The Butterfly Assassin, page 8
She doesn’t know her father half as well as Ronan thinks she does. That doesn’t mean she can’t decode those files, but it does mean she doesn’t want to, because she has no idea what she might find.
And because collaborating with Ronan Atwood is less than half a step away from re-joining Comma after all.
‘I can’t help you,’ she says again. ‘Figure it out yourself.’
Frustration flickers across his face but disappears quickly behind his usual mask. He indicates the book on poisons. ‘You must have a great deal of confidence in your ability to stay alive without us,’ he says smoothly, ‘to turn down an offer that could save you.’
Isabel hates him. She hates the careful way he picks his words, how he fakes outrage and concern over what was done to her. He knew. He must have known. He’s too important not to have known.
‘I’ve been surviving without your help for seventeen years,’ she says. ‘I can manage a few more.’
Ronan takes a pen and scrawls a phone number on the inside cover of the book, then stands. ‘Let me know when you change your mind,’ he says, and leaves Isabel alone with her traitorous, poisoned body in a flat that’s no longer (has never been) safe.
10 KONFESO (CONFESSION)
LUTTON MURDER CLAIMED BY COMMA
Isabel does a double-take when she sees the headline plastered across the front page of the Echo. She has to flip to the next paper in the pile, and the next, to be sure she’s not imagining it.
They all tell her the same thing: Ronan claimed the kill. The police are abandoning their investigation – they stay out of guild business – and now that Hummingbird knows a claim has been staked and the killer isn’t theirs to target, Isabel’s safe… from this mess, at least.
‘Everything all right, Bella?’ asks Ashvin, and she realises she’s standing stock still in the middle of the newsagent’s, staring at the papers like she’s never seen one before.
‘Yeah, sorry, I… Big news about the murder, right?’
‘Big news,’ Ashvin agrees, watching her load the papers into her bag. ‘Circulation’s up. Make sure you check the list.’
A clear sign to get on with her job. Isabel takes the hint.
Why would Ronan do this? Because she’s a ‘valuable asset’, too valuable to fall into Hummingbird’s hands? Or because he thinks she’ll change her mind about helping Comma? She won’t. He left her the folder of her father’s documents, but Isabel shoved them in the bottom of her wardrobe as soon as he was gone and has no plans to retrieve them.
Or maybe, just maybe, Ronan Atwood is trying to help her.
But she knows his type. More than that, she knows his reputation. He’s ruthless, ambitious, calculating – not benevolent. He’ll want something in return for this apparent act of mercy, and she doubts she’ll get much choice when he comes to collect her debt.
Isabel tries to put it out of her mind, but if she doesn’t think about Ronan, she has to think about what the doctor said, and that’s worse. She’s simultaneously impatient for answers and dreading the moment Daragh tells her what she already suspects: that he can’t cure her.
Her updated route takes her most of the way to school. It’s still early when she stuffs the empty delivery bag in her locker and heads towards the library to kill time until the bell rings. She can hear voices – Grace must already be in.
As she approaches, the noise resolves into words. ‘You must have noticed her hand, Grace.’
Mortimer. Isabel ducks out of sight and listens.
‘So she’s got a nasty scar,’ comes Grace’s voice. ‘It could’ve been an accident – a hot stove, a spilled kettle…’
‘She’s got a nasty scar, she’s obviously traumatised, and her school record says she used to be at Fordon Borough School, which I know for a fact is a lie. I have a friend in their admin office, and he says they never had a Bella Nicholls.’
Shit. They’re talking about her. She presses herself more closely against the wall, as though that’ll help.
‘What are you implying, Mortimer?’
‘You don’t think that’s suspicious? That she’d lie about her school?’
‘Not as much as you do, apparently.’ Grace sounds exasperated. ‘What, you think she’s a double agent?’
‘I don’t know what to think. You’ve heard the rumours about the spons—’
‘And half of them are bullshit. The guilds might fund the schools, but they leave the kids alone until sixth year at least.’
