The Rift

by Nina Allan

  Selena pushed her hair back from her face, let it fall forward again. “All of it’s true. Or none of it is. I honestly don’t know any more.” She sketched in the basics, beginning with Julie’s first phone call and ending with Julie showing her the pendant. “She says it was given to her by this woman on the alien planet who took her in – Cally. It sounds mad, doesn’t it? Now you can see why I had second thoughts about telling you. The thing is, if you met Julie on the street you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong with her. I know it sounds crazy,” she said, “but in some ways she hasn’t changed at all. She’s always been like this. Things were different with Dad – he really was very ill for a while. But Julie’s still just Julie.”

  “It’s as if this is what she was looking for all along,” Vanja said, more to herself than to Selena.

  “That’s it – exactly. It’s as if she’s trying to put the world to the test in some way, seeing how far she can push things.” She paused. “I suppose I’ve been thinking that if I can find proof – actual evidence – that the things she’s been telling me aren’t real – that they could never be real – that it might help her to start getting better. To come to terms with what really happened, I mean. That’s why I want Nadine to examine the pendant. It’s the only material evidence we have.”

  “Material evidence? You sound like a cop show.”

  “That’s Dad’s fault. He loved cop shows. You’d have thought they’d be the last thing he’d want to watch but he was addicted to them.” She smiled. “I wish he were here now. I haven’t a clue what he’d make of all this but I know he’d have a theory.”

  Vanja made a face, then crossed the shop floor to let down the shutters. “You are talking about trying to help your sister by proving her story isn’t true. But what if it is true? Have you thought about that?”

  “Oh God, Van. Don’t you start.”

  “I’m serious. At the least, you shouldn’t dismiss the possibility. The universe is weird shit. We’re like ants. We don’t know a thing.”

  “And don’t I know it. I had enough of that from Dad.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “You’re the only person on the planet I could have had this conversation with, do you realise that?”

  “What about Johnny?”

  “Johnny would be hopeless. He’d believe the whole thing, just because he wanted it to be true. I haven’t even told him Julie’s back.”

  “He called you, then?”

  “He did, actually.”

  Vanja grinned, and Selena could almost imagine she saw the flash of her hypothetical diamond tooth stud.

  “Don’t get started on that, either.” She did her best to sound irritated, although in fact she was feeling more relaxed than she had in days. Vanja had a way of making even the most insurmountable problem seem less than it was. It was a gift she had.

  5

  [From Nadine Akoujan’s diary]

  When Vanja telephones to ask me if I’ll meet the woman face to face, if I’ll let her deliver the pendant by hand, I say yes because it is Vanja who’s asking, even though I wouldn’t agree to something like that normally. I’d be nervous of letting a stranger into my home. But Vanja is my friend, and she says the woman won’t trust a courier company, not even one of the guaranteed ones like FedEx.

  You don’t mean she’s coming all the way from Manchester? I ask, and Vanja says yes, that’s right, she’s travelling by train. She should be with you by about three o’clock. All right, then, I say. Tell her I’ll be here.

  I put down the phone and look out of the window at the van arriving to deliver groceries to the mini market opposite and think about the woman from Manchester who is going to be on my doorstep in a few hours’ time. I realise I am interested at the thought of meeting her. I do not often get to see the owners of the objects I am paid to put a price on. A price, or in this case an origin, a provenance, a derivation. Usually objects come to me in packages, by courier, from men. Almost always it is the men who organise the sending, even when the owner of the object is a woman. I wonder if this is because men still cannot bring themselves to trust women to look after their own interests, or whether it is simply that men are more obsessed with how much things cost.

  There are times when I feel glad that Saira only gets to see her father every six weeks or so.

  I know such feelings are unfair to Danny, who is a good man, most of the time anyway, but so what? I am not going to tell him I am glad he is so often away, or say things to Saira that might turn her against him, so it doesn’t matter. These are just my own feelings, which I am entitled to. I don’t have to excuse them. I feel that my daughter will not be harmed by the idea that women are complete beings, complete in themselves, that we will not collapse or die on account of not having a man stuffing his face at our table every night of the week.

