by Ruth Dugdall
“How old is this sister?”
“Seventeen.”
“Ah,” said Olivier, giving a knowing look as if that explains everything. “At that age I used to get lost at Schueberfouer whenever I could. So, do you want something to drink?”
The evening unwound, Amelia yawned one too many times and was sent to bed, despite her protests that it was Sunday tomorrow, no school. Olivier and Cate chatted sleepily about how to spend the day.
“If the weather has cleared let’s drive north, to the lake.”
“I’d like that.” Cate kissed him. “But I want to go to bed now.”
“You’re tired?”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied, nibbling his earlobe.
It was still a novelty, being able to look forward to not sleeping alone. After three months everything still felt new for Cate, just landed in Luxembourg, newly liberated from her career. Newly in love.
As Cate fell, exhausted and happy, into a deep sleep, beyond the flat the rain had stopped and a fog had started to descend over Luxembourg. By the time the super moon was eclipsed by the grey smog, the lights of the fair were being turned off for the night. In the Glacis car park a trickle of travelling folk made their way to their caravans, stepping over puddles as they greeted each other, sharing stories about the punters. On the hoopla stall, one Japanese customer had spent 100 euro on hoops and still walked away without a prize. On the ghost train a kid had got so terrified he threw up on his seat and they had to close the ride while they cleaned it up. Other fair folk didn’t stop to chat, but as they walked to their caravans they totted up in their heads how much money they had made, others thought nothing, were simply looking forward to getting their head down for the night.
One man remained awake, sipping a coffee as he thought about the next trip, the next fair. Planning the step beyond Luxembourg, beyond Europe and back to Algeria, the place where his story and many others began. He thought of the majestic Djurdjura Mountain, its tall white crowns and hidden places, and wished himself back there though he knew he had left that life behind. He was not a soldier anymore, and the baby he had saved was now a man. Both of them were a long way from home.
Amina
When she reached the far side of the commune she stopped running, resting a moment as she checked that no-one had seen her leave. Beyond was the olive plantation where she and her brother and sister had played when they were little, sheltering from the too-hot sun under the lush protection of its whispering canopy. The brown earth was warm and soothing between her toes and the air had a sharp lemony tang as she breathed it in. She heard a rustle behind her and turned in case a jackal was about to pounce, but could see nothing but the yellow flowers with their stringy petals, the thin and twisted branches of the ouzou plant, the white-blue sky above. Then a small hand slipped inside her own and her sister, Pizzie, pressed against her.
“Oh, Piz, you shouldn’t have followed me. You know we are not allowed to be here alone.”
“We’re not alone now,” she said, though both girls knew that without a male escort this was the same thing. Pizzie looked quizzically at her big sister. “Why are you crying?”
Amina squatted down so her nose touched that of the six-year-old, gazing into her half-moon-shaped brown eyes, wondering if she would see her again.
“Because I’m leaving you.”
Piz frowned, which made her face so serious that Amina had to look away to avoid laughing. “But you are going to a better place with food and money and school. A place for freedom, Omi says. Where police will not call in the night.”
Amina kissed her sister’s grubby forehead and forced a smile.
“I hope so, little one. It is what has been promised.”
She avoided looking up, towards the mountain. Hidden in Djurdjura’s rocky folds was danger, and maybe even their brother, Samir, though they couldn’t be sure as rumours are not to be trusted. The elders said he was still in Paris.
Pizzie followed her sister’s gaze. “Is he watching us, Amina?”
Amina’s eyes travelled the mountain as she never would, rising to the peak, Tamgut Aalayen, where men hid and waited, fighting a war for Allah.
“I hope not,” she answered quietly. She willed her brother elsewhere, because she was scared of what it would mean for Samir if he was back with the Brotherhood. What it would mean for her mother and sister, when she was no longer at home to care for them. Since January the Algerian police had knocked almost every week, and if not them then there were visits from the mosque elders, asking about Samir, making Omi cry with their accusations and their threats.
