by Eve Smith
She squeezes my hand. ‘Oh my God, this is it! Katie, I owe you big time!’
The screens flare, a blinding white, then erupt in a blaze of kaleidoscopic patterns: hundreds of fluorescent cells divide and merge, synchronised to the beat. The arena echoes with whistles and cheers.
I scan the rows in front and behind. All eyes are on the stage. Security men slouch at the exits, arms crossed. Lucy seems oblivious too, clapping and stamping her feet. But something’s not right here. I can feel it. Like a dark shadow hovering at the edge of my mind.
Canons blast fire across the front of the stage, making me jump. The cheers become screams. The band walks on and my body stiffens. As the bass picks out the first notes, the lead singer leaps whirling onto the stage. I feel a sickening lurch. He looks like a Renaissance angel: bright-blue eyes and golden hair.
I grab Lucy. ‘We have to go.’
She grins and pushes me away.
‘No, really, Luce. I’m serious.’
The singer sprints down the runway and snatches the mic. An acrid taste creeps into my mouth. I seize Lucy’s wrist and haul her along behind me, as lasers sweep the hall.
‘Kate, you lunatic!’ She yanks her arm, tries to shake me off. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I tighten my grip. ‘You have to trust me! No time to explain.’
People swear at me as I push past them, trampling hot-dog wrappers and kicking over drinks. Some try to shove me back but I hold my ground, the sweat already dripping down my back.
‘Have you taken something, Kate?’ Lucy clings to a seat, desperately trying to wrestle free.
I fix my eyes on hers. ‘Listen to me. He’s contagious.’
Her jaw drops. She stops struggling.
I’ve almost got us to the aisle when a woman in a beige raincoat blocks my path. ‘Where exactly do you think you’re going?’
‘Please…’ I’m panting now even though every breath fills me with terror. ‘We have to leave. Everyone needs to get out.’
Her lip curls back in a sneer. ‘Murderer. They should lock you up.’
She punches me in the face. Lucy’s hand flies out of mine as I topple over the seats. My head smashes onto the concrete floor, and I feel a warm trickle of blood down my neck. I scrabble to the aisle on all fours, but she’s there, with her foot ready; she kicks me so hard I fall backwards, slamming into one step after another, plummeting down towards the stage. The music surges, louder and louder, one discordant song crashing into the next.
Suddenly I’m at the bottom. The band has stopped playing. Silence fills the arena. A spotlight encircles the singer as he walks towards me, to the edge of the stage. I kick my legs out, try to push away from him, heaving my body back across the floor. He looks down at me with pity in his eyes, like Jesus on the cross.
‘Kate?’
As he opens his mouth thousands of dark droplets stream out like tiny flies. I smother my face with my hands but they shoot past my fingers, cramming into my throat. I start to gag.
‘Kate, it’s me.’
My blood roars as the pressure builds in my chest.
‘It’s OK, baby. I’m here.’
There’s a rustle. It sounds unnaturally loud, swooping into my ears and out again. The singer disappears. I manage to suck in some air and breathe.
I lift my lids, just a fraction. Too bright. I try again. There’s a dark shape framed by a square of light. Gradually, it slides into focus.
‘Well, hello there.’
Mark. It’s my husband, Mark.
He kisses me on the cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’
I try to anchor myself in our room: Mark’s shirt impaled on the wardrobe door, the turquoise-and-gold wallpaper we chose from that extortionate shop. One arm of a sweater making a break for it out of my drawer.
His smile wanes. ‘Bad dream?’
I rub my eyes as the horror slowly dissipates. ‘Yeah.’ I am left with a hollow sadness as Lucy’s face fades.
‘Hardly surprising after what you’ve been through. My poor love.’ He strokes my arm. ‘How’s the head?’
I take another breath. ‘A bit woozy. What time is it?’
‘Four-thirty.’
‘Jesus!’ I try to push myself up but Mark stops me.
‘Oh no you don’t. You aren’t going anywhere. You took a serious blow to the head, Kate.’
I want to protest but I don’t have the strength. ‘Can I at least sit up?’