‘Then why would she lie?’ Grace is silent, and Mortimer pushes the point: ‘That scar on her hand looks like an acid burn. How would a teenager get a scar like that, unless they’re caught up in something they shouldn’t be?’
Isabel’s heart is pounding so hard against her ribs that it almost hurts. She clenches her fist, knuckles against her teeth, trying not to make a sound.
‘I think that’s a stretch,’ says Grace. ‘Maybe she has an abusive family.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘I know she doesn’t live with them. Beyond that, we haven’t talked about it. We talked about the murder, we talked about her History homework – conversations I’ve had with five other students this week.’
‘You talked about the murder?’ echoes Mortimer.
‘She wanted to know what I thought.’ Grace pauses. ‘Mortimer, you’ve got that look on your face. Don’t tell me you think—’
Isabel can hardly breathe, an unyielding band of fear tightening around her chest. No, no, no. Comma claimed the kill. She wasn’t supposed to have to worry about this any more.
‘I’m not saying she did it,’ says Mortimer. ‘But she was visibly upset in my class, and the more I learn about her, the less things add up.’
‘Comma claimed that kill.’
‘It took them a week. Something’s going on, and I think Bella’s involved.’
Grace scoffs. ‘She’s a teenage girl.’
‘Yes, she’s seventeen. They take people from sixteen, don’t they?’
‘Only in exceptional circumstances. If you’re scared of Bella Nicholls, you’re in the wrong profession.’
‘I’m not scared of her. I’m scared for her.’ Isabel wasn’t expecting that, or the way Mortimer’s voice softens. ‘Grace, if she’s got Comma’s attention to the point she’s had to move halfway across the city and lie on her school record to get away from them, she might be in danger. Maybe they killed that man to scare her into compliance.’
There’s a heavy thump, as though Grace has dropped a pile of books on the desk. ‘I know you’ve convinced yourself you have a moral duty to protect every student who enters your classroom, Mortimer, but if Comma want Bella Nicholls, it’s not your job to get in their way.’
Grace is right. If Mortimer’s interpretation of events was in any way correct, interfering would get them both killed. And it’s not like Isabel expected them to help her. But it still stings to hear the librarian say she wouldn’t protect her, if it came to it.
‘And if you think she’s a risk to your other students,’ Grace continues, ‘then deal with it, but don’t bring your wild speculation to me.’
Isabel can’t stay here. Any second now, Mortimer will storm out of the library and find her cowering in the corridor, and he’ll know she’s heard. She can’t have that conversation now, without lies ready to shield herself. So she steals away, taking the stairs as fast as she can, and almost crashes into Nick at the bottom.
‘Bella!’ He seems pleased to see her. ‘You weren’t on the tram this morning. You all right?’
I’ve been poisoned, my Woodwork teacher suspects me of working with the guild, and I’ve got a Comma agent in my flat every other minute. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Bit tired.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ His laugh is a little forced. ‘Good thing I bumped into you, actually. I wanted to ask you – there’s this club in Weaverthorpe some of my friends go to, and apparently they have an underage night every couple of weeks. I wondered if you wanted to come with me sometime?’ She stares at him blankly, and he hastily clarifies, ‘With us. Not like a date. I thought it could be fun.’
Maybe it’s the brain fog that comes from being in constant pain, but it takes Isabel far too long to realise he’s inviting her to go clubbing, as if she’s his friend. She should say no: clubbing feels like an unnecessary risk, and clubbing in a Comma borough is just asking for trouble.
But instead she hears herself say, ‘Yeah, maybe. Sounds fun.’
Nick’s face breaks into a grin. ‘Really?’ he says, apparently as surprised as she is by this answer. ‘Great! I’ll text you the details.’ He looks expectantly at her until she twigs he wants her number.
Well, what harm is there in giving it to him? It’s the normal thing to do, and Bella Nicholls is normal. She types her number into his phone and they exchange a few more snippets of small talk, and by the time she gets back to her locker, the tight band around her chest has loosened a little.
But the fear is far from gone.
