Song of Bees

by Andrea Hicks

  But who’s the one playing me?

  Chapter 14

  I’ve got a plan. It’s bonkers, totally and utterly, but something tells me it’s my only option. All along I’ve been fed snippets of information, just enough to keep me hanging on. If you’re kept in a facility for three months without reason, it skews the way you think. All I wanted was to get out of there and go home. At least that’s one thing I’m sure of, I can’t go home, and not just because some cretin set fire to my apartment. If I’d been able to go back there I’d be dead by now, and if what Luna has told me is true, that my blood would be leeched from my body because it’s the only way I can be killed, it would be horrific. More than horrific...agonising and desperately frightening. Whenever Aunt Rochelle wants to get something done she always goes to the top and works her way down. Don’t begin with minions, she says, go to the top person.

  I slip in the contacts Luna gave me because they change my appearance so much. It’s crazy that a change of eye colour should made such a difference. I didn’t bother to look in the bag of clothes before Luna left, but I’ve laid everything out on the bed. It’s all funky stuff, eye-catching, but as she said, not out of place here; PU leggings, a tee with the Lolabelle logo on the front which makes me happy, a pink teddy-bear coat and white pumps. All fine, all so not me, but it’s okay. I’m not sure who me is anymore.

  I dress quickly and look out of the window. I had a restless night, not least because delivery vans populate this street at every hour. People here don’t sleep at the usual times. They’re up with the dawn and stay up until the early hours. There’s a rhythm of life here that I find appealing...in different circumstances I would have found it all attractive, a life I could have lived. Maybe I should open a café when everything is sorted. I have experience. If everything gets sorted. I glance one more time in the mirror, then around the room I doubt I will see again. There’s one more thing I must do. Opening the drawer of the bedside cabinet, I reach for the gun Luna left for me and unwrap it from the tea towel I’d put around it. I don’t know why I did that. It’s still a gun regardless of what’s wrapped around it. After pulling the tea towel away, I stare at it lying in my hand. It’s tiny, much smaller than I’d imagined a gun could be, but clearly easy to stash in a pocket. I wrap it up again and stow it in the drawer. I don’t want it. I have no use for it. I’ve never killed anyone or anything, and I’m not about to start now.

  So, this is Nina, taking control of her own life, not on Cain’s demands, or because Cecily Cunningham apparently wants me dead, but because I’ve made a decision. When I was studying to be a lawyer it occurred to me that people were often swept along by circumstances that were happening to them. I’d heard from my pupil-master that people often wailed that things were out of their control which was why they’d done a, b, or c, usually committing some crime or other, and none of it was their fault. To my shame I’d found this to be a ridiculous excuse for carrying out criminal actions, but now...now I know why many of them couldn’t rise above it. They were weakened by the situations they found themselves in, and until last night I was exactly the same. It wasn’t until last night when I had a kind of lightbulb moment that I realised that I was allowing things to happen to me. I was under-reacting because I felt weakened by the circumstances I found myself in, convinced I had to do what others were telling me to do because I had nothing to compare it with, no one to run it by. I only had me. And that meant I was judging the situation by everything Cain...and sadly, Luna, have told me. That doesn’t mean they’re right. It doesn’t mean I can trust them. And it doesn’t mean I must do as they say.

  I check out of the window again, then open the door to the apartment, just enough to see into the corridor outside. I can hear the noises of activity going on in the café, voices of the early risers coming in for breakfast, the clink of crockery as Emilio places cups under the coffee machine nozzle, the door opening and closing as diners arrive and leave. They’re all busy down there, their concentration on other things and not giving me a thought. Emilio has probably forgotten I’m here, which suits me perfectly. All I have to do now is choose my moment carefully. I must get down the stairs, through the corridor at the back of the café, and out the side door without anyone seeing me. There’s going to be a lot of luck involved here. If Emilio sees me it’s game over because the first thing he’ll do is contact Luna and tell her I’ve left without contacting them. In itself that’s okay because she and Cain will think I’m making for Cecily’s apartment, or the MI5 building, but as soon as they discover the gun they’ll know I’ve made a run for it.

