by Sam Nash
“Salut. Did you sleep well?” Connie’s fingertips danced a rapid tango across her screen, texting, sending and receiving multiple communications.
“Eventually, yes, thank you.” Mary helped herself to a warm croissant, ripping the soft fibres into bitesize chunks and spooning a smear of blackcurrant jelly onto the side of her plate. Parth picked up the teapot and hovered over a clean mug.
Mary held her hand aloft. “Wait…”
Connie looked up from her phone.
Parth stopped mid-air and said, “What?”
“The water?” Mary’s hand lowered to the tablecloth. “Is it safe to drink?” Parth put the teapot down.
Connie glanced at her watch. “They could not possibly have coordinated their plans this soon. It has not yet been forty-eight hours since their directive was ordered.”
Parth lifted the pot once more. Mary shook her head and mouthed no thanks, to him. Not forty-eight hours, no. Mary thought those ministers could move heaven and earth within the forty-five hours it had been since she had observed their private conversations in the Velvet Room at Ditchley.
Connie switched off her mobile phone and took a sip of expresso from a tiny white cup. “My friend wants to meet us in a public place, which is unfortunate. I have chosen a shopping precinct near to a busy Sunday market. If anything should go wrong and we get split up, Mary, find your way back to this house. Here, just in case.” Connie handed Mary a wodge of high denomination notes. Mary tucked them into her satchel and thanked her, promising to pay her back as soon as she could. Connie shook her head. “Don’t think about it. I have plenty.”
“What about me? Don’t I need some cash too?” Parth whimpered into his eggs.
“You will stay here. There is no need for you to come.” Connie rose from her seat, collecting cups and plates to take to the kitchen area.
“Not a chance. I’m going too. You can’t just shut me out like that.” His pout enhanced by the grave threat in his tone. Connie looked over at Mary who gave a thin lipped, non-committal shrug. There was another French roll of the eyes, accompanied by her famed gallic tut.
With the breakfast crockery stowed in the dishwasher, they entered the garage via the interior door and climbed into Connie’s four-wheel drive. Two button presses later, and Connie was breaking the Richmond Hill speed limits once again. The streets were just as congested as a weekday, but the aggression far less intense. A courteous smile from Connie allowed them to hop lanes and carve up motorists with relative ease. Despite Connie’s charm, it still took an hour to reach Camden Lock and a further twenty minutes to find a parking space large enough to accommodate her car.
Mary slung the strap of her satchel across her chest and scurried after her French companion. Parth straggled behind, muttering beneath his breath. Connie’s friend was already sitting at one of the few outdoor café tables, fiddling with the phone in his shirt pocket. He rose to greet Connie, kissing both cheeks, before listening respectfully as she introduced Parth and Mary. Parth could not help himself. Grinning at Mary, he drew her attention to the man’s soul patch, resting his index finger beneath his lip. Mary responded with a glare that told him to behave himself, or else.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Jones.” Mary shook the man’s hand, then tried to keep her composure when the striking black man spoke with an exaggerated London accent.
“Yeah, you too, love, but there’s no mister. It’s just Jones.” They sat down and ordered coffee. Mary asked the waitress for a bottle of spring water. “Forgive me, Mary, but have we met someplace before? You look familiar.” His cadence slipped into something more Chelsea than Clapham.
Mary paused a beat too long. The stripes shaved into his eyebrow distracted her. She felt a nudge against her arm. “Oh no, I don’t think so.”
“Jones is the man behind the wildly popular website, Truth Quest. How many followers does it have now?” Connie buttered his ego lavishly. Jones preened, straightening the collar of his shirt and jiggling his knee beneath the table.
“Oh, you know. A few hundred thousand devotees. It gets somewhere in the region of five thousand hits a day, more if something juicy crops up.” He flashed Mary his enormous smile. He was young, but his jittery enthusiasm provoked a warm feeling inside. “So, what’s so important that you had to dig me out of bed on a Sunday morning?”
“Go on, Mary. I am forbidden.”
