by Wells, Nicky
PART FIVE:
COMING TOGETHER
Chapter Forty-Nine
I was working at the primary school on the Monday morning after the October holiday when I got the first inkling that my game would soon be up. All the primary-age children spent the morning sharing their holiday experiences, and little Mattes was very proud to have been to London. He confirmed that the weird language that I had been introducing them to was indeed what was being spoken “over there,” and he said he had even tried the odd phrase and it worked. The children were all delighted by this insight and broke out into excited chatter. The teacher smiled at me, and it was an amazing feeling to realize that I was making a difference to the learning of these gorgeous children.
My little cloud of inner peace and glory wasn’t meant to last for long, however. Mattes had brought with him a selection of newspapers for the other children to look and read, and we were all leafing through them together eagerly when I spotted the photo.
My throat closed up with anxiety and I felt dizzy, a clammy sweat springing up on my forehead. It couldn’t be. And yet—
I took hold of the entire paper and scanned the banner for the date. It was seven weeks old. My heart beat faster as I tried to work out the implications.
“Miss, are you okay, Miss?” one of the children asked me thoughtfully, and I realized that I had sat down on the floor rather abruptly right in the middle of the pile of papers.
“I’m fine,” I tried to smile, “thank you so much for your concern.” The child beamed at being thus praised and happily went back to her newspaper. I scanned the room for Mattes, only to discover he was right by me.
“Mattes,” I started, my voice coming out dry and raspy. “These are a great find. Just where exactly did you get them, did you say?”
Mattes broke into a proud smile. “The hotel where we stayded,” he said in German, and I absent-mindedly noted that he was using an incorrect form of the past tense. “The hotel where we stayded, the lady keeped all the papers in a big box for putting into recycled, and she let us take as much as we wanted. Totally for nothing.”
“That was very kind of her,” I confirmed, mystery of the provenance of this old newspaper solved. However, that still left the mystery of what had happened, and I was desperate to read the article.
“There’s something here that reminds me of home,” I said, addressing Mattes and the teacher at the same time. “Would it be okay if I took a quick photocopy now before it gets inadvertently destroyed?” The teacher nodded her assent, and Mattes nearly burst with pride at having brought in something so valuable to me.
I got to my feet and, on rather unsteady legs, left the assembly hall to use the photocopier. The paper was shaking in my hand as I was trying to make sense of the words.
There was a rather large picture of Dan and Rachel on the front page. Dan was in full profile but Rachel was caught side-on, as though she had turned away, yet there was no mistaking that it was her. Dan looked angry and Rachel looked dismayed. They appeared to be in a pub. I struggled to understand the caption.
Dan Hunter caught in a pub brawl with another man—over this mystery lady?
Man? What other man?
I gave up walking and sat on the nearest chair. I simply had to read the article or I would expire.
Rock Star in Bust Up, the headline screamed sensationally. I grimaced. Of course it would; this was a tabloid after all.
It was a quiet evening in the Thorny Rose pub in Clapham yesterday night until Dan Hunter, lead singer of legendary rock band Tuscq, provoked a fight with an unknown younger man. The two men were seated at a table with an unknown woman who appeared to be the object of their disagreement. When Mr. Hunter launched into the hands-on fight, plates and cutlery went flying and the young woman fled the scene. Mr. Hunter’s opponent suffered a broken nose but no police was called and the fight ended abruptly. Eye witnesses to this extraordinary incident report that the two men and the woman were later seen eating a meal together as though nothing had occurred. The fight appeared to center around the woman. Mr. Hunter’s agent stated that the event was staged to promote an upcoming video launch. Mr. Hunter himself refused to comment.
My first reaction was one of sheer professional horror at this extremely bad piece of journalism. Badly written, convoluted and uninformative, it was gossip journalism par excellence. No doubt the facts were jumbled, as well, as I could not for the life of me imagine Dan starting a fight, let alone breaking someone’s nose. He was much too controlled and much too aware of his public image to risk something like that. And a publicity stunt? I laughed. Certainly not. That was a red herring.
Nonetheless, there was photographic evidence that a fight had occurred. I looked more closely at the grainy picture, and even though it was a great shock to recognize Steve as the other man, it was all starting to make some weird sense.
Or was it?
I stared out of the window at the breezy sky, knowing in my heart of hearts that this would have marked the beginning of the end of my borrowed time. Evidently, there had been a meeting between Dan, Steve, and Rachel. How they got together, God only knew. Whether Dan and Rachel were still together I didn’t dare to speculate. Presumably, Steve had been angry with the two of them. I doubted very much, however, that he had been fighting Dan over Rachel; although if he had, I resolved to remain on this island for evermore.
Whatever happened that night between those three people, I was certain of one thing. They would have talked about me. They would have realized I had gone. And, knowing them all too well, they would have resolved to find me.
I had been gone from my London life for two months. The so-called pub-brawl between Dan and Steve had taken place on what would have been my very first Saturday night on the island. That had given them plenty of time to do some searching.
