Nobody Gets Hurt

by R J Bailey

She stomped on the brakes as we came up to a speed camera, maybe a little harder than necessary. She was back on the attack.

  ‘The truth is, you’ve been moping and miserable and running yourself into the ground. There has been no light in your life at all. It’s all shade. No fun.’ The word sounded better on her lips. ‘Look, if I didn’t love you, I’d have to say I wouldn’t like you very much right now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I mean. And just think it through instead of sticking metal pins in Tom or me. Two things might have happened if I had called. One, you walked straight off the job and came home. Two, you decided you were too professional for that and you stayed, but with your edge gone. And that would have been dangerous. Am I right?’

  I thought about it. Would I have turned to Jean-Claude and said, sorry, something has come up, I’m off? ‘I’d probably have stayed. On balance.’

  ‘Right. But, the knowledge would have eaten into you, distracted you. Maybe made you fuck up on something important.’

  ‘You figured all this out?’

  ‘I’m figuring it out with hindsight,’ she said. ‘It’s true though. And it’s true I told Tom to let you relax, unwind from the job, before he broke the news.’

  She smiled as we ascended the flyover at Brent Cross. It was what they called an infectious grin and I envied her for it. Freddie could probably disarm a jumpy jihadist with a quick flash of her teeth. I turned away slightly. I was in no mood to be disarmed.

  ‘I still can’t believe he did it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have if you had looked like that.’

  ‘Thanks. And I didn’t mean the sex.’

  ‘I know. There’s some make-up in the back. Help yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I grunted.

  ‘Only if you want to make small children run away from you screaming.’ She broke out her best West Country accent. ‘You look like shit, my lover.’

  I spent the rest of the journey trying to un-shit my face.

  Saanvi’s parents owned the lower two floors of an impressive pile right on Highbury Fields. He was, as I recalled, a surgeon or maybe a dentist, and had already left for work. His wife was obviously office-ready too, impeccably turned out in a two-piece powder-blue suit and groomed to within an inch of her life. I felt like a corpse next to her.

  We sat in the living room, the three of us. Its ceiling-height French doors overlooked a garden the size of a small municipal park. Two gardeners were turning over a bed under a wall of yellow London stocks. I could hear the scrape of violin practice from above. Saanvi’s younger sister. It all looked like an idyllic set-up for family life in the capital. Something I would never know, even if Jess came back. I had made my life choices and they had blown up in my face like a roadside IED.

  Missing: two husbands (one dead, one absconded) and a daughter. Whereabouts: unknown.

  Saanvi was sitting in a button-backed leather armchair, knees together, hands on her lap. I was amazed by how much the girl had changed, blossomed. She looked like her mother, but with quite startling brown doe-eyes and even sharper cheekbones. She had acquired poise and a pair of breasts in the year since I had last seen her, when she had been hanging around my living room with Jess. She was wearing her school uniform, but it looked all wrong on her, as if she were an adult going to a fancy-dress party. Was Jess also changing into a gamine young lady? Or was she some Bohemian wild child being dragged around drug dens and flophouses by my no-good ex?

  ‘Thanks for waiting for me,’ I began.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a tea or coffee?’ the mother offered.

  ‘No, thank you, I won’t keep you longer than necessary. And Freddie’s waiting on the lines.’

  ‘Very well.’

  I turned my attention to Saanvi. ‘I know you must have told this a dozen times . . .’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m glad to help find Jess.’

  ‘So, from the top. When did you hear from her?’

  ‘It was twelve fifty-three. In the morning. Wednesday morning, that is.’ The precision was no doubt due to the time display on her phone.

  ‘She should have been asleep then,’ said her mother through pursed lips. ‘And there is a “phones-off” policy at midnight in this house. I was passing Saanvi’s room when I heard the ping of an incoming message and went in to investigate.’

  Saanvi glanced at her mum. ‘I told you. I just knew something was going to happen, so for once I left it on.’

  Nobody in the room believed that but I was relieved the mother let it pass.

  ‘Have you still got the phone?’

  ‘No. The police lady took it.’

  That would be Connie. ‘Do you have a copy of the text?’

