Nowhere Girl (21 page)

“Is something wrong? Can I get you some…” I falter, wondering if Auntie has given her some medicine to calm her, the white tablets that Jodie and I take. I think she must have, because the girl is acting strange and her eyes aren’t in focus. I wonder what else I can give her that may help. “Would you like some mint water, to soothe your stomach?”

The girl looks bitter and shakes her head.

I finish with the bed. I’d like to open the window, but it has also been painted shut, so I settle for opening the door wider, though not so wide that Auntie may hear.

“We must make the best of this situation.”

“For how long?” she asks. “When will they let me go home?”

This dandelion girl, she is frightened and it makes me think I should be too. Because I don’t know when I will go home any more than I can answer her question.

After the girl has gone, Ellie finds herself being tugged back into sleep.

She has been falling in and out of sleep for hours, or is it days. How many days before she last saw Gaynor stepping up to pay at the booth of the ferris wheel, as Ellie walked away, quickly, towards Malik. Because she wanted to have fun and she was angry. She was stupid and selfish, and now she is here, wherever here is. She can’t grasp her thoughts, has lost precious days.

When she wakes again it feels like morning, though she has no idea which one, or how long has passed since the girl cleaned her. How many days and nights have passed since she tried to run from the caravan? Using the fence around the fair as her guide, searching for a spot to climb, before being trapped and returned to the van? Sometimes when she wakes she is back in the moment when she was first found by Gaynor, watching Malik cling on to the bar with all his strength. The moment when their mother slapped her for running off, called her a bitch.

That she is being drugged is obvious, but her alternative is to not eat or drink and she has received precious little of either, her stomach feels hollow and the hunger gnaws away in the pit of her stomach, but it is the thirst that is the worst thing. Rasping, dry throated, she would do anything for water.

Malik came on the first day with food and drink and wouldn’t look at her or even speak. It gave her some satisfaction to see the bruise around his eye, dark and rosy. She realises he isn’t the one with control of the situation, that he is under the orders of the bulldog, but he’s still a part of it and she hates him as purely and strongly as her drugged brain will allow. Mostly she feels sleepy and sick. She hates herself, even though there are other people hating her and she should be strong. She needs to get out of here. She gathers her thoughts:

I’m in a house. It’s near a road, I can hear the cars, though I haven’t the strength to go to the window and see if I recognise where I am. I could be anywhere, I could still be in Luxembourg
.

There are other people in the house, people above me too because I’ve heard feet and voices, though I can’t make out words. There is the girl, who cleaned me. And the older woman, who was rough
.

No-one has told me why I’m here, or what they want from me. But I’ve seen films, I’ve read the papers. If the bulldog was a psychopath I’d be dead by now, this is something more business-like, less personal. The suffering will be longer
.

The door must be locked, or maybe not because she is too weak to escape anyway.

She can hear footsteps, light ones. Ellie hopes it’s the girl, the skinny one with black hair and wide eyes. If she could only make her come again, speak to her for longer this time. The girl would know why Ellie was here, she may help her.

“Please?” she calls out. She can only call weakly, but she fears it is too soft to be heard, too loud and it would attract others. She can’t risk that.

The feet stop, she can hear breathing. The girl has heard her, she’s outside the door.

Ellie dare not speak again, but she lifts her head, desperately waiting and aware that the door handle is moving down. The door slowly opens, catching on the rough wood of the flooring, a narrow gap. And then a face, small and pretty, brown skin and dark hair. It is her.

“Please,” Ellie says, almost a mime the words are so weak. “Please will you help me?”

Bridget was once again standing at the window, but this time her eyes were dull. There were no passing cars, it was too early for that, so the road outside was of no interest. Hope had left her.

It had been so clear to her, what she must do. In the early dawn she had watched the sun rise and realised that, whatever happened to her, she must tell the police the truth. Jak had betrayed her, he had Ellie, but she had no idea where.

She had been leaving the house, the car keys already clutched in her hand, when Achim called from the top of the stairs, “Bridget? Where are you going? It’s half past five.”

