Blood Ties Page 3

  Alive.

  Mum had refused to tell me anything else. I tried again while she was getting ready for work.

  ‘But doesn’t he – my dad – want to know me now?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mum looked up from her handbag and sighed. ‘It’s just too risky. He’ll come for you one day, though. When he’s ready. When it’s safe. Until then you’ll just have to be patient.’

  She had no idea. How could I be patient? All I had was a photograph and a name. And a million unanswered questions.

  Where was he?

  What was this group that was after him?

  When was I going to meet him?

  Mum begged me to keep the whole thing secret, but even as I promised her I would, I knew I was going to tell Jake.

  He was my best friend, after all.

  Of course, when we met up in the playground before school, Jake was full of what I’d missed yesterday afternoon in Starbucks. Apparently he’d got well into some girl while he was waiting for me.

  ‘She was way fit, dude,’ he said. ‘All over me, as well.’

  I rolled my eyes. I’d seen girls be ‘all over’ Jake before. It usually just meant they hadn’t told him to piss off in the first ten seconds of him trying to chat them up.

  ‘Listen.’ I told him about my dad still being alive.

  ‘Whoa, man. That is wild.’ Jake stared at me intently.

  I suddenly felt embarrassed. ‘So d’you get that girl’s number?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jake grinned. ‘D’you get your dad’s?’

  I explained what Mum had said about it being too dangerous to contact him. How she didn’t know exactly where he was, but that he sent money every few months to pay for school. And Roy.

  We crossed the playground, heading for the main entrance. We stopped behind the crowd of boys struggling to push their way inside.

  ‘So what you gonna do then?’ Jake tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘Just wait for your dad to get in touch one day?’

  I looked at him. Jake isn’t anything like me. He’s shorter, for a start, with blond hair. And masses more outgoing. He’s always saying it’s good how different we are. How it means between us we’ll attract a wider range of girls. But in spite of the differences, Jake knows me really well. I could see in his eyes that he knew I wasn’t prepared to wait years to meet my dad. And suddenly I knew it too.

  ‘I have to do something,’ I said. ‘I have to find out more about him at least.’

  ‘Won’t your mum tell you anything?’

  ‘Nope.’ I shook my head. ‘And they don’t email or speak on the phone and there’s no information on our PC either. She told me.’

  The queue eased and we pushed our way inside.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Max to help?’ Jake said.

  I considered this for a moment. Max is my other best friend and an amazing hacker. But I had no idea what would be helpful to hack into.

  And then it struck me. The obvious place to start – and something I could easily do by myself.

  Roy stared at me suspiciously. ‘The library?’ he said.

  I nodded, as innocently as I could. It was after school and we were standing on the pavement outside the school gates. I’d already apologised to Roy for trying to run away yesterday.

  And for punching him.

  He’d shrugged it off, neither accepting my apology nor demanding that I was punished. I was grounded for a week, but at least Mum had climbed down from her earlier decision to have him wait outside all my lessons.

  ‘Jake and I are doing a project on the Second World War,’ I said. ‘Air battles. We need books.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your school library?’

  ‘Not big enough.’

  That was a lie. The school library was out because I needed to go online and, at school, that was impossible without some teacher nosing into what you were looking at. And our PC at home was no good in case Mum tracked my internet search. She’d done that once before. Luckily all I’d done was take a look at this dodgy – okay, well, illegal – gaming website. Nothing too embarrassing, though she still went ballistic when she realised what I’d been doing.

  Roy made the call to Mum. She said I could have half an hour at the library. Roy drove us as close as he could, then we walked the rest of the way. It was cold and the light of the day was already fading. Roy walked slightly behind me, as usual, his eyes darting about, looking out for any trouble.

  ‘How long d’you reckon before he puts his sunglasses on?’ Jake whispered.

  I grinned. This was a standing joke between us. Roy never went anywhere without his shades, even in the depths of winter – or today, chilly and grey and autumnal.

  ‘Give it ten seconds,’ I whispered back. I heard Jake counting under his breath. Then he turned round and looked over his shoulder. He suppressed a snort.

