by Kate Blair
I head for the door.
“You can’t leave,” Galen says.
I turn to him. His chin is thrust out and his eyes hard. I keep backing toward the door. Galen follows me. I’m about to run when he speaks again.
“It’s not safe out there. Not in the dark. Not for Malcolm Hale’s daughter. Do you have any idea what they’d do to you?”
“I’d rather take my chances out there than in here.”
Galen shakes his head. “I can’t let you.”
“I didn’t ask for your permission.” I get the door open, but Galen is at my side in a flash, so close I feel the warmth of his body. He slams it closed.
“Don’t be an idiot, Talia,” he says.
I yank at the door. “I can look after myself. Why do you care, anyway?”
His muscles tense through his T-shirt. He’s strong. I can’t even open it a crack.
“Because everyone in the Barbican will be punished if the future prime minister’s daughter is murdered or raped here tonight.”
I look up and into his green eyes. I think of the dark towers, the hidden corners. He might have a point. I keep pulling on the door though. I don’t know what else to do.
There’s a sneeze inside the flat. Galen’s shoulders slump. He lets go of the door and heads back to the sitting room. I follow far enough to see that the bookcase has been pushed away from the wall a few inches. A little face is peering through the gap. It sniffs.
“Tig’s caught a cold,” Galen says. “So I guess I’m stuck looking after two children tonight.”
“Did I give it to her?” I say. “When I came over sick the other day?”
“Maybe.” I follow him into the flat as he keeps talking. “But lots of illnesses do the rounds here. We’ve better immunity than you, and we can’t get them transferred without getting arrested. So we put up with them.”
He opens the bookcase enough for Tig to enter the sitting room. She takes a few wary steps in, watching me the whole time.
“Tig,” he says. “Talia will be staying with us tonight.”
“Is she your girlfriend now?” Tig asks with a cheeky look.
My face heats up.
“No!” Galen says, the word coming out with a weird laugh that’s almost a cough. “She can’t go through the estate at night. I’ll be taking her out first thing in the morning.”
I nod. “First thing.”
Tig sneezes again, into her sleeve. But she’s still grinning. A ten-year-old is better at handling an illness than I am.
“Go to bed,” Galen says. “I’ll bring you a honey and lemon in a minute.” His voice is soft.
“And read me a story?”
“And read you a story.”
Tig disappears through the gap in the bookcase and Galen turns to me.
“Take the damn towel.” He holds it out. “You can sleep on the sofa. I’ll get you some dry clothes and bring you a blanket.”
I take the towel, sit down, and dab at my wet hair. The towel is so thin it barely helps.
“Do you have a phone? Shouldn’t you call someone?” he asks.
“I … guess I should call Dad. I ran out on his girlfriend when I thought you and Tig had been attacked.”
“You did what?”
“I panicked. I … thought you might need help.”
Galen’s expression softens and he joins me on the couch. “And you came all the way here, in the rain, while you’re still sick?”
“Stupid. I know. I didn’t take anything with me. No money, no coat.”
He pats me on the back. “So you’re a penniless criminal stuck in the Barbican?”
I can’t help but laugh. But it’s a bitter laugh.
“I guess I am.”
“Then you came to the right place. But you’re going to have to call your dad and come up with an excuse. He can’t know you’re in the Barbican. We’ll get you out of here tomorrow, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“It sounds like you could use a honey and lemon too. It’ll make you feel better. Trust me.”
And in spite of everything, I do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BARBICAN, LONDON
FOUR DAYS LEFT
GALEN WHISTLES WHEN I pull out my phone. “Whoa, keep that thing under wraps. People in here would kill for that. Literally.”
I peer at my phone. It’s last year’s model. I’ve never been an up-to-date gadget kind of girl.
“I should go and check on Tig,” Galen says, and gives me a wink as he climbs through the wall. He must know I want a little privacy for this.
I click on Dad’s name in my phone’s contact list. This conversation isn’t going to go well. I pace the sitting room as I wait for the call to connect, trying not to notice the holes in the carpet, the peeling wallpaper.
It’s answered at the first ring.
“Talia,” Dad says. “Where are you?”
“I’m safe.”
“That’s not what I asked. What the bloody hell are you playing at?”
“I had to do something. Don’t worry. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“No you won’t. You’ll be home tonight.”
I keep pacing, but don’t speak.
“What is all of this about? Is this because you’re angry about Alison?”
“No, Dad. It’s everything. I’ve learned a lot these last couple of weeks. I … don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Dad sounds impatient.
“About the Transfer, about the laws, about people who aren’t as lucky as we are.” I turn and pace back the other way.
“This is emotional blackmail. Go home now. My policies aren’t going to be dictated by a teenager acting up over my girlfriend.”
“I said this wasn’t about that!”
“I can’t see how this could be about anything else! Piers said he let something slip before your interview on Sharpe, and you started behaving strangely right after that.” There’s a deep breath from the other end of the line. “Look, I should have told you about Alison. I am sorry for that. But we are serious, and …”
I tune my father out. There is no way I’ll convince him that I mean what I say without explaining everything. And I can’t do that without giving away Tig and Galen, and telling him where I am now.
