Nowhere Girl

by Ruth Dugdall

  She wouldn’t speak, not until she was in a private room with the detective. Not until Achim was out of hearing. He led her to an interview room. Finally, before her courage failed, she turned and said, “I need to tell you something.”

  The detective’s face was blank, he was wearing a mask of professionalism, but his lip curled slightly as if anticipating delicious news. “Go on.”

  He wasn’t going to smooth talk her.

  “At Schueberfouer, I saw a man. He was hanging around the ferris wheel. I thought I recognised him.”

  “Recognised him from where?”

  Bridget breathed deeply, willing herself over the edge. For Ellie. “From when I was working in Algeria. He was with the Brotherhood.”

  The detective leaned forward. “Go on.”

  She took a deep breath. Say it, she told herself. Tell him what you did. “A fundamentalist, he killed many people. He killed many but he saved one.”

  “Oh?” The detective was skilled at appearing non-committal, but she could feel his attention, as though he too were on a precipice waiting to jump.

  The room was too hot, stuffy. She could smell his aftershave, the minty scent of his shampoo. She hadn’t eaten and her stomach rumbled, though the thought of food sickened her.

  “I just want my girl back,” she said.

  “Then tell us where to look.” He was leaning forward, scrutinising her.

  Bridget felt herself about to be swallowed whole.

  They were eye to eye, unblinking. It was clear now, there was no pretence.

  “I don’t know,” said Bridget, truthfully. “I don’t know where he took her. It was only supposed to be for a few hours.”

  “What is it exactly that you are telling me, Madame Scheen?”

  “I asked him to take my daughter. I wanted to teach her a lesson. It was supposed to be for a very short time.”

  Stillness. Detective Massard rubbed his dry lips together, though she saw the gleam of his tongue, the dilation of his pupils, and hated him for it. He thought he had won, that this was success.

  “Detective, please understand, Jak is an Algerian soldier, he knows how to hide. I will tell you what I know, but we must find my daughter.” She could feel it, loosening inside like water, the sudden fear that she had given away all of her power. That she had made a mistake. “We must work together,” she begged. “I’ll tell you all I know, everything I did. But we have to find Ellie.”

  Detective Massard’s expression became one of barely controlled pleasure. His mouth twitched, and she saw he was longing to smile but trying his best to control it.

  “Bridget Scheen I am arresting you for the murder of Ellie Scheen…”

  Bridget’s attention began to swim in and out of focus. Murder? Ellie? My girl is dead?

  “…You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence…”

  Bridget felt numb. Her breath caught in her chest. Her girl was gone.

  Day 6

  Ellie

  Since waking I have laid on the mattress and stared at the stain on the ceiling, watching the golden line of sunlight move across the cracked surface, and I know I have to try something new today. If I don’t, this despair will grip me so tight that I won’t care anymore and the fight will leave me. If that happens I’m as good as dead.

  So when the door finally opens I make myself sit up, though my back aches with stiffness. It’s the older lady, and she’s so surprised to see me upright that she almost drops the cup, which is plastic and has a blue rabbit painted on it. It’s a child’s cup.

  I’m thirsty, but I won’t take it from her. “Is it drugged?”

  “What rubbish you talk, girl. It’s milk.” But her face is red with shame, and I won’t look away.

  “I don’t want you to drug me anymore. I won’t try to escape, I’ll be good. But I can’t take the nausea and the headaches. Please. I promise I won’t try and run.”

  She leaves, taking the drink with her.

  When the door opens again it’s the girl, the skinny one who has smiled before, and instead of the rabbit cup she is holding a glass, with a Bofferding logo on the side. She also has a plate of food.

  “Auntie says here is your breakfast. She wishes you bon appetit.”

  I take the glass from her and sip. The milk tastes good, normal, and I know I have had a small victory. Today, at least, the old woman will not drug me. I bite into the bread and it tastes almost fresh. The crumbs trigger my hunger and I eat quickly, hardly tasting the butter or jam that have already been spread for me. Finishing it and longing for more.

