by Kate Blair
I follow the boy.
The stairwell smells worse than the foyer. I avoid a brown lump in the corner. Who uses hallways as loos?
The boy’s trainers scuff on the stairs above me. I follow, keeping my eyes on the ground, avoiding the stains and wet patches as much as I can. I’m going to throw my shoes away as soon as I get home, burn them, if I can. My thighs start to ache, and my breath comes a little harder. How high are we going?
Hinges squeak on the floor above me. I focus on the stairs and cover the remaining ground until I reach the door the boy went through. A sign tells me I’m on the 29th floor. I lean my hands on my thighs for a moment and breathe deeply. Then I push the door open carefully, and step into a gloomy triangle-shaped space, in which I can just about make out the three lifts and five other doors.
A dark shape in the furthest corner detaches itself from the wall, and there’s a light shining in my face. I blink and stumble away. My back hits a wall.
“Why are you following me?” He advances on me, holding a torch. The accent is pure East London.
“I’m not! I’m not!”
He moves so he’s standing between me and the stairs. Does he have a weapon?
“Then why are you here?”
I take two quick breaths. Think fast, Talia, and for goodness sake change your accent. “I’m looking for my friend.” I manage what I hope is a passable South London tone, rather than my usual BBC English.
“Which flat?”
“She … she … I don’t know.”
The boy steps over to the wall and flicks a switch. The landing fills with light and I flinch. I’m in danger if he recognizes me.
I cover my face with my hands, and make a sobbing noise. I’m not a good actress. But my face is already wet with rain. I rub my eyes, hoping my makeup is smearing all over my features.
The boy steps over and pulls my hands away from my face. I resist, but his grip is firm.
“Is that why you followed me?” he says. “You’re lost?” His voice is kind, but patronizing, as if he’s speaking to a simpleton.
I’m close to real tears now, and my voice breaks when I reply. “You … you looked like you knew where you were going …. Out there, all the people …”
“It can be hard, when you’re first here. Let me guess. Evicted because of a minor conviction? A cold, or stomach flu, even though you’re already better?”
I nod. He lets go of my hands. “It feels like the end of your life, I know. But you’ll learn how to avoid the addicts and pickpockets. It’s a strong community. We look out for each other.”
I let myself look up into his eyes. The color of them still catches me by surprise.
“I’m Galen,” he says, holding out his hand. Not Kieron, then. It’s an odd name. Familiar, somehow. I offer my own hand and we shake. His grip is warm and dry.
“I’m … Tanya.”
“Tanya,” he says, tilting his head. He noticed the pause. “Pick any name you like. It’s a new start. Welcome to Shakespeare Tower. I can help you find your friend. I know most people around here. What’s she called?”
Shakespeare Tower. Jack Benson said Shakespeare, didn’t he?
For a moment I consider telling him who I’m really looking for. But I’ve been all over the television, all over the papers looking for Tig. I’m lucky he hasn’t recognized me. He’ll put it together if I ask about her. I try to come up with a common name, instead.
“Jessica.”
He taps his fingers against his full lips. “One of the girls crammed into 8f is a Jessica, and there’s a Jess in Cromwell Tower too. You can ask Johnny, he’s the guy who sleeps in the foyer there, he’s a good bloke.”
“Thank you.”
He waves a hand. “No trouble. We help each other around here.” He pauses. “I hope to see more of you, Tanya.”
In spite of myself, I feel my cheeks glow. It’s not my fault. He is good-looking.
A creak makes him turn around. The door to 29e opens.
She’s there: Tig, standing in the doorway.
She kicks at the door jamb. “What’s going on? I heard talkin’.” Her tone is surly, her accent even stronger than Galen’s.
“Get back inside. What have I told you?” His voice is kind, but firm.
“Don’ I get to meet your friend?” She’s smiling at me. I swallow, trying to keep control as guilt and regret swell inside me for what I’ve done to her father.
