Transferral Page 11

  The antiseptic smell reminds me of my stay in hospital after the shooting. Of grief, pain and anger. The floor covering is wearing through in the middle of the corridor, and the concrete shows in patches. The walls are covered in linoleum too, but it’s peeling away where it meets the ceiling.

  Someone is screaming in a room halfway down the corridor. I know the Transfer hurts when you’re receiving, but I didn’t know it was that bad. I thought that was just what they put on TV for more drama.

  The younger court officer seems to read my mind. “Don’t worry, you’re just getting the flu. Not like him, poor sod.”

  We get closer to the door, and the screams get louder. I won’t cover my ears. I won’t. I grind my teeth as we pass. The screams pursue us down the corridor. Now it sounds more like an animal in there than a human in pain.

  My each step is reluctant now, my body locked with fear. My knees don’t want to bend, and my arms are poker-straight at my sides. The younger court officer puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me on.

  We keep walking, to the fifth door on our right. Then the court officer places my folder in the file rack on the door, and opens it.

  There are no sheets on the bed, but leather straps lie across it, with ankle and wrist cuffs at the sides. I stop in the doorway and stare. It’s just like on crime shows.

  “Do you have to strap me down?” I say to the younger court officer, but it’s the older one who answers.

  “It’s policy. Never know what criminals are going to do.”

  The younger court officer flinches when his colleague says “criminals.” He pats me on the shoulder. “There can be some involuntary movement, and with needles in your arms, you might hurt yourself.”

  Involuntary movement. I don’t like the sound of that. I take two deep breaths. Whatever happens, I have to maintain my dignity. One of these men might sell my story to the tabloids.

  “Lie down,” the older man says, pulling the straps out of my way.

  I want to run, but how would that look? Malcolm Hale’s daughter, trying to escape justice? So I lie down on the bed. The older officer slaps the leather strap across my chest, and quickly buckles it. The other man gives me a grim smile. He has dimples on each of his freckled cheeks. He can’t be much older than twenty. “Sorry about this,” he says.

  The older man pulls the straps tight. His mouth is hidden by a gray beard and mustache, but I can tell by his eyes that he isn’t smiling. The younger man doesn’t tighten the straps as hard, and it leaves me feeling lopsided.

  I turn my head to the side, and there’s the receiving Transfer machine. It has more buttons, pipes and wires than the one on the other side. Next to the bed, in a metal medical bowl, are three large needles, still in their sterile packs.

  The younger officer follows my gaze. “There’s more work to do on this side of the Transfer,” he explains. “If you’re transferring a disease out of a sick person, the immune system is working with you. But if you’re the recipient, the body recognizes the virus cells as alien when your blood pumps back from the machine into your body. It tries to reject them. That’s why it’s more … uncomfortable.”

  I know that. But I don’t like the way he says uncomfortable.

  The older man starts fiddling with the needles, opening the packages. He pulls up my sleeve, and the younger man does the same on the other side. I turn to the ceiling, and focus on the discolored concrete, the exposed pipes, the streaks of rust.

  The sharp pain of a needle in my upper arm makes me flinch. Then there’s another in my left arm. The older man moves down to my hand, and I close my eyes as the third needle goes in. I’m breathing fast now, but at least the needles are done. There’s tugging and movement on them as they’re hooked up to the tubes, and then the cold of electrodes attached to the skin of each arm. I focus on the blackness behind my eyelids.

  The Transfer machine hums as it is turned on, and pain jars through my system. My eyes fly open.

  The younger man is leaning over me, his face sympathetic. “It’s always a bit of a shock at first.”

  The older man gives an odd laugh. His colleague glares at him.

  “I thought you were making a joke,” he explains. “Shock: you know, because of the electricity.”

  I don’t find it funny. It’s not as bad now it’s constant. But it’s a lot more than uncomfortable. It’s a burning under my skin, nothing like the comforting tingle of the other side of the Transfer.

  I try to breathe deeper. In. Out. In. Out. I slow my breath down. I can do this. I’ve been through pain before. This is nothing.

