Chapter five
Antonia
The picket line is three deep this morning, people squashed between the metal railing and the wall. Bright signs bounce in the air, each one declaring my company corrupt. My taxi pulls up at the front steps, the driver waiting for my cue to leave.
“Give me a moment, please,” I say. His eyes flick up and catch my own in the rear-view mirror; he nods in understanding. “There’s more of them today,” I add as the sinking feeling in my stomach deepens.
“It was on the news last night,” he tells me. “The wife was interviewed again. No doubt rallied a few supporters of her cause.”
The taxi company’s been sending the same driver to collect me for weeks. I used to get different people most days; it was interesting. They would chat away as we wove through the London streets, telling me stories I didn’t ask to hear, but enjoyed anyway. Not that I ever told them.
“No one else wants this drop,” he says as if he can read my thoughts.
I tell myself not to take the bait, but I can’t help it.
“Why?”
He points outside with his chin, a protester waving a banner back at him. Her eyes filled with hatred, fists tight as if ready to punch—something or someone. A woman I’ve never seen turned red with rage over my world. My baby. The thing I’ve worked so hard to grow and make good.
That stings.
“You’re a liability.” He chuckles, and my hackles rise. “Not many of us would risk our cars in a mob. But a lady needs a chariot…”
“A mob?” I snort, briefly amused. “I’m not sure it’s quite expanded to mob yet, but I understand the sentiment.”
He shrugs. I realize I don’t even know his name, though right now doesn’t seem the time to ask. And I don’t want him to mistake politeness for interest. Our conversation this morning has already surpassed a boundary I’m comfortable with.
“So if I’m the bad apple,” I ask, again against my better judgment, “why are you here?”
He turns in his seat, cap pulled low over his eyes. He’s younger than I imagined, probably early forties, with eyes worth stopping for. I don’t like noticing that.
“Because I prefer to take the most scenic route.” He grins, his tongue darting between his lips. My skin crawls as if covered in ants.
That’s enough.
I end the conversation there, pushing open the door and stepping out into the fray. I’d rather face the wave of phones in my face than a man trying to chat me up because I’m a targeted woman. I feel safer out here than I did in his cab once his intentions were clear.
Eyes on the front door, I walk the path of hate. Women shout threats—karma will get your family—empty and shallow; only a worry when you have someone left to lose.
Men clatter wooden poles off the railings, the sound sharp in my ears. They bang louder the more I ignore them. Just before entering the revolving door, I turn back.
There are new faces in the crowd, but many I recognize. The same tattered signs in their hands, cardboard cutout on kitchen tables.
Opengate must pay.
Medicine for all.
The last one brings me up short.
The message cuts deep.
That’s the point. It was always the point.
Opengate was born from medicine shortages. From standing on the sharp end of them. From knocking on doors I was told wouldn’t open.
They did.
I made them, even if I was on my hands and knees.