by Andrea Hicks
I slide in through the door and leave it slightly open behind me so as not to attract suspicion. I can’t believe someone here would be so lax but clearly they weren’t expecting me to be lurking about in the garden. I stand with my back to the wall and look down the corridor. It’s painted in a feminine primrose yellow with white doorframes. The doors are solid oak with brass handles. It all looks old-fashioned British, smart, traditional, not my style.
I know where he is. I saw him through the window. He’s the sort of person you couldn’t miss, handsome, tall, statuesque I think the word is, a man you’d notice when he walks into a room. I imagine him as I saw him through the big picture window at the back of the house, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened around his neck. I take a deep breath. This is my last chance to get help. After this? I’ve got nothing.
I put my hand on the handle and push down. I hear it click and I nudge the door open and slip inside, shutting it again, quietly.
‘I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,’ he says without looking up, shuffling papers. I clear my throat. He glances up and stares, the questions running through his mind clear on his face. ‘You are?’
‘Someone who needs to speak with you because you’re her last hope.’
‘Why do you want to speak to me?’
‘You’re young, gifted and black aren’t you?’
‘Hey!’
‘That’s what they call you. I just wondered if you thought you were.’
To my utter surprise he smiles and pulls a face, then leaves his seat and comes around to the front of the desk. He’s calm, not in the least bit rattled like I expected him to be. ‘Well, I’m black, honey. And I’m not so old, although old enough to be your father I would imagine. Gifted?’ he shrugs. ‘I don’t think that’s for me to say. The electorate will decide that at the next general election.’ He goes back round the desk, sitting again in the huge leather chair behind it. He opens a drawer and I step forward, my hands up. ‘It’s okay. Don’t get agitated. That won’t do either of us any good. I don’t have a weapon. Never needed one.’
‘A button...to call in your detectives?’
‘Actually...’ He reaches into the drawer and pulls out a bottle of whisky, holding it up for me to see. ‘Want one?’ I shake my head. He puts his hand into the drawer again and retrieves a cut-glass whisky tumbler, then pours a measure into the glass. He purses his lips and blows out a sigh, then leans back in his chair, one soft-leather loafered foot on the edge of the desk, and rocks himself back and forth. ‘You’d better tell me why you broke into my house, why you’re standing in my office, and why you’ve got that look on your face, because I would have thought at your age you would have had something more interesting to do on a Saturday night. If my memory serves me well, night-clubbing was the activity of choice.’
Edward Spencer has thrown me. I didn’t realise he’d be so damned reasonable. He seems like a nice person, but he’s a politician, and even with his calm voice and easy manner I must remind myself that politicians don’t get where they get by being nice. Or reasonable. He takes a mouthful of whisky from his glass.
‘How did you get in here, anyway? Our security is second to none. Do you know someone who works here?’
‘No. But you might want to have a word with whoever it is who walks your dog. He left the garden door unlocked. I’m as astonished as you are that someone looking after the Prime Minister’s safety would make such a rooky error, but I’m glad he did. I wouldn’t be in here otherwise.’
He nods. ‘I’ll have to have a word with him about that. Maybe someone’s been lulled into a false sense of security.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Was that a joke?’
‘It was my feeble attempt at one.’
‘Right.’
He rises from his chair and comes around to the front of the desk again, leaning his butt on it, still nursing his whisky. ‘So, why are you here? Are you planning to do me some harm?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘So why?’
‘I..I need to speak with you.’ I know I’m faltering but I hadn’t rehearsed this moment. Now I’m wishing I had. ‘Something has happened and I’m not sure you know about it and I think you should. To be honest, I need your help. If you’re not willing to listen or to at least look into what I tell you, I think I’m dead.’
His eyes widen but I’m not sure if it’s in seriousness or he thinks I’m a crazy. ‘Tell me.’ He gestures for me to sit. There’s a buttoned-back sofa against the far wall. This could weaken my position if anyone comes in, but there’s a window next to it and I guess I could attempt to make a run for it.
As I sit I keep my eyes on him and a question comes to mind. ‘Why haven’t you called anyone?’
He grins. ‘What makes you think I haven’t?’
I glance at the desk. ‘You do have a button.’
‘Buttons. They know you’re here, but I haven’t requested their presence.’ I roll my eyes. ‘I have a meeting in half an hour. If you want me to listen you’d better get on with it.’
I inhale and then go for it. ‘Have you heard of The Chamber of Eugenics?’ He purses his lips and slowly shakes his head. ‘The Chamber of Eugenics is a rogue department of MI5. It’s headed by Commander Simone Deveraux, and Cecily Cunningham from Plan Bee, a government facility dealing with...’
‘I know what it deals with.’
