by Rob Aspinall
“I don’t know what they feed you in England,” Magda said, “but it’s not enough.”
She spooned out some more stew for Philippe. “Too many skinny girls now. Obsessed with their weight. I remember when curves were desirable. It’s healthy to have a bit of meat on you, no? I’m speaking to you, Philippe, also. We need to fatten you up. Put some man on those bones.”
Yeah, cos Captain Buff was looking really gaunt.
“You should come and see Magda more often,” she said to Philippe. “It’s been almost a year.”
“Work,” Philippe said. “Been taking me all over the place the past few months.”
“Remind me, Uncle Philippe,” I said, “what do you do again?”
“I’m a nuclear energy consultant, Jess. I’ve told you hundreds of times.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, mopping up gravy with a chunk of bread. “I knew that. I always forget.”
“You’re getting too old for this travelling,” Magda said, clearing away the dishes. “Get a woman. Settle down. Have babies.”
Philippe rolled his eyes.
“How long have you known Uncle Philippe?” I asked Magda, handing her my half-empty plate.
“Hmm, how long is it now, Philippe?”
“Twelve years,” Philippe said. “Maybe thirteen.”
“No. Fourteen. Remember? You had money early. You came here when this place was a holiday rental. You and the blonde girl.”
“Ah yes,” he said, almost wistfully.
“You fell in love with the place,” Magda said.
“I fell in love with your cooking. That’s why I bought it.”
Magda slipped on a pair of oven gloves. “Whatever happened to that blonde girl? The smart one with the long legs. What’s she doing now?”
“Working in Mumbai, last I heard.”
Were they talking about Inge? I had a hunch. Call it female intuition.
“You made a nice couple,” Magda said. “Maybe you should call her. You never know, she may be single.”
Philippe turned to me. “You’ll have to forgive Magda. She’s forever trying to set me up.”
“It’s just a waste, that’s all. A nice, well-mannered gentleman like you …”
I spat out a mouthful of chicken stew. Nice? Well-mannered? Gentleman? Yeah, right. Just wait until he hangs you from a hook.
Magda lifted a tray out of the oven and levered a large strudel on to a plate, which she placed in the middle of the table. It smelled fit. Cinnamon and apple. Still bubbling.
“Now,” she said, “who’s for dessert?”
“I want to stay here forever,” I said.
Magda laughed. “My cooking is working on you too.”
Philippe rapped his chest with a fist, holding down a burp. “Jess wants to stay every new place she comes to.”
“Of course,” said Magda, handing Philippe a cake knife. “She’s young. She’s discovering the world. Not like us two, who’ve seen it all.”
“Since when have you been a traveller?” Philippe asked, slicing the strudel up into pieces.
Magda hesitated for a split second, as if thinking, remembering. Philippe watched her, waiting for an answer.
“With my husband. Years ago now. He worked in the army. Took us half way around the world.”
“You never mentioned it,” Philippe said, dealing out the strudel.
“You never asked,” Magda said. “And, anyway, most of the time I was on one army base or another, gossiping with the other wives. There’s not much to say about it.”
Magda opened the freezer and pulled out a fat white tub. “Ice cream?”
Philippe didn’t need asking twice. I didn’t have any room left, but for dessert I could always make an exception. The ice cream was super-creamy and the strudel tasted even fitter than the apple pies in McDonald’s.
“Look at you two,” said Magda. “It’s incredible. You do exactly the same thing when you eat your ice cream. First, you stir it around your bowl. Then you put the entire spoon in your mouth and pull it out slowly, like this …”
Magda demonstrated. I realised I’d been subconsciously mirroring Philippe. Ugh. Was no part of me authentic anymore? I’d always felt like an imposter in my own life, but this was ridiculous.
“It must run in the family,” said Philippe.
“Yeah,” I said. “Guess we share some of the same DNA.”
“What are your mum and dad like, Jess? Philippe’s told me almost nothing about you all.”
“Well, um, there’s not much to tell.” I thought about my mum and dad, when we were a family. “My mum is blonde. People say I look like her.”
