by Alex Dahl
‘Yes, well, it won’t break me again because I’m going to break it – wide open.’
‘Very well, Sherlock. Come on, then, get your stuff and I’ll drop you back into town. I have to go to IKEA anyways – your crazy cat has chewed my shoe rack to splinters.’
48
Jacqueline
It was a risky thing to do, most likely the single riskiest thing she’s done since bringing Lulu-Rose home. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours now, and Jacqueline is returning from one of her clandestine trips to a distant and anonymous internet café. She was desperate to find out whether her plan has worked. She’s driving home slowly, careful as always not to rouse the suspicions of any gendarmes patrolling the A61 between Toulouse and the Mediterranean, and as she drives she goes through everything yet again in her mind, combing back through every moment from two days ago to make sure she didn’t commit a single mistake.
It had taken her most of the morning to clean up the site of the fire and get rid of anything else that might be incriminating. She’d finally left Le Tachoué after lunch, reassuring the girls she’d be back by bedtime, leaving popcorn and ice cream and strict instructions not to step outside the farmhouse under any circumstances.
On the outskirts of Carcassonne she stopped at a roadside bric-a-brac shop with a Vodafone sign blinking in the dusty air and picked up a new SIM card. She paid in cash, handing two crisp twenty-euro bills to the young man behind the counter, who didn’t even glance at her. If he had, he wouldn’t have made any connection to Jacqueline Thibault, even if there had been a recent photograph of her on the front covers of every newspaper in France – which, of course, there was not. Just to be safe, she’d disguised herself for the outing; her hair was styled in a sleek caramel-blonde bob, her naturally thin nose had been discreetly sculpted thicker and slightly crooked with silicone mold, and her eyes were a light, believable hazel, courtesy of FreshLook colored contacts. There couldn’t be any way of chasing the SIM card back to her.
She got back in the car and drove for a long time, circling Carcassonne on the peripheral motorway before heading north into the hills of the Montagne Noire, following signs for Les Quatre Châteaux de Lastours. After several minutes of being on the main road without meeting another car, she turned down a random small road and followed it until she came to a junction. To the right, the road headed into a dense forest and she turned off again, driving slowly in the now dim light. After a short while, she pulled over at a deserted picnic area with a clear view of the road in both directions.
She inserted the new SIM card into a second-hand iPhone she’d bought several months earlier from a guy in Foix via the Leboncoin free ads website. She took several deep breaths and practiced keeping the tremble out of her voice before she dialed the mainline number for the Norwegian police force. A woman on the switchboard picked up, her voice unhurried and calm. Jacqueline knew that this conversation would be recorded and endlessly reproduced.
‘Police. How can I help you?’
‘I would like to give some important information,’ Jacqueline said, in perfect English.
‘Which department can I put you through to?’
‘I just want to say that there is a house in Sainte-Ode, in the Ardennes, in Belgium, past the camping, on Rue des Vieilles Écoles, at the edge of the forest. Lucia Blix was killed there.’
Jacqueline pressed ‘End call’, her heart drumming against the seat belt. She closed her eyes. No way back now.
She got out of the car and placed the phone on the ground before reversing over it several times. She then picked up the pieces and dropped them into a Ziploc bag, which she threw from the window into a rocky ravine as the road climbed high above the Vallée de l’Orbiel.
Now, forty-eight hours later, she has reassured herself that the authorities have followed up on her tipoff in just the way she’d hoped. All the major news sites she scanned at the internet café are speculating about the Belgian house.
As she pulls up in front of Le Tachoué, Jacqueline can make out the outlines of the girls behind the linen curtains in Josiane’s room. Moments later, they hurl themselves into her arms as she steps into the hallway.
‘Salut, les filles!’ She laughs, all the nervous excitement of the last few days evaporating.