  Men sending packages and telephoning their questions, their concerns and their demands. So much manly noise. I realise I am eager to hear what this woman, this Julie Rouane, has to say for herself, why she feels it is important to bring the package herself. Why she will not trust a man to bring it for her.

  I collect Saira from nursery just before one. She has a picture for me, a crayon and chalk drawing on white construction paper, a tottering, lopsided building sparkling with turrets and pointed windows and lacy balustrades. When I ask Saira what it’s supposed to be, she tells me it’s the castle of Boudicca, the English warrior queen who fought off the Romans. Gwen told us a story about Queen Boudicca, and then we drew pictures, she says. Gwen is Saira’s nursery tutor. I smile and hug her and tell her the picture is beautiful, which it is, though it looks more like a palace from The Arabian Nights than an English castle. We walk back across the park, which is muddy from rain, and when we arrive home I prepare lunch for us, some refried couscous with the remains of the aubergine ratatouille we ate for supper the evening before. Saira seems quieter than usual, absorbed in her own thoughts. I hope there is nothing going on at nursery, although I know it is more likely that Saira’s introspection is a reaction to my own inner preoccupation with the woman who is coming, who should be arriving now in less than two hours. Saira picks up on my moods so quickly. It is something I have noticed, something I need to be careful of. Our two lives are so intertwined, it is easy for me to forget she is not yet five years old.

  We have a visitor coming, I say to her. I am standing at the sink with my back to her, washing the dishes.

  What kind of a visitor? she asks.

  Just a lady. She’s to do with Mummy’s work, OK?

  OK, Saira says. She seems immediately more relaxed, less pensive. I fetch her some drawing paper, and the tin box of Daler-Rowney coloured pencils that Danny brought for her last time he was here. He does love his daughter, I know that. Within the next year or two they will be exchanging emails, and there will be no more secure exclusion zone between him and her. Perhaps this is for the best, after all. It could be that I have already transferred too much caution, too much prejudice around the subject of her father, matters that are my concern, not hers.

  It is only now that I am in her position that I have begun to realise how terrified my mother was of losing me.

  You can draw me another castle, if you like, I say to Saira. She gazes at me thoughtfully, her lips pursed. The castle might have a dragon in it, she says. Would that be all right?

  Of course, sweetheart. I ruffle her hair, which is black and springy, just like Danny’s. I love the feel of it under my hand and maybe a tiny part of that love is still love for Danny. Whatever went wrong between us, at least, thank God, there is Saira. I leave her to get on with her drawing and begin tidying up the living room. There are papers spread out over the coffee table, documentation from the last couple of jobs I picked up from Didier, sensitive information, if you know what you’re looking for. I cannot imagine that Julie Rouane is an expert on the Amsterdam diamond market, but I tidy the papers away anyway, because you cannot be too careful. A mistake would do d
amage to my reputation and in the business I am in, reputation is everything.

  I am paid to be invisible, a disagreeable necessity. I cannot afford to become visible suddenly. No one needs that.

  Julie Rouane arrives at fourteen minutes past three. She is wearing a khaki-coloured parka over a shapeless woollen dress and Dunlop trainers. She has shoulder-length dark hair, a long face and a pale complexion. She seems nervous. I wonder what Vanja has said to her about me.

  I am going to make some tea, I say to her. Or would you prefer coffee?

  Tea would be lovely. Thank you, she says. She has a northern accent, like Danny’s friend Ramez. She seems to add the thank you as an afterthought, as if her real thoughts are elsewhere. I show her through to the sitting room. As we pass through the kitchen she stops still, looking across to where Saira is seated at the table, intent on her drawing.

  Saira looks up. Are you the lady? she says. She stares at Julie Rouane with concentration, as if she is trying to work out why she might be different from any of the other ladies she knows.

  I don’t know about that, says Julie Rouane. I’m Julie.

  Saira grins and then looks away, overwhelmed by shyness.

