by Ruth Dugdall
You are not in real danger. I trust Jak. I saved his life, he told me so. I saved the baby and in doing so I saved Jak from his fate. Not everyone wants to be a martyr.
And so he will not harm my child. Because he is in my debt.
It was only supposed to be for a short time.
So why aren’t you home?
Cate
Cate woke feeling unrefreshed, as though sleep had passed her by. She had been disturbed in the night by Olivier’s groans, by him moving around in the kitchen, making a hot water bottle.
She entered the bathroom, just as Olivier was swallowing a tablet, the blister pack still in his hand. He quickly replaced the packet inside his drawer, turning his back to her as he did, though his face was plainly exposed in the bathroom mirror, flushed red either from shame or anger. She touched his shoulder, moved to his side, so they could both see each other in the mirror.
“What’s wrong, Olivier? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“You’ve already worked out the answer to that, Cate. You’ve been snooping, I can tell from where my packets have been placed.”
She didn’t deny it. “You have five different types of drugs in that drawer for stomach ulcers, so I’m guessing you aren’t on top of it?”
“It hurts.” He winced as he spoke, touched his stomach. “Like a twist, right down inside.”
“What does the doctor say?”
Olivier pulled away from her. “No time to find out, not just yet.”
“Because you’re busy with Ellie Scheen’s case?”
He walked from the bathroom to the bedroom and sat down heavily on the end of the bed, rubbing his face. His armour was gone; Cate saw him as a defeated and poorly man. Whom she loved, now more than ever.
He nodded his head, exhausted. She sat below him, on the wooden floor, her chin resting on his knee, arms either side of his body.
“How long have you been unwell, Olivier?”
His eyes showed the quick calculation that was happening in his brain. “Since before we met in Ipswich. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it seems that isn’t working.”
“More than a year?” Her voice rose with concern. “And you haven’t sought help.”
“You have seen from my medicines that I have been many times to the doctors, both in Ipswich and back here. But they want me to go to hospital for a scan, and I simply can’t spare a whole morning. I will, though. Once Ellie is found.”
Cate’s breath caught on that promise. “So you will find her?”
Again he rubbed his face. “I hope so.” His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, weary with worry.
“You really think Bridget would hurt Ellie? That she knows where she is?”
Olivier’s voice was cold and steady. “I can’t divulge what we know, Cate. You just have to trust that I am doing my job, and that I know more about this case than you do.”
“Oh, Olivier…” He looked so defenceless, Cate knew that if ever she was going to tell him, about her meetings with Eva, about visiting Bridget and her certainty of the woman’s innocence, about the beauty salon named on his phone that she had visited, then it was now. Time to be honest, to lay her cards on the table and forget her own investigations, but to support her man. Instead she sat taller, so their faces were close, and sealed his mouth with a kiss, which deepened, and would have become something more had his mobile phone not begun to ring. He took the call, his breathing quickening as he listened to what the caller told him.
“Cate, I have to go.” His face was flushed, his eyes were now alight.
“What’s happened? Is it Ellie?”
“I can’t say. But it’s an interesting development.”
Just minutes later, Olivier left the house.
Trying not to think about what was happening down at the police station, Cate made herself coffee, and poured cereal into Amelia’s bowl as her daughter rubbed her eyes and took her seat.
Cate yawned, but when the telephone rang she snapped alert. Bypassing Amelia, now munching cornflakes and gazing out at Merl park, Cate picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, Madame. I am Achim Scheen. I think you are friends with my wife?”
Cate’s chest tightened and she glanced to where Amelia sat, tensing herself for bad news. “Yes, that’s right. Has something happened?”
“My wife is at the police station.”
Cate’s heart sank, thinking of Olivier leaving the house, the pleased look on his face. “They took her in for questioning again?”
“No,” Achim said. Even in this one word, Cate could detect his barely concealed rage, whether at her assumption or the police she could not tell. “She has gone in of her own volition.”
Cate hadn’t expected to hear this. She grappled with what to say next. “Is there anything I can do?”
Now he spoke quickly, efficiently. “Yes, please. If you pick Gaynor up from our house, and take her to school, that would be helpful. And maybe if you could also collect her at the end of the day. I know this is a lot to ask, but my wife suggested you would want to help.”
Cate wanted to ask what Bridget was saying to the police, but even if Achim knew, he was unlikely to tell her.
“Of course I want to help. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Gaynor will be waiting.”
“Well, I’ll see you then.”
“Ah, Gaynor will be waiting alone. I am at the police station already, I have been here since six, to support my wife.”
Cate was surprised that a man with one daughter missing would leave another in the house alone for two hours, but said nothing. Who was she to judge what was acceptable in such a strange and awful situation?
Amelia was forced to leave half her cereal, and Cate yanked a brush through her hair briskly, telling her they must go. “Gaynor’s waiting.”
She drove as quickly as she dared to collect Gaynor, who was perched nervously on the doorstep, the door to her home open behind her, when they pulled up. The poor child looked relieved to see them and ran down the driveway, forgetting to close the door. As she sat beside Amelia, Cate walked up the path to the house to close the front door, hesitating just a moment to look within. She could only see the kitchen, directly ahead as it was, and the counter was splashed with milk. She then saw there was a broken mug on the floor, and pieces of it lay across the tiles.
