by Kate Blair
There’s my dad, in the chair at the center of the lights. That gray hair, thinning on top. The elegantly trimmed beard that feels so reassuring when he kisses my cheek. He looks older. Exhausted. I wonder when he last slept.
Marcus asks him something, and he rolls up his sleeve, and points to the blue dot on his arm. The tattoo the Home Secretary gave him when he fell asleep after sitting up all night with me, those long nights after Mum and Rebecca were killed.
I try to swallow, but it feels like something’s stuck in my throat.
There’s laughter, from the audience, but Dad doesn’t smile. He rolls his sleeve back down.
I could go back to the Green Room. Get my wound discreetly treated and go home with Dad. Piers will take care of what happened at the hospital, cover up the rest, and everything will be okay. Dad will forgive me. We’ll move to Downing Street, and there will be more time together. Dad will make things better. Improve the children’s homes, look into special cases, exceptions. I know he’ll keep his word on that.
But it isn’t enough. And it won’t save Tig.
Walking straight is tough. In fact, walking at all takes a lot of energy. I want to stop, to lie down on the cool tile floor. Instead I push myself, and I reel slowly into the studio itself.
People react as I come into view, under the blaze of the lights. The man with the clipboard hisses something at me, and waves back toward the Green Room. But I have momentum now, and I stumble further onto the stage. He reaches for my arm, but I shove my phone into his outstretched hand.
“There’s video on here you need to see.”
Then I stumble on. To my Dad.
The audience sees me. There’s a sound from them, like a wave of whispers. I concentrate on my walk. One foot in front of the other. Try to stay straight. I probably look like I’m drunk.
Now Dad notices me. He stops mid-gesture. He was spreading his hands wide, but now he looks as if he’s been left holding an invisible box. For a moment I want to laugh. I’m lightheaded. That can’t be good.
He jumps to his feet. “Talia. What are you doing?”
The two security guards turn and head for me. But Marcus Sharpe holds up a hand, halting them.
“Miss Hale,” he says, eyes wide. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Dad steps up protectively, moving between me and the cameras.
“My daughter isn’t well. Can we please take a break while I look after her?”
Marcus stands. “Perhaps now would be a good time to cut to —”
“Dad, you have to help her. She’ll die if you don’t.”
There’s a pause, an audible intake of breath of the crowd. I feel as if they’ve pulled away from me, the sea pulling away from the shore, before coming back as a tsunami of muttering.
Marcus speaks. “Who’ll die?”
“No one,” Dad says too quickly. He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“As you all know, Talia has been ill. She’s feverish. Hallucinating. It’s best if we take a quick break for commercial now and come back once we’ve got her some help.”
Wow. That was cold.
I pull away from my father. But he doesn’t look angry. There’s worry in his eyes. Perhaps he really thinks I am delusional. It would make sense to him. Explain why I’d run away. Why I’d gone to the Barbican. Why his good girl had gone so far off the rails.
This is my last chance. I can play along, pretend I am feverish. I’m sure a court would buy it, would let me off with another slap on the wrist. I can go home. And Dad’s right, he’s not in power yet. Won’t be in time to save Tig. So what’s the point in throwing my life away? There’s nothing Dad can do.
Then it hits me. There is one thing Dad could do.
He could lose.
If Sebastian Conway won, he’d stop this madness.
Deep breath. I break eye contact. Can I do this to Dad?
“I’m fine.” That’s not true. It’s hard to talk. Hard to focus. “And I have some questions for my father.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Marcus give a little shake of his head to someone off-screen, then gestures for a microphone. We’re staying live. He knows this could be scandalous, could raise the ratings. This could save his career.
“I’m not sick anymore. And I’m certainly not deluded.”
Dad seems far away, like he’s at the other end of a tunnel. I want to reach for him. But I glance at the lights on the cameras instead, still green. Still broadcasting.
Marcus steps forward, microphone pointed at me. I take it from his hand.
One last game of Interview with my father.
“Dad started this for my mother and my sister, and to prevent other families losing loved ones.” I sway a little. “Then he lost sight of that.”
I look up into Dad’s wide eyes and feel like I’ve stabbed him. He looks so betrayed. I don’t want to twist the knife. I just want to go home. With him.
“Some—.” I pause, swallow down a sob. “Somewhere along the line it became about revenge on criminals. There’s a girl dying in the Barbican. The girl from the hospital. She’s my sister’s age and he won’t save her. So my question is: When did politics become more important than children’s lives?”
I hold the mic out to him. His arm is across his stomach, as if he’s been punched. I want to take it all back.
The crowd is silent.
“I … nothing is more important than children’s lives, but …”
He tails off. He’s usually so good at this.
“I’m sorry Dad. I really am.” It comes out as a whisper.
Only his chest is moving. I watch it as he breathes. In. Out. In. Out. His eyes glisten.
He glances up at the camera. “Can we cut away? This is a private matter, and —”
His words are distorting in my ears. I’m ripping his dream from him. Losing the only family I have left. But I keep talking.
“It’s not private. Tig is dying. But you won’t do anything. Why?”