* * *
The following evening sees Isabel back at the Sunshine Project. She suspects Daragh’s rearranged his hours specifically to see her – it’s late, and the clinic’s almost empty, except for a tired-looking receptionist who waves her straight through.
‘So.’ Isabel sits down. ‘How bad is it?’
The doctor purses his lips. ‘Bad,’ he says. ‘The test results were… complicated, but it’s hard to tell how much that’s the result of your prior exposure to poison. I suspect that while that’s not the primary cause of your current illness, it isn’t helping.’
No, being repeatedly poisoned isn’t great for one’s health. ‘So what is the primary cause?’
‘I don’t know,’ he confesses. He’s looking back and forth between a dozen heavily annotated printouts as though the numbers might suddenly make sense. ‘The toxicology screen’s inconclusive: this is no poison we’ve ever seen before. You have vitamin deficiencies worse than I’ve seen in a malnutrition patient starving to death; your white blood cells are through the roof; your adrenal gland has gone haywire. In other words, your immune system is eating itself and your whole body is in crisis. No ordinary poison could do this.’
The meaning of his words is slow to seep through the sludge of Isabel’s dying brain. When the sense of his diagnosis finally settles, she says, ‘No ordinary poison could. But that kind of thing was – is – my father’s speciality.’
There’s a pause, and then Daragh says, ‘Parnassiinae.’ She looks up sharply, but his expression’s inscrutable. ‘Am I right?’
Parnassiinae. The code name of her father’s lab – one of three forming Comma’s biological and chemical weapons development division, and by far the most notorious for the vicious nerve agents and poisons it produces.
Not that Daragh should know that.
She’s on her feet before she’s thought through what she’s going to do next. ‘Did you – how did you—’
‘It’s okay,’ he says, in a placatory tone; he doesn’t seem in the least bit surprised by her alarm. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me. After I saw these results, I did some research, tried to work out who could be responsible. That’s all. I didn’t realise you had a family connection, but I’m right, aren’t I? This is Parnassiinae work.’
Slowly, still wary, she sits back down. ‘It looks like it,’ she admits. ‘Except I’m not dead.’
Her father tried to kill her. She knew – or at least she suspected – but it’s different, somehow, having a stranger tell her they recognise his work. She lied to herself for so long, trying to pretend she still believed he never meant to hurt her, but she knew.
And Ronan wonders why she ran.
‘Yes, non-lethal hits are rare for Parnassiinae,’ Daragh agrees. ‘But it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve used a slow-acting poison to make a point. There was an ambassador—’ He breaks off. ‘The details don’t matter. But the reports suggested the poison was encased in a coating that broke down slowly over time, releasing the toxin into the bloodstream only after some weeks had elapsed. By the time the target became sick, the agent was long gone, and it was virtually impossible to prove it was Esperan work. If something similar is happening here, it could be that the casing has only just begun to break down.’
So this is only the prelude to something much worse. ‘Meaning these are just the first symptoms.’
‘Meaning it’s possible we can remove the capsule before any more poison is released into your bloodstream,’ says Daragh. ‘We can’t counteract it effectively without an antidote, but it might give you a fighting chance.’
It takes a second to realise he’s giving her good news. ‘You can remove it?’
‘Me personally? I’m not sure. It would depend where exactly—’
‘Can you get it out?’ she asks urgently.
He hesitates. ‘Let me do an ultrasound to locate it,’ he says at last. ‘I’m not sure what it’s made of, so an X-ray might not pick it up. But a slow-acting poison like this would have to have been inserted, not ingested. Do you have any bruises or scars that might help me find it?’
Isabel has more than enough scars, and none of them are likely to tell Daragh anything useful. But there’s a small patch of mottled bruising above her hip, and when she mentions this, he nods.
‘Okay. We’ll start there. Take your T-shirt off and pop up on the bed for me. Don’t worry,’ he says, seeing her stricken expression. ‘I’ve seen it all before.’
She doubts that, but she does as he asks, and sits shivering on the bed.
