Transferral Page 15

  The tear gas keeps coming until the courtyard is hazy with it.

  The residents have fled. They never had a chance. The ones that couldn’t run fast enough are being dragged toward London Wall by the soldiers, or beaten as they lie on the ground. A short while ago I’d have been impressed at the efficiency of our boys in uniform. Now I stand slack-jawed and helpless as they march into the center of the Barbican.

  They’re going for one of the lower buildings. The door is already smashed so they run right in, more than I can count.

  There’s a chill running through me. We can’t take Tig into that gas. Who knows what it’ll do to her weakened lungs? And how would I ask them for help? They’re not going to recognize me through the riot gear and gas. They’ll think I’m a threat.

  Galen is rubbing his forehead. He stops and points.

  “Mrs. Onyango!”

  I follow his finger back to the low building. Some of the soldiers are coming out, bringing people with them. Galen is pointing at an elderly lady, barely able to keep up with the two soldiers who half-march, half-drag her out.

  Gazzer’s fists are balled at his sides. He’s hoping from one foot to another like he wants to jump off the balcony and go fight the soldiers.

  Galen swears. “She’s never broken a law in her life. She’s got Alzheimer’s, and I’ve been trying to help with her osteoporosis.” He faces me. “They’re going to break her bones! She’s so fragile.”

  There’s a knot in my stomach, and I turn back to the scene, wishing I could do something. But what can I do? The courtyard is a pen of violence and desperation.

  “We can’t take Tig down there,” I say.

  Galen drops his head in his hands. Turns away from us.

  “Well, I’m gonna get down there,” Gazzer says. “I’m giving those scum the fight of their lives.”

  “No. You’ll lose. We’ll all lose,” Galen says, muffled by his hands. He sniffs. “You should get out of here. You too, Talia.”

  “There’s no way out. Anyway, I’m not leaving you and Tig. We’ll be safe in the hidden flat. They’re not going to find it in full riot gear.”

  “I’m not running,” Reece says. “This is our home.”

  “There is a way out,” Galen says. “Some people have been sneaking out over one of the barriers by St. Barts. People under Level 1 Recalls mostly, frightened of the consequences if they don’t report to hospital. It’s risky, but it’s your best bet. It’s not well guarded.”

  “Then we’ll take Tig out that way.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s climbing involved. And running. There’s no way you’d make it with Tig. And there’s nothing any of you can do here to help.”

  I turn away from him and clutch the balcony, watching the soldiers drag people from their homes. He’s right. There’s nothing I can do here. Nothing any of us can do for Tig without antibiotics.

  Antibiotics.

  “St. Barts!”

  The guys all look at me.

  I grab Galen’s arm. “They’re giving out antibiotics there, remember? We don’t need to take Tig to the antibiotics. We can bring the antibiotics to Tig!”

  His green eyes meet mine. They widen.

  “I can get some. Try to get them back here, back to you. Do you think I’ll be able to get back in the way I’m getting out?”

  Galen shakes his head. “Not a chance. Getting out is risky enough.”

  Dammit. We’re so close. I breathe in through my nose, hard. But when I look at Galen again, he’s smiling.

  “It’s not you that needs to get back in, though. It’s the pills.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a wall at Beech Street. Away from the barricades and the buildings, so it should be clear. If you can get the antibiotics, I can be there at, say, six to catch them if you throw them up.”

  “No,” that’s Reece. “What’ll happen to Tig if they catch you and you don’t come back?”

  Galen squeezes his eyes closed, swears. “It’s worth the risk.”

  “Nah. Not for you. But for us it is. I’ll be there to get the pills,” Gazzer says. “I didn’t want to leave, either way.”

  “Me too,” Tyler adds. “If those squaddies try to stop us, we’ll beat them down.”

  Galen looks like he wants to throw his arms around his mates. But he sticks his hands in his pockets instead.

  “Can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking. We’re doing,” Tyler says.

