Shallow Be Thy Grave (6 page)

“You know what else we need, Lil?” said Jo, as she busied herself with the business of preparing a spliff.

“What?”

“A notebook.”

Lily stood in the doorway to the kitchen. From there she could see right down the hall and into the small, unattractive bedroom. She turned to face Jo. “Why d’we need a notebook?”

“We need to make a plan.  See if you can find something.” She shoved Lily in the direction of the bedroom. “And a pen. I’ll see if there’s anything to drink.”

“There’s coffee,” shouted Jo a moment later. “I’ll make us a brew.”

Lily hesitated at the threshold of the bedroom. Instead, she turned and examined the rest of the rooms. The flat was tiny, Lily realised when she opened the last door off the hallway to find a broom cupboard. It contained, aptly enough, a broom, a dustpan and a bucket and a cardboard box that was taped up. She recognised her sister’s handwriting on the side, ‘to store’. Probably all her stuff from the Beaumonts’. 

Lily went back to the bedroom. She felt bad rummaging around her sister’s bedroom, particularly because it obviously wasn’t just her sister’s room. It belonged to her sister and a total stranger. All they knew about Brigitte was her name.

Lily didn’t discover much else about her from the contents of the room either. The small chest of drawers contained hardly any clothes, a couple of warmer jumpers that Lily didn’t recognise. The wardrobe had another large cardboard box in the bottom of it, again with Fiona’s handwriting, ‘Fiona’s stuff’ on the side. Lily opened the top of it and saw a bundle of books, and hastily-packed clutter, on the top of which lay a stack of letters, tied up with a ribbon. Lily lifted them out and saw that the top one was addressed to Fiona at the Beaumonts. She tried her best to flick through the letters, recognising her own handwriting on some.  She placed them back in the box. It was obvious to her that Fiona had only intended to stay here a while, which would explain why she hadn’t got round to unpacking her boxes. She had probably planned on this being a temporary stop, just until they went inter-railing. Didn’t Madame Beaumont say she’d only moved out last month?

Lily had a thought, a flash of inspiration. She lifted the bottom right corner of the mattress. Nothing. She went round all four corners. Again nothing. She found what she was looking for under the double mattress - an A5 hard-backed book, its cover decorated with squirls and doodles. Fiona’s diary. A pen was tucked in the pages, which had led the spine of the diary to warp. Lily carried it through into the kitchen like an unexploded bomb.

“There’s no milk,” said Jo, as she put the two mugs she was carrying down on the kitchen table. “When did Stuart say they set off?”

“Why didn’t she take her diary?” Lily held it up for Jo to see.

Jo didn’t look concerned. “Maybe she bought a new one especially for the trip. I did. When I went inter-railing, me and my boyfriend, Dan the dickhead, we wrote one between us.”

“Dan?” She’d never heard Jo mention him before either, but Lily’s mind was on other things. She sat down on one of the wooden chairs. The diary didn’t have printed dates on each page. It was a hard-backed, lined notebook that Fiona kept as a journal. Lily flicked through the pages quickly, not stopping to read the words. She turned to the last page of handwriting. “I suppose that makes sense. Her last entry in this,” she closed the green diary and held it up, “was Monday April 29th.”

“What does it say?”

“I feel weird, reading it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Lil.” Jo sparked up the spliff she’d rolled, and held out her hand for the diary as Lily passed it across the table to her. Jo picked it up and then flopped down heavily into the small settee that stood against the far wall and exhaled a great plume of smoke. A moment later she screwed up her face in outraged disgust. “Fucking hell.”

“What?” asked Lily, her heart thumping. “What’s it say?”

“Oh, not that, the spliff.”

“What?”

“Try it.” Jo handed it across to Lily. By each of them stretching as far as they could, they reached each other’s fingertips without having to stand. Lily remained seated at the kitchen table as she took a lungful of smoke. As she exhaled she half expected to see a stream of bubbles come out of her mouth, the taste of soap was so overwhelming. “Oh my God, it’s like having your mouth washed out.” Like her mother used to threaten when she swore. “Disgusting.”

 Jo held out her hand. “Pass it back.”

Lily passed her the spliff and the unused ashtray from the centre of the table. Jo took another drag, disgust still etched in her face, as she balanced the ashtray on the arm of the sofa. “Fuck. Do you think we can still smoke it?”

Lily shrugged. Could they not smoke it, was more to the point. “What does the diary say?”

Jo licked her lips and then spat onto the palm of her hand. She rubbed her hand down the side of her trousers.