“Tig …,” Galen says.
Tig kicks the door jamb once more, then turns. She closes the door loudly, not quite a slam, but she’s made her point.
Galen grins. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” My heart is pounding. I hope I still sound calm. “Your sister?”
His brow furrows. “My sister? What makes you think that?”
My mouth opens a couple of times. It was a stupid thing to say. She’s much paler than him. I would never have said it if I hadn’t known she’s Jack’s daughter.
“Dunno. The eyes, I guess.”
“I’m babysitting. Her mum’s at work.” He’s a good liar.
“That’s nice of you.”
He folds his arms. It’s clearly time for me to leave.
“8f?” I ask.
“Yes, 8f. Or Cromwell Tower. Tell Johnny Galen says hi.”
“Thanks so much.” I’m backing toward the stairwell.
“No probs.”
“See you around.” I open the door, and slip through it, back into the stinking stairwell. I lean against the wall and breathe deeply.
I’ve found her.
I hurry down the stairs, careful not to trip. In the foyer, I peer out through the cracked glass before opening the door. The man with the blanket has disappeared, thank goodness. Instead of going through the central marketplace I head between the looming buildings, into the darkness of a narrow alleyway.
I’ve not gone far before the footsteps start. Behind me. “Hey, babe,” comes a voice.
My muscles tense. I should have stuck with the marketplace. There’s no one else here. I speed up. The thud of his footsteps gains pace too.
A wolf-whistle. I can’t go back, but the path ahead is dark, deep in the shadows of the concrete high-rises.
“Why are you ignoring me, girlie?”
Keys jingle in his pocket, the noise louder as he gets closer. He’s walking fast.
“Nice skirt, slut.”
I break into a run.
The rhythm of his jangling keys picks up, echoing off the buildings.
“Think you’re too good for me, whore like you?” The footsteps speed up, shoes squeaking, getting nearer.
I push myself as fast as I can go, arms pumping as I strain forward. My breath is coming hard now. But there’s light ahead, at the end of the alleyway.
Out-of-breath swearing, from too close behind me.
Then I’m on a raised walkway above a city street. There’s a staircase down to a main road. I take the steps two at a time, hoping I won’t stumble. The man behind me shouts, but his voice is getting fainter. I peer up and he’s leaning over the walkway, mouth distorted as he screams obscenities down at me. I stumble onto Aldersgate, but keep running down the street, through the crowds, not stopping until I get to St. Martin Le Grand. I lean my hands on my thighs, waiting for my breath to come back, my heart to stop racing. I’m safe here.
A public telephone stands next to me. Perfect.
I can call social services with my South London accent, tell them where to find Tig, and head straight home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PENTHOUSE FLAT, BANKSIDE, LONDON
EIGHTEEN DAYS LEFT
AT HOME I THROW the clothes and shoes straight down the rubbish chute then fill a bath, pouring in every kind of lotion I have: lavender, vanilla, orchid, filling the room with perfume. I relax as I sink into it, close my eyes, and soak for a long time.
Tig will soon be pulled from that nightmare, soon be brought to a nice home, to warmth, love, plentiful fo
od, and a world free from people begging, stealing, and grabbing at her. I’ve done good work today. I didn’t fail her.
Why don’t I feel better about this?
Perhaps because it’s hard not to think about Galen. About his kindness to me, his green eyes. He doesn’t belong there either. I try to push the thought from my mind. He’s older than I am. He doesn’t need saving.
The bath is getting cold. I should get out soon. I gaze around at my white, clean bathroom, starting to feel like myself again.
For a moment I wonder what it would be like to be Tanya, the girl I claimed I was, faced with the Barbican, knowing she has nowhere else to go. Is that fair? One crime and her landlord throws her out?
Thomas Bryce claimed it was unfair that he ended up there after Dad brought him to justice. Said it ruined his life. But he was scum. Blamed all his problems on other people.
