Captive (15 page)

‘What are you saying? Animals got sick? Did any other people get ill too?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling. Michael’s words are coming back to me:
‘Journalist sniffing around . . . Going on and on about our drugs’ testing procedures, how we use animals and this that and the other.’
I’m afraid I already know the
answer.

‘Some of the earlier patients on the trials – the ones who didn’t have kidney failure – had bad symptoms. Allergic reactions. Swellings. It wasn’t reported
properly. Another man died. He was older than Jez. It’s hard to work out if it was because of the drug or not. We suspect it was just covered up too, like Jez’s death was.’ He
pulls a couple of other sheets of paper from his pocket. ‘These are various reports from doctors about the different side-effects.’

‘There would have been an investigation.’ None of this is true. It can’t be.

‘There was and it said that Jez died of an “underlying condition”. Dad fought the result of the hearing. Made himself sick with all the research. Him and Mum were arguing all
the time. She couldn’t understand why getting Bell-Barkov to admit that there was a problem with the drug mattered. It wasn’t like it was going to bring Jez back. But it does matter!
These people are still free to hurt other kids. Other people. Bell-Barkov didn’t like Dad digging around for clues. We got a few threatening letters from their lawyers and they even took an
injunction out on Dad, to prevent him from going within a hundred metres of the Bell-Barkov offices or Michael Bell himself. They said he was a nutter and dangerous. Bell-Barkov wanted to discredit
him. They didn’t want anything to get in the way of producing and marketing this drug. Development costs a fortune, but then a lot of money can be made from new medicines once they are on the
market, especially something like this that could potentially cure kidney disease.’

‘It’s so sad what happened to your family, but—’

‘You don’t get it yet, do you? Bell-Barkov are willing to do almost anything to keep this stuff quiet. Even set fire to their own premises.’

‘What?’

‘The fire at Bell-Barkov last October. Bit convenient, don’t you think?’

‘That was the AFC.’

‘No, it wasn’t. Bell-Barkov are experts at covering their tracks. Intimidation, bribery. Whatever works. Mum got mugged one night on the way back from the tube. Only, after taking
her wallet, the guy told her to keep her husband under control. “Stop him sticking his nose in places it isn’t wanted.” She and Dad had a screaming row that night. She told him to
leave; he was putting us all in danger with his crazy conspiracy stories. When we woke up the next day, Dad was gone. They found his body a couple of weeks later, washed up on a beach in
Dorset.’

‘He killed himself?’ I can barely believe what I’m hearing.

‘Yeah – or maybe he’d stuck his nose too far into a place it wasn’t wanted. I don’t know. I’m not trying to make this into a ridiculous conspiracy.
That’s Feather’s job. Whether it was something more sinister, or just Dad having had enough, it was still Bell-Barkov’s fault. They killed my dad, just like they killed my
brother.’

‘And you think Michael – Mr Bell – knew about all this?’ I ask, even though I already know the truth.

‘We know he knew about Jez. We’ve got a voicemail of him freaking out about it. On it, he admits that there were issues before. They were kept quiet, though, presumably because of
the amount of money they’d already invested in the drug.’

‘My throat is tight, as if I’m trying to breathe through plastic. This is not the first time I have talked about this.

‘The message was left on your dad’s voicemail. He kept quiet about it for whatever reason. Money possibly. We know that Bell-Barkov gave a lot to his election campaign. Or maybe it
was because him and Michael were friends, or just because it wouldn’t look good for him to be so close to this kind of scandal.’

‘You’re up to your neck in this, Stephen, just like me.’
It can’t be true. Dad
promised
me.

‘Feather is lying to you, Talon. Can’t you see that?’ I say desperately. ‘She’s convinced you that my dad and Michael are involved in some crazy cover-up. Listen to
yourself, though. It is insane. She wanted you to help get her brother out of prison so she’s told you a load of rubbish to try and connect the two things. How messed up is that?’

‘I thought you were better than this. Why would I lie to you? What have I got to gain? Don’t you think your dad has more to lose by people thinking his best friend – the man
who helped pay for his campaign – is involved in a kid’s death? But no, you couldn’t believe your dad was lying. Even though he has done it before. To you.’