  Julie Rouane hesitates, and for a moment I am convinced she is going to ask Saira if she can look at her drawing. Then she smiles in a distant way, and it is as if she has forgotten Saira is even there. I ask her to excuse me while I put on the kettle. Make yourself comfortable, I say. I see to the tea as quickly as I can. When I return to the sitting room I find Julie seated on the sofa, flicking through Saira’s copy of Watership Down. The book is too old for her really, but she kept on that she wanted it and so I bought it for her. I don’t know how she came to hear about it – children are so mysterious.

  This edition has beautiful illustrations, at any rate, which Saira seems never to tire of looking at.

  This book scared me to bits when I was a kid, Julie says. I think it was because of the film, mostly. That bit where they destroy the warren. She drops her voice when she says destroy, as if she’s afraid Saira might overhear her, and be frightened.

  I’ve never seen the film, I say. I don’t feel like telling her that I’ve not read the book either, or not all the way through. I had no idea it was so violent. I wonder briefly about confiscating it, then decide that Saira would probably be more upset by that than by the book itself.

  My father always used to say that books are their own censors, that a child will only understand when they are ready to. Anything else will pass them by, just a jumble of words.

  I remember myself at twelve, clamouring for Dracula as if I would die without it, my disappointment and embarrassment when I discovered I could barely understand beyond the first page.

  Then reading it again at seventeen and finding out it was magic.

  Do you have children? I say to Julie. She shakes her head abruptly, as if she is trying to free herself of a fly that has become entangled in her hair. Is there pain in her denial, or simply annoyance that I dared to ask? I cannot tell. She adds sugar to her tea and stirs it around.

  What has she told you? Julie says then. I am guessing she means Vanja.

  She tells me you have an unusual piece of jewellery and that you would like me to examine it, I say. I feel it is best to be circumspect. It is Vanja who is paying me for my services, after all, not Julie Rouane. It could be that Julie is here unwillingly. And it is true that Vanja really did not tell me anything. I don’t want to complicate matters, for any of us.

  Julie laughs, without the smallest sign of being amused. She is a friend of yours, isn’t she? My sister said. Did she forget to tell you I was mad?

  Her directness surprises me. There is real anger in her voice, but I cannot yet tell where it is coming from, who it is directed against. Perhaps Vanja, perhaps this sister, who I’ve not heard mentioned before. Perhaps myself, even. It is not as if I’ve never seen this kind of anger before. It is the anger of someone who has grown accustomed to not being believed.

  It is only now that I begin to notice how tired she looks.

  Vanja didn’t say you were mad, I reply. She isn’t like that. She didn’t tell me anything about you, other than that you believe you are in possession of an alien artefact.

  Did she tell you why I wouldn’t send it to you?

  She said you were afraid of losing it. I can understand that.

  Julie shifts in her seat. I like your flat, she says. She looks about herself. It’s not what I was expecting.

  What were you expecting? She makes me feel nervous, a little, anyway, but this is probably only because she is not what I was expecting, either. Vanja told me she was uptight, and I suppose she is, but there is more to her strangeness than that.

  I don’t know, Julie says. She puts out a hand to touch one of the cushions on the sofa, the one with the large embroidered turtle that Saira has nicknamed Mr Biswas. It’s just different. Warmer.

  Thank you, I say. I am wondering if I should have offered her something to eat. If she has come here straight from the station she must be hungry. But maybe she has already eaten, on the train. I feel awkward, unsure of what to do. It is not my job to feed clients, but— Would you care for some lunch? I say in the end. Saira and I have already eaten, but I can fix you a sandwich? It would only take a moment.

  That’s kind, she says. But I’m really not hungry. She pauses. She strokes Mr Biswas. Would you like to see the pendant?

  I would, if that’s all right? I am relieved that it is Julie who has brought up the subject, and not me. It is risky sometimes, to push people before they are ready. But I am uncomfortable with small talk and I sense that she is, too. I watch her carefully as she reaches into her bag – a canvas backpack – and brings out a small cardboard packing box.