“Must be good, if Connie can’t cover it. Has it got some kind of D-Notice slapped on it?” Jones’s light-hearted mood evaporated. Connie nodded with a solemn expression. He sat forward in his seat. “Okay. Spill.”
Mary stalled, adjusting the crockery on the table and sweeping her hair back behind her ears. She did not know how to begin her tale, or how much to reveal. Jones had the ability to take her story and mould it anyway he liked. Mary could be portrayed as the heroine or the villain. Her confidence waned. She took a sip of spring water. “Can you protect your sources like Connie can?” She waited for him to agree, then began. “Did you read an article, earlier in the week, about Lithium trials in the Scottish water supply?”
Jones stared down and to the right, trawling through his memories. “No, I must have missed that one. But that can’t be the reason we are talking if it is already published.”
“It isn’t, but it’s a good place to start. Lithium compounds are prescribed for specific mental health issues. It’s a kind of anti-depressant, but it can be fatally toxic to humans with long term high doses. The side effects can be as minor as dizziness or as horrific as having seizures and kidney failure. Our government tested its effects on the people of Scotland under the guise of lowering the rate of suicide.”
Mary’s mouth dried. She looked across the table at Parth. That would usually prompt him to take over, but he was sulking. His arms crossed, his glare drilling into Jones’s skull. Taking a restorative breath, Mary continued. “The thing is, our Prime Minister has ordered a new compound to be released into our water supply. The main aim of this untested chemical is to suppress…um…” She hesitated. Jones’s mouth dropped open, his intense gaze widening in recognition.
“I know where I have seen you. You are Mary Arora.” Jones twisted his torso, reaching for a canvas bag that was hanging from the back of his chair. “I knew it. It was on the tip of my tongue.” Jones pulled his laptop from the bag and lifted the lid. The familiar jingle tinkled, and he typed in his password. They waited an uncomfortable minute, while the machine logged itself onto the café’s Wi-fi, allowing him to open YouTube and type her name.
Two more clicks, and Mary heard Parth’s voice through the tinny computer speakers. “Ah but that is impossible while the Compound Queen is here. Mary, turn this water into wine for us.”
Jones turned the laptop around to face her.
Mary gulped. Her voice, her body, her actions. “We have to leave, now. I think they have our location.”
“Not until we have one more cup of wine.” Parth again. “Here.”
She watched the screen as Hugo stepped aside. He was staring at onscreen Mary.
“If I do this for you, can we leave straight away?”
Hugo gasped as the water took on a deep red hue at her touch.
“Cheers.” The video version of Parth, gulped the wine down. “Lovely. Pity she can’t do the same with loaves and fishes.”
At the end of the clip, it paused on a closeup of Mary. Words overlaid her image: This pretender believes she is Jesus incarnate. Her power is real. Rise up and fight.
“See. You are already famous.” Jones spun the computer back around and scrolled through the comments beneath the video window. “Wow. Perhaps I should say, infamous. You are not well liked.”
“Let me see.” Connie leaned across Jones, urging him to return to the top of the webpage. “Over one-point-five million views and climbing. Some of these comments are most unpleasant.”
“Do you want to put your side across? I can publish your response in interview form. It will get shared th
rough the blogger community.” Jones pulled his smart phone from his top pocket and tapped a few times until the screen showed it recording a voice memo.
Connie touched his phone, stopping his recording. “That was not the purpose of this meeting. Will you follow up on the water authorities and this unnatural drug they are releasing?”
“For you, Connie, anything, but I’d rather get the exclusive from Mystic Mary here.” That dazzling smile again. Mary was a hot commodity and had the potential to lift him into the international news arena. Mary closed her eyes and exhaled. The trembling in her abdomen radiated in concentric waves throughout her body. She had to keep it together. There was simply too much at stake.
Connie drew some notes from her purse and tucked them beneath her coffee cup, then tapped Mary’s arm. “Come. Let us go.”
Parth skipped backwards along the pavement, gloating at Mary. “This is the break we have been looking for. We should cash in on the publicity. Good old Hugo.”
