by Sam Nash
“I’ll think about it.” The Prime Minister scowled. “In the meantime, we need something more effective. Something untraceable, or at the very least, a compound that is not routinely tested by water authorities.” The Prime Minister glared at the Environment Minister, then turned to the Secretary of State for Defence. “Get onto GCHQ Porton Down. See if they have a ready-made suppressant. If not, I want a bespoke one, urgently.” The politician faced Yelena and grasped her arm, digging her fingertips into the sinewy flesh. “Not a word to anyone, Yelena. Got it?”
Yelena disengaged her arm from the claw-like clutches, nodded firmly and excused herself. Mary trailed after her friend, concerned for her safety. As soon as she was clear of the armed guard, Mary saw Yelena remove her phone from a jacket pocket and punch out a rapid text. Clearly, she did not intend to obey instructions.
Mary had witnessed enough. She drifted upwards, through floors of the state bedrooms above, past the four poster regency beds and quartz light fittings to the maid’s quarters in the loft. Her conscious mass of energy reinserted itself into her physical presence with a disconsolate heaviness that proved hard to shake. She awoke to find Parth sitting on the edge of her twin bed, with two fingers resting on her neck while staring at his watch.
“You were gone for a long time. I got worried.” Parth jumped up the moment she opened her eyes, expecting her to attack him with a tongue lashing. He walked over to the hospitality tray and switched on the mini kettle. Mary swung her legs down from the bed and stepped the few paces to her satchel on the floor. Parth turned to see her crouch down and fumble with the buckle to root out her mobile phone. She pressed the wake button, expecting a notification panel for Yelena’s message to appear on the screen. There were no texts.
Parth stood over her, puzzled. “What’s the matter? What did you find out?”
Keeping her focus on the device, Mary calculated her response. Divulging all that she had discovered would give Parth cause to retaliate, placing them both in further jeopardy. He was the epitome of the clichéd loose cannon. She chose her words carefully.
“They discussed the validity of your claims and potential consequences. I think they are going to contact the French scientist for confirmation.” Mary peered up at his smooth mocha face. The excitement of his presentation was transforming into annoyance before her eyes.
“Do they need another demonstration? I thought the trick with the orange juice would be confirmation enough.” His eyebrows cinched together, and a petulant pout formed on his lips.
Mary inhaled slowly, closing her eyes to his display. She needed time to think. Time away from his persistent need for attention. Rising from the carpet, Mary wandered to the small window, standing on tiptoe to appreciate the view. “Your suggestions are a lot for people to take in, Parth. You have to give them time to assimilate.” She turned to face him. “The parkland looks gorgeous. Why don’t you go and explore for a bit? Eh? Clear your head.” She picked up a light cotton jacket from his bed.
Parth gestured to the hospitality tray. “But I was making us both tea?” It was his whiny, mamma’s boy voice. Mary hated it. She held out his coat, using it to push him backwards towards the door. “Right. Okay. I won’t be long.” Parth took the jacket, twisted the lock and pulled the handle.
“Take all the time in the world.” She slammed the door closed behind him, the fog of aggravation dissipating immediately. Alone, Mary relaxed. She heaved the sash window upwards and stuck her head through the gap. The cooling breeze whistled through the aperture and brushed her hair back from her face. A single drop of moisture, carried by the wind, hit her cheek. Rain on the way. She thought to herself. He’ll come scurrying back like a Bengal tiger caught in the monsoon.
Heaving her suitcase onto the luggage rack, she unzipped the fastener and lifted the stack of folded clothes onto her bed. There was the crumpled pharmacy bag; an outline of the pregnancy test box visible through the paper. She shuddered, thinking back to the awkward conversation with her grandfather.
Mary dipped her chin to her chest and pulled the V-neck of her t-shirt outwards. She stared at the mounds of flesh spilling out of the confines of her underwear. They do look a little bigger than normal. With three fingers lined up, she pressed her left breast in several places, flinching from the tenderness. Oh God, no. I can’t be pregnant. With reluctance, Mary grabbed the pharmacy bag from the case and took it into the bathroom. Removing the box, she flipped it over and scrutinised the instructions.
