Blood Ties is about love, betrayal and compassion. Ritchie is a leading advertising executive. His children, Nic and Jack, are campaigners for better treatment of asylum-seekers and refugees. He is horrified to discover how much they despise his trade. He abandons his career and uses his skills to drive Britainâs treatment of refugees up the political agenda.
He earns his childrenâs respect, but comes to the attention of Makepeace, the populist Home Secretary. Nic confronts Yasir, a people-trafficker, who kidnaps and incriminates her as his accomplice. Makepeace blackmails Ritchie into signing a devilâs bargain: the police think your daughter is a criminal. Help me, or sheâll spend many years in gaol.
Ritchie is horrified: his task is to sell the reintroduction of forced labour, modern slavery, to the public. He consents and Nic is released, but the bargain must remain a secret, even from his children. They find their fatherâs involvement in something they loathe repugnant and reject him.
Ritchie has reached rock bottom. Blood Ties shows how he tracks down Yasir and turns the tables on Makepeace. At last the government acts decisively against modern slavery. Ritchie has advanced the causes his children hold dear and reunited his family.
Blood Ties is about love, betrayal and compassion. Ritchie is a leading advertising executive. His children, Nic and Jack, are campaigners for better treatment of asylum-seekers and refugees. He is horrified to discover how much they despise his trade. He abandons his career and uses his skills to drive Britainâs treatment of refugees up the political agenda.
He earns his childrenâs respect, but comes to the attention of Makepeace, the populist Home Secretary. Nic confronts Yasir, a people-trafficker, who kidnaps and incriminates her as his accomplice. Makepeace blackmails Ritchie into signing a devilâs bargain: the police think your daughter is a criminal. Help me, or sheâll spend many years in gaol.
Ritchie is horrified: his task is to sell the reintroduction of forced labour, modern slavery, to the public. He consents and Nic is released, but the bargain must remain a secret, even from his children. They find their fatherâs involvement in something they loathe repugnant and reject him.
Ritchie has reached rock bottom. Blood Ties shows how he tracks down Yasir and turns the tables on Makepeace. At last the government acts decisively against modern slavery. Ritchie has advanced the causes his children hold dear and reunited his family.
Iâm Ritchie Morlan, ex-chief creative at Dance and Fitzhugh, the top-flight advertising agency. I joined twelve years ago and left yesterday. I took the job because it was something I could do. Myles Fitzhugh mentored me. He seemed to like me, and people listened when I made suggestions. The agency looked after me, and at that time I needed looking after. In any case, the children were still in school and I had to earn some money.
Elsa, Elsa Dance, was never my friend, I knew that. Then we went public and Elsa was CEO and Myles was on garden leave. We moved very fast in a political direction. Soon we were the number one agency in the field. Well-groomed young people, sleek as seals in Dolce suits, crowded into the top-floor lift every morning. I took to going in late.
Things came to a head yesterday. I found myself standing at my desk, my hands trembling with anger.
I wrote out a letter longhand, and twenty minutes later I was in Elsaâs office. Floor to ceiling windows and London laid out like a garden with the river snaking through it. The air tasted of nothing.
She looked up at me. Her eyes are the grey-blue of deep water on a dull day and she looks directly at you. Itâs not a challenge, itâs not empathy. She just looks directly at you.
She smoothed out my letter on the oak desk.
âRitchie, youâre our leading creative. We need you.â
âI canât be part of this.â
âBut you are. Youâre an adman. Youâll always be an adman. Itâs what you do.â
I shake my head and she drops the letter into the attaché case by her chair.
âLetâs talk this through.â
âThereâs nothing to say. Iâm finished.â
âThink about it. Without you, Dance and Fitzhugh would still be middle rank. I can offer you a salary review. Maybe your own division.â
âGoodbye.â
âRitchie, if you leave here, where are you going to go?â
The door closes behind me, cutting her off. Iâve chucked in my job and I feel as if springâs come early in Canada Square.
I walk past the lift and take the stairs three steps at a time. Peters is in his usual place at the lobby door.
âGood evening Mr Morlan.â
I shake his hand and leave him staring at the five twenties in his palm.
That was yesterday. Now the air chills my face and the streetlights are still on. So many people on the street this early, all huddled in overcoats or fleece jackets. Theyâre mostly headed west between the glass and concrete blocks, more glass and less concrete as you get nearer the tube station. I check my mobile. Thereâs an energy in me that makes my fingers itch.
Itâs not spying. Theyâre my children and Iâm on their side. I can help them, Iâm going to help them. Nothing can go wrong.