This felt good. I got to pretend like they were still walking and talking. Like I was part of a real family. “Mum works in a nail salon. Dad …” I was going to say factory, but I had no idea what kind of horse shit Philippe had fed Magda.
“Michel works in finance,” Philippe said.
“Yes. He’s got a big office,” I said. Finance. That sounded good. “There’s me and …”
“Zack,” Philippe chipped in.
“Yeah, me and Zack. And at weekends we all get together. We watch a film on Saturday night – almost always Dad’s choice, almost always some awful action – and we share a couple of big pizzas. We’ve got a black Labrador called Ronnie. Zack and me feed him the pepperoni bits when no one’s looking. Then on Sunday, we’ll often drive out into the country and let Ronnie off the leash so he can chase after squirrels and go swimming in the water. Then we come home and Mum cooks a big Sunday roast … I have an auntie too. My mum’s sister. I go round to hers a couple of times a week and she makes me cheese toasties.”
“How wonderful,” Magda said. “It sounds like a dream.”
“It is,” I said, wearing a counterfeit, yet real-feeling smile, welling up a little, high on my own bullshit.
“And what about love?” Magda asked. “I bet there’s someone special.”
“Well, um, yeah, I guess.” I blushed a lot more than a little.
“Dark and tall, I bet,” Magda said.
“Tallish. Long legs. Lovely soft hair. Green eyes. Olive skin.”
“He sounds very handsome.”
“Extremely. And confident too. Funny. And a great kisser,” I said. I was about to say a much better kisser than Ben Fielding Orange, until I stopped myself. Magda seemed enthralled, perhaps reliving a love of her own, when her heart ached and sang and ached and sang, like mine did whenever I thought of you know who. I went on with the fairy tale, partly to give Magda a little sugar in her tea. Partly because it was fun to imagine.
“The two of us are madly in love actually,” I said. “We haven’t … Beck and I have been taking it slow. But when I get back … A romantic dinner with candles. Then maybe …”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Philippe said. “Spare us the gory details.”
“It’s 2015, granddad,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”
“Because you’re my niece. My brother’s kid. I don’t want to hear about you and …”
“Beck,” Magda said.
“Beck … whatever it is you children get up to.”
“Children? I’m seventeen soon. Beck will be eighteen—”
“Of course, sorry,” Philippe said snarkily. “You’re a woman of the world.”
Magda stood out of her chair, laughing. She reached over to a wine rack where there was a new bottle in town. One she’d brought over from the farmhouse. A bottle of Scotch.
She plonked it down on the table in front of us. “Here we go, Philippe. Something to help you sleep.”
16
Zum Wohl
The Scotch on the table looked expensive. I checked out the label. A quality single malt, something told me.
“Ooh, yummy,” I said.
“You like this?” Magda asked.
“Like it? I love it.”
“Is she allowed?” Magda asked Philippe.
He nodded in reply. “One or two won’t kill her.�
��
Magda grabbed a couple of tumblers from a cupboard and set them down. Philippe opened the bottle and took a sniff.
“Wow,” he said, pouring out a pair of doubles. “We need another glass, Magda.”
“Oh no, I brought over a nice red. I need to finish it.”
She took a metal stopper out of a wine bottle and poured herself a large glass. Philippe slid a tumbler over to me. I held my nose over the rim. Good shit. Seriously good shit.
Magda held up her glass. “Zum Wohl,” she said. German for Cheers.
“Zum Wohl,” the three of us said, reaching around the table to clink glasses.
Magda watched the pair of us over her glass as she took a sip. Philippe stopped short of drinking as he watched Magda. I was about to take a slug when Philippe reached out a long arm and put a hand on my tumbler, not for one second taking his eyes off Magda.
“Don’t drink that, Lorna,” he said, forcing my glass down onto the table.
“Lorna? Who’s Lorna? Don’t you mean Jess?” I said, laughing nervously.
Philippe put down his glass. Magda put down hers.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Come on, drink!”