Omi said she had no idea why her son had gone to Paris, she knew nothing of the friends he had made there who were now dead. It was a shock to her, as much as to anyone else, that eleven people had died in that city, eleven more had been injured, and that his friends had wielded the guns. But Samir was not connected to this, she was certain, it was impossible. He was a good boy.
Even when she searched in his bedroom after the police had left, and found a pile of comics, the drawings on the covers of Muhammad. The drawings were shocking. She looked closer and saw names, realised that they were drawn by men who were now dead. No, Samir was not involved. It could not be so. Omi was sure of it. And yet she began to plan for her daughters to leave Algeria, to go to a safe place where they could not be touched by the things their brother may have done.
Uncle Jak had agreed with Omi. Yes, this was the best way. But Pizzie was too young to travel without a parent. It was not her time yet. Amina would have to go alone.
Back in Amina’s modest home a party, subdued but hospitable, was under way. On the rough ground behind their domed stone house, three wooden tables had been erected in a line, and bowls of food were displayed like flowers; every colour of rice, green leafy delicacies, yellow fruit and, of course, meat. Amina’s mouth watered at the sight, until she saw Uncle Jak helping himself to huge amounts with thick fingers, piling his bowl high.
Uncle Jak had arranged everything, as he had for others who had already left the city of Tizi Ouzou, so Omi said they could trust him. He was known to be a good man. Rumour was that he had saved a baby once who would have perished without his help, and now that baby was living with Jak in Europe, as his son. Jak was a man of honour. Plus, he had shown them letters, written by some of the girls, that described big houses on golf courses, wealth beyond their wildest dreams and – most important of all to Amina – reading books and learning. Things that Samir had started to say were unseemly in a wife, whose role was set down by Allah and not to be questioned. On his last visit he had said other things too, about Allah’s wishes and what should happen to those who did not follow the righteous path. He had said that as the head of the household, Amina’s husband would be a man of his choosing, one of his brothers-in-arms, and that even if Amina was left a widow it was an honourable state. Soon after, when Samir had once again disappeared suddenly with no warning, Omi spoke to Amina of Uncle Jak. This was the beginning of the plan for her to leave.
Uncle Jak was not a relative, but he was Kabyle and that amounted to the same thing. He had been a soldier once, like Samir, and now he lived in Europe. He returned twice a year with his truck, and took the eldest child of some families away, for a better life.
Amina watched how he eased himself into his seat, chatting in rusty Kablye to the relatives Omi had trusted to invite, his stomach wobbling, and jowls like rubber tyres around his hairy neck and chin, though his mouth was strangely small and delicate. He jumped when the chickens scratched near him, and became irritated when their goat, Lila, tried to nibble his shirt. He lived in a foreign city now, their ways must seem strange to him. But Amina only knew to trust the soil and the animals and the mountain. She knew nothing of shirts with starch or hair with gel or stomachs with too much food. And it made her scared.
Omi sat on a stool at the head of the women’s table, a position of honour as she was saying goodbye to her daughter. The white material o
f her haik, which covered her body, shaded her completely, but underneath its folds Amina knew she was fragile as a bird. Amina knelt by her side, breathing in the aloe scent of the oil she used on her skin.
“You look very pretty, Omi. But you should eat.”
Omi was wearing her best haik, which had delicate embroidery and bright beading along each edge, carefully washed after each wear so only slightly grey. It was the same haik she had worn for her wedding when she was just a girl, and for every party since. But five children, three still living, had taken their toll and the dress hung on her loosely, some of the beads had been lost along the hem. Inspired, Amina kissed her mother’s sallow cheek.
“The first thing I buy in the city is a roll of silk for you, Omi. I’ll send it here.”
Omi smiled sadly, coughing with a hand to her chest. “And what would I do with silk? I want you to go to school, Amina. I want you to know yourself before you know a husband, and I do not want you to be a widow.” She addressed her guest, her frail voice rising with emotion. “She will go to school, Jak? You have promised me.”