Mary glowered, barging past him and speed walking to catch up with Connie. “I don’t want publicity. Don’t you see the trouble you have put me in? I told you not to record anything – that Hugo could not be trusted.”
“No, you didn’t, you just said that you didn’t want to be filmed. Really, this is a great outcome. The minister’s men cannot touch us now. You are too famous.”
“You are being ridiculous. Of course they can. How do you think the Defence Minister is going to react now? Yelena is going to kill us.” Her own words hit hard. The Yelena comment was meant figuratively, but second thoughts brewed malevolence.
“Keep your faces down. There are surveillance cameras here.” Connie marched ahead, untangling the car keys from her pocket. She pressed the key fob and they jumped inside. Mary clicked the seat belt in place, and then leaned forward to the dashboard to switch on the stereo. Choosing a pre-set news channel, she increased the volume. Slamming into gear, Connie edged the BMW out of the tight space and crawled it along the cramped Camden lanes.
There was a sound of crumpled newspaper sheets scraping against the microphone in the radio studio, followed by the presenter, rattling off the most prominent headlines. “Looks like Sterling is taking another hammering, with the Euro now standing at one Euro to the Pound and the US Dollar not far behind. The Independent is leading with an unusual spike in premature babies and a disturbing rise in neo-natal deaths. The journalist is calling for an immediate investigation. The Sun is covering…or rather uncovering, the live TV mishap with its headline, TOWIE star makes another boob.”
Mary consciously slowed her breathing. The flush rising across her face receded in the climate controlled car.
The DJ announced the next segment; a news discussion group. Panellists introduced themselves on the airwaves. The presenter kicked off the debate by asking the Bishop of Durham his views on the modern-day miracle, doing the rounds on the Internet circuit. Mary braced herself.
“Well, we must view this event from both sides. If this, Mary Arora, is genuine, we could be looking at the second coming. The Christian prophet that we have all been waiting for to lead us to enlightenment in this Godless age. Conversely, if this is a wicked prank, as popular consensus would have us believe, she is clearly attempting to poke fun at faith.” Several of the group spoke at once.
The cacophony was halted, when the DJ asked an author of scientific theories, and respected atheist, for his comments. “I doubt very much, that quantum physicist, Hugo Blom, would entertain the notion of pulling a religious prank within the hallowed halls of Imperial College. Neither would he appear on such a video unless the science was beyond reproach. Furthermore, why should it be associated with the tyranny of religion. If you look into the mechanics of quantum physics…” The author was shouted down, his argument lost in the churning discord of belief.
Mary held her face in her hands.
Connie reached across and switched off the noise. The BMW was idling again, stuck in the long lines of traffic north of the river. “I think you should consider accepting the offer from my editor. You need only disappear until the fuss dies down. And it surely will.” Connie touched the back of Mary’s arm, a comforting gesture.
Ahead, a green light initiated movement. Connie pushed the gearstick into first and released the handbrake. A right turn at the junction and the congestion thinned. She frowned into the rear-view mirror and depressed the accelerator pedal.
Parth slipped on the leather of the back seat, as Connie steered the car round a sharp corner at speed. Mary grabbed the door handle, leaning into the bend. The following turn caught her off-guard, thumping her head against the tinted window. “Ow… what are you doing?”
“There are two identical, black cars that have been following us since we left Camden. I thought I was imagining things, but they are still there after my little detour.” Connie floored the BMW through an amber light. The black cars crossed the junction on red.
Mary twisted in her seat, straining to see out of the back window. “It has to be the minister’s men.” Her heart pounded, sending a fluttering pop through her chest. “Can you lose them?”
“I am trying.” Connie wrenched the steering wheel hard left, undertaking a van and zipping along the hard shoulder of the duel carriageway. Right again, swerving in front of the van-man and into the fast lane. They could see another junction ahead.
Parth pushed back into the cradling seats and clung to the centre arm rest. “Put your foot down…you have to make that green light.” He said. The acceleration snapped at Mary’s neck, forcing her into the cushioned headrest.
