The Weekend Away

by Sarah Alderson

  I start to walk, not sure where I am or where I’m heading, but wanting to feel as if I’m moving towards something – hopefully an answer. I think through what the policeman said. He gave me his card when I left and I pull it out of my pocket, surprised to see he’s a detective.

  Was Nunes right about Kate going with the men to buy drugs? I didn’t get a look at her pillbox but from the amount of white powder Kate tipped on her hand in the back of the Uber I assume she had quite a lot on her. Enough to last all night though? I have no idea. But she does have her handbag with her, which reassures me a little.

  The best thing I can do is go back to the bar and see if I can find the men – they could be regulars. Someone might know them at least and I could find out their names. Then I could track them down and find out what happened last night after I passed out. But the problem is I don’t remember the name of the bar. I spent ages on my phone earlier, scouring a map online, trying to figure out where we were last night – but all I remember is an alley and a blue light, which isn’t very helpful.

  It hits me then that the Uber driver who drove us there from the restaurant would know the name of the place. And I was the one who called the service using the app on my phone. Triumphant that I’ve finally figured something out, I unlock my phone and scroll to the Uber app, pulling up the last trip and the name of the driver. Konstandin. His picture fills the little oval in the corner.

  I message him via the app – asking him to call me urgently. I follow it up with a promise of cash as I know he might not have any other incentive to contact me, and then I wait.

  He calls back within minutes and I quickly explain I need to go back to the bar he took us to the other night. There’s a pause on the end of the line.

  ‘Do you remember?’ I ask. ‘It was me and my friend. You picked us up around eleven forty-five last night.’

  ‘I remember you,’ he says, his voice gruff. It sounds like perhaps I woke him up.

  ‘I just need the name of the place you took us to,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’

  He clears his throat. ‘The Blue Speakeasy,’ he says.

  That’s it! ‘Thank you,’ I say. At last, something to work on!

  ‘Do you need a ride there?’ Konstandin asks.

  ‘Um …’ I hesitate.

  ‘Where are you?’ he presses.

  ‘I’m not far from the police station in the centre of town.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  I don’t have time to argue before he hangs up. I stare at my phone as I head back towards the police station. Is it weird that he’s offered to take me there? But no, he’s probably just hanging about town trying to pick up passing tourist trade. And if he doesn’t book it via the app he doesn’t have to pay commission. I try to remember him from last night but my memory refuses to offer much up other than a fuzzy recollection of talking to him about Ireland. Oh God … and Kate doing drugs in the back of his Uber.

  Five minutes later Konstandin pulls up in his black Volkswagen Passat and I hesitate again, uncertain whether to get in the back or the front. It feels weird to get in the back but weirder still to get in the front. In the end it feels wiser to sit behind him.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, glancing at the door lock. My imagination keeps leaping to dark places involving kidnap and rape and murder. Like most women I’m always on alert but today I’m even more so. Everything is making me nervous and getting into a stranger’s car strikes me as possibly a very stupid thing to do. But don’t we do that all the time these days? Ride-service apps have become the norm.

  Konstandin glances at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks as he starts to drive, his eyes shifting between me and the road. ‘Where’s your friend?’

  ‘She’s missing,’ I blurt out.

  He double-takes in the mirror. ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t find her,’ I say. ‘I woke up this morning and she was gone. I don’t know where she is. I’ve been looking for her all day. I even went to the police.’ It feels good to tell someone else, to share it with someone who isn’t a sceptical policeman or on the end of a phone.

  ‘The police?’ Konstandin asks.

  I nod. ‘Yes, but they said they couldn’t do anything and I should come back tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ve tried calling her?’

  ‘Yes. Her phone isn’t switched on.’

  ‘After I dropped you at the bar, did you go anywhere else?’ he asks me.

  ‘Home. Back to our apartment.’ I hesitate. ‘The thing is …’ I’m about to admit to him that we brought two men back but stop myself. ‘I wondered if maybe she forgot something at the bar or went back for some other reason.’

  He nods thoughtfully.

