by Mark Dawson
They had given up completely in the end. A family was chosen who had promised to homeschool her, but that effort lasted a month before the impatient mother threw up her hands. Isabella taught herself to read, and when she finally persuaded the teachers that there was no profit in them trying to force her to cleave to their list of recommended reading, she won herself the opportunity to read whatever she liked. Books became her escape from the grim reality of her daily existence. She devoured Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, then Dickens and Hardy. Mark Twain transported her from the drabness of the English commuter towns through which she was shuttled. She tore through Austen. Asimov and Banks broadened her horizons. Dante and Joyce tested her.
Her mother had continued her education during the year that they spent together, and now that she was gone, Isabella had undertaken to complete it herself. There were the practical lessons in the use and maintenance of weapons, the physical improvement, the language classes that meant that she was fluent in Arabic and French, and passable in Italian, Spanish and several others.
She sat at the back of the classroom and thought about what she was going to do.
Chapter Forty-Three
Isabella enjoyed her dinner that night. The food was excellent. Her diet was basic in Marrakech – a succession of tagines and vegetable dishes – so the succulent fish she ordered was a pleasant change. Her table was joined by a boy who had issues with crippling shyness. The other girls made an effort to include him in the conversation, but the atmosphere was stilted. None of them were particularly comfortable in talking to the others, Isabella included, and although she knew that she should make more of an effort to fit in, she found it difficult to motivate herself. She had no intention of staying in the school any longer than she had to. As soon as she had met Pope’s objectives, she intended to return to her riad and the peace and quiet that she had come to realise was of great importance to her. In the end, the others came to the conclusion that she was disinterested, the conversation faltered even more and then continued round her.
She finished her meal, wished them a good night and went back to her room.
She spent half an hour in meditation, preparing herself for class tomorrow, until she was disturbed by loud music from the common area outside. She took a moment to tamp down her irritation, put herself back into character, opened the door and went outside.
Claudette, her friends and the other girls from the corridor were seated around the coffee table. One of the girls was playing music from her phone through a portable Bluetooth speaker. There were bottles of gin and vodka, a two-litre bottle of Diet Coke and a stack of plastic cups that had been taken from the water dispenser at the end of the corridor. The girls were dressed in party clothes and all made up.
Isabella was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, and felt plain in comparison. She forced a smile onto her face and aimed for a casual impression as she leaned against the wall. ‘What’s happening?’
No one answered.
‘Where are you going?’
Claudette made a show of rolling her eyes. ‘First week of term?’ she said, phrasing it inquisitorially.
‘So?’
‘So there’s a party in the boys’ common room.’
‘Can I—’
‘Can you what?’
‘Come with you?’
The girls laughed.
‘Not with us,’ Claudette said archly.
‘You know any of the boys?’ one of the other girls asked.
‘No,’ Isabella said. ‘Only got here yesterday. I don’t know anyone.’
‘I wouldn’t go if I didn’t know anyone,’ the girl said to the others. ‘You’ll just look like you’re desperate.’
Isabella felt the tension in her hands as she clenched her fists, her nails pressing into the soft flesh of her palms. She looked at Claudette, at her glossy face and lacquered hair, as pretty and fake as the hair on a child’s doll, and felt the heat of her testiness begin to rise. A hair-trigger temper was a trait that she had shared with her mother, and it had gotten worse after Beatrix’s death. Regular meditation had been helpful in keeping it under control, but there were limits. Her imagination played out how simple it would be to embarrass this girl in front of her friends, to flip her off the sofa and onto her back, to choke her out or mess up that pretty face, but she knew she couldn’t possibly do that. She would be expelled, and then how would she do what she had agreed to do?
No.
Isabella smiled at Claudette, said good night to the others, and went back to her room.
She opened the wardrobe and ran her finger across the clothes that had been purchased for her. Some of them were still wrapped in their plastic sheaths, the names of the brands emblazoned across them. She took a dress from the hanger and tore the plastic away from it. It was black, simple and stylish, and she had liked the way that she had looked in it when she had tried it on. Kelleher had said that it made her look good, too. It was more revealing than she was used to, a little too short and a little too low cut, but that would serve her purpose. She needed to make an impression.
She went into the bathroom, ran the shower and undressed.
She waited for two hours, until eleven, before she locked her room and went outside. It was cold as she walked across the courtyard that separated the boys’ accommodation block from the girls’ and she drew the woollen wrap around her shoulders, scant consolation against the chill breeze that was blowing in off the lake. She had a tight little nub of anxiety in her stomach, the sense that she was about to give a performance without having had the chance to rehearse. It was a good opportunity, too good to pass up, but she would have preferred to have had a chance to prepare herself.