“Jo,” said Lily, nodding frantically at diary. “Will you read the fecking thing?”

 Jo opened the first page and licked her lips several times. “It starts January. January 22
nd
1990. So, she’d been in Paris, what?” She didn’t wait for Lily to answer. “Almost a year. Anyway.” She cleared her throat in preparation and began to read, “‘Paris 1990. Still feels exciting to write Paris. I live in Paris. New diary. I love the feeling of a new start that always comes with a new diary.  It’s time to move on. My French is pretty good, even if I do say so myself. Went to the bakery today and the cashier didn’t realise I was English at all!! I only bought three croissants and a pain au chocolat, but even so.  Sebastian threw up in the park. I think I’d been pushing him on the roundabout too long.  Grace brought Angelina and Freddie round in the afternoon and the kids played while we moaned. Felt a bit guilty afterwards. Grace is much worse off than I am. Boeuf bourguignon for supper. Delicious.’”

Jo paused to take another drag on the soap spliff, grimaced and then continued reading, ‘January 29
th
. We’re going to a fair at the weekend. I had goat’s cheese with roasted peppers for lunch. Too tangy.’ Jesus, her diary’s almost as dull as her letters. Why write this crap down? Who cares?”

“Carry on,” said Lily.

“It’s cold, but not as cold as England, thank God. Dad’s on about me going back. He said, ‘why don’t you come home?’ and at first I didn’t know where he meant. I couldn’t say, I don’t feel like I have a home any more. I’ve told him I’ll think about it. Mum’s staying in America for at least another year, she said.’”

“January 30
th
. ‘Just written to Lily. Don’t know why I bother really. It’s not like she ever writes anything back.’” Jo paused, her cheeks pink. “You want me to carry on?”

Lily half rose from her chair, reached across and took the spliff out of Jo’s hand before nodding.

“‘That’s not fair,’” Jo continued to read. “‘She does write, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell me what she thinks. I think she wishes she’d never searched for Dad. I think she wishes we’d all just disappear. Grace is seeing this French bloke, Jean Paul. He’s gorgeous. I’ve told her to ask him if he has a friend!! Don’t know what PS would make of that.’” She glanced across at Lily. “PS?”

Lily shrugged and winced as the taste of soap filled her mouth.

Jo scanned the next couple of pages. “Boring day. Kids driving me mad. They’re so used to getting their own way. I fantasise about killing them and then one of them will say something really sweet and the guilt is terrible. It’s not their fault they’re such spoiled brats.’” Jo’s eyes flickered down the pages, “Oh, what about this? ‘10th February. I’ve done it again. I’m so ashamed. I can’t tell anyone. I just can’t seem to stop myself. I make all these resolutions and then. God, I hate myself.’”

“What’s that about?” asked Lily.

“Dunno. She doesn’t write anything else for a week. ‘Learnt a new French word today. Séduire. It means ‘to seduce’.’”

Lily wiped her mouth on her sleeve and took a long gulp of cold black coffee to try and get rid of the disgusting taste in her mouth. She passed the spliff back to Jo and leant back in her chair, feeling the familiar sensation of the grass rushing to her head, like something inside her had finally reminded her to breathe, relax, let go. She closed her eyes.

The sound of banging on the front door jolted her eyes open a second later. Jo was frozen, eyes wide with fear. She stared at Lily, like she was waiting for her to do something. Neither of them moved. Another bang, like someone was knocking on the door with a sledgehammer. Jo stubbed out the remains of the joint in the ashtray. Quiet. They let the silence hang in the air for a few moments, until it started again. “Fuck,” whispered Jo. “Who do you think that is?”

“How should I know?” asked Lily. “Do you think we should open it?”

A male voice shouted through the letterbox. “Je sais que vous êtes là.”

“What did they say?” asked Lily.

“We know you’re in there,” said Jo at the same moment as the same male voice shouted through the door, louder this time, “Je peux voir les lumières.”

“The lights,” said Jo as Lily got up and went over to the kitchen window. As Lily pulled the blind back a couple of inches, a face pressed itself against the glass and then a fist knocked on the window. Lily jumped and let the blind fall.  The banging didn’t stop and Lily worried the glass would smash.

“I think we’d better answer the door,” said Jo.

They went slowly to the door together, almost tiptoeing down the small corridor. Jo opened the door a couple of inches. A man dressed in dirty jeans and a black bomber jacket stood in the doorway. He was tall, and thin, his skin almost dark enough to be Asian. He seemed as equally surprised to see Jo and Lily as they were to see him. “Où est Brigitte?”