Dad’s mouth opens and closes. But then he straightens up. Becomes the politician I’ve seen on television.
“I don’t personally know what conditions are like in the Barbican, but the people who built the barricades are clearly to blame for any fatalities and …”
The audience are on their feet, some cheering, some booing, all shouting.
“But my party and I have always stood for justice.”
I’ve lost him. The room is spinning now.
“My daughter has been through a traumatic few weeks and I think she should be in bed.”
The sound rises and falls, like waves in my ears. I reach out for something to support myself.
There’s nothing to hold on to. I tip toward the ground. Dad catches me, just in time, clutching my injured arm. I scream as he crushes my wound. The warm blood saturates the arm of my jumper again, flowing fast. It’s running down my fingers now, dribbling onto the floor. Dad stares at me in confusion. He pulls his hand away and looks at it, obviously surprised to see the red. Released from his grasp, I start to fall.
“No! Talia!”
It feels so slow. The studio lights are like a carnival, spinning and blurring as I tumble backwards. Marcus Sharpe’s carefully shaped brows furrow. The mouths of the audience members are open, some still shouting or cheering, some with the wide “oh” of shock at the blood, at the falling girl.
Dad reaches for me too late. His mouth is still moving but I can’t make out the words. It’s like the howling of a dog. Maybe he’s screaming. Maybe he’s yelling at me.
He should. I’ve betrayed him. My head thumps against the floor, hard, but there’s no pain.
Darkness comes, warm as a blanket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ST. THOMAS’S HOSPITAL, LONDON
TWO DAYS AFTER
I WAKE SLOWLY, AS if I’m pulling myself up from a great depth. It doesn’t occur to me to be surprised that I wake at all. There’s pain; a distant ache, like it’s hovering above me, wa
iting to land.
Something beeps at my side, and there’s shouting not far away. That’s what woke me up. A unit sits next to my bed with lights on it. That’s where the beeping’s coming from.
It looks like a Transfer machine.
Of course. I stole the antibiotics, broke out of the Barbican, ran from the police. I briefly wonder what I’ve been sentenced to. But the pain is different. An ache, not the sharp pressure of the disease being forced into my blood and body. And there’s a line on the machine, bobbing up and down.
It’s not a Transfer machine, then. It’s familiar. I remember being hooked up to one of these after Rebecca and Mum were murdered. This is a heart monitor.
The shouting starts again and I crane my neck to see where it’s coming from.
There are two blurred figures framed in a white doorway. One is trying to push through.
“I’m her friend, okay? Back off and let me in.”
I know that voice.
“Galen?” My voice is weak, as if I haven’t used it in a long time. But both the figures freeze and turn to me.
“She’s awake!” Galen pushes past the other man, who’s wearing some kind of black uniform. Security, I guess. Galen is at my side in seconds.
The security guard hovers in the doorway.
“Get a nurse! Now!” Galen says, and the guard disappears.
I can focus a little better now, on the green of those startling eyes. I raise my hand to my head, and there’s a sharp jab of pain in my hand. I peer down. A tube sticks out of the back of my hand. An IV feeds into it.
“Are you okay?” Galen asks, then shakes his head. “Stupid question. Of course not. Can you talk?”
I try. My tongue feels thick in my mouth, too slow, too big.
“Hi,” I say to test myself. My voice slurs slightly, but it’s intelligible. “What happened?”
“You collapsed. On live TV. You got shot.”
My arm aches where I took the bullet. I remember that clearly enough. But why does my head hurt so much?
“Where am I?” I know it’s a cliché to ask.
“St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
No Transfer center here, only an accident and injuries unit. I peer around at the flowers on the side table, the cards on the chest of drawers. There are a lot of them.
I remember snatches of the last few days. I shuffle them in my mind, trying to make sense out of them. I remember betraying Dad. Then it hits me. The reason I did it.
I sit up and grab Galen’s arm, almost ripping out the IV. “How’s Tig?”
He smiles, and it’s a big smile, lighting his face. “Recovering well, thanks to you. Right after the interview, the Government agreed to allow safe passage to paramedics. They were desperate for votes and saw an opportunity after what you said. Wanted to appear compassionate. Tig got taken straight to hospital.”
I fall back onto the pillows, dizzy with relief. Tig is okay. I think of her thin little fox face. Of her smiling when I made her honey and lemon.
“She’s still weak, but the x-rays show her lungs are clearing, slowly. She’s been asking about you. I’ll bring her here as soon as you’re both well enough.”
“I’d like that.” I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m not sure I want to know the answer to the next question. “And the election? Who’s winning? What do the polls say?”
“It’s over. Sebastian Conway won. Your appearance on Sharpe made headline news, along with that footage you shot. It swung it just enough.”
I swallow down the tears that threaten to come. Dad lost. Because of me. No wonder he isn’t here. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. What I’m going to do.
But it was worth it, if Tig’s recovering.
“The Barbican?”
“Repairing itself. The martial law Transfers have been stopped and the Recall ended. You even impressed the lads. No one’s taken a bullet for us before.”
I glance at the bandage on my arm. “Oh, this old thing?” I shrug. “I’ve had worse.”
