Blood Symmetry

For those killed by tainted blood, and for those that survived

T
he trees on Clapham Common are aflame with autumn colour. A couple are holding hands on a park bench, watching the leaves turn from red to gold in the early sunlight. They're sitting in a deserted copse, the path ahead shrouded by thickets of hazel.

‘Maybe they won't come,' the man says, the chill already sapping his strength.

‘Give them time. Not panicking, are you?'

‘Of course not. It was my idea, remember?'

She leans over to kiss him, face shadowed by the collar of her black woollen coat, but the moment of intimacy soon passes. The man strains forward as he hears footsteps crunching on gravel – someone racing towards them through the trees.

‘Now,' he whispers. ‘Let's put it right.'

The first jogger is a slim brunette in a blue tracksuit. A young boy drifts in her wake, his smile wide and unquestioning, frame so slight that his sweatshirt flails in the breeze. The man steps out from the shadows and grabs the jogger from behind; she fights hard, a look of stunned recognition on her face. Her elbows gouge his ribs as she yells at the boy to run, but the woman has already caught him. The child goes down fighting, thin form collapsing as he inhales the anaesthetic, a blindfold covering his eyes. A chloroform pad is pressed to his mother's mouth, before she's dragged into the bracken.

The couple lift the victims' inert bodies on to the back seat, their car camouflaged by thick foliage. The man's hands fumble as he covers them with blankets, morning traffic thickening as the woman slips into the driver's seat. The most dangerous stage is over; all they have to do now is deliver mother and son to the laboratory. When the man peers under the blanket, Clare Riordan's face is pale as candle wax, the child's body curled behind the driving seat. His gaze shifts to the road ahead.

‘Not far now, almost there.' He repeats the words like a mantra.

Close to their destination they pause on a side street, a delivery van blocking their way. But when he looks back there's a flicker of movement. Through the rear window he sees the boy sprinting across the tarmac.

‘Jesus,' the woman hisses. ‘I thought the doors were locked.'

The man's heart thuds as he spills out on to the road, his skin feverish. The boy has vanished. His gaze skims over houses and empty front gardens. At the junction he comes to a halt, heaving for breath, frustration flooding his system. Thank God the child didn't see their faces. The mother will be killed once she provides the information they need, but her son is beyond their reach.