Nowhere Girl (22 page)

I laugh, short and harsh but I can’t help myself. “Your guest! Are you fucking kidding me?”

Then we both jump as the old woman yells, from just outside the door, “Amina! Come out now. And lock the door behind you.”

But before she leaves I take hold of Amina’s hands in both of mine. I whisper, “Please, Amina. My parents have money and they will pay. Oh God, please help me to get out of here.”

And even though I have to watch her go, and I hear the key turn in the lock, she leaves something behind that has a whiff of hope; if a ransom has been requested then everything will be alright. Because my parents will pay. Of course they will.

In her locked cell, Bridget is staring at the grey, scarred wall and wishing it was a window. She is listening to the loud male voices beyond the cell door, the police officers and others talking and moving, and wondering how it came to this. Why she is not home, with her daughters in school, and the world as it should be.

The world
, she says to herself, to Ellie whom she is always talking to now in her head,
is never as we think it should be
.

Dear Ellie. Oh, dear Ellie, how has it taken all of this for me to understand that though the world is not as we would wish, we cannot change it? How is it I didn’t know that, after all I saw in Algeria?

Did I tell you about the teachers? Of course not, I told you nothing. I am forty years old and it is more of a mystery now than back then, when I was younger and closer to the rebel soldiers. I thought I understood their passion, their conviction, even if their methods were barbarous and cruel
.

The teachers were good women. Local women, educated in France, but returned to Tizi Ouzou to teach at the village school. They were devout too, but not as devout as the men in the mountains wanted. And it was a small thing, a simple thing, just words. A girl, fifteen, had spoken to one of them because she had a crush on a boy in the class. She was worried that it was a sin, she was full of self-loathing. But the teachers, who were kind and also worldly, said it was no sin. That love and desire were natural, and that the young girl would experience it many times in her life. They had laughed, maybe. No-one told me this, but I like to think of them that way. Smiling and laughing with the girl, and each other, as they remembered their own first loves
.

It was the girl’s brother who informed the soldiers. He had been going to the mosque, where the radicals recruited, and he told about the teachers and their advice that love was normal, that desire was allowed
.

That night, as they lay sleeping, the teachers had their throats slit, as though they were calves being strung up for meat. At least I hope they were sleeping. After, the school no longer had teachers and no-one spoke of love anymore
.

So you see, Ellie, I have known the worst of the world. And I was so scared for you, before, because you hadn’t. That you argued for more freedom, that you slept with boys and pierced your nose and forgot that the world is not always on your side
.

But I am. Everything I did, was for your own good
.

Even if my methods now look barbarous and cruel
.

Bridget called through the cell door for the police officer to come. She had made a decision. “I want a solicitor,” she said. “And I want to make an official complaint against Detective Massard. He has lied about me. He has falsified statements and I won’t stand for it. I am a British national and I demand my rights.”

The morning was almost spent and Cate was padding bare-footed around the flat, collecting stray glasses, sticky with last night’s bourbon, and balled up socks. General was panting by the window, his tongue dripping onto the wooden floor, happily fatigued after their morning walk and now enjoying the sunshine. His ears lifted when he heard the key in the lock, he pushed his muzzle into the air, sniffed once, and let out a single warning bark.

“What, boy?” Cate asked, but then she too heard the door to the flat opening. “Is that you, Olivier?”

“Well, I hope no-one else is coming to see my girlfriend at noon with his own key!”

And there he was, grinning like a fool, quickly taking her in his arms and lifting her slightly as he kissed her lips. She felt his happiness, his lightness, a stark contrast to the weight that he’d been carrying around for days now.

“Is it Ellie? You’ve found her, haven’t you?”

Olivier placed Cate back on solid ground, his mouth momentarily pulled down, but his humour undiminished. “Not yet, but we will. Bridget has told us everything. It’s over Cate.”

“What do you mean it’s over? What did she say?”

“You know I can’t tell you. But enough for her to be detained in a cell. Enough for me to take a few hours to relax.”

He stretched his arms high and let out a long sigh of contentment, almost touching the ceiling with the tips of his fingers, then he winced, his face crumpled in pain.

