Captive (6 page)

‘Yes, at the Opera House. It was pouring and her umbrella was broken and you found her a taxi. Only you found out later that Mum hates opera. She hadn’t been to a show at all.
She’d just been sheltering from the rain.’

‘Ah, so I’ve told you that story before.’

‘About a thousand times.’ Then to change the subject: ‘I hope Addy’s okay.’

‘She’ll be fine. We’ll get her a present. A plastic Eiffel Tower or something. I’m glad to spend this time with you, Bobikins. I don’t see enough of you these
days.’

As if to prove his words, Gordon is back. He coughs politely. ‘Prime Minister. I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but we need to go over the security arrangements one more
time.’

‘Haven’t we just done that?’

‘Yes, sir, but there has been a last-minute amendment. If you could just come to the front of the plane.’ As they walk away, I definitely hear Gordon mutter something about
‘security breach’ and ‘illegal protest’ and ‘angry’.

Not good words to hear in the same sentence. There’s been a lot of stuff on TV recently about Dad and Michael’s friendship. The police still haven’t caught those responsible
for the arson at Bell-Barkov last October and people are saying that Dad could be their next target. Apparently, the AFC believe the company gets some sort of special treatment because of
Michael’s relationship with my dad. It doesn’t make any sense to me, but I don’t take too much notice. I know the security services are on it, but even so, I am worried. I
don’t want anything to happen to Dad. I look out of the window, feeling nervous. Far below, the sea winks at me through a thick armour of cloud, like the eye of a crocodile.

Eventually dawn leaks into the room, scraping back the darkness with her long thin fingers to the trill of morning birdsong. I didn’t hear Addy crying again in the night,
but that doesn’t mean she isn’t here somewhere. I don’t believe Talon. I don’t have tons of experience with kidnappers but they aren’t known for their open and frank
exchanges with prisoners. I’d say they pretty much tell you whatever it is they want you to know.

A little while after sunrise, Talon brings me breakfast. He is more cautious today, untying only one of my wrists, so I’m still fastened to the bed but can sit up to eat. I couldn’t
attack him now anyway. After last night’s restlessness, my muscles feel drained and my legs and arms are as heavy and inanimate as a wooden puppet’s.

His face is still masked, only those vivid green eyes – the colour of verdigrised copper – are visible. They never look at me directly. Even as he unties me, he keeps his focus
somewhere around my chin level, like maybe he’s ashamed or something. As though he thinks that by not looking at me, this might not be happening. It reminds me of Addy’s invisibility
game where she closes her eyes and then walks around my room, stealing my lip-gloss or earrings or other shiny things. When I ask her what she’s doing, she says, ‘I not here. I
invisibubble.’ Thinking about my sister hurts.

Talon left the tray on the chair while he cut the flexes off, but now he puts it next to me on the bed. I notice that he is still favouring his left arm. ‘Breakfast,’ he says, like I
might be a bit stupid. A newspaper is folded up next to it. I catch sight of the headline as he holds the tray out to me: ‘PM’s daughter taken hostage.’

I hesitate, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of having brought me something I actually want, and then the need to know overwhelms me and I snatch it up greedily. There is a grainy photo
of me taken at Mum’s birthday last year. I wish they had chosen another picture. I am not even smiling in this one. I look stuck-up and smug. My long hair is pulled back in a ponytail; my
fringe is in my eyes as usual.

The article reads, ‘Robyn Knollys-Green, the prime minister’s sixteen-year-old daughter, was kidnapped shortly after one p.m. yesterday, when the car she was travelling in was
ambushed following a roadside bomb just outside Northampton. Security forces have refused to comment on whether there is any link between the kidnapping and the shooting of the prime minister in
January, the crime for which Kyle Jefferies is awaiting trial.

‘Special forces driver John McNally is in a serious but stable condition. Two other police officers are being treated for minor injuries while the PM’s wife and youngest daughter
escaped with only cuts and bruises and are recovering at Downing Street.

‘No organisation has yet claimed responsibility for the attack.’

