Shadow Sister (18 page)

I’ve finished keying in KIDNAPPED! when the taxi comes to a halt. I look up in shock.

The driver has turned around and is looking at me. Dark eyes with an evil look. I shove my mobile between my thighs.

‘Give it here,’ he says calmly. He holds out his hand, but instead of my phone I grab for my shoe which I’d put down the seat next to me, and stab at him. He grasps me by the wrist and turns it so sharply that I drop the shoe with a cry. His other hand grapples between my legs and I scream. He gets my mobile, opens the dashboard unit and throws it in there. Then he turns back and studies me.

‘So,’ he begins. ‘I heard you were looking for me.’

Bilal Assrouti.

All I can do is stare, swallow.

‘I take it that I don’t have to introduce myself,’ Bilal says. ‘And you don’t have to tell me who you are. I know why you’re following me. This stops here.’

I nod dumbly. All kinds of things go around in my mind, what I could say, how I could explain, back out, apologise, but words don’t seem enough when I look into Bilal’s cruel eyes.

‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ I stutter.

‘I’m sure you are.’ Bilal looks me up and down in a detached way.

I try to think of something to say, but I can’t come up with anything. It seems better to hold my tongue.

Bilal turns his back on me to light up a cigarette and inhales. ‘You’re her sister.’

It’s impossible to deny that, so I nod.

Bilal observes me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Twins then?’

‘Identical.’

There’s a pause. Bilal smokes and I study him in the mirror. A street lamp shines into the car and I can see enough of his face to feel a little less uneasy.

Unexpectedly our eyes meet, mine scared and his hard and accusing.

‘You’re going around looking for me and asking questions about me,’ he says. ‘I don’t like that.’

I wipe my palms on my trousers and say nothing.

‘Have you got any idea how pissed off I was when I heard that you were asking people about me?’ He spits the words out. ‘Any idea what it feels like to be ambushed by six policemen when you’re walking down the street? What it feels like to see your picture in the paper and on the news and to be given the cold shoulder wherever you go after that? To fail your exams and not be able to find a job? Well, do you know what it feels like?’

I press against the back of my seat, say nothing.

‘Well?’ he shouts. ‘You know how that feels? Not to have any chance of getting a job because you’re Moroccan? To be refused service in bars and restaurants, to be discriminated against your whole life in this fucking shithole country that pretends to be so tolerant?’

‘No,’ I whisper.

He twists around and blows smoke through the car. I start to feel suffocated and breathe in short gasps.

‘You don’t know,’ he says. ‘You haven’t got a fucking clue.’

I could argue with that, but I don’t.

‘I’m…I’m sorry.’

‘Good.’ His voice sounds friendly, threateningly friendly as he opens the glovebox and gets out a dark object. Then he turns off the central locking, nods at my door and says, ‘Get out then.’

I’m frozen to my seat, I can’t move. Bilal walks around the taxi and opens my door. He orders me out of the car. I get out with stiff, unwilling legs. What next? What is he doing? What has he got in his hand?

I stand on the grass verge in my bare feet. Bilal is a few steps away from me. The few seconds I’d need to move forward and punch him would be enough for him to shoot me dead.

We look at each other; the silence is broken only by the whispering treetops.

‘Turn around and walk into the woods.’ He points towards the trees, moving gently in the wind.

‘Please…I didn’t mean anything by it. I only wanted to ask you something about—’

‘Turn around,’ he raises his voice.

I see him put his hand in his pocket. I turn on shaking legs and walk around the taxi. As I walk towards the trees, I realise that I should have jumped back into the taxi and turned on the
central locking. But it’s too late for that now.

I hear footsteps behind me – Bilal following me at a distance, his eyes boring into my back, forcing me to the edge of the woods. Something in his hand.

Could I sprint into the dark enclosure? Did Lydia go through the same before she was shot? This crippled, passive waiting? No, Lydia would be gone by now. Lydia would have got behind the wheel and torn off. I can run as fast as I like, but one well-aimed shot will put an end to that.

Oh, this walking, this torturous waiting for the sound, an explosion in my body. I stumble and fall forwards. Muffled footsteps approach me through the grass, and I crawl towards the bushes.

The footsteps stop and something is thrown at me. A hand grenade! All those newspaper articles about terrorist attacks, complete with bombs and hand grenades rush before my eyes.