  ‘Yup. Mr FBI Special Agent is looking cooool,’ he said. ‘I reckon he only wears them so he can stare at girls without them noticing.’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s supposed to be looking out for me.’

  The library was busy, but there were still a few free computers in the Young Adult section.

  ‘I need to check something on the internet,’ I said to Roy. ‘Jake’s going upstairs to look for the books we need.’

  Roy grunted and positioned himself a couple of metres away from me at the foot of the staircase that led up to the library’s first floor.

  Five minutes later I was logged on and clicking on my Google search terms: clinic and firebomb.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Roy was gazing around the library.

  I looked back at the computer and frowned. Hundreds of hits. I scanned quickly through them. Most of the results appeared to refer to abortion clinics in the United States. I added the words genetic and research and my dad’s name, Lawson, to the search. Pressed ‘go’.

  Yes. There it was. That had to be it.

  My heart thudded. I clicked on the hit.

  A sharp prod in my ribs made me jump. I whipped round. Jake was grinning at me.

  ‘What?’ I snapped.

  ‘How’s it going, dude?’ Jake sprawled into the chair next to me, his arms full of books. ‘Hey there’s a couple of babes upstairs looking at the CD section. Crap taste in music but . . .’ He caught my eye. ‘What?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You found something?’

  I nodded and pointed at the screen.

  We stared at it together.

  It was a newspaper article, from The Times archive, dated from early September fifteen years ago, two weeks after I was born at the end of August.

  RAGE firebomb kills ten at genetic research clinic

  The bodies of ten scientists have been recovered from the wreckage of the Assisted Conception and Genetic Research Centre in central London, a police spokesman said yesterday.

  Extremist right-wing group, the Righteous Army against Genetic Engineering (RAGE), has claimed responsibility for the firebomb, which exploded on the premises at 8.32 a.m. yesterday.

  Richard Smith, an administrative officer at the Centre, heard the blast from nearby Elizabeth Price Maternity Hospital, where he was attending the birth of his daughter.

  ‘I rushed over to the window,’ said Smith. ‘From the hospital I could see smoke rising. I knew at once it was a firebomb.’

  ‘Hey, a firebomb, dude. That’s hardcore.’ Jake sat back in his chair. I could feel him staring at me. ‘How did your dad get out, then?’

  I shrugged, trying not to show how much finding out what had happened mattered to me. I scanned the rest of the article quickly, looking for my dad’s name.

  The ten victims of the firebomb include Elijah ‘the Gene Genie’ Lazio, the maverick geneticist and owner of the centre.

  According to Smith, Lazio had received a number of death threats from RAGE in recent months.

  ‘He thought they were empty threats,’ Smith said. ‘I was not directly involved in what he was working on. In fact, Lazio knew I was m
orally against his cloning programme. I gave notice I was leaving last month.’

  Argentinian-born Lazio, 44, gained his nickname, the Gene Genie, two years ago after he claimed to have successfully cloned Andy – a rhesus monkey and the world’s first cloned primate. However, Lazio has consistently failed to produce any evidence to substantiate his claims, and his results have never been published in a peer-reviewed journal or scrutinised by independent experts.

  At the very end of the article was information about RAGE and a list of the other victims of the fire. There. The list included my dad – J. Lawson. Except that it wasn’t true, of course. He had survived the firebomb. He was out there somewhere.

  I let out a long, slow breath.

  ‘Now what?’ Jake said.

  I glanced over at Roy. He was looking at me, tapping his watch and mouthing the words ‘two more minutes’.

  ‘I have to find this Richard Smith guy,’ I said. I wasn’t yet sure what I was going to say to him – how much of the truth I dared tell – but he knew my dad. That was what mattered. He’d known him fifteen years ago. Maybe he still did. Jesus. Maybe they were still in touch. My heart was hammering, just at the thought of it.

  ‘Whoa.’ Jake shook his head. ‘First off – what makes you think he’s going to tell you any more about your dad than your mum has? And second off – how are you going to track him down? Richard Smith’s not exactly an unusual name.’