  The young girl is gaping at me.

  “You feel better today?” she asks. “You are up.”

  She can’t know what it has taken for me to rise from the filthy mattress.

  “Amina?” I think I remember her name right. “Tell me who the woman is. And the man.”

  “She is Auntie, and he is Jak, her husband. They have a young son. This is his room.”

  I look around, at what I’ve seen again and again during the hours and days of my captivity. “So where is the boy?”

  “He’s downstairs, breaking his fast. He sleeps with Auntie as you are here.” And I can see that Amina is upset, talking about the boy. She looks like she may cry. “He is missing an eye. The doctors had no choice. They did what they could, but it is no good. He had the cancer, and when it was cut from his brain it took his eye. He is still very poorly.”

  I think about my mum then, I can’t help it. The work she did in Heidelberg. “What about chemotherapy? What about radiotherapy? Proton treatment.”

  She gasps at this last suggestion, staring at me with wonder.

  “You know about this?”

  I lick my fingers, hoping for crumbs. My stomach growls. “I heard it on the news. Can’t the boy have that?”

  I don’t know why I’m having this conversation, why I should care about the child of my captors. But Amina is hanging on my every word.

  “We don’t have papers so we are not legal. It is not so easy,” she says, as if repeating a script.

  And then I understand something. “Would money make it easy?”

  Amina looks worried, she reaches for my cup, eager to leave, but I don’t want her to go yet.

  “Is that why I’m here, Amina? Are my parents to pay a ransom?”

  Amina’s eyes narrow, and I can see that she is close to tears again. “You are our guest,” she says.

  I laugh, short and harsh but I can’t help myself. “Your guest! Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Then we both jump as the old woman yells, from just outside the door, “Amina! Come out now. And lock the door behind you.”

  But before she leaves I take hold of Amina’s hands in both of mine. I whisper, “Please, Amina. My parents have money and they will pay. Oh God, please help me to get out of here.”

  And even though I have to watch her go, and I hear the key turn in the lock, she leaves something behind that has a whiff of hope; if a ransom has been requested then everything will be alright. Because my parents will pay. Of course they will.

  Bridget

  In her locked cell, Bridget is staring at the grey, scarred wall and wishing it was a window. She is listening to the loud male voices beyond the cell door, the police officers and others talking and moving, and wondering how it came to this. Why she is not home, with her daughters in school, and the world as it should be.

  The world, she says to herself, to Ellie whom she is always talking to now in her head, is never as we think it should be.

  Dear Ellie. Oh, dear Ellie, how has it taken all of this for me to understand that though the world is not as we would wish, we cannot change it? How is it I didn’t know that, after all I saw in Algeria?

  Did I tell you about the teachers? Of course not, I told you nothing. I am forty years old and it is more of a mystery now than back then
, when I was younger and closer to the rebel soldiers. I thought I understood their passion, their conviction, even if their methods were barbarous and cruel.

  The teachers were good women. Local women, educated in France, but returned to Tizi Ouzou to teach at the village school. They were devout too, but not as devout as the men in the mountains wanted. And it was a small thing, a simple thing, just words. A girl, fifteen, had spoken to one of them because she had a crush on a boy in the class. She was worried that it was a sin, she was full of self-loathing. But the teachers, who were kind and also worldly, said it was no sin. That love and desire were natural, and that the young girl would experience it many times in her life. They had laughed, maybe. No-one told me this, but I like to think of them that way. Smiling and laughing with the girl, and each other, as they remembered their own first loves.

  It was the girl’s brother who informed the soldiers. He had been going to the mosque, where the radicals recruited, and he told about the teachers and their advice that love was normal, that desire was allowed.

  That night, as they lay sleeping, the teachers had their throats slit, as though they were calves being strung up for meat. At least I hope they were sleeping. After, the school no longer had teachers and no-one spoke of love anymore.