  I bite my lip. There are so many things that can go wrong. But what other choice do we have?

  “How do I get out?”

  “Guys, can you get her to the barricade? You’ll have to climb, then run like hell. There are riot police on the other side.”

  Reece looks me up and down. “I can get the meds from St. Barts. Throw them up to the lads. You can’t trust her kind.”

  I open my mouth, but Galen speaks before I can.

  “I trust her,” he says. “And if they ask for ID at the hospital, what are you gonna do, Reece? Surrender for your Recall? Run and risk being shot?”

  The guys stare at each other, and I wonder what Reece did.

  “Fine,” Reece says after a long pause.

  “I’m going to say goodbye to Tig, then.”

  I duck into the flat and climb through to the hidden room. The afternoon light dapples on her still face. The room is quiet. For a moment my heart stops, but then I see her chest, rising and falling, silently.

  I cross to the bed. “Don’t worry,” I say, stroking her hair. “I won’t let you down.” I place a kiss on her hot forehead before heading back out to join the others.

  “What are we waiting for?” Gazzer says. “The army will be here soon.”

  I peer down. He’s wrong. They’re cleaning out the lower buildings first. We still have time. Hopefully enough to get the meds to Galen.

  “Yeah. I guess you should get going.” Galen drops his eyes.

  I swallow. I want to kiss him again, be near him, say goodbye properly. But there’s no way that’s happening now. The wind blows smoke in my face, stinging my eyes.

  “I won’t let you down,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “Move it,” Reece says. “Tick tock.”

  Galen follows us back into the flat and opens the front door. The boys go through first. Galen gives me a tight smile as I leave.

  It’s so hard to turn away from him. When will I see him again?

  The guys are noisy going down the stairs. Reece whoops and slides down the banisters. I hurry to keep up. By the time we reach the foyer, I’m coughing. Gazzer stops suddenly in front of the broken doors. I almost run into him.

  “I can’t stand posh birds like you,” he says. “Think you’re our great white savior.” He shakes his head. “But you make it worse, because you don’t understand us, don’t want to listen to us.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I did make things worse.

  “You’ll let us down. Girls like you always bail when things get tough. Don’t wanna break your nails.”

  “I’ll get the antibiotics,” I say, but my voice is weak.

  He laughs. “Yeah, right. Run home to Daddy, you will.”

  There’s no time to argue with him. Outside, there’s the clamor from across the Barbican. Shouts, screams, and the clatter of thrown bottles.

  “Just be there at six,” I say.

  Tyler opens the doors. The sky is the gray of tombstones. Helicopters hover over London Wall.

  “Get out there,” Gazzer says, and he gives me a push.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  BARBICAN, LONDON

  ONE DAY LEFT

  I STUMBLE OUT INTO the courtyard. For a moment, I think the guys have abandoned me, but they appear on either side, walking fast. The action is across the square, but we’re in the shadows. Cocooned by the darkness and the smoke from the petrol bombs and tear gas. My eyes itch as though I’m been rubbing at them.

  “This w
ay, princess,” Gazzer says.

  “Hold on.” I pull out my phone and swipe to the camera. I zoom in on the action across from us. It’s hazy, but clear enough to be horrifying. They’re dragging a woman across the courtyard by one arm. She’s clutching a tiny baby with her free hand and straining toward a toddler thrown over the shoulder of another soldier. The toddler’s face is red, hair stuck to its wet face as it screams. Once I get the antibiotics, I can show this footage to someone. Try to get help. They’re clearly not checking to see who is under a Recall and who isn’t.

  Reece tries to grab my phone. “What the hell?”

  “Bloody tourist,” Tyler says.

  “One minute.” I straighten up the shot and capture a bit more of the scene. An elderly couple, the man being marched too fast to be able to use his stick properly. He crumples to the ground. A couple of school-age children keeping up with the soldiers, eyes wide, parents nowhere in sight.