  I shrug. ‘And I can’t stay home waiting for her and not doing anything to find her.’

  Konstandin nods and we drive along in silence. I stare out the window, taking in the arched plaza we’re passing, with its bright yellow buildings and giant statues of horses and men on plinths. Tourists are milling about, some on Segways, many posing for photographs, and I feel a pang. That’s what Kate and I should be doing right now.

  A few minutes later Konstandin drops me in the same place he did last night – at the end of the alley on a main street crammed with people, both tourists and locals. I glance up the narrow street and spot the red velvet rope, the sight of it jarring loose another memory from last night, of us walking towards it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Konstandin as I get out the car, handing him ten euros.

  ‘I hope you find your friend,’ he says as I shut the door.

  Heading down the cobbled alley towards the blue light, a few more shards of memory start to catch the light; the argument I had with Kate outside after she invited those men home with us comes back to me. I was angry. I shouted at her. She wrenched her arm from mine. Now she’s missing.

  There are no model types lounging outside smoking and posing – I guess it’s too early for that – but there is a man wearing impossibly tight jeans and a silk kaftan, sitting on a wooden stool to the right of the door. I’m not sure of his exact purpose but I can see him assessing me as I approach with not quite a sneer on his face, but not quite a smile either.

  Maybe his job is to only let inside people who meet his strict standards for beauty and fashion. Is it the same man who Kate spoke to last night and who lifted the rope to let us past inside these hallowed doors? He’s an androgynous-looking, skinny-as-a-whip twenty-something. I think it might be.

  I decide to turn on the Irish charm. It nearly always works, so I smile broadly though it feels fake as anything and ratchet up my accent because I know that people love an Irish accent.

  ‘Hello!’ I say with forced jollity. ‘I was here last night with my friend. I don’t suppose you remember me?’

  He looks me up and down again, frowning at my jeans and T-shirt, and I shift uncomfortably. ‘My friend chatted to you,’ I continue. ‘I think it was you. You let us in.’

  He narrows his eyes then gives a small nod of recognition. ‘I remember her. Gold shoes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right! She was wearing gold shoes. We left with two men.’

  He nods again, giving a slight smirk.

  ‘Do you know the people we left with?’ I ask, feeling a surge of hope.

  He gives a non-committal shrug. ‘No.’

  Frustrated, I gesture at the door he’s guarding. ‘Can I come in and maybe speak to the barman?’

  He cocks his head towards a poster nailed to the wall beside him. I read it. It’s a dress code, top of which is the edict ‘no jeans’.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ I say, losing patience. ‘I won’t be staying. My friend’s missing. I just want to ask the barman a few questions.’

  He shrugs again. Why the hell is he being so obstinate?

  ‘Please. My friend is missing,’ I say. ‘And I’m trying to find her!’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  I turn around. Konstandin is walk
ing towards us. What’s he doing here? He ignores my frown and looks at the doorman. ‘Why won’t you let her in?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s because I’m wearing jeans,’ I explain.

  Konstandin turns to the boy barring the way and I watch the poor kid cower on his stool like a dog that knows it’s done something wrong and is about to be punished. When I look back at Konstandin I’m startled to see an expression of such intensity and ferociousness even I shrink away, noting for the first time his height and build. He’s at least six feet two, and broad like a boxer, and with those dark hooded eyes, he’s definitely not someone you’d want to meet down a dark alley.

  Konstandin says something to the doorman in Portuguese and the boy sullenly lifts the rope to allow us entry. Konstandin steps aside to usher me through ahead of him. Startled, I obey.

  ‘What did you say to him?’ I whisper as we enter the bar.

  ‘I told him if he didn’t let us in I would pull his kidney out through his rectum.’

  I turn to look at Konstandin over my shoulder, letting out a shocked laugh, but the laugh dies when I see the stern expression on his face. Did he mean it? Or was he joking? It’s very hard to tell.

  ‘Why are you …?’ I break off, not knowing how to ask him what he’s doing following me. I’m grateful that he helped me but I don’t know why he is.

