Transferral

by Kate Blair

  “Then she needs to be taken into care. She should be raised by people who’ll look after her properly. If she’s picking pockets now, what will she be doing when she’s older?”

  Dad shakes his head. “When they’re raised to crime, there’s not much we can do. But once we have the right policies in place, this country will be safer. We’ll help more than one child that way.”

  I bite my lip. This is going to be a hard sell. “There’s someone else we can ask. About where she is, I mean.”

  His brow furrows. “Who?”

  “The man with the cleaver. When I saw the CCTV, it looked like she was waving to him. He might know where to find her. I want to speak to him.”

  “Talia!” Dad stands and walks into the sitting room, forcing me to follow him. “That’s out of the question.”

  “But we have to find her.”

  He turns around, and clutches my arms, making me look into his eyes. “I’ve almost lost you to criminals twice, Talia. I cannot risk losing you. You’re everything to me.”

  “Quarantine is safe. There’s tons of guards and security.”

  Pier’s voice chimes in from behind me. “It would look bad. Consorting with sick people, I mean. Especially ones in Quarantine.”

  I keep facing Dad. “It would only take a letter from you. Permission from the inmate or an MP, right?”

  “I would never send you into that kind of place. End of conversation.”

  I slump down onto the couch.

  Dad sighs. “Can’t we have a relaxing night?”

  How can we have a relaxing night with his staff here?

  “I have to do something this time.”

  Dad joins me on the couch, putting his arm around me. “You did do something. You saved her. And you can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened four years ago. Thomas Bryce was insane. A criminal. You were only twelve, and if you’d done any more I might have lost you, too.”

  His eyes go to where my scar lies, hidden by my hair, and he swallows.

  I shake my head. “This isn’t about that. I should have followed that girl out of the hospital. Should have checked she was okay.”

  Alison wanders into the room, and sits down on the couch next to me. She places a cold hand on my arm. “You stayed and waited for the police. It was the right thing.”

  I shift so she’s no longer touching me.

  “I saw the footage, Talia,” Dad says. “I know how this must have affected you. When I saw that girl, I felt … I thought …”

  My father is rarely lost for words, so I turn to him. His eyes glisten. I don’t want him to say any more, so I lean over and hug him. He squeezes me tightly to him.

  “If there were anything I could to do to bring her back. To bring both of them back.” He speaks in a whisper. After a long moment of silence, he straightens up, releases me.

  “But we’ll save other families, once we’re in power. And this girl is not Rebecca.” He smoothes his beard. “Why don’t you come into Parliament tomorrow? It’s the last day before it’ll be adjourned for the election. You can do your coursework while we’re in the Commons, and I’ll get to see more of you that way.”

  “Malcolm,” Piers interjects again. “It’s going to be a busy day …”

  “I’ll come. I’ll stay out of the way when you need me to.” It would be nice to spend a bit of time with Dad, even if I’d be alone in his office for most of the day.

  His office. Alone.

  An idea forms in my mind. I’d have access to his letterhead, his printer. Dad might not want me to go to Quarantine, but that’s because he’s overprotective. He’d be happy to know the girl was okay too. I saw his face when he talked about her. Saw he was as moved as I was.

  It would be so easy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PALACE OF WESTMINSTER, LONDON

  NINETEEN DAYS LEFT

  PARLIAMENT IS BEING ADJOURNED today, ahead of the election. It’s the end of the current government’s term, so this is just a formality, and we’re really only here for the interviews on College Green afterwards. But in the meantime, Dad’s in meetings, strategizing with his cabinet, popping back to his office when he can, bringing hot chocolate or biscuits for me. But mostly I’m left to myself.

  I’ve got loads of coursework to do. I’m normally more on top of it. Ever since Mum and Rebecca were murdered, I’ve been home-schooled. Dad used to teach me himself, too paranoid to send me to school. We worked well together. But as he rose through the ranks of the National Law Party he got busier and busier. These days I take care of my own education. There are loads of online programs. It’s no problem.