  Gazzer grabs my phone. “You’ve had your fun.”

  I snatch it back. “People need to know what’s happening here.”

  Reece snorts. “They don’t care. Now move it. That way. As soon as we’re out of the shadows, run.”

  I shove my phone back in my pocket and focus on the concrete to avoid tripping. There’s mess everywhere. I step in a red-brown stain but keep going.

  We reach the edge of the tower’s shadow. There’s nowhere else to hide.

  “This way!” Tyler pulls at my arm, and we’re running.

  Rubbish blows past me, fragments of the barricade and the remainder of the cardboard city that used to be here. Paper and plastic whipped up in the vortex created by the towers. A sheet of newspaper sticks to my leg, a picture of my father plastered across the front. I almost trip to avoid stepping on his face.

  I’m falling behind. I didn’t pick these shoes for running. They’re too loose, and they flap at my heels as I try to keep pace with the thudding of the guys’ footsteps.

  “Come on!” Gazzer shouts. I resist the urge to shout back. I need my breath. It’s coming hard now, given a sharp edge from the gas. Like shards in my lungs.

  There’s the barrier. A heap of junk like a weird nest, jammed between two tall buildings. Tyler cranes back over his shoulder, looking past me. He swears, and runs faster. I don’t need to look back, I can hear the footsteps now myself. The thud of heavy boots, still some distance away. They’ve seen us. They’re coming.

  But we’re at the barrier. It’s clear why this is the escape route. Narrow stairs lead down to the street, but the riot cops on the other side can’t get too close. We’re overlooked by the buildings, and there are open windows. I can see a woman leaning out of one of them, 164 > KATE BLAIR blond hair in her face, tapping a bottle on the windowsill. The cops huddle behind their riot shields, the ground glittering with broken glass and scorch marks.

  “Get her over,” Tyler says. “Then get out of here.”

  We’re at the barricade. Tyler is next to me, bent over, fingers laced together by my feet.

  “Come on!”

  I slip my foot into his hands, and he boosts me up. I clutch at the barricade, searching for a handhold.

  There’s a bang and something metallic clatters on the ground. I shove my hand into a gap, and pull myself up.

  “Tear gas!” Reece shouts. I peer down. Smoke streams from the grenade. The boys back away, pull out handkerchiefs. I drag myself to the top of barricade. My eyes sting. I reach for another grip, but the barricade is blurring. Shouts, as our pursuers catch up.

  Swearing, Tyler’s. Then grunts and the muffled thump of kicks and punches.

  My foot slips. A hand clutches at my ankle from the Barbican side.

  I kick out, but the gas is suffocating me. It’s hard to hold on, hard to focus on anything other than the burning in my eyes and throat and lungs. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Another shout, a thump, and someone cries out. The hand releases me. I pull myself back up and swing my feet over to the other side of the barricade. I try for a foothold on the way down, but can’t find any. My grip slips.

  I fall down the other side of the barricade, into the city.

  I’ve barely landed when there’s a blow, a sudden pain flaring through my right side.

  I roll over, open my eyes. A shadowy shape looms above me, gas mask on, riot shield in front and truncheon raised. The police. I push up on my hands and knees and scramble to the side. The next blow hits the concrete next to me.

  Then there’s a crash and a clatter. I catch a flash of the scene before the pain forces my eyes closed again. Another smashed bottle on the ground. A triumphant shout comes from the window above me.

  I start crawling away, coughing, spluttering, hoping I’m hidden in the tear gas. The stab of glass in my hand. Then I’m on my feet again. I open my eyes for one second, to check my path is clear, then run, blind. The shouting grows faint behind me. I hit something and land hard on the ground, choking. I pry open my eyes and stare at the blue of a wheelie bin. I drag myself behind it.

  I wipe a sleeve across my face. It’s doesn’t do much good. I’m drooling, crying, and my nose is running. I pull myself up against the wall, blindly, and start retching.