  I was relieved when she nodded. ‘They copied all my contents and data over to a new phone. An iPhone 7,’ she said proudly. ‘I only had a 5S before.’

  I made a mental note to find out who paid for the new handset. It wouldn’t be fair if it were the family that had footed the bill. ‘And it was the first time you had heard from her?’

  ‘Yes, the first text in a year.’

  ‘But you didn’t recognise the number?’

  ‘No. But I recognised the sign-off name. Poobag.’

  ‘Poobag?’

  ‘It’s a sort of nickname.’

  First I’d heard of it. ‘It’s not very nice.’

  ‘It’s meant in an affectionate way. We called each other that when we started secondary school, like a little gang. Hi, Poobag, that sort of thing. It’s what the tattoo says . . .’ the voice trailed off.

  ‘What tattoo?’ I asked.

  Saanvi froze. Her mother came over and sat on the arm of the chair and stroked the girl’s hair. It was oddly intimidating, as if she might grab a handful at any minute. But her voice suggested otherwise, it was as soft as velvet. Which was even scarier. ‘Do you have a tattoo, darling?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She looked her mother in the eye. ‘I wouldn’t. Not without asking. And I know what the answer would be.’

  ‘But Jess has one?’ the mother asked on my behalf.

  A short, sharp nod was the answer.

  ‘Jess is underage,’ I said. ‘And not just underage. Three years short of eighteen. And when you say “it’s what it says” . . .’

  ‘The tattoo is in Sanskrit. Or Thai. Or something like that.’

  I looked at her mother, whose face had collapsed into concern. ‘Can I change my mind about the coffee if you don’t mind?’

  It was a few seconds before she nodded and left.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Saanvi, what you say to me is just between us. I will not pass anything on to your mother, I promise. I don’t care if you have the Stars and Stripes tattooed across your arse.’ That got a smile out of her. ‘All I care about is Jess. I don’t even care about the Poobag tattoo.’

  Something in Saanvi’s expression told me I should care. Her lower lip began to quiver.

  ‘When did she get it? This tattoo.’

  ‘About six months ago.’

  Which meant six months after she disappeared. I felt the certainties of the last few minutes of conversation crumble like ash. I took another, deeper breath, and tried to calm the storm of anger swirling round my brain. It wouldn’t help. ‘Shall we start again? You said the other night’s text was the first time you had heard from Jess.’

  Saanvi swallowed hard. ‘I said it was the first time I received a text.’

  It was an effort to keep my voice level. ‘So she’s called you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tweeted?’

  A look of disdain briefly distorted her features. ‘Nobody tweets any more.’ That was also news to me. I was learning a lot. Just not what I wanted to know.

  ‘Look, Saanvi, I’m an old woman. Over thirty. I’m not up on the latest social media. We could play guess-the-platform all morning. How did she get in touch?’

  ‘Snapchat.’

  ‘Snapchat,’ I re
peated, sounding like a particularly dull three-year-old.

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘Even I know what it is, Saanvi. The images delete after ten seconds.’

  ‘Up to ten seconds. You can choose shorter if you wish.’

  Marvellous. ‘How many times did she use it?’

  ‘Twice, I think.’

  ‘And did you reply?’

  ‘On the chat screen, yes. I asked where she was and if she was OK.’

  ‘And did she reply?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell Connie, the policewoman, about this?’

  She shook her head, her face clouded with guilt. ‘I’m sorry. Jess said to tell no one.’

  ‘You said she didn’t reply.’

  ‘It was written over the photos. You can put text on top of the pictures. “Please don’t tell anyone,” it said.’

  ‘And is there any way to retrieve the photos?’

  ‘If you take a screen shot you can keep them.’

  I’d heard that part, of course. It was how embarrassing photos, which the sender thought were as ephemeral as mayflies, suddenly found eternal life on the internet.

  ‘And did you take a screen shot?’ I asked.

  But I already knew the answer. ‘No.’

  ‘Are the images stored on a server?’ I was getting desperate now.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Millions of photos are sent every day . . . I’m sorry, I have to get to school.’