If Tanya had met Galen, he’d help her. If she were a decent person, she’d sort herself out. Get a job, be back on her feet in no time, and find somewhere else to live. I turn on the hot tap. There’s no Galen in my life. No one ever offers to help me. Everyone assumes I’m doing great.
And I am, I remind myself as I lie back in the bath. I’m doing just fine.
I smile for my dad when they all come home the following lunchtime. He’s tells me the press have called, that the girl from the hospital has been found and taken into care. The papers want a comment from me. Dad’s overjoyed about it all. His poll numbers are way up, his lifelong ambition within his grasp, and the girl I was so worried about is safely in a children’s home. It’s a win all around, it really is. He swoops me up in a bear hug and I squeeze him back. He wouldn’t be nearly as happy if he knew how she was found.
Piers approaches later, wincing as he puts weight on his bad leg. I’m eating delivery pizza in the kitchen. Alison and Dad are going over some notes for his next speech in the sitting room. I’ve been trying to ignore them, and the voices occasionally raised in laughter across the open-plan flat. I don’t like the way Dad is smiling at Alison.
“You should visit the girl,” Piers says.
“The girl? You mean from the hospital?”
Piers keeps his voice down. “The press are desperate for the follow-up on your heroics. It’s a great story for us,” he says. “The visuals are perfect: cute kid, teen saviour — the camera loves you. Apparently her mum is dead, and social services said she was staying with a dodgy guy.”
Galen wasn’t dodgy. I’m about to defend him when I remember I wasn’t meant to be there.
“But we don’t know anything about her. If she’s happy about this or not.”
Piers waves a hand dismissively. “Obviously we’d check out the situation before. I can send someone to do that. We don’t want this to blow up in our faces in front of the cameras.”
My heart beats faster. If he does that, he might find out about my visit to the Barbican.
“Better if I just go, without the press at first,” I say quickly. “If I check it out before we bring the media in, we can be sure of how she’ll react to seeing me.”
When I get back, I’ll tell him that it won’t work, that she doesn’t want to be interviewed, and I’ll be in the clear.
“I’d usually send one of my guys. Just in case.”
“I’ll keep it quiet. And wouldn’t that be a better story? That I’ve been visiting her in secret, not for the publicity. Before it’s leaked, I mean?”
Piers taps a finger on his chin, thoughtfully. “I’ll speak to your father. You have good instincts. I know you said you won’t be the one to change the world, but we’ll make a politician out of you yet.”
Me, changing the world. I like the idea of that.
Piers continues. “I’d like you to speak at a fundraiser we have in a few days’ time, and some rallies, if that’s okay.”
“And on the main campaign?”
“We’ll see how these events go.”
I grin at Piers. He can be hard on Dad, but it’s only because he wants him to succeed. They’re friends from back in law school, although Piers stuck at it, even after Dad left for politics. But after Piers was attacked, he gave up his practise and joined Dad’s staff to advocate for other victims of crime who were denied justice. And he’s loyal to Dad, not the National Law Party. If Dad loses, the party will get rid of him as soon as they can.
He’s got as much riding on this as we do.
Piers heads into the sitting room, leans down and talks to Dad. I hear the low rumble of conversation. As I enter, Dad turns away from Piers and to me.
“This is what you want?” Dad asks.
I nod.
“I’m not sure, Talia. Some of those kids are pretty rough.”
“They’re kids, Malcolm,” Piers says. “Relax.”
“You have to let me do this.”
Dad puts his arm around me. “You’ve been through so much, Talia. My little girl. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”
“I’m not that little anymore, Dad.”
“I suppose you’re not.” He sighs. “Well, have you still got mace?”
“Yes, Dad.” I can’t imagine using it on children, but I do have it.
“Bring that, then. Keep your distance from the kids. And have Mike drive you, and stay close to you.”
“There’s no need for worry,” Piers says. “After what Talia did for the girl, I guarantee a warm welcome.”
I press my lips together. I’m not so sure about that.
