Captive (22 page)

‘Michael is my oldest friend.’

‘He set fire to his own offices. He killed a kid. There was clearly something wrong with him!’

‘It isn’t as simple as that. I ordered him to come clean. I threatened to report it myself. But he was crying and begging and even threatening to hurt himself. It – it scared
me. I have known Michael nearly all my life. He’s been there for me so many times, and now he needed me. I agreed to give him some time. A few days at first, and then I agreed to a week. Then
the week became a month became two. For the first time in my life, I was paralysed, unable to make a decision.’

I clutch the blankets more firmly around my shoulders. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

‘I told myself the drug was a good one. It would save so many people with kidney failure. Maybe that child’s death
had
been unrelated. And besides Michael was my friend, my
oldest and closest friend. I owe him so much. Could I really destroy him like this? And what about me? Questions would surely be asked. How much did I know? Why had I waited so long to tell the
truth?’

‘So you were just thinking of yourself.’

‘And you and your mother and Addy. Can you imagine the scandal if it had come out?’

‘Did Michael pay you to keep quiet?’

‘No! I did this out of friendship, not for money.’ He is indignant.

‘But Michael has lent you money. You told me about it in Paris.’

‘That was a loan.’ He draws a deep breath. ‘I didn’t lie to you about that. But, yes, I was aware that it would look bad if anyone found out I knew about that
child’s death.’

‘It would look like a bribe.’

He nods. ‘I was nearly mad with worry and so the only sensible thing seemed to be to put the whole sorry problem out of my head. This was in December of last year. It was nearly Christmas.
I decided to give myself the festive season to think it all over and I would make a final decision in the New Year. Then we went to Paris and Michael told me about the letter from the journalist. I
knew then that I couldn’t tell the truth; it was too late. Too much was at stake, so I kept quiet. And after the shooting, I felt justified. These people were killers. I was trying to protect
you when I lied, Robyn. You and Michael.’

And yourself.

‘I almost don’t care that you lied to me,’ I say. ‘I care more that you didn’t tell anyone the truth. Jeremy’s brother was one of my kidnappers. Did you know
that? His family never even got to see his body.’

‘He was a very sick little boy. He would have died anyway. And his parents knew of the risks involved in a clinical trial.’

‘So it’s their fault?’ I stand up angrily, my chrysalis of blankets falling to the floor. ‘How can you say that?’

Dad picks up the blankets and tries to wrap them around me again but I yank them away from him. He collapses back on the bench and drops his head into his hands.

‘You’re still trying to spin it. To make yourself look better.’

‘I know.’ He stares up at me and, for once, his eyes are just one shade. No sprinkling of gold, no flecks of green – just large brown discs that glisten in the light. Is my dad
crying? It surprises me so much that I sit back down again.

‘I have paid for my part in this. Losing you. That second video, when that woman cut your finger. I can’t . . . And then it slowly dawned on me that it was all connected – that
you were suffering because of me. It has been . . . well . . . no hell could be worse.’

‘When did you accept that my kidnapping wasn’t just about freeing Kyle Jefferies?’

‘The police spoke to him on the day you were taken. It took a while, but when he learned the full extent of his sister’s plans, he withdrew his statement. He said he wasn’t to
blame for shooting me. It had been his sister. For some reason he’d been protecting her. Eventually the whole story of his sister’s vendetta against Bell-Barkov emerged. He said he
suspected that she wasn’t working alone. There was a man who lived with them, he said, whose brother had died after taking Amabim-F.’

‘What’s going to happen now?’ I draw my knees up so I can rest my head on them. The sun is brighter and the garden smells of sunshine. There was a time when I didn’t
think I’d ever see the sun again, didn’t think I’d ever see anything except for four white walls and a tiny splice of sky through a high-up window.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you tell everyone about Michael and the drug and how you kept quiet about it all?’

‘I already have. There’ll be an investigation and probably a trial. Bell-Barkov will be investigated, as will Michael and Glindeson, the company that oversaw the drug trial Jeremy
was involved in. Criminal charges will probably be brought against Michael for the fire, but the police will want to establish how many other people were involved first. There’ll also be an
enquiry into Jeremy’s death. His parents will finally have justice.’