“Do not fret, Omi.” Uncle Jak laughed deeply, as he swallowed a large mouthful of food. “Only the best school for our Amina! I shall see to it, Madame. Viva harraga!” Then he wagged a finger as if Amina were a spoiled creature. “But you must work too, little lady. In Europe it is expected.”
Omi sat higher on her wooden stool. “My daughter is not afraid of work, she has helped me for many years with the animals, and with the vineyard when her father was alive.”
There was silence, and Amina wondered if anyone else at the party was thinking of the day her father was killed, all because his vineyard produced wine, dark enough to stain the tongue purple, and alcohol was forbidden by Allah. Samir, his own son, had said the death was just, even though since then the grapes had rotted on the vines, and there was no money for food. Samir did not think about this, or the hardship that followed. He was on a higher path.
Uncle Jak bowed his head. “You have my word, Madame. Amina will go to school. And I will protect her as if she were my own daughter. I was a soldier once, and it would not be the first time I have saved a child. Amina is safe with me.”
Day 1
Ellie
Ellie’s head hurt, even opening her eyes made her wince. She must have drunk a lot, because her limbs felt heavy and she didn’t know where she was. This had happened before, waking with black holes in her memory. Last time she had been with Joe, she’d passed out in his bedroom after too much vodka and missed her curfew. Mum would kill her for doing it again.
“Joe?” she murmured, sending her weak voice into the dark room. There was no reply.
Gingerly, Ellie lifted her head and looked around. She was lying on her back, fully clothed but for her shoes, with one leg hanging off the side, but the mattress was too narrow for her to shift position without toppling to the ground. She felt sick, she could barely move without her stomach threatening to empty itself. She inched her hand along to feel the other side of the bed, expecting to find Joe’s sleeping body but instead there was a wall, though it made a hollow sound when she knocked her hand against it. It was metal. Was she in a caravan? Where was Joe?
Sitting up as much as she could manage, Ellie saw that above the narrow bed was a tiny window, half-covered with a ragged curtain. It was still dark outside. Okay, good, she reassured herself. She was finding it hard to string one thought to the next. What she felt more than anything was exhaustion, and it was anaesthetising any fear. You’ve had too much to drink but you won’t be home late. She tried to sit up properly, but simply didn’t have the energy. Her stomach heaved and she was forced back down, lying as still as she could until the wave of nausea passed.
Slowly, the memories of the night began to drip through. She remembered she hadn’t been with Joe, but another boy. Malik. He had called to Ellie as she waited in line for the ferris wheel, he and the beautiful girl had gestured her over, and because Gaynor had found a friend from school and they were chatting happily, she had gone. Ellie couldn’t remember much after that, though she knows she had a drink from the way her head hurts. Just a bottle of Diekirch. Or was it two? She had been nervous, she remembered that, both about the possibility of being spotted by her mother wandering off again and being revealed to be a goody two shoes in front of this exotic couple, who didn’t have a parent watching over them like an hysterical hawk.
Ellie swallowed, her throat hurt and her tongue felt like sandpaper. God, I need some water. Her mum would be worried, she should call her. But then she remembered that she couldn’t, because her iPhone had been confiscated as punishment after her mum found her texting Joe. She’d been forbidden any contact ever since she spent the night at his house. Her mum had slapped her when she returned home, hungover the following morning, and called her a slut. She’d taken her to the doctor for a morning-after pill even though Ellie told her again and again that she’d been too drunk to have sex. At least the doctor was sympathetic, requesting that her mother leave the room so she could have some time alone with Ellie and then, when it was just the two of them, asking with genuine concern if everything was okay at home.
The thought of her mother’s rage last night triggered a dull fury at the injustice of it, a recollection of that barbed insult, little bitch, and the slap. She felt some satisfaction that her mother would be suffering now. Bet she wished she’d not taken the phone away. And just because Ellie wanted to be with a friend rather than her snotty sister.