  I don’t like to take it off, normally, she says. But then I thought that if I have to leave it here, it might be safer to put it in something. She hands me the carton. I weigh it carefully in my hand, trying to gain a sense of the mass it contains. The weight feels concentrated and distinct, what you might expect from a large crystal, for example, or from an ingot of precious metal.

  As always at moments like this, I remember the first time I held the weight of gold in my hand, my mother’s wedding ring. How powerful it felt, that weight, so much greater than I had expected, given its size.

  It is interesting that Julie has spoken, so soon, about the possibility of leaving the pendant in my care. This must mean she has begun to trust me, at least a little.

  Is it all right for me to open this? I ask. Julie nods. I flip open the lid of the box, which is secured by flaps, the same kind of carton you might use to transport watches, or computer hardware. On the top there is a wad of tissue paper, which I remove, laying it carefully aside on the coffee table. And now here is the pendant, the object this woman has travelled all this way to show me. My first thought is an echo of Julie’s own words to me about the flat – that it is not what I was expecting – but then also like Julie I do not know what I was expecting, either.

  I suppose if I am honest I was expecting to be disappointed, to feel that feeling that sweeps over you when you understand in the first instant that the thing you are looking at is not the special object its owner believes it to be. Which is not to say that it is not beautiful or even valuable, just that it is ordinary, that it can be explained.

  It is a familiar feeling, the most familiar in my line of business, probably, which when you start to think about it is what you would expect. You are not going to come upon alien artefacts every day. If you are lucky, and know what to look for, you might see one or two genuine examples in the course of a lifetime’s study. You are more likely not to see any. Up until this moment I have seen two, possibly three. I say possibly because I still don’t know if one of them was the real thing, or an exceptionally skilful fake.

  Such fakes do exist, although the field we are talking about is so small, so specialised that hoaxes are almost as rare as the real thing. The convincin
g ones, I mean. What I encounter mostly are honest mistakes: rare jewellery from the Tang dynasty, African gold work, Roman hair ornaments and once a carved Egyptian figurine that dated from before the construction of the pyramids. All exceptional objects, all disappointing.

  Even before I hold it in my hand I am in no doubt that Julie Rouane’s pendant is no fake, that it is not a mistake either. You will ask me how I know this, how I can be so certain, and you are right to ask, right to be so sceptical, especially when I have no proof to offer you, just my instinct, a feeling so strong it is as if every cell in my body is responding to the object’s presence in my sitting room.

  I am as sure as I have ever been sure of anything that Julie Rouane’s pendant is the product of an alien civilization.

  I glance towards the kitchen door, anxious in case Saira is feeling it too, but I can see she is still absorbed in her drawing and I am glad.

  I am looking at a teardrop-shaped pendant. It is approximately two inches long, and one inch in diameter at its widest point. It has been manufactured from two distinct materials: a frame section which appears on cursory examination to be silver, and a semi-transparent, crystalline mineral at its centre. The central crystal is ovate, cut en cabochon and held in place by silver clips that are integral to the frame. The pendant is suspended on a silver chain formed of heavy grade, square-cut links of the same silver-type metal as the frame section.

  The frame is exquisite, a richly worked mass of tiny forms – goblins, demons, homunculi? – intricately entwined with one another and yet each a separate and distinct entity. There is something about them, something ravishing, as fine as anything by Fabergé and yet with an energy and, dare I say, liveliness that sets them apart. I can say with certainty that I have never seen a piece of work like this, or by this maker, whoever they turn out to be.

  The central crystal is a greenish-grey, similar in hue to tourmaline or even mutton fat jade, though it is obviously neither. When I touch my finger to the crystal’s surface I feel a minute shudder, an immediate sensation of give, as if the crystal were not in fact crystal but some advanced organic polymer. Plastic, in other words, and yet it is cold to the touch, and dense, utterly unlike any plastic I have ever come across. I apply my finger again, this time more firmly, with the same resulting sensation, as if I were pressing against a meniscus of mercury, or resin. In spite of the substance’s rubbery texture, the tip of my finger appears flattened, as it would do if I were pushing it against quartz crystal, or a sheet of glass.