Addy and Mum are at Downing Street. They’re safe. A horrible thought occurs to me. ‘You could have made this up. Created it on the computer or something.’

‘I could have’ – he pushes the tray of food towards me – ‘but I didn’t.’ His eyes flick up to mine for the first time. ‘Your mum and sister are
safe, which is more than I can say for my family.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. Just eat.’

I ask if he plans on watching me, only I don’t say it like that. I ask very politely, in a pathetically small voice, if he could perhaps sit a little bit further away, if he wouldn’t
mind very much. Because he is making me really nervous. I don’t say that last part either, though.

He doesn’t answer but he does go and lean against the door, which is about as far away as he can get while still being in the room.

I pick up a piece of toast. My mum and sister are safe. They are at home. But that means . . . I put the slice back down. I am here alone. No one beyond my kidnappers knows where I am. Suddenly
I don’t feel so much like eating. After poking at the things on the tray – a cup of tea, two slices of toast and a cherry yoghurt – I decide I definitely won’t be able to
eat it. I push the food away.

‘Loads of starving kids would be grateful for that food.’

I don’t answer.

‘If you’re not going to eat, I’m going to tie you up again.’ He is wary as he moves towards me. I make my limbs as floppy and heavy as I can when it comes to tying me up.
He seems uncomfortable, like maybe he knows this is wrong. At one point, I swear his hands are shaking. In any case, it takes him a long time to fasten the flexes around the bed.

When he’s done, I ask how long I’m going to be here.

‘Until your dad cooperates.’

I ask what they want and his eyes shine brightly like there’s a sudden fire behind them. Talon clearly cares a great deal about the reason I am here.

‘Justice.’ He says the word slowly and precisely. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about it. I’m just meant to bring you food and take you to the bathroom. Feather’s
the one who should be explaining things. She’s in charge.’

That doesn’t fill me with confidence. I have seen a light in Feather’s eyes too, but there is something too bright about it. It is a beam that is closer to fanaticism than passion
and, besides, so far all she’s done is threaten me.

Paris is leached of colour. Buildings, trees, gates, people – they are all black smudges on a white background. The city’s ice-clenched roads are mostly empty
since few will brave the cold, and the Eiffel Tower is crouched amid the white emptiness like a spider in its web. Just like in Henri Cartier-Bresson’s photos.

Dad hadn’t been keen on venturing out, but I’d insisted. I know how quickly he can get sucked into things and I had wanted to keep him to myself as long as possible. A mad walk
from the hotel to the Eiffel Tower in the burning cold seemed just the thing, but the tips of my toes are frozen now, even in my sturdy black boots, and I wish I’d put on another pair of
tights and remembered my gloves. I took a few photos on the way over here, but my fingers are too cold to take any more. I shrink down further into my coat, wrapping my scarf once more around my
neck.

‘The tower’s height varies something like ten or fifteen centimetres, depending on the weather,’ Dad says, coming up behind me. ‘“The frost performs its secret
ministry.” Here’ – he hands me a plastic cup of hot chocolate – ‘drink this before I have to phone your mother and tell her you’ve caught
pneumonia.’

‘You can’t catch pneumonia,’ I say, ‘only the infections that cause it.’

‘Where did you learn to be so pedantic?’

‘I wonder . . .’

And he gives a bellyful laugh like Father Christmas in the Coke adverts. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that. His hair is thinner now; it starts further back on
his forehead and I am sure there are more creases around his eyes. Running the country has made my dad old.

I take a sip of my hot chocolate. ‘How tall is it then, the Tower? Come on. I know you’re dying to tell me.’

‘Three hundred and twenty-four metres or roughly nine hundred and eighty-one feet, roughly equivalent to an eighty-one-storey building. Finished in eighteen eighty-nine, it was the
tallest building in the world for forty-one years until the Chrysler Building—’

‘Yes, thank you, Dad. The important question is can we climb it? And the answer to that is yes.’ But Dad’s face is not saying yes. It’s saying, ‘I have a meeting
with the French President on Thursday to discuss Anglo–Franco trade agreements and a mountain of reports to read before then.’ ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Another time.
We probably wouldn’t see much today with all the clouds anyway.’