He would find out, of course, what she had done but she couldn’t be the one to deliver the news, to see his disbelief turn to rage. This would be the end of their marriage, but all that mattered was Ellie.

She returned to the kitchen, Achim following close behind, and made herself a small coffee. She needed a kick of caffeine. “I want to talk to the police. I want to tell them about something I saw at the fair. Something I remember.”

“What?”

“A man.” She would say no more. She wouldn’t tell Achim that the man was Jak, a soldier she had known from before. All this she could tell the police, but not her husband.

“And you’ve just remembered this now? What about him, why do you think it’s connected?”

She backed against the kitchen worktop, so it dug into her spine, and sipped her bitter and hot drink, avoiding Achim’s eyes. “It may be nothing.”

“But you think you should go to the police station now?” he asked. “You have a strong feeling about this. Why?”

Again, she didn’t explain but felt his eyes boring into her. “I can’t wait, that’s all.”

He ran a hand through his greasy hair. His face was haggard. He may have been in bed but he hadn’t slept.

Bridget finished her drink and put the empty cup on the counter top, then turned her back on her husband and began to walk away. She felt a rush of movement behind her as he grabbed the hem of her jacket.

“I’m coming too,” he said. “If you think it’s this important, then I want to hear it.”

“No, Achim.” She shrugged herself free of his grasp, and was turning, moving away, when he reached to grab her a second time, his arm reaching across the kitchen counter knocking the coffee cup to the floor. They both watched as the pieces shattered, the coffee dregs splattered black flecks on the white floor tiles, brown watery drips down the cupboard doors.

“Now look,” he said, bitterly. “At the mess you’ve caused.”

At the police station in Hamm the woman on reception looked like she had been dozing at her desk. Her eyes widened, she hadn’t expected visitors.

“We need to speak to Detective Olivier Massard,” said Achim, taking charge of the situation. “I assume you know who we are?”

She looked from Achim to Bridget, to the pink rabbit she was clutching. “I’ll message him now.”

They waited. The sun began to rise and people arrived, early morning shift workers desensitised or too polite to stare at the couple waiting, hands clasped, for the detective to arrive. Bridget took Achim’s hand and raised it to her face, rubbing the back of his hand against her cheek then opening it and kissing his palm. She knew it would be the last time he would let her.

Detective Massard arrived in a rush, his face was freshly shaved and his hair still wet from a shower, his eyes bore bruises of fatigue. Bridget was glad to see this. It was evidence that he cared about Ellie. He would find her daughter, she only had to tell him in which direction to look.

She wouldn’t speak, not until she was in a private room with the detective. Not until Achim was out of hearing. He led her to an interview room. Finally, before her courage failed, she turned and said, “I need to tell you something.”

The detective’s face was blank, he was wearing a mask of professionalism, but his lip curled slightly as if anticipating delicious news. “Go on.”

He wasn’t going to smooth talk her.

“At Schueberfouer, I saw a man. He was hanging around the ferris wheel. I thought I recognised him.”

“Recognised him from where?”

Bridget breathed deeply, willing herself over the edge. For Ellie. “From when I was working in Algeria. He was with the Brotherhood.”

The detective leaned forward. “Go on.”

She took a deep breath.
Say it
, she told herself.
Tell him what you did
. “A fundamentalist, he killed many people. He killed many but he saved one.”

“Oh?” The detective was skilled at appearing non-committal, but she could feel his attention, as though he too were on a precipice waiting to jump.

The room was too hot, stuffy. She could smell his aftershave, the minty scent of his shampoo. She hadn’t eaten and her stomach rumbled, though the thought of food sickened her.

“I just want my girl back,” she said.

“Then tell us where to look.” He was leaning forward, scrutinising her.

Bridget felt herself about to be swallowed whole.

They were eye to eye, unblinking. It was clear now, there was no pretence.

“I don’t know,” said Bridget, truthfully. “I don’t know where he took her. It was only supposed to be for a few hours.”