Mark manhandles my pillows and gently lifts me up. ‘Was it the same dream?’
‘Pretty much.’ It’s already creeping back to its lair but I can summon some fragments. ‘With a few extras thrown in.’ I chew my lip. That woman in the raincoat was a nice touch. Is she going to start haunting me too?
‘I’d like to take Lucy some flowers.’ I glance at him. ‘We haven’t been for a while.’
‘Sure.’ Mark clasps my hand. ‘We can go any time.’
I tentatively prod my bandage. My head feels as if it’s been stuffed with bubble wrap.
‘That’s quite a golf ball you’ve got there.’ He smiles. ‘No need to worry: the scan came back clear. And the cut cleaned up just fine.’
I was lucky. I think of that doctor in London and rewind to the moment I crossed the road. Stupid. So stupid.
I pick at the sheet. ‘How long was it up? The film, I mean.’
‘Oh, barely twenty minutes. It cut out just as you head-butted the camera.’ He grins. ‘They’ll be rueing the day they picked on you. Some idiot may try to post it again, but believe me, security are onto it.’
‘Had a few words, did you?’
‘Just a few.’ His thumb circles the back of my hand. ‘One of the officers will be over later. Apparently the police have already ID’ed a couple of them from the security footage.’ His thumb slows to a stop. ‘I don’t want that ever happening again.’ He lifts his eyes. ‘Next time, you don’t get off that bus.’
It’s his way of saying ‘be careful, you need to be more careful’.
I fold my hand over his and squeeze. ‘I know.’
As he leans forward to kiss me his head bumps my bandage.
‘Ow!’
‘God, sorry!’
I burst out laughing. ‘Well, it was almost romantic.’
His phone beeps and he frowns. ‘Bugger. I’m supposed to be on a call in five.’
I flap my hand at him. ‘Go on. You’ve done your Florence bit. Off you go.’
He exhales. ‘I don’t know … You’re sure?’
‘I don’t think we’d better risk any more contact. In any case, won’t Sasha be back soon?’
‘True.’ He points his finger at me. ‘But no emails, you hear? Doctor’s orders. Get some more rest.’
I hold up my hand in a mock salute and obediently shut my eyes. I’m not going to sleep, though. I have a powerful urge to see Sasha. As if it’s her that’s been hurt, not me.
I rearrange my pillows and settle back down. A few minutes later, the front door bangs. There’s a brief exchange of voices and then the familiar thump up the stairs. I quickly run my fingers through my hair. The door flies open.
‘Hi, Mum!’ As Sasha steps in her face tells me all I need to know about mine. She swallows. ‘Gosh. How are you feeling?’
‘Apparently much better than I look.’ I hadn’t thought to check. ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’
‘Umm … well, put it this way, you might be needing a touch more foundation.’
I thrust out a hand. ‘Mirror.’
She hesitates and fetches my hand mirror. Lord. The bandage covers most of my forehead, but I can still see the bulge where the lump is. My eyes peer out like some nocturnal creature’s: small and puffy, dark circles underneath.
‘Oh, hell.’ I sigh. ‘I look like an extra from a low-budget disaster movie.’
Sasha chuckles and kicks off her shoes. She arranges herself next to me, on Mark’s side of the bed. She leans over and scrutinises my dressing. ‘Ouch.’ The freckle
s on her nose wrinkle. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only a bit.’
‘Really?’ She gives me a doubtful look. ‘You’re not just being brave?’
I smile. ‘No, love. I’m fine. A bit battered and bruised, that’s all. But I could do with a hug.’
As she snuggles into me I inhale her smell: a medley of shampoo, body spray and sanitiser gel. I hug her a little tighter.
‘Those people…’ She shakes her head. ‘What are they on?’ She sits up and wags her finger at me. ‘“Thou shalt not kill…” I mean, really?’
My face drops. Mark didn’t warn me. So she did see it, after all.
‘And as for that news guy … What a loser!’ Her blue eyes flash. ‘You should have told him where to get off, Mum. You were far too nice. I’d have let rip.’
I swallow. It’s always the same with Sasha. She thinks bravado makes you invincible. As if.
