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  “If we could take people’s circumstances into account a little more …”

  Dad’s at the stage now, heading up the steps toward me. He steps onto the platform, beaming at the crowd. He puts his arm around me and takes the mic from my hand.

  “What Talia is saying is that the National Law Party cares about everyone. We will make sure petty criminals have every opportunity to make their way back into society again, and the innocent are saved from both those who would victimize them, and the unpredictable nature of disease.”

  He gives me a gentle push, toward the edge of the stage. “Thank you, Talia.” I head for the steps, my heels clacking, the scattered applause ringing in my ears.

  The two police officers are there. I feel cold. What do they want?

  Dad told me two policemen pulled him out of the Commons the day Mum and Rebecca were murdered. I look back at Dad, but he’s thanking his supporters, smoothing things over.

  I take the steps down to stand in front of the police. In my peripheral vision I see the TV camera tracking me.

  The female officer steps forward. Her face is firm, no trace of friendliness or sympathy. She speaks quietly, and I have to lean in to catch the words.

  “Talia Hale, I am arresting you for forgery and fraud. You do not have to say anything, however, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BANQUETING HOUSE, WHITEHALL, LONDON

  FIFTEEN DAYS LEFT

  I LEAN BACK, AS if I’ve been slapped. What’s going on? The policewoman continues with the caution. Around us, the well-dressed party supporters move closer to catch her words.

  “Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” She takes a deep breath. “It would be best for everyone if we don’t have to use the handcuffs.”

  There are flashbulbs going off around us, fast as strobe lighting.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder, turns me toward the door, and starts to guide me through the crowd. People are pushing to get closer to us. People with cameras and microphones.

  “There must have been a mistake.”

  The policewoman shakes her head, and we keep walking.

  I twist my neck around. Dad’s still on stage, mic in hand, staring. “What’s going on?” he demands, voice amplified.

  “You can join us at the station, sir,” the second officer, an older man, says. Camera flashes focus on my father’s baffled expression. As I turn away, Piers is stumbling up the steps to the stage and leading him off to one side, out of the glare of the media.

  The police keep moving me forward. I hear the muffled sound of the mic being dropped, and then we’re out into the entrance hall. I don’t ask if we can stop to get my coat, don’t even think about it until we’re outside and the wind is cold on my bare shoulders. I’m so exposed. There are more media here, TV cameras too, their lights blinding in the darkness outside. Someone must have tipped them off. I raise an arm to shield my eyes as shouted questions explode all around me.

  The police car is waiting. The female officer opens the door, puts a hand on my head and guides me into the car, awkward in my heels and floor-length gown. I pull the last of the silky fabric in next to me, and she slams the door shut on the noise, the questions, the paparazzi outside. It’s a relief when we pull away.

  At the police station, they bring me to the custody sergeant, and take down my name and address. I’m in a daze as they stand me against a plain background and snap a photo: my mugshot. I hope the press don’t get hold of it.

  They show me through to a shabby interview room just as Piers arrives, still dressed in his tux. He takes off his jacket and his white shirt gleams in the too-bright fluorescent light. He tells me to stay silent so I sit there, shivering in my thin dress as a policeman presents the evidence.

  They have the letter I forged on my father’s paper. The CCTV showing me entering Quarantine. Frank’s report on the “incident” with Jack. Apparently, they routinely check all permission letters with each MP’s office. My father’s secretary told them he hadn’t written any in months. My father confirmed it, ignorant of my little outing.

  Piers asks for a private conference with his “client.” The police leave us alone in the room.

  “Can I speak to Dad?” I ask.

  Piers shakes his head. “I told him not to come down here. I had to fight him on that, but we don’t want him photographed at the police station. He’ll meet you at home.”

  I rest my forehead on the cracked surface of the table to hide my tears. I’ve gone from election asset to election torpedo in the space of an hour.

  Have I destroyed my father’s hopes? I’m such a bloody idiot. What will I be sentenced to? Mumps, perhaps? Maybe they’ll give me a disfiguring illness, to make an example of me, or something dangerous, like polio. It won’t be a venereal disease, at least. They don’t give those to under-18s.

  I might throw up.

  Piers limps back and forth across the room like an injured lion in a cage.

  “When I said you could change the world, I didn’t mean this. Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Yes,” I say without moving my head.

  “Forging an official signature on Parliamentary letterhead! Going to Quarantine without permission! These are serious charges, Talia!”

  I chew on my lip. I didn’t consider forging Dad’s signature a crime. It felt like faking a sick note for school: bad, but not criminal.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Talia!”

  I do. His expression is fierce, and I wish I could look away again.

  “This is a gift to bloody Sebastian Conway and the Government. I bet they used their contacts on the police force and made sure they got your arrest on film for maximum embarrassment.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “We have to manage this. You went there to speak to the man who attacked that girl at the hospital, right?”

  I nod.

  “Why? To gloat?”

  “No! I thought he might know who the girl was.”

  Piers pauses in his pacing. “You were looking for her?”

  “Yes. She acted as if she knew him.”

  Piers’s face clears. His fingers drum on his smooth chin. “We can work with that angle. You’ll get some sympathy. What did he tell you?”