  But then the older man hits another switch on the machine and the tubes fill with red. My blood. And there’s a new pain. A sucking, pulling ache, like it’s draining my strength, dragging at my veins.

  I’m not even breathing. I’m trying not to make a noise. This is just for the flu?

  I’m too hot. My head and heart are pounding.

  “Try to relax,” the younger man says. “It won’t hurt as much.”

  Relax? Is he joking? My body is rigid with the searing, tearing pain that aches through my arteries and under my skin. I can’t hold my breath any longer, and now I’m gulping like a fish out of water, my breathing out of control.

  Couldn’t they give me painkillers? Anaesthetic?

  Burning, through my veins.

  I remember. They used to give anaesthetic. But the Government changed the law years ago. Dad’s party supported it.

  My back arches, pushing my chest up.

  Dad said we were going easy on thugs and murderers. Wasting taxpayer money.

  I jerk and the older man pushes down on my shoulder, holds me in place.

  I agreed with Dad. I never imagined this happening to me. I thought criminals were exaggerating how much this hurt. That they were weak, as well as cowards.

  When will it stop? How long has it been?

  I imagined killers like Thomas Bryce here. People who didn’t deserve anaesthetic.

  Everything is agony, my body one block of pain.

  They do this to children too?

  Breathe in and out. Don’t scream.

  But I deserve this for getting Tig a criminal record.

  Stay still. Don’t scream.

  I deserve this, for not fighting the Transfer of diseases to children.

  My blood is on fire. Don’t scream.

  I deserve this, for supporting the ban on anaesthetic.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. The pain is red against my lids.

  Don’t scream.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ST. BARTS HOSPITAL, LONDON

  ELEVEN DAYS LEFT

  MIKE IS WAITING OUTSIDE, wearing a face mask even though he’s put the glass up between me and him. He drives me home without a word. The second I step out and into the building he pulls away with a screech.

  I’m still shaky as I walk through the foyer. Twenty minutes is nothing when you’re on the other side of the Transfer, but in the criminal wing pain pulled time and stretched it out.

  I have to stop, and lean against the wall for a moment. The doorman doesn’t make eye contact as I head into the lift. I slump down on the floor and listen to the pounding of my pulse in my head as I speed upward. I drag myself to my room and collapse on the bed.

  I wake too hot, my clothes soaked in sweat. It’s evening, as the room is dim. I sit up, but the movement sends pain crashing through my head. My duvet is on the floor. I must have kicked it off in my sleep. My nose is wet, snot running down my face and blocking my breathing. I wipe it with my hand. Gross, it’s green. I sniff, but it doesn’t help and for a second I’m disgusted by the noise alone. I sound like one of them. A criminal.

  This is what brought down the current government. In the end, it wasn’t the corruption, it wasn’t even the convictions for embezzling public funds. It was the long-lens shots of the Prime Minister’s face covered in chicken pox, the Chancellor of the Exchequer wiping snot on his sleeve. Even after they recovered, no
one could respect them. But they stayed in power right until the bitter end of their term, knowing they’d lose the next election.

  I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the stabbing pain in them. If the flu is such a mild illness, what must the others be like?

  I have to message Dad. It probably won’t work, but what else can I do? I don’t want Tig to have to go through this. The bright light of my phone’s screen makes me blink. I tap out a message.

  “I need to talk to you. When will I see you?”

  It’s five minutes before the reply comes in.

  “Not for a few days. I’ll call when I can.”

  I type, “We need to discuss the raid.”

  I sit in the semi-darkness, staring at the screen, as my head pounds. There’s a longer pause this time before my phone buzzes.

  “I’m not discussing policy with you.”

  I sit there, feeling the sting of that reply. But another message buzzes in right after. It says, “Get well soon. I love you.”

  I hold the phone against my chest.

  Thirst scrapes at my throat so I stumble into the bathroom to get a glass of water, and wipe this stuff off my face. I pick up the loo roll and lean against the wall, trembling. I’m already out of breath, my airways clogged and swollen. A cough forces its way up, and then my whole body is shaking with the force of it, racking through me.