  ‘I know. Look, I’ll tell the policewoman to check your phone for anything from Snapchat. But don’t worry. I’ll say you forgot to mention it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It might be the files are still there. I’ve heard nothing is ever really deleted.’ Saanvi nodded as if it might be true. But perhaps she was just playing along, trying to make me feel better. ‘Could you see anything in the background of the pictures? Anything that might give me a clue to where it was taken?’

  ‘The first was a close-up of the tattoo. It’s on her ankle. The second was . . .’ Her eyes were suddenly studying the polished parquet floor. A leaf-blower started up in the garden outside so I had to raise my voice slightly.

  ‘Go on.’

  She looked back up and met my gaze, the words coming fast, as if she was keen to get rid of them. ‘In a bar or a club. Kissing a boy. It was very blurred. A selfie, I think.’

  I tried to keep my voice level, but it sounded as brittle as dried flowers. ‘Thank you. Can I see the copy of the text now?’

  My ribs felt crushed and it was difficult to expand my lungs, as if someone had just turned up gravity to eleven, as I took the phone off Saanvi. The message wasn’t very long and felt like it was hurried, at least judging by the number of spelling mistakes and predictive-text glitches. It mainly asked how other girls were and if they were looking forward to Indonesia – I’d almost forgotten she was meant to go on a school trip there – and it wasn’t until the last line that I broke in two and the tears came.

  It’s all OK here, but I really miss my mum.

  PART TWO

  EIGHT

  Saturday

  Dear Diary . . .

  Isn’t that how you are meant to start?

  Feels silly. But I’d rather put this down on paper than on a computer. You never know who pokes around in your computer. I bought this book in the market two weeks ago. I keep the key to the lock around my neck. Feels strange to be handwriting again, though.

  I MISS my Poobags.

  And my mum.

  Monday

  Matt says I can’t even text to say that I am safe and OK and that my texts could be traced. So I have sent some pics using Snapchat to the Poobags. They got ten seconds of me and my new tat. And the cute guy I met. I was going to tell them where I am anyway and then blank it – I’m in ! Ha, ha. But I didn’t. Anyway Matt . . . he won’t let me call him DAD, not in public at least. Says it makes him look OLD. Like he isn’t.

  Why all the secrecy? He says if they find out where I am he’ll go to jail. For KIDNAPPING me. He didn’t kidnap me. I just thought it would be cool to have an adventure with him and Laura (especially as Mum was being so strange). But he says that because I am underage what I think DOES NOT MATTER to them. He says once he has convinced the courts I should be with him and that Mum should get treatment (I don’t think she is ill. But she could be weird, couldn’t she? And she was drinking loads), then we can go back home. Hooray! I didn’t think I would be away sooooo long though.

  Rained today, crazy rain that looked and felt like you were under a waterfall. I went out for two seconds and got SOAKED. Sun out now, everything steaming.

  Tuesday

  Very hot here today. And the air conditioning is crap.

  I feel a bit better today. I think I was homesick. But I am getting to like this place. We have a little house on the outskirts of town. It’s built of stone and bamboo and has a thatched roof and best of all . . . an outdoor shower. But nobody can see you, it’s off the bathroom and you can only see sky when you are under it. The only thing is the floor gets slimy and there’s some gross BUGS in there. Maye the housekeeper goes in with a stick before I get under, just to get rid of anything. She says my scream can wake the dead. There’s one spider the size of my hand that lives in the garden. It’s glittery blue on top, with a long black body. But it’s meant to be harmless. Laba-laba, Maye calls it. I’m SO brave. Apart from the cockroaches. Urgg. We live here with Laura who is kinda like my friend and my teacher rolled into one (and Matt’s girlfriend). She used to look after me when Mum was off doing her bodyguarding. They have decided I have to ‘keep up with my education’. So I have lessons every day in the usual stuff – Maths, English, History, Geography. Laura talks to me for a bit and then there are learning modules on her laptop that I do. But Matt says I am mainly studying at the University of The World. He says we are all brainwashed to become little exam machines – robots that walk through GCSEs then A-Levels and then do a degree for some job we don’t even really want.

  He says I am meant to be a free spirit.