‘Did any of your friends see it?’ I try to make it sound casual.
‘Mum, we all saw it. It was everywhere.’ She grins. ‘You caused quite a stir. It’s not every mother that gets compared to the Nazis.’
Something inside me sinks. She thinks it’s funny. I’d hoped for more.
‘Did they say anything?’ I ask, although I know I shouldn’t. My head gives a cautionary throb. ‘You know, about my job?’
She calls herself a nurse, but she’s a serial killer …
Sasha frowns at me and starts picking at her nails. ‘They all know what you do, Mum. It’s no big deal.’
My chest swells. ‘You know, it’s not easy, Sasha,’ I say, my voice already hardening. ‘For the patients or their families.’ She doesn’t look up. ‘We all thought the law would change after a couple of years. But two turned into ten. And ten’s turned into twenty. They’ve a right to be angry.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ she says, half speaking, half sighing. ‘So you keep telling me.’
I stare at my daughter. I have a sudden need to burst her smug balloon.
‘So how do you reckon you’ll feel, then?’ I say to her. ‘When someone has to help me die?’
‘Mum!’ Her hands drop to the bed. Finally, she looks up. ‘What kind of question is that?’
‘A real one, Sasha.’ The words feel strong and mealy in my mouth. ‘Because it doesn’t seem to have occurred to you.’
She glares at me. ‘Actually, Mother, it has.’ Only Sasha can make that word sound like an expletive. She juts out her chin. ‘When Gran died. And it felt like shit, if you really want to know.’
Touché.
I close my eyes. Why do I do this, let myself bite? I’m supposed to be the adult here.
I slide my hand across the sheet. ‘Sorry, I … I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just a bit … done in.’
Her shoulders stay hunched, but I wait, resisting the temptation to say more.
Eventually her face softens. ‘I miss her, you know. A lot.’ She leans on those last two words and my heart aches.
‘I know, love.’ I sigh. Your own grief is bad enough, but watching those you love suffer is worse. ‘When the phone rings, in the evening, I think: that’ll be her. There are so many things that remind me. That I miss.’ Sasha yanks at a loose thread on the blanket. ‘Just the other day, in the supermarket, I picked up a packet of those biscuits she liked. Then I remembered. I couldn’t bring myself to put them back.’
Sasha’s brow furrows. I squeeze her hand.
‘Mum?’ she says, after a while.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
She glances at me. ‘Did you call her Pen because you were adopted?’
I study Sasha’s face. Where did that come from?
‘No. I used to call her Mum when I was little. But when I was about thirteen, I started calling her Pen. I don’t know why.’ I hazard a smile. ‘I suppose I thought it was cool. It had nothing to do with being adopted. And Pen being Pen, didn’t seem to mind. Why do you ask?’
She pushes her hair back behind her ears. ‘I don’t know. I was just wondering.’
I run my tongue over my lips. This is new territory. For both of us. ‘Does it worry you, Sasha? The fact that I was adopted?’
Her mouth tightens. ‘Lots of kids in my class are adopted. It doesn’t seem to bother them.’
There was a surge in adoption rates, after the Crisis. So many babies never made their fifth birthday, not to mention all those deaths in childbirth. Then came the rising infertility caused by resistant STDs. Amongst those who survived, there was no shortage of orphans or would-be parents.
Sasha winds the loose thread round and round her finger. ‘Should it worry me?’
‘No. It’s just…’ I take great care over my next words: there could be a mine underneath any one of them. ‘Well, it must have been quite a shock, I suppose. Particularly now we know my birth mother is still alive.’
The thread breaks.
I falter, unsure where to go next.
‘You know,’ I say, ‘it’s weird. I’ve always known I was adopted, and it never bothered me either. Although it was more unusual, back then. To me, it was just another fact. Like having brown hair or blue eyes. In fact, the only time I really thought about it was after I had you.’ I glance at Sasha. Her eyes are riveted on the blanket. ‘Other new mums used to love pointing out family traits they thought their babies had inherited. You know, whether they looked more like the mum’s side or the dad’s. But with you, there was only your father’s side to go on. And me.’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘Pen was always so good about that. I used to wonder if she felt a bit cheated, but if she did, she never let on. She loved me unconditionally, the same way she loved you: as if we were her own.’
