by Ruth Dugdall
Now the attention moves to the people sitting at the table, where thanks are given to the Ambassador and then the solicitor introduces Ellie’s mother to the crowd and invites Bridget to say a few words. Bridget moves towards the microphone, touches it and a sound rings out shrill enough to make the journalists in the front row flinch.
“I want to make a plea to Ellie. I want to say, please let someone know where you are. You can come home now, it’s okay. You aren’t in any trouble.”
Cate wonders if she has been told to say this. It’s not what Bridget believes, that Ellie has simply run away, so it must be some tactic.
Achim takes over from his wife, his voice is steady and low, but she can hear the strain. He says that if someone has got Ellie, or knows where she is, that they should let her go.
Bridget interrupts. Her voice is high and untethered. “Just leave her somewhere safe, so she can call home. Please. I don’t want to see anyone punished for this, it’s not revenge I’m after. It’s my girl. Please return Ellie to me and everything will be okay. I promise you, there will be no repercussions. You have my word.”
Cate thinks that whoever advised Bridget and Achim to say these things was a fool. No kidnapper would be naïve enough to think that simply by returning Ellie everything would be absolved. It was a lie, and Bridget was showing signs of not believing it herself, taking a tissue from the box and dabbing at her face though her eyes remained dry. Cate thinks then of the witness statement, the person at Schueberfouer who saw Bridget talking with a man in his fifties. Is that why Bridget’s face is dry? Does she know where Ellie is?
The solicitor speaks again, telling those gathered that Ellie was last seen going on the ferris wheel at the fair, and that since her disappearance the police had failed to make a wide search or close down borders.
“In fact,” she adds pointedly, her voice rising with each accusation, “the only person to have been interviewed for any length of time has been my client. The local police force is failing Ellie. They are failing Ellie’s family. And they are failing Luxembourg. My client was kept in a police cell for almost twenty-four hours. Is that the way Luxembourg police treats victims? Perhaps Detective Massard would like to answer. Detective?”
The British Ambassador stands up, moving towards the panel, as though to silence this criticism, but it is too late; the words have been said and all three people on the stage are looking towards the back of the room where there is a movement. Heads turn and Cate sees that under the picture of the girl in the yellow dress is Olivier, standing with his back pressed to the wall, his arms folded defensively across his chest. Bridget is staring at him, had been staring at him all along, but Olivier is looking at Cate and he is far from happy.
Olivier shakes his head, he will not be forced into speaking publicly, and the Ambassador is hastily intervening, re-directing the conference away from accusations. Olivier tries to move towards Cate but no journalist is going to let him through at such a crucial moment.
“Please, Ellie,” Bridget says, and the journalists turn back to catch her final words, “wherever you are, come home. Please, if you have her, let my daughter go.”
One of the BBC journalists calls out, “Mrs Scheen! Ellie could be anywhere in Europe. Have Interpol been informed?”
“I believe my daughter is in Luxembourg,” Bridget replies. “Someone has her, someone close. And it’s time for her to come home.”
The perfectly quotable line appears spontaneous, and the journalists begin to speak at once, questions about Ellie, about the last time she was seen. Then one question, loud and clear, from a local RTL journalist seated just a few rows behind Cate.
“Mrs Scheen! Did you harm your daughter?”
Bridget looks to where the voice came from, then she looks at the back where Olivier is still standing, listening. Achim, too, seems to be leaning forward as if waiting on her answer. For a moment, Cate feels Bridget’s eyes on her, as if she is answering directly to her.
“I loved my daughter. I would never harm her. That is a lie that has been spread by the police, by that man…” Bridget lifts her shaking hand and points again to the back of the room, to the man standing under the picture, but before she can finish her damning sentence the Ambassador places a hand over the microphone to cease the torrent of blame. The solicitor whispers to her client, and along with Achim, they simultaneously move Bridget so she is standing, then walking from the room. Cate can’t judge if the solicitor is pleased with how things have gone or not, only one thing stays with her, something that feels wrong and important and that won’t go away: Bridget had said, I loved my daughter. Loved, not love.