He takes one look at her and sucks in his breath. She waits for the interrogation, but all he says is, ‘Have you had these scars checked over to make sure they’ve healed properly?’
It’s not what she expected. ‘You’re not going to ask how I got them?’
‘Do you want me to?’ Isabel shakes her head. ‘I thought not. Have they been treated?’
‘Mostly.’ She runs her hand along her lower abdomen, across the thick, knotted line that bisects it, marred by the small wounds of rough stitches. ‘This one didn’t heal like it was meant to.’
‘That’s a big scar,’ says the doctor. ‘When did that happen?’
‘About a year and a half ago.’
‘Ah.’ Daragh frowns. ‘Is that why you no longer menstruate?’ When Isabel nods, he looks closer. ‘They made a real mess of that.’
‘It was okay… before,’ she says. ‘I was healing. And then it – then my parents didn’t give me enough time to rest, so the stitches tore. They insisted on treating it themselves, and now it’s like this.’
‘I see,’ he says. ‘I noticed you’re taking hormone replacement therapy, so your ovaries—’
‘Yeah, they’re, uh, not there any more.’
‘How much isn’t there?’
‘Let’s just say I definitely won’t be having children.’
That doesn’t bother her: she can’t imagine a future for herself that involves children, and doesn’t care to. But she does care that she was stabbed, that she nearly died – would have died, if Michael hadn’t been there. All because her parents sent her on a job she wasn’t ready for, signed off by Toni fucking Rolleston and her moss-green eyes.
‘It’s a drastic approach, to remove your reproductive system at that age,’ says Daragh, a hard edge to his tone. ‘They didn’t try to save it?’
‘My parents told the doctors not to bother.’
‘I see.’
‘Nobody asked me what I thought.’
‘I see,’ he says again. Now the hard edge seems more like anger, though she’s fairly sure it’s not directed at her. ‘And this burn on your chest, that’s Comma’s handiwork as well, I suppose?’
Isabel doesn’t have to ask how he guessed. The burn’s in the shape of a butterfly, Comma’s logo traced in the damaged contours of her skin. ‘Sort of,’ she admits.
Daragh mutters something that sounds a lot like, ‘those bastards’, although he’s all professionalism when he asks, ‘Forgive me, Bella, I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but are you willing to tell me what happened?’
The trouble with staying silent for so long is that when you’re eventually asked to speak, the words have buried themselves so deep they can’t be found. ‘I don’t…’
‘Anything you say is in the strictest confidence,’ he promises. His critical medical eye is gone: it’s sympathy on his face as he looks at her now. ‘I want to help you.’
And for some reason she believes him, or maybe she’s just sick of the secrets, of always swallowing her truth. But still the words are strangled, barely more than a whisper, as she says, ‘I was eleven years old. My mother wanted to teach me a lesson. My father was the one who held me still.’
He closes his eyes for a moment, swears quietly, then opens them, a new resolve in his expression. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay, Bella. I’m going to put some gel on your stomach now and then I’ll dim the lights to help me see the screen. Is that okay? Tell me if you need me to stop.’ She nods. ‘Then let’s see what we can do to help you.’
11 HELPO (HELP)
Daragh’s brow creases as he fiddles with the display, trying to make the grainy image of Isabel’s abdomen clearer. Finally, he sits back. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he says, ‘is why Comma would do this.’
I didn’t know, Ronan said, like what happened in the lab wasn’t Comma’s responsibility. Your father is missing. And her own words: You think he’s defected? Ian Ryans has proved he’s working to his own agenda, and maybe poisoning her is a part of that. She can’t see what he stands to gain from her death, but perhaps she’s outlived her usefulness to him.
‘I’m not sure that Comma did,’ she replies.
Daragh frowns at this remark, and she realises she probably shouldn’t be dropping hints that Comma have lost the loyalty of their deadliest poisoner. Before he can ask what she means, she says, ‘Where is it?’
‘Here.’ Daragh points to a raised bump in the middle of the bruised area.