“What’s wrong? Is it your stomach ulcer?”

He nodded. “Just a twinge,
ce n`est rien
. Now, I would like to take you to lunch, Cate! We have not had a moment when our time has not been heavy with my work, and I want this to change. And then later, after Amelia has finished school, we will drive to Nancy, to see my parents.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I have neglected you, I know. And my family. I’m sorry. I want us to be happy.”

His kiss was warm and it felt like a gift, a fresh start. Cate closed her eyes, trying to enjoy the moment.

“Instead of going to lunch, Olivier, I want you to make good on your promise. You said you’d see a doctor about your ulcer. Do that first and then what we do for the rest of the day is up to you.”

Hospitals, same the world over, Cate guessed. That antiseptic smell, the grey linoleum squeaking underfoot. The waiting.

Olivier sat beside her, his laptop balanced on his knees, typing quickly but humming as he did. Bridget’s arrest had lightened him, and Cate wished she could share some of this pleasure. Olivier felt he’d solved the case, but she didn’t see how this could be true when Ellie was still not found. He said that it was now just a matter of time, that the uniformed officers were pursuing Bridget’s leads. In what way Bridget was responsible, he had not explained.

Cate remembered how Bridget had looked, standing at the window clutching the pink rabbit, desperately waiting. Whatever she had done, whatever she had confessed to, Bridget was devastated. There was no denying that.

In the waiting room, dull voices rumbled, no-one spoke at full volume as if sickness was less dangerous when talked about in whispers. An elderly woman shuffled along, chaperoned by her middle-aged daughter, a ball of cotton wool taped into the crook of her arm. Several patients made muted requests to the administrator, officious and dark-suited behind a high desk, for the whereabouts of the toilet, a mother tried to distract her child with a magazine aimed at octogenarians. Finally, the nurse called Olivier’s name.

“Monsieur Massard?”

Cate made to stand too, but the brisk nurse held up a hand, and said in perfect English, “First the examination, then I call you to discuss the results in a few minutes, okay?”

How the nurse had ascertained at a glance that Cate was a foreigner she had no idea, but she took her seat meekly, catching the gaze of the child, whose interest had wandered from the magazine. She smiled at him, then looked towards the closed door behind which Olivier had just disappeared.

She had made him do this, and his agreement felt like a validation of her role, but being left outside the examination room negated her. Would she have been allowed in if they were married, or was it just because the space was too small? She assumed they would be doing an ultrasound and her only experience of this had been when she was pregnant with Amelia and Tim had always been there, both of them gazing at the screen in a rare moment of unified delight, a moment when they had been a happy family. Thinking of this, Cate felt herself tense, the years that had passed since her divorce were not quite the emotional barrier she would have liked.

Relationships had always been a changeable thing for her, an unfixed point. The only family that had been constant was her mother, and that relationship was as unpredictable as the British weather. Just thinking of her mum made Cate feel edgy, and she began to run a thumb over her nail, itching to peel a cuticle but finding nothing on the glossy gelled surface. Her mother was possessive, demanding. Often drunk. But at least she hadn’t left. Unlike Tim. Unlike Liz, and their father.

She thought again of the trial back home. Totally unsurprised that her mother had arrived at court drunk. Unsurprised but sad.

Her hand had found her phone, deep in her pocket.
Fuck it
, she thought. And texted a quick message:

Hi Mum. I spoke with Liz yesterday. Sorry things aren’t going well in court. And I’m really sorry I’m not there with you
.

This time, she actually meant it, and she pressed SEND.

She waited, staring at the phone, but there was no response. Her mum could be in court, her phone switched off in her bag. Or she could be ignoring her.

The door to the examination room opened and Cate sat taller, alert, but it wasn’t Olivier. The nurse did not see Cate, or opted not to, and walked quickly the other way with efficient little steps. The door opened again and this time Olivier appeared, striding towards her.

“Well, that’s over,” he said. “And I have done as you ask.”

She had thought the nurse was going to invite her into the room, to share whatever they had found, but clearly that was not going to happen.