I spot Jack ahead of me Heâs wearing a charcoal woollen overcoat and a scarf, and has a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. I wish Iâd brought a hat. I canât see Nic anywhere. Itâs good heâs come along for her.
I hear a shout from behind and my chest tightens.
âDad! You shouldnât be here.â
Sheâs striding towards me with her knock-kneed walk. She wears her red hoodie and sheâs got her hands pushed down in her pockets as if sheâs trying to get her whole body in. Iâd buy her an overcoat like a shot if sheâd let me. I stand waiting for her.
âIâve got to talk to you.â
She has to understand. Iâm no longer that other Ritchie, the one who thought the money made up for everything.
âIâm busy.â
Sheâs looking further down the street, at Jack, but she doesnât push past me.
âIâve quit the agency. I should never have worked there. I told myself we needed the money. You get drawn in.â
She pulls the hood back and stares directly at me.
âTwelve years with the agency and youâve quit? Youâre not just saying it?â
âBurned my boats. I told Elsa what I thought of it.â
Sheâs considering, moving from one foot to the other.
âItâs not just the job. Itâs Mum.â
âI think about her every day. The coronerâŠâ
She fixes her eyes on me and shudders. She speaks as if she can hardly force the words out.
âFuck the coroner. I think about her every day too, and I canât even remember what she looked like. You ⊠Whatâs the use?â
She shoves past, shoulders hunched and head down.
âWait. I did my best. We needed money. I had to get a job.â
Iâm walking as fast as I can. My right knee aches and sheâs already way ahead of me. Nic, who never needed anyone, restless in day-nursery, sailing through school, flying through Oxford, out into the world, out of control, hurtling onwards, anywhere, away from me, and I was so proud of her. Nic, giving her money to the homeless guy by the station and hitch-hiking home. Nic with her law degree, and her training contract at Clifford Chance, then she walks out and sets up Refugee+. Nic with her shared room in a shared squat somewhere (sheâs never told me where) on the Leyton Grange estate. Nic, with her black hair, same colour as Jackâs but close-cropped, and her sudden gestures. Nic, always too jerky, uneven and reckless where Jack is neat, symmetrical and ordered. Nic with her bi-polar disorder, no problem as long as she remembers the pills.
Nic and Jack, my main reasons for living.
I blink and rub my cheek.
Twelve years in advertising and what have I got to show for it? A dicky heart and my children despise what I do. So I quit. I can help them now, they must see that. Iâm still Ritchie Morlan, ex chief creative at Dance and Fitzhugh. I know how to promote things, how to make people listen. Nic and Jack are campaigners. Iâm good at campaigns. Itâs going to be OK.
The Refugee+ website mentioned a leafleting campaign out here first thing, and here I am. Doesnât look like anyone else turned up. Nic says you find a lot of casual labour on building sites, theyâre a good place to contact immigrants who donât know their rights.
Nic touches Jack on the shoulder and walks on past him, from lamp-post to lamp-post into pools of light, then darkness, then light. He calls out and hurries after her but she doesnât answer.
They go down a side road onto the Olympic site past one of the new blocks, lights in the windows, to the area where workâs still going on, turning the athletesâ accommodation into flats. Vans with tradesmenâs logos and a few cars are parked along the kerb.
The clouds to the east are pink and golden. Itâs going to be a fine day. Iâm shivering and my knee hurts every time I put my foot down.
A van roars past, too fast, I swear the wing mirror brushes my shoulder. I step back onto the pavement.
Three metre high hoardings surround the block, with the logo âCoral Reef Homesâ and a red lattice-work of girders and scaffolding reaching up behind them, some of the wall sections in place with black holes where the windows will go. A fire glimmers inside on the ground floor. The only person in sight is a bearded figure in a denim jacket and a yellow helmet, standing in the site entrance, like a guard. He glances at us, steps back and pulls the gate shut behind him.
Nic shoves a wad of leaflets through the letter-box slit in the fence. I read âShit Government! Shit Jobs!â across the top and under it bullet points in English and another language I canât understand.
I touch her arm.
âLet me give out some leaflets. I can talk to people.â She ignores me.
Jack catches sight of me and sighs.
âDad, please go home. This isnât an ad campaign. Youâll catch cold.â
They set off past the row of vans. I donât really feel anything, just a bleakness as if none of it is worth doing. This can still turn out OK. They stop and Nic points to a van parked some way up the street with the engine still running. Itâs slightly larger than the others and reminds me of a Tesco delivery van, except itâs a dirty white and the sides are blank. Thereâs a banging noise from inside it. The rear doors are padlocked shut.