Weaving between the remaining cars towards the traffic lights, Connie looked up to the mirror. “I don’t understand…they are slowing down.” The lights changed. Connie pressed her foot to the floor.
They were halfway across the junction, when the BMW was hit. The passenger side buckled with a deafening crack, jolting Mary against the central storage area. The heat and fumes from the invading engine funnelled through the splintered glass, making her choke and scramble closer to Connie.
Airbags expanded across every window and door pillar, thrusting into their gagging faces. The automatic seatbelt sensors constricted, sucking them backwards into the chairs. Mary sensed the centripetal, head splitting pressure of hanging upside down before her head jerked against the side airbag. The car balanced on two wheels and finally fell onto four.
They bounced on the broken shock absorbers for a moment. Mary breathed. Her ribs clenched in agonising pain. She cuffed her hand beneath her nose. Blood trickled between her fingers. She looked across to Connie who looked wholly unscathed. Mary tried to move but was constricted by the belt. “Parth?”
“I’m okay.” The splintered interior had jabbed his upper arm, but the wound was small. A repetitive roar of car horns filled the air. “Why hasn’t anyone come to check on us?” That was when Mary heard the sound of a fast reversing car. She lifted the deflating airbag curtain and peeked out.
To her left was a large black Jeep; its bonnet severely crumpled. With its bumper hanging loose, the vehicle backed up in a perpendicular trajectory to the where the BMW had landed. Honking horns grew in volume and number. The engine revved. Dropping the clutch, the driver slammed down on the accelerator.
“Jesus Christ. They are going to ram us again…”
Chapter Thirteen
The airbags were flaccid, the seatbelt tension slackened. The smart functions of the BMW spent. There would be no protection from a second impact. An attempt to flee would leave them unbuckled and mid-flight just prior to the collision. All they could do was to watch the jeep thundering towards them and hope the chassis would hold.
As the powerful black car thudded into the depression at Mary’s side, the loose bumper wedged beneath the BMW, wrenching them high into the air. The jeep’s momentum continued to flip them onto their side. Sparks rained in through the broken windows as Connie’s car grated against the asphalt. The ear-splitting grinding noise, gave way to th
e distant sounds of sirens, echoing from the tall buildings flanking the carriageway.
The BMW rocked on its crushed door pillars, as the jeep reversed once more and sped off from the scene.
“Connie…are you hurt?” Mary’s head lolled over the central space, suspended by the seatbelt. She drew her legs up and knelt against the gear box, reaching to her side to release the belt mechanism.
“I am okay, cut and bruises. You must go. Go now, before the police get here.” Connie flapped her hand towards the passenger window above Mary’s head.
“Come with us.” Mary wasted no time. Standing on the gearbox compartment, she leaned on the roof and pulled herself through the window, catching her trailing foot on the strap of her satchel. A hot, adrenal rush masked the worst of the pain.
“I’m pinned. Go, go. I will be fine.”
“Are you sure? Thank you, Connie. For everything. Dan is lucky to have you in his life.”
Parth hoisted himself through the tailgate aperture and helped Mary down from the high window to the roadside. The sirens were closing in. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, Mary limped towards the central reservation and Parth pulled her over the barrier.
Heading towards an area of trees and grass, Mary held her ribs and breathed shallow breaths. They limped between stationary cars and through a gateway into Regent’s Park. The influx of flight hormones receded fast. Pain traversed her chest, making her grunt and slowing her pace. “Wait…slow down.” She gasped, doubling over to catch her breath. Blood from her nose was smeared across her face and passers-by were staring at her.
“Are you badly hurt?” Parth threaded his arm under hers and around her waist. “We need to get somewhere private, so I can examine you properly.”
For once, Mary did not quibble with his logic. Despite the dreary day, Sunday dog walkers filled every corner, every bench.
“We have two choices. Hobble right to the furthest end of the park to the Zoo or find the café near to the boating lake.” Parth’s shirt was torn and bloody. His jacket left in the car.