‘Do you think I should go to the police?’ I ask.
Rob pulls a surprised face. ‘What? No. It’s only been a few hours. She’ll turn up. You know Kate. She’s not exactly reliable. She’s probably lost track of time. That girl can party like the end of the world is coming.’
He’s right about that – but it’s not entirely fair to call her unreliable. She’s always on time for things and she does stick to her word.
She’s my best friend and has been for almost two decades, the first person I turn to when I need a shoulder to cry on or to have a bitch and moan, whether about work or relationship stuff. She always picks up the phone whenever I call and she sends me cheer-up texts when I’m down, silly things designed to make me laugh – videos of fruit porn or cats falling down stairs or Game of Thrones memes that posit that the age of men is over and heralding the end of the patriarchy.
‘Try to enjoy yourself,’ Rob says, jarring me back into the moment. I nod and try to smile but I can’t. How can I smile or enjoy myself when I don’t know where Kate is or what’s happened to her?
‘Is Marlow OK?’ I ask, realising I’ve been so concerned with Kate I’ve not asked a single question about her.
‘She’s fine,’ Rob says. ‘I put her down for a nap.’
‘Don’t let her sleep too long,’ I tell him. ‘Or she’ll be up in the night.’
‘I know,’ he says, his tone edgy. He hates me telling him what to do when it comes to Marlow; he says it implies he doesn’t know how to parent. ‘I’ve got it. Everything’s fine. I better go. Call me when Kate shows up.’
‘OK,’ I say and hang up, sipping the rest of my now cold coffee.
Chapter Eight
Another thirty minutes walking the neighbourhood yields nothing except sore feet, though several times I could have sworn I’d spotted Kate in the distance, only to be disappointed when I’d drawn level and seen it wasn’t her at all but a stranger who looked like her. I’m tired and grumpy by the time I decide to call it quits. I haven’t been able to enjoy the sights or been able to browse the shops I’ve entered looking for her, and I’m annoyed about what a waste today has turned into. I think about hailing one of the many taxis that prowl the neighbourhood, obviously trying to pick up silly tourists like me who’ve walked too far and can’t handle another hill, but decide to stick it out in case I spot her en route.
When I finally make it back, the apartment feels quiet as a tomb. I call out Kate’s name anyway and even after getting no response I still check her room, hoping against hope I might find her napping on the bed. Damn you, Kate, I think to myself, when I find it empty.
Annoyed, I walk into the kitchen and drink three glasses of water, glugging them down. My body seems unable to sate my unquenchable thirst, as if whatever I drank or was drugged with last night has turned my body into a dried-out husk. Will drinking so much water affect any drug test, I wonder? But I know deep down I have already dismissed the idea of going to the hospital to get tested. It’s probably too late anyway and I can’t imagine having to explain last night to a nurse or a doctor. And the thought of a sexual assault exam is too much to bear.
I had to go with Kate one time after she was sexually assaulted by a guy on the street. He grabbed her from behind when she was walking home alone at night from the bus stop and forced her down an alley. It wasn’t full penetrative sex but he did assault her and beat her before she managed to get away and run into a petrol station for help. They never found the man and Kate, after a few shaky days and once her bruises had faded, put her own spin on it, casting herself as the plucky heroine who kicked butt and fought off her attacker, leaving out the cruder details for anyone curious. She said her attacker ‘copped a feel’ when it had been much more aggressive and terrifying than that. I knew as I’d been with her, holding her hand, when she gave her statement to the woman detective. I never saw her cry though. She was stoic throughout the interview and the exam, as well as afterwards.
I can’t claim anything as horrible as that happened to me last night. In fact, probably nothing happened at all. The man put me to bed. End of story. It seems silly to make a thing of it when lots of worse things happen to women every day.
After standing in the middle of the living room for several minutes, thoughts drifting, I decide that I need to distract myself. I do a quick bustle through the apartment and balcony picking up towels, finding a pair of boxer shorts underneath one of the sun-loungers and a pair of red lace knickers beneath the coffee table in the living room.
