Nowhere Girl (3 page)

She sees Gaynor’s red mac before the glass box comes to a halt and is already turning to leave the awkward place where she is forever in the way.

Then she sees that Gaynor isn’t with her sister, but with a mother and daughter, whom she recognises from the school playground. As soon as Gaynor is close, Bridget asks, “Where’s Ellie?”

Irritated that her elder daughter has once again ignored her instructions, so soon after getting lost, she tries to steady herself but the wine sloshing around her stomach is making her feel sick and her throat is still sore from shouting. If Ellie has wandered off again she has no more reserves left.

Gaynor, unconcerned, says, “I wanted to ride with Amelia. You remember, Mum, she started at the end of last term? She’s in my class.”

Bridget struggles to take in Gaynor’s answer. She is struggling to process that Ellie has once again gone off on her own. Ellie was supposed to be with Gaynor, and she couldn’t even do this. She’s worn her fury out and sadness seeps into its place. Where did she go wrong, that Ellie is so wilful and selfish?

“So Ellie let you ride without her. Which box is she in, then?”

Gaynor is distracted by her friend from school, chatting happily with Amelia in the after-glow of the ride, but Bridget crouches so she can see Gaynor’s face and impart the seriousness of the situation.

“Where is your sister, Gaynor?”

Gaynor looks around to where a couple of teenagers are standing, a handsome brown-eyed boy and a beautiful girl with hair as sleek as oil, messing around in a way that could quickly become violent. The girl is watching them, a strand of black hair in her mouth, her impassive face unreadable.

“She went on with them, on the gondola behind mine,” Gaynor says. “I think she fancies that boy over there. She was watching him earlier, he didn’t have a t-shirt on.”

She smiles naughtily as she says this and her friend joins in. They are being cheeky, but Bridget feels cold, the tips of her fingers tingle.

“We’ll wait here for Ellie to come back,” Bridget says, disappointing Gaynor yet again, who wants to go on another ride with Amelia.

Instead they stand side by side as the next glass box came to a halt, but Ellie isn’t in that one either. Or the next one.

Bridget is distracted, but is vaguely aware that Gaynor’s friend, Amelia, the little blonde girl who arrived from England half-way through the summer term, is waiting too. Amelia’s mother, a petite redhead in terrible clothes, has been busy untying a black Labrador from where it was tethered to a post, but now she comes up to Bridget, the dog wagging its tail eagerly at the girls. “Hello. Shame about the rain, isn’t it? The seat was soaking! Is your other daughter still on the ride?”

“I hope so,” said Bridget, as she fights to keep the tone in her voice calm. Looking back to the crowds of surging people she has the hysterical thought that she’ll never find her and curses herself for confiscating Ellie’s iPhone, punishment for Ellie spending the night with Joe last week, and then making plans to meet him here even though Bridget had expressly forbidden any further contact. The phone was practically attached to Ellie’s head, and taking it away was the only way Bridget could really make her see that there were consequences to her thoughtless actions.

“I’m sorry,” she says to the British woman, who appears to be waiting until Bridget finds Ellie. “But I can’t remember your name.”

“I’m Cate,” replies the other woman, offering a hand to shake. “Cate Austin.”

The gondolas keep emptying and filling, and Bridget’s hysteria increases with every one that doesn’t contain her girl. Amelia and Cate stand dutifully, the black Labrador pulling impatiently at his lead while Cate makes soothing suggestions about teenagers and fairs and her turning up soon. But Ellie doesn’t turn up and by the time the wheel has completed yet another cycle, Bridget can recognise people getting off as those she saw getting on. She is trying to control it, but tears are mingling with the raindrops that fall from the sky.

She rings Achim’s mobile a second time, tapping her foot and looking left to right as she waits for him to pick up. He doesn’t. So she rings again, counting the rings to almost fifty until he gets the message and finally answers.

“Bridget, I’m in a meeting.”

“I’m still at the fair,” she tries to stop the tears being heard in her voice. “Ellie’s run off again.”

A pause. Could she hear a sigh? Or was he speaking quietly to whomever he was in a meeting with. “But you found her last time?”

