Heartstream

by Tom Pollock

  I thought I’d have trouble getting that out, but my voice doesn’t even waver. I pronounce it with all the emotion of a supermarket checkout robot. It’s amazing what you can assimilate when you’re trapped in a house with an armed and very, very wronged woman.

  “She knows this man’s darkest secret, this man to whom every copper in London reports, and what’s more she knows that he knows she knows it. Are we supposed to believe she didn’t have blackmail material stashed away on him in case he ever turned on her?”

  She stares at me; for a moment hope lights her face, but then her brow creases.

  “But there’s nothing!” It comes out of her in a frustrated, doglike cry. “I’ve looked everywhere; I’ve torn the place apart looking for it. She must have thrown it out or deleted it.”

  “But you said it yourself: she never threw anything away. Not if she thought it was useful. She had drawers full of old birthday cards in case she needed something to shove under a table leg. She even kept old wrapping…”

  I tail off and Polly gapes at me. “Amy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t finish your…”

  “Yeah.” I push past her through the narrow kitchen doorway, close enough to smell the terror sweat soaked into the hem of the fake bomb vest, and run headlong up the stairs.

  “Amy? Amy!” she shrieks in alarm behind me and I hear the clump of her feet on the steps as she follows.

  I shoulder my way into Mum and Dad’s bedroom, and in my memory I’m doing the same five years ago, with the same urgency, only then it was born of eagerness, not fear. I’m hot on Charlie’s heels, because it’s Christmas Day and we have our stockings clutched in our hands. Mum and Dad are awake and alive, smiling, and soon we’re surrounded by a lunar landscape of crumpled wrapping paper, and Charlie and I both have chocolate smeared around our mouths like clown lipstick, and then we head downstairs, to the tree where the big presents are, and my chest is swelling with hope and anxiety because I bought Mum’s from Charlie and me this year, and I really really want her to like it.

  And there she is, opening it the way she opens all her presents, with the flat blade of a kitchen knife under the tape, lifting it away as precisely as a surgeon, unwrapping the paper and then carefully folding it away, and then she gasps and her face glows with genuine pleasure and I glow too as she holds it up and looks it over.

  It’s slim, in a velvety grey slipcase with the Tenniel illustrations inlaid in beautiful gold foil on the front: a folio edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  I look at it now, lying open on the floor amid the chaos Polly has wreaked in my parents’ room. The discarded bolero lies in front of it, rucked up and twisted like a fallen ghost, and I step over it to reach towards the book.

  “I already looked at that,” Polly says plaintively. She’s hovering in the doorway again; I wonder if she knows she does that. “There’s nothing in it: no paper slipped inside it, no secret cavity cut into it or any of the other books. I looked.”

  I glance back over my shoulder at her. “This woman wouldn’t even throw away greetings cards – you think she’d mutilate her books?”

  I reach past the book itself, for the discarded folio case.

  “Just before Mum died,” I start, and I feel tears clutch at my throat like an infection, “like, five minutes before, she said she wanted to read this; she asked me to go and get it for her. I thought she was being kind, because it was a gift Charlie and I gave her, a thing we shared.”

  I thrust my hand inside the slipcase, probing with my fingers, my knuckles distending the cardboard, and … yes. Something’s there, right at the back; she must have put it there with tweezers: a slick smoothness like plastic, gummed flush to the case’s surface. I find an edge and scratch and it comes away under my nail. Polly’s hovered closer; she peers over my shoulder at my hand as I pull it out.

  “Now I think she just wanted to get rid of the evidence in case someone found it after she died.”

  Stuck to the nail of my index finger is a square of brown packing tape, no bigger than a stamp. Stuck to the tape is a removable memory card. All those years I took the piss out of her for being a Neanderthal, the tech consultant who was also the only person since the last ice age to use a phone without a built-in memory.

  Wordlessly, Polly produces Mum’s old phone from her pocket. Using the post of one of Mum’s earrings in place of a paper clip I pop the old card out, replace it and switch it on.