  There’s a lull in the café, so I wait. It’s like I haven’t taken a breath. I just want to get out of here. I’m desperate, anxious to follow my plan through. And I’m scared. Really scared. I want to cry, so much. Tears are welling under my eyelids and all I can think about is my mum. Not now. Please not now. If I think of her too much I won’t be able to do what I need to do. I never grieved properly for her. I was in denial, wanted to pretend she was still in her flat, baking, smoking, watching TV, even drinking, anything that meant she wasn’t dead. I close my eyes and I can see her. She was beautiful, before she started drinking in earnest. Now I’m older and know more about the world, I think she was trying to kill herself. She missed my dad. I know how much she adored him, how good their relationship was. They would often hug or kiss when they thought I wasn’t looking. And I would smile to myself because it made me feel secure knowing my parents loved one another. Plenty of my friends’ parents clearly didn’t. And when he disappeared with no trace, or even a reason why he wouldn’t come home, she was broken. And she never mended. She turned to the easiest drugs she could get because she didn’t approve of chemical medicines. Smoking and drinking herself into oblivion was okay, and she did it until it killed her, which was what she was trying to do because she couldn’t live without my dad. It took her seven years to do it, but she was determined. Why did he go? Why did he leave us? I should have confronted it at the time. I didn’t. I just didn’t.

  A crash of crockery from the café underneath brings me back to the present. There’s shouting, then screaming. I hear Emilio yelling at everyone to get out, over and over. I lean my back against the wall and slide down the stairs to soften my footsteps and stand by the door where I can’t be seen. I stand as close to the doorframe as I can get then peep around it into the café. All hell has broken out. Someone is lying on the floor and a guy by the door dressed in grey joggers and a black hoody is pointing a gun at Emilio. I wait for my moment then run across the gap towards the side door, opening it quietly and letting myself out. He wanted me, I’m sure of it, and when they discover I’m not where they think I am they’ll hunt for me. Nowhere will be safe. I need to get to where I’m going.

  I walk, head down, fast, faster than I’ve ever walked before. I don’t want to run because I think someone running always draws attention to the runner, and Christ I don’t want any attention. If I get on public transport someone will look at me. If I get a cab, someone will remember me. I’ve learnt the lesson. Just walk, Nina.

  It takes ten minutes to get to Duke of York Square. I look at the map on my phone. I make for Eaton Gate, passing Sloane Square Underground Station. Another ten minutes. I cross Eaton Place into Eaton Square. The houses are gradually getting more stylish, smarter, with stucco facades and black iron railings bordering the mews style houses. The front doors are all shiny, black, with polished numbers and door furniture. This is where the money is. I’m close to my target. I make for Grosvenor Place. There’s a church on the left-hand side, The Church of Saint Peter. I stare at it as I walk by and say a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be shot and dragged to a facility where my blood is sucked out of my veins. I’m an ordinary girl with ordinary dreams. It’s all I want to be. Now more than ever.

  I’m in Buckingham Gate and making for Birdcage Walk. I’m slowing down and my breath is coming in short gasps. It’s col
d and I can feel my chest tightening up but I mustn’t stop. I look at my phone. I’ve still got a way to go. Birdcage Walk takes ages. It’s incredibly long but I tell myself with every step I take I’m getting closer. I turn on to Horse Guards Road and stop on the corner, looking across to the park. I’m so tempted to just go over and lay down on the grass under a tree. I’m soaked in sweat but if I take off my coat I’ll feel more vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, I make my way down Horse Guards. I’m really close now. I walk and keep walking...and there it is.

  Downing Street.

  Chapter 15

  I’ve already worked out they’re not going to let me just walk in. And I’m standing at a different end to the one we see on the TV. I take a breath and have a good look at what’s around. I don’t know if anyone is watching me. The thing is, since the terrorist attacks in the UK, CCTV has been tripled, and in the capital, in some areas, even more. It’s likely someone has eyes on me but I can’t let it derail my plan. It’s all I can think of. There isn’t anyone else, and, as far as I know, the Prime Minister hasn’t actually killed anyone at Number 10. Yet. Getting to him is going to the be the biggest problem I have.