  I rest my hand on my thigh, concentrate on breathing until I can open my eyes a little. They sting like hell and my nose is still running, but I can hold them open for a second or two at a time. That will be enough. I glance at my injured hand, at the shard of glass wedged in my palm, near the scar Galen sewed up. It’s not too big. Won’t need stitches this time. I grit my teeth and pull it out. Try not to cry, not that it matters, since my face is already streaming with tears.

  This wasn’t the plan, but I’m out of the Barbican, at least. I hope Galen’s friends got away. I hope they’re okay. I hope they’ll be there at six.

  There’s no way to check. I have to get to St. Barts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ST. BARTS, LONDON

  ONE DAY LEFT

  I CUT DOWN THE hazy streets, blinking constantly, the world strobing around me. Thank goodness St. Barts isn’t far. I run past the back entrance, and almost get hit by a blur of a van. I stumble back onto the curb as another roars past, the back covered in the blobby brown-green of camouflage fabric.

  Army vans.

  I stop and get out my phone. They pull up at the back door to St. Barts, where Mike picked me up after my transfer. Soldiers are waiting, and people are dragged out of the back of the van. I try to focus, but I can’t make out their faces. They’re fuzzy shapes. But there’s a woman desperately trying to keep a towel around herself, obviously dragged out mid-shower. A teenage boy is thrown to the ground, and sprawls on his side. An old black man pulls himself up straight and waves away the soldier as he tries to get down by himself, but the soldier grabs his wrist, and almost yanks him over as he hands him to the soldiers at the hospital.

  They’re taking people straight from the Barbican to receive transfers.

  They can’t do this.

  What happened to due process? They clearly haven’t bothered to weed out the innocent from the guilty.

  “Hey!” one of the soldiers shouts. I can’t tell if it’s at me or not, but I shove my phone in my pocket and walk away quickly, heading for the main entrance. I can’t get caught now, but I think I got enough. Once I’ve handed over the antibiotics, I’m going to show this to people. Make them see what’s going on.

  I stumble through the tunnel under Henry VIII, and into the foyer. In the hospital, I remember where the ladies’ loos are and rush for them. Inside, I splash my face with water. It helps. I can make out my reflection in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, only half open, nose still running. But looking a mess isn’t a bad thing. I’m meant to be ill, after all. I rinse the glass cut on my hand, grab a paper towel, and press it to my palm until the bleeding stops completely.

  I straighten my skirt and tidy my hair. Was it less than a month ago I was here as a law-abiding patient? I push the bathroom door open and step into
the modern grandeur of the space. My side aches from the truncheon blow.

  I hold my head high, playing the part of the girl I used to be. I try not to blink too often. But my eyes sting, and everything is blurred.

  The air buzzes with disgruntled voices. A lineup snakes away from the reception desk, the people lumpy blobs from here.

  In the center of the foyer the blurry figures of two nurses stand by a table handing out white packages from a stack of large boxes.

  Antibiotics.

  I join the queue at the table. Everyone faces straight ahead, leaving a few feet of distance between themselves and the people ahead of them.

  The line moves slowly. I shift from foot to foot. I don’t have time for this. I need to be back for my six o’clock meeting to throw the pills over the wall to the boys. But my eyes open more as I wait, and my nose dries up a little. The nurses at the front talk to each patient in turn, and each walks away with a package.

  This should be easy.

  When I finally reach the front, the nurse holds her hand out. “Diagnosis, please,” she says.

  “What?”

  She tilts her head in sympathy. “You do look under the weather, love. If you’ll give me your diagnosis, I’ll get you sorted out.”

  “I … I don’t have a diagnosis.”

  “Didn’t you see the sign? You have to check in at reception, have a blood test, and bring us the results. No point in giving you broad-spectrum antibiotics if it’s a virus. You’ll have to join the wait for a Transfer in that case.”

  “I didn’t see the sign. But they’re not for me. I came to pick them up for a friend.”