‘I don’t understand. Why would your own mum do something like this?’
‘For money. What else?’ says Libby sombrely. ‘Mum blitzed through the trust fund Dad set up for me. I found out, so I guess this was her way of trying to get more out of him.’
Frowning, I scrutinize her. I don’t like the way she’s speaking – in a monotone. And she looks so calm. Too calm. I mean, Shaka wept! Libby’s mum would do that to her? Really? She’d set all this up just for money? Well, Libby has no doubt about it. And, if that is the case, then her mum has paid for it. I will never forget the way the blood spread across her fleecy jacket when she was shot, or the look on her face when she realized.
I sit down on the nearest crate near the stairs, unwilling to get too far away from the door.
‘What d’you think this lot are after?’ whispers Libby, sitting down next to me.
‘The same thing as your mum and her boyfriend, I expect. Money – if we’re lucky.’
‘What does that mean?’
I shake my head. What’s the point of making Libby even more anxious than she already is? Something tells me that those men above want more than mere money. This has something to do with my sister defending Tobey Durbridge. Do they want her to dump him as her client? Back off? Deliberately throw the case? What?
The problem is, I know my sister. She can be led but not driven, as Mum says. And someone trying to blackmail Callie into giving up or losing this case? Never gonna happen. Callie has never allowed, and will never allow, anyone to bully her. So where does that leave Libby and me?
In the middle of nowhere.
‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’
I glare at Libby. ‘What the hell kind of question is that? No, we’re not going to die. Bollocks to that. Those dickheads upstairs need us alive.’
Libby looks at me and nods once. Once is enough. Maybe she believes me. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe her mind is still on her mum. But, in that moment, I believed me. That is enough. We’re going to find a way out of this.
Libby bows her head. Tears run down her cheeks, picking up the pace with each passing second. But she’s quiet. Sobbing silently. I place a tentative arm round her shoulder, giving her every chance to tell me to back off. Instead, she turns into my body and her tears become a waterfall. Hugging her to me, I hold her tight while she cries for her mum and what might’ve been and what was.
THEN
* * *
fifty-six. Tobey
* * *
The studio lights were blinding, casting everything behind them in shadow. I closed my eyes, gathering myself while the host of Guest of the Week, Kennedy Coughlan, had powder applied to his brown forehead to reduce its sheen.
‘Thank you for agreeing to be tonight’s guest,’ Ken said to me as the make-up artist buzzed round him with her brushes, dabbing at this and brushing at that. ‘But, let me tell you now, I think it would be a disaster if you became Prime Minister. You Noughts are responsible for most of the problems in this country and your own political views are naïve at best—’
‘Five!’ announced the studio manager.
‘And wilfully ignorant and out of your depth at worst,’ Ken continued.
‘Four!’
Ken smirked at me while I regarded him, momentarily stunned. But only momentarily. So it was like that, was it? Good to know. If he was going to come at me, guns blazing, I needed to be ready to spike his guns and no messing. Eyes narrowed, my mouth snapped shut. It wasn’t the first time an interviewer had tried to knock me off my stride just before a live interview and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. It was a common tactic to put me on the back foot. None had been quite as blatant as this, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.
‘Three!’ The studio manager counted down the last two numbers on her fingers.
‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Guest of the Week. Tonight’s guest is Tobias Durbridge, MP, who has ambitions to become this country’s first Nought Prime Minister after the general election next month. The mind boggles!’ Ken raised his eyebrows as if sharing a private joke with his viewers before he turned to face me. I acknowledged him with a professional smile, ignoring his last snarky remark.
‘So tell me, Tobey, how does it feel to be the first Nought to stand a real chance of becoming this country’s Prime Minister?’
Yawn-snore! How many times was I going to be asked that unimaginative question? Jesus, it was so boring to be asked that over and over. ‘How does it feel to be the first Nought blah-blah?’ Pfft! As I am, was and always will be a Nought, how the hell can I compare it to being anything else? And the thing that pissed me off the most? I really couldn’t remember any Cross political candidate being asked how it felt to be a Cross doing the same job. No Cross was asked what it was like to be the Cross anything. That was just taken as the default position. It was as if the rest of us who were WAME – white and mixed-ethnic – were aberrations. And how much did I hate that acronym? How insulting was that? Crosses were one group and everyone else got lumped into the WAME category like we were all one big, homogenous mass and not worthy of distinct categorization. We Noughts were always being accused of playing the race card. If the Crosses would stop dealing it, I would be more than happy to stop playing it.
‘I would deem it an honour to be elected Prime Minister of our great country. It would mean the electorate had faith in my abilities and my determination to get the job done.’
Dan and his battalion of media trainers had taught me that, far from trying to downplay my Noughtiness, as they mockingly called it, I should use it, abuse it, lean into it and make sure it was in everyone’s face.
‘I believe the people of this country are ready for something new. A new perspective, a new vision. I hope they see me as the new broom that will sweep away the old complacent, stagnant practices.’
Ken, move on, you tosser.
Like a heavyweight boxer training for a title fight, I’d trained for these media sharks. Trained hard. I’d had mock interviews running into double figures to get me ready for people like Ken Coughlan.
Years ago, when Dan and I decided that I’d run for Mayor of Meadowview, we’d had a conversation I’d never forgotten. It had taken place in his penthouse when I was a lot more naïve than I am now.
‘The press is gonna come at you like an express train,’ Dan told me. ‘They’ll use and abuse you as clickbait and to sell advertising. As the media won’t think twice about exploiting you, you need to return the favour.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘If the press lies about you, shout it out long and loud. Let everyone know they’re lying. If they tell the truth and it’s negative, shout out longer and louder that they’re lying. Whatever they say, they’re lying. Shout false information. That’s how to win the mayoral election.’
At my puzzled look, Dan gave a long-suffering sigh, like he was talking to an idiot. I admit, it pissed me off.
‘You want to get not just your supporters but everyone not believing a word the press says about you. That way, when the press realizes you can’t be bought, taught or manipulated and they come at you with the truth, no one will believe them.’