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  “Your friend has to come here and have a blood test like anyone else.”

  I shake my head. “She can’t, she’s too ill to come in.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Then you should have called an ambulance.”

  I want to punch something. The queue at reception is worse. And once I reach the front, my blood test will be negative. They’ll never give me the medicine.

  I pull myself up straight, and put on my best “daughter of the future prime minister” face.

  “Do you know who I am?” I say, hating the words even as they come out.

  The nurse meets my look with a steely-eyed gaze of her own. “Yes. A spoiled politician’s daughter who thinks the rules don’t apply to her.”

  My shoulders slump.

  But the antibiotics lie in the box, two feet away. A white bag, ready to go. That’s all I need.

  I lean forward. Snatch at the package. Then I’m running. Shoes flapping on my feet. The paper bag crinkling in my hand.

  I get about six paces before the shouting starts.

  “Hey! Stop!” It’s the nurse. I keep running.

  Footsteps behind me. Heavy ones. A male voice.

  “Freeze! Drop the pills!”

  My breath obeys him, stopping in my throat, but my legs keep running. The automatic doors open. A family walks though.

  “Police! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Oh no.

  I’m in a hospital. There’s a shoot-to-kill policy. But I’m at the door.

  A crack, and screaming. A dull impact on my right arm. Like a punch. The antibiotics slip out of my hand and skid across the floor, under a café table.

  “No!” Someone shouts. Maybe the nurse.

  Have I been shot?

  I’m about to lunge for the pills. But I can see the officer in the corner of my eye. He’s still pointing his gun at me. Lining it up.

  I can’t go back for them.

  The family entering the hospital stands in my way, statues frozen in the open doors.

  “Hold your fire!” A different voice: male. “You’ll hit them!”

  I shove through the still life of the family. My arm feels numb. I dash into the courtyard, put my hand on my sleeve. It’s wet. Security guards run toward me and, for a second, I think I’m caught. But they run right past and into the foyer.

  My red jumper hides the blood; it just looks damp. They don’t know who they’re chasing. They’re responding to the shots.

  I slow down. Try to look casual. As the second group of guards runs by I shout, “He’s in there!” and point toward the hospital.

  I get to the archway, jog through the tunnel under the building, and emerge onto the main road from beneath Henry VIII. I mingle with the crowds, lowering my head.

  My blood is pumping, soaking through my jumper. The pain kicks in, taking my breath. I press down on the wound to slow the flow, but it hurts too much. I stumble along Newgate toward St. Paul’s, trying to blend in.

  What now? The pain is building in waves. I focus on the pavement as I walk, breathing through my teeth. I can’t go to an ER department. They’ll arrest me, I’ll end up in Quarantine.

  I still need antibiotics for Tig. But there’s no other hospital for miles. And what would I do if I made it? Steal more pills? It’s probably past six o’clock. The boys at the Barbican will have given up on me. Will think I’ve run away. And there’s no way I can get past the police and climb the barricades with my arm like this.

  Tig might die.

  No. I won’t let that happen.

  Blood drips from my arm as I walk. I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.

  The crowds are thicker by St. Paul’s. I lean against a wall. It’s all hopeless. I watch the people passing by, but they blur into gray. I feel dizzy. I don’t know if it’s the pain or the bleeding or the tear gas.

  A man with a mustache forces the free afternoon paper onto people as they head into the station. He tries to give one to me, but I hold my upper arm tightly. So he slips it into the crook of my elbow with a wink.

  “Are you okay, love?” he asks.

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I push off from the wall and keep going. I have to sit down. The churchyard. I get through the gate and stagger to a spot behind a tree. It’s not hidden, but I’ll be less noticeable there. I collapse onto the ground, dropping the paper, the jolt of my body sending a wave of pain through my arm. I bite my tongue to hold down the scream and hunch over to hide my face, still clutching my injured arm.

  Then I let myself cry.

  Why is this happening to me again? Isn’t being shot once enough? I start sobbing, facing the tree, hoping no one will notice. Hoping they’ll leave me here.