  So you see, Ellie, I have known the worst of the world. And I was so scared for you, before, because you hadn’t. That you argued for more freedom, that you slept with boys and pierced your nose and forgot that the world is not always on your side.

  But I am. Everything I did, was for your own good.

  Even if my methods now look barbarous and cruel.

  Bridget called through the cell door for the police officer to come. She had made a decision. “I want a solicitor,” she said. “And I want to make an official complaint against Detective Massard. He has lied about me. He has falsified statements and I won’t stand for it. I am a British national and I demand my rights.”

  Cate

  The morning was almost spent and Cate was padding bare-footed around the flat, collecting stray glasses, sticky with last night’s bourbon, and balled up socks. General was panting by the window, his tongue dripping onto the wooden floor, happily fatigued after their morning walk and now enjoying the sunshine. His ears lifted when he heard the key in the lock, he pushed his muzzle into the air, sniffed once, and let out a single warning bark.

  “What, boy?” Cate asked, but then she too heard the door to the flat opening. “Is that you, Olivier?”

  “Well, I hope no-one else is coming to see my girlfriend at noon with his own key!”

  And there he was, grinning like a fool, quickly taking her in his arms and lifting her slightly as he kissed her lips. She felt his happiness, his lightness, a stark contrast to the weight that he’d been carrying around for days now.

  “Is it Ellie? You’ve found her, haven’t you?”

  Olivier placed Cate back on solid ground, his mouth momentarily pulled down, but his humour undiminished. “Not yet, but we will. Bridget has told us everything. It’s over Cate.”

  “What do you mean it’s over? What did she say?”

  “You know I can’t tell you. But enough for her to be detained in a cell. Enough for me to take a few hours to relax.”

  He stretched his arms high and let out a long sigh of contentment, almost touching the ceiling with the tips of his fingers, then he winced, his face crumpled in pain.

  “What’s wrong? Is it your stomach ulcer?”

  He nodded. “Just a twinge, ce n`est rien. Now, I would like to take you to lunch, Cate! We have not had a moment when our time has not been heavy with my work, and I want this to change. And then later, after Amelia has finished school, we will drive to Nancy, to see my parents.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I have neglected you, I know. And my family. I’m sorry. I want us to be happy.”

  His kiss was warm and it felt like a gift, a fresh start. Cate closed her eyes, trying to enjoy the moment.

  “Instead of going to lunch, Olivier, I want you to make good on your promise. You said you’d see a doctor about your ulcer. Do that first and then what we do for the rest of the day is up to you.”

  Hospitals, same the world over, Cate guessed. That antiseptic smell, the grey linoleum squeaking underfoot. The waiting.

  Olivier sat beside her, his laptop balanced on his knees, typing quickly but humming as he did. Bridget’s arrest had lightened him, and Cate wished she could share some of this pleasure. Olivier felt he’d solved the case, but she didn’t see how this could be true when Ellie was still not found. He said that it was now just a matter of time, that the uniformed officers were pursuing Bridget’s leads. In what way Bridget was responsible, he had not explained.

  Cate remembered how Bridget had looked, standing at the window clutching the pink rabbit, desperately waiting. Whatever she had done, whatever she had confessed to, Bridget was devastated. There was no denying that.

  In the waiting room, dull voices rumbled, no-one spoke at full volume as if sickness was less dangerous when talked about in whispers. An elderly woman shuffled along, chaperoned by her middle-aged daughter, a ball of cotton wool taped into the crook of her arm. Several patients made muted requests to the administrator, officious and dark-suited behind a high desk, for the whereabouts of the toilet, a mother tried to distract her child with a magazine aimed at octogenarians. Finally, the nurse called Olivier’s name.

  “Monsieur Massard?”

  Cate made to stand too, but the brisk nurse held up a hand, and said in perfect English, “First the examination, then I call you to discuss the results in a few minutes, okay?”

