Free Captive by A. J. Grainger Page A

Bell-Barkov’s drug-testing programme. All the stuff that Feather was talking to me about earlier. I read the page over three more times.
    Feather is pacing the cell, her fingers beating a rhythm on the wall; Scar sticks his finger in his nose and rummages around, and Talon waits quietly. ‘Ready?’ he finally asks. His
voice is kind. His eyes are gentle; it’s as if he really wants me to succeed.
    I skim the paragraphs again, and then nod. After smearing the contents of his nose on the wall under the window, Scar grins and presses RECORD. The red light blinks at me again. My mind goes
blank. I get as far as the second sentence and falter.
    Feather smacks her fist into her palm. The snapping sound makes my stomach turn over.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ll try harder. “Hi, Dad. I’m safe, but—”’
    ‘She needs to do it in her own words,’ Talon says.
    Feather silences him with a wave of her hand. ‘No. She’ll get it muddled. We need to clearly state what we want. The
trouble is that she doesn’t have enough at stake. We have treated her too well. She thinks we aren’t serious. Scar, show the clip.’
    Scar pulls his phone out of his pocket and shoves it in my face as Talon drops his head, as though ashamed. For a second or two, the camera screen is grainy and there are blurred shapes that
slowly resolve themselves into people and then what I recognize as press photographers and journalists. The image bounces and then refocuses on a sign for the London Clinic. The camera moves down
and shows Mum, Dad and Addy, emerging from the glass double-fronted doors. Mum’s arm is in a sling and Addy is clutching at her, little fingers wrapped in her skirt. Her toy lamb is caught
tight in her other arm. Dad acknowledges the press with a brief nod of his head and then leads Mum and my sister to the waiting car. The image tightens, cropping off Mum and Dad, to concentrate on
Addy. My heart clenches at the sight of her large scared eyes. There is a bloody scratch just above her right eye. Suddenly she turns her head. Caught dead centre in the shot, she seems to be
staring right into the camera, but of course she can’t be, because she has no idea that she is being watched. Being stalked.
    I lunge at Feather, fists flying and legs kicking. I want to hurt her, knock her to the floor and punch her again and again and again until she knows what it’s like to be in pain, to be
sick and hungry and lonely and tired and more scared than you ever thought possible. She goes down easily and I manage to land a few feeble smacks to her face and arms before Talon drags me off
her. The rage is in me, though, and I am a wild animal, biting and scratching and howling. My hands become claws that tear at his face; my teeth fangs that sink into any bare skin I find.
You
will not hurt my sister. You. Will. Not!
    Scar joins in the fight. I elbow him in the nose and then I bite his disgusting scarred finger so deep the tang of blood fills my mouth. He slaps me on the side of the head, making the world
somersault. After fumbling at his waist, he draws a knife from his belt—
    There’s a yell from behind us and we all turn to Feather, who is pointing her gun right at us. ‘Enough!’ she says. ‘Stand up. All of you . . . Robyn, your little sister is cute. I imagine she would be terrified if someone were to grab her and bundle her into the back of a van. Read the speech again
now. Read it and memorise it. You have half an hour, else . . .’ She snatches the phone from my hand and clicks it off. Addy is swallowed up in darkness.
    “On the twenty-eighth of January of this year, Kyle Jefferies – known to his friends as Marble – was forced from his house at gunpoint by six police officers
for allegedly shooting you, Dad. Since then he has been remanded in custody, and refused bail. If he is convicted, he could face life in prison. But he’s innocent! It was all a set-up. You
have to let him go. My