With her trousers around her ankles, she hung her bottom over the toilet, aiming the absorbent end of test stick between her legs to catch the steam of urine as it snaked from her body. So undignified. She clicked the cap over the end and balanced it on the edge of the sink while she dried herself and washed her hands. Checking her phone for the time, she sat on the closed toilet seat and watched the little window on the stick. I can’t be pregnant. Not now, not ever with Parth. She felt hot. Her skin flushed crimson across her neck and chest and perspiration soaked her hairline. Her knee jiggled involuntarily as the countdown on her phone progressed. One line for no, two crossed for yes. Come on one line. Come on.
The key rattled in the lock, followed by the clunk as the door handle was depressed. “It’s raining out. I thought I’d come back for that drink.” Parth blustered in, chucking the key onto his bed. Mary jumped up and bolted the bathroom door. “Mary? Are you alright?”
“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute. Don’t fuss.” Thirty seconds left. Come on one line. Please, one line. Nausea simmered in her throat.
“Shall I make you one or have you had a drink already?” Parth stood still holding a teaspoon like a mannequin advertising a butler service.
Ten, nine, eight… one line, please… The tiny plastic window blossomed with two distinct crossed blue lines.
Chapter Five
Unable to hold back, Mary wept. Her sobs drew Parth’s attention in the small room, prompting him to knock warily on the bathroom door. “Darling, what’s wrong?” The sobbing continued. He tried turning the handle. It wouldn’t budge. “Mary, let me in. Are you hurt?”
“Just leave me alone, Parth. You’ve done enough damage.” She sniffed, tore a few sheets of toilet paper from the roll and blew her nose. Bunching the tissue up in her hand, she slid the test stick back into its cardboard box and threw it in the swing bin under the sink. The mirror above was mounted at just the right height to reflect her bloodshot eyes and swollen lids. Huh. Won’t you be the bell of the ball tonight? Just get through the next couple of days. I can’t do anything about it now.
Parth blew out his cheeks and wandered towards his bed. A muffled thud rattled the room door in its frame. Parth opened it to find Yelena dangling a garment bag from one hand and juggling a pair of strappy heels and her mobile phone in the other. She pushed her way inside, thrusting the garment bag at Parth to hold. “Where is Mary? I need her to try these on.” Yelena glanced around the room then tapped on the bathroom door. “It’s me. Can I come in?” The bolt slid back allowing Yelena to enter. She took one look at the snot and tears, dropped the stilettoes onto the floor and enfolded Mary with her arms. “Lyubov moya.” Yelena rocked her gently from side to side. “What is it, my love? What is reason for tears?”
Mary burrowed into the neck of her friend, issuing a fresh deluge from her raw tear ducts. Yelena patted the back of her head. “What is it? How can I help if you won’t tell me?”
Mary pulled away, focused on Yelena’s pale green eyes and whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
Yelena’s mouth froze in an unending half yawn. It was a full ten seconds before she recovered enough to reply. “Parth’s?” Mary shot her with a cocked head glare. Suitably chastised, Yelena came to her senses. “Of course, sorry. But this cannot be all bad, surely? Did you not want a little malysh? I remember us talking of it.”
“I did.” Mary threw the balled-up tissue into the bin and unravelled more from the roll. “But that was six months, a year ago. I can’t raise a chil
d now, on my own. Especially with all that is going on.” Her sinuses constricted, radiating pain across her face. She exhaled a defeated breath through her mouth, which in turn made her shoulder fall in unison.
“Nonsense. Women all through the ages raise children alone. You have family and friends to lean on. This is a good thing, you will see. Give it time, dear Mary.” She took the tissue from Mary’s hand, lifted her chin and dabbed her eyes gently. “Come. We go to my room and order room service. All this dreary rain makes me crave hot chocolate.”
Mary sniffed and gave her friend a lukewarm smile in payment for her kindness. “Craving chocolate? You aren’t pregnant too, are you?” She stepped back to allow room for Yelena to stoop and retrieve the shoes.
“Hah! That will never happen.”