  I can’t stop. I’m going to suffocate.

  But it subsides, eventually. I lean my head against the wall. I can’t prevent the raid right now. I’ll try again tomorrow.

  Halfway through the next morning the loo roll is finished, the floor littered with disgusting crusty green tissues, my bin overflowing. Dad cancelled the maid service for the week, partly to prevent me infecting anyone else, and I’m sure, partly for fear of photos being taken and sold to the tabloids. They’ve replaced my bedding with cheap sheets, so it can all be burned once I’m better. They’re scratchy, not like my usual Egyptian cotton.

  I wonder whose disease I’ve taken. Are they grateful that I’m going through it, and not them? I doubt it. It never occurred to me to be grateful to the criminals who took my viruses.

  As soon as my headache allows, I watch the news on the television in my bedroom. Dad is still in the lead — just. Piers pulled out all the stops, called all his contacts to spin this our way, and it’s working. A talking head on the BBC claims I was caught on a technicality, that it was a witch hunt perpetrated by a hypocritical and corrupt government, and that pleading guilty shows how honorable I am.

  That makes me feel like even more of a fraud.

  I drift in and out of sleep as the day goes by. The click of the front door unlocking wakes me, mid-afternoon, and hope bubbles up in my chest.

  “Dad?” I croak.

  “Talia!” His voice. His deep, wonderful voice.

  “Dad!”

  Then his footsteps come, heavy on the stairs. He opens the door a crack and peers through. There’s a mask over his nose and mouth, but his eyes are crinkled in a smile.

  He picks his way between the crumpled tissues, carrying a paper bag, as I pull myself up in bed.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you for days! Was there a cancellation?”

  Dad shakes his head.

  “You pulled out of a function for me?” I feel the tears coming, but I swallow, and force them back down. “I’m surprised Piers let you do that.”

  Dad gives a short laugh. “Piers isn’t happy with me right now, to put it mildly. But some things are more important.” He puts the paper bag on the ground, and sits down on the bed next to me. I throw my arms around him without thinking, then let go and back away.

  “Sorry. Sorry. Can’t risk making you sick.”

  But Dad leans forward and hugs me close. “I should have been there to pick you up after the Transfer. I should have stood up to Piers earlier.”

  My face is against his jacket, and I’m worried I’m leaving snail trails of snot on the soft black pinstripes. I pull away, slightly. Dad lets his arms drop, limp at his sides. I guess he took that as a rebuke, not an attempt to save his suit from the mess that is my face.

  “I’m just glad you’re here now,” I say.

  “I can’t stay for long, I’m afraid. But I wanted to bring you this.” He picks up the paper bag, and pulls out a large Styrofoam take-away cup. “Chicken soup. I heard it’s good if you’re ill.”

  I haven’t eaten in over a day, and it smells amazing. “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.”

  “And you can order anything you like from the delivery menus in the kitchen drawer. I’m leaving my credit card here. I just need you to rest and take care of yourself. Okay?”

  I nod, trying not to salivate at the salty smell of the chicken soup. But there’s something I have to say.

  “Dad, please call off the raid on the Barbican.”

  He stiffens. “Talia, I told you I wouldn’t talk to you about policy anymore.”

  “But …”

  “I don’t understand. You were the one who wanted to sort out the Barbican. And I know how you feel about that place, because of …”

  He’s about to say “Thomas Bryce.” But he stops. “I just don’t understand, that’s all.”

  “Things aren’t how I thought they were. Things ….” I don’t know how to explain it; my head hurts. I’m too tired and the words catch in my throat, bringing on another fit of coughing. Dad pats my back.

  “Let’s just leave it, Talia. I have advisors. Experts. People who have spent their whole lives looking at these problems. And I can’t reverse all that based on the whims of a sixteen-year-old who can’t even explain why she’s changed her mind.”

  “Is that how you see me?” I say, once I can speak again. “Just some idiot teenager?”

