The Last Witness (34 page)

  Gordon’s elaborate plans might have worked – the train journey for the last stretch so that her car wasn’t visible on the road for too long, the decoy run with her cash-card – if it wasn’t for their flight being delayed by almost two hours. More than enough time for the police to work out possible alternatives and start circling in on her.

  She heard the news first at the check-in desk and it made her head spin. Walking away, she felt nauseous, faint, as if her legs could hardly carry her. The blaring airport tannoy echoed and reverberated inside her head, made it all the worse. She feared she was going to black-out at any second and eased herself down at the first bank of seats only twenty paces from the check-in. Lorena asked if she was okay.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just tired from driving and all the rush.’ Elena didn’t want to let on how frightened she was, her nerves at breaking point. Each police car they’d passed, the ticket guard on the train, another man not far behind who looked from side to side, seemed to be observing everyone as he walked down the aisle… each incident had raised her nerves another notch. ‘And now I’ve just heard that we’ve got a bit of a wait for our flight. Let’s grab a coffee.’

  She smiled and went to take Lorena’s hand, then realized that her own shaking hand would give away her panic – so in the end she just draped her arm over Lorena’s shoulder.

  But her hands were shaking openly on her coffee cup, and seeing the concern in Lorena’s eyes she felt she had to explain. ‘I’m worried that the people who’ll have been looking for you – probably now for the past few hours – might be able to catch up and find us because of this delay now with our flight.’ Elena kept her voice low in case anyone nearby might overhear, but as an extra caution said ‘people’ instead of police.

  ‘But we left that tape to tell them that there was nothing to worry about. I was okay.’

  Elena shook her head and smiled. The naivete of children. If only she could take the same simplistic view to dampen the combined-harvester of nerves churning her stomach. ‘I know. But I think they’ll still come looking for you – for us.’

  Lorena’s eyebrows knitted. ‘But even if they find us – nothing will happen to you, will it?’

  ‘Well, I’m not so…’ Elena’s eyes flickered past Lorena’s shoulder, to a uniformed policeman shifting into view at the back of the room, going over to talk to a man in a grey suit with a walkie-talkie in hand. They seemed to be paying little attention to anyone in the coffee area, but still Elena felt uncomfortable with them so close. ‘I’m more concerned though about you.’ She reached over and gently patted Lorena’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  They spent the next twenty minutes browsing in airport shops, picking up a walkman and two tapes and a Harry Potter from a section with English books to keep Lorena occupied during the flight. Or was it equally for herself so that she didn’t have to brave out any more awkward questions from Lorena: Where are we going? How long will it take? How long will we stay there? Two or three days… it seems a long way to go just for that. Lorena was animated, excited; to her, this trip was an adventure. Whereas Elena felt like a condemned prisoner, too occupied with her impending doom to take up her last moments with idle chat.

  At least she felt less conspicuous rummaging in the back of airport shops, away from open concourses and the view of everybody. But still the occasional policeman or airport security guard would pass and make Elena’s heart leap. And as they finally came back out into the main throng of activity, Elena’s nerves were back to hammering intensity: more policemen, security men with walkie-talkies, customs officials, anti-terrorist guards with sub-machine guns. Just passing the occasional policeman every forty minutes or so on the way to the airport had put her nerves on edge – now she was surrounded by them! Having to pass two whole hours trapped here was Elena’s worst nightmare come true.

  She glanced at her watch: still one hour and eighteen minutes to go. The question was whether to go through customs now and wait out the remaining time airside, or only go through at the last moment? If any alert had come through, that’s where the main check would be. The more she waited, the more the chances of something coming through. But if she went through early and the alert came through afterwards, would her name then be down so that she was just a sitting duck trapped airside for them stop upon boarding?

  ‘It’s okay, don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be alright.’ Lorena reached out and slipped her hand into hers, lightly clasping.

