by Ruth Dugdall
As I prepare the tanning treatment she tries to speak to me, but I keep my head low, simply nodding at her words. I prepare the lightest shade, a creamy colour just a shade darker than her own. She has pale skin and hair the colour trees turn between summer and winter, just before the leaves fall, when they are most full of fire. It was the best time in Tizi Ouzou, when the heat was not so strong, but we had not yet entered winter, which could be so cold and so long that it felt like summer would never arrive. When Samir first left to live in the mountains, I was worried, as each winter he would get ill with asthma and who would care for him if he had an attack in the hills? But he would not hear of such concerns, he told Omi that he may have a short life but it would be the noble path of jihad. He stopped noticing the leaves or flowers, then, and thought only of the path to God. He said that he hoped to arrive soon, in Allah’s house, and then he left. And it seemed he was not in the hills anyway, but in Paris.
The English woman sips her drink, and seems more interested in looking around than in making a start with the tanning. But it is just she and I in the room, there is no real hurry, so I relax. She smiles back, though she looks tired.
Finally, she steps towards the tanning room, which is just a curtained off side area with white paper on the floor and a pop-up plastic tent. She stands within it, and I wait until she is wearing only her underwear, and then I begin to spray her.
“This will not take long, Madame. Ten minutes.”
She is shaking slightly, there is some tension running through her body that I can see as surely as a charge of electricity. I work carefully but also quickly as Auntie told me to, and soon her skin is turning a shade darker.
Often customers watch my every move, inspecting my work as I spray, but she looks behind me, towards the back of the salon where the bamboo curtain is pulled back and the door is ajar, though as far as I can tell there is not much to see beyond. Just the flowers on the hallway table, Auntie’s scarves tacked to the wall. It is a simple place.
As we are not talking we can hear the television coming from the room above, the cartoons, and she lifts her head to listen.
“My brother is watching his favourite show,” I say, though I know Auntie wouldn’t approve of me divulging this, or of calling Fahran my brother. But the woman looks like she needs some conversation.
She smiles. “That’s nice. How old is he?”
I don’t know how old Fahran is, so I guess. “Five.”
I think that I’ve made a mistake, a five-year-old should be in school, wouldn’t they?
“He’s off school because he’s not well.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s wrong with him?”
She seems to shiver again, so I reassure her. “Nothing catching, Madame. And now, we are finished.”
“Thank you.”
Two minutes later she is dressed once again, she takes her purse to pay me, turning to pat her dog, patiently waiting.
“How old are you, Tina?”
She has remembered my new name from last time, and this alarms me, but pleases me too. It is a strange feeling, to want a thing that you know you shouldn’t have.
“Sixteen, thank you Madame.”
She looks closer at me, and I see she doesn’t believe this. She is about to ask me something else, and Auntie will get mad if she hears. If she sees me talking too much English she might send me back into the house. I try not to think about the girl in Fahran’s bedroom, curled on the mattress, sad and lonely. I’d rather be down here, with the bright polishes and scarves, the smell of remover and glue.
The woman’s hands still shake as I take her credit card, though I don’t know why they should.
“Are you okay, Madame?”
She looks at me. I give her my best smile, glad that Auntie is not here. She wouldn’t like that I asked a customer if she was okay.
“I’m thinking about a girl. She’s older than you, though not by very much. She’s missing and it makes me feel very sad. She was last seen at the fair. Perhaps you’ve heard about it?”
“No, Madame,” I say in my best voice. “Where has she gone?”
“No-one knows. But everyone is very worried about her.”
I put my head down, so she can’t see my face. The dandelion girl upstairs is the same one she is talking about, she must be.
“So, what is wrong with your little brother?”
The abrupt change of subject surprises me, and I realise that this woman has been listening to every word I say, making connections, even though she appeared distracted.
“He is poorly, Madame. With cancer.”
Her face falls and her free hand rises to touch her throat. “Oh, but that’s awful. Where?”
“In the head, Madame. The doctors, they took the tumour away, but he is still not as a boy his age should be. He is too tired to play.” We are silent, both listening to the cartoon jingles above our head.
“Is he having chemotherapy? Radiotherapy?”
I shake my head. I think I might cry.
“There are some excellent treatments available now,” she says. “There was a case in England, recently. A boy travelled to Prague for a special procedure, maybe you heard about it? It’s been in the news.”
“No, Madame. I do not know about this boy.”
“Well, they were saying on the news that he’s now cured. Proton therapy, that’s it. I think it’s easier to get here in Europe. What has the doctor said about your brother?”
“I am not sure, Madame. But I will ask about this new treatment.” I repeat the words in my head. I have not heard them before.
I worry about Fahran. I worry about Jodie too. Last night she hardly spoke when she came back to our room, and when she sat on the bucket to pee she took a long time, wincing like it hurt her. I don’t know if there is a new job she is doing or if she is still fooling people at the fair, but she talks about it less than she did and I have the feeling that although she is going out into the city and seeing Luxembourg, while I have not left the house, I may have been the lucky one.
Something has changed with Jodie, and now the other girl is here too, both these things make me frightened.