I looked at Philippe, wondering what the hell the problem was. Without a hint of warning, he launched out of his chair and punched Magda in the face. So hard and loud and fast it made me shudder. Magda fell away from the table onto the floor.
“Philippe! What the fuck?” I screamed.
Philippe was moving around the table. I bolted over to Magda, dropped to my knees and held on to her. She clutched her face, shaking, her cheek glowing like a red-hot poker. She couldn’t even speak she was so shocked by the punch.
“What are you doing? Leave her alone,” I said, warning off Philippe.
“Get away from her, Lorna,” Philippe said, looming over me.
I stood up, blocking his path. “I said leave her alone.”
His fists clenched by his sides. His voice lowered. “Lorna, get away from her.”
Magda struggled to her feet behind me. I wanted to help her, but didn’t want to take my eyes off Philippe.
“Lorna …” Philippe said.
I was about to warn him off again when I heard the shing of metal against the kitchen table and felt the sharp edge of the cake knife against my throat. Magda pulled me back by the hair for good measure, a fistful grabbed close to the scalp. She angled the knife upwards so the tip of the blade rested under my chin.
“Magda, what are you doing?” I asked, still not quite believing what was happening. She ignored me and spoke to Philippe instead. “Back off, or I kill your little friend.”
“Magda,” I said.
“Quiet,” she said, backing us up against the fridge.
Philippe’s hands released out of fists. He held them up to placate Magda. “Let the girl go. She’s not part of this.”
“She is this,” Magda said. “She’s as important to us as you are.”
Magda was JPAC? Fuck, Giles was right. My inner voice was right. No one was safe and you couldn’t trust anyone. I mean, anyone.
There didn’t seem any way out of this. One move from me and my head became a kebab. One move from Philippe and the same deal. But the stand-off couldn’t last forever. And there was zero chance of Philippe letting Magda go. Maybe I could talk her down, I thought.
“Listen, Magda.”
“Shut your mouth. Or I’ll make bacon out of you like a pig.”
The sudden change in character threw me. The words coming out of her sounded ugly and foreign. It was like seeing your grandma get possessed by the devil.
“So,” I said to Philippe, “any ideas?”
“Yes, keep still,” he said.
“Oh, thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Philippe’s hand had been moving towards the bread knife on the table. So slowly and imperceptibly I hadn’t noticed until it was a fingertip away.
“Ah-ah,” said Magda, causing Philippe’s hand to retreat.
“So what was the plan?” Philippe asked. “Keep us here? Soften us up?”
“Then you drink a little Scotch,” Magda said. “And goodnight.”
“Well, your evil plan failed,” I said. “Might as well let us go now. There’s no way you can take us both out.”
“Oh yes?” Magda said, releasing the grip on my hair, but keeping the tip of the knife dug into the soft, springy flesh under my chin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her zip open a pocket on her gilet. She brought out a micro gun. A tiny silver thing she held over my left shoulder.
“You’ll find there’s a lot I can do,” Magda said, training the gun on Philippe. “I want you to know,” she said to him, “this doesn’t give me any pleasure.”
“Neither does this,” Philippe said. “Sorry, Lorna.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
17
Facepalm
Pain hit me from front and rear. A bruising, stinging pain to the forehead. A blunt, heavy pain to the back of the head. The knife fell away from my chin and a bullet from Magda’s gun took a chunk out of the thick oak door of the barn.
It took me a moment to realise what had happened.
Philippe had flat-palmed me hard in the forehead, knocking my chin up and away from the knife and the back of my skull into Magda’s crinkly mush. Reacting, I worked the knife out of the old bitch’s clutches as Philippe moved in and wrestled the fun-size gun out of her grip. Magda’s nose was cut, possibly broken. It bled over her lips, teeth and chin, dripping to the floor. She tried to fight back. A few skilful self-defence moves, but Philippe had her in a sleeper hold within a couple of seconds. And seconds after that, she was in the land of nod.
I held both ends of my head. “Ow, that really hurt. There’s facepalming and then there’s facepalming.”