I start to rinse out the glasses I dumped in the sink earlier, hesitating as I dunk them in the soapy water. There’s a fine powder in the bottom of one of the glasses. I examine it closer. It might just be dishwasher powder. Or it might be something else. There’s a faint lipstick mark on the rim – a coral pink colour that I recognise as my coloured lip balm. Kate wears actual lipstick – she’s never seen without it – the brighter and more attention-grabbing red the better.
I set the glass down on the side, my hand trembling. Is this evidence I was drugged last night? But I remember being woozy before we returned home. If I was drugged it was by the man at the bar. They probably thought when we sat down with them at their table that we were easy prey. They might have gone to the bar hoping to pick up some women and we stumbled, almost literally, into their laps.
Was it their intention to rape both of us last night? Did Kate being up for sex stop that plan in its tracks? They didn’t need to force her. But did something go wrong perhaps? Did she find out they drugged me? Or did they try to drug her? All these questions flit through my mind like poison arrows. The not knowing is the difficult thing. Am I being hysterical and leaping to outlandish conclusions based on nothing? I wish I knew. I wish Kate were here so we could talk and piece it all together.
I stand up. I need to do something. I need to go to the police. I can’t just stay in the apartment waiting for her to turn up because what if she is missing? What if something truly awful has happened to her, what if she’s somewhere needing my help right at this moment? In fact, now I’ve decided I can’t believe I’ve waited so long. What kind of a friend am I?
After quickly gathering my things I head out once more, stopping at the landlord’s apartment below ours and rapping loudly on the door. There’s a beat and I think I hear footsteps approaching the door but then there’s silence and the door doesn’t open. I stare at the spy hole directly ahead of me and feel suddenly creeped out that he might be watching me through it.
The door opens immediately. ‘Hello,’ Sebastian says. He isn’t smiling and I notice his arms are crossed over his chest and he’s blocking his doorway as though afraid I’m about to barge right past him.
‘Hi,’ I say, words suddenly deserting me. ‘Um, this is going to sound strange but have you seen my friend?’
‘Your friend?’ He shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘I don’t know where she is,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen her since last night. And I can’t get hold of her. Her phone’s switched off.’
‘Well, I haven’t seen her,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I sigh. ‘It was a long shot. You didn’t hear anyone leaving this morning?’
He arches his eyebrows at me and purses his lips. ‘If you mean last night, yes. I heard plenty of leaving and coming.’
There’s an acid archness to his voice and a slight flare to his nostrils that puts me on the back foot, but I work in HR; I interview people all day and so I’m good at adjusting my technique depending on who I’m speaking to. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, understanding that he’s annoyed about the noise we made coming in last night and deciding to play the role of contrite and apologetic supplicant. ‘Did we wake you up last night? We tried to be quiet.’
He draws in a loud, self-righteous breath. ‘I think you woke the whole street.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, giving him an obsequious smile, while wondering how loud we actually were.
‘You only made the booking for tw
o people,’ he says sniffily. ‘You even told me last night that only two of you were staying. Any extra guests incur a charge. You should have informed me.’
‘There weren’t extra guests,’ I say.
‘Yes, there were,’ he argues back, irritated. ‘I heard you. It sounded like you were having a party. Parties are forbidden. It’s in the rules.’
‘We didn’t have a party,’ I protest. ‘We just had two friends back for a drink.’
He rolls his eyes at me. ‘I heard the music and all the shouting and doors slamming. It was a party. And extra guests, which you’ll need to pay for.’
I ignore his last comment and latch on to the other information. Shouting? Doors slamming? What’s he talking about?
‘What time did you hear people leave?’ I ask.
‘Around three a.m. That still counts as an overnight guest.’
I couldn’t care less about his petty rules or extra costs or whatever punishment he wants to lay at our door. ‘What did you hear exactly?’ I press, suddenly excited that he might know something that could lead me to Kate.