âSomethingâs not right.â
She starts towards it. Jack moves fast to catch up with her.
âTake it easy.â
The passenger door is thrust open and a sandy-haired man wearing a black T-shirt and denim shorts gets out. His work-boots reach halfway up his calves and are laced tight and polished. Muscular shoulders, buzz-cut hair and a drinkerâs face. He looks like a boxer, out of condition.
He brushes something off his shorts and smashes his hand against the side of the van. The noise stops.
Nic walks forward holding out one of the leaflets.
He spits and glares at her.
âWho are you looking at?â
âWondered what youâve got locked up in there?â
âFuck off, sweetheart.â
He snatches the leaflet out of her hand, screws it up and chucks it at her. She catches it one-handed. Jackâs next to her and Iâm half running, half stumbling towards them, as if I could help. My head feels thick with blood. The big guy smacks his fist into his palm and takes a step towards Nic. The van driver shouts at him and he hesitates, then laughs.
âGotta go.â
He stoops and gets back in. The van drives off. Jack holds his phone up, filming it. He wraps his other arm round Nic.
âYou OK?â
Neither of them looks at me.
Itâs half an hour later, my kneeâs throbbing and Iâm trying to keep my weight on my other leg. We approach another site, a derelict warehouse in the development zone south of the Olympic Park. Corrugated iron creaks in the wind and the windows are smashed in. One end has already been demolished and the roof is sagging, a broke-back whale. A long strip of fencing has rusted through and been forced back. A wooden gate with barbed wire on top stands half open, the paint peeling off it. Iâm still tagging along somewhere behind them. I want to be part of it, to be of some use to them.
We pass no-one, except a man in a stained mackintosh with a shuffling walk and a mongrel on a length of string.
He keeps his eyes down and crosses the road to avoid us, muttering to himself. I look round. No-one else in sight anywhere. Iâm chilled to the bone.
As we get nearer a white van drives up and parks ahead of us. The driver, a small man with dark hair, gets out. Jack would look a bit like him if he went to the gym more. He bangs on the side of the van, ignoring us, fiddles with the padlock and yanks open the rear doors. Itâs the van we saw earlier. My mouth is dry. I want to shout at Nic and Jack. Why donât we go somewhere where there are people on the street?
A brown-skinned figure in a dirty boiler-suit swivels his legs round and stumbles out, supporting himself on the door. He flexes his knees to get the blood flowing again. The driver goes over to the wooden gate, heaves it open with his shoulder, and goes through.
A group of Asian men, six or seven, step down from the van. Theyâre dressed in worn-out jeans, T-shirts, one in a denim jacket, one in a grey jumper with a hole in the sleeve. They stay close together, looking round as if they donât feel safe here.
Nic and Jack walk over to them. Jack says: âHi. How are you doing today?â
They stare at him. No-one responds.
Nic holds out a leaflet with both hands, as if it were an offering. The man in the boiler suit takes it and starts reading, tracing the words with his forefinger. The others keep their eyes on the passenger door, none of them talking. We should go.
The big guy we met before gets out. My skin prickles and I start towards him. He ignores Jack and scowls at Nic.
He hesitates for a moment, as if heâs trying to work out what to do. He walks round the van, slightly bow-legged, grabs the leaflet out of the manâs hand and smacks his cheek, as if punishing a schoolboy. The man staggers back towards the gate. The big guy turns to face Nic and thrusts his head forward. Heâs a good six inches taller than she is. âI told you to fuck off.â
She offers him a leaflet.
âBetter rights for workers. You should read it.â Jack taps at his phone and holds it up.
âLeave her alone. Itâs a public street.â
The thug doesnât even look at him, just flips up one of his bricklayerâs hands and shoves him backwards. He trips and falls to the ground.
Iâve nearly caught up with them. âPlease.â
Iâm panting. I lean forward.
âItâs OK. Weâll get going.â
Jack gets to his knees, blood smeared across his hand. He shakes his head and glances at Nic. She stands very straight, takes a bag from her pocket and offers it to the thug.
âJelly baby?â
He knocks the packet out of her hand. Multi-coloured sweets scatter across the pavement.
âYou can fuck off, both of you.â
He stamps hard. His boot misses Nicâs trainer by the width of a raindrop.
âNow. Get lost.â
Nic winces and her face is pale as paper. She stays where she is. He seizes her arm.
Jack shouts:
âBehave yourself. The police are on their wayâ
I stumble and clutch the thugâs shoulder. He whirls round and grabs at my face. My gut clenches and I retch, lurch backwards and vomit. The acid burns my throat and over it I taste the sweet tang of the Paradise Bars I ate earlier.