‘When?’

‘The whole country saw it. It was on national TV. When he promised he was doing everything he could to bring you home. Well, where is he, Robyn? Why hasn’t he let Marble go? That was
all he had to do and you’d be home by now.’

‘SHUT. UP. You don’t know anything about my father.’ I stand up, fists curled at my sides, as though ready for a fight. But I’m tired of fighting. I just want this to be
over. I don’t want to hear anything else Talon has to say, so I start to run like I should have done a long long time ago.

I head in the direction of the road, reaching the first line of trees in seconds, and then I am weaving through them as fast as I can over the uneven terrain. I am trying to ignore the small
voice inside my head that is telling me to go back. I have been running from what happened in Paris for three months, and I am running still. Talon is a liar and a kidnapper. I owe him nothing. I
have to use every opportunity I can to escape.

Talon is right behind me now. I can just make out his footfalls over the rasp of my own breath and the crunch of dead leaves beneath my feet. Up ahead I see a break in the trees, and I lengthen
my strides and swing my arms to propel myself towards it. The quiet hum of traffic is louder and more insistent. It can’t be much further now. If I can just make that next clearing, I reckon
I’ll be able to see the road—

I don’t make it.

I trip, catching my foot on a tree root that’s twisted like a pretzel, and go down hard. Talon is on me the instant I hit the ground. Instinctively, I curl up into a ball, but he lets go
of me immediately and sits back on his heels. There is only stillness and quiet.

I peer up at him and see that there is no anger in his eyes, only . . . only . . .
disappointment
. He doesn’t look like a kidnapper. He looks like a boy who’s been betrayed by
someone he trusted.

‘You promised me you wouldn’t run,’ he says.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. Shame burns through me, followed by anger, because I don’t want to care about this boy. When did everything get so complicated?

Since I stopped believing everything my father tells me.

Talon begins to pull his mask up over his face.

‘No!’ I cry. ‘Don’t.’

He ignores me. His face is revealed a section at a time: first a pointed chin, then soft lips, sloping cheekbones and finally those dark green eyes that I already know so well. They seem to
sparkle now in the sun-dappled shade of the clearing. He is younger than I expected. My treacherous heart begins to beat a little faster. Even after everything that’s happened I want to reach
out and touch his face, run my fingers along his chin, his lips, up across the bridge of his eyebrows. What is wrong with me? This is the man who kidnapped me; the one who is telling lies about my
dad.

‘I don’t know why I ever got involved in this. Jez would be ashamed of me,’ Talon says.

And I read in his eyes that he has finally realised that nothing good was ever going to come of kidnapping me. It was never going to bring his brother back. It was only going to cause more
misery. I think of Addy and how I’d feel if anything ever happened to her, and I understand being so angry and so mad with grief that you lose all common sense and you do something stupid,
because you would do anything to just stop the pain inside you for a second. For half a second.

‘I am not your kidnapper now,’ he says, dropping the mask on the ground. ‘I’m just Samuel Fletcher, and I’m telling you the truth about what happened to my
brother.’

My plane leaves in two hours and Dad is due at the Élysée Palace in half an hour. He’s already knocked on my door three times this morning: the first for
breakfast; the second to say he’d saved me a pain au chocolat; the third to say he was leaving soon. ‘Bobs,’ he said through the wood, ‘please, come and talk to
me.’

I ignored him.

I am lying curled up in bed, the duvet pulled over my head, hiding like a little kid. I know that there is more to yesterday’s conversation. You do not attack the daughter of your best
friend over a misunderstanding.

The sound of voices is coming from the living room; I should get up or I’ll miss the plane. Instead, I press a pillow over my head. I just want everyone to go away. I don’t care
if I miss my plane. I’ll stay here forever. I’m never going home. I’ll move to Paris. Get a job.

I am being stupid and childish, but I let the thought run. I could work at the Louvre or in a little bakery and I’d have a flat that overlooked the Seine. I wouldn’t have much
money, but that would be okay. I could take photos, loads of photos, and then I could sell them. Or even talk to an art gallery about displaying them. Perhaps I would become famous? Loads of
photographers started out taking pictures of Paris. It is the most beautiful, most romantic city in the world.