‘Music, shouting, people running down the stairs, doors slamming,’ he says with a loud sigh.
‘Did you see who?’
‘No,’ he says, but his eyes slide sideways and I wonder if he’s telling the truth. ‘I was in bed,’ he sniffs.
‘You don’t know if it was Kate then who left at three? Or someone else?’
‘It sounded like men.’ He gives me a very pointed look and I feel my cheeks flush. It’s as if he’s implying I’m some kind of prostitute for bringing men back to our apartment. I refuse to be shamed though.
‘They were definitely running?’ I ask. ‘Like they were in a hurry to get somewhere?’
Sebastian nods. ‘Yes. It woke me up. Like elephants on the stairs.’
‘Did you hear anyone come back after that?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I put my ear plugs in.’
What could all this mean? I’m more confused now than ever.
‘I hope you don’t plan on having any more parties,’ Sebastian remarks.
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, stunned. It’s almost like he didn’t hear me when I told him Kate was missing.
‘Well then, I need to get on,’ Sebastian tells me, turning back into his apartment. ‘Goodbye.’ And he shuts the door firmly in my face.
Chapter Nine
The policeman taps his pencil against his notepad and looks at me with a barely suppressed sneer. ‘You brought two men you didn’t know back to your apartment?’
He makes it sound like there’s something illegal about that, and I’m reminded of being called before the nuns at school to explain why my skirt was rolled up at the waist and flashing a centimetre of unholy knee, or why I was wearing lipstick that made me look like Mary Magdalene. The nuns wondered if I wanted to be mistaken for a whore and, though he isn’t saying it, the policeman is undoubtedly thinking the same thing. After Sebastian’s pointed snark an hour ago I’m not feeling very patient. It’s the twenty-first century, I want to argue, and my morals aren’t the mystery here.
The policeman, whose name is Nunes, is younger than me, maybe early thirties, and good-looking, which is what I’ve come to expect from anyone Portuguese, but he has an oiliness to him that I don’t much like. Maybe it’s the gelled hair, or it could be the pouty mouth. I’m surprised that someone of his age has such outdated views on sex but, then again, Portugal is a Catholic country like Ireland, so maybe that has something to do with it. I’m sure that it would be the same back home where there are also completely double standards when it comes to women and men.
‘Yes, we brought two men back,’ I say, refusing to be embarrassed about it, though the truth is my cheeks are hot and I do feel a squirm in my stomach, especially when I notice his gaze slipping to my wedding ring.
‘Whose names you don’t remember.’
I nod, sheepish. I’ve been scouring my memories all day but they’re filled with Swiss-cheese gaps.
‘And your friend had sex with one or both of these men—’
‘No, I didn’t say that,’ I interrupt. ‘I mean, I think she had sex with one of them. I don’t know for sure.’ I try not to think of the condoms in the bin. The police don’t need to know those details – and this guy is already being judgemental enough. I check but he isn’t wearing a wedding ring. He’s in his early thirties; is he telling me that he’s never had a one-night stand?!
‘You don’t know because you were …’ He looks down at his notes and reads off from the statement I just gave: ‘“Blackout drunk”, yes?’
I nod, my face flaming hotter than the sun. ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean to get that drunk. I think I was drugged.’
At this he looks up sharply, but is unable to hide the scepticism on his face or in his voice. ‘Drugged?’ He raises his eyebrows laconically.
I nod, irritation rising up. He’s treating me like I’m a madwoman or like I’m lying. ‘Yes, maybe. I don’t know but I was completely out of it, wasted. It’s not like me. I mean, I can hold my booze.’ I stop myself. That makes me sound like an alcoholic. ‘Not that I have an issue with alcohol,’ I hasten to add, realising I’m only putting my foot in it further. ‘I rarely drink. I’ve got a baby.’ Shit. Even worse. His scornful look grows deeper, his eyebrows rising even higher as he scribbles a note on the pad. What is he writing?
‘Were you taking any drugs? Besides alcohol?’