Gaynor.
Ellie felt a pinch in her gut that did nothing to ease her sickness as she thought about her sister. She should have ridden the big wheel with her, she’d promised. But the cool kids, Malik and the girl, were calling her over. She was about to climb in the gondola with Gaynor, Amelia and her mum, looking like some dorky family.
Instead she’d walked across to Malik. She’d made a choice. It was only now, waking up in the caravan, that she wondered whether she’d made a bad one. Where is Malik now? Where the fuck am I?
Head throbbing with each tentative movement, Ellie lifted the ratty piece of fabric from the window that may once have been a curtain, wiping the condensation with her palm. All that was visible was wire fencing, the same fence that wrapped around the Glacis to keep the fair secure when it was shut, and a white van that was decorated with some advertising. In the distance the ferris wheel was still and unlit. Without the glamour of lights or music, it looked abandoned, like a half-finished building project.
Ellie’s limbs felt stiff. Her yellow t-shirt looked grubby as did her bare feet. She saw now that her elbows were caked with dry soil and under her fingernails was something dark, which looked like dried blood. She inspected herself for scratches or cuts, but couldn’t find any.
She got off the bed, and needed to support herself on the table. There was nothing on the shelf but a small bottle of Viva. She grabbed for it, Oh, thank God. She drank the whole bottle in one greedy gulp, coming up for air with a crunch of the plastic and a gasp.
Hydrated, though still unsteady, Ellie reached for the door handle, twisted it. Nothing happened. She twisted in the other direction, but still the door remained stubbornly closed. She turned again to the window, but when she searched for a clasp she saw it was solid and didn’t open.
She was locked in.
Panicked, Ellie explored all the hidden places of the caravan but found nothing, just empty cupboards and a bone-dry sink. Her head began to pound and her thinking slowed, sluggish, so she grasped onto this one thing: I must find my trainers, as though that was the most pressing problem. Apart from the water and a bottle of bleach under the sink, there was nothing else. She sat back on the pull-out bed, woozy and thinking she was going to be sick, bile was already stinging her throat. She breathed slowly to master the feeling, but it wouldn’t go away. She was soon spitting into her hand, phlegm-like strands of moisture, then running to the sink and heaving.
Her meal from last night, the potato cakes her mum
had bought her, came up in a liquid burst. Both hands on the side of the sink, Ellie panted and gasped, unused to vomiting. When was the last time? That holiday in Morocco, after she’d had Coke with ice from the beach vendor. Later the staff at the hotel told her mum that the ice cubes would have been the problem. Ellie had lain in the hotel room, the curtains half-drawn and watched the ceiling fan whirl, gasping in the cool air like it was liquid because she was so parched and couldn’t even hold down water. And all the time her mum had sat by her side, stroking her forehead, reading to her. Holding her when the retching took over. Ellie had never questioned that her mum would always be there when she was ill.
But not now.
“Mum,” she called weakly, to the empty caravan.
Then she lifted her head and looked herself square in the mirror. Barely recognising the pale face that stared back at her.
Bridget
Across the city, Bridget was sitting on the sofa in her front lounge, holding a wristwatch in her hands and watching the second hand turn. For seven hours and forty minutes she had done this, ever since Achim had made the call to the police.
Whoever he’d spoken to had told him that a missing person would not become a police matter until twelve hours had passed. There were still four hours until he could officially report their daughter missing. Achim had argued with the police operator, and put Bridget on the phone, demanding that she explain exactly what had happened.
Bridget had made it worse then. She’d only told the truth, that Ellie had wanted to be with her boyfriend, that she had stayed out overnight with him before without permission. Even to her ears it sounded like a teenage strop, a bit of normal rebellion, and the woman on the other end of the line said as much. Trying to reassure her but coming across as patronising.