“What is it exactly that you are telling me, Madame Scheen?”

“I asked him to take my daughter. I wanted to teach her a lesson. It was supposed to be for a very short time.”

Stillness. Detective Massard rubbed his dry lips together, though she saw the gleam of his tongue, the dilation of his pupils, and hated him for it. He thought he had won, that this was success.

“Detective, please understand, Jak is an Algerian soldier, he knows how to hide. I will tell you what I know, but we must find my daughter.” She could feel it, loosening inside like water, the sudden fear that she had given away all of her power. That she had made a mistake. “We must work together,” she begged. “I’ll tell you all I know, everything I did. But we have to find Ellie.”

Detective Massard’s expression became one of barely controlled pleasure. His mouth twitched, and she saw he was longing to smile but trying his best to control it.

“Bridget Scheen I am arresting you for the murder of Ellie Scheen…”

Bridget’s attention began to swim in and out of focus.
Murder? Ellie? My girl is dead?

“…You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence…”

Bridget felt numb. Her breath caught in her chest. Her girl was gone.

Since waking I have laid on the mattress and stared at the stain on the ceiling, watching the golden line of sunlight move across the cracked surface, and I know I have to try something new today. If I don’t, this despair will grip me so tight that I won’t care anymore and the fight will leave me. If that happens I’m as good as dead.

So when the door finally opens I make myself sit up, though my back aches with stiffness. It’s the older lady, and she’s so surprised to see me upright that she almost drops the cup, which is plastic and has a blue rabbit painted on it. It’s a child’s cup.

I’m thirsty, but I won’t take it from her. “Is it drugged?”

“What rubbish you talk, girl. It’s milk.” But her face is red with shame, and I won’t look away.

“I don’t want you to drug me anymore. I won’t try to escape, I’ll be good. But I can’t take the nausea and the headaches. Please. I promise I won’t try and run.”

She leaves, taking the drink with her.

When the door opens again it’s the girl, the skinny one who has smiled before, and instead of the rabbit cup she is holding a glass, with a Bofferding logo on the side. She also has a plate of food.

“Auntie says here is your breakfast. She wishes you
bon appetit
.”

I take the glass from her and sip. The milk tastes good, normal, and I know I have had a small victory. Today, at least, the old woman will not drug me. I bite into the bread and it tastes almost fresh. The crumbs trigger my hunger and I eat quickly, hardly tasting the butter or jam that have already been spread for me. Finishing it and longing for more.

The young girl is gaping at me.

“You feel better today?” she asks. “You are up.”

She can’t know what it has taken for me to rise from the filthy mattress.

“Amina?” I think I remember her name right. “Tell me who the woman is. And the man.”

“She is Auntie, and he is Jak, her husband. They have a young son. This is his room.”

I look around, at what I’ve seen again and again during the hours and days of my captivity. “So where is the boy?”

“He’s downstairs, breaking his fast. He sleeps with Auntie as you are here.” And I can see that Amina is upset, talking about the boy. She looks like she may cry. “He is missing an eye. The doctors had no choice. They did what they could, but it is no good. He had the cancer, and when it was cut from his brain it took his eye. He is still very poorly.”

I think about my mum then, I can’t help it. The work she did in Heidelberg. “What about chemotherapy? What about radiotherapy? Proton treatment.”

She gasps at this last suggestion, staring at me with wonder.

“You know about this?”

I lick my fingers, hoping for crumbs. My stomach growls. “I heard it on the news. Can’t the boy have that?”

I don’t know why I’m having this conversation, why I should care about the child of my captors. But Amina is hanging on my every word.

“We don’t have papers so we are not legal. It is not so easy,” she says, as if repeating a script.

And then I understand something. “Would money make it easy?”

Amina looks worried, she reaches for my cup, eager to leave, but I don’t want her to go yet.

“Is that why I’m here, Amina? Are my parents to pay a ransom?”

Amina’s eyes narrow, and I can see that she is close to tears again. “You are our guest,” she says.