  I thought for a minute. ‘Look.’ I pointed to the article. ‘This gives us the exact date when his daughter was born.’

  ‘So?’ Jake frowned.

  ‘So that means . . .’ I paused, working it out in my head. ‘That means she’d be fifteen, like us, but born in September, so probably only Year Ten. If we can find out where she goes to school, get hold of her . . .’ I sat up, excited. ‘Yes. In fact it’ll work better that way. I can talk to her, use her to help me get to—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Jake frowned. ‘How are you going to find out where she goes to school?’

  ‘Annual Schools’ Census.’ I said. ‘Max told me about it. Records schools have to submit to the government. Including the surname and date of birth of every pupil. If she’s still in the country Max’ll be able to find her.’

  ‘Cool.’ Jake’s eyes widened. ‘Wait. Are you saying that you think Max could actually hack into school records?’

  ‘No.’ I grinned. ‘I’m saying that I know for a fact Max already has.’

  8

  Rachel

  Two days passed. I forgot about the text. I mean, I forgot about what it said. I didn’t forget that Dad had some kind of secret. I tried not to think about that. But it preyed on my mind. In fact, I was thinking about it when I arrived at school, when I would normally have been watching out for Jemima.

  I was heading for the toilets, busting for a pee. I didn’t see Jemima until I was almost at the door. She was with a couple of friends, giggling away across the corridor near the art room.

  I hesitated for a second. Maybe she hadn’t seen me. Anyway, it was too late to find another loo. I really needed to go. I pushed the toilet door open and hitched up my skirt as I scurried across to the cubicle. I was in and out really quickly, just splashing a bit of water over my hands afterwards. I reached the door. Pulled it open. And there she was. Jemima. Her pointy little face all sneering and cold. Amy and Phoebe stood on either side of her. They’re like copies of Jemima, except Phoebe’s not nearly as pretty and Amy’s got big braces on her teeth. But all of them are slim, with the same highlighted blonde hair.

  Jemima nodded at Phoebe. ‘Go on.’

  Phoebe shoved me in the chest.

  I stumbled back into the toilets.

  ‘What were you doing in here?’ Jemima sneered. ‘Trying to make yourself look pretty or something?’

  Amy giggled.

  I shook my head. I wanted to say something. To shout at them. But it was like there was a barrier between me and the rest of the world, stopping me from speaking.

  ‘Didn’t work, did it, Phoebs?’ Jemima went on. ‘She looks as ugly as ever, doesn’t she?’

  Phoebe nodded.

  I’m not ugly. I’m not. But the words didn’t sound true, even inside my own head. I was ugly. Just as surely as Rebecca had been beautiful and Dad had a secret phone.

  ‘So are you a virgin?’

  What? I stared at Jemima. Why was she asking me that? She must know I was. Tears pricked at my eyes.

  ‘Well?’ Jemima prodded my shoulder.

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t know what the word means?’ Amy giggled.

  ‘I do.’ The words ripped out of me – far too forcefully.

  I caught the gleam in Jemima’s eye. She knew she was getting to me. She knew I was nearly crying. She was loving every second of it.

  ‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you or aren’t you? Just say, then you can go.’

  I clung to this. If I gave her an answer I could get away. But what was the right answer? If I said yes, I was a virgin, she would taunt me about being inexperienced. If I said no, I wasn’t, she’d call me a slut and tell everyone I’d do it with any boy who wanted.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I stammered.

  No, Rachel. Stupid, stupid.

  Jemima grinned.

  ‘I mean . . .’

  Too late. All three of them were laughing.

  ‘She doesn’t know.’ That was Phoebe.

  ‘Maybe she was drunk,’Amy giggled.

  Jemima’s eyes glinted. ‘Maybe she couldn’t tell it was happening.’

  The others laughed even harder at this.

  And now the tears really were coming. I bit down hard on my lip to hold them back, but it was no use. I pushed past Jemima and reached for the door knob, all blurry in front of me.