Watching Josie and Lulu-Rose giggle and bounce around like attention-starved puppies, she’s reminded exactly why she had to do what she did. Getting rid of Mikko wasn’t easy in the end, and calling in the tipoff was certainly nerve-wracking, but Jacqueline will defend her gentle life at Le Tachoué with her girls to her very last breath. Now they can hopefully put the past to rest forever, while the police turn the Ardennes inside out looking for Mikko Eilaanen and Lucia Blix’s body.
‘Come here, chérie,’ she whispers, and pulls Lulu-Rose close. She closes her eyes and breathes in the little girl’s scent – clean cotton, fresh air, lavender soap, popcorn.
49
Lucia
When the sun’s out, it’s like summer. All the birds sing and we hear them so clearly here. Maman says it’s because we’re away from the noise of cars and trains and planes. Today Josie and me are going up to the woods and Maman has packed a picnic basket for us with chunks of ham and fresh baguette from Marie-Elodie’s bread van – on weekends she leaves baguettes at the gates at the end of the track leading to Le Tachoué.
We pick wildflowers and play hide-and-seek and then we go down to the river. More snow has melted in the mountains because it’s getting warmer every day and the river is wild, splashing our feet when we dangle them from the wooden bridge.
‘We’re lucky,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ says Josie.
We’re sitting so close together that our arms touch, and we’ve taken our jackets off and tied them around our waists, even though Maman said, ‘Don’t take your jackets off – I promise you, you’ll get sick.’
‘Where do you think the man is now?’ I ask.
‘Maybe he’s gone back to Belgium,’ says Josie.
‘Or maybe the yellow house.’
‘Yeah. Or maybe he’s still here.’
‘Here? At Le Tachoué?’ I ask, my voice trembling at the thought of the man still being here, hiding somewhere in the huge house. It could be true, he could be in the attic like I was in Arden, and Maman could be bringing him toast and sweets and wine.
‘Yeah. His car burned, so how could he have left?’
‘What do you mean his car burned?’
‘The big fire Maman was trying to put out. It was his car burning.’
I think about this and maybe a little part of me already knew that. It could be he was still in it when it burned because I found a watch in the black dust a few days later and showed it to Maman and she snatched it out of my hand. I didn’t know that it was his watch and I forgot about it.
‘But Maman said he left in the night.’
‘Yeah. But maybe he didn’t.’
I stand up, holding the handrail on the wooden bridge. I swallow many times, as if there’s a chunk of baguette in my throat. Sunlight is streaming through the branches, making the rushing river look like diamonds are floating on it downstream. I turn back to Josie, who is still sitting, trailing a long, thin branch in the water.
‘Let’s never talk about him again,’ I say.
She nods.
50
Elisa
They still can’t find her. It’s the middle of the night and I’ve been on my phone for hours, googling and scrolling through article after article about missing children. I’ve been on Google Earth, too, zooming in on the house in the Belgian Ardennes where my daughter has been. Where her blood seeped into the floorboards and settled in a brownish spray on the untreated pine walls. The house is surrounded by forests. If you google ‘Lucia Blix Belgium’, which I unfortunately did, you get a series of images of the Belgian police excavation team looking for ‘evidence’ in the vast forests surrounding the village of Sainte-Ode. They have forensic suits and diggers and dogs
and they move around silently among the trees, looking for any signs of upheaval or disturbance.
And yet, the strangest thing has happened since they found those traces of Lucia in Belgium: instead of feeling less hopeful that she’ll be found alive, I feel more strongly that she will. I can feel her again, clearly, even more clearly than right at the beginning, and I know in my heart that she is out there, alive.
This is partly because of the testimony of Feodor Batz, whose house it is. Batz is adamant that Lucia was held there for only a few days right after she was taken, and that she was then moved to another location, which he doesn’t know anything about, by Mikko Eilaanen. He maintains that Eilaanen was working solo for a private client.
According to Batz, Eilaanen very recently returned to the house in Belgium – alone. He says Eilaanen had a fight there with Heiki Vilkainen, got injured and left. The police don’t trust Batz to tell the truth: he’s had numerous previous convictions, and he’s a known pedophile. Just looking at his mugshot, you can tell this is a particularly unsavory individual. He looks frail, like a man twice his age, with a halo of unruly red curls and a leering, intense smile. He looks completely insane, and my skin crawls to think that Lucia has ever met this man. But I believe his testimony even if the police don’t. I have to.