“I could ask you the same question,” said Jo.

“English? Fiona?”

“We don’t know. We’re looking for her. Who are you?”

The man pushed past Jo and into the flat. He went straight into the kitchen. Jo frowned at Lily and then closed the front door. She followed the man into the kitchen. “Do you mind?”

“J’ai besoin de parler à Brigitte.”

“Well, so do we. When did you see her last?”

“What’s he saying?” asked Lily.

“Why do you need to speak with Brigitte?” asked Jo.

He shook his head at both of them.

“Does he know where Fiona is?” asked Lily.

“Où est Fiona? Savez vous?” asked Jo.

He didn’t answer, instead his eyes darted around the room, as if he was expecting to see something.

“They’ve gone inter-railing,” said Jo.

The man stared at Jo. “Inter-railing?”

“Oui. Fiona told her parents.” Jo was raising her voice, like he might understand English if she shouted. “Votre papa.”

“Brigitte? Inter-railing?” His tone of voice suggested this was something he found hard to believe.

“Apparently. Did they not tell you they were going?” The surprise in Jo’s voice, Lily thought, was manufactured.

“I don’t see Brigitte. No...” his voice tailed off.

“When did you last see her?” demanded Jo, her hands on her hips.

He glanced up at her. “Elle n’a pas dit quelque chose à me”

“What’s he saying?” asked Lily again.

“I think he said she didn’t tell him she was going inter-railing.”

“And who are you?” asked Lily. “Are you a friend of Brigitte?”

He nodded his head. His hair was cropped close to the scalp. “Brigitte. Ami.”

“What’s your name?” asked Lily.

“Are you her pimp?” asked Jo. “Souteneur?”

The man looked shocked. But not appalled. Not ‘how dare you slur me with that kind of accusation’ kind of appalled, Lily couldn’t help noticing.

“Is Brigitte a prostitute?” asked Jo.

“Juste lui dire, si vous la voyez, qui Bruno a besoin de lui parler, et rapide.”

“What?” said Jo. “Who’s Bruno?”

He sniffed the air. “Où est le reefer?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jo. But Bruno wasn’t looking at her. He was following Lily’s gaze. He dropped to his knees and ran a hand under the edge of the settee, scooping out the ashtray Jo had pushed under there. He picked up the half spliff and nodded appreciatively at Jo’s craftsmanship. He tucked it behind his ear. As he stood, he caught sight of Fiona’s diary, lying on the settee where Jo had left it, its pages open but face down. He picked it up.

“You can’t take that,” said Jo quickly. “It might be evidence.”

“Evidence?” He regarded them both. “Qu’est-ce que ‘evidence’?”

“Evidence of all sorts,” said Jo mysteriously. She moved towards him, about to grab the book back out of his hands.

But Bruno, or whoever he was, clasped the book to his chest and sidestepped Jo, putting the kitchen table between him and the two women. He stared at them both like he was trying to decide something, then turned and ran from the room, leaving Jo and Lily staring at each other across the kitchen table. It was only the slamming of the front door that jolted either of them into action. Jo reacted first. She turned and ran out of the kitchen after him, Lily only a couple of seconds behind. By the time they got to the stairwell they could hear his feet on the stone stairs. Lily grabbed the bannister and swung herself down the first flight of stairs, overtaking Jo. Retrieving Fiona’s diary was her only thought. She was on the second floor when she heard the front door slam and only seconds behind as she flung herself down the final stairs, the soles of her feet stinging from the jump, even though she was wearing her Docs. By the time she threw herself onto the front street there was no sign of him. She tried jogging down towards the square, but she realised halfway down as her lungs started to sting, she didn’t even know which way he’d gone. She spotted alleyway after alleyway and knew he could have gone down any of them. Dejected, she turned back to the flats.

She had to ring the buzzer, but Jo let her in. Lily climbed the stairs. “What the fuck was that about?” said Jo, her usually pink face quite pale.

Lily’s knees felt weak. She sat down on the wooden chair. “He’s nicked Fiona’s diary.”

She knew she was stating the obvious. She cursed herself. Fiona was totally precious about her diary. Lily had promised herself, all through the last year, that she’d try to think twice before interfering in her sister’s life again. And now here she was, responsible for Fiona’s probably most treasured possession being in the hands of god knows who. The last time she’d interfered in Fiona’s life she’d cost her younger sister her family. Lily screwed up her face, like she could squash the thoughts out of her head. “Do you think Madame Beaumont was right? Do you think Brigitte is a prostitute?”