  Tig will probably die. Galen will end up in Quarantine. And it’s all my fault.

  I may die too. Bleed out in St. Paul’s churchyard. There are worse places. And I’m useless now, unable to save Tig. Will they even know I tried? Or will the boys think they were right, that I headed home?

  No, it’ll be on the news at least. “Talia Hale Found Dead in Park.” Galen will know I tried. Dad will be sad. He’ll wish he’d listened to me. Knowing I sat here and bled to death.

  It suddenly occurs to me how dumb that is. Of course Dad would be sad. Maybe even heartbroken. But he’d also think I’m an idiot for not getting help. And he’d be right. I don’t need to die here. This is pathetic. This is self-pity. This isn’t helping anyone.

  I have to do better than this. If I die, I’m going to die trying. But what can I do? I straighten up, wipe my face on my sleeve. Look around.

  The paper is lying next to me. Dad’s face peers out from above the fold. I stare at the familiar features, feeling far from home. If Dad were here he’d help me.

  Wait.

  Dad can help me. Dad can get antibiotics. He has connections. He won’t let Tig die, surely? And once I’ve got help for her, I’ll happily go to a hospital. Cheerfully go to Quarantine and take whatever disease they want to give me.

  And maybe, at the end of it all, Dad will let me come home.

  Maybe.

  The election is tomorrow. So he’ll be on Sharpe this evening. That was the deal, for my softball interview. I glance at the time on my phone, ignoring the messages. A call won’t be enough, and my battery might die completely. I have to see him in person.

  Five past six. Less than an hour till my father is on air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  FARRINGDON STREET, LONDON

  ONE DAY LEFT

  THE WALK IS TORTURE. Pain radiates from my arm, a blunt agony, compounded as each footstep reverberates up my body. The arm of my jumper is soaking wet now, and the dampness has spread across half my chest. Red seeps through my fingers where I’m gripping my arm, and a few people glance at me strangely.

  So at first I’m glad when it starts to rain as I turn onto the Embankment. It’ll clean my hand, and wash away the trail of blood behind me. But as it starts to come down harder it’s like it’s washing away the last of my strength. My teeth chatter.

  I want to rest. Want to give up, lie down. But I can’t.

  The stain fades from my jumper as the rain makes the wet universal. The chill of the water is slowing the blood flow, too. The liquid that drips from my jumper is pink, but it doesn’t show on my tweed brown skirt.

  It’s getting harder to walk, veering too close to the curb, then too close to buildings. My feet are heavy and my thoughts clouded. I keep my head down as I merge with the tourists gawping at the Houses of Parliament.

  I want to plan what I’m going to do when I see Dad, how I’m going to convince him. But my thoughts are as hard to hold on to as smoke. I’m drowsy.

  He has to help.

  I’ve zoned out so much it’s a surprise when I see the television studios. I pull myself up straight, and focus as best I can. I head in through the front doors, grit my teeth and wave to the receptionist.

  “Talia Hale,” I say, making my voice as strong as I can. “I’m he
re to meet my father.”

  Yup. That’s my whole plan. The receptionist takes in my drowned rat appearance. She clearly recognizes me. She checks a piece of paper and her brow furrows.

  “You’re not on the list.”

  “There must be a mistake.”

  She picks up the phone and leans back, talking quietly. She waits a long time for the response. I can’t imagine what the reaction is in the Green Room, but they won’t leave me in the foyer.

  I’m dripping blood on the carpet. I’m lucky it’s dark maroon.

  After a while, she hangs up, and redials.

  She covers the receiver and leans forward, speaking loudly enough for me to hear. “He’s about to go on air, but they’ve asked me to send you up. I’ll get you an escort.”

  I nod, biting my lip. I can’t be impatient now.

  My escort only takes a minute, a young guy in a badly fitting suit. Probably an intern.

  “This way, please,” he says. I follow him, almost losing my balance on my first step. He leads me to the lift. The pain feels slightly removed now, as if it’s happening to someone else. I can focus a little better, but only on one thing at a time. Like watching my escort press the button for the right floor. Watching the numbers count up in the little display above the door. Stepping out carefully, and heading down the long corridor.

