It is nine shuffles, two and a half side steps, and one somersault—just—between the edge of the bed and the door. I pirouette, skip, jog backward and forward, walk like a bear, stride like a tiger, tiptoe like a mouse, and swing one arm like an elephant’s trunk.
After a while, I begin to pace the room again, moving faster and faster, concentrating on the pounding in my chest, the pull of my muscles, and the slap of my Converses against the tiled floor and trying to push all other thoughts away.
When I’m on my fourteenth lap, the door opens. I look up, expecting Talon. But instead Scar is standing in the doorway, his mouth screwed up into a warped grin.
“Hello, Princess,” he says.
CHAPTER TEN
In the instant before he grabs me, I see that Scar’s eyes are red in the glare of the bare bulb. I can’t move quickly enough and he pushes me against the wall, his hands on my shoulders. He’s so close I can’t help but take in the stench of him—the stale alcohol combined with rot, like something has crawled inside him to die. I squirm, but he holds me fast. My feeble punches to his ribs have no effect either. “Gentle there, Princess. You don’t want to break a nail. No need to be afraid. I just want a little chat. We never get any time together, just you and me.”
Panic is rising inside of me like a tidal wave until I remember the knife in his belt. Will it still be there? He is telling me that we should be friends. “Maybe I could help you.”
“How?” I ask, feeling for the handle of the knife through his T-shirt. “Will you let me go?” My fumbling fingers lift the fabric very, very gently.
“Let you go? Well, I don’t know about that, but maybe I could be persuaded.”
My hand closes around the knife. I pull it free.
“Oi, what are you doing?”
I jab the blade into his side—the fleshy bit just above the waistband of his trousers.
His hands go instinctively to his injury. I make a dash for the door, tugging desperately on the handle, but it is locked.
“You’ll pay for that,” he says. I turn to see him tug the knife out easily. And I realize how stupid I have been. The door is locked, and he is stronger. All I have done is remind him that he has a knife.
“Help! Somebody, please!” I scream as I bang my fists against the door.
Scar drags me backward by what is left of my hair. “HELP ME!” I scream.
There’s the sound of feet pounding down the stairs to the basement, then along the hall. The door is flung open, and there’s Talon. I’ve never been so happy to see someone.
“Get away from her,” Talon growls.
“What you going to do about it?” Scar tightens his grip on the blade.
“Robyn, come here. We’re going upstairs.”
Scar is blocking my path to the doorway. “Piss off, Talon.”
“No. Move out of the way and let Robyn go.”
“You want a fight? That it? Well, come on then. Show me what you’ve got.”
Scar is talking to Talon, but it is me who makes a move. I run at Scar, knocking him off balance, but not enough. He shoves me backward, and I fall onto the bed. Talon comes at him from the other side. Scar brushes him off easily, then jabs at his face with the knife, tearing his mask. Blood drips down Talon’s chin. Scar lunges again, this time aiming for Talon’s belly. At the last second, Talon moves out of the way and seizes Scar by the wrist, propelling him around before slamming him against the wall. Talon shoves his forearm into Scar’s throat and uses his free hand to ram Scar’s into the plaster again and again until the knife clatters to the floor. Talon kicks it away. Scar is strong and crafty, though. He punches Talon in the head with his now-free hand. Talon reels backward from the blow and Scar pounces, pushing Talon onto the floor and crouching over him, both hands around his throat.
Neither of them is taking any notice of me. The door to my cell is open and unguarded. I could run so easily. I look at the door; I look at Talon. He is gasping for breath, eyes bulging. He saved me. I can’t leave him here to die.
The discarded knife is by Scar’s ankle. Before I change my mind, I pick it up and hold it shakily to Scar’s throat. “Let him go.” I press the blade into his skin, and a trickle of blood runs down his neck. “Let go of Talon and then stand up slowly.”
“You haven’t got the guts,” Scar sneers.
I press the blade even harder against his throat, until a stream of blood flows freely. “I’ve done it before.”
He releases Talon, who immediately rolls over, coughing and spluttering. I glance down at him for only a second, but it’s enough time for Scar to clamp a hand around my wrist. I cry out and drop the knife. Scar stands up, catching both of my hands in one of his, and then shoves me backward until the edge of the bed takes my legs out from underneath me.
He growls at me. It turns into a wince as he stoops to pick up the knife. His hand goes automatically first to his side and then to the gash at his throat. Blood is dripping from both, and he is clearly in pain. He seems to hesitate, his eyes assessing me and Talon. Then he secures his grip on the blade and takes a step closer to Talon. I gasp as the blade flashes down in a clean arc to sink deep into the floor, millimeters from Talon’s head.
“You deserve each other,” Scar says as he limps from the room, one hand cupping his side. The door slams shut behind him. There’s the sound of a key turning.
My limbs are liquid, so I roll off the bed and crawl over to Talon. He pulls the knife free and chucks it across the floor. “Getting stabbed around you is becoming a habit.” His voice is as shaky as my knees. Ruby-red blood is dripping down onto his shirt. I’ve never been good with blood. I shut my eyes against a room that is beginning to white out.