These thoughts run through me as I finish my work. I have forgotten the English woman is still watching me.
Before she leaves she slides a piece of paper into the palm of my hand so that I understand it is just for me. I see it is a twenty euro note.“Thank you, Madame.”
I slip the note into my sleeve before Auntie can see. Because this is for me, a tip for my work, and I will send it home to my mother.
Once the salon is closed for lunch and I have cleaned all of the surfaces, I mop the floor. Auntie will be in the kitchen, starting to heat up the soup we will all have for our lunch. I slide the note from my sleeve to study. I haven’t had any money of my own, I don’t know when I will get paid. But this money is mine, given to me by the kind English woman. Then I see that she has written on the note, or someone has. Six numbers. A phone number.
I don’t have a phone, but there is one in the salon. I’ve used it, to call clients who have left messages, or to take calls and book appointments. My language skills have got much better since being here. But to use the phone now, when the salon is closed, is risky.
Still, I call the number, watching the door for Auntie who may appear at any moment.
“Hello?”
It is the same woman’s voice, I recognise it. It is enough, to know that she has given me her phone number. She is offering me her help, if I should need it.
I replace the phone quietly and leave the salon, the note safely hidden in my sleeve. It makes me feel safer, to have some money of my own in this world that I hardly understand. To have the phone number of a woman who looks kind.
I go back into the house, eager to go upstairs to see Fahran. I pass his bedroom but the door is still closed, and I imagine the dandelion girl. It makes my heart beat fast with fear and not knowing, and I touch the money for luck.
And then I hear the girl calling: Please, she says, and I know she is desperately calling out to me. Please help me. I feel unable to walk away, even though my brain tells me this is the sensible thing to do.
I reach for the door handle, and to my surprise I find that the room is unlocked.
Inside, Auntie is bent over the girl and I see then that she is crying for help because Auntie is roughly trying to pull her up. I move closer, coming up behind Auntie, and can see that the girl is frightened.
“Auntie, let me help her.”
I offer the girl my hand, which she doesn’t take, so I kneel down beside the bed. I can smell her, the sweet urine and something stronger and foul too. The smell of fear. Her body is curled away, she is twisting from Auntie, and seems unaware that someone is now trying to help her. When I touch her on the shoulder she flinches.
“She thinks she is the queen of England, acting like this?” Auntie says, and I don’t reply because I think the reason is something different to this. Jodie and me, we are also away from our homes and families, but the dandelion girl looks broken by it. I think her story is not our story.
“I can look after her, Auntie. Why not go and sit with Fahran? I can help the girl.”
Auntie is so mad at the girl, so relieved to have an escape offered to her, that she agrees.
“Make her clean, Amina. It is not decent, the way she is carrying on. But don’t talk to her. I am trusting you to be a good girl. You understand?”
And then she leaves.
I begin by fetching a wet flannel from the bathroom, and I give it to the girl, urging her to get up and sit on the wooden stool chair, which is painted blue and Fahran-sized, but at least means I can set about stripping the mattress so I can scrub it.
“We could make a life, you know. This isn’t such a bad place to be.”
She doesn’t seem to understand what I am saying, and first I think that maybe I am wrong and she doesn’t speak English, but then she says, “What is your name?”
I hesitate, and then decide there can be no harm in telling her. “Amina.”
“Where is this place, Amina?”
I am surprised she doesn’t know. “It’s a beauty salon. At the front, anyway. This is where we live.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head, looking the wet sheet and soiled mattress. “It’s a prison.” She leans back in the stool, so her back is supported by the wall, holding her stomach as if it pains her.
“Is something wrong? Can I get you some…” I falter, wondering if Auntie has given her some medicine to calm her, the white tablets that Jodie and I take. I think she must have, because the girl is acting strange and her eyes aren’t in focus. I wonder what else I can give her that may help. “Would you like some mint water, to soothe your stomach?”
The girl looks bitter and shakes her head.
I finish with the bed. I’d like to open the window, but it has also been painted shut, so I settle for opening the door wider, though not so wide that Auntie may hear.
“We must make the best of this situation.”
“For how long?” she asks. “When will they let me go home?”
This dandelion girl, she is frightened and it makes me think I should be too. Because I don’t know when I will go home any more than I can answer her question.
Ellie
After the girl has gone, Ellie finds herself being tugged back into sleep.
She has been falling in and out of sleep for hours, or is it days. How many days before she last saw Gaynor stepping up to pay at the booth of the ferris wheel, as Ellie walked away, quickly, towards Malik. Because she wanted to have fun and she was angry. She was stupid and selfish, and now she is here, wherever here is. She can’t grasp her thoughts, has lost precious days.
When she wakes again it feels like morning, though she has no idea which one, or how long has passed since the girl cleaned her. How many days and nights have passed since she tried to run from the caravan? Using the fence around the fair as her guide, searching for a spot to climb, before being trapped and returned to the van? Sometimes when she wakes she is back in the moment when she was first found by Gaynor, watching Malik cling on to the bar with all his strength. The moment when their mother slapped her for running off, called her a bitch.