  I let the young guy walk slightly ahead of me. He doesn’t see me bump into the wall, or the red stain I leave on it. I still have my hand clamped to my arm, but the warm blood is seeping out slowly now, not flowing like before. I take my hand off and wipe it on my jumper. I don’t want people questioning me, not when I’m so close.

  He gets to the door of the Green Room and knocks on it. Piers opens it immediately, leaning on his cane. He must have been waiting right behind it.

  “We can take over from here,” he says. “Thank you.”

  My escort nods and leaves.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Piers says as soon as the young man is out of earshot. “Get in here.” He pulls me in by my good arm and kicks the door shut.

  And there, standing in the center of the room, is my dad.

  I want to run to him. To hide in his arms, and have him look after me, like he did after I was shot last time. But too much has changed. And he can’t know I’m wounded now. So I just stand there.

  And he runs to me.

  I’ve never seen him move that fast. I only have time to turn to the side so he doesn’t hug my injured arm.

  “Oh Talia. Talia. Talia,” he breathes into my hair. And he holds me like that. After a while, I realize he’s shaking.

  “Dad?” I manage. He pulls away. His eyes are wet.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I lie. “Just tired.”

  “Thank God.” He closes his eyes for a moment.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Piers steps forward. “Malcolm was determined to call the police. Fortunately I convinced him you were just acting up. Can you imagine the scandal?”

  Dad grabs a chair and pulls it over to me.

  “Sit down. Where have you been?” he says.

  I sink onto the white cushion gratefully, cringing as the movement sends a spasm of agony through my arm.

  “Barbican,” I manage. “The girl, Tig. She needs antibiotics. She might die. You’ve got to get the Government to stop the raid.”

  Piers’s eyes are wide. “You’ve been in the Barbican? With all that’s been going on?” He starts to pace. “This is bad, Talia. We can’t let this get out.”

  “Please. You must be able to do something. Get medicine for her, get the army to let someone bring it in.”

  “No special treatment,” Piers says. “Especially not for criminals. What kind of a message would that send?”

  “Who cares?” I grit my teeth. “We can’t let her die!”

  Dad shakes his head. He looks sad. “I’m sorry. But we’re not the Government yet. We have no control over the raid.”

  “But you’re winning! You can offer them a coalition. Or committee appointments, isn’t that what it’s all about? New Year’s Honors?”

  “You know I can’t do that on my own. And the party would never support it.”

  Piers butts in. “We need to manage this. Did anyone see you enter or leave?”

  I’m cold. And we’re getting off topic.

  “They’re rounding people up and taking them straight to have the Transfer.” I pull out my phone. Swipe to bring up the footage from the Barbican, hit play, and hand it to Dad. “They’re innocent people. And that’s illegal.”

  Piers snorts. “Not since the Government stole our bloody idea.”

  Dad’s still watching the video.

  “What idea?”

  “Martial law. Emergency measures,” Piers says.

  Dad hands me back the phone. “This isn’t great, Talia, but some force is necessary sometimes ….” He sounds uneasy, but I barely hear him. Blood is rushing in my ears. There’s mist at the edge of my vision.

  Piers keeps talking. “Everyone in the Barbican could have left when the barricades went up. By staying there, they’re helping criminals avoid the Recall, avoid justice for their victims.”

  Dad runs his fingers through his hair.

  “You’re not going to help?”

  He glances at the floor. “Maybe we can look at some exceptions once we’ve won the election. It does seem like there may be some special cases …”

  “That will be too late! Tig is sick now!”

  “We’re not in power now.”

  I slump back in the seat. “Tig is Rebecca’s age. You won’t let her die, will you, Dad?”

  “I … I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “You must be able to think of something!” But he doesn’t respond. My head is fuzzy. “Dad …”

  The door opens and Alison walks in, along with a man with a clipboard. Her mouth falls open when she sees me. She stares for a moment, then a huge grin sweeps across her face.