A rash of goosebumps spread over my whole body as I considered the ramifications of it all. Should I move on and run again? Or should I wait and let things come to me?
I was interrupted in my musings by the teacher, who had come in search of her missing assistant.
“Are you okay?” she asked with genuine concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I tried a feeble laugh. “I have, in a manner of speaking. I’m sorry, I got completely distracted. That was very unprofessional of me. I’ll quickly photocopy this and be right back.”
The teacher sat down next to me and put a steadying hand on my arm. “Your morning shift has almost finished anyway. Why don’t you make the photocopy and go home? We’ll see you again tomorrow, won’t we?”
I nodded gratefully, seizing on her offer like a drowning man grabs a life ring. “That would be good,” I said, “thank you. And yes, I’ll definitely be back in the morning.”
Having photocopied the incriminating article, I decided to visit Greetje instead of rushing home.
I found the tea shop closed with a note in the door saying “Bitte laut klopfen.” I knocked loudly, as instructed. Greetje appeared from behind the counter, quickly let me in, casting a suspicious look up and down the road, and locked up again. She bustled back to the kitchen, where she immersed herself elbow deep in some green vegetable that looked vaguely familiar.
“Are you closed?” I wondered, bemused.
“Not really, but the lunch crowd isn’t due yet and everyone else can knock. I’m busy. Today it’s Grünkohl mit Pinkel for dinner,” she explained, seeing my incredulous face at the sight of her pile of green stuff. “It’s a regional delicacy, you must come and try it.”
“Okay,” I laughed, “I will. What, exactly, is it?”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Greetje teased me. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be in school? Did they let you out early today?”
I nodded and waved my photocopied piece of newspaper about. “They did; that’s why I came. I needed to talk…”
Greetje continued chopping her vegetables with unbroken vigor. “Talk away, as long as you don’t mind if I ge
t on. I need to get this prepped because I can’t do it this afternoon and it takes a good couple of hours to cook.” She motioned for me to sit down at the table, never once taking her eyes off her work.
I sat down and cleared my throat. “Remember I told you about Dan and Steve and Rachel?” Greetje nodded, so I continued. “Well, it appears that they met up a while back in London, all three of them, and had a bit of a bust-up.”
“A bust-up?”
“A bust-up…you know, a fight. With fists. Fäuste.” I tried to clarify, waving my fists about.
“Oh, okay. I see. What about?” Greetje was listening intently.
“I’m not sure, the article doesn’t really say. And it doesn’t actually matter. What matters is…”
Greetje spun round, pointing at me with her knife and startling me immensely. “They probably talked about you,” she cried.
I simply nodded. What else could I say?
“Ach Du je,” Greetje exclaimed and sat down with me, still clutching her knife in one hand and taking the paper from me with the other. “This is serious, huh?” She scanned the article and took a good look at the picture.
“He’s handsome, your Dan,” she pronounced.
I smiled sadly. “He’s not my Dan anymore. And anyway, what about your Grunkohl?”
“Grünkohl,” Greetje automatically corrected my poor pronunciation of the umlaut. “It’ll have to wait a couple of minutes.” She returned her attention to the article. “When was this written?”
“Seven weeks ago.”
“So. That means they’ve had quite a bit of time to get organized, right? And it didn’t take them long to notice you’d gone missing. That must make you feel better, not?”
I grinned. “It does, but there’s a lot of supposition in there. We don’t even know what this is all about.”
“Yes, but it stands to reason that it’s connected to you. There are three people here who would not normally meet, right?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” I conceded, pouncing on my own choice of words. “See—I told you it’s full of supposition.”
“Rubbish, leave me alone with your supposings. Hm.” She looked pensive, as though she was withholding something.
“Greetje,” I prodded her on the arm. “What is it? What are you not telling?”
Instead of responding, she waggled her head from side to side as if weighing things in her mind.
“Greetje!” I insisted. “What is it?”
She very cautiously got up and placed her sharp chopping knife on a board by the sink. She washed her hands and dried them meticulously at one of her ubiquitous white-and-blue checked cloths. Finally, having run out of displacement activities, she sat down again.
“I was going to tell you a little later but…maybe now is a good time.”
“Tell me what?” I prompted.
Greetje rubbed her face with her hands, clearly unsettled by something. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“It may be nothing, but this morning in the tea shop, a man was asking questions about you. In English.”
Talk about dropping a bombshell. My ears started burning and I had that weird hard feeling in my tummy that I got when I heard bad news.
“Are you sure?” was all I could manage in response.
Greetje nodded her head. “Sure. He was quite specific, and he even had your photo.”
My photo? I gasped, aghast. “Oh my God. Who was he?”
Greetje picked up the article again and examined the photograph carefully. “Well, he wasn’t Dan or Steve, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then who?” I prompted.
Greetje shrugged. “Maybe they engaged a private detective.”