I interrupt him. “My battery’s almost dead, Dad.” That’s not a lie, at least. “I’m safe and I’ll be home tomorrow. Don’t panic, okay?”
I hang up and turn the phone off before he can reply.
A pounding on the door.
I wake and stare around, unable to distinguish between my dreams of distant shouts and screams, and the reality around me. The cluttered room is utterly alien, bathed in the gray pre-dawn light. There’s a twinge in my back from the weird angle I’ve been sleeping at. I sit up and a blanket slides off me: brown with a diamond pattern. I remember Galen handing it to me last night.
He comes down the passageway wearing nothing but his boxers. I try not to stare.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he says to the door. Then he hisses at me, “Get behind the bookcase. Now.” I roll off the couch and climb through the hole. I reach for the handle on the back, but before I can pull Galen shoves the bookcase back in place.
I listen at the gap. The room behind me is still dark, and Tig snuffles in her sleep. Galen’s footsteps cross the room outside and there’s the sound of the door opening.
“Ben, what is it? What’s happened?” Galen’s talking but he’s muffled.
“It’s Sophie, in 3c,” a gruff voice says. “She’s been attacked.”
“Give me a second to get my clothes on.” The clunk of the door being closed. A moment later, the bookcase moves and Galen’s face peers through the opening.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, stepping out into the main flat.
“Duty calls. Can you look after Tig for a bit?”
I only pause for a second. I didn’t tell Dad what time I’d be home, at least.
“Of course. How long will you be?”
“Dunno. But thanks.” He dashes down the hall and comes back wearing jeans and a shirt and carrying a bag.
“We’ll get you out of here soon, I promise,” he says before he runs out of the door.
When he’s gone I take a quick shower. They only have a sliver of soap, so I don’t use it. I try to dry myself off on the fraying towels, but they feel like they spread the wet around. I miss the power shower back home, my fluffy towels and array of body washes and gels. I pull back on the clothes I slept in, feeling as if I hadn’t washed at all.
I’m not sure if Tig is expecting someone to get her up or not, so I sit close to the bookcase in case she calls out. But it’s still early. The sun is rising. I stand at the window. The rays have reached Galen’s flat and are slowly, reluctantly, working their way toward the ground.
They reveal a mess.
In the tent village below tarpaulins flap in the breeze and cardboard boxes lie crushed on the ground. People are huddled together in one corner of the courtyard, individual homes abandoned.
I didn’t notice any of that last night. What happened out there?
There’s a noise from the other side of the bookcase, so I step through. The greenness of the room still surprises me, the morning light shining through the leaves, brightening the bare concrete walls and floor.
Tig groans and rolls over. She flops onto her back, then opens her eyes.
I smile. “How are you?”
She isn’t surprised to see me. She sits up, raises a hand to her forehead, and flinches.
“You have a headache?”
“An’ a throat-ache an’ a eye-ache an’ a bellyache.” She starts coughing, folding up in the middle, her whole body shaking. I pat her on the back, feeling useless.
“Galen’s gone out,” I say.
“He’s out a lot,” Tig replies, when she recovers. “He’s got loadsa people to help.”
“And he’s asked me to take care of you. So what can I get you for breakfast?”
She starts coughing again. That sets me off, too. When we’re both done, she looks up. “I’m not hungry.”
She’s so fragile, so small. Smaller than Rebecca ever was. Her collarbones jut out through her skin.
“How about a honey and lemon, then?”
She peers up at me from under her eyebrows. “With double honey?”
“Triple.”
I’m glad I paid attention when Galen was making our drinks last night, so I’m able to prepare it okay. I want a cup of tea, but all the mugs are chipped and stained. So I get a glass of water instead, and join Tig in her room. There’s something I have to say to her. Something I’ve been wanting to say, even though I know my words will fall laughably short.
“I’m sorry. About your dad, I mean. I didn’t know. I thought he was going to hurt you.”
Tig is watching me over the rim of her mug. Her green eyes never leave my face.
“S’all right. He wasn’t my dad. Not really, not after the brain disease. My dad was smart and kind.” She lowers her drink, rests it on her leg. “I was scared of him at the hospital,” she says in a small voice. “I miss him, though. The dad we used to have.”
“I’m still sorry. And about the children’s home too.”
“Galen said you were jus’ a bit stupid about stuff.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He’s right. I was a bit stupid about a lot of stuff.”
I spend most of the day in Tig’s room, waiting for Galen to come back. Tig is getting worse, coughing and sleeping more as the day goes on. I sit on the cold concrete, waiting for Galen and wondering what we’re all going to do.
When Tig wakes in the afternoon we watch the news together. The camera pans over queues outside St. Barts. Criminals from all over London are hiding out in the Barbican, so there aren’t enough recipients for the Transfer. They’ve declared an All-Level Recall to deal with the problem, and the hospital is handing out antibiotics as a stopgap measure. People’s tempers are fraying. They’re blaming the nurses, the police, the Government, and, most of all, the people holed up in the Barbican.