‘Talon’s dad is dead. He – he killed himself.’

‘I am very sorry to hear that. Another tragedy that could have been prevented had I acted sooner. He was kind to you, was he, this Talon, while you were in captivity?’

‘Yes. He shouldn’t be tried with the others. Feather and Scar were horrible. Evil. But Talon was . . .’ I have no words to describe what he was. ‘He tried to help me, and
he let me go, when the others were away for a few days. I would have escaped if I hadn’t run into Scar on the way to find help. All of that should be taken into account. He should get a
lesser sentence or whatever.’

‘He is still a kidnapper.’

‘But he did it for his brother! And his dad. You said yourself they deserve justice. Maybe that could start by not sentencing Talon in the same way as the others.’

‘Robyn, it is impossible for me to think about what you have suffered these last couple of weeks. I am grateful that someone treated you with respect and kindness, but it is only what you
deserved. These people stole you from your family in the most violent way possible and then they kept you locked up. You must not equate a simple gesture in an extreme situation with . . . with
anything more real. In a terrifying situation, even the most basic of humane treatment can feel like something special.’

The sky is the metallic grey of pre-dawn, a red glow illuminating the horizon. In the mess of bushes around me are the furtive rustles of tiny paws and snouts while in the branches above, a
bird trills in the new day. It is joined by the birds in nearby trees, until the whole wood is singing. The light in Talon’s green eyes. My trembling fingers clasping his. The warmth of his
body so close to me.

What I feel for Talon is special. It is not some syndrome, no matter what anyone says. But there is no point arguing with my dad.

A thought occurs to me. ‘How will you carry on as prime minister after all of this?’

‘I won’t. I tendered my resignation yesterday morning.’

And he’s only just telling me. Of course he is. Same old Dad choosing what truth he shares and when.

‘You’ll be heading back to Downing Street this afternoon,’ he explains. ‘I won’t be coming with you, at least not today. The police want to take me in for
questioning.’ We are walking slowly back to the main building. ‘They agreed to give me a chance to talk to you first.’

‘What made you tell the truth now? You could have kept hiding it. Lying to me. To everyone.’

‘After everything you’ve been through I think you deserve the truth, don’t you?’

Or is it that he suspected I would already know the truth by the time I was released?

When we reach the entrance, Dad pauses before going inside. ‘I will most likely face charges for my part in this. I may even go to prison. My life – our lives – will change
dramatically. There will be a lot of press attention, even more than before, if that’s possible. And none of it will be pleasant.’

A nurse wants to come through the doors and Dad moves to let her pass. She eyes us both curiously, turning back to look at us again as she hurries down the path in front of the building. I watch
her go, wondering what she’s thinking. ‘Do the public know yet?’

‘There’ll be a press conference later today. The deputy PM will lead it. There have been murmurings among journalists, of course, but so far they’ve been preoccupied with the
story of your safe return.’

‘Will you go to the conference?’

‘I’ll give a statement. The party feels it might be better if I keep a low profile for a while.’

‘No one wants to be seen with you.’

‘No. I will have to face the journalists eventually but I will put that off a little longer if I can.’

‘What will you do, now you’re not PM?’ I ask.

‘I honestly don’t know, Bobs,’ he says. ‘I just don’t know.’ With his head bowed, I can see a bald patch on the top of his head that I swear wasn’t
there at Christmas. I wonder when my dad got so old, and when did I start to notice? Before, my parents were just that – parents. They told me when to go to bed and what to eat and what time
to be home and to do my schoolwork. The world has shifted. I’ll never take what Dad says at face value again just because he says it. From now on, I’m going to ask questions and make my
own decisions about things.

‘We should go inside,’ he says. ‘They’ll be waiting to take you home. Your mother is dying to see you. I shouldn’t hold you up any longer.’

‘Politics isn’t everything.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No. And, hey, maybe now you’ll spend some actual time with your family, for real, rather than just for the cameras.’