As she turned, pulling the front door closed behind her, Cate saw a white van parked further up the road. The driver seemed to be looking her way, but maybe she just imagined this. Then she saw the picture on the side of the van for a swimming pool.
Again, she had that feeling of seeing it before. She shook her head, and concentrated on the task of getting the girls to school.
In the back seat, Amelia tried chatting to her friend, but Gaynor was not responding. She was chewing her nail and staring at her lap. Cate got into the driver’s seat and turned to face her, saying gently, “Gaynor, did you just break something, love? In the kitchen?”
Gaynor’s eyes narrowed, then looked teary. “Dad did it.”
“When the police came?” asked Cate.
Gaynor frowned, she shook her head as if confused. “No police came. I heard Dad throw a coffee cup when my mum said she was going to the police station, on her own. But then he went with her and left me.” She began to sniff, and looked down at her knees.
Cate thought it wiser not to ask any questions, and Gaynor wouldn’t know anyway what it was that Bridget wanted to say to the police. She turned to face the front and put the car into drive. Amelia continued to try and engage with her friend, telling her about the deer they had seen yesterday at Bastogne, but Gaynor was distracted and could barely lift her head to listen.
Cate wondered why Bridget could not speak with the police in the comfort of her own home. To be at the police station at six in the morning, this was not how a victim was treated, not in England anyway. It was how the police treated a suspect.
Cate shivered as it dawned on her that this was indeed what the police thought. It matched Olivier’s response to the case, his determination that this was not the work of a kidnapping. Cate realised that she now knew why Olivier had been so excited when he was called in to work that morning: Bridget was the main suspect, and she had come into the station to make a statement. He thought she was about to confess.
Cate had known women who had harmed their own children, and she knew they didn’t have horns, but she had seen Bridget straight after Ellie had gone missing at the fair, she had been at her home just two days later. Cate had seen a mother in distress, a mother who loved her girl.
If Olivier arrested Bridget, if she was charged with Ellie’s disappearance, than that would mean that his search for her would be confined to places that Bridget may have hidden her body; their home, nearby wooded areas, the family’s regular haunts. The police’s energy and focus would be directed inwards, not out to the borders with France, Belgium and Germany, or onwards to the known routes for human trafficking.
Whatever had happened to Ellie wouldn’t be solved by arresting Bridget, Cate knew it in her bones. How was it that Olivier couldn’t see that too?
Cate stopped at the lay-by, promising Amelia and Gaynor that she’d be waiting for them when school finished, and then she drove home. She padded around the flat, then opened the sliding door and stepped onto the balcony, followed by General who was panting heavily and seemed glad of the breeze. He lay down and Cate gave him a stroke. “What’s going on, General?” she asked. He lifted his head and gave a whine. “Do you know?”
Cate could see the Belair church spire, pointing up, and across to the green field where she knew the fox family lived, the same foxes who had been disturbed by the storm a few nights ago. But today the sun was shining, everything looked perfect, and it gave her the sensation of being in the movie of her own life, where everything looked colourful, but none of it was real. The sky above that spire wasn’t helping, it was so blue, fading with the white of the clouds that scudded like boats over its canvas, one huge and shaped like a whale. Sun rays edged the corner of the balcony where she stood, warming her shoulders, then hid behind a cloud leaving her shivering in the shade. If only it was a totally clear sky with no clouds, then she would be warm enough. But the return of the warmth kept her hoping. Olivier was like the clouds. No, that wasn’t right, he was like the sun, sometimes warming her, sometimes leaving her cold. But when the warmth came, Cate felt it as so total, so complete, she couldn’t imagine it getting cold again. Like feeling full after a meal, and not even being able to imagine hunger. But still, eventually it comes.
She knew that her best option was to steal enough good memories to sustain her through the chill.
How much of her emotion was connected to Liz, to the trial back in England, she couldn’t begin to fathom. All she knew was that it was time to phone home, to find out if Liz had been proved to be a liar or if their father would soon be starting a prison term.
She picked up her phone and pressed the contact for her sister, checking her watch and realising that court may still be in session. She was just about to hang up when a voice answered. “Cate?”
“Hi.” Just hearing Liz’s voice made a lump come to her throat, so she was unable to speak for a moment. “How are things going?”
“We’re on a coffee break. The judge is good. She lets us take lots of pauses.”
Cate could hear the tiredness in her sister’s voice. She could also hear, in the background, other voices. Talking in the corridor or waiting room, wherever Liz was now standing.
Cate was aware that Liz hadn’t actually answered her question, so she tried again. “So, what’s happened?”
Liz breathed out. Cate heard a car’s horn and realised she must be outside the court house, taking a five-minute smoke break. “What do you expect, Cate? My childhood is being cracked open like a ribcage and everything that happened is being poked about, bloody and sick though it is. I feel raped, all over again, and I haven’t even stepped foot in the court yet, I still have the witness box to come.”
