Lost

by Lucy Wadham

  *

  Stuart descended the concrete steps to the basement. The place was cool and smelled pleasantly of damp. He went to Raymond���s cell, which was at the end of the L-shaped corridor next to the rest room.

  Raymond was clutching his head. Stuart could see he was far gone. He opened the cell door and stepped inside. Raymond was shaking. He grabbed him by the collar.

  ���No. Fuck off. You���re hurting me. I want a lawyer. Don���t touch me.��� His voice was hoarse.

  Stuart took him into his office and sat him down, cuffing one hand to a metal ring in the wall beside his desk.

  ���Give me something, you fucking bastard,��� Raymond said. His nose and eyes were streaming. Stuart just stared at him. ���Please.���

  ���What can you tell me?���

  Raymond sat in the chair, clutching himself with his free arm. He wore a shiny red tracksuit top with the hood pulled up. His handsome face looked as though it was rotting from the inside. His dark skin was liver-grey; he had purple bruises beneath his eyes and he was sweating.

  Stuart put his hand in his pocket and held out the heroin on his palm. Raymond looked down at the tiny white envelope. He reached out for it. Stuart closed his hand. Raymond cried out and passed his hand over his face. He had scabs on his knuckles.

  ���This is better than what Coco can give you. What���s he up to?���

  Raymond thrust his hands further into his pockets.

  ���Please. Give me something. I can���t think.��� He leaned forward, gripped his thighs with his free arm and buried his face in his lap. ���Please. My head.���

  Stuart turned his back on Raymond and went and closed the shutters; then he took his chair from behind his desk and carried it over to Raymond. He sat down two metres away from him in the dark and asked again, ���What can you tell me?���

  Raymond sat up. His voice trembled.

  ���Please. Can���t you give me something? I���m dying.���

  ���What is there of interest in the market streets behind the Fritz Bar? Who hangs out there?���

  ���No one. It���s dead.��� Raymond clutched his stomach and moaned.

  ���We���ve got a black Mercedes 500 with doubled plates. Who took it? Come on. I���ve got it here,��� Stuart said. ���It���s good. What do you know about the Mercedes?���

  Raymond watched Stuart���s closed fist resting on the desk.

  ���Come on,��� Stuart said.

  ���I don���t know anything,��� Raymond whined.

  ���What would Coco have to discuss with Jean Filippi?���

  Raymond retched.

  ���He doesn���t trust me any more. Please.���

  There was a discreet knock and Annie entered the room. Raymond began to shout. ���Let me out! You can���t keep me any longer.���

  ���I can,��� Stuart said. ���Possession,��� he said, opening his hand. He glanced up at Annie. ���What is it?���

  She came forward, undisturbed by Raymond���s screams and the darkness and put a Ministry envelope on the desk.

  ���They picked it up on the scanner,��� she said.

  ���Anything interesting?���

  ���They didn���t say. Zanetecci called. He asked why your direct line wasn���t answering.��� Stuart did not answer. ���He wants you to call him,��� she said.

  Stuart picked up the envelope and looked inside.

  ���Prosecutor Van Ruytens wants you to call him as well,��� she said gently. ���Soon as possible. And Lopez.���

  ���Thank you,��� Stuart said.

  ���He���s like a dog with a rag,��� she said.

  ���Yes. I���ll call him. Thanks.��� He could feel her hesitating but he did not look up. When she had left the room he went and fetched the envelope from his desk. ���Think, Raymond. I���m leaving this on the desk. To jog your memory. Jean Filippi. Think.���

  Raymond began to sob. Stuart left him, closing the door gently behind him.

  Annie looked up and smiled at him as he walked past. He attempted a smile in return, reneged, then felt ashamed. He made for the recording room but the thought of having to talk to the technician made him change his mind. He took the stairs to the first floor and went and shut himself into G��rard and Paul���s office. The room was cramped and hot. Paul���s side was covered in posters of sites of great natural beauty, all places he claimed to have been. G��rard���s side was bare. The shelf behind his desk was empty but for one large book: an encyclopaedia of mushrooms. On his desk was a tape recorder.

  As he listened Stuart looked out of the window on to the flower beds neatly planted by G��rard with red, white and blue flowers, in three neat rows.

  Coco���s voice made him turn and look at the machine. He stopped the tape and rewound.

  There was something in her tone: ���I can���t get it in time. I have to ask you. Can you lend me the money?���

  It was intimacy.

  Then Coco gave his answer and Stuart held his breath. The inevitable pause came and he hung up.

  ���Too late,��� Stuart said, snatching the tape from the machine. He ran down the narrow stairs. ���We might have them��� ��� it was incriminating enough. Annie looked up as he passed her and said, ���Lopez.���

  ���I���ll call him from the car.���

  Raymond was sitting in the dark, panting like a dog.