  ‘Thanks. You’re probably right.’
Oh God.
She bit at her lip, suddenly guilty: she should be the one consoling, re-assuring. But it suddenly struck her that this ten-year old girl had practically seen it all: abandonment at only three, shuffled from orphanage to hell-hole orphanage where the mad and infirm were strapped to cots and simply left to cry and scream the nights away, with often only death finally bringing silence; her nightmare sewer days and seeing more of her friends die; and now trying to unscramble the nightmare images in her mind to know if her stepfather was molesting her or not. She was old beyond her years, probably far tougher, far better equipped to deal with this than Elena would ever be.

  Elena dragged Lorena into a gift shop to grab a moment’s more clear thought away from the hustle-bustle – before finally deciding to go through customs straightaway. Not just because she felt she should be putting on a braver face for Lorena, but that with her growing panic if she waited any longer she might not be able to face going through at all.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go.’ She gave Lorena’s hand a re-assuring squeeze, though it was more for herself.

  But within minutes in the customs queue, she was having second thoughts. She was shaking heavily and her legs were weak again, the airport announcements back echoing dizzily – she could hardly understand a word, for all she knew it could be rallying all guards to immediately apprehend her. And at that moment she noticed the plain-clothed guard with earpiece and walkie-talkie a few yards behind the three customs desks ahead, watching hawkishly each person that went through.

  But it was too late to leave the queue and turn back – eight or ten people now behind them – they’d be spotted by the guard ahead, singled out. And so she just continued shuffling numbly forward like a condemned person, almost certain now that there would be no last minute reprieve.

Simone drove blindly for the first twenty minutes, the passing buildings and oncoming traffic blurred with her streaming teams. She was headed downtown, but with no idea where she wanted to go. Certainly not to the office: she’d already begged the morning off with an excuse, and the way she felt she’d probably take the afternoon off as well.

  She didn’t want to see or speak to anyone, or even be near people for a while, so decided in the end to head for Mount Royal Park. She wound her way to the far side of the hillside park and pulled into the parking for the look-outs over East Montreal and towards the North. In the summer, there would always be two or three coaches and several cars. But now, mid-week and barely out of winter, it was deserted all but for two cars and an elderly couple at the last telescope in line. Simone purposely parked furthest away from them.

  She took deep breaths, trying to claw back some composure, but her anger still burned red-raw and her eyes kept filling; she could barely pick out any detail from the blurry landscape ahead. The photos and the deception had been bad enough, but what hurt all the more, what she could never forgive Georges for, was how he’d played her for such a patsy with her father. She felt foolish, used; it made the betrayal far more bitter.

  The elderly couple were ambling back to their car, so she decided to get out. She wiped back her tears and walked across to the rail edge, looking out. There was faint spring warmth in the air from the mid-morning sun, but at the rail a biting wind hit her, making her eyes water again. Snow had all but gone from the city and surrounds, only patches of white could be seen in the distance, towards the totally white Laurentide mountain range on the horizon. She took a deep breath. The isolation was what she wanted to clear her head, but the Laurentides suddenly reminded her of skiing with Georges, and the images on the photos were quickly back, searing through. She needed a drink or three.

  She didn’t want to bump into anyone she knew, so picked out a bar at random on her way through Outremont. She started with a couple of Brandy Collins, but with the effects slow in washing through she went on to tequilas. Two quick shots later and she felt the first glow, her senses mellowing, swimming pleasantly. But she started to feel self-conscious drinking alone among strangers, a few eyes drifting her way and wondering why she was knocking them back so quickly.

  She headed for
Thursdays
. It was more of an evening haunt with her crowd, she wouldn’t bump into any friends, but at least the barman Miguel would be company and good for some advice.

  She went back onto Brandy Collins, was halfway through the first as she looked up thoughtfully and asked him, ‘Could you go for someone like me, Miguel?’

  ‘Yes, I… I suppose so.’ He was cautious, given the possible connotations: come on to a mob girl one week, end up in the river the next.

  ‘I mean…’ She toyed with her swizzle stick. ‘Do you find me attractive?’