  But today my attention slides from the history essay on my laptop to the portraits on the wall, to the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon light from the window. There’s more history in this building than I could ever fit in my essay. I’m probably breathing in Winston Churchill’s skin cells right now. I should get marks for that.

  My gaze falls on my father’s stationery, already loaded in his printer. That’s all I need, a letter. Relatives can visit, and people who’ve been invited by the prisoners, but I’d need special permission. A letter from my MP would be enough.

  I’m waiting for the right time. I’d be in so much trouble if he caught me, but it’ll be safe once he’s in the Commons.

  I don’t want to see the man with the cleaver. He’ll probably scream at me, threaten me. I doubt he’ll help. But how else am I going to find the girl?

  There’s a photo sitting on Dad’s desk. The four of us on holiday in Venice, five years ago. We’re in St. Mark’s Square, early in the morning when it was almost deserted, beaming for the camera. Me, Dad, Mum, and Rebecca. I can’t take my eyes from my sister. She was eight then, with only a year left to live.

  I jump as the door opens. Dad pops his head in. “Everything okay?”

  Piers’s voice comes from behind him, arguing with someone, as usual.

  “Fine, Dad.” I hope my thoughts don’t show on my face.

  “We’re heading into the chamber now. Is there anything you need? Snacks? Help with your work?”

  I press my lips together and shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  I catch a glimpse of Piers in the hallway, wagging his finger at an unseen victim.

  Dad continues. “How about afternoon tea? After the interviews?”

  Hope surges through me. There’s a gap in his calendar. I saw it. But gaps have a way of closing.

  “Will Piers let you?”

  Dad glances over his shoulder. “I’ll convince him.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Malcolm!” Piers’s voice. “It’s time.”

  “I’ll see you later.” Dad ducks out and shuts the door.

  The footsteps outside build to a hurrying crescendo, then slowly peter out. I guess they’re all in the Commons now. Silence descends over the sunlit room.

  Now is the time.

  I open a new document, and start typing as fast as I can. “I, Malcolm Hale, Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition, give permission for my daughter and constituent, Talia Hale, to visit …”

  I stop. I forget his name. I must have seen it, in the news. But I’ve been so focused on the girl it hasn’t stuck in my mind.

  I open my browser and search. The first result is an article in the Guardian.

  “Jack Benson (40), a resident of the Barbican with a long criminal record, known by the street name ‘Hippo’ …”

  That’s an odd alias. I guess it’s because he’s so big. But the Barbican makes sense. It’s filled with criminals. Even the police fear to tread in that architectural monstrosity they dropped in the middle of the city. It’s where Mum and Rebecca’s killer lived.

  My fingers find their places on the keyboard again.

  “… to visit Jack Benson, in Quarantine. Yours sincerely,” I hit enter a few times to leave space for the signature, “Malcolm Hale, MP.”

  The door swings open. I slam my computer shut
.

  It’s Alison. She peers around the door. “Hi, I’m looking for Malcolm. Have they gone to the Commons already?”

  I nod.

  “Thanks!” She closes the door behind her. I reopen and restart my laptop, cursing Alison under my breath. Thank goodness for autosave. The letter reappears on the screen.

  I glance at the picture of my family, of Mum and Rebecca. A familiar hollowness radiates through me. The sense of something missing, every day, for four years. The sense of a life that broke in two, and healed back badly.

  Maybe I can fix someone else’s family, at least.

  I take a deep breath and click on “Print.”

  I jump as the printer quietly whirrs into action. I stand up, creep to the door and check the corridor. The carpet runs down the long hallway, between the portraits, the wood paneling. It’s empty. I duck back into my father’s office and close the door.

  I pick up the letter from the printer. Perfect. The official feel of the thick paper stock, the green portcullis letterhead with the crown on top. I need his signature, but I’ve seen that enough times to be able to fake it.

  Footsteps outside, the murmur of voices. I fold the letter in half and slide it under my computer.

  The door opens.