  The screen lights up and I delve into the archive. It takes me a handful of moments to find the folder, and then I let out a low whistle.

  “What?” Polly barks. “What is it?”

  “It’s … it’s all here. From the beginning. Even the Mad Hatter emails. It was a burner account; she only ever sent those two messages from it.”

  “And Ryan? The mayor, is he in there?”

  But I don’t answer. I’ve scrolled down to the very earliest file in the folder. It’s an email from seventeen years ago.

  From: TeenagePetrolhead@Bextel.com

  To: RyanRichieRichards02@me.com

  Dear Ryan,

  I’m so, so sorry you’ve had to deal with that plague of lies about you having had a kid with some skank fan. I, and all of your other true fans know that you’ve done no such thing, and I know Nick knows that too. I just wanted to tell you I’ve taken care of it. You don’t need to worry about Wild White Horse any more.

  All my love,

  A fan

  “Who’s Kevin Kordechevsky?” I ask Polly.

  She replies immediately. “He was one of Ryan’s managers, why?”

  But I’m already reading the response.

  From: Kevin.Kordechevsky@GlobalFireTalentMgmt.com

  To: TeenagePetrolhead@Bextel.com

  Dear Sir or Madam,

  My client, Ryan Richards, does not know how you came by his personal email address, and he has no idea what you refer to in your previous email. Please desist from contacting him again.

  Sincerely,

  Kevin Kordechevsky

  As far as I can tell, Mum did as she was asked, and for almost two weeks that was that. Maybe that’s how long it took for a busy pop star to check his own email, because the next email was from someone calling himself Vreigeiter 66.

  From: Vreigeiter66@gmail.com

  To: TeenagePetrolhead@Bextel.com

  To the individual who emailed Ryan Richards claiming to have “dealt with” the rumours surrounding an illegitimate child, I’m an associate of Mr Richards, and would like to enquire precisely what you meant by that. Please respond as soon as possible.

  Ryan Richards may have had a good voice and a flair for politics, but a talent for digital smokescreens he did not. Attached to the email where it’s filed in my mother’s inbox are a series of screenshots of a hack into the Vreigeiter66 account, including one showing that the recovery email was RyanRichieRichards02@me.com, and, if that wasn’t enough, another shot from another hack, this time on the phone company’s servers, showing that the mobile number listed for two-step verification was registered to one Adrian Rijkaard and giving his home address.

  I feel a sudden stab of recognition, and it doubles me over, winded. Sometimes it feels like all Mum left behind in this house is relics of her sickness; but this, this is her in her full strength – neat and meticulous and devastating. I can almost hear her pitying sigh at how easy it was to shred this weak man’s threadbare cover.

  If she’d Photoshopped herself into the screencaps flicking V-signs she couldn’t have been more present, or having more obvious fun.

  From: TeenagePetrolhead@Bextel.com

  To Vreigeiter66@gmail.com

  Hi Ryan!

  This is such a thrill! Probably shouldn’t discuss this over email, though. Grab me on Signal on the number below and we’ll have a good chat.

  Exx

  The Signal messages are in the next file down. Once safely encrypted, Mum gleefully outlines the “gift” she’s given her
favourite pop star – adopting his “fake” daughter and squirrelling her mother away in a mental home.

  Oh, she added, as an afterthought. I know what you’re thinking: why would the shrink play along? But don’t worry, I’ve got that covered. Love to Nick. Exx.

  And Ryan? I feel a little lurch in my stomach as I read his replies.

  Ryan went along with it.

  His messages were nervously solicitous. He seemed caught between not wanting to admit I was his, and worrying that the arrangement for my care wasn’t sustainable.

  Do you need money or anything? he asked once.

  Mum’s response was sharp. Why? You don’t owe her anything.

  That shut him up for a while. Later, his conscience seems to have been needling him. How long will that girl be stuck in the hospital?

  Why?

  I’m just concerned for her, that’s all.