  How the nurse had ascertained at a glance that Cate was a foreigner she had no idea, but she took her seat meekly, catching the gaze of the child, whose interest had wandered from the magazine. She smiled at him, then looked towards the closed door behind which Olivier had just disappeared.

  She had made him do this, and his agreement felt like a validation of her role, but being left outside the examination room negated her. Would she have been allowed in if they were married, or was it just because the space was too small? She assumed they would be doing an ultrasound and her only experience of this had been when she was pregnant with Amelia and Tim had always been there, both of them gazing at the screen in a rare moment of unified delight, a moment when they had been a happy family. Thinking of this, Cate felt herself tense, the years that had passed since her divorce were not quite the emotional barrier she would have liked.

  Relationships had always been a changeable thing for her, an unfixed point. The only family that had been constant was her mother, and that relationship was as unpredictable as the British weather. Just thinking of her mum made Cate feel edgy, and she began to run a thumb over her nail, itching to peel a cuticle but finding nothing on the glossy gelled surface. Her mother was possessive, demanding. Often drunk. But at least she hadn’t left. Unlike Tim. Unlike Liz, and their father.

  She thought again of the trial back home. Totally unsurprised that her mother had arrived at court drunk. Unsurprised but sad.

  Her hand had found her phone, deep in her pocket. Fuck it, she thought. And texted a quick message:

  Hi Mum. I spoke with Liz yesterday. Sorry things aren’t going well in court. And I’m really sorry I’m not there with you.

  This time, she actually meant it, and she pressed SEND.

  She waited, staring at the phone, but there was no response. Her mum could be in court, her phone switched off in her bag. Or she could be ignoring her.

  The door to the examination room opened and Cate sat taller, alert, but it wasn’t Olivier. The nurse did not see Cate, or opted not to, and walked quickly the other way with efficient little steps. The door opened again and this time Olivier appeared, striding towards her.

  “Well, that’s over,” he said. “And I have done as you ask.”

  She had thought the nurse was going to invite her into the room, to share whatever they had found, but clearly that
was not going to happen.

  “What did they say?” she asked, anxiously. He had been groaning in the night, and since last weekend the pain had registered on his face, a pallor that showed his anxiety. Something was wrong, that was certain.

  “Rien.” He began searching for his keys, then his phone. “Just that I should rest.” Olivier chortled at the amusing idea. “Okay, on y va.” He began to walk out of the hospital, and Cate followed, though not satisfied.

  “Maybe we should stay at home tonight, then,” Cate suggested, rather fraudulently. “Your parents would understand, you just need to explain that you’re not feeling great, and things are busy with your work.”

  She knew it wasn’t entirely true that she was thinking of Olivier. Meetings with his parents stirred her anxiety, she hadn’t seen them enough times to have overcome this yet.

  “Nonsense, Cate! I feel better than I have in a long time and my parents already know we are coming. They will have a meal waiting. And, for me, this is a moment to enjoy. For you as well.”

  It was an hour and a half to Nancy and Cate drove, in theory so Olivier could relax, but in reality so he could take the calls that continued to come in.

  “She’s asked for a solicitor,” he said, smiling, as he ended one call. “Maybe a full confession will come quicker than I hoped.”

  He remained upbeat through the journey, though whatever his colleagues were telling him, it wasn’t the big news he was now hoping for: Ellie was still not found. He ended each call and looked out of the window. At one point he said, “We’ll find her,” though more to himself rather than Cate, who kept driving, staring at the road ahead. Wondering how he could be so sure.

  She was thinking of Liz, poor Liz, going through a trial in which though she was not the accused, she may as well be. I should be there. I’m a coward.

  Amelia slouched in the back seat, with General beside her, distracted, at least for a while, playing Minecraft on Cate’s iPad. Cate had tried to understand the game, but as far as she could tell, Amelia was building a farm that consisted of square sheep and lots of green blocks. Still, it kept her quiet.