  Dad’s frowning. “Talia,” he says, striding over. How does he know?

  I notice, almost too late, that I still have the letter open on my screen. I lunge for the computer and click on the “x” in the corner and my heart stops when a window springs open.

  Do you want to save your changes?

  I jab at the mouse pad, selecting “No.” The window closes as Dad reaches my side.

  “Computer trouble?” he says.

  “Nope. Just saving my essay.” I’m surprised my voice sounds so calm. “You can’t be done already.”

  “No, sweetpea. I wanted to let you know I spoke —”

  Piers’s voice from outside. “Come on, Malcolm.”

  I look up into Dad’s face, but he avoids my eyes. My shoulders slump.

  “Piers said no to afternoon tea.”

  Dad inhales through his teeth. “I’m so sorry. Can we go out this evening instead? Piers is right, unfortunately. I have to be there to rally the backbenchers before they go back to their constituencies.”

  “You have a fundraiser tonight, Malcolm,” Piers says, peering through the door.

  I let my gaze fall to my computer. The corner of the letter is sticking out. I want to nudge it back in, but that might draw attention to it.

  “Sorry, darling. I’ll make it up to you. It’ll be calmer after the election.”

  I see my opportunity. “Fine. I’ll go out and get some food now.”

  “You can get tea in one of the cafes. The Terrace, or the Jubilee. Or I’ll get someone to bring you anything you like.” He’s almost pleading.

  “I’d like to go for a walk along the Thames. Go somewhere on the South Bank. It’s a beautiful day.”

  Dad tenses. “I’d rather you stayed in the Palace of Westminster. After everything —”

  “And I’d rather we got afternoon tea together.” I’m being mean, but I need to get out. I’m sick of sitting in this room, sick of wandering the antique hallways under the judgmental glare of the statues and portraits. Quarantine would feel healthier than this.

  “I’ll get Mike to drive you,” he says.

  “Don’t be paranoid, Dad. I want to walk.”

  “She’ll be fine, Malcolm. But we have to go,” Piers says.

  Dad rummages in his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He produces a £50 note. “Stay close by. And wear your hat and sunglasses.”

  “Yes, Dad.” I take the money. “Full disguise. I get it.”

  Dad doesn’t move.

  “Come on, Malcolm!” Piers says.

  Dad moves toward me, reaches his arms out to hug me, but I turn to the side, so he ends up patting me on the shoulder, awkwardly. “I love you Talia.”

  “I know.”

  “Now, Malcolm.” Piers waves toward the door. And with that, they’re gone. Leaving me alone, staring at the white paper peeking out from under my computer.

  When I’m sure the coast is clear, I pull it out, and choose a pen from the organizer on Dad’s desk. I take a deep breath, then loop my way through the familiar consonants and vowels of Dad’s name. I hold it up to the afternoon sunlight and admire my forgery.

  It’s perfect.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BRIDGE STREET, LONDON

  NINETEEN DAYS LEFT

  IT’S ANOTHER BLUSTERY DAY. Leaves blow against me, sticking to my coat as I try to flag down a black cab. At least it’s bright out. I feel stupid with sunglasses on when it’s cloudy. But I’ve learned to wear them anyway, viewing London in a murky gray, as if still smothered by Victorian smog. Living in a twilight world is better than getting hassled on the street by fans and foes of my father. I’ve had people swear in my face.

  A cab finally pulls up and I settle into the rounded interior.

  “Where to, love?”

  “Holloway Quarantine.”

  The cabbie’s eyebrows rise in the rearview mirror, but he puts the car in gear, and pulls away from the curb. I settle back in my seat and watch the city pass me by.

  Doubt creeps in as we crawl through the traffic and head north, leaving behind the London that tourists see. But I’m not afraid of Jack Benson. He can’t hurt me now. I’m more worried that he’ll refuse to help, refuse to tell me what he knows.

  It’s a long drive, but eventually I see Quarantine appear ahead of us. I watch the fortress grow through the front window of the cab until I can pick out the different gray and white bricks decorating the turrets.