The driver rushes up. He slams the van door and grabs the thug by the arm.
âCool it, Syker. No trouble.â
The big guy shakes him off. The padlock is in his other hand. He holds it like a weapon. He slams his fist into the side of the van so hard that it rocks and the men shrink back. He swears and cradles the fist in his other hand.
The worker who took the leaflet shouts something. The thug bellows and punches him in the stomach. As the man folds forward, like a discarded puppet, the thug jerks his knee up into his face. The man falls to his knees and gasps for breath. Blood spills from the corner of his mouth. He claps his hand across his face. The thug roars and the men flinch back, silent. He drags the man to his feet and herds all of them through the gate. It crashes shut behind him.
âGod, Dad. Are you alright?â Nicâs holding my head. I spit to clear my mouth and try to sit up.
âIâll be OK. Water. Get my breath back.â
Jack squats and wraps his overcoat round me. Nic slips an arm round my shoulders. She opens a water bottle and holds it to my mouth.
âTake it easy, Dad. Just rest a minute. Weâre calling an ambulance.â
I lean back and close my eyes and drink.
The Emergency Response Unit arrives in four minutes. I sit in the back seat of their car and feel better than I have for a long time. An efficient young woman with green hair and a pale freckled face sticks tabs to my chest, wires me to a black box like a Bakelite radio and checks my pulse.
âNot too good, not too bad.â She takes a white gadget like a mobile phone out of her bag. âNow this is the Dracula bit. You OK with needles?â
I feel a prick on my middle finger. She stares at the screen.
âYour blood sugar is in the top half per cent. What did you have for breakfast?â
âA couple of Paradise Bars. Keeps me going.â
âExplains a lot.â
She fiddles with the black box and glances at her colleague. He points at the messages scrolling up on a screen in the centre of the dashboard.
âWe have to crack on. Weâll drop you off at A and E. Bit of a queue Iâm afraid. It may be six hours before the
Registrar gets round to you.â
âIâm OK. I just need a rest.â
âYou really should have a check-up.â
I glance at Nic and Jack. The police have arrived and Jackâs showing them the video of the attack on his phone. âMy kids will look after me.â
The other medic says something to the one whoâs dealing with me. She doesnât look at him.
âYou will see the GP wonât you? Today?â
She looks me full in the face. Itâs as if weâre making a pact, just between the two of us.
The kids are still busy. I nod.
âShouldnât really do this, but we must get on. Make sure you get round to the GP â and listen to what she tells you.â
The other medicâs already putting his seat belt on. I climb out of the car and they drive off.
The policewoman hands Jack his phone. Sheâs older than I first thought, slightly-built, neat and formal.
âWas a knife involved?â
âI didnât see one. That man, the one who was beaten up, needs hospital treatment.â
âIâm very sorry to hear that.â
I want to join in and back him up, but this is their business.
âDid you see any indication of hate crime?â
Nic joins in. Sheâs talking too fast, itâs hard to make out the words.
âItâs not only that, itâs forced labour. Theyâre terrified. They were locked up in that van I donât know how long.â She jabs her forefinger at the policewoman. âYouâve got to do something.â
Jack moves in front of her. I take hold of her hand, but she shakes me off.
The policewoman steps backward.
âWe will investigate and make a report. We are strongly concerned about such crimes.â She sounds as if sheâs reading a statement to a group of reporters.
âIâm very glad you came so quickly,â Jack says. âI hope the film of the attack will be useful.â
âOf course. Please email the video to this address.â
She gives him a card and settles her bowler on her head.
âThank you for all your help. We take these accusations very seriously. I see your father is much better.â
She nods to the other cop and they walk across the road and bang on the gate. She shouts: âPolice.â
Someone inside drags the gate open and they enter. Nic tries to follow, but the cop says something and the gate slams to in front of her.
She turns and holds her arms out wide, and includes me in the gesture. Iâm filled with love for her.
âSame as last time â press donât turn up. If we could get a journalist here maybe weâd get somewhere. I hate all this.â
We sit in the kitchen back in Jackâs flat â living room, kitchen, one bedroom and a view of Stratford shopping centre. It always feels warm, the walls are buttermilk and saffron and the doors stripped pine. I helped him buy it. Iâd help Nic if sheâd let me.