Her feet crunched over the gravel. A night bird hooted high overhead. She could hear the muffled thud of bass, and it was louder as she opened the door. The sound was coming from above. The configuration of the block looked to be identical to her own, so she climbed the stairs and turned in the direction of the communal space.
The party had spread out from the communal space into the corridors that fed into it. All of the rooms were open, the doors flung wide. Little clutches of students were gathered in the corridor as she approached. Others were in the rooms. There was the strong, sweet smell of dope in the air, and plenty of the kids were drunk. One girl was laid out on the floor, a plastic cup tipped over and a sticky puddle spreading out from it. She stepped over and around them all, looking for Khalil. She guessed that he would be here. His reputation was as something of a playboy, and she would have been surprised if he had missed a chance to party.
She reached the communal space. A sound system had been set up and one of the boys was DJ-ing. The lights had been extinguished and blankets hung over the windows. Lava lamps had been set up, and they cast pools of warm light around the room.
She paused in the doorway and looked. She saw Claudette immediately. She was sitting with her back to the wall, a bottle of expensive vodka stood between her and the boy who was talking to her. She saw Isabella, her face crumpling into an angry frown. She said something to the boy, pushed herself onto unsteady legs and walked across the room to meet her.
‘What are you doing here?’ Claudette demanded.
‘I fancied a drink.’
‘I told you, you don’t know anyone.’ The words came haltingly, through the haze of drink, but the antipathy could not be mistaken. ‘You have to know someone. You’re not welcome.’
She put her hand on Isabella’s elbow and started to pull her towards the corridor. Isabella didn’t struggle. She didn’t want to make a scene. As they passed one of the open doorways, she glanced inside and saw that the bedroom beyond was empty. She planted her left foot, reached out with her left hand and clasped her fingers around Claudette’s wrist. She pressed her thumb and forefinger, penetrating between the bone and tendon, and was rewarded with a little gasp of pain. She used the moment to guide Claudette into the room, advancing with her and flicking the inner door shut with a
flick of her leg.
She bent the girl’s arm around behind her back and squeezed again.
‘You’re not very friendly,’ she said.
‘It . . . hurts . . .’
‘I don’t really care whether you like me or not. But if you ever try to tell me what I can and can’t do, we’re going to have a problem.’
‘Get . . . off . . .’
‘You know why I’m here? At this school?’
The girl grimaced as she shook her head.
‘Because I was expelled from my last one. Got in trouble with a bitch like you. We ended up fighting. It didn’t go too well for her. Hospital. I messed up her face. Do you understand me?’
‘Hurts . . .’
‘Do you understand me?’
‘Yes.’
She released her grip. Claudette drew her arm in, rubbing the back of her wrist with her spare hand.
‘Stay away from me,’ she said.
Chapter Forty-Four
Khalil was in the common space when Isabella emerged from the room. He was in a corner, passing around a joint with a group of two girls and another boy. Isabella dismissed thoughts of Claudette and made her way to the bottles of booze on the table. She watched Khalil in the corner of her eye. He saw her, smiled and disengaged himself from the group and came over to meet her at the table.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Daisy.’
‘You’re new, right?’
‘Yes. The new girl with no friends.’
‘I saw what happened at dinner last night. Don’t worry about Claudette. She’s a bitch. Her friends are, too.’
She saw Claudette emerge from the corridor, still rubbing her wrist. She saw that Isabella was talking to Khalil and glared at her. Isabella held her eye for a moment until Claudette looked away.
Khalil noticed the exchange. ‘You and she had an argument?’
‘We just set a few things straight. I don’t like bullies.’
‘Good for you,’ he said. He still had the joint in his hand. He put it to his lips and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment, tipped back his head and then exhaled toward the ceiling.
He offered it to her.
‘No, thanks.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I used to. Got into trouble. I try not to now.’
He gave a nod as if to say that he understood, carefully extinguished the joint and slid it behind his ear.
‘You know my name?’
‘You’re Khalil,’ she said with what she hoped would be a suitably flirtatious smile.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I asked.’
‘Is that right?’
She disguised her awkwardness by reaching down for a plastic cup.
‘Let me,’ Khalil said, unscrewing a bottle of Grey Goose and pouring out a very generous measure. She set out a second cup and he filled that, too, collected it and made a show of touching it against hers. ‘Santé.’
‘Cheers.’ She put the cup to her lips and drank. The vodka was sharp and acrid, and she had to fight the urge not to wince.
He noticed her discomfort. ‘You don’t drink either?’
‘Not for a while.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen,’ she lied. Her enrolment forms said that she was sixteen. She knew she looked older than fifteen. There was no reason why he would suspect unless she gave him reason. She cursed herself for the gaucheness with the drink and, to compensate, said, ‘Fuck it,’ and indicated that he should give her the joint.