  “That he was her father. I found out later he had brain damage, that’s why he acted that way.”

  The corner of Piers’s mouth twitches. “Hmm. Best if people don’t know that. Makes you look less heroic. We’ll keep it simple. Stick with you trying to find the girl, and your dad was too busy to sign the form.”

  “But that’s …”

  Piers holds up a hand to signal for me to stay silent. He starts pacing again as he talks, the clacking of his walking stick punctuating his speech.

  “You knew he’d say yes, and you didn’t want to bother him since he’s so busy. You were just being considerate. I’ll get him to agree that it was a misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t want to lie.”

  Piers punches the table. “You already lied, Talia! You lied to all of us and got us into this! Let me write the script here.” His fist is still clenched. “I’ll clean up your mess, but you have to fall in line. The girl ended up in a children’s home, right?”

  “She … well, she left. Escaped.” My voice shakes a little. But I’m not going to tell Piers about Galen and the hidden flat.

  “That’s probably good. Don’t want her going off script. Best if we keep the ‘father with brain damage’ stuff out of the papers.”

  My mouth falls open. How can he be so callous? He pulls up the chair opposite me.

  “I need you on board, Talia. The election depends on this. You don’t want to destroy your father’s career, do you?”

  My gaze falls to the stained table, my hands still in the elbow-length gloves. He continues.

  “You won’t need to say anything. I’ll do the talking. We’ll prepa
re a statement in which you’ll confess to the crime and explain the mitigating circumstances. You plead guilty and, because we’re not opposing it, our contacts in the judiciary can get this rushed through the courts.”

  Should I be agreeing to this? It’s true, sort of. I did forge the letter to find Tig. I didn’t mean any harm. And why should Dad suffer for my mistake?

  Piers takes my silence as agreement. “We’ll leak this story to the media, along with your apology, and we might be able to get you off with a stomach bug or strep throat.”

  Dad’s not at home when I get there. It’s late when we’re done at the station, and Piers tells me he sent Dad back to the gala to smooth things over, then off to HQ for the debrief and phone interviews with key media to manage the situation I’ve created. Dad messages me that we’ll work this all out, and that he loves me. But I don’t hear him come in that night.

  The next morning, he’s not in the house. Did he stay with Alison? When the door opens at lunchtime, I run downstairs. I expect him to be angry, but the man standing in the doorway is exhausted. He doesn’t take his coat off as he walks through to the sitting room and collapses on the sofa. Only then does he raise his eyes to me.

  “Talia,” he says, the disappointment heavy in his voice.

  “I’m sorry.” I’ve rehearsed better, of course. Gone through my defense, and how to explain my actions. But I was expecting anger, raised voices. Not this defeated version of my dad. I wonder if he slept at all.

  He takes a deep breath in, rubs his hands over his face and beard. “Did they treat you okay at the station?”

  “They … it was fine,” I say.

  “Good.” He sits there. I wish he’d say something. Do something. Shout at me.

  “I thought I could trust you, Talia.”

  “You can! It was just that one thing.” But I’m lying again. There were those trips to the Barbican. But how can I tell him about that without betraying Galen and Tig? Perhaps he can hear the insincerity in my voice, because he drops his head into his hands.

  “I can’t cancel the campaign, and you can’t come with me.” His voice is muffled and I have to step forward to catch it.

  I feel as if a light has been extinguished in my chest.

  “What?”

  Dad lifts his head. “I wanted you to come with us on the road. I don’t want to be without you for that long. But the media will hound you if you’re there. And you need time to recover from whatever they sentence you to. You can get serious complications with diseases. I can’t risk your health. You’re too important to me.”

  “But I …”

  “No buts. You’ll stay in the flat while I’m away, and I’ll get Alison to check in on you, and she’ll stay here once you’re no longer contagious.”

  “No,” I say. The anger rising in me comes as a surprise. “I am not being babysat by your … your … whatever she is!”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not the only one who has been hiding something. You should have told me! You shouldn’t have …”

  “Yes, I should have told you. I am sorry. But we’re serious.” He shakes his head. “I want you to get to know her.”

  “I already know her as well as I want to.”

  Dad rubs at his eyes. “I could have sent someone else to Quarantine to ask about the girl. You didn’t need to lie to me. You talk to me, if something’s on your mind.”

  “I’ve been trying, Dad.” There are a lot of things on my mind. Alison, right now. And the image of the two of them together. I wish I could block it out. “I tried to talk to you about the homes. And about the Barbican. But you wouldn’t listen.”

  “I did listen. I set up the raid.”

  “You have to call that off.”

  That jolts Dad out of his exhaustion. “What?”

  “It’s not good for the people there.”

  Dad’s brow is furrowed. “It will be good for the law-abiding citizens, for the children. Clean out the scum. Leave it safer for them.”

  I flinch when he says “scum.” “But some people only committed minor crimes.”

  “Then they’ll get minor sentences. They’ll be okay.”

  “Some people haven’t had a fair shot.” I stare at my hands in my lap.

  “The judges will take mitigating circumstances into account.” Dad shakes his head. “I don’t get this. Why have you changed your mind?”

