by Sam Nash
“You drive like a lunatic.” Parth braced himself against the back seat, pulling a face at each driving infraction.
“I drive like a Parisian. You should try it sometime, when you grow a spine that is.” Connie gave him a lip curling tut of disgust. Mary’s hand flew up to hide a grin. There was no doubt whose side Connie was on.
Mary scooted forwards, hugging the front headrest and leaning between the two seats. “Thank you so much, Connie. We were in such a fix. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Think nothing of it. Although you should have left that connard behind.” Connie continued to curse in French under her breath, shooting black looks to Parth via the rear view mirror. “I have a little place that is, how you say…under the radar, Yes?”
Mary nodded, giving Connie’s shoulder a pat loaded with gratitude.
“That man running towards you, was that who I think it was?” Connie’s jaw clenched. Her revolted glare told Mary that she too had tormenting dreams of the treatment endured at that man’s hands.
Mary shivered a little, then regained her composure. She had to keep sharp. “Alexi. Turns out he is not dead after all. And thankfully, a bad aim with a pistol.” Mary frowned at her own words and relaxed back into the rich leather interior. Why had her mind identified a long-distance rifle shot, when the bus stop was under fire? And yet, Alexi had a small pistol tucked into his waistband. There was no silencer on his gun. It should have made more noise, surely?
Losing track of the perpetual twists and turns of the London streets, Mary allowed the wave of nervous exhaustion consume her. Her limbs felt heavy enough to sink through the seat. It took almost an hour to battle through the city traffic, to a leafy suburban estate. From the road signs, Mary caught the name Richmond Hill as it zoomed by, and then Queen’s Road, before Connie eased back on the pedal. They passed leisure clubs and exclusive restaurants, enormous houses and buildings devoted to learning at Richmond University.
Mary sat up straight, gazing at the ostentatious show of wealth all around them. Connie steered the BMWx5 right into a narrow street of semi-detached cottages and cruised to the end. Perched at the farthest reach of the street was a new house, designed and built to blend in with the surrounding architecture. This was a huge detached property, Georgian styled and resting on the edge of Richmond Park. Connie pressed a button on the key fob and waited for the solid wooden gates to open onto the drive.
With the BMW parked, they spilled out onto the block paving and took a moment to absorb their surroundings. Mary raised her eyebrows at Connie with a faintly inquisitive smile.
Connie shrugged. “My family has money.” Mary waited for more. None was offered.
The tiled floor of the hall was dressed with a long wool rug and surrounded by reclaimed oak doors. Connie led them through a door at the end of the hall and into an open plan kitchen and living space. Its modern lines spilling into an extended garden room, constructed from glass and steel and flooded with light. “Are you hungry? I called my housekeeper on my way down to get some groceries.” Connie opened the double sized larder fridge and looked in. “I make a very good omelette?”
They accepted her kind offer and made themselves comfortable on the settees overlooking the walled garden. Connie chopped and sliced vegetables and listened to their story, making grunts of disapproval at the relevant times. Only once did she interject with; “And you trust this Hugo fellow?”
Parth assured her that their friendship spanned many years, right back to sharing student accommodation with him. Another distrustful grunt from the French lady holding a cleaver. Mary stayed quiet. The look that Hugo had given her when they parted, worried her.
Connie left the vegetables sizzling in the sauté pan and pulled her smartphone from the back pocket of her Levi’s. Pressing the power switch, it jingled and pinged and juddered with numerous unread messages and missed calls. Navigating to the first of the text messages, she grimaced. “My editor.” Looking up at Mary, she rolled her eyes. “He wants me to follow a tip from a hospital porter. He says that the maternity wards are overflowing with unexpected patients.” Connie put the phone down next to the hob, stirring the pan and flicking through the other communications intermittently.
“If you need to go, we can look after ourselves. That’s if you don’t mind us staying here for a little while?” Mary rose from her seat and wandered over to the kitchen area, extending her hand towards the sauté pan.