“What did they say?” she asked, anxiously. He had been groaning in the night, and since last weekend the pain had registered on his face, a pallor that showed his anxiety. Something was wrong, that was certain.

“
Rien
.” He began searching for his keys, then his phone. “Just that I should rest.” Olivier chortled at the amusing idea. “Okay,
on y va
.” He began to walk out of the hospital, and Cate followed, though not satisfied.

“Maybe we should stay at home tonight, then,” Cate suggested, rather fraudulently. “Your parents would understand, you just need to explain that you’re not feeling great, and things are busy with your work.”

She knew it wasn’t entirely true that she was thinking of Olivier. Meetings with his parents stirred her anxiety, she hadn’t seen them enough times to have overcome this yet.

“Nonsense, Cate! I feel better than I have in a long time and my parents already know we are coming. They will have a meal waiting. And, for me, this is a moment to enjoy. For you as well.”

It was an hour and a half to Nancy and Cate drove, in theory so Olivier could relax, but in reality so he could take the calls that continued to come in.

“She’s asked for a solicitor,” he said, smiling, as he ended one call. “Maybe a full confession will come quicker than I hoped.”

He remained upbeat through the journey, though whatever his colleagues were telling him, it wasn’t the big news he was now hoping for: Ellie was still not found. He ended each call and looked out of the window. At one point he said, “We’ll find her,” though more to himself rather than Cate, who kept driving, staring at the road ahead. Wondering how he could be so sure.

She was thinking of Liz, poor Liz, going through a trial in which though she was not the accused, she may as well be.
I should be there. I’m a coward
.

Amelia slouched in the back seat, with General beside her, distracted, at least for a while, playing Minecraft on Cate’s iPad. Cate had tried to understand the game, but as far as she could tell, Amelia was building a farm that consisted of square sheep and lots of green blocks. Still, it kept her quiet.

As they drove beyond Luxembourg the landscape opened out and Cate noted that the large sky could almost rival Suffolk’s bucolic plains.

“Look, Amelia. Cows!”

Amelia glanced up, but soon returned her attention to the computerised animals on the screen.

Driving into the French city of Nancy, Cate could appreciate the old grandeur of the houses and Art Nouveau buildings, the intricate details of stained windows and stonework, but there was a feeling of neglect to the place too. The city belonged to a golden age, and often the stonework was chipped, the coloured glass in the doors was cracked, the heavy curtains at the windows were faded. This was not true of Olivier’s parents’ home, which was perfect with its square lawn, its grey stone brickwork, and its heavy wooden door with shapes of sensual but symmetrical curves.

As if they had been waiting directly behind it, the door opened as the car drove over the white gravel, revealing two perfectly presented people, unmistakably French, who to Cate’s regret, were then able to watch her park clumsily in the narrow space beside their new bronze Citroen. She breathed in, as if to make her own car smaller, and prayed she wouldn’t scratch the perfect paintwork.

Josephine Massard greeted Cate with three dry kisses on alternate cheeks, during which Cate endured a sharp blast of heady perfume. Like the house, Josephine was aging well. She had the air of a woman who would think nothing of spending a hundred euros on a lipstick but would object to leaving a tip in a restaurant if service was poor. Josephine wore black pleated trousers, a fitted black silk blouse, and a single strand of pearls. Her hair, also black, was cut into a sharp bob that Cate envied for its sleekness. She put a hand to her own auburn locks, and wished she’d thought to use straighteners before they set off, tugging at her blouse so it sat flatter against her stomach, though the crinkled fabric was meant for comfort rather than elegance. Thank God she had thought to put on heels, a pair of patent designer stilettos that Olivier had bought for her. They were a nice gift, though Cate couldn’t help thinking of them as a comment on the rest of her wardrobe.

“You look very well, my dear. Very fine shoes. And have you done something different with your hair?” asked Josephine, scrutinising her. Cate felt quietly pleased that her skin was slightly tanned, that her nails were freshly polished. But Josephine could not guess why Cate had had these treatments, she would simply think that Cate had a new interest in grooming, not that she had been trying to find a missing teenager. All along it had been futile anyway. Bridget was responsible, so Olivier said.
It’s over
.