  “Here we are then,” the cabbie says.

  I pay the fare, tip well, and shuffle out of the car. The cabbie has dropped me by the visitors’ entrance. A woman is at the gate ahead of me, stooped as she speaks to a guard in his booth. She’s wearing a short skirt with heels and a puffer jacket. Her legs must be cold.

  The woman enters, and the guard calls, “Next!”

  His gaze is on me. I don’t move.

  “Come on, then.”

  I feel as if I’m on rails, pulled toward the gate.

  “ID,” he says. He’s young, not more than twenty. “I haven’t got all day.”

  I take off my sunglasses, pull out the letter and hold it toward him. He takes it and his lips move a little as he reads it. Then his eyes widen. He jams his finger down on a button. There’s a buzz and a click at the gate.

  “Sorry, miss; should have recognized you,” he says, standing poker-straight. For a horrible moment I think he’s going to salute.

  “Thank you.”

  As I pass the booth the guard picks up a phone. A jolt passes through me. Who is he ringing? Is he checking the letter is genuine? Maybe it’s not too late to walk away from all this. But the gate slams shut behind me. I’m locked into a short corridor, bordered on both sides by high chain-link fences topped with razor wire. About ten paces toward the prison is another gate.

  I straighten my spine and push my shoulders back. My heels clack on the paving stones until I reach the second gate. It’s a long time before there’s another buzz and click and it opens in front of me.

  The guard on this side has already stepped out of his booth. “Miss Hale,” he says. “Welcome to Holloway Quarantine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My colleague,” he waves toward the young guard at the first gate, “has requested an escort for you.”

  The tension in my shoulders unknots a little. Of course I need an escort. They can hardly stick the next prime minister’s daughter in the regular visiting rooms. But I’m drawing more attention to myself than I’d planned.

  A guard comes out from the main gate. His uniform is smarter, and he’s probably in his fifties. His mustache reminds me of a World War I flying ace. He holds out a hand: bright pink, like his face.

  “Principal Quarantine Officer Watson,” he
says. “But you can call me Frank, Miss Hale.”

  “Nice to meet you, Frank,” I say, wincing while his sausage-like fingers crush my hand. “Please, call me Talia.”

  He turns toward the building. “This way.” As we head toward it, he sweeps a hand in front of him, indicating the whole prison.

  “I don’t know if you know much about Holloway,” he says, “but it used to be a women’s prison. They were even executed here.”

  I nod, trying not to shiver. It’s hard to imagine that Londoners were ever so barbaric that we thought justice meant killing one person without saving another.

  He continues with his guided tour, chest puffed out.

  “Once the Transfer became widespread after World War II, long sentences became a thing of the past. So the other prisons closed, one by one. Holloway was converted to London’s Quarantine, to keep those awaiting trial and those sentenced to more serious illnesses away from the public and each other while they endure their punishment.”

  I know all this. But it seems rude to say so. “I see.”

  “It’s also where we keep the offenders who are under Level 4 Recalls. They have a tendency to run instead of reporting to hospitals if a Level 4 Pandemic is declared.”

  I can see why they would. A Level 4 Pandemic is rare, but it means an outbreak of a deadly illness, like meningitis, TB, or hantavirus pulmonary syndrome.

  He approaches yet another gate, nods at a security camera, and brandishes a pass at a black sensor. The gate swings open, and he waves me through, into a white room with a desk along one side and an officer sitting behind it.

  “Stand here.” He indicates two footprint stencils on the floor and I do as I’m told. He points to a camera mounted on the desk in front of me. “Look in here, please.”

  There’s a click before I can react. Great. There goes any chance I have of denying this if Dad finds out.

  “And if you could sign here, miss.”

  My hand is shaking when I scrawl my name.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, misinterpreting my nervousness. “There’s no disease in this wing of Quarantine. We keep the prisoners awaiting trial in isolation and well away from those who are serving their sentences. Can’t have them getting sick before they’ve been found guilty!”