The photo of the three of us, Jack and Nic as teenagers, and me on that holiday in Arcachon, suntans, seafood and Bordeaux white, hangs above the sink. Always makes me think of the photo I donât have any more because I tore it up: Margate sands, the children much younger and everything easy. Seven year old Nic races away down the beach, Jack staggers after her on his chubby legs, clutching at his sun-hat, the sun streaming golden under ice-cream clouds. I remember taking it, kneeling on the beach, stunned that such glorious people are my children.
Jack glances at me and stirs two spoonfuls of sugar into my coffee.
âShock,â he says and grins.
Nicâs on her mobile, gesturing with her free hand as if the other person could see her.
She puts the phone down and Jack hands her a mug of coffee. He puts the packet of pills next to it.
âAny luck?â
She frowns and her nostrils flare but she speaks calmly.
âAt least that guy, the one who was beaten up, is in hospital. The thug calls himself a gang-master. He says it was a fight between workers and he broke it up. No-one else will talk. Waste of time. Cops say the filmâs not admissible unless itâs corroborated. Theyâre grateful for our help and theyâre sorry. Theyâll keep an eye, whatever that means.â
Cat flashes into my mind. Cat in the hospital, white as the bedsheet, with Jack on her breast, one arm cuddling Nic. Cat on the steps of the High Court with the reporters buffeting round her, the day she won the Stevenage Seventeen deportation case. Cat on the platform at the Human Rights Watch annual dinner, laughing.
âThat thugâs taken their passports. Itâs slavery.â
âYup, but the police wonât start anything unless they know theyâll get a conviction. Everyoneâs too scared to talk.â
âSlavery in plain sight. No-one knows. No-one cares. No-one bothers.â
They sit on opposite sides of the table, just looking at each other. Jack touches her arm.
âYou tried.â
She gives her lop-sided smile.
âNo-one turned up. Not the press, not the council, no-one off the supportersâ list.â
She slips two of the pills into her mouth and swallows.
Iâm not part of this. I want to be, but Iâm not. Iâm angry too, Iâm shocked, of course I am, but what use is that? Iâve been in advertising all my life, I know about publicity, I know about changing peopleâs minds.
âIâve got contacts. Next time, Iâll chat them up for you.
Theyâd come.â Jack shakes his head.
âDonât do that.â
âBut I want to help.â Nick frowns.
âItâs not some advertising stunt to con people, this is real.â
Neither of them looks at me. I finish my coffee. âI guess I should be going.â Jack gets to his feet.
âDad? Youâll be OK, wonât you? Keep in touch â and donât do anything stupid.â He hugs me.
âTake care.â
Nicâs still sitting at the table. She raises her hand to wave and I grip it and thereâs something twisted in my smile. That makes two of us.
Overwhelmingly this book is about the love of a father. The story begins with Ritchie leaving his job at one of the most prestigious advertising and promotional companies in the country to support his children, Jack and Nic, on their exposure of modern-day slavery in Britain. Both children are passionate about this subject, and Ritchie wants to do what he can to help using his background as a successful promoter. However, he may be out of his depth with this project beginning during a time when the government is seeking to make immigrants fully illegal. Not only does he land himself in trouble but Nic also finds herself in serious trouble as well. When mass riots break out, Nic is easy to blame for being the culprit, leaving Ritchie to make a deal to ensure her safety, he must join and work with the most corrupt Home Secretary you can imagine (yeah, openly worse than whoever you're thinking of, mirroring very close to the one I'm thinking of anyway) to sell a programme to the public to essentially make modern-day slavery legal.
What struck me about this book was the honesty. I found it almost refreshing to read a politically driven book with emotionally honest and vulnerable characters. Ritchie throughout the book accepts and understands that he could have done more as a father, and as an ally to his children and works to rectify his previous mistakes by throwing himself headfirst into their passion projects. He shows a lot of resilience throughout the book, continually putting his kids first rather than his own morals and beliefs. I found myself getting almost teary-eyed at one point as Ritchie's inner monologue explained how much he loved his kids, filled with pointless and seemingly random bouts of love at their smallest of actions.
Out of all the characters in this book however, I liked Nic the most. Albeit a little over the top in places, she was so passionate about everything she put her heart into and she spoke for the people who remained voiceless in society. I think Nic's character really reflects a true advocate for those who find themselves in trouble. Her mental illnesses didn't deter her from pressing on, although her impulsive recklessness should be noted, she continued to shout and demonstrate and voice what was wrong on behalf of those who couldn't and in the face of those who thought it was right.
This book is definitely worth a read if you don't mind political fiction books, it flows well, it is well written and contains a whole host of well-rounded characters. The heroes are not perfect heroes, doing everything right to get to a perfect conclusion and the villains are not perfect villains.