  He shrugs. ‘I figured maybe you need my help,’ he says.

  Konstandin takes the lead once we’re inside the bar, heading straight towards the barman. I look around, there are only a dozen or so customers sitting at tables and I glance at the table Kate and I sat at, half-hoping to spot the two men from last night sitting there, or even Kate, but it’s empty. I hadn’t expected to find them here but I’m disappointed nonetheless.

  Konstandin rests an elbow on the bar. ‘This lady is looking for her friend,’ he begins, gesturing at me. ‘They were here last night.’

  The barman glances at me blankly. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘We were sitting over there,’ I say, pointing at the table where Kate and I sat. ‘With two men. They were about thirty, dressed in suit trousers and shirts.’ I feel Konstandin’s gaze and my face warms. ‘They were very good-looking. Like models.’ Even as I say it I remember the clientele last night. Perhaps that doesn’t much narrow it down.

  ‘You know who they are?’ Konstandin asks the barman.

  The barman turns and grabs a cloth and starts wiping down the counter. ‘Maybe,’ he grunts.

  I latch on to that, my pulse leaping. It’s the first real clue I’ve had so far – a tiny breadcrumb that might signal the beginning of a trail that will lead me to Kate. ‘Do they come here often?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes,’ the barman answers. ‘I see them here.’ He stares at me coldly and I wonder why. I’m starting to feel like I have a scarlet letter stamped on my forehead. Is it not the twenty-first century? Is this not a bar where men and women come with the express desire to get drunk, meet people and hook up? Do people not have sex anymore? I never thought the Portuguese were that puritanical but I suppose it is a Catholic country. I just assumed because it was a Latin country the morals were looser but I could be wrong. Or maybe I’m leaping to conclusions. Maybe I’m not being judged at all by this man, and I’m merely paranoid.

  ‘They come here to meet women?’ Konstandin asks.

  The barman gives a half-shrug. He doesn’t seem to want to answer the questions.

  ‘Do you know their names?’ Konstandin asks. ‘Or anything else about them? Perhaps they paid with a card. It’s important. A woman is missing.’

  The barman hesitates then shakes his head.

  Konstandin lowers his voice and says something to him in Portuguese. The barman’s expression changes minutely, a flicker of fear registering in his eyes. I glance at Konstandin. His expression is mild, non-threatening, and his tone is even and quite friendly. What on earth is he saying? Why is the man looking so afraid? My gaze flits back to the barman who still eyes Konstandin warily, before finally launching into some complicated-sounding explanation, gesturing at the table where we were sitting then at the door.

  Konstandin finally nods and walks away from the bar. I smile at the barman who doesn’t smile back and then I rush after Konstandin.

  ‘What? What did he say?’ I ask, catching up to him as he moves towards the door. ‘Did he give you their names? Did he tell you who they are?’

  It’s not until we’re outside on the street, past the gatekeeper, that Konstandin finally stops and turns to me. ‘The two men you met, you went home with them?’

  ‘Kate invited them,’ I find myself explaining, like a teenager making excuses to an angry parent. ‘I didn’t want them to come.’

  He nods to himself, grimacing a little.

  I ignore his grimace. ‘Who are they? Did you find out?’

  Konstandin weighs his words, as if trying to find the right ones.

  ‘Are they drug dealers?’ I ask, because that’s what I’ve guessed, and what I imagine Konstandin was asking the barman. After all, he saw Kate in his Uber snorting coke. Plus, the barman would likely have a good idea of who deals drugs inside the bar, as too would the boy guarding the velvet rope – which could explain their reticence to let me in or to answer my questions, and also would go some way to explaining the looks they were both giving me.

  ‘No,’ says Konstandin. ‘They aren’t drug dealers. They’re escorts.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The first thing that comes into my head when Konstandin says the word escort, is that he means prostitutes, but I dismiss that and move on to the second thing that enters my mind. ‘You mean like a Ford Escort? Is that the car they drive?’