“Breathe,” Talon says. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I draw the air down into my lungs, pushing the dizziness away. After what feels like several centuries, the world stops spinning.
“Okay?”
I nod, and Talon sits back on his heels.
“He tried to— Scar tried to—”
“Yeah. He’s a wanker.”
“Is your face all right?”
“It’s just a scratch.” He pulls at the mask. “Wearing this thing all the time drives me crazy—”
“Don’t take it off.” I know how dangerous it would be for me to be able to identify these people.
Talon has tugged the mask farther down his face, as if to prove there is no way he is taking it off. “You weren’t supposed to be treated like this. Everything is turning to shit.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
He turns his head to look at me. We are inches from each other, both our chests still heaving with adrenaline. As our eyes catch, the air between us cracks like a whip, with our anger at Scar . . . and . . . and something else. Something even more dangerous. I remember the way Talon sat with me when I cried. I remember the heat of his skin as it brushed against mine. And I draw in a deep, steadying breath, because I should not feel this way about him.
Talon’s eyes flash pale green in the dim light. “Everything was so easy before,” he says.
“Before what?”
“Before I met you.”
“Oh.”
“The way you stand up to Feather and Scar after everything you’ve been through. Shit, after everything we’ve put you through. You’re so brave.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“Well, you are. It’s all pretty messed up, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“This. You . . . me. Robyn . . .”
Stop. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. This isn’t right.
My eyes flick away from his.
“Robyn,” he says again. And this time it sounds harsh, like a broken promise. “Jesus, what the hell is the matter with me?”
With us.
At that moment, the door opens. We both tense. I tell myself it’s because I’m afraid that Scar has come back for round two, but I know it’s guilt at wanting to stay close to Talon. What kind of freak falls for her kidnapper?
Feather comes in. Her boots are muddy and covered in pine leaves. There must be a forest near the house. She takes in both of us. I can’t see her face, but I imagine one eyebrow raises as she sees how close we are sitting together.
“Where is he?” Talon asks her.
“Calm down. He’s upstairs.” After stooping to pick up the knife, she puts it in her pocket.
“This is getting out of hand,” Talon says.
“You think I don’t know that? Are you all right?” she asks me brusquely, turning away before I have even finished nodding.
“Of course she’s not!” Talon says. “I told you he can’t be trusted. I told you, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“You talk a lot, Talon. It’s kind of hard to pick out the important stuff. Anyway, it won’t be a problem anymore. We’re leaving. There’s a man, a prison guard . . .” She glances at me. “I’ll give you the details later. The point is that Scar’s coming with me, so nothing will happen again.”
I remember the hatred in Scar’s eyes, and I don’t believe her.
• • •
Feather and Scar left this morning. I heard the hum of an engine as I was doing my morning exercises. I tried to pinpoint the direction they were traveling in by the sound, but it was too difficult. People can only do that kind of stuff in films, I reckon. And besides, what would I do with the information anyway? It has been three days since Feather made that new video. What’s happening out there? Have they reached a deal? The government must have promised something for me to still be alive. Maybe Feather has gone to meet the negotiator. But if they’d made a deal, she would have taken me with her.
Where the hell are the special-ops guys? Why haven’t they smashed through the window of my cell and rescued me yet? Why am I still here?
Talon stays with me while I eat dinner. He did the same at breakfast and lunch. We didn’t talk much then, either, so my chewing is awkwardly loud in the enclosed space. Talon doesn’t seem to notice. He sits on the floor, like usual, resting against one wall, his legs splayed out in front of him, his head tilted up toward the window, as if he can feel the sun’s rays through the glass. I drop the remaining half of the slice of bread back onto the plate, remembering the terror and revulsion of feeling Scar’s body pressed against mine. What would have happened if Talon hadn’t come in when he did? He protected me, and I should feel grateful. He’s the only person who has been kind to me. I am glad he didn’t get hurt. There’s something calming about him, and besides, it is good to have someone to talk to. Yet I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t kidnapped me. How can I have so many contradictory feelings associated with one person?
A sudden snap of wings from outside makes me jump. “I put some feed out for the birds this morning,” Talon explains.
“Which ones did you see?”
“A few jays, a blackbird.”
“I hear them singing sometimes, but I can’t identify them from the book.”
“Do you want to? I mean, I could teach you. Bird-watching is kind of sad, but it’s not as though . . .”
“I’m doing anything else. Would we go outside?” I ask hopefully.
“No! We’d have to do it in here. But . . . wait.” He disappears out of the cell and comes back a few minutes later with an iPod. He turns it on, and birdsong fills the room. “Dad used this to teach me and Jez.”
Twiddle-oo twiddle-eedee.
“I know that one! That’s a robin.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like I planned it.”
I laugh. It’s weird seeing glimpses of Talon’s personality. He can be really funny sometimes.
Another robin joins in. They sound so cheerful, I can’t help but smile.
“The sky’s gray again today,” Talon says, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“The color of Bert the owl?”