“No, no. It is fine. Someone else will handle it. I already have a big story brewing. I cannot do it all.”
Cracking six eggs into a jug, Connie scraped up the chopped fresh herbs with her cleaver and whisked them into the slimy liquid. Adding a sprinkling of salt and pepper, she poured the contents of the jug into the hot pan, swirling the eggs around to fill all the gaps between the vegetables. “I think you should talk things through with my boss. He is a good man. He can authorise a payment for your exclusive story, enough for you to make new lives in another country.”
Parth’s ears pricked up at the prospect of receiving a large pay out. Mary moved closer to Connie. Her features cinched together in sadness. “I can’t leave. What about Grampy, my studies, or Dan, for that matter? I can’t spend the rest of my life on the run.”
Another French shrug. “Still, you should consider it. It is one option.” The omelette puffed up with soufflé like lightness. “Can you get three plates from that cupboard over there...oui, that one. Merci, and there is a nice bottle of red over there.”
Their civilised repast filled her stomach and soothed Mary’s nerves. Connie excused herself from the table and went to the study to call her editor. Mary and Parth cleaned away the dishes. Light was fading in the walled garden and a dense layer of cloud blotted out the setting sun.
“How much do you think Connie’s editor would pay us for our story?” Parth filled the kettle, switched it on to boil, then attempted to configure the Nuova Simonelli expresso machine.
“It’s my story and I don’t care how much he is offering.” She wandered to the plush settee, collapsed into the cushions and stared up at the massing clouds above the glass roof. A chewed tennis ball ricocheted from the top of the garden wall, soared in a high dome and bounced against the roof panes. Mary watched its slow descent down the glass panel and into the gutter.
Wonder what kind of dog will be looking for that. Unless it was deliberate. Maybe the owner will use it as an excuse to knock on Connie’s door. Do the minister’s men know I am here, or Alexi? Mary fought the omelette back down. Parth delivered a cup of tea to her. She sat up. “Do you think we are safe here?”
Connie returned, catching the tail end of Mary’s remark. “No one knows of this place, Mary. Not even my editor. It is registered under another name.” She went to the expresso machine and scooped fresh coffee grounds into the portafilter and tamped it down.
“Can they trace us from your car?” Mary swivelled around. “Or your phone?”
“Relax. I have an encrypted cell phone and the car is registered under the same name as this address. But, if it makes you happy, I will put the car in the garage overnight.” Connie reached for the jumble of keys on the worktop and threw them at Parth. “Here, make yourself useful. The red button on the key fob opens the garage. Do not scratch my paintwork.”
Connie left Parth’s coffee to cool on the kitchen counter and led Mary up the stairs to the guest rooms. “You should find plenty of clean clothes in the cupboards, help yourself.”
“This is starting to feel like déjà vu. I haven’t thanked you for the last lot of clothes I borrowed from you.” Mary sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the satin bedspread with the flat of her hand.
“We live in turbulent times. What good are we if we cannot help our friends?” They exchanged brief smiles, and then Connie left Mary to settle in.
It was past ten o’clock when Mary had finished her leisurely shower and donned a set of Connie’s cotton pyjamas. She took out the burner phone from her satchel. If
only I could call Grampy. Talk things through with him. He would know what to do. No point. Even if they haven’t got this number, they will most definitely be tracking his calls.
It felt good to be clean and tucked between luxuriant sheets of the highest thread count, but Mary could not sleep. She stared up and the ceiling, trying to capture and lock away some of the more gruesome memories of her ordeals. Her thoughts turned to the suggestion of fleeing the country, and her grandfather. I could leave my body and have a snoop on Grampy, check that he is okay. No… Dan would have contacted Connie if there was a problem, he’s fine. I could get inside Grampy’s head and talk to him from there…no, that would freak him out. Might give him a stroke or a heart attack.