  Konstandin stares at me blankly, confused, then shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I mean they’re escorts. Prostitutes,’ Konstandin clarifies. ‘That’s what the barman told me.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say, still not understanding.

  ‘They are men who are paid for sex,’ Konstandin clarifies even further, as though prostitution is something I haven’t ever heard of.

  He’s staring at me, studying me, hands on his hips. It dawns on me then he thinks we hired them!

  ‘But …’ I splutter, my head spinning, ‘we just randomly sat next to them. You can’t think …’ Oh my God … judging from Konstandin’s expression he actually thinks I might be the kind of woman who pays for sex. ‘Do you really think I would pay for sex?!’ I hiss at him.

  ‘No,’ Konstandin admits, though it takes him a split second too long. ‘I don’t think that, but that is what the barman told me. The men work for an escort company. High end. Expensive.’

  I stagger towards the wall, holding out a hand to steady myself. ‘My God, I didn’t even know that was a thing, did you?’

  Konstandin gives a non-committal shrug. ‘Prostitution? It’s the oldest job in the world.’

  ‘But men doing it? Sleeping with women?’ I ask, shaking my head. ‘I mean, it’s easy to have sex if you’re a woman. Why would you need to pay for it?’

  ‘Same reason I suppose men do. To skip the small talk. To make sure you get what you want. Maybe your friend has a sexual desire she can’t get filled normally.’

  ‘Oh, gross, no!’ I say, pulling a face. I’m fairly sure Kate would have told me if she was into something kinky. It’s not like she’s shy and she loves to shock.

  But what if Konstandin is right and it’s some weird fetish I don’t know about? What if Kate wanted to hire escorts to do some weird threesome involving rubber or … I remember suddenly how hard she was pushing me last night to sleep with Joaquim and how much she wanted to go out. She kept looking at her watch at dinner.

  Is it possible that she planned for us to meet them there, at the bar?

  ‘Also,’ says Konstandin, interrupting these disturbing thoughts, ‘these men, you said they were good-looking, no?’

  I nod. Suddenly it’s all starting to make more sense. I mean, I did wonder at the time why they w
ere all over us like rashes.

  ‘Your friend, maybe she booked them,’ Konstandin says, pulling out a bashed packet of cigarettes and lighting one up.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  He inhales deeply. ‘Apparently they work for an agency. You call, you make a booking.’

  I wave the smoke away from my face, though truthfully the smell takes me back to my teenage smoking behind the bike shed days and a part of me feels like stealing the cigarette from him and inhaling. I could really use it about now to steady my nerves. ‘What are you saying? That Kate arranged to meet them? After she booked them?!’

  Konstandin nods and shrugs at the same time. It’s a signature gesture of his. ‘The barman said he didn’t remember their names but he knows the name of the agency. He has a friend who worked for them for a time. Another model. To make cash on the side.’

  ‘How did you get him to tell you all this?’ I ask, wondering if maybe he’s pulling my leg.

  Again with the shrug. ‘I told him if he didn’t give me the information I would slam his head against the bar like a raw egg, and then scramble his brains for my breakfast.’

  My mouth falls open again. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, but there’s a twinkle in his eye and a tiny shadow of a smirk at the edge of his mouth. He takes another slow inhalation of his cigarette.

  ‘Are you?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes. ‘Because I don’t know.’

  ‘Look,’ he sighs. ‘I am from Kosovo. I lived through a war. I survived it. I came here as an asylum seeker. I survived that too. You think I could do either if I didn’t know how to get by, convince people to help me, and if I hadn’t learned a few things about human nature along the way?’ He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, which irritates me. He threatens people and he litters.

  ‘What’s the name of the escort agency?’ I say, deciding to let it go.

  ‘Lotus Models.’

  I stand there, reeling. It can’t be true. The whole idea is ridiculous.

  ‘I can’t believe Kate would hire escorts,’ I mutter, starting to walk down the alley at a clip, my arms crossed over my chest. It’s more likely that Kate didn’t realise they were escorts. Maybe, I think, after they had sex they demanded payment and she got angry.