  You’re a sweetheart, but don’t worry about her, Ry. Honestly, it’s the best place for her; she was a real mess before she went in. She’ll stay until she gets her head back in order, and admits you aren’t the father. I’m sure it won’t take long.

  After a two-day delay, Ryan’s response was two letters long.

  OK.

  “He just…” I’m aghast. Disgust grips my throat like nausea that this man is my father. “He just went along with it.”

  Polly snorts. “Of course he did. That’s all he ever did. Went along. Never made a fuss, never disagreed. He could never bear to confront anyone. He needed everyone to love him, all the time. He was terrified that if he turned one person against him then that would be the beginning of the end; we’d all leave him. So he told everyone what they wanted to hear – me, his bandmates, his fans, his management, even when what we wanted was completely contradictory. He could never bear to disappoint, so he betrayed instead. Of course he became a politician. I should’ve seen that coming.”

  A murmur of voices from outside the house rips my attention away from the screen. I go to the window and peel back the curtain. The afternoon sunlight glints off the silver tape on the frame as I peer through the glass.

  The crowd’s still gathered on the street, the same mix of crow-shirted streamers, ordinary passing rubberneckers and media types with shoulder-mounted cameras, but they’re being hustled and jostled back over the road by bobbies in uniform and the media types in particular aren’t taking kindly to it. “Freedom of the fucking press!” I hear one squawk.

  Why are they… But I don’t even get to finish the thought before I see the van.

  It cruises silently up the street, lights dark and sirens silent. It’s painted blood red and I don’t even need to read the markings on the side to know who’s riding in it. The reporters have seen it now, a shout goes up, and like a troop of robotic meerkats I see the cameras swing towards it. It pulls to a stop and I feel my stomach hollow out. If Mayor Rijkaard sent the Vreigeiter66 emails – and we know he did – then he probably realizes we’ve got them.

  Polly’s voice echoes back to me. They’re coming in.

  The van’s rear doors swing open. I can’t see the faces of the figures that jump out; their helmets and masks and flak jackets are all black. My eyes are drawn to their guns.

  “Is it…” Polly’s hopping nervously from foot to foot. “Is there enough there to prove it? To nail him?”

  I hold the phone out behind me. “Read it for yourself if you want,” I croak, because all the moisture’s fled my throat. “But hurry.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Cat

  I take the phone with nerveless fingers. I stare at you, uncertain.

  “Hurry!” you bark at me again. The skin’s drawn tight around your eyes and your knuckles are pale where they grip the curtain. I lower my eyes to the screen and start to read.

  I am wrong-footed by my emotions, just like I was when I first realized I loved you, six months before you were born.

  I expected triumph; I should feel triumph. Here in my hand is the proof I searched for. I was betrayed. I am not crazy; I am wronged. But all I feel is a deadly weariness. I want to let the phone slip from my fingers, walk over to the bed of my enemy, crawl into it and pull the covers over myself until I hear the bang of the rifle, feel the instant’s percussive impact, and then pain, and then nothing, as one of Ryan’s emissaries ends me.

  I hadn’t realized how much I was still hoping I was wrong, that he somehow didn’t know, that he wasn’t involved, that he was a coward, yes, too cowardly to acknowledge you as his own, but not cruel enough to do what was done to me.

  “Well?” you demand, and my gaze snaps up to meet yours. When you’re scared, your cheeks go dark the same way mine do.

  I gape. I try to give you an answer, but there are no words in my throat.

  “I … I … I … let me finish.” I keep scrolling down. After the initial flurry the thread goes cold; and then, almost two years after the first message … my breath stalls in my throat.

  Vreigeiter66 I’m not kidding, Evie, pick up the phone.

  TeenagePetrolhead Anything we have to say to each other can be done where we have the protection of end-to-end encryption, thank you.

  Vreigeiter66 Why am I hearing Cat’s still in that mental hospital?

  TeenagePetrolhead Oh, it’s Cat now, is it? Since when are you two on first-name terms?