He did. Isabella put it to her lips; he took a lighter and flicked flame. She puffed hard until the hashish and tobacco caught light, and then inhaled. The smoke tickled her throat, and she thought she was going to cough. She mastered it, taking instruction from his example, and exhaled. She felt woozy almost at once, and then a little nauseous. It made her feel vulnerable.
Khalil put a hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the table to a quiet corner of the room that had been scattered with pillows and cushions. He sat down, his back to the wall, and indicated that she should sit next to him.
‘What do you think of the school?’
‘Haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet.’
‘Where were you before?’
‘Collège Alpin Beau Soleil.’
‘In Villars-sur-Ollon?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Why did you leave?’
She thought of the lie she had told Claudette. She had to double down on it, just in case he spoke to her. ‘It wasn’t my choice.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘They threw you out?’
‘Something like that.’ She shrugged helplessly and then grinned at him. He laughed. She was pleased. She felt that she was doing well.
He pointed at her arm. ‘Nice tattoo.’
‘Thanks.’
He traced the tip of his finger down her arm, across the tattoo, and she let him. ‘Does it mean anything?’
It means I killed a man. It means I pressed a pistol against his chest and pulled the trigger.
‘Not really. Just something I liked the look of.’
He started to talk. She found small talk very difficult, so it was a relief that he was evidently so self-obsessed he could keep up the conversation by himself. She found it all so inconsequential. Khalil regaled her with stories about the things that he had done. She learned that he had just been bought a new BMW as a present for his forthcoming birthday. He told her that his father owned a house on the shore of Lake Geneva and that he was planning on buying a jet ski in the summer. He told her about a skiing trip he was planning for the winter, the nightclubs that he preferred in Paris and London, the places he liked to shop. How was she supposed to pretend to be interested in the pointlessness of his rich, cosseted life? He was vain and egotistical, but she realised that he was telling her all of this because he wanted to impress her.
She nodded and made the appropriate noises to show how she was impressed, and as he reached out and looped his arm over her shoulders, she did not demur. He leaned over to close the distance between them and moved to kiss her. His lips brushed against hers. She smelled alcohol and stale weed on his breath. She pulled away, smiling coyly.
‘What?’ he protested. ‘You don’t like me?’
‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Come on.’
‘We only met tonight.’
‘I thought that was what we were doing. Getting to know each other.’
His hand was still on her shoulder. She reached up and squeezed it. ‘We are.’
‘You have a boyfriend?’
‘No. But I don’t like rushing into things, that’s all.’
‘Fine.’ He took his arm away. Isabella could tell that she had hurt his feelings. She guessed that he was not used to anyone saying no to him, and unless she moved adroitly, she would spoil any chance of developing their relationship so that she could further her objectives.
He started to stand. Isabella put her hand on his shoulder and held it there. ‘Don’t be like that,’ she said.
‘You don’t like me,’ he said haughtily. ‘Fine. Plenty of other girls do. Claudette does.’
She followed his gaze across the room. Claudette was watching them with a look of displeasure on her glossy face.
‘I didn’t say that. I just said I prefer to move more slowly. And my parents are coming to see me tomorrow. Early. I wasn’t going to stay out as late as this tonight. I need to get to sleep.’ He sighed but he relaxed, sitting down again. She reached across and ran a finger down his cheek, feeling his downy hair. ‘You’ve got a birthday party soon, don’t you?’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘People are talking about it,’ she lied.
‘It’s Monday.’
Isabella touched his cheek again and gave him another coquettish smile. ‘I haven’t be
en invited yet.’
He turned, saw the way she was looking at him, and found his confidence again. ‘You’d come?’
‘It’s at the house on the lake, right? The others told me. They said it was spectacular.’
He grinned. ‘It’s pretty cool.’
‘I’d love to come.’
‘All right.’ He nodded. ‘It’s invitation only. Not everyone is going to be there. But I can get you one.’
She sensed that now was the time to go. She wanted to leave him with the impression that she was a challenge, more difficult than the simpering girls who fawned over him, but a challenge that would be worth the effort. She stood, finished her drink, and then stooped to kiss him on the lips. He arched his back to push his face at her, trying to press his tongue into her mouth, but she withdrew.
‘Give me an invitation,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll see.’
And then, knowing that his eyes were on her body, she walked out of the room and out of the building into the frigid cold of the night beyond.
Chapter Forty-Five
She had more lessons the following morning. She took a seat at the back of the room again and made a show of listening, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She had wondered whether she should report her progress to Snow and Kelleher, but she had decided against it. All she had done was make contact with the target. The meeting had been encouraging, but there was still a long way for her to go.