  ‘Yes, of course… you’re a real pretty girl. But you’ve already got someone – Georges. I’ve got strict rules about things like that.’ Not necessarily true, he’d fooled around with a couple of married women; but he thought it was the right thing to say, would keep him clear of the river.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ She pulled a face and looked down into her drink. ‘Shame he’s not got the same rule book.’

  They were silent for a second. Miguel could see that she’d been drinking heavily, but her maudlin mood was the main signal that she wanted him to ask, ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She slowly nodded and pushed a rueful smile. ‘I just found out that Georges has been fooling around, cheating on me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He reached out and lightly touched her arm; the closest with consolation he dared get. ‘He’s a fool, that’s all I can say. ‘If you were my girl, well, for sure I wouldn’t treat you like that.’ He said this with conviction. Another step away from the river.

  ‘Thanks.’ Simone patted Miguel’s hand for a second before it was pulled away. ‘That’s–’ Her mobile started ringing ‘–that’s nice of you to say so.’

  Miguel broke away with a pained smile and went to serve some customers at the far end of the bar. She looked at the display: Georges’ office number. She’d promised to phone him midday to let him know how it went. 1.12pm now: obviously he was curious and wondering why she hadn’t called. Let him stew. She let it ring out, then as soon as it had stopped she switched it off. 

  Miguel started to get busy with the lunchtime crowd, so she decided to leave. She didn’t feel like continuing about her problems with others close and, besides, what else was there to say? She knocked back her Brandy Collins and lifted one hand to Miguel, who volleyed ‘Take care now, Simone’ over the fresh people he was serving. The same pained smile. He was concerned about her.

  She ambled down Rue St Catherine, blindly window shopping – her thoughts were still elsewhere – then dived into Eaton’s shopping centre. But some of the shops reminded her of days out with Georges: the boutique where on impulse he’d bought her a dress she liked, the jewellers for her engagement ring… the tears were quickly back again, and she started to feel uncomfortable with so many people milling close, some of them looking at her curiously. She headed out to the street again. She was far too drunk to drive, so hailed a cab to the Latin Quarter. It should be quieter there.

  She dived into an Italian restaurant at the start of Rue St Denis – maybe she’d feel better if she ate something – but could manage only three mouthfuls of lasagne before pushing it away. Though she made good work of the half carafe of red she’d ordered with it, finishing it all. Two calls had come through to her mobile message board since she’d left
Thursdays.
She played them as she ambled away from the restaurant.

  The first was her father:
‘…I’m sorry everything went the way it did earlier. But I don’t want things just left on that note. Call me back as soon as you can.’

  The second was Georges:
‘I tried to get you an hour ago, but it didn’t answer. Please, if you have news on how it went… I’m getting frantic here, Simone. You know how important it…’

  His wheedling tone pushed her over the edge: she smashed her mobile against a lamppost to one side before the message had finished – then gave it three sharp stomps with her right heel. Fragments of plastic and circuit board splayed across the pavement. A waiter from a Vietnamese restaurant to one side was staring at her, and a group of three further down who weren’t quite in focus. She stepped back as if to detach herself from the mess, but her legs felt suddenly weak, unsteady, and she buckled slightly before righting herself. She fixed her gaze finally on a Labbatt’s sign twenty yards away and headed for it; she had enough of her senses left to know that she probably wouldn’t make it much further than that.

  Her hands were still shaking with rage as they wrapped around her glass, another Brandy Collins. She closed her eyes as she took the first few slugs. Bastard. Bastard.
Bastard!
And as she opened them again, she noticed for the first time the guy looking over from the end of the bar: late twenties, pony-tail, black T-shirt cut high on his shoulders – totally inappropriate for the weather, but it showed off his biceps and the small tattoo high on his right arm. Why was it men had some homing device to pick out drunken women who might be easy targets? She looked away, tried not to encourage him. Though maybe that’s what she should be doing: pick up some hunk and get him to fuck her stupid, then send Georges the photos. Let
him
see how it felt.