That she is being drugged is obvious, but her alternative is to not eat or drink and she has received precious little of either, her stomach feels hollow and the hunger gnaws away in the pit of her stomach, but it is the thirst that is the worst thing. Rasping, dry throated, she would do anything for water.
Malik came on the first day with food and drink and wouldn’t look at her or even speak. It gave her some satisfaction to see the bruise around his eye, dark and rosy. She realises he isn’t the one with control of the situation, that he is under the orders of the bulldog, but he’s still a part of it and she hates him as purely and strongly as her drugged brain will allow. Mostly she feels sleepy and sick. She hates herself, even though there are other people hating her and she should be strong. She needs to get out of here. She gathers her thoughts:
I’m in a house. It’s near a road, I can hear the cars, though I haven’t the strength to go to the window and see if I recognise where I am. I could be anywhere, I could still be in Luxembourg.
There are other people in the house, people above me too because I’ve heard feet and voices, though I can’t make out words. There is the girl, who cleaned me. And the older woman, who was rough.
No-one has told me why I’m here, or what they want from me. But I’ve seen films, I’ve read the papers. If the bulldog was a psychopath I’d be dead by now, this is something more business-like, less personal. The suffering will be longer.
The door must be locked, or maybe not because she is too weak to escape anyway.
She can hear footsteps, light ones. Ellie hopes it’s the girl, the skinny one with black hair and wide eyes. If she could only make her come again, speak to her for longer this time. The girl would know why Ellie was here, she may help her.
“Please?” she calls out. She can only call weakly, but she fears it is too soft to be heard, too loud and it would attract others. She can’t risk that.
The feet stop, she can hear breathing. The girl has heard her, she’s outside the door.
Ellie dare not speak again, but she lifts her head, desperately waiting and aware that the door handle is moving down. The door slowly opens, catching on the rough wood of the flooring, a narrow gap. And then a face, small and pretty, brown skin and dark hair. It is her.
“Please,” Ellie says, almost a mime the words are so weak. “Please will you help me?”
Bridget
Bridget was once again standing at the window, but this time her eyes were dull. There were no passing cars, it was too early for that, so the road outside was of no interest. Hope had left her.
It had been so clear to her, what she must do. In the early dawn she had watched the sun rise and realised that, whatever happened to her, she must tell the police the truth. Jak had betrayed her, he had Ellie, but she had no idea where.
She had been leaving the house, the car keys already clutched in her hand, when Achim called from the top of the stairs, “Bridget? Where are you going? It’s half past five.”
He would find out, of course, what she had done but she couldn’t be the one to deliver the news, to see his disbelief turn to rage. This would be the end of their marriage, but all that mattered was Ellie.
She returned to the kitchen, Achim following close behind, and made herself a small coffee. She needed a kick of caffeine. “I want to talk to the police. I want to tell them about something I saw at the fair. Something I remember.”
“What?”
“A man.” She would say no more. She wouldn’t tell Achim that the man was Jak, a soldier she had known from before. All this she could tell the police, but not her husband.
“And you’ve just remembered this now? What about him, why do you think it’s connected?�
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She backed against the kitchen worktop, so it dug into her spine, and sipped her bitter and hot drink, avoiding Achim’s eyes. “It may be nothing.”
“But you think you should go to the police station now?” he asked. “You have a strong feeling about this. Why?”
Again, she didn’t explain but felt his eyes boring into her. “I can’t wait, that’s all.”
He ran a hand through his greasy hair. His face was haggard. He may have been in bed but he hadn’t slept.
Bridget finished her drink and put the empty cup on the counter top, then turned her back on her husband and began to walk away. She felt a rush of movement behind her as he grabbed the hem of her jacket.
“I’m coming too,” he said. “If you think it’s this important, then I want to hear it.”
“No, Achim.” She shrugged herself free of his grasp, and was turning, moving away, when he reached to grab her a second time, his arm reaching across the kitchen counter knocking the coffee cup to the floor. They both watched as the pieces shattered, the coffee dregs splattered black flecks on the white floor tiles, brown watery drips down the cupboard doors.
“Now look,” he said, bitterly. “At the mess you’ve caused.”
At the police station in Hamm the woman on reception looked like she had been dozing at her desk. Her eyes widened, she hadn’t expected visitors.
“We need to speak to Detective Olivier Massard,” said Achim, taking charge of the situation. “I assume you know who we are?”
She looked from Achim to Bridget, to the pink rabbit she was clutching. “I’ll message him now.”
They waited. The sun began to rise and people arrived, early morning shift workers desensitised or too polite to stare at the couple waiting, hands clasped, for the detective to arrive. Bridget took Achim’s hand and raised it to her face, rubbing the back of his hand against her cheek then opening it and kissing his palm. She knew it would be the last time he would let her.
Detective Massard arrived in a rush, his face was freshly shaved and his hair still wet from a shower, his eyes bore bruises of fatigue. Bridget was glad to see this. It was evidence that he cared about Ellie. He would find her daughter, she only had to tell him in which direction to look.