  Vreigeiter66 Answer the question.

  TeenagePetrolhead Perhaps she’s finding it therapeutic.

  Vreigeiter66 Don’t fuck about with me. We agreed she’d only be kept in there until she could get back on her feet.

  TeenagePetrolhead She’ll be kept there as long as Dr Smith deems it necessary.

  Vreigeiter66 And how long is that going to be?

  TeenagePetrolhead As long as it takes.

  Vreigeiter66 As long as what takes?

  TeenagePetrolhead As long as it takes for a mother to let go of the child she bore, to accept she’ll never see or hold her again. So, y’know, a while.

  Vreigeiter66 What the fuck, Evie? This wasn’t the agreement. You said you’d let her out when she admitted I wasn’t the kid’s dad.

  There’s an almost prim offence in Evie’s reply.

  TeenagePetrolhead That was two years ago. I’m Amy’s mother now. I’m not going to hand her over to some psycho straight out of mental hospital.

  Vreigeiter66 We can’t leave her there for ever.

  TeenagePetrolhead Why do you care?

  Vreigeiter66 Because she’s the mother of my child, you psychotic bitch!

  I wonder how Evie reacted to that. Did she reel away from her phone in horror? Or had she already begun to suspect? Did she take some perverse satisfaction in being the secret adopter of her favourite pop star’s baby? I guess I’ll never know her feelings now, but whatever they were, she got them under control fast. It only took her forty-five seconds to reply.

  TeenagePetrolhead In case you’ve forgotten, the agreement was that I take Amy off both your hands, for ever. And I’m sorry to disillusion you, but that can’t happen if we let poor Catherine roam the streets, because she won’t roam them, she’ll stalk them, for us. She’ll break laws and windows and bones and careers and anything else she has to get her daughter back. It’s what I’d do if my daughter was stolen from me.

  Vreigeiter66 I’m going down there.

  TeenagePetrolhead To do what? The doctor belongs to me, not you. He wrote me, not you, into the paperwork as Catherine’s nearest relative. I have all the legal rights. What are you going to tell him? That you spunked a few millilitres of fluid into one of his patients a handful of times three years ago and on that basis you demand he overlook his own professional judgement and let her out?

  Vreigeiter66 I’ll tell him I know he’s being blackmailed. If he doesn’t let her out, I’ll go to his bosses.

  TeenagePetrolhead Think very carefully, Ryan. I just told you what I would do to protect my relationship with my daughter.

  TeenagePetrolhead Do you really not understand that I can des
troy you?

  Ryan didn’t reply after that, but I know what his answer would have been, because he never turned up at the hospital, never hammered on the desk demanding to see me. I would have heard. Wouldn’t I?

  I try to scroll for more, but my fingers are slick with sweat and the screen doesn’t respond. Minute droplets of water hit the glass and fragment, spraying over my hands. I realize I’m crying.

  “Polly? Polly? Cat!”

  You look at me and speak to me like I’m a wild animal you’re trying to gentle. I can see the cords in your throat move like piano strings as you fight to keep your voice even. You’re standing by the window, holding the curtain an inch from the wall.

  “Please,” you say. “We have to go. They’re getting ready to come in.” I can hear the panic bubbling under your words, and I know you understand. If Ryan’s riot cops come in we could both die here. I know you’re right. I know I should be raising my hands, hollering surrender, trying to get myself in front of every camera I can find.

  But…

  “Did you read this? All of it?”

  “Yes,” you say. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong? We have to go!”

  But I shrink away from you, the very way you did from me.

  I just told you what I would do to protect my relationship with my daughter. Did you feel the fierce heat of her love for you coming off the screen when you read those words?

  “I … I can’t,” I whisper.

  “Why not?” Tears of frustration glimmer in your eyes and for a crippling instant I’m back in the hospital bed with you, so tiny and alive, crying in my arms. “You have your proof.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They won’t listen. He’s powerful. You’re powerful. Even with this, you’ll find a way to bury me again.”