  ���You���re free,��� he told him. ���You can make a call. One call. So you���ll have to choose between Nathalie Santini and your dealer.��� He took his keys from his desk drawer and unlocked Raymond���s handcuffs. He helped Raymond to his desk. ���Here, sign this. It���s the end of your custody.��� The youth leaned on him and Stuart got a whiff of his acid smell. When he had signed, Stuart closed the file and took it with him.

  As they left the room Raymond said, ���You���re a sick fuck, Stuart.���

  But Stuart did not stop to answer because his anger was driving him again, pushing him forward, and he was glad to give in to it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Liliane sat quietly beside Babette as she drove into Massaccio for the demonstration. It was due to begin at six. Babette always marched: for the fun of it more than from any deep conviction. When Liliane had told her she would come, Babette could hardly contain her excitement. She now kept glancing sideways at her as though she were afraid Liliane might change her mind and jump out of the car.

  Liliane knew that what she was about to do would make her life lastingly difficult. But she was deeply affected by the disappearance of the woman���s child. She believed it might be what was making her sick and she felt the need to do something, make some gesture that would take her, if only for a moment, out of her marriage. Walking through Massaccio with the Women���s Peace Movement would be seen by everyone as an act of rebellion against Coco. He referred to them, even in public, as ���the harpies���.

  They were behind a tractor that was moving, high-haunched and imperious, down the steep stretch of road that led to the main drag into town. Babette sounded her horn twice. When he passed the lay-by she gave him a long blast.

  ���Bastard,��� she said under her breath.

  At last the road straightened out and she overtook him in the wrong gear, making the engine scream, but she sat facing straight ahead of her, her enormous breasts resting on the steering wheel. Liliane glanced up as they passed. A young man with black curly hair and an imbecile���s grin bounced behind the wheel.

  Liliane looked at Babette���s hands on the steering wheel. The fingers were swol
len and chapped from washing-up.

  As she pulled out on to the main road Babette smiled at Liliane, her big tattered smile. She was wearing the lovely headscarf with sunflowers on it and she had put on some lipstick.

  ���You all right?���

  ���I���m sick. It won���t let up.���

  ���It���s the violence. Women have a sixth sense. When things get this bad we feel it physically. I can���t sleep; you feel sick.���

  In Massaccio they drove straight into a traffic jam at the port. The sound of horns mingled with the sound of sirens. Babette crossed herself.

  ���Can you smell burning?���

  Liliane nodded, too nauseous to speak. Babette leaned out of her window and hailed a policewoman in a short-sleeved shirt and white gloves who was standing on the pavement surveying the chaos with expert detachment.

  ���What���s happening?��� Babette���s voice was shrill above the noise. The policewoman stepped towards her, cupping her ear with her hand. ���What���s going on? Why all the traffic?���

  ���There���s a demonstration.���

  ���I know. We���re trying to get there. Why the sirens?���

  The policewoman turned her head away and squinted into the sun for a moment. She was wearing a pair of inappropriately large gold hoops in her ears.

  ���There���s been another bomb.���

  She stepped back as Babette prepared to ask her next question and began gesticulating aggressively at the stationary cars in a sudden galvanic fit. Babette edged forward.

  ���What is all the fuss about?��� she complained. ���I mean, it���s not as if it���s rare, is it? You would have thought they���d be used to it by now. If they���re not going to arrest the bombers they could at least direct the traffic properly so we can get on with our lives. Wouldn���t you think?���

  ���This island is like a prison with no warders.���

  Babettte looked at Liliane.

  ���Who said that?���

  ���No one. Me.���

  Perhaps it was R��my. It was the kind of thing he would say. Liliane often prayed that he would come back before Coco died. She also prayed that Coco would die before she did, which she knew was tantamount to praying for his death.

  ���I���m going to park,��� Babette said. ���We can walk to the Palais.���

  Babette made for the pavement, craning above the wheel, her eyes carefully avoiding the indignation of the other drivers. At last she drove on to the pavement and parked between two palm trees. It was a relief to Liliane to get out of the car. She squinted at the light in town, which always seemed more blinding than in Santarosa.

  ���Ready?��� Babette was smiling at her over the roof of the car. ���Off we go then.���

  Babette took her arm. There were only three years between them, but she allowed Babette the illusion that she was much younger. They turned into the long avenue that led up to the Palais. The street was empty of traffic and people were walking in the road, all in one direction. Perhaps it was the white light, or the absence of cars, but there was a strange atmosphere in town, like an absence of purpose.

  Liliane enjoyed Babette���s supporting arm, the sound of her quick step and her narrow heels on the stone pavement. She could hear a woman���s voice shouting into a loud hailer and she recognised what it was that was so different. It was the presence of so many women on these streets usually filled with men: idle or purposeful but always lordly; for the street was their domain and women and girls were tolerated as passers-by, not as occupants. She squeezed Babette���s arm and returned her smile. Up ahead was the Palais with its seven arched doors. Liliane looked out for television cameras. Her secret hope was that R��my might see her on the news. It was unlikely but she still hoped.