  ‘Hey, freak show.’ Jemima’s voice was so commanding I stopped, my fingers outstretched and shaking. ‘Maybe you’ll work it out at the school disco . . .’

  More snorts and sniggers from the other girls.

  I grabbed the door knob.

  ‘Don’t forget you’re my bitch,’ Jemima sneered.

  What’s wrong with the ones you’ve got? I so wanted to say it. But I didn’t have the courage. And I didn’t trust my voice to speak. So I just turned the door handle and fled down the corridor.

  9

  Theo

  Max said it would take thirty-six hours to find out the information on Richard Smith’s daughter and that any communication between us should make no reference to either Richard Smith himself or my dad. Max is like that sometimes. Paranoid. Still, maybe hackers have to be.

  The thirty-six hours crept by.

  Even though it made me late for school, I was instant messaging at thirty-six hours and one minute.

  From Big T, posted at 09:01 a.m.:

  Any news?

  From Maxitup, posted at 09:26 a.m.:

  I think so. There were several Smiths born that day in the UK, but only one female who’s still in London. Her name is Rachel.

  From Big T, posted at 09:28 a.m.:

  Okay. Where do I find her?

  From Maxitup, posted at 09:31 a.m.:

  Year Ten. Browning Wood. Girls’ school in South London. 186 Eastow Hill, SE26. When are you going there?

  From Big T, posted at 09:32 a.m.:

  This afternoon. Thanks. BTW, Jake thinks u r cool. Hah!

  From Maxitup, posted at 09:34 a.m.:

  Jake’s a jerk. c ya.

  10

  Rachel

  I spent the rest of the day drawing – a weird picture of tiny hearts, all red and bleeding, on a piece of paper which I kept transferring from one text book to another. I drew instead of starting an English comprehension essay, taking down history notes and making observations on some stupid science experiment. The only class where I couldn’t totally zone out was gym – but I pretended I had my period and got the teacher to let me take it easy. I hate gym. I’m too clumsy and awkward to do any of it right.

  That aftern
oon I left school promptly, as soon as the bell rang, so that there were plenty of people around as I walked out.

  My school’s on a hill, near the top. I came out of the gates and turned left to walk down the road as usual.

  I’d only gone a couple of steps, looking round for Jemima the whole time, when Clara, this bushy-haired girl from my class, bounded up to me. Her eyes were all round and excited.

  ‘Rachel, Rachel,’ she gasped. ‘There’s a boy looking for you.’

  I stared at her. I didn’t know any boys. That is, I’d known some at primary school, but since I got to Browning Wood the only boys I’d met were other girls’ brothers and a few guys from Princedale’s at a couple of school discos.

  ‘He’s down by the bus-stop,’ Clara continued. ‘He wants to speak to you.’

  I felt slightly sick. Who could it be? Surely not someone’s brother? I hadn’t been round to anyone’s house for almost a year. Maybe the disco at the end of last term – I’d slow-danced with this horrible boy who’d given me a massive love bite on my neck. I’d had to wear high-neck tops for two weeks so Mum and Dad wouldn’t see. His name was Fred or Frank or . . .

  And then it hit me.

  There was no boy. This was some trick of Jemima’s. Some wind-up. I stopped walking.

  Clara grabbed my arm. ‘Come on. No one knows who he is. He won’t say his name.’

  I stared at her. Clara wasn’t a mean person. She kind of got on with everyone. And she certainly wasn’t part of Jemima’s bitchy gang. Maybe she was telling the truth. I turned back. The downwards slope of the hill between where I stood and the bus-stop was filled with tartan skirts and tan jackets. The boy – if there really was a boy – must be either very short or inside the bus shelter.

  I wandered ultra-casually down the hill. Clara was still gabbling away beside me. ‘He’s not wearing a school uniform. I saw him before anyone else. He’s really fit.’

  My heart started pounding. If it wasn’t a wind-up it was a mistake. He was asking for the wrong Rachel. God, that would be so embarrassing. This little voice in my head was saying: run away, run away now.