Mary sat up. The air was humid and stale. She pulled back the covers and stretched her feet to the cool wooden floor. With the lamp switched on, she admired the styling of the room. Modern but elegant, just like Connie. I wonder if she has any decaf tea. Bet she has. I bet she has thought of everything. Mary wandered along the landing and trod carefully down the squeaking stairs. She could hear Parth’s rhythmic wheeze, asleep in another guest room. The door to the study was ajar. Connie was contemplating something on her laptop screen. Mary inched forwards, tapping lightly on the door and clearing her throat so as not to alarm her.
Connie glanced up. “Is everything alright? Is there something you need?” Her face was screwed up in concentration.
Mary stepped back. “I’m disturbing you. I am sorry.”
“No, it is fine. I am cross with this story, that is all. How can I help you?” Connie’s features flattened into a colourless smile.
Mollified, Mary entered the study and edged closer to the desk. “I was hoping that you might have some decaf tea. Can I make you a drink? It’s awfully late to still be working.”
“Non, merci.” Her eyes squinted at the screen as she tapped viciously at the trackpad. “Tut…” Connie made a guttural sound of revulsion in her throat. “Totalement incroyable.”
Mary rounded Connie’s shoulder and peered at the monitor. “What’s happened?”
Connie clicked a few more times on the mousepad and looked up at her friend. “I have an…er…illegal hack on this person’s computer. A CEO of the chemical company that I am following for my story.” She stood up to allow Mary a closer view. “See the email at the top of the list?”
Mary sat down in the desk chair and searched for the mail in question. A cold sensation crawled across her neck and down her back. At the top of the screen, next to the subject heading ‘Urgent’, was the Minister for the Environment’s surname. Connie leaned across and tapped the message open.
Bernie, need you to coordinate the immediate delivery of all sodium fluorosilicate, or similar, to every British water authority. Official paper being drafted. Will require continuous supply. Also require mass production and dissemination of new compound. Can you assist? Call me.
Connie Looked at Mary. “This fluorosilicate. It is the same as fluoride, yes?”
“Yes. There are a couple of different compounds that can be used, but it has roughly the same effect on the body.” Mary moved to let Connie sit down.
The French lady was deep in thought. Her tongue rested on her lip while the words were forming. “I thought Britain no longer put fluoride in the water. Most European countries stopped it a long time ago.”
“There are a couple of water authorities in the UK that still add fluoride. I suppose that gives the government licence to enforce it elsewhere without raising it in parliament.”
Connie opened a new browser window and typed into the search bar. A long list of websites relating to the effects of fluoride filled the screen. She chose the first link, Fluoride Watchdog. In massive letters across the webpage it stated:
Fluoride is a highly toxic substance. Even at small dosages, certain members of the population are at risk of severe harm.
She traced her finger down the screen over the multiple organs and systems that can be adversely affected by the chemical.
“I don’t understand. What possible reason could the Minister for the Environment have for its reintroduction into the water supply? The general population already receives a disturbing amount of the stuff in toothpaste. Anymore and everyone is at risk of toxic fluorosis.” Connie clicked on the next website from the search list, skim reading and clicking through scientific papers stated in evidence.
Mary offered an explanation. “They are afraid that there are more people like me in the country. Fluoride calcifies the pineal gland and reduces its functions.”
“They want to suppress anyone who might develop abilities such as yours and Dan’s?” She watched Mary nodding slowly. “Incroyable. They are willing to poison everyone on the off chance that someone is telepathic.” Connie grasped the back of her head, blew out her cheeks, and then opened the third website from the search. “This website says it is perfectly safe and recommends that people take fluoride supplements where water is not fluorinated.”
“Yeah, that one will have been written in the United States. If you look at Wikipedia for Fluoride toxicity, it will be smothered in warnings about it being factually incorrect.”
“Mais pourquoi?” Connie looked stunned.