My thoughts are cut off by the sound of Gordon’s voice coming down the corridor. I slide out of bed, which means I am standing when he knocks sharply on the door before opening it.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Robyn, but we need to leave immediately.’

‘
What’s going on?’

Gordon is already hustling me from down the hall and into the living room. ‘We have reason to believe—’

‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ Dad says. He is by the long dining table, piling some papers into a briefcase.

‘What is nothing to worry about? Tell me!’

After a nod from Dad, Gordon answers, ‘We think there might be a bomb in the hotel.’

‘What?’

‘Robyn, we don’t want you to be scared. There was an anonymous tip-off. We doubt it is a real threat, but we must take these things seriously. We need to leave now.’

‘I’m in my pyjamas,’ I say idiotically.
There might be a bomb in the hotel.
My brain won’t seem to process the information.

‘Lucky they are your best ones then.’ Dad smiles while Gordon wraps the throw from the sofa around my shoulders.

‘You should bring a jacket too, sir.’

‘They are all in the bedroom. No need.’

‘It might be best to cover your face, Prime Minister.’

‘Oh, fine, fine. I can’t see that there is anything to worry about.’ Michael Bell’s disgusting brown jacket with dark mustard-yellow patches on the elbows is still on
the back of one of the chairs. Dad picks it up as Gordon hurries us from the room.

The hall is full of police, the lift waiting for us at the end of it. The blanket around my shoulders smells faintly of popcorn. I think of Wile E. Coyote running off the edge of the cliff,
his legs propelling him onwards until he realises there is nothing below him and then he just drops. Dad and Gordon stand on either side of me in the lift. I can’t believe this is happening.
Who would want to blow up the hotel? Do they want to hurt my dad? Why? Has this got something to do with what he and Michael were talking about last night?

‘You’re up to your neck in this, Stephen.’

The lift pings. The doors open, and the hotel atrium is before us, marble and gold with a set of revolving doors that head outside. I’m scared.

‘Dad,’ I whisper. ‘Dad, I . . . I don’t . . .’

Dad isn’t listening, though, and Gordon is pushing me forward, one hand on my back. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘The car is right there. Pull that blanket over
your head, Robyn. That’s it. And, Prime Minister, if you could do the same, sir. Thank you. We ask that you walk calmly but quickly to the car.’

Calmly.

I don’t feel calm. Why is Dad walking so quickly? Wait! Wait for me.

I speed-walk a couple of paces to keep up with him, so that we emerge on to the hotel steps together. ‘Quickly but calmly, Robyn,’ Dad says. ‘Just like
Gordon—’

Thwack!
A noise like a tennis ball hitting a racket. What the hell . . .?

Someone shouts, ‘Get down!’ But it’s all happening too fast and I don’t understand what is going on. A police officer goes to push my dad to the ground, but Dad throws
his body over mine instead. There’s another dull
thwack
and Dad shudders. At first I think it’s because we’ve landed awkwardly after tumbling down the hotel steps. I roll
over, sliding out from underneath him. Dad doesn’t move. Blood is soaking through the shoulder of Michael’s jacket, staining the snow as crimson as a summer sunset.

‘Dad! DAD!’

He doesn’t hear me; he is already losing consciousness.

My heart is thudding loudly in my ears
– durdum durdum durdum –
matching the pace of the blood that is pouring out on to the snow.

Durdum. Durdum. Durdum.
My heart beats loud in my ears, like it did on the day Dad was shot.

Red blood on white snow.

‘You’re up to your neck in this, Stephen.’

‘Tell me, Dad. What have you done?’

‘All I want is a proper investigation,’ Talon says. ‘That drug killed my brother and I don’t want it to happen to anyone else.’

‘It won’t because it’s a lie.’
Is it?
My doubt makes me angry so I lash out at the cause of it. ‘You just don’t want to admit that you had no reason to
kidnap me. Dad isn’t going to release Marble. He’s a murderer!’ As I say it, I finally realise that Dad isn’t coming for me. How can he set a terrorist free?