Bridget tells herself that she’s not being hysterical, really she’s not. “Yes, eventually. But she’s gone off again, she’s not here Achim. I can’t find her anywhere.”

“So call her mobile.”

“We confiscated it, so she wouldn’t contact Joe. Remember?”

Now the sigh was audible. “Bridget, I really don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m in the middle of a Skype meeting to America here, and it’s important. We’ve just heard the budget is going to be cut.”

“But I don’t know where Ellie is. Please, Achim.” She wants to say “help me” but stops herself. “She went with Gaynor to get on the ferris wheel, and then she just disappeared.”

“Well, when you find her you tell her she’s grounded for another week. I’ll speak to her when I get home, or tomorrow, as I may not be home before midnight the way this is going. Now let me get back into this meeting before they decide that one way to save money is to sack me. Okay?”

It wasn’t okay, but what else did she expect him to say? Bridget ended the call, surprised when Cate touches her arm, she hadn’t even registered the other mother was still there.

“Maybe we should find someone from security?” she suggests. “Put out an alert for her.”

Bridget hesitates, she’s reluctant to do anything that will look like she’s creating a fuss, but Cate seems to know what to do and Bridget allows herself to be guided through the crowd. Behind them, Gaynor and Amelia chat happily about school and which stand has the best prizes, calling to their mothers to look at certain things, asking about going on more rides. Bridget hardly hears; she hardly feels the push and swell of the crowds. She just wants to find Ellie.

Cate has collared the same official whom Bridget spoke with earlier.

He looks at Bridget with an assessing expression, and she sees what he thinks of her:
overanxious
.

“This is the second time you have spoken to me, yes? And last time, your daughter, she was okay?”

Bridget has to concede that she was.

The man waves a hand dismissively. “So she will turn up again.”

For him this must seem normal, a teenager lost in the crowd, probably wilful, but Cate insists that he sends a message out on his radio, an alert for Ellie. She says Ellie has been missing for almost half an hour now, it’s dark and the rain is getting heavier. They need to find her, to go home.

Seeing that the redhead will not leave until he agrees, reluctantly the man presses the talk button on his radio and speaks into it in quick Luxembourgish, breaking off to ask Bridget, “What is she wearing?”

The question jolts Bridget because for a second she doesn’t know. And then she remembers the yellow t-shirt. The security official gives this information over the radio, still unmoved, and around them the crowds begin to shelter in the awnings of stands selling waffles and candy floss, they continue to scream on the ghost train and roller coaster.

The wheel continues to turn.

“In here,” calls Olivier, hearing them arrive home in a fumble of bags and coats and heavy yawning.

Cate leaves her keys in the pot for items that get lost and walks through into the open-plan lounge where he is curled on the sofa, typing on his laptop, the TV is switched onto a local news channel, but the volume is off. General beats her to Olivier’s side, sniffing at his master’s legs until Olivier gives him a brisk rub on his flat head.

“You’re late. How was the fair?” he asks, looking up so that General whines at the sudden lack of attention.

“Busy.” Cate sits on the sofa, and begins unlacing her trainers.

“But good,” adds Amelia, plopping herself cross-legged on the rug and reaching for the TV remote. Within seconds she has found a channel she likes and American chatter fills the room. “I saw my friend, Gaynor. She’s in Mr Z’s class with me. Can I go to hip-hop class with her on Wednesday?”

“Mmmm.” Olivier isn’t really listening, his attention is back on his computer screen.

“That’s why we’re so late,” adds Cate, her feet now in socks as she pushes them across this thighs. He puts his laptop aside and cups her toes with his hands, finally engaging eye contact. She can see Olivier is tired, the skin under his eyes is slightly dark. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Tell me about the fair.”

“We met Amelia’s friend, Gaynor, and went on the ferris wheel with her. Her sister got on the gondola after us, rode with a couple of local kids. But when her ride ended she just walked off, we couldn’t find her anywhere. You should have seen her mother, she was pretty upset, I almost had to carry her to the security guard to report it. I felt bad leaving her, but someone from the fair came over to help. And Amelia needs to be in bed.” This last sentence she pointedly directed to her daughter.