Sebastian Conway and the Democratic Justice Party are trying to negotiate. Offering an amnesty if the barricades come down. But no one wants to talk with politicians who look like they’re going to lose next week. My father’s pulling ahead. When the anchor has finished going through the poll numbers, a realization shoots through me.
I don’t want Dad to win.
I want the amnesty. I want negotiation. I want things to be better here, in the Barbican.
They cut to Dad giving a speech, calling for emergency measures, martial law, and there’s an ache in my chest. He looks so tired. I’m betraying him by being here, by wanting him to lose. But I still wonder if he misses me. If he still loves me. If he’ll ever forgive me. I wipe away the tears before Tig can see them.
Then the anchor comes back on. I’m not really listening, until she says something about a deadline, and a raid. Then I sit up.
The news cuts to the Prime Minister, at a podium spiked with dozens of microphones.
“We can’t wait until the election. These criminals cannot be allowed to have a stronghold in central London. They’re defying a Recall. If they do not dismantle the barricades, then we will be forced to tear them down and drag them out from their hiding places, kicking and screaming.”
I swallow. Of course the Prime Minister is threatening a raid of his own. It’s a vote winner, and the Government is desperate to be seen as hard on crime.
“They have thirty-six hours. We are calling up the army res—”
The screen turns black. I scramble for the remote and jab at the buttons. Nothing happens, so I try the light switch.
“They’ve cut our ’lectric’ty,” Tig says.
As the sun sets behind the tower, I force down some cold canned soup, thinking wistfully of the drawer full of take-away menus and my father’s credit card. Tig only manages a couple of mouthfuls before pushing hers away, and I don’t blame her. It’s saltier and greasier for being cold.
I turn on my phone long enough to message Dad, tell him I won’t be back today and not to worry. It’s just as well. I can’t face him right now. I ignore all the missed calls, and turn the phone back off. He’s probably busy anyway. And pissed off at the Government for stealing his raid idea.
Then there’s the grate of the bookcase being pushed back. I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth. Galen steps into the room, head down, face hidden in shadows. He walks over to Tig and lays a hand on her forehead.
“Hmm. How are you feeling?”
“’Orrible. But I’ve been worse.”
Galen places a kiss on her nose.
“What’s it like out there?” I ask.
“Chaos. There are gangs stealing whatever they can. The tents have been ransacked, people are injured.” He heads to some cupboards and picks dried leaves, bandages and pills from the shelves.
That explains the mess in the courtyard. I bite my lip.
“Will the girl be all right? Sophie? The one who was attacked?”
“I patched her up. She needs real help, but she can’t leave. She’s got to look after her dad. He got sentenced to polio years ago and now he’s paralyzed. Plus, she’s under a Level 2 Recall.” He finishes packing the bag. “I have to go back out. Are you two okay?”
There’s something up. Whatever it is, he’s not going to tell me in front of Tig.
“Can I talk to you outside?” I point back at the bookcase.
He nods, and I follow him through to the other flat.
Galen faces the door, his back to me. “I’m sorry. I know I said I’d get you out of here as soon as possible, but things have changed.”
“What’s changed?”
“There are rumors that you’re here. Someone saw you arrive. And it’s more dangerous since they cut the power. People are getting desperate.”
I look back at the bookcase. I can’t leave
Tig anyway.
“It’s fine. Tig’s a bit worse today. I’m happy to look after her.”
Galen turns around. The skin around his left eye is dark purple, and a cut runs down from his forehead.
My hand goes to my mouth. “Who did that to you?”
“People who want medicine and painkillers. Don’t worry, I cleaned it already. Make sure Tig gets lots of fluids, and encourage her to eat. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Did you hear the news?” I ask.
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob.
“The Government is talking about a raid now. Not waiting until the election.”
His shoulders slump. “I know. I’ve seen the army vans gathering outside. But we’ll get you out before then.”
“I’m not worried about me. What will happen to you?”
He shrugs. “That’s a problem for another day. But I appreciate you taking care of Tig. It means a lot.”
“You should stay. It’s dangerous out there.”
Galen shakes his head. “People will die without someone to treat them.” He opens the door. “Lock this as soon as I’m gone. Get behind the bookcase, and keep quiet. Don’t let anyone in, no matter what.”
I lock the door behind him, wondering if I’ll see him again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BARBICAN, LONDON
TWO DAYS LEFT
I PILE UP BLANKETS next to Tig’s bed and sleep there, missing my memory foam mattress. I wake countless times, my hip and shoulders sore. I spend the next day trying to coax her into eating. She doesn’t complain, just lies there, eyes glassy, nodding or shaking her head to my questions. I can’t bear to turn my phone on. I hope Dad hasn’t called the police.
The tiredness feels ground in, like dirt. Like the stains in the carpet, although it’s clear Galen keeps it as clean as possible. It’s sanitary, but the flat’s old, and falling apart, and they obviously can’t afford to replace anything. The wallpaper’s peeling, the sofa’s threadbare, and the plates are chipped.
I miss my clean flat. The warm bathroom floors, the deep bath. My double bed. The shining kitchen, and the cappuccino machine. There’s only instant coffee here, but I make some with tepid water from the tap and manage to force it down. I need to stay awake, to watch over Tig and the flat.