  I continue down Horse Guards. At the back of Downing Street is Horse Guard’s Parade, an area where the changing of the guard takes place. It’s still earlyish, not yet eight, but things are being prepared. This isn’t a good time. There are too many people around but it won’t stop me walking across the parade ground and having a look at the rear of Downing Street and the houses that edge the parade ground.

  There are people on the parade ground, simply walking across taking in the sights, mostly tourists I guess, but there is something else. There are stands of seats, red, in sections, some at the back of the parade ground that leads onto Downing Street. I think I just got a lucky break. Today is Saturday. Hopefully whatever is happening isn’t happening today. If it’s tomorrow I’m really in luck.

  I stroll over to the seats. There are lots of people milling about, not many paying too much attention to the seating, they’re more interested in the buildings opposite the rear of Downing Street; entrances to St. James’s Palace and Buckingham Palace, as well as the headquarters for the Household Cavalry. The seats are sectioned off and there’s a kind of bridge taking the potential guests to the top of the seats which are backed up against the wall at the rear of Downing Street. On Google Earth it shows the Downing Street garden. This is where I want to be tonight, hidden among the trees and hopefully able to see into the windows. The maps online show where everything is, so I need decide on a point where I think it’s easiest to get over. The bridge is in the centre of the seats which are on an incline to the top of the wall, but on the wall are railings, that lean outwards, obviously to discourage intruders. It looks vicious. Each railing is punctuated with spikes, and those spikes will do some damage if I get it wrong. No doubt there are CCTV cameras everywhere. I just need to spot where they are and make sure I avoid them. The seating has been fenced off, probably because it’s not in use right now. If it was going to be today the event is happening, I’m sure they would have been moved so that invited guests could access them. No, it’ll be tomorrow, Sunday, which means they’ll still be there tonight. That’s what I want, darkness, obscurity and all the strength I can muster to get across those fences. Not much to ask. How successful I will be is anyone’s guess, but I’m at a point now where my choices are limited. If I turn back it means killing Cecily Cunningham and Simone Deveraux. I can’t kill. Not in cold blood. If I ever have to fight for my life, or to protect someone I love I will fight to the bitter end because it will be in self-defence or to defend another. But to just turn up and shoot someone, why do they think I can do that? Did Luna do that? And was it Cain who convinced her it was the right thing to do? Why is he involved? Who is he? There’s that question again, the one I’ve been asking myself for weeks. Who is Cain?

  I need to speak with Edward Spencer, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Did I vote for him in the last general election? No, I didn’t, but he’s the Prime Minister. He should know what’s happening. If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him. What have I got to lose.

  I’m hungry. The last time I ate was last night, and it’s cold, and I need something warm inside me. I also need somewhere to go where I’ll be safe. Hanging around here isn’t an option. For one thing it’s absolutely freezing, for the other if I stay too long I’ll be spotted on the CCTV cameras, and if there’s one thing the police won’t like, it’s someone who stays too long because there’s only one reason they’d be doing that.

  The café is busy. I seem to frequent a lot of cafes these days, but they’ve become necessary to the life I’m living. Without them there would be nowhere to go, no warmth, no coffee and nothing to eat. Cain didn’t ask me to return the money I stole from his house. That’s a worry. Two thousand quid is a lot of money in anyone’s language. I can’t think he has so much it doesn’t matter to him, so why didn’t he insist I return it, or at least, what’s left of it. I shrug to myself and retrieve a ten so I can buy a latte and a cheese and tomato panini. I find a table near the window and sit, my hands hugging the hot coffee, the panini comforting my stomach.

  Now I must think. I want to get across those spikes. How can I do it without impaling myself? I want to go across Horse Guards Parade and have a good look at them, but If I want to draw attention to myself, that would be the best way to do it. No, I must be patient and wait for nightfall. Up to that point I’ll café surf, so no one gets suspicious about the amount of time I’m spending at one café table.

  It’s nine-thirty in the evening and I’m saturated with coffee. I can hear it sloshing around in my stomach, but café proprietors don’t like it if you sit in their premises and don’t spend money, and even after making sure I entered the local cafes on a rota, I acquired weird looks from some of the assistants who noticed my returning like a bad penny. I ignored them.