The children’s home is in Hackney, on Mare Street. We approach it along a street of shuttered businesses.
“Here we are,” Mike says.
For a moment, I think he’s got the wrong address, as we’re outside a shop, complete with a green sign saying “Hackney Convenience.” But then I notice a sheet of paper stuck in the window, with “Hackney Child Services” printed on it.
I take a deep breath and open the car door, letting the chilly air in.
“I’ll circle around the block,” Mike says. “Best not to park in this kind of neighborhood. Unless you need me to come in.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
I wrap my coat around me tightly as I cross the pavement. The door is unlocked, so I step inside and shut out the wind. But it’s just as cold in here.
The room is about the size of a tennis court. Gaps show in the floor tiles where the grocery aisles used to be. Children of all ages mill about everywhere. An infant chews on an empty plastic bottle, teenagers congregate in a corner, and younger children run around, banging into each other, falling and crying.
There’s a lump in my throat. I didn’t think it would be like this.
It takes me a while to spot an adult. The nearest one is spooning some kind of mush to a baby in a plastic high chair. I’m almost knocked down on the way over to her by a gang of kids who sprint by.
“Hello,” I say when I reach her.
She looks exhausted. She puts down the spoon, slowly.
I offer my hand. “Talia Hale.”
“I know who you are.” She wipes her hand on her jeans and shakes mine. “Jackie Musgrove. I wouldn’t have thought our little facility was on the campaign trail.”
“No, I’ve come to see someone.”
“Of course. That girl from the hospital. Tigan.”
I let my gaze wander around the room again. She obviously catches my expression.
“Not what you were expecting?”
I shake my head.
“The space was cheap to lease. We’re on a tight budget.”
“Where have all these children come from?”
“Some are orphans. Some have parents in Quarantine who might not come out alive. Some are only in our custody temporarily to stop them getting their parents’ diseases.”
She gestures to the room. “There’s not enough of us. There’s not enough money. Can you talk to your father about this?”
“Of course. He’ll want to help. Will they be adopted?”
&
nbsp; “A few will.” She points at the infant she’s feeding. “The youngest ones, mostly. No one wants them once they’re over seven. They’re … well, difficult to control when they’re older. And they’re often in trouble with the law by then. No one wants to adopt a child who’s under a Recall.”
“How old’s Tig?”
“Won’t say. Nine, maybe? Won’t talk to us. You might want to ask the boy who’s with her. He’s the only one she’ll talk to.”
I start at that. “Boy? What boy?”
She gives a tired shrug. “Some friend from the Barbican.”
I scan across the room. Dread creeps through me. My gaze stops on a figure, his back to me. I recognize that confident stance, and he’s turning around.
“I’ll come back another time,” I say too quickly. “I don’t want to disturb her when she has another visitor.”
Jackie looks as if she’s about to speak, but I cut her off. “Thank you so much for your time. I’ll tell Dad about all of this, don’t you worry.” Then I’m walking away, toward the glass door, avoiding the children as they careen around me, bouncing off each other like croquet balls.
I head outside, into the wind, without turning back. The car isn’t there, and I hear the shop door open behind me.
“You!” I recognize Galen’s voice and spin around. His green eyes blaze with anger. He shakes his head. “Tanya, Talia, you ….” He clenches his jaw. “Are you trying to destroy our lives?” It’s clearly a real question, not a rhetorical one.
“I wanted to help.” But it sounds weak.
“Well, you’ve really helped.” His words are thick with sarcasm. “Taking Tig away from everyone who loves her and dumping her in a place like this.”
“No child should have to grow up in the Barbican,” I say, but my voice trembles.
“And yet hundreds do. You think this is better?” He waves a hand at the children’s home.
“She might get adopted here,” I say, in spite of what Jackie told me. “Might end up with a good family instead of the one she was born into.”
Galen looks like he’s been slapped. “And what’s wrong with the family she was born into?”