I get up and stumble away. Into the woods. Quick!

A loud bang breaks the silence. I trip and fall flat on the ground again. But I don’t feel any pain and when I try to move I can.

An engine starts up, then tyres screech. Bilal Assrouti is driving along Kralingse Road. I watch the vehicle until it’s far away, no more than a yellow speck. It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting on the dark edge of the woods. I cry with relief that I’m alone again, that I’m still alive.

I sit there, one moment laughing, the next crying again and completely confused. At last I stand up and hobble towards the road. A light gleams in the grass. I walk over to it and stare in disbelief at my mobile. I put it in my pocket and walk barefoot down the road.

I can barely get the door of my house open. I’ve no energy left after that endless walk. I try to slide the key into the slot with trembling fingers, but I can’t. Finally I give up, let my arms hang
next to my body and take a few deep breaths. After a while, I try again and this time the key glides easily into the slot.

My hallway. My house. I lock the front door and turn all the catches. Once I’m sure that no one can get in, I open the door to the sitting room and turn on the light. I’m home. I’m still alive. I’m not lying dead somewhere in the woods. I’m safe.

I go into the sitting room and see the half-empty glass of wine I’ve left on the coffee table. Next to it are the remote control and the television guide. Did I watch TV before going to Night City? Did I drink a glass of wine? I can only vaguely remember it, as if it all took place in another life. Nothing is the same anymore.

I drink the lukewarm white wine. Drink is not really the right word, I throw it back and feel an urgent need for more. For something stronger, even. I repress the urge and peer into the empty glass. What possessed Bilal to scare the living daylights out of me? Was his plan to terrify me or did he really want to shoot me? Why did he change his mind?

With heavy, exhausted steps, I take the empty wineglass into the kitchen and check the locks on the kitchen door. I turn out the lights in the sitting room and go upstairs. Something moves behind me.

I turn around, but there’s nothing on the stairs beneath me. The coats in the hall hang motionless on the rack, but my feeling of being alone has disappeared.

I drag myself up the stairs, turn on all the lights and get undressed in my bedroom. Without bothering to wash or take off my make-up, I crawl under my duvet and pull it up over my head.

‘He did it,’ I say. ‘He must have done. I don’t know why he didn’t shoot me, but he scared me witless.’

It’s two days since my adventure with Bilal, five o’clock in the afternoon and I’m sitting around a table in a brasserie with Thomas and Sylvie. Like me, Thomas chooses his own work hours and Sylvie has left the salon an hour early to listen to my story.

They are sitting rather pointedly apart and acting normal; I sense that they’ve agreed on this approach. I appreciate it. I don’t know if I could bear them sitting next to me like a pair of turtle doves.

They both look at me with a combination of fascination and horror.

‘I still can’t believe that you went to look for him.’ Sylvie shakes her head. ‘I did warn you, Elisa.’

‘And why didn’t you tell me what you had planned?’ Thomas asks as he lights up a cigarette. ‘You only asked me if I’d go with
you, you didn’t say why you wanted to go there.’

‘Because you’d have tried to stop me,’ I tell him.

‘You’re right about that,’ Thomas says. ‘And I’d have even made sure you didn’t leave your house.’

‘You’d probably have just gone with her,’ Sylvie says and we all laugh. But then there’s another silence.

I rotate a beer mat in my hand. ‘And yet I find it strange that Bilal didn’t hurt me. Everything suggests that he’s the murderer, but I can’t figure out why he let me go.’

‘Why not?’ Thomas says. ‘You’re no threat to him, he just wanted to scare you off.’

‘He would never have got away with it if he’d shot you,’ Sylvie adds. ‘You asked so many people about him.’

I stare ahead. Yes, that’s probably the reason that I’m still alive. To Bilal I was just an irritating fly buzzing around his head, and he wanted to swat me off.

‘He must have done it though,’ I muse. ‘I mean, who else would have wanted to kill Lydia?’

We look at each other.

‘She was good at getting people’s backs up, but whether that’s a reason to murder someone…’ Thomas replies.

‘I wasn’t that fond of her either, but again that’s a stretch.’ Sylvie is apologetic, but I nod that I know what she means about Lydia.

‘But you can’t dismiss it,’ Thomas says. ‘What we might consider a weak motive might be reason enough for someone to commit murder. There are enough nutters around.’