They charged through the cramped room, relieving Parth of the garment bag and room key on their way past, then allowed the door to swing shut behind them. They could just hear him muttering to himself as they trooped down the servant’s corridor and descended the stairs to the first floor.
Yelena’s room was considerably more sumptuous than those in the servant’s quarters. Not quite as exulted as the fine state rooms, reserved for the most prestigious VIP’s, but still very grand. A tall sash window adorned in burgundy brocade, overlooked the formal gardens. In one corner there was a seating area comprising of a settee, two small regency armchairs and a mahogany table. The Queen’s bed supported a ruched ivory pelmet and surrounding drapes, lending an almost colonial feel to the room. Mary took in the finery and felt her stomach knot inside. “It’s a stunning room, Yelena.”
“The trick is to be generous with your tips. I have this room practically every time. It is much finer than the one allocated to the Prime Minister.” They shared a brief conspiratorial snort of derision, for the powerful woman in the Velvet Room. Yelena called down to reception for a light luncheon, while Mary wriggled into the borrowed gown in the bathroom. Two safety pins to shorten the shoulder straps and a couple of gel pads inside the sandals and Mary was content that she would pass muster. With the dress safely stowed back in the garment bag, she returned to Yelena sitting on the settee.
Within half an hour, Mary was wolfing down her courgette and lime fritters while Yelena picked at her crab and avocado salad with Japanese dressing. At several points during the meal, Mary caught her rubbing her eyes and trying to hide a yawn with the back of her hand. “You look tired.” Mary said, shovelling the last of a crusty roll into her mouth.
Yelena’s eyelids drooped involuntarily. “It has been a while since I slept.” She pushed the cutlery together on her plate and leaned back.
“Why don’t you have a nice hot bath and take a nap this afternoon. I can make myself scarce.” Mary began stacking their plates onto the room service trolley.
“I don’t think you should go back to your room just yet. You’ll only end up rowing with Parth. Stay here, if you like. I’ll have a bath before we dress for dinner.” The following yawn could not be stopped. It expanded in stages, each chug of breath inflating her chest in jolts, making her jaw click and her eyes water.
“You won’t make it to dinner if you don’t get some sleep.” Mary commanded, pulling Yelena up by the arm and leading her over to the bed. Yelena complied, peeling off her work suit and gliding under the covers wearing just her silk slip and underwear. “Don’t let me sleep too long.” She buried her face in the goose down pillows. Mary raised the coverlet over her friend and sat staring out at the rain as it battered the Sweet Williams in the formal garden borders. Shuffling quietly, she poured the last of the tea into her cup and sipped.
What if I did have this child on my own? Would it be so bad? Professor Haas would allow me time off from my studies and I could always fall back on the insurance money from the accident to keep me going for a while. What about Parth, though? He would use this to worm his way back into our house… my house. I can’t allow that. But I can’t abort it. I could never live with myself. Oh God, I never thought that I would be so distressed by this. It should be something to celebrate. Yelena flung an arm out of the covers, turning restlessly and drawing Mary from her private reflections.
A broad shard of radiance pierced the black clouds and shone directly onto the pillow of the Queen’s bed, announcing a brief hiatus in the storm. Mary rose from a creaking chair and pulled the blind, shielding her friend from further disturbance.
As she stepped over her room key, which had fallen from the table to the floor, her thoughts snapped back to the discussion she witnessed in the Velvet Room - the politicians’ reaction to her abilities. Mary knew that Parth’s suggestions would be a long shot. Why upset the status quo and lose trillions of pounds, dollars, euros and many other currencies from the worldwide pharmaceutical industry? Why upset the economy with such a rash move? A growing sense of menace swelled from the pit of her stomach. What do governments do when their decisions are under threat?
Yelena stirred, muttering incomprehensible Russian sentences in her sleep, then returning to a rhythmic snore. Mary smiled. Perhaps I am over reacting. The Prime Minister has no reason to fear people with similar abilities to me. They could assist with government projects. As Yelena said, I could be a national asset. Together, we could become a useful team, trained in readiness to foil terror attempts like the Alaskan incident. The Department for Defence were actively supporting Parth’s research into identifying the triggers for my abilities after all. They should be happy that there are more like me. Maybe I will have a chance to explain that to the Prime Minister at dinner tonight.