  Babette took her by the hand and led her through the crowd to the steps of the Palais, where most of the committee had gathered. The leader was a lawyer called Suzanne Vico, a woman in her thirties who had returned to the island after studying in France and America. She was clever and tough and shrill as a vixen. The men hated her.

  She was calling on them to break the immemorial silence, handmaiden of violence. Only the women, she believed, could do this.

  Someone was taking photographs beside her. It was the journalist, Angel Lopez. Liliane tried to move away, but he lowered his camera and smiled at her.

  ���She has nice imagery and the ideas are beautiful but she has a flaw: the big unspoken enemy.��� He paused, nodding encouragingly at them. ���If you break the silence, who do you talk to? The police, of course. But she can���t call on islanders to do that, can she?��� He waited good-naturedly for them to agree. ���The police. Come on,��� he said, with exaggerated incredulity. ���So what can she suggest? Taking the law into your own hands? A posse of vengeful women? That would be perpetuating the old codes. Am I right? Babette. You look very glamorous today,��� he said, nodding at her headscarf. ���Am I right?���

  ���I���m afraid I wasn���t listening.��� Babette gave him a coy smile and turned back to Suzanne Vico.

  ���I am surprised to see you here, Madame Santini. Glad, but surprised.���

  Liliane did not believe he was glad. As far as she knew, he had never once said anything in his paper to indicate that the violence wasn���t nourishment to him. But she kept silent.

  ���This movement, whatever its weaknesses, might just be the thing that saves this place,��� he said, raising his camera to his eye. He took several photographs of Suzanne Vico and then turned back to her. ���Will you march then?���

  Liliane nodded.

  ���Why now?���

  ���Don���t answer,��� Babette said, taking Liliane by the arm. ���Come on, they���re moving. Do you want to be a few rows back?���

  ���No, no. It���s all right,��� she said. ���We���ll walk in front.���

  ���You���re brave, madame,��� Lopez said.

  ���She���s just had enough,��� Babette said.

  Lopez followed them as they moved towards the foot of the steps where Suzanne Vico and the other committee members had gathered. Liliane felt his hand on her arm, gently but firmly restraining her. She turned and looked into his face.

  ���Please,��� she said.

  ���I just want to give you my card. In case you ever want to break the silence.���

  She looked down at the card in his hand, then took it and put it in the pocket of her skirt.

  ���They���ve gone too far this time. No?��� He looked sincere for a moment, then grinned with disconcerting suddenness. ���Good luck, Madame Santini.��� And he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Babette took her left arm. A young woman with a pink T-shirt, a black bra showing through and a swinging ponytail smiled at her and took her other arm. Through the eerie hollowness of the microphone, one woman���s voice called out a slogan and the crowd echoed with a deep, rich sound that rained down on them. Liliane was filled with an unfamiliar happiness as she stepped forward into the street.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Alice and Dan were playing a game of Pelmanism on the floor. While Alice gave in to waves of sleep, Dan concentrated hard on the game. One pair of shutters was open, just enough to let in a slab of light that heated the rug and revived locked-in smells. Dan had marvelled at the golden dust motes, disturbing them with his splayed hand. He was now frowning at the game, resting his truculent chin on his hand. He glanced up at her occasionally as if he mistrusted this new mood of hers. She smiled at him.

  ���Have you had enough?���

  He didn���t bo
ther to answer but went back to the game. He was on a roll, turning the matching pairs over, one by one ��� banana, cherries, bus, canary, grapes ��� putting them calmly and efficiently in a pile between his knees. Dan always finished. He did not have Sam���s rampaging boredom. He could put his mind to anything provided winning was involved. He cleared the floor and looked up at her triumphantly.

  ���Well done,��� she said.

  ���Is Sam coming back?���

  Behind his laughing eyes, his hard little chin, she could see his fragility. She reached out and took hold of his hand.

  ���Your brother���s coming back.���

  He swallowed, keeping his eyes on her, waiting for more.

  ���Mummy loves you very much, Dan. We���re going to get Sam back. But we have to be brave and patient. We���ll help each other. All right?���

  ���Why did they steal Sam?���

  She wondered what he had overheard.

  ���They want money,��� she said. ���They took Sam and said they���ll give him back when we give them the money.���

  ���Blackmail,��� said Dan. He knew the subject well.

  ���Yes.���

  ���Will they hurt him?���

  ���No.���

  ���Mummy?���

  ���Yes, darling.���

  ���I want Sam.��� His chin began to tremble.

  ���I know you do.��� She pulled him towards her and clutched him. ���Listen. Can you hear? They���ve put the sprinklers on. Let���s go outside.���

  She picked him up and they went out into the garden. The air was still hot but the afternoon had slipped; there was a sense that things had come unsewn in the heat, that Nature had let herself go. They stood on the stone step and watched three standing sprinklers, scattering rainbows. Alice put Dan down. He was barefoot and he jumped off the hot stone on to the damp lawn.