As the journalist’s chatter rose around her, Cate felt she was drowning in accents, French and German and English, but that one word was the same in any language, repeated again and again: Ellie. Ellie Scheen. Cate wanted desperately to leave, but it was impossible. Journalists scribbled notes, technicians checked they had the film footage they required, when a tight pressure surrounded her elbow. She turned, hoping to escape, but Olivier had found her. For the second time that morning he said, “What the fuck do you think you are doing?”
“Come, we’ll leave by the back entrance. The Scheens will be giving more speeches at the front, it will be a fucking circus.” He guided her the opposite way, deeper into the Embassy, but he was wrong about the speeches. Bridget had not yet started; she was there in front of them in the dark narrow corridor, talking with her solicitor. As if sensing them, Bridget turned and saw Cate, with Olivier’s hand on her elbow, the other on her shoulder. There was a moment, a frozen realisation when Bridget saw the woman she had trusted alongside the man who believed her to be guilty. The shock registered on Bridget’s face, and Cate could do nothing, say nothing. She wanted to apologise, though she didn’t know what for. She didn’t know if Bridget really was wrongly accused, abandoned by the very police force who should be helping her, or if she was just a very good actress with an evil secret.
Outside, Cate breathed the fresh air. She felt as though she’d been underground for a very long time. A police car waited, the driver ready to speed Olivier away from the scene. He told her to go home, it wasn’t a request, and she started to walk away with every intention of doing so. But when his car pulled away she realised she had a choice. Suddenly liberated, she turned around and walked smartly back to the Embassy, curious to see how Bridget would deal with the media when she made her exit.
She handled it with style. Not covering the yellow beaded dress with a jacket, but wearing it with pride and smiling sadly, now grasping the pink rabbit, which she told reporters, had been Ellie’s when she was a baby. The journalists loved Bridget, and she obliged them, standing patiently as they snapped pictures and asked questions. She was wonderful, tough under fire, a world away from the woman Cate had come to know over the preceding days.
And then, as the journalists and cameramen finally began to disperse, Bridget’s shoulders hunched and her smile faded. It was then that she looked close to collapse.
To escape the mélange, Cate took the same route that Olivier had shown her, only in reverse, and ended up back in the corridor. Bridget had said goodbye to her solicitor and was leaning against the wooden walls. Cate wondered where Achim was, why he wasn’t supporting his wife. Her act was over, the mask had slipped and she looked tired.
Bridget looked up wearily. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“You need to sit down. Come on, we’ll call Achim when I’ve found you somewhere to rest.”
Cate thought quickly, all the cafés she knew nearby would be busy now it was getting towards lunchtime and Bridget was fast becoming recognisable in Luxembourg. Instead, she led the now sluggish woman along the street and into the shrouded park. School had not finished, and there were only a few pre-schoolers climbing on the wooden pirate ship. Cate led Bridget to the bench furthest away from the few mothers sitting in the sun, enjoying some peace as their children played.
“I have to hand it to you, y
ou were amazing in there,” Cate said, quietly, but Bridget shook her head.
“No, I’m not…”
“To speak like you did, to have that strength…” Cate tailed off, suddenly uncertain. “Should you text Achim, to say where we are?”
“In a minute. He’s still inside the Embassy, speaking with the Ambassador. I need a moment away from him.” Bridget lifted Ellie’s pink rabbit to her face, and appeared to be breathing it in. Her voice came out muffled, “So Detective Massard is your husband?”
“Fiancé,” Cate corrected. How strange that the first person she should tell was Bridget. “He proposed to me last night. I didn’t expect it.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to add this last sentence.
Bridget placed the rabbit on her lap, but her hands went back to her face, as though to warm them, though even in the shade of the tree the sun could be felt. “He’s told you that I’m guilty?”