  Now I’m walking nonchalantly past Horse Guards Parade as if it’s something I do every day. It’s cold, no strike that, it’s bloody freezing, and anyone with any sense is inside, so consequently there aren’t many of us idiots walking about.

  When I get to the end I turn and walk back, then do the same thing again until there’s so few people around they won’t notice me stepping off the pavement and onto the parade. When that moment happens I summon up enough courage to make the break, and I simply step over the low wooden fence edging the parade ground and make for the overhanging bushes at the back of Downing Street. I bend from the waist going underneath them and along to the seating where I know I can get to the top of the spiked fence. The spikes are the thing I haven’t thought about yet, and I decide to take it one step at a time and cross that bridge when I get to it. Well, the fence.

  Within minutes I’m where I want to be, standing underneath the seating which is like a scaffold and hidden by the long branches of overhanging bushes. I wait for a few moments to see if anyone spotted me leaving the pavement. I can hear the traffic from distant streets, the beeping of horns and the revving of engines. But no one comes, no one challenges me. I wait a while longer wishing I’d worn my Parka and not the bright pink luminous teddy bear coat that Luna chose for me.

  I make my way through the bottom scaffolding to the middle, then climb up the slats to the scaffolding path that leads to the seats at the top, probably where the less important guests sit when an event is taking place on the parade ground. I pause for a moment and look around. No one has seen me as far as I know. The branches from the bushes in the gardens at the back of Downing Street are providing me with perfect cover, so I run, bent from the waist, to the top where the spikes are hanging over and backwards. This is what makes it so difficult. The bit at the top doubles back towards me and I must figure out how I’m going to get across it. I sigh and grin to myself and think of everything that’s happened so far. I’ve handled it, so I’ll find a solution to this seemingly impossible problem. I must or I’m sunk.

  I look dow
n at my coat, then quickly take it off and fold it into a bundle. The teddy bear fabric will hopefully prevent any of the spikes doing too much damage. I’m not expecting to get away with it scot free. I could easily get injured or impaled on one of the spikes and have to wait for someone to rescue me, by which time I’ll have probably died of hyperthermia. A nice thought.

  Jumping up to the middle rung, I sling the teddy bear coat across the first rung, so it’s now sitting on the top of the overhanging fence. I’m off the scaffold now, and swinging from the middle rung. I need to get to the first rung so I can heave myself over the top to where the spikes are. Hand over hand I swing to the first rung, take a huge breath and heave my leg over the top and pull myself onto the teddy bear coat.

  I’m sitting on my knees like a monkey on top of the fence, looking into the gardens of Downing Street. I’ve done it. I can hardly believe it, but I don’t have time for self-congratulation. I need to get down into the gardens and into No.10. I slide across the top of the fence, then climb down the other side, dragging the teddy bear coat behind me, then hide behind a huge shrub. There are lights on everywhere, the whole terrace is lit up like a Christmas tree, one of which still shines from one of the windows, a huge sparkling specimen that makes my heart leap. Why, I don’t know.

  Tackling the fence had seemed like the most difficult thing to negotiate when I had imagined getting into Downing Street, but I’d forgotten about getting into the building. I’d rather not knock on the window, because I think I’d have a cat’s chance in hell of being allowed in, and it would rather seem to defeat the object of negotiating the fence and all the effort it took to announce my arrival. Not the element of surprise I was hoping for.

  Suddenly, a tall door is opened at the back and a burly man steps out with a little dog on a lead. I’m not sure if the dog is actually little, but the golden fluff ball certainly looks little against the bulk of the guy walking it. He unhooks the lead from the collar and the dog bounds off, running around the garden like a crazy thing. I hear him call it, Maggie, a girl dog, and watch as he bends down and ruffles the fur on her head. Nothing like a puppyish dog to turn a man into love bucket. The guy walks right across the garden towards the wall at the side, No.11’s I assume, leaving the door slightly cracked open. The light from the corridor beyond shines onto the grass and I realise this is the moment I must seize.