“No, more like a sparrow. Here.” He points to a page in the book as another bird joins in with the robins. “Right, let’s get started. You have to close your eyes,” he says as he shuts his. Looking at his eyelids feels like discovering a secret. There’s a freckle in the crease of his right eye. As he opens his mouth to speak, his lips part slightly, making a noise like a kiss. Neither of us has mentioned what happened yesterday. Some things are too difficult to talk about.
“Can you hear it, the goldcrest?” he asks. “That high, thin note—zi-zi-zi. He’s calling to his mate. There it is again.” He whistles, his mouth forming a small O, and he sounds so real, so like a bird. “You try.”
“I can’t whistle.”
He opens his eyes, lashes fluttering up like butterfly wings. “Of course you can. Everyone can whistle. You make a tunnel of your mouth. Push your lips forward like that. That’s it. And then flatten your tongue. And—” The sound he makes is loud and pure, and exactly like a goldcrest’s tweet.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “Being nice to me.”
“It isn’t right, what we’ve done.”
“And you think teaching me to whistle makes up for that.”
“Marble didn’t shoot your dad, Robyn. I get that you probably won’t believe me, but he is a good guy. There is no way he could shoot anyone. This whole thing is a mix-up. I wish there had been another way to clear it up, but there wasn’t. We had to kidnap you and force your dad to take our requests for Marble to be freed seriously. You’re his daughter. He’ll fight hard for you. He’ll make the government do it if he has to.”
That’s what I thought once. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t say anything. I’m afraid of what will happen when Feather gets bored of waiting. I don’t want to draw attention to my dad’s lack of action. Not least because it hurts too much. Did he ever put me first, or was he just never forced to make a choice before?
“What’s he like, your dad? I’ve only ever seen him on TV or in photos. He comes across as an arrogant dick. No offense.”
I may be cross with Dad, but I won’t bad-mouth him to Talon. “He isn’t arrogant. He’s confident. He has to be. Everyone expects him to know what to do.”
“And are you a happy family like the press make out?”
Mum threw a plate at Dad last Christmas Eve. The tension had been building in the air all winter, like an electrical storm, and that day it broke right over our heads. I can’t do this anymore, Mum had screamed, and then the crockery had come flying at Dad’s head. It missed and clattered at his feet instead. Addy started to cry. “No fight,” she said, banging her little fists on the table. Dad told her they weren’t fighting; they were having a discussion. To which Mum retorted, “Discuss this,” and then threw another plate at Dad’s head. They made up the next day—well, as close to making up as my parents ever get. Just put a new sheet of paper over the crack in their marriage. Mum hates Downing Street—the cramped flat, the constant press invasion, the fact that Dad is never home when he says he will be—but there’s nothing she can do about it.
Mum can throw every piece of crockery we own, including their wedding set, and it won’t make the slightest bit of difference.
“Sometimes,” I say. Suddenly I feel 180 years old.
“You do that a lot,” he says. “Tug your hair forward.”
He is right, I do, but I didn’t realize I was doing it then. “I can’t get used to it being this short.” My hands tremble whenever I think of those scissors glittering in the bathroom light.
“Feather shouldn’t have cut it. I don’t know when everything got so messed up. The plan was simple: kidnap you. Get Marble back. Let you go. It makes me so mad when I think what they’ve both done to you. When I thought Scar was going to—”
“I’m pleased he isn’t here anymore,” I
say quickly.
“I won’t ever let him near you again. I won’t let either of them hurt you again. I promise.” There’s such an intensity to his voice that I almost believe him.
• • •
Dad didn’t make it to the Carter-Bresson museum today because Michael Bell, one of Dad’s oldest friends, called to say that he was in Paris for the night before going on to Berlin and asked Dad to meet him for a late lunch. I don’t know that Dad particularly wanted to, but he went anyway. He’s weird like that about Michael sometimes. He always says it’s because they’ve been friends for years, but I think it’s more than that. I don’t know what, but Dad gets really on edge around him. Mum reckons it was because Michael bullied Dad at school and he’s been afraid of him ever since. She says it teasingly and goes on about heads down toilets and stuff like that, but I can’t help thinking there is something else to it.
Anyway, so Dad went to meet Michael, and I tried not to feel grumpy about it. I obviously didn’t do a very good job, because Gordon got one of his juniors to take me to the exhibition. He even took me out for a hot chocolate afterward, saying I had a face on me that would sour milk.
The meeting with the French president is planned for tomorrow afternoon; I’m flying home in the morning because spring term starts on Friday. Tonight Dad is going over some papers, and I’m lying on the sofa in the living room of the suite, watching Road Runner cartoons (there is literally nothing else on in English) and eating popcorn. Michael is, thankfully, elsewhere. Dad reaches for the popcorn, but I lift the bowl and wag a finger at him. “Na-huh. None for you, old man. Else you won’t fit into those posh tailored suits.”
“You really are a monster,” he says.
I smile at him, half-chewed-up popcorn stuck in my teeth.
“It’s been great having you with me these last few days. I know we don’t often get much time together, just the two of us. I’m sorry that Michael turned up unexpectedly yesterday. Was the exhibition good?”
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