Galen laughs at that. He’s standing right next to me now, looking down at me as if I’m the most amazing thing on earth, and my cheeks warm. “Thank you,” he says, in a whisper. “There’s a real chance things can change now.”
“No … no problem,” I stutter. “All I did was fix the stuff I screwed up. Most of it was my fault in the first place. I made a lot of mistakes.” I’m babbling. But I can’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry. I got everything wrong.”
“Yeah.” He gives a little laugh. “But that’s what makes you brilliant. Do you know how few people can admit that? Never mind go all out to fix it.”
He pushes my hair out of my face. Then he’s leaning in. He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for permission. His breath is soft on my mouth, green eyes so close to mine. I smile, and then he’s kissing me, so carefully. His lips are barely touching mine, soft and gentle, and I push myself up from the pillow into the kiss. He slides a hand behind my head and cradles it. The throbbing in my head recedes, and once again there is nothing but him, the stubble of his face brushing against my cheek, the smell of him, the warmth of him.
Then there’s a cough.
It’s a nurse, standing in the room behind Galen. He pulls away, and she approaches, eyebrow raised.
“Sorry to interrupt. Good to see you’re awake.” She checks the machines and my pulse. I notice the beeping is a little more rapid since Galen kissed me. The nurse puts on a blood pressure cuff and peers into my eyes. When she’s finally done, she nods and smiles.
“Everything looks good, but the doctor will be in as soon as he can to make sure. I’ll let your dad know,” she says, then disappears out through the door.
I’m lucky. I know it. How many people can say they got shot twice and survived?
Another thought filters through my addled brain.
“Wait. Did that nurse say she’d let my father know?”
Galen nods. “He’s been here almost the whole time. Even during the election results. He sent a written concession speech. Wouldn’t let me in, of course. I had to wait until he popped out to try to get to see you.”
I’m not sure how I feel. What does that mean? I thought Dad would have given up on me. I destroyed his dreams. Maybe he has. Maybe he needed to tell me in person how badly I betrayed his trust.
But he’s been here the whole time? How long is the whole time? I look to the window. Gray buildings block most of the view, but the shadows are long, and lights are on in a few offices. Early evening, then, but what day?
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“Three days. You hit your head hard on the studio floor. You had blood transfusions, and an operation on the gunshot wound, but it was the head injury that kept you unconscious.”
That explains the ache in my head, then. But another question filters through my foggy mind.
“Why am I not in Quarantine? Am I under arrest?”
Galen shakes his head. “Sebastian Conway’s given his word — nonviolent crimes committed during the blockade won’t be prosecuted. That includes you.”
I breathe deeply. It’s more than I dared to hope. I won’t have to go through the torture of the Transfer again.
“But what’s going to happen to Tig? Will she be sentenced and returned to the home?”
“The new Government put a freeze on Transfers to children. But she will have to go back to the home. I’m going to apply to be her legal guardian. They’re talking about changing the laws on treating the sick, on prosecuting doctors. There might be an amnesty for us.”
There’s sadness in his eyes as he says it.
“But it’s too late for your dad.”
Galen’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah, but there’s hope. His legal aid lawyer says he’s not fit to stand trial. He might get hospital instead of prison.” He strokes my forehead again. “Thank you. His lawyer said you asked for a doctor to examine him.”
I forgot I asked Frank for that, but I’m glad he lived up to his wo
rd. I doubt they can fix the brain damage. But they can deal with him compassionately, at least.
Galen continues. “There’s still so much to be done, and we need your help. Even after everything, almost half the country voted against Sebastian Conway. They saw your videos. Saw families and old people being dragged from their homes, and voted for more of the same.”
“How can I stop that?”
“We need a spokesperson. People trust you. The media are clamoring for interviews. You can tell them what it’s really like for us. Tell people why they should care.”
I laugh. “You don’t need other people speaking for you. That’s what got us into this mess. Only you can tell them what it’s really like. But I can help make them listen.”
Galen picks up my hand and squeezes it.
And that’s when Dad walks in.
“Talia? Talia!” He rushes to my side. Galen drops my hand, and steps back.
“They called to say you’d woken. I got here as soon as I could.” He’s shaking. There are dark bags under his eyes. “How are you?”
“Woozy. Awake.” I lie there, and stare at him. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke. I had to give a proper concession speech, and tender my resignation to the party.”
“Did … did they make you do that?”
Dad’s eyes look hollow. “Not yet. But they would have. It was better for everyone that I did it without being forced.”
I’m not sure what to say. “I’m sorry. But I had to save Tig.”
“Maybe I deserved what you did. At least a little. I got caught up in politics. I regret the way I treated you at the studio. I might have lost sight of things. I didn’t realize until I almost lost you.” He gives an odd laugh. “Compared to that, losing the election wasn’t so bad.”
He picks up my hand, holds it between his warm palms. “Will you come home when this is done? Try to fix things between us?”
I stare at his neat fingernails, feeling the longing for home. Fighting the urge to agree at once.
“I’m going to keep working to improve life for everyone in the Barbican,” I say. “Would you still want me around doing that?”