A private detective? This was getting worse and worse.
Greetje saw the shock and confusion on my face and decided to offer a positive outlook. “They must have hit rock bottom when they couldn’t find you, and they must have really wanted to find you. Right?”
I stared at her blankly. I supposed that was one way of looking at it.
“I didn’t tell him anything, of course, and he won’t have gotten anything from anyone else. He didn’t speak any German. Talk about a lousy choice of private investigator. And it’s a good job the cottage is so far out, huh?” Greetje was rather pleased with herself for managing things so well on my behalf.
“What did you say?” I needed to know.
“Well, he was asking questions of my customers, who were very uncomfortable with being thus assaulted, I can tell you.” Greetje gave me her best officious voice. “So naturally I asked him to leave. He thrust your picture in my face and asked me if I had seen you. Well, you know I’m totally far-sighted so of course I couldn’t see anything on the photo at all, and I said no, I hadn’t.”
“And then?”
“And then he left before I could throw him out.”
“And then?”
Greetje smiled a big beaming smile. “Well, Klaus was there while this was happening. So he declared, to no one in particular, that there was no Sophie on the island, and no one fitting your description. And of course the other folks nodded, and left in great haste.” She patted my hand reassuringly. “It’ll have been all over the island within minutes. You’re safe.” Her telephone rang in the shop, and she jumped to answer it. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but it didn’t last long, and she looked very happy indeed when she came back.
“That was Folke from the ferry. Mystery man has given up and is on the way back to Bensersiel.”
Even though I had had several weeks of getting used to the island’s unbelievable communication network, my mouth hung open in surprise. “How on earth did Folke know that you would want to know when this particular chap was leaving?”
Greetje merely grinned. “Folke was in the shop this morning,” she stated simply. “I think you are safe, for now. We haven’t given you away.”
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “I’m sure you haven’t, thank you. But anyway, I think I need to go home and have a quiet think. It’s all a bit much to take in.”
“You do that,” Greetje agreed, “and don’t forget, dinner is at six.”
“At six,” I repeated.
Chapter Fifty
My mind was reeling as I walked home to the cottage. So they were looking for me. Did I want to be found? I supposed the answer was yes; otherwise I would have to run again.
So was this whole time-out-adventure merely a big test, to see if my friends wanted me back and wanted to make up? I sat down on a bench overlooking the dunes to mull this over.
No, I concluded. My time out had been about more than that. My time out had been about me, not them. Ultimately, I had always planned to go back some time before Christmas. Certainly in the New Year.
“But if I allowed for the possibility that they might find me…” I talked to myself, “then surely there’s no need to run now.” And all of a sudden, I knew what I had to do.
I raced back to the cottage, collected my bike, and cycled into town to do some shopping. I bought party food—sausages, crisps, smoked salmon, cream cheese. I stocked up on fresh pizza and fresh fish. I bought wine and champagne. Anna at the checkout looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Are you expecting company?” she asked, ever curious.
“I am, Anna, I am,” I shot back happily, but refused to engage in further conversation. I piled my goodies high in the basket of my bike and pedaled home excitedly.
When I returned to the cottage for the second time, I stopped dead in my tracks, skidding the bike on the gravelly path. The light in the kitchen was on. In fact, it had been on when I had come to take the bike, but I been too distracted to pay much attention to this weird fact.
However, I was absolutely certain that I hadn’t left it on this morning.
So.
It was extremely unlikely that I had been burgled. The crime rate on this lovely island was practically nil, and everybody knew that I hadn’t brought much
worth stealing anyway. There had only been one reported odd stranger lately, and while he had been snooping, I doubted he would have been stealing. But he had certainly paid me a visit.
My heart pounded anxiously in my chest as I contemplated my options. I parked the bike by the fence and did a slow walk around the cottage. All the windows and doors were shut and locked. There was no sign of forced entry.
I cupped my face with my hands and pressed it against the lounge window—nobody there. Same with the kitchen.
Was I brave enough to go inside? I decided to have a try. I unloaded the bike, piling the shopping neatly by the front door, and leaned the bike against the front fence, pointing outwards and ready to go for a quick escape, should I need one.
Thus prepared, I gingerly unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “Hello!” I shouted. “If you’re in there, I’m back. I’m going to call the police.”
Nothing.
I entered, feeling unbelievably stupid, and did a quick tour of the downstairs. I just about managed to resist the urge to peek around doorjambs with my finger-gun loaded and aiming at any prospective intruders. Nonetheless, a long diet of watching crime dramas on the telly prompted me to shout, “downstairs clear, going up.”
I tiptoed upstairs, trying to hear whether there were any suspicious sounds.
Nothing.
Five minutes later, I was back downstairs, confident now that I was alone. I barricaded myself in, locking all windows and the front door just in case, even though I was certain that it had been Mr. Private Detective who had performed a totally unlawful breaking and entering on my rented property.