Another thing that makes me certain that Lucia is alive is the strange conversation I had with Fredrik.
‘Do you believe in karma?’ I asked him, late in the night, as we sat on a hard maroon couch at the police station, looking out at the black water of Sandefjord’s inner harbor, just waiting for more news. News that never came.
‘Karma,’ he said, tasting the word, seeming open to this conversation now.
‘Yes.’
‘As in, you do something and then the universe punishes you for that particular deed?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think that would require a pretty magical view of the world. I believe that we’re of much less significance than we think. I believe the world just churns on and on and on and doesn’t care if we do good or bad things.’
‘So you think we can do really bad things and not be punished for it?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Fredrik, his eyes glinting as he began to fully engage in the conversation. ‘It happens all the time. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people.’
‘So what’s the point of being good?’
‘Who said there is a point in being good?’
‘Well, we’re certainly raised to be good – or else! Aren’t we?’
‘You said it. We’re raised to be good. Conditioned. Why does it naturally follow that the universe wants us to be good, or even cares? It just makes for a more peaceful life on earth if most people are mostly good.’
‘Children are good. Lucia is good. She doesn’t deserve this. Even if I’m not good. Even if—’
‘Elisa, nobody is good or bad – those are relative terms. Nobody deserves anything, good or bad. Wherever Lucia is, her circumstances are not determined by anything other than the will of whoever has her. And we still have every reason to hope for Lucia’s safe return. We must never lose sight of that. Or hope.’
I’ve been driving myself crazy with thoughts of punishment, and it feels freeing to think that the universe ultimately doesn’t care about the mishaps and little cruelties of each tiny speck of a human. Even the very large mishaps and the very large cruelties. Could it be that no matter what, I don’t deserve this? That this has just happened for reasons unknown, and the best I can do is focus my energy on hoping for her safe return?
Wherever Lucia is, her circumstances are not determined by anything other than the will of whoever has her.
I get up off the sofa and go upstairs. It’s 2.11 a.m. and a brisk wind is blowing outside, smacking a branch against the window on the landing. I step into our bedroom, listening to the rhythmic purr of my sleeping husband’s breath. I lie down beside him, draping my arm across his chest.
‘Baby,’ I whisper, more forcefully than I’d intended, my breath sweeping across his face.
He opens his eyes a crack. He sees me staring at him, my face pressed close to his, and he withdraws a little, alarmed.
‘What is it? Honey, it’s the middle of the night…’
‘Do you remember that time we took Lucia to that playground in Vigelandsparken when I was pregnant with Lyder and she disappeared for a minute or so? And we ran around screaming her name? And all along, she was just sitting still inside one of those little huts?’
‘Umm, yeah, I think so.’
‘I can still remember how I felt when I spotted her. The relief. Holding her so close, she pushed me away.’
‘Honey…’
‘I need her, Fredrik. I can’t live like this.’
‘Shhh,’ he whispers.
‘Do you think we will get her back?’ I ask.
I feel him grow rigid and alert. ‘Of course,’ he says, stroking my hair.
I pull back and look at him, properly, in the eyes. ‘Do you really? Do you genuinely believe that Lucia will come home?’
He nods, but his eyes say no before they drop away from my searching gaze.
For a brief moment, I hate him. I hate him for not believing. Once, I promised to love this man forever. But there are limits to everything, even love, and we both know it. Hope, too.
*
I go downstairs when I’m sure Fredrik is asleep. In the kitchen I pour myself some water. I pour it back out before taking a sip and refill the glass with the remaining quarter bottle of Shiraz on the counter instead. My phone vibrates on the table. It’s late; Fredrik must have woken up and found me gone, texting me to ask where I am. I sip at the wine for a long while, drawing in its smoky, peppery scent. I’m in no rush. The nights are mine, and I’m used to these lonely hours now.