Cate shifted in her seat. She watched a young boy hurtle down the slide, landing in his mother’s arms at the base. “He told me that he thinks that, yes.”
“It’s true.” Her hands still half covered her face and Cate realised it was shame.
The mother righted her son and off he ran, back to the steps to go again. Cate was silent, because she didn’t want to hear. But she didn’t walk away either.
“It’s all my fault, Cate. I never meant it to be like this, Ellie should have been home the next morning. I don’t know what went wrong. And I don’t know where she is now.”
Cate believed her. She had seen that desperation when Bridget opened the door, the longed-for need for any news of Ellie. The way she held the hope just for a moment, before it was dashed, and she felt the loss of her daughter once again. Bridget was a husk of herself now, curled over, even her cheeks looked drawn. And now, in her colourful dress and with clean hair and makeup, the signs were still there.
“The police. Detective Massard. They aren’t looking for Ellie.” Bridget looked across the park to where the mother was now preparing her child for home, dusting the dirt from his knees and buttoning up a cardigan. “When I was in that police cell with him he was distracted. Tired. All of his energy is being put into interrogating me.”
The two women sat in silence, registering what this meant. Cate thought of the lost girl, wherever she was. Had she given up hope, or was she thinking that at any moment the door would burst open and she would be saved? Was she even alive?
“I mean, what are the police doing right now?” Bridget asked, the desperation making her voice shrill. “I’m a victim of crime! What the hell are they doing? I have a meeting with my solicitor tomorrow, and all because we have to be ready for when they come and arrest me again. I should be looking for my daughter, and so should they. Instead they are building enough evidence so they can arrest me. Aren’t they?”
Cate realised that Bridget was directing the question directly at her. “How would I know?” Cate answered, hearing the snappiness in her voice. After what Bridget had admitted, she deserved it. “I’m not a police officer.”
“You mean that your fiancé doesn’t talk to you?”
Cate felt irritated, but also ashamed that Bridget could see the shabby state of her relationship.
“Olivier refuses to talk about work when he’s home.”
Bridget was furious. “Make him. You’re a mother, can you even imagine how I feel? Please, Cate.”
“Look, Bridget, here’s what I’ll do, I’ll pick up Gaynor, and look after her tomorrow so you can see your solicitor. And I’ll do the school run next week.”
“I need more from you, Cate. I can tell you where to start looking.”
“Then tell the police!”
“I did!” Bridget hissed viciously, then seemed to get a hold of herself. “I did, Cate. And he locked me up. I can’t help my daughter from a prison cell.”
“So instead you lie. You say publicly that Olivier made a false statement. Do you know what that could do to his career?”
Bridget shook her head, as if Cate was missing the point, and her fury became hotter.
“You need to work with the police, Bridget. Because they are the ones who should be searching for Ellie. And I simply can’t help you. You’re a liar and I don’t trust you.”
And with that Cate stood and walked away.
Amina
Auntie hadn’t left her room all morning, she’d just lain on the bed with Fahran, who was listlessly watching cartoons. He had been sick in the night, and had a seizure, so now he was sleepy and lethargic.
Amina had been up to the bedroom twice, once to ask if she should take Fahran for his breakfast, which was flatly refused, and the second time to take up a tray with juice and bread and jam. They had to eat, she reasoned, placing a white tablet on the tray for Auntie, knowing it will help calm her.
But Fahran was too sick to manage the food, the end of the baguette remained uneaten in his fist, the curtains in the room remained closed, the cartoon continued to play softly.
Amina stood on the threshold, not knowing what to do. Just then, Fahran began to cry, a pathetically weak whimpering that was more upsetting because he didn’t even have the energy to make it heartfelt. Amina went to him, kneeling down on the floor so her face was level with his.
“Is it your head?” She touched the bandage, to check if it was securely in place, and he winced. “What can I get him, Auntie?”
Auntie was on her side, and her tears were making up for Fahran’s. Her hand was clutching his bare foot.