“Would you rather have died?” Philippe asked, hoisting Magda’s dead weight over his shoulders.
“What are you going to do with her?” I asked.
He blanked me and walked off with her up the stairs, taking a wooden dining chair with him on the way. I hurried after him. He got to my temporary bedroom, slammed the door shut in my face and locked it from the inside.
“Hey! What are you going to do?”
I hated being left out. It reminded me of all those days on the ward, missing out on parties and sleepovers. I waited outside, sitting up against the wall, rubbing my forehead and cursing the latest twist. I thought we’d finally found somewhere nice and safe. Met someone nice and trustworthy. Now, this. I lost track of time, sitting in the dim light of the hallway, flinching to every one of Magda’s unearthly screams. It made me want to puke chicken chunks. But after a while, the door to the spare room opened. Philippe marched out and into the bathroom. I heard him taking a piss, urine jetting into the toilet water. I ducked into the room and stood against the wall next to the door. Magda was bound to the dining chair with gold rope curtain ties from the room. The fold-out bed was folded in. And Magda’s face …
The toilet flushed, but Philippe didn’t return. Magda lifted her head. She had a hole in her left cheek. A black hole. There was a rollerball pen on the floor. Gunged in blood. Had he been gouging her face out with a fucking biro? Jesus.
“Lorna,” Magda said, swallowing hard, struggling to get the words out. “It’s not too late for you. I can get you out. Just untie me at the back here.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I know it’s not your fault. You don’t belong in our world.”
Well, she was right about that.
“You can take my car. The keys …” She coughed up a lump of bloody goo. “The keys are in the farmhouse. I can get them for you.”
I thought about it for a moment. I still didn’t have my all-important credit card, but I did have my passport.
“My handbag is there too,” she said. “Full of cash and cards. Just untie me and they’re yours.”
I leaned back against the exposed brickwork, the sole of one foot up against th
e wall. Unmoved. But in my head, starting to bend.
“Look at me,” she said, head struggling to stay upright, beaten to a pulp. Frail and old. Her khaki horse pants soaked in her own blood. “What can I do to you?” she said.
I pushed off the wall and approached slowly.
“I only want him now,” Magda said. “After all the lives he’s taken. He deserves it. You owe … him … nothing.”
Magda was really struggling now. Maybe I could untie her. What was she going to do? It’s not like she had any strength left. Or any more weapons on her. Philippe would have searched her for sure.
I approached, closer.
“Yes, dear, that’s it,” Magda smiled.
I moved around the back of her, where her hands were tied. Undoing the ropes would be easy.
“He did make me go into a house full of cleaners. Alone. Unarmed. Risking my life. For an eyeball.”
“Yes, yes. That’s what he’s like. He’s just as bad as me. Worse. And it won’t be the last time he makes you do something terrible, trust me, child. Type A’s. They use you, then when you’re no longer useful …”
She was making a pretty good case. Philippe was what he was. He’d only brought me here because he didn’t want me dropping a clanger and exposing the fact that he was still alive. And I got the impression I was only breathing because I had my uses. The events in Sweden had told me that. I don’t know why he’d saved me in the barn. He wouldn’t say. But everything on the JPAC menu seemed to come with a side order of hidden agenda.
“How much money have you got?” I asked.
“Thirty thousand euros. Maybe more. It’s hard to think. I’m in so much pain. Look what he did to me. Imagine what he’ll do to you.”
“In that case there’s only one thing for it,” I said, taking the curtain ties in my hands.
Magda craned her neck around and smiled. “You’re a good soul. You’re doing the right thing.”
She knew she had me.
She thought she had me.
“Nice try, Cruella,” I said, pulling the ties tighter. “You know, a week ago, I would have bought all that bullshit.” I circled in front of her. “Maybe Philippe is lying to me. Maybe he’s gonna leave me in a ditch somewhere once he’s done. But he’s the only one who hasn’t held a knife to my throat or a gun to my head yet, so I guess I’ll just have to trust him for now. Even if he is a murdering scumbag … who’s standing right behind me as I speak.”