‘Her colleagues?’ Sylvie suggests. ‘There was a lot going on at that school.’

‘I thought about that too, and so did the police,’ I say. ‘They questioned everyone but nothing came to light.’

‘That doesn’t mean they didn’t have motives,’ Thomas counters, ‘just that the police couldn’t find them. You’d be better off talking to her colleagues than hanging about in nightclubs
and getting into cars with strange men in the middle of the night, Elisa.’

We laugh again and look around to see where our drinks have got to.

‘I’ll go to Rotterdam College,’ I say. ‘Or no, I’ll go to Jasmine’s house. It would be better to see her when she’s got time to talk.’

Thomas goes to the bar to see where our drinks are and Sylvie’s eyes track his every movement. ‘Hello!’ I tease.

She looks at me and lets out a guilty laugh. ‘He’s really nice, isn’t he?’

I glance at Thomas at the bar, his broad shoulders, longish dark hair. ‘Yes.’

Thomas returns with the drinks. ‘Here we are, juice for the ladies and a beer for sir.’

He sets the drinks down in front of us with a flamboyant gesture.

My mobile rings.

‘Elisa speaking.’

It’s a fairly desperate Raoul on the line. He’s horribly busy at work and the after-school club isn’t going to stay open late enough for all the overtime he needs to put in. Could I help?

‘Of course,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘What were you going to eat? Do you have anything in?’

‘Sandwiches?’

‘I thought as much. I’ll go do some shopping with Val, and then I’ll cook. See you whenever you get in.’ I cut off his heartfelt thanks by hanging up.

‘Help brigade on call again?’ Thomas asks.

‘He doesn’t ask for that much help,’ I put him straight. ‘Raoul has got everything perfectly sorted.’

‘I keep seeing someone else in his house more and more often when I cycle past,’ Thomas says.

‘What are you doing cycling past there so often?’

Thomas sips his beer and avoids my eyes. And I understand. Even though he’s got something with Sylvie now, he’s still not completely over me. Although I’ve never told him, there’s no doubt that Thomas knows I’ve got a ‘weakness’ for Raoul, to put it lightly. Is he worried that I’ll get into a relationship with Raoul now that the coast is clear? Is that the reason he’s finally succumbed to Sylvie’s advances?

As I cycle to Valerie’s school, I reflect on this further and when I get to the playground I’m smiling. It’s a smile I immediately feel guilty about – why shouldn’t I let Sylvie have Thomas if I don’t want to go out with him myself?

Valerie launches herself into my arms. ‘Elisa!’

She holds me tightly, pressing her face so hard against me that I’m touched, and then concerned. Maybe I haven’t been paying her enough attention recently.

‘Where’s Daddy? Are you staying for dinner?’ Valerie asks both questions in a single breath.

‘Daddy will be a bit late today. And yes, I’m staying for dinner. We’ll go and do the shopping together.’

‘Yes!’ Valerie shouts. She says goodbye to the leader and skips out of school. ‘We’re not having brocklies are we?’

‘No, we’re not having broccoli.’ I unlock my bike and put Val on the back.

‘What then?’ she asks.

‘What would you like?’

‘Chips!’ Valerie shouts.

‘We could also make a nice casserole.’

‘Can I help?’ she asks.

I nod and Valerie wraps her arms around my waist.

‘Just like with Mummy,’ she says. ‘Mummy always let me help too.’

The kitchen fills with the smell of fresh herbs: rosemary, basil and thyme. I love herbs and always use them generously. As the dish bubbles away in the oven, I lay the table and set a candelabra down in the middle.

‘Can I light it?’ Valerie asks.

‘Soon,’ I promise. ‘When Daddy’s home.’

‘Mummy and Daddy had candles as well,’ Valerie comments, giving me second thoughts about the candelabra. As I hesitate over whether to take it away or not, the doorbell rings. Valerie runs to the bay window and looks out.

‘It’s Jennifer’s mummy!’ She rushes to open the door.

Jasmine is standing on the doorstep holding a large pan, a house key dangling from her fingers. We look at each other in surprise.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You’re here? I didn’t know that.’

I contemplate the pan in her hands and Jasmine notices me
looking. ‘I sometimes bring Raoul something to eat. I know this is a busy week for him.’