‘I was kept there for three months without my permission. My blood and plasma were tested. I was put through minor operations and my blood was taken over and over. They said my blood was unique, that it contains the anti-bodies to every illness on the planet.’ I pause. He hasn’t blinked and I know I have his attention. ‘I was told Cecily Cunningham wanted me dead because I threatened the program of population control that she and her equal numbers in other countries were implementing across the globe. Apparently, the bee population is at it’s historical lowest and food shortages have begun to hit certain areas of the world. I’ve also been told that pollination can be done without bees, that governments are keeping it to themselves because to roll out a plan of pollination would threaten the control Plan Bee and departments like them have over global population. Everything we read in the media is scaremongering. Then I come along and ruin everything for them. Someone leaked my story to a newspaper. My flat was burned down and someone helped me escape from Plan Bee. They’re hunting me, Mr. Spencer. I’m on the run for my life. And apparently I’m not the only one. A source tells me there are others like me, other people who are on the run, who’ve been sent to other countries with false names, passports and drivers’ licences because they can’t be who they were anymore.’
‘And why do you all have this...this special blood?’
‘The others were hired by a laboratory to test a drug that had the potential to eliminate cystic fibrosis. They were students. It was an easy way for them to make some money, but they all had a parent who was a carrier. Some of them had both parents who were carriers.’
‘Your parents are carriers?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Then why...’
‘I don’t know. It’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘So you weren’t part of the trials?’
‘No.’
He frowns and rubs his chin. ‘So what you’re saying is...you think Commander Deveraux and Cecily Cunningham want to kill you?’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Honestly, I’m finding this unimaginable. I know Cecily, and Simone Deveraux, professionally and socially. They are calm, educated professionals. They are accountable, to me, to the country, as are their staff and the people they work in tandem with. They don’t kill people who are subjects...or anyone else for that matter. We don’t live in that kind of country.’
‘You’re totally certain of that? Because that doesn’t tally with what is happening to me. I’ve met Cecily Cunningham. I went to her home to talk to her but she wasn’t having any of it. She threatened me, said she could make
life very difficult for me, but couldn’t be arsed because she’s got people to do it for her. They knew I was there. When I tried to get away they shot at me.’
‘But you got away.’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
I blow out a breath, not sure how much to tell him. ‘I had help.’
‘Who from?’ I shake my head and he frowns. ‘If you had help why are you not with them. Why aren’t they protecting you?’ I don’t say anything and he nods, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You don’t trust them either do you? That’s why you’re here. And they don’t know you’re here.’ He raises his eyebrows and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking like someone’s uncle rather than the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. ‘I’d say you’ve just increased your worth as a person on the wanted list, young lady.’
‘You know I’m wanted.’
‘I do now. I keep my eye on the news, but I would never have known it was you. You look different, by design I’m guessing.’
‘It wasn’t my idea.’
‘Theirs, I take it.’
‘Yep.’
He stares off into the distance, deep in thought. He’s a handsome man, good-looking. Lean. He works out. His clothes fit him like a glove. I would guess even his shirts are handmade. Paul Smith probably. Lucky him.
‘What is it you think I can do? Government departments are fairly autonomous. It’s why we have people like Cecily Cunningham running them, so we can get on with other things.’
‘You knew she’s with MI5?’ He says nothing. ‘No, you didn’t, and you didn’t know about The Chamber of Eugenics. There seems to be a lot you don’t know about, Prime Minister. Maybe it’s time you took a look at what those people are doing in your name, because when the shit hits the fan the buck stops with you doesn’t it? It’s your career on the line. The public know about me. How could they not, my face is plastered over the front page of every newspaper and on every social media outlet. I know I’m wanted, but there are an awful lot of people who think my blood could be useful to them. Our health service is under enormous pressure and has been for years, and it doesn’t matter what you say or what any other government has said for the last twenty years, it’s not getting better. You should ask yourself why it is that Cecily has put me on the wanted list, and why she’s so keen to stop the pharmaceutical companies getting their hands on me. I’ve been lucky up to now, I’ve evaded them, but I can’t keep it up. I’ve run out of places to hide.’
A buzzer goes off on his desk. He leans towards the console and pushes a button. ‘Yes?’
A smooth female voice fills the office. ‘Sir, your meeting is in ten minutes.’
‘Can it be delayed?’
‘Not really, Prime Minister. You were forced to cancel it last week when you were requested on the Canadian seminar.’
‘Remind me.’
‘Tamara Foley?’
Edward Spencer rolls his eyes. ‘Oh, yeah. The new policing bill. I’ll be in the cabinet room in ten.’ He flicks up the switch and sighs heavily. ‘That I can do without tonight.’
‘She nearly caught you.’
He chuckles. ‘You keep your eye on the political landscape. I’m impressed. The fact that she didn’t has made no difference to Ms Foley. She thinks she’s running the country. A force to be reckoned with. I have to be on all of my toes when she’s asking the questions.’ He shrugs on his jacket.
‘Maybe I should have seen her.’
‘No, you did the right thing,’ he stops, ‘not the right thing, exactly. I’m not happy about you breaking your way in here...’
‘How else would I have got to speak with you? You think they would have let me in the front door?’
‘I know they wouldn’t.’
‘Do you believe me?’
‘It’s quite a story.’