Sasha’s cheek twitches, but she doesn’t speak. I plough on. ‘But since I made the decision to look for her – my birth mother, I mean – well, it’s taken on this impetus of its own.’
Sasha drags her hands through her hair and sighs. ‘If it’s what you want, Mum. I’ve already told you – it’s fine by me.’
The way she says it sounds the exact opposite. This isn’t just my birth mother I’m looking for, it’s her grandmother. A grandmother she never knew existed. Until now.
‘You know, this won’t change anything, Sasha.’
But even as I say it, the doubts crawl back. Is this some selfish whim of mine? Some knee-jerk reaction to losing Pen? I think of those two bits of paper. Of all the caveats and cautions stacked behind Janet’s soft words.
The reality is, I have no idea who I might be bringing into our lives.
So how can I promise Sasha, or any of my family, that things won’t change?
CHAPTER 19
‘UK Borders To Stay Closed’ Says Home Secretary
Twenty years after they were imposed, emergency border controls and trade embargos will remain in place for the thirteen countries who do not yet meet the international health-risk standards, despite international aid agencies’ claims that they are ‘deeply unethical’ and should be lifted.
A spokesperson for one agency commented: ‘These emergency measures were introduced when the UK was in crisis. They should have been abolished years ago. Not only do they condemn helpless nations to failure, but they perpetuate the continued loss of innocent lives.’
The home secretary has rebuffed such claims, maintaining that UK policy is in line with fellow Health Alliance member states, and that his first duty is to ‘keep British citizens safe’.
LILY
The words leap out at me, razor sharp. As if they were written just yesterday.
‘Mother’s fight for justice continues…’
I must have read more than sixty articles inspired by this woman. They each slice the scab off the same raw wound. In this one, she’s standing outside a courthouse, her head tipped back, displaying a defiant jaw. A short brown bob frames a face I don’t recognise here. Either age has had its way with her, as it has with me, or she’s one of those that never comes out of t
heir room. No wonder the name rang a bell. Margaret Benn didn’t just fight a campaign. She waged a war.
She used to be a physicist. Quite a renowned one, by all accounts. But she gave it all up: career, marriage; she sacrificed the lot. She didn’t give up fighting, though. It takes a lot of courage to take on the kind of people she did. I should know.
The door opens and Anne bustles in. ‘Right then, Lily. It’s all run. You’re first on today.’ She winks. ‘As usual.’ She brandishes a fluffy white bathrobe and sinks into a mock curtsey. ‘Your bath awaits, my lady.’
Of course. It’s Thursday: bath day. Maybe a good soak is what I need: one of the few indulgences my body can still permit. Although part of me wants to shuffle straight over to Betjeman and get it over with, once and for all.
Anne helps me up. ‘How are you feeling? No more episodes?’
I wish they’d stop fussing. ‘Oh, no. All back to normal,’ I lie. I have no idea what normal is, anymore.
‘Didn’t Dr Barrows reckon it was some kind of panic attack?’ She takes off my nightie and scoops me into the robe. ‘I wouldn’t have put you and panic in the same sentence.’
If only you knew.
I take a breath. ‘Actually, my mother suffered from them. But in those days, they were dismissed as “funny turns”.’ When she started throwing knives, they took her a little more seriously.
Anne’s mouth drops. ‘Oh. I’m so sorry, Lily, I didn’t know.’ She hands me my frame, and I start shuffling to the door. ‘Do you have any idea what triggered it?’
‘Dr Barrows asked me if I was worried about my birthday. She said cut-off sometimes affects people that way.’
Anne looks at me. Her expression is unreadable. ‘And what was your answer?’
‘“No more than usual”. Which didn’t seem to satisfy her.’
She sighs. ‘Well, you certainly gave Natalie a fright. Terrified, she was, poor woman. Thought you were about to meet your maker on her first watch.’ She grins. ‘I told her you were made of tougher stuff than that.’ She wags her finger at me. ‘All the same, we’ll be keeping an extra eye out.’