  But after lessons Laura and me go to the beach. She has taught me to surf and she says I AM REALLY GOOD.

  I told him I missed Mum and he told me that she isn’t very well. She has Post-Traumatic Stress from the army. He said Paul being killed sent her over the edge. Those were his exact words. But she already had it from being in the war. It’s sad. She’s had a sad life. Matt says he has ways of telling her I am OK without giving our location away. So that’s good. At least she won’t be worrying TOO much.

  Thursday

  I forgot to write about the tattoo! It took weeks of working on Matt. Laura said it was cool but Matt thought I should wait. And I just had this fanny fit (as my mum calls them). I said I’d been dragged around Amsterdam and Ibiza and Athens and left alone at night to cook my own dinner and treated like an adult on most things. But not this. So I showed him the design I’d got from this little parlour down the road. I told him it said ‘Friends’ not Poobag. And he said yes. He even paid. It was less than a tenner though. And it didn’t hurt.

  I’m a liar. It did hurt. But no worse than the dentists. And it sort of went a bit crusty and yellow, but Laura looked after it. OK now.

  And what about the BOY?? The one with his arm round me. The pool is at the Four Seasons, which is just up the road. Got to go now.

  Friday

  OMG I am SO STUPID.

  I feel like screaming.

  I told Laura about the messages I sent to the Poobags on the phone. I thought I could TRUST her. But she told Matt. And he went SHIT CRAZY. Stopped me surfing. Switched off the satellite TV. Took away the iPAD he got me (which anyway is so old it doesn’t even have a camera). I went down the bar with Laura to apologise and he sent me away. Dieter, his partner, gave me a Coke when Matt wasn’t looking.

  Dieter. You don’t know him. He’s Dad’s partner in the bar. He’s hot for an old guy. I think he’s about twenty-five. Maybe thirty. He mostly wears c
ut-off jeans and a Bob Marley vest with armholes so big, he might as well be naked. They have this bar just back from the beach, behind one of the fish shacks. It’s funny, when the customers come in Dieter is all friendly. Hey, guys, where you staying? he asks them. He told me if they say, down the road at The Four Seasons or The Ritz Carlton, then he charges them double for drinks. They can afford it, he says.

  Now I’m going to see if Laura will let me watch Girls on her laptop.

  Very, very hot again, I am SO sweaty.

  NINE

  Bedfordshire, England

  I pulled my Golf to a halt at the side of the row of hangars that constituted One-Eyed Jack’s fiefdom. As I got out, I could hear his voice bellowing across the old airfield. ‘Chrissake, Lennie, you don’t have to be a cunt all your life – you can take today off.’

  As I walked around I could see the object of his abuse. The hapless Lennie was a tall, spotty young man dressed in a pair of new-looking overalls. He and Jack were either side of the open bonnet of an old Ford Escort Mexico. Jack looked up, saw me and grabbed a rag.

  ‘Lennie, go and get a cup of tea, will ya. We’ll carry on in five.’

  Lennie, clearly still stung by the verbal whiplash, sloped off to one of the far hangars where the tea and coffee were kept. Jack turned to me. ‘And this woman here,’ he shouted after the boy, ‘she knows the difference between an alternator and a generator.’

  Did I? Jack was responsible for modifying most of my clients’ cars for speed or protection or both. I recalled some long lecture about the different ways of generating electricity in the engine bay. I’d only been half-listening. But I assumed something as old as a Mexico had a generator.

  ‘Is that real?’ I asked of the Escort, knowing the sporty versions went for over forty grand.

  ‘Mostly,’ he smirked.

  Once he was certain Lennie wasn’t around, Jack approached me and held his arms out. We had spoken but not seen each other since the night I had brought bad people to this airfield who had threatened to harm Jordan, his son.

  Jack was not only old enough to be my dad, I’d have preferred it if he had been. The outstretched arms were anything but threatening and as they came round me and the familiar combination of oil, grease and Swarfega filled my nostrils I felt myself go. Tears burned my eyes and my sobbing was hard enough to crack a rib, but still he held on. I felt his hand go up and down between my shoulder blades, like he was burping a baby.