‘It’s not a story. It’s the truth. And if you don’t believe me I’ll have to find someone who does. But, everyone will know I told you and that you didn’t act upon it. My next stop is the newspapers.’ I take my phone from my pocket and hold it up for him to see. ‘I recorded everything.’
He holds up his hands. ‘Okay, okay, but you have to give me time to check it out. These things don’t happen overnight. Events in politics happen mighty slowly. I expect you’ve noticed that.’
‘And what do I do in the meantime? I don’t have anywhere to go. If I leave here someone will kill me. If it’s not the Chamber of Eugenics it might be the pharmaceutical companies. It’s a double-edged sword with them. They can use my blood to make medicines to make a mint, but once everyone is cured they’re over and out. There will be no use for them...or me. Or...they get rid of me to ensure people will always need medicines. And what about MI5? Apparently I’m a threat to national security, which is bloody ridiculous. There’s no one for me to turn to.’
‘Family?’
‘My parents are dead. At least, my mum is. My dad disappeared years ago. We haven’t heard from him since. I’ve just assumed he was dead because I just don’t think he would have left us like that, not knowing where he is. We were close.’
He opens the door to his office.
‘Baxter.’
A guy comes in, big, his shirt stretched across his solid chest, his tie skew-whiff. ‘Yessir.’
‘This young lady...Louise,’ he looks at me pointedly, ‘needs a job.’ The guy frowns at him then at me. ‘Live-in. Anything available?’
‘Only kitchen staff. Or cleaning, but they don’t live-in.’
‘Kitchen staff then. See to it.’
‘Yes sir. Of course.’
Edward Spencer turns to me and gives me a hard stare. ‘This had better be kosher. I don’t know why, but I believe what you’ve told me. I’ve learnt since being in this job that nothing is impossible. You’ll be safe here, and I’ll know where you are. Don’t let me down.’
‘I won’t. And thank you.’ He nods and walks away. Big Baxter stares at me for a moment then beckons for me to follow him.
‘You’ll be on prep,’ says the chef, glancing at Baxter as if to say what the hell’s going on. ‘Unless you’ve got professional cooking experience.’ I shake my head, wondering how the fuck I’d got myself in this position.
‘You’ll need to see the staff quarters,’ says Baxter. ‘Got any luggage?’
‘No.’
He scratches his head. ‘No night stuff, girl’s...things?
‘No.’
‘Right. Won’t you need some stuff?’ I look up at him, his face and voice are kind, and suddenly, without warning, my eyes fill up. ‘Oh, shit. Don’t do that. I don’t know what to do when girls do that.’
‘Don’t do anything. I’ll get over it.’
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘It’s best you don’t know.’
He looks suspicious for a moment. ‘Nothing to do with the PM is it?’
I laugh and bubble of snot comes out of my nose. ‘Sorry,’ I say, and he hands me a freshly ironed handkerchief.
‘We have to keep one on us just in case.’
‘Your PM’s done nothing wrong. To be honest, lately, he’s the only one who’s done anything right. For me, anyway.’ My voice is hoarse and my throat’s sore. Maybe I’m coming down with that thing again. At least I know it can’t kill me, whatever it is.
‘I can get you some things if you want.’
I frown at him. ‘Where from.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind it, they’re things left by visitors, y’know people who’ve stayed here as guests of the PM. It’s all good stuff, all been laundered. I’m not expecting you to wear any old thing.’
‘You’re being kind.’
He grins. ‘Don’t let my appearance fool you. I’m a big softie at heart.’
‘I wouldn’t make that public if I were you.’
‘Oh, I can handle meself, love. Don’t you worry about that.’
He shows me to a room with a single bed.
‘Don’t say anything to the others.
They have to share but this one’s been vacant for a while. You might as well have it.’
I want to cry again. Funny how kindness can turn you into a blubbering heap. All I’ve felt recently is anger, humiliation and fear. ‘Thank you, Bax... I can’t call you Baxter, can I? That’s what the Prime Minister calls you. It’s your surname isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, well me first name’s a bit long.’
I wait for him to tell me. ‘Well, go on then.’
‘It’s Leopold.’
‘Leo.’
‘Yeah, well... I’m Baxter in front of the staff. It’s what people call me. You’re the first person here to ask me what my Christian name is.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ll get those things.’
I sit on the edge of the bed. The room is cosy, a bit drab, but it’s warm, and the bed feels okay. There’s a shower cubicle in the corner and a little TV on the dresser. What more could a girl ask for? When Baxter returns he’s carrying a small holdall and a plate of what looks like sausages and mash.
‘Thought you might be hungry.’
I take it from him with gratitude, more interested in the plate of food than I am the clothes. ‘Oh, my God, this looks great. Are those fried onions?’
He nods. ‘The chef’s a miserable old bastard, but he knows how to cook, that’s for sure. The PM’s got a breakfast meeting at eight in the morning. It’s the Cabinet, so there will be a lot of people. You must be in the kitchen by six to do the prep. That okay?’
I nod as I shovel a forkful of creamy garlic mash into my mouth and answer with my mouth full. ‘Perfect.’