“How old is this sister?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ah,” said Olivier, giving a knowing look as if that explains everything. “At that age I used to get lost at Schueberfouer whenever I could. So, do you want something to drink?”

The evening unwound, Amelia yawned one too many times and was sent to bed, despite her protests that it was Sunday tomorrow, no school. Olivier and Cate chatted sleepily about how to spend the day.

“If the weather has cleared let’s drive north, to the lake.”

“I’d like that.” Cate kissed him. “But I want to go to bed now.”

“You’re tired?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, nibbling his earlobe.

It was still a novelty, being able to look forward to not sleeping alone. After three months everything still felt new for Cate, just landed in Luxembourg, newly liberated from her career. Newly in love.

As Cate fell, exhausted and happy, into a deep sleep, beyond the flat the rain had stopped and a fog had started to descend over Luxembourg. By the time the super moon was eclipsed by the grey smog, the lights of the fair were being turned off for the night. In the Glacis car park a trickle of travelling folk made their way to their caravans, stepping over puddles as they greeted each other, sharing stories about the punters. On the hoopla stall, one Japanese customer had spent 100 euro on hoops and still walked away without a prize. On the ghost train a kid had got so terrified he threw up on his seat and they had to close the ride while they cleaned it up. Other fair folk didn’t stop to chat, but as they walked to their caravans they totted up in their heads how much money they had made, others thought nothing, were simply looking forward to getting their head down for the night.

One man remained awake, sipping a coffee as he thought about the next trip, the next fair. Planning the step beyond Luxembourg, beyond Europe and back to Algeria, the place where his story and many others began. He thought of the majestic Djurdjura Mountain, its tall white crowns and hidden places, and wished himself back there though he knew he had left that life behind. He was not a soldier anymore, and the baby he had saved was now a man. Both of them were a long way from home.

When she reached the far side of the commune she stopped running, resting a moment as she checked that no-one had seen her leave. Beyond was the olive plantation where she and her brother and sister had played when they were little, sheltering from the too-hot sun under the lush protection of its whispering canopy. The brown earth was warm and soothing between her toes and the air had a sharp lemony tang as she breathed it in. She heard a rustle behind her and turned in case a jackal was about to pounce, but could see nothing but the yellow flowers with their stringy petals, the thin and twisted branches of the
ouzou
plant, the white-blue sky above. Then a small hand slipped inside her own and her sister, Pizzie, pressed against her.

“Oh, Piz, you shouldn’t have followed me. You know we are not allowed to be here alone.”

“We’re not alone now,” she said, though both girls knew that without a male escort this was the same thing. Pizzie looked quizzically at her big sister. “Why are you crying?”

Amina squatted down so her nose touched that of the six-year-old, gazing into her half-moon-shaped brown eyes, wondering if she would see her again.

“Because I’m leaving you.”

Piz frowned, which made her face so serious that Amina had to look away to avoid laughing. “But you are going to a better place with food and money and school. A place for freedom, Omi says. Where police will not call in the night.”

Amina kissed her sister’s grubby forehead and forced a smile.

“I hope so, little one. It is what has been promised.”

She avoided looking up, towards the mountain. Hidden in Djurdjura’s rocky folds was danger, and maybe even their brother, Samir, though they couldn’t be sure as rumours are not to be trusted. The elders said he was still in Paris.

Pizzie followed her sister’s gaze. “Is he watching us, Amina?”

Amina’s eyes travelled the mountain as she never would, rising to the peak, Tamgut Aalayen, where men hid and waited, fighting a war for Allah.

“I hope not,” she answered quietly. She willed her brother elsewhere, because she was scared of what it would mean for Samir if he was back with the Brotherhood. What it would mean for her mother and sister, when she was no longer at home to care for them. Since January the Algerian police had knocked almost every week, and if not them then there were visits from the mosque elders, asking about Samir, making Omi cry with their accusations and their threats.

Omi said she had no idea why her son had gone to Paris, she knew nothing of the friends he had made there who were now dead. It was a shock to her, as much as to anyone else, that eleven people had died in that city, eleven more had been injured, and that his friends had wielded the guns. But Samir was not connected to this, she was certain, it was impossible. He was a good boy.