“Because most of the states in the U.S. are fluorinated. There are campaigns to highlight the negative impact, but there are just as many to promote its use. The toxic waste from the fertilizer industry is sold to water companies as a beneficial additive.”
Connie sat in a daze of disbelief. The very idea that politicians could wreck the lives of millions of people and spin it as a health benefit for profit shocked her into silence. The slow shake of her head told Mary that she needed a moment to process the revelation. Finally, she asked, “And what of this new compound from the email?”
Mary lowered her head and swallowed. “I think that may be my fault too. The Prime Minister sent word to GCHQ Porton Down for a compound specifically designed to shut down abilities like mine. Sounds like they had one ready and waiting for mass production.”
Connie snatched up her mobile phone, pressing her thumb print against the home button to unlock its features. “I shall call my editor and pitch this as a new story focus. We will get the front page, of this I am sure.” She touched the telephone icon and navigated to the number of a recent call. Mary indicated that she would go to the kitchen to make their drinks. Perhaps caffeinated tea would be better considering the nocturnal activities ahead.
Mary grabbed the kettle from its base and carried it to the sink. With one hand on the cold-water tap, she stopped. Would the chemical company have had time to release fluoride into the water supply yet? She backed away and counted the hours from her bodiless snooping at Ditchley. Surely not? Pushing the tap lever, Mary let the water flow into the sink. It smelled strongly of the familiar chlorine used to kill any bacteria remaining from the treatment plant. Fluoride does not affect the flavour or smell of water. There is no way to tell if it is in the pipes without specialised testing.
Tightening the tap, Mary replaced the kettle and took out two small bottles of spring water from the fridge and returned to the study. Connie was patrolling up and down the polished wooden floor, her phone pressed to her ear. She wore a murderous expression. Mary placed one bottle on the desk and took a sip from the other. The French lady made another gruff noise and bared her teeth. She sat inelegantly and squeezed the phone against her head with a hunched shoulder, freeing her hands to type. Rolling her eyes at Mary, Connie navigated to a secure network, typing in a password and clicking through drop down menus.
“Acht… this cannot be.” Her head moved from side to side as she read from the screen. Mary mouthed to her friend, what’s wrong? Connie raised her hand to the balancing phone, pulling it away from her face. “The government have put a Defence and Security Media Advisory Notice on all reports about water. None of our story can be published.”
Chapter Twelve
They were out-manoeuvred. Connie argued on the
phone until her editor hung up. Both ministers had too many resources at their disposal. She threw her mobile down onto the desk. It clattered across the laptop keyboard, stirring the screen back to life.
“I suppose that’s that then. Must be very frustrating for you. Can you still publish the pharmaceutical story that you were chasing down or will that be banned too?” Mary sauntered towards the door, wondering how she could extricate herself from Connie’s quandary politely and return to the guest room.
“I am not finished yet. This story is too important to drop. People have a right to know that they are going to be medicated without their consent. I may not be able to publish the story, but you can. The Internet is still beyond the grasp of the politicians, for now at least.”
“I don’t follow…”
“In the morning, Mary, I will take you to a friend of mine. You will tell him the whole story and he will launch it to every blogger and conspiracy theorist on the entire net.” Connie grappled Mary by the shoulders and aimed her towards the hallway.
“I’m not sure that’s very wise…”
“Get some sleep, Mary. I will wake you when it’s time to go.” Connie pushed Mary to the foot of the stairs and urged her to climb. Mary did so, happy to be dismissed from Connie’s mighty fervour, and be alone with her thoughts once more. Maybe I can talk Connie round over breakfast. With any luck, this conspiracy nut won’t be interested in meeting me.
***
The morning brought damp clouds and a chilly breeze. When Mary reached the breakfast table, Parth was tucking into scrambled eggs on toast while Connie nibbled the corner of a croissant. Connie smiled at Mary as she sat down and then returned her gaze to the ubiquitous mobile phone chatter.