  “Talia! I’m so glad ….” She pauses, glances at the stranger to her left. “I’m so glad you were able to make it here for the show.”

  “It’s time, Mr. Hale,” the man says.

  Dad turns to me. “We’ll talk about this after.”

  “No … Dad ….” But he’s already heading out of the door, following Alison and the man with the clipboard.

  The adrenaline is leaving me. I’m tired. Sleepy, even. The room is spinning a little. Am I going to pass out now? The pulse of pain in my arm is strong.

  I have to do something. He’ll be on the show for an hour. I’m not going to stay conscious that long. I’ll be whisked off to hospital, to Quarantine. But what can I do?

  I don’t know, but I’m not giving up.

  I push myself to my feet, clutching my arm.

  “What are you doing?” Piers asks. Then he stops, and puts a hand to his mouth. I follow his gaze to the chair. The white cushion is now vivid red.

  “You’re injured. Dammit, Talia, what have you got yourself into? We’ll need to get you treated. Discreetly.”

  I stumble toward the door to the studio. I’m not thinking straight. But this is the only plan I have. And I want to be near Dad, more than anything.

  “Where are you going?”

  I ignore him and keep walking. The thump of his cane comes from behind me.

  “I can’t let you go out there. Not in this state.”

  Piers reaches for my shoulder but I shrug him off, almost knocking him over.

  “No! You’ll ruin everything!”

  My hand is on the handle.

  “Talia!” He grabs me hard, on my wound. I cry out, but wrench out of his grasp and pull at the door.

  “Stop! No one can see you like this!”

  His hand is back on my injured arm. He’s spotted the weakness. He squeezes, hard.

  Pain knifes through my body. Hot liquid flows down my arm. Whatever clot formed is gone. I drop to my knees. Blackness creeps into the e
dge of my vision.

  “Please ….” I can’t fight. The agony crowds out my thoughts. A click comes from somewhere, then a creak of hinges.

  “Sorry, Talia. I can’t let you do this.” Piers squeezes harder. I scream, but the sound feels distant. Like it’s coming from the end of a long corridor. I’m falling sideways.

  “What are you doing?” That’s not Piers’s voice. It’s too high. “Leave her alone!”

  My head is on the floor.

  “Is that blood?”

  I’m so cold. He doesn’t let go.

  “She’s hurt! What the hell is wrong with you? Let her go!”

  Everything is going dark.

  There’s a thud. A cry, and the release of the agony. Heat flows back into the wound and I lie there, the pain pulsing with my blood. My vision is coming back. The shape of the door resolves itself in front of me. It’s open.

  “Talia!”

  Alison is at my side. Where did she come from? I push myself up. My bad arm screams in pain. The room lurches around me. Piers is on the floor, eyes squeezed shut. Mouth open in a silent scream. His walking stick lies a couple of yards away. I struggle to make sense of the scene.

  “You kicked away Piers’s cane?”

  “I heard you shouting. What the hell happened? What was he doing to you?”

  I have to think fast.

  “He went crazy and attacked me!” I say. He’s moaning on the floor, reaching for his leg. Oblivious to us in his agony.

  Alison points at the blood pooling on the floor beside me. “He did this? I’ll call an ambulance.”

  I get to my feet. The room spins.

  “Where are you bleeding from?” She’s pulled out her phone.

  I stumble forward, reach for the door handle to support myself.

  “Stay here. You need help!”

  “I’ll get security,” I say. “You call an ambulance, keep an eye on Piers. He’s lost it.”

  Alison jabs at her phone, then raises it to her ear.

  “No,” Piers manages to get the word out.

  But I turn and stumble through to the wings of the Sharpe studio, slamming the door behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SHARPE STUDIOS, HORSEFERRY ROAD, LONDON

  ONE DAY LEFT

  THEY’RE NOT EXPECTING ANYONE to run onstage from the Green Room, that’s clear. The security guards are stationed watching the audience. I lean against the wall for a moment to compose myself.