  What can I say? How can I explain why my opinion has changed?

  “Is this because you’re going to be sentenced?” He sighs, puts a hand on my shoulder. “No one there committed crimes for reasons like yours. Yes, you lied to me, but you did it out of concern for the girl. You’re a good girl. A caring girl.”

  “There has to be another way. Please, Dad.”

  “I’ve told our cabinet. There’s full support. I can’t cancel for no reason.”

  He doesn’t get it.

  “What is this really about, Talia? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing,” I say, but my gaze must give me away.

  “What are you keeping from me? Do you have more secrets I should know about?”

  I could ask him the same question. But I pause for too long.

  “What else have you done?” He swallows. “Have you put yourself in more danger? Have you broken other laws?”

  “No,” I say, answering his second question. But I’m not even certain about that. I know where a fugitive is hiding. Am I an accessory?

  Dad stands up. “You’re keeping things from me. Defending criminals. I don’t know what’s happened, but I’ll be honest. It feels like you’re betraying the memory of Rebecca and your mother.”

  That makes my head hurt. “I’m betraying Mum’s memory? You’re the one sleeping with Alison. How would Mum feel about that? No wonder you’re hiding it from the voters.”

  “Talia!”

  “Look at yourself, Dad, lecturing me on keeping secrets, when you say you’re serious about that cow, but you’re keeping it secret because of politics?”

  “Don’t call Alison that.”

  “I don’t want to hear about Alison. I don’t want to hear you defending her, or hear how great she is, or see her wearing the same clothes two days running because you’ve been screwing her in our home!”

  He looks like I’ve slapped him.

  “She wouldn’t be with you if you were anyone else, you know. You’re too old. She just wants to be the prime minister’s wife. She doesn’t care about you!”

  Dad’s mouth is a straight line. “Go to your room.”

  “Why? Do you have yet another important political meeting I’m getting in the way of? Or are you heading off to sleep with her again?”

  He doesn’t say anything to that, just breathes in hard through his nose. And I don’t want to look at him anymore. I turn and storm off up the stairs. He doesn’t follow me.

  I avoid Dad for the next few days. It’s not hard, since he’s never at home. He leaves me messages, but I don’t reply.

  Piers works to fast-track my case, and since I’m pleading guilty, we’re in court a few days later. With Transfer waiting times growing daily, it’s easy to justify the expedited sentencing. The room is packed with spectators, and the media. I don’t have to say a word. It’s good, because I’m scared. There are no guarantees that I’m going to get off lightly.

  I’ve been told to shut up, sit still, and look contrite as Piers speaks on my behalf.

  He picked out my outfit. I hate it, and struggle not to fiddle with the tight Peter Pan collar. He obviously decided to make me look as young as possible. I’m surprised he didn’t put my hair in bunches.

  Dad sits next to me. He pats my hand during the hearing, and kisses my forehead. But I wonder if it’s for the court’s benefit, not mine. He’s sitting too stiffly, his whole body turned slightly away from me, toward the judge.

  Piers is good. Even I almost believe him. But as the case goes on I get more worried.
The judge peers over his glasses at me several times and I try to look apologetic. Maximum sentencing for forgery is tuberculosis. And painful and disfiguring diseases are common. I’ve heard shingles is awful. You can end up with permanent scars, or blind in an eye. And what if I get a Recall? I’ll spend a year wondering if there will be a pandemic.

  But the judge addresses me when he’s announcing his decision. Uses phrases like irreproachable character, heroic actions, mistake, and concern for others. I’m getting away with a slap on the wrist. Piers is beaming already.

  It’s the flu, in the end. No Recall. Backs are slapped, and I’m led outside to face the press. Piers has kept my speech short, and has told me to stick to the cards we wrote together. I’m in no mood to disobey.

  “I’m sorry,” I say into the microphones. I picture two pairs of green eyes, the people I should be apologizing to. “I accept full responsibility for my actions, and the consequences. If I could go back and do things differently, I would.”

  Then I’m led away, and into the criminal section of the Old Bailey, to cross the bridge to St. Barts for the sentence to be carried out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ST. BARTS HOSPITAL, LONDON

  ELEVEN DAYS LEFT

  THEY CALL IT THE Walk of Shame. It was added onto the Old Bailey in the seventies. It’s a glass-walled passageway that leads over Newgate Street and straight into the back of St. Barts. Not the nice, new building where I first encountered Jack, but the brutal concrete block where convicts receive their diseases.

  The media are in the street below, with long-lens cameras, waiting to get a snap of me. I keep my eyes forward as I’m led out of the Old Bailey and onto the passageway. Take care to look contrite, but unafraid. My ballet flats make a smacking sound against the floor. I keep my chin up and walk straight on. From the corner of my eye I can see them, crowded on the street below on both sides, flashbulbs sparkling in their midst like glitter. The more enterprising have got into the buildings on either side, and white light pulses from open windows. It’s only about twenty paces until I’m across, but it feels like much longer. I never thought I’d see this place from the inside. The older court officer presses a button to open the brown double doors and I’m led into St. Barts.