I pick up the phone and see that I’ve received an email, from a Selma Eriksen.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Lucia Blix
Dear Mr and Mrs Blix,
I am a freelance journalist (previously in-house at Dagsposten) and I have been working on the abduction of Lucia since the beginning. I am currently looking at approaching your daughter’s case from a slightly different angle of inquiry, especially in light of the recent developments. I was hoping you’d be willing to meet with me and discuss this. I really want to help – I remain very hopeful she will be found and returned home. Lucia’s is the case I just can’t let go.
Best wishes,
Selma Eriksen
I replace the phone face down on the counter. At the beginning, I used to get fifty enquiries like that every day. At least. But no one seems to want to get in touch with me directly anymore. The newspapers still write about her, though not very often – it’s not like Lucia is on the front pages every day. At least, she wasn’t, until they found the blood. I was never sure if all the exposure was a good thing or not; on the one hand, I thought it might increase the chances of Lucia being recognized somewhere by someone, but at the same time I knew that her recognizability would make her more of a liability and could put her in even more danger.
I feel so alone. So, so alone. The thought of going back upstairs and lying down beside Fredrik is suffocating. Another night in that room, staring at the grey blinds and the occasional roaming shadows from cars outside sliding across the wall, listening to the drone of his light snores. I let myself play a little game sometimes. I imagine that I live in this house with another man. Lucia and Lyder are here, sleeping. Everything is exactly how it should have been, except it’s the other man, and for that reason everything is also different. In my fantasy, I lie down in bed, snuggling up to his strong back, slipping my hands around his waist, and he takes my hand and holds it against his heart. I never get back up again.
I pick up my phone and respond to the journalist. Why not meet with her, if she thinks she can bring something new to the table? I google her and s
he looks like she’s barely seventeen, with a certain hungriness about her. I like that. I’d find that infinitely preferable to speaking with some of her more seasoned colleagues, who have seen it all one too many times and are riddled with cynicism. What we need is hope.
51
Jacqueline
She fights an intense craving to check the news. She pours another glass of wine, stares out the window at the night. There is no internet access at Le Tachoué, just like she wanted, but in this moment she would have appreciated a faint 4G signal at the very least.
For the past couple of weeks, Jacqueline has kept an even closer eye on the news than usual. She couldn’t have anticipated the explosive effect her tipoff would have – she hadn’t known about the bloodstains from Lucia in Sainte-Ode. Sometimes she feels a twinge of sympathy for Elisa Blix, but this is easily dispelled, considering the circumstances. Still, they are both mothers, and Jacqueline knows better than anyone what it means to have your child taken away from you.
She checks the time again: 8.40 p.m. He’s never late, but he’s late now. Every night for weeks now, Antoine has arrived at Le Tachoué in the evening. In the morning, he leaves before she goes to wake the girls, slipping from bed quietly in the weakening darkness, and she misses the feel of his strong body pressed against hers before he has even left the room. She hasn’t yet wanted to have a conversation with the girls about what this new development might mean, but she senses that they know about it anyway; Antoine told her that Lulu-Rose waved at him from the window as he turned the car around in the courtyard one morning. Jacqueline deserves this unexpected happiness, she knows that.
The girls are in bed, Boulette has settled in her crate in the kitchen, and Jacqueline waits impatiently, sipping from a glass of delicious Madiran, smoothing her hair down and glancing once again at the dark nothingness outside the window. A storm swept across the region last week, pulling trees up by the roots and flooding the farms in the valley. Their little river broke its banks, pulling at the bluebells and daffodils on the side of the path as if it was a ferocious waterway that could actually take you somewhere, and Josiane and Lulu-Rose missed a day of school because of a landslide on the road near Encourtiech. The weather has been volatile ever since, with sudden bursts of torrential rain and ominous dark clouds hanging low over the mountains. This evening the rain has started up again – maybe that’s why Antoine has been held up.