‘That was always real. I’m aware I haven’t always been the greatest of fathers and that living in Downing Street has not been easy on you all. I have made some bad choices.
This is by far the worst of all. So many people suffered for it . . .’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to spend every waking minute for the rest of my life putting it right. And I’m going to apologize, loudly and to everyone.’ He half smiles.
‘There’s a first time for everything after all.’

I hesitate, one hand on the glass door that leads inside. ‘I reckon we’re going to be all right, you know.’

‘I hope so.’ His eyes have teared up again. ‘I really hope so. Go on now. The car is waiting to take you home.’ Then he smiles. ‘I know that look. You’ve got
something more to ask me.’

There’s only one other thing that matters now. ‘Where’s Talon?’

Dad and I are flying to Paris in an hour. Mum comes into my room just as I am packing my new denim skirt, the one Mum says is too short, but I think goes great with thick
tights and my grey biker boots. I scrunch it up and ram it deep into the folds of my duffel bag. I needn’t have bothered, though. She isn’t looking at me. She sits down on my bed,
running her fingers over my eiderdown, a smile tattooed on her face. ‘I want you to have fun in Paris. Don’t get caught up in your father’s mad schemes and don’t get stuck
in the hotel while he works. Get out and see the city. Who knows when you’ll get another chance? Be your own person. Don’t . . . don’t become a clone of your dad. Promise me.
Promise me you’ll make your own choices, and not the ones he wants you to make. If – when – the time comes, remember what I’ve said. Don’t be him, Robyn. I want
something better for you.’

Millbank is packed with tourists. The police motorcyclists have to flash their sirens to clear space for the car. As we turn on to Whitehall, I shift uncomfortably in the seat.
My body finally realises what it’s gone through. Everything is hurting, like I’ve been through a spin cycle and my skin has shrunk. It’s hurting my insides to have blood pumping
through my veins.

The paparazzi are out in force today, packed hungrily around the Downing Street gates. I wonder if the press conference has just finished. Armed police officers try to force them back on to the
pavement. ‘Be through in a minute,’ says one of the officers travelling in the car with me. I don’t answer. I stare straight ahead. The paps will be pressing their cameras up
against the dark glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the daughter of the disgraced PM. I won’t show any emotion.

The car slows and the journalists swarm over us like insects. They slam their fists on the car roof and shove their cameras up against the windows. My fingers whiten with the tension in my
hands.
Do not cry, Robyn. Do not cry.
I retreat into my head, conjuring up the silence of that wood behind the farmhouse in my mind. The sound of the birds’ cheerful chirps and
Talon’s whistling. The mud soft under my fingers.

One of the journalists hits my window, making me jump. ‘Gis us a smile, Robyn,’ someone shouts. Another yells, ‘Glad to be home?’ A third voice, louder and clearer than
the rest, adds, ‘How do you feel about the shocking revelations about your dad and Bell-Barkov?’

My fingers clutch one another tightly and I have to suck in the breath through my nose.

‘Steady, Miss,’ the officer beside me says. ‘Almost there now.’

It feels like we will be swallowed up by the plague of journalists. The light inside the car darkens to night as bodies press up tighter and tighter to the car.

At last we are through the gate and it is closing behind us, shutting the press pack on one side and us on the other. My breath unhitches. My lungs expand. We draw up to the kerb of Number 10.
Externally it is exactly the same as it has been for the last two hundred and something years. How many thousands of secrets have been hidden behind these thick brick walls? How many decisions have
been made here for ‘the good of the nation’?

An officer follows me across the famous black-and-white chequered hallway of Number 10. The place is even more chaotic than usual. Aides and secretaries fly about, gathering
together files and the other paraphernalia of my dad’s occupancy. Somewhere in the background the shredder is working overtime, probably destroying any other little secrets that my dad
doesn’t want anyone to find out about.

Just as we reach the stairs, a woman comes through the adjoining door to Number 11, smacking right into me. The papers she is carrying flutter to the floor. She swears. Recognition fills her
eyes as she looks at me. She opens her mouth. It hangs like that for a couple of seconds while her eyes become little round Os.