She breathed heavily into the earpiece and Cate could see her, forehead against the cold brick of the court house, eyes closed. Cate closed her own eyes and placed an arm around herself, wishing she was there to comfort her sister.
“How’s Mum?”
“Drunk.”
A single word, a damning one. If their mother was drunk in the witness stand, as Liz’s only witness, her credibility would suffer.
“God, I’m so sorry, Liz.”
Her breath was sharp, cutting through the line. “Then come home! Come and stand in the witness box and say I’m not a liar. If you don’t he’ll get away with it, Cate. Just like he always did.”
“I… I can’t… Amelia needs me and…”
“I get it,” Liz said, quickly. “Your daughter needs you, your new boyfriend needs you. I understand.”
And then she hung up.
Amina
Auntie is trusting me more, and best of all she is trusting me with Fahran. Because the dandelion girl is in his room he has been sleeping with her and Uncle Jak, in the big bedroom along the hallway where they have the TV. I have to collect him from their room and bring him down for breakfast. Auntie is so busy, getting herself ready each morning and opening the salon, and I am so quick at getting myself dressed, that it is good sense for me to look after the boy.
He takes many minutes to get dressed, and I understand now that his slowness is part of the cancer. He has to wear the clothes he wore yesterday as the door to his bedroom is locked so I can’t get him anything, even though there are clean shorts and a shirt on the chair by his bed. He is a good boy, though, he holds his arms up so I can pull on his t-shirt, and he puts a hand on my shoulder as he wobbles into his pants and shorts, doing the zip up himself and frowning with the effort. His fingers will not do what his brain wants, so he fumbles with buttons and zips, but I am very patient and let him take his time. I think this is better than me doing it for him, as that way he would never learn. I can feel his slight frame, how unsteady he is. Even though his tumour was removed, something is still not right, and he is shaky on his feet. It makes me want to hold him tight, to steady him. It makes me want to help.
“Fahran, would you like some breakfast?”
He nods, shy but also happy at the prospect of food. I take his little hand in mine and we go down to the kitchen, slowly because he is shaky on the steps and I don’t want him to slip.
As we walk past his bedroom, with the closed door, I do not pause. It is best he does not know about the girl.
In the kitchen I don’t ask him what he wants, as I know that all children like sweet things and also milk, so I get him a glass and put some jam on bread. Pizzie would have enjoyed this meal, and Fahran likes the jam so much that it gets smeared all around his lips which makes me laugh.
“Do you want some more?”
It is then that I realise his muteness is not simply shyness. He is struggling to speak, he has a stammer and the words come out in a gust of exertion. “No thanks.”
I take a piece of kitchen paper, lick it so it’s softer for his cheek, and wipe the jam from his chin, careful not to graze his bandaged eye with my hand. The bandage is looking dirty, but I would never dare to try and change it. That is Auntie’s job, though by the look of it, she forgot yesterday, or was too busy.
“You like jam, young man. It will make you have a fat tummy, like your father!” I place my hand on his tummy and tickle him until he laughs, properly losing his shyness for the first time, and my heart sings for Pizzie and home and for this little boy.
“Fahran, from now on, you may call me sister.”
I don’t want to leave Fahran, but there is work to do, and I am just settling him on Auntie’s bed, in front of a cartoon, when she comes to fetch me.
The first customer is already parked outside, waiting for the shop to be opened. She will look after Fahran now,
it is usual that she changes his bandage as he watches the cartoons on the screen. I will not see him, or her, until later when we close for an hour over the lunch period and often he is sleeping then, and has to be woken to have his lunch.
As I turn the lock in the front door I see that Auntie is right. There is a car parked directly opposite the salon and, sitting in what should be the driver’s seat, is a black dog. Next to it, behind the steering wheel, is a woman and it is then that I know that this is a British car, and I see that she is the English woman from Tuesday. Back to have her nails done again, so soon.
I turn the sign to signify we’re open to the outside world, and see the woman leave her car, tugging her dog along with her. I am not so fond of dogs, as the ones we had in the village were often diseased and besides, they would steal food, so I was never encouraged to make friends with them. This dog seems friendly, though.
The English woman greets me, and gestures to the empty seat, the same one she sat in last time. I know Auntie told me not to speak English, but this woman seems to want to speak with me.
“Oui, Madame. I shall be with you. Would you like café, Madame?”
She says she would, and I fetch some from the filter machine that I switched on earlier. By lunchtime the pot of coffee will be gone, and I will make a second. These Europeans like their coffee.
I give the English woman her drink and take her hand to study her nails. They are still perfect. I am not sure what she can want me to do, and I ask if she wants me to change the colour. She seems uninterested in picking a different colour, so I start to give her a simple hand and arm massage, like Auntie taught me.
“Madame, your nails do not need any work. Maybe another treatment?”
She stares at me, as if it had not occurred to her that we do other things. It is true that there are not many other options.
“We have a tanning booth. You could look like you have turned golden in the sun.”
She laughs at this. I think she says something like, “Well, that would be a first!” which I understand to be a yes.