‘The summit on Thursday with the President is very important, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to make the most of our time here,’ he says.

So long as it doesn’t interfere with any planning. ‘Are you nervous about the meeting?’

‘Me? Nervous? No way, kiddo.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Kiddo?’

‘Not what all the kids are saying these days?’

‘No, Dad. Stick to being a boring old politician in a grey suit, all right? Seriously, though, do you ever get nervous?’ He has met so many leaders and dictators over the years.
Sometimes I am too scared to even read aloud in English class.

‘Sometimes. But it’s practice mainly, and preparation. And remembering that people are just people. Even the scary ones. I do like to be ready, though. It is so much easier to get
people on board if you understand one another. And unity is even more important now that the world is in such flux. There are a lot of angry people out there, Bobs. It’s important to shore up
relationships. Not everyone agrees with the way other nations conduct themselves. It’s my responsibility to ensure that no one can find fault with Britain.’

‘You’re talking like a politician.’

‘Am I?’

‘Dad, the fire at Bell-Barkov last year . . .’

‘What on earth has put that into your head now?’

‘On the plane Gordon said something about a security breach, and I’ve heard people saying that the AFC are angry with you because of something to do with Michael.’

‘The AFC are terrorists.’

‘But you’re not in danger or anything, are you?’

‘Me? Goodness, no. Nothing is going to happen to me.’

Gordon, who had been talking on his mobile, comes up to us then and says that we should be getting back.

‘We’ll talk about this more later,’ Dad says to me, before beginning to walk back towards the main road with Gordon.

Irritation bubbles inside me, making the hot chocolate taste sour in my mouth.
I
was talking to Dad. Why does everyone always have to interrupt? Why are their questions always more
important than mine? We won’t talk about this later. We never do talk properly.

Gordon and Dad are walking a little ahead of me now, with Gordon laughing at something Dad has said. I drop back further, watching my boots turn white to black to white as I drag my feet
through the snow. Dad stops to wait for me, throwing his arm around my shoulder as soon as I get close enough. I shrug him off, sidestepping out of reach. I am rewarded by seeing a flash of
annoyance in his eyes. Good. Now he knows how it feels to be disappointed. It is childish, and I immediately regret it when Dad stalks off without a word. I want to call out that I am sorry, that I
just want to spend more time with him – but something in the set of his shoulders keeps me silent.

Dad is standing over my bed when I wake up. It must be early evening, as his face is an inkblot in the thin light from the high-up window. A gasp catches in my throat. They
have found me!

‘Dad!’ I say, tears welling in my eyes as my arms go around his neck. He holds me close and I breathe in the familiar musky scent of his aftershave and the traces of cigar smoke.
‘How did you find me?’ I cling to him more tightly.

‘We’re going to get you out of here. There are police everywhere. You’re safe now. You’re safe.’

I open my eyes. The cell is flooded with sunlight; the window is a splice of pale blue. Dust particles dance in the sparkling light, pirouetting in a golden line from the window to the opposite
wall of the cell, where they seem to converge into shapes. It is like looking into a kaleidoscope.

Dad isn’t here. No one is, but me. It was just a dream. I wasn’t even asleep. It’s too uncomfortable with my hands pulled over my head. I think I just passed out for a while,
which is annoying as I’d been trying to keep track of time. How much darker is it in here now than before? Was I out for ten minutes, twenty, an hour? I have no idea.

The flue of sunlight disappears, taking the frolicking dust particles with it. A spider scuttles across the bare wall towards the door. I watch as it disappears through a crack in the doorframe.
My mouth tastes like a rubbish tip and a headache is pushing at my eyes. I must have been sweating in my sleep because my hair is stuck to my face in clumps. I can’t even push it away.

Outside, a bird is crying a thin, high note.
Zi-zi-zi. Zi-zi-zi.
I imagine the view outside: a garden, an oak tree, birds. Beyond, what? A hill? A forest? Fields? The image is replaced
with another: the Eiffel Tower through my camera lens, looking black and spindly, and standing tall in a world of ice and frost.