Talia …”
I ignore him and throw myself on my bed. I’m being a total teenager, but I don’t care.
“We should talk about this,” he says.
A muffled voice comes from downstairs, calling Dad’s name. It sounds like Piers.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dad replies, then he speaks in a quieter voice. “Talia, will you please let me in?”
I pick up my pillow, and put it over my head. Dad still paces outside.
“Malcolm!” That’s Piers again.
“Please, Talia. We need to talk.”
I don’t say anything.
“We have to get on top of this before the six o’clock news!”
Dad takes a deep breath. “I have to deal with this Eastbourne situation, and if you don’t want to talk right now, then we can find some time when you’re calmer.”
And with that, he’s gone, footsteps retreating back down the stairs.
The next day, Dad leaves for his flight to Edinburgh before I wake up. There’s a note, saying he loves me and we’ll talk later. He leaves his credit card on the kitchen table. Mike comes to pick me up after lunch, and drives me to Hamley’s, where I run up Dad’s bill as much as I can. He never set a limit, so that’s his problem. Mike helps me carry the toys. It takes us three trips to the car to bring out my purchases: craft kits, puppets, costumes, remote control planes, paints, magic tricks, jigsaws, books, and science sets. We might not be able to fix the homes right away, but I’m going to try my best to cheer that place up, and Dad can pick up the damn tab.
I get back in the car, and we drive to Hackney. I wonder if Galen will be there this time. I think about him, and his green eyes — so much like Tig’s. Maybe he is her brother. He’s been visiting her every day, after all. I bet he lied about his name. Just goes to show that I can’t trust a word he says.
I realize where I’ve heard his fake name before. Galen was an ancient doctor, like Hippocrates. And Galen told me at the children’s home that Jack believed in the Hippocratic Oath. Perhaps that’s where he got his street name, “Hippo.” I guess that means Kieron’s taken on his father’s role, chosen an alias, and become a drug dealer too.
Part of me wants to show him all the toys we’ve got for the kids. But part of me dreads the judgment in his green eyes. My stomach churns as we drive past the shuttered shops.
When we reach the home, Mike helps me carry in the toys. The children swarm around us before I can stop them, and they’re already carrying off the best ones, as many as they can, or fighting over who gets what. I look around for Tig. Jackie is walking over, shaking her head.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“We brought some toys for the children,” I say.
“I’m not blind.” That exhausted expression clouds her face again. “You should have let me distribute them. Half of them will be broken by the end of the day. And some of them are choke hazards. The money would have been better used hiring some part-time help.”
I pull a teddy bear out of the bag. I chose it especially for Tig. Rebecca had one like it. I look around.
> Jackie inhales through her teeth. “No one bothered to tell you, did they?”
“Tell me what?”
Jackie’s voice is expressionless. “That girl ran away.”
My heart clenches. “Ran away? Tig? Where?”
She shrugs. “Child services checked the place she was living before, that boy’s flat. She’s not there.”
I clutch the teddy bear tighter. “But she could be in trouble. We have to find her!”
Jackie raises a tired eyebrow. “How?”
I stare, trying to think of an answer. I have no idea where to start looking if she’s not with Galen.
“Most of them turn up, sooner or later. We had some teenagers who ran away a few months ago. They were picked up by the police street-walking in Shoreditch, and they’re back here now.” She nods toward a sullen group of girls leaning against a wall, wearing short skirts and tank tops. One of them starts coughing.
Jackie must see the shock on my face, because she adds, “Don’t worry. Tig’s probably not become a prostitute.”
My mouth falls open. I can’t believe how casually she discusses this stuff. “Probably? She’s ….” I’m about to say she’s only nine, but that was Rebecca’s age. We don’t know how old Tig is. “She’s too young,” I finish, lamely.
“Fifteen is too young too. It’s a bad world out there.”
I glance over at the teenagers. They’re younger than me? I thought they were way older. They dress like they are. One of them wipes her nose on her sleeve. She must have been sentenced to a cold. I feel the creep of guilt. But I had my cold transferred over a week ago, she couldn’t have it. Whoever had it would be better by now, wouldn’t they?
I reach for Jackie’s arm. “There must be something we can do. For Tig, I mean.”
Jackie gently pulls her elbow from my grasp, and there comes the defeated sigh again. It makes me want to slap her.
“There’s not much we can do for her now. She’ll have a criminal record whatever happens.”
“She broke the law? What did she do?”
Jackie stares at me. “Running away from the custody of the state is a crime.”
I blink. “A crime? Why?”