More murmurs and muttering emanated from the bed, as her friend’s feverish shifting disclosed the contradictory emotions plaguing the agent’s mind. A moment of empathy flashed across Mary’s thoughts, suddenly quelled by a loud proclamation of the one name that struck a dread cord in Mary’s heart. An utterance that conveyed her intimate knowledge of the Soviet general who infested Mary’s dreams. The name that signified rebellion of the most heinous form. The man behind the Alaskan affair.
Mary sat immobile, convincing herself for a millisecond that she was imagining things. A cool sensation prickled her scalp then trailed down her spine. Yelena’s lips moved in voiceless words, her breath escaping in whistles across her teeth, and then, she said it again. “Alexi, don’t. Please!”
Quaking from head to toe, Mary turned and slunk from the room, cushioning the door from slamming on its sprung hinges. She ran. Along the wide landing and through fire doors to a rear staircase. Using the banister for support, she scurried down the stairs to a flagstone hallway and out of west door.
Heading down the stone steps, she glanced at the clipped box hedges surrounding the west gardens. The bronze bust of Sir Winston Churchill dominating the view of the striped lawns and regimented planting beyond. Everywhere she looked, straight edges, neat corners and zealous control. The rigid suppression of nature was visible everywhere. She thought how every aspect of society, was influenced by the decisions made under the Ditchley roof. Even the vegetation was forced to comply with their wishes. She had to get away.
Mary headed north, around the side of the building to the rear patio and massive steps leading to the lake. Here at least, the clipped and manicured lawns gave way to meadow. Mary slowed her pace, allowing her laboured breathing to subside.
The meadow was divided in two by a mown pathway through the flowers down to the water’s edge. Choosing the path that ran clockwise around the lake, she let nature fill her senses and cool the bare skin on her arms. Across the water, Mary could see a tall ornate building with a grey domed roof, supported by narrow pillars. Despite the nip in the breeze and the squelching sod underfoot, Mary felt revived by the stroll. Buzzards scanned the fields for prey in the distance and white cotton tails jumped out of danger and into the undergrowth. Pushing all thoughts of Yelena and her possible ties to the Alaskan affair to the back of her mind, Mary breathed out her troubles into the damp air.
On the far side of the lake, the
grass path crossed motor vehicle tracks leading up to the multiple arches beneath the main plinth of the structure. A heavy raindrop pounded her head, quickly followed by another. The brief interlude in the squall was over and torrential rain ensued.
Sprinting towards the shelter of the lower archways, Mary dove into the dark recess beneath the pillared floor, almost stepping on the toes of a bespectacled gentleman sitting in the shadows. The man stood up from the wooden bench, joined his hands together and bowed. “Namaste.” Mary jumped back, straightening her T shirt and absently smoothing her hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Namaste.”
A wet tendril stuck to her forehead, partially obscuring her left eye. She plucked at it, swinging the braid of hair over the top of her head. “I should have brought an umbrella.” She chuckled, nervously. He remained standing, observing her shaking the droplets of water from her hands. With calm surety, he removed the corner square from the top pocket of his cream linen kurta and offered it to her. “Oh no, thank you. That’s very kind, but I’m soaked through.”
“Please.” He moved his outstretched hand closer to her. She took the cotton handkerchief and patted her face dry. He motioned towards the bench. They sat together listening to the hissing pita-pat of the water bombarding the building. “My name is Karan. “May I know yours?”
“Pleased to meet you, Karan. I’m Mary Arora.” She bowed her head respectfully, twisting her knees around to face him.
“Arora?” He peered at her pale complexion and chestnut hair. “You are of Indian descent?” His neat brows pinched together in an apex of confusion. Karan took in her western style clothing and absence of jewellery.
“No, it’s my husband’s name. I’m from Sussex, originally.” Mary sized him up. He looked young, but his self-assured presence marked him out as hovering around forty. She clocked his pristine attire and expensive watch, soft hands and immaculate grooming. Those attributes, combined with his attendance at an invitation only, top security government estate, labelled him as a Very Important Person indeed.