“Nothing. There is nothing we can get him now.” Her voice was heavy, like soil under vines, stiff and crumbling.
On the TV screen a cartoon cat was bashing a mouse with a large hammer. Fahran was watching through his fingers, his eyes wet with tears, and he flinched at each blow.
“At least turn this off.”
Amina picked up the remote and clicked through the channels hoping for something comforting, a programme to make Fahran smile, but what she turned to was the BBC news channel. She stopped, arrested by the sight of the white woman wearing a traditional Kabyle dress, bright yellow with and blue and red beading. It was something she had never seen outside of Tizi Ouzou, and the thought that someone on television should dress like her friends and family made her mouth drop open.
The woman in the Kabyle dress was speaking, her voice was strong and all around her people were writing and taking photos. This woman must be important, an actress maybe. Amina turned up the volume, and listened.
“I just want Ellie home. Please, if you have her. Let my daughter come home.”
Amina dropped the remote control as though it was a hot piece of coal and stared at Auntie, who was struggling to sit up, propping herself so she could see the screen better. Her hand moved from Fahran’s foot to his neck, she tugged him so his face was against her breast, as if hiding him from the woman on the screen. “Amina! Turn it off!”
“Wait, Auntie. Look!”
The camera had panned the room and Amina spotted her, the British woman with red hair, sitting at the back, the customer who gave her a twenty euro tip.
“That woman, in the back row. She’s been here twice in the last week.”
“What! Oh, no.” Auntie’s face turned ashen. “We’ll go to prison for this, I know it. I told Jak, but he would not listen.”
“But she wants to help, Auntie. I know she does.”
“You don’t understand, Amina.” Auntie was still stroking Fahran’s head, lightly pressing his ear with her palm so he could not hear. “Jak says he’s can’t return Ellie. The police are outside her house night and day. We are in big trouble, with a guest who cannot go home.”
She released her son, and he snuggled against her, too lost in his own misery to be concerned about what his mother was saying.
“But we have to return her home, Auntie. Her mother is on television, asking for us to do it. And the girl looks so sad.”
Auntie’s face, usually so stern, was softened into lines of wor
ry. She bit the inside of her cheek as though to stop any words that might be struggling to escape. Her eyes she kept fixed on her son.
“I don’t know what we must do, Amina. Jak is the head of this family. We follow him.”
Amina smarted. The head of the family. It was a phrase she knew too well, and had never minded when it meant her own father. But his death had promoted Samir to this role, and that meant danger for Amina, and being forced to follow a way of life that was so severe it meant forgetting who she was entirely.
“We are in Europe now, Auntie, and we are important too. We can decide things on our own.”
Auntie made a sound like a chuckle and Fahran lifted his head at her amused tone. “Just a few weeks in Luxembourg, and you are now a feminist, eh?”
“I just think this is something we must do and Jak doesn’t need to know. We can get Ellie home, and save Fahran. Why should this be wrong?”
Auntie reached for Amina and grasped her face. She reached forward and kissed her forehead.
“Your words scare me, Amina, but also lift my spirits. What is it you think can be done?”
Amina was scared too. But she still knew what she had to do, for Ellie and for Fahran. She had a solution that would solve both problems.
Downstairs, in the beauty salon, she carefully uncurled the twenty euro note, to reveal the number. She said it in her head a few times before pressing the numbers into the phone, and then she felt afraid to press the dial button.
“Do it, Amina! Quickly.”
Auntie watched, with Fahran at her side, nestled into her body. Amina would do it for him.
The phone rang. And rang. Eventually, the woman picked up. “Hello?”
Amina tried to find the right words, but failed. Into the silence the British woman said again, “Hello? Can I help you?”
Help. For Amina, a magic word. “Hello, Madame,” she said carefully. “I saw you on the television.”
“Who is this?” she said, and Amina could hear she was not happy because her voice was higher, quick too.