I cock my head not understanding and then the sudden memory of Kate snorting coke in the back of the cab and taking out her little pillbox dances into my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Definitely not.’
‘And your friend, did she take any drugs?’
I open my mouth. ‘I … um … I don’t know. Maybe,’ I hedge. I don’t want to get into trouble or get Kate into trouble and I’m not sure what the laws are here, though I know cocaine obviously isn’t legal. I don’t want the police thinking any worse of Kate than they are already and I don’t want to admit something that could get her arrested when she shows up.
Nunes looks at me sternly, his brown eyes drilling a hole right through my skull. ‘Did you buy drugs from these two men?’
‘What? No!’ I say, shocked. ‘Absolutely not.’ I shake my head and a flurry of nerves hits me. I twist my hands into knots in my lap. ‘That isn’t what happened. We met them in a bar. And invited them back – that’s all.’
But now he’s planted the idea I wonder if it’s possible that’s where Kate went at four in the morning. Was she buying more drugs? Maybe I should admit that Kate was doing coke. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m being interrogated and that I should ask for a lawyer – which is ridiculous as I’m just trying to report my friend missing.
Nunes sighs loudly and puts his pen down on the notepad. I wait for him to say something. I came here hoping that if I told someone – someone official – they could help somehow, do something, but he doesn’t seem to be reacting with any kind of interest, let alone urgency. ‘Have you considered that your friend might have gone off with these two men somewhere?’ he asks me.
I struggle not to roll my eyes. ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t go without telling me.’
‘You were unconscious – you said it yourself – maybe she did tell you but you don’t remember.’
‘But she hasn’t called all day.’
Nunes shrugs again. ‘Maybe she wanted to be by herself. Or maybe she wanted to be with these two men.’
I start to shake my head – no, that’s not it – I know her. I know she wouldn’t just walk off like this and not come back and not tell me where she was. But Nunes cuts me off before I can say anything else. ‘I’m sure she’ll turn up. People go missing all the time.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ I say, stonily.
‘People go out and have fun and forget the time. You said she recently went through a divorce and was looking to have a good time; that’s why you came away. If your friend was drinking and doing drugs—’
/>
‘I never said she was doing drugs,’ I mutter.
He ignores me. ‘Maybe she is passed out in a bed somewhere. It happens.’ As he says it he gives me a pointed look and I glare back at him as much as I dare. I’m a foreigner and he’s a policeman. I definitely don’t want to piss him off, but if I wanted judgement I’d go to confession and see a priest, and I had enough of that during the first twenty-two years of my life to last me until I die.
‘And what if she’s passed out somewhere and in trouble?’ I press. ‘What if she’s hurt?’
‘Did you check the hospital?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
He scribbles something else on the pad. ‘We’ll check too.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Should I file a report that she’s missing?’ I ask, feeling silly. It seems so over the top and I don’t know the protocol in Portugal.
‘No,’ Nunes says, standing up and walking to his door, which I take as my cue that this interview, or whatever you could call it, is over. ‘You have to wait twenty-four hours before you can report a person missing.’
‘OK,’ I say. The thought that I might be back here tomorrow makes me want to burst into tears. Surely Kate will show up before then?
Nunes shrugs, bored, trying to usher me out of the office. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘She’ll turn up.’
Chapter Ten
Once again, I find myself standing on a pavement trying to figure out what to do next. I feel desperately alone, with a slightly panicky feeling of being far from home, among strangers. I don’t know what to do.
Once, when I was about five, my mum lost me in the supermarket and I remember that mounting feeling of hysterical panic swirling inside me, like I was trapped in a gigantic nightmare maze that I’d never escape from. That’s how I’m starting to feel now. The thought of going home to the apartment and waiting for Kate to show up is impossible to wrap my head around. It’s getting late, almost eight, and the light is fading fast. I shiver. I should have brought a cardigan or a jacket with me but I was in too much of a hurry when I left.
The Weekend Away Page 7