  Dad sighs, drops his head into his hands. “No, Talia. You’re normally a very rational girl. But you’ve been through a lot these past few weeks. And I haven’t been there as much as I should have been.”

  His phone starts buzzing. He glances at it.

  “I’m sorry, but I really do have to go.” He stands, bending down to give me one more hug. “I love you. And Alison will be around to look after you in a couple of days. Rest up, and get well. I’ll see you in 10 Downing Street. I’ll have more time then.”

  “No, please ….” But my voice is weak, and he’s already standing.

  “I wish I could stay.” He looks away, but I’m sure I saw tears. “But I’ve missed so much to come here already.”

  I want to argue. Want to stop him going out that door. But I know how much it must have cost him to come here. To hug me, and risk needing a Transfer.

  “I love you, Dad,” I say as he gets to the door. He turns, and I can see that smile over his mask again.

  “Love you too.”

  “But … the Barbican …”

  He steps out and closes the door behind him, softly.

  The doorbell rings the next morning. I yank a dressing gown over my pajamas and struggle downstairs. I reach the door and peer through the spyglass. I make out the distorted image of the doorman, his face rounded by the lens.

  I undo the latches and click the door open. I start coughing. The doorman takes a step back. He holds a bunch of flowers up in front of him, as if they’re a shield.

  “These came for you,” he says.

  I take them. They look familiar — the bright purples, the deep oranges. There’s a card nestled in the middle of the blooms.

  “Who sent these?”

  The doorman shrugs. “Delivery boy didn’t say anything. Wasn’t even wearing a uniform.” He’s already backing toward the lift

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He jabs at the buttons. The doors close as I turn around and step back into the flat, locking the latches carefully behind me.

  Are they from Dad? I fish for the card, pull it out, and discover it’s not a card at all, it’s a piece of paper folded into quarters with a handmade bracelet wrapped around it. I head for the sitting roo
m and slump down on the sofa. I lay the flowers next to me and unfold the paper. It says:

  Talia,

  Being sick for the first time sucks. Get better soon. My sister made you this friendship bracelet to cheer you up.

  G.

  Tears come to my eyes. The band that has been tight around my heart for the last few days loosens, just a notch.

  I put the bracelet on and admire it. It’s made with pink, purple, and blue threads. I try to smell the flowers but my nose is too blocked up. They’re beautiful, their colors so bright in this sterile flat. I’ll have to find a vase for them. Galen and Tig must have picked them for me, and Galen went to all the trouble of bringing them here. I feel warm.

  Then the band tightens across my chest again. The army will storm into the flat, ripping down the bookcase and destroying the plants, the beautiful oasis. They’ll strap Tig’s small body to a bed at St. Barts and watch her screaming as they transfer a disease into her veins. They’ll shove her back into the chaos of the children’s home, sick and far away from the brother who loves her. Galen will end up in Quarantine, as doomed as his father.

  I have to warn them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PENTHOUSE FLAT, BANKSIDE, LONDON

  SEVEN DAYS LEFT

  IT’S TWO DAYS BEFORE I’m even a little better. But I have to go to the Barbican now. Alison said she’ll work from our house once I’m no longer contagious, so she can keep a closer eye on me.

  Dad clearly doesn’t trust me at all. And he’s probably right not to.

  I shower and dig out the clothes Galen lent me when I was last there, then plaster on some makeup. The girl who stares at me from the mirror looks nothing like the me I’m used to. There are dark bags under my eyes and my skin’s gray.

  I stuff a wad of loo roll into my pocket. As soon as I step out of the flat I realize how weak I am. I lean against the wall of the lift on the way down.

  The walk across Southwark Bridge is the toughest part. The wind is high, and I barely keep my balance as it tries to push me off the pavement into the traffic. It seems farther to the Barbican, hauling my feet along while my whole body aches. I wipe my nose as I pass a man sleeping in a cardboard box. For a moment all I want is a box of my own so I can curl up and rest for a while. The normal people I pass move out of my way, disgust on their faces. Some cross the road, others practically tightrope-walk on the curb to be as far away from the sick girl as possible.