Jess

Jess

I can’t stop thinking about how Ben sounded at the end of that message. The fear in his voice. “What are you doing here?” The emphasis. Whoever was there in the room, it sounded like he knew them. And then the “What the fuck?” My brother, always so in control of any situation. I’ve never heard him like that. It hardly even sounded like Ben.

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s been there all along, really, growing since last night. But now I can’t ignore it any longer. I think something happened to my brother last night, before I arrived. Something bad.

“Are you going to go back to that place?” Theo asks. “After hearing that?”

I’m kind of struck by his concern, especially as he doesn’t seem the sensitive sort.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel, “I need to be there.”

And I do. Besides—I don’t say this—I don’t have anywhere else to go.

I decide to walk back instead of taking the Metro—it’s a long way but I need to be out in the air, need to try and think clearly. I look at my phone to check my route. It buzzes:

You have used nearly all your Roaming Data! To buy more, follow this link . . .

Shit. I put it back in my pocket.

I pass little chi-chi shops painted red, emerald-green, navy blue, their brightly lit windows displaying printed dresses, candles, sofas, jewelry, chocolates, even some special bloody meringues tinted pale blue and pink. There’s something for everyone here, I suppose, if you’ve got the money to spend. On the bridge I push through crowds of tourists taking selfies in front of the river, kissing, smiling, talking and laughing. It’s like they’re living in a different universe. And now the beauty of this place feels like so much colorful wrapping hiding something evil inside. I can smell things rotting beneath the sweet sugary scents from the bakeries and chocolate shops: fish on the ice outside a fishmonger’s leaving stinking puddles collecting on the pavement, the reek of dog shit trodden into the pavement, the stench of blocked drains. The sick feeling grows. What happened to Ben last night? What can I do?

There have been times in my life when I’ve been pretty desperate. Not quite sure how I’m going to make the rent that month. Times I’ve thanked God I have a half brother with deeper pockets than me. Because, yeah, I might have resented him in the past, for having so much more than I ever did. But he has got me out of some pretty tight spots.

He came and collected me from a bad foster situation once in the Golf his parents had bought him, even though it was in the middle of his exams:

“We have to stick together, us orphans. No: worse than orphans. Because our dads don’t want us. They’re out there but they don’t want us.”

“You’re not like me,” I told him. “You’ve got a family: the Daniels. Look at you. Listen to how you talk. Look at this frigging car. You’ve got so much of everything.”

A shrug. “I’ve only got one little sister.”

Now it’s my turn to help him. And even though every part of me recoils from calling the police, I think I have to.

I take out my phone, search the number, dial 112.

I’m on hold for a few moments. I wait, listening to the engaged tone, fiddling with my St. Christopher. Finally someone picks up: “Comment puis-je vous aider?” A woman’s voice.

“Um, parlez-vous anglais?”

“Non.”

“Can I speak to someone who does?”

A sigh. “Une minute.”

After a long pause another voice—a man’s. “Yes?”

I begin to explain. Somehow the whole thing sounds so much flimsier out loud.

“Excuse me. I do not understand. Your brother left you a voice message. From his apartment? And you are worried?”

“He sounded scared.”

“But there was no sign of a break-in in his home?”

“No, I think it was someone he knew—”

“Your brother is . . . a child?”

“No, he’s in his thirties. But he’s disappeared.”

“And you are certain he has not, for example, gone away for a few days? Because that seems like the likeliest possibility, non?”

I have this growing feeling of hopelessness. I don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere here. “I’m fairly certain, yeah. It’s all pretty fucking weird—sorry—and he’s not answering his phone, he’s left his wallet, his keys.”

A long pause. “OK, Mademoiselle. Give me your name and your address, I will make a formal record and we will come back to you.”

“I—” I don’t want to be on any formal record of anything. What if they compare notes with the UK, run my name? And the way he says, “formal record,” in that bored flat voice, sounds like—yeah, we’ll think about doing something in a couple of years after we’ve done all the stuff that actually matters and maybe a bit of the stuff that doesn’t.

“Mademoiselle?” he prompts.

I hang up.

That was a total waste of time. But did I really expect anything else? The British police have never helped me before. Why did I think their French counterparts would be any different?

When I look up from my phone I realize I’ve lost my bearings. I must have been wandering aimlessly while I was on the call. I go to the map on my phone but it won’t load. As I try to get it to work my phone buzzes and a notification pops up:

You have used up all of your Roaming Data. To buy more, follow this link . . .

Shit, shit . . . It’s getting darker, too and somehow this only makes me feel more lost.

OK. Pull yourself together Jess. I can do this. I just need to find a busier street, then I can find a Metro station and a map.

But the streets get quieter and quieter until I can hear just one other set of footsteps, a little way behind me.

There’s a high wall on my right and I realize, glimpsing a little plaque nailed to it, that I’m skirting a cemetery. Above the wall I can just make out the taller tombs, the wing tips and bent head of a mourning angel. It’s almost completely dark now. I stop.

The footsteps behind me stop, too.

I walk faster. The footsteps quicken.

Someone is following me. I knew it. I round the curve of the wall so I’ll be out of sight for a few seconds. Then, instead of carrying on I stop and press myself back against the wall on the other side. My heart’s beating hard against my ribs. This is probably really fucking stupid. What I should be doing is running away, finding a busy street, surrounding myself with other people. But I have to know.

I wait until a figure appears. Tall, a dark coat. My chest is burning: I realize I’ve been holding my breath. The figure turns, slowly—looking around. Looking for me. They’re wearing a hood, and for a moment I can’t see their face.

Then they take a sudden step back; I know they’ve seen me. The hood falls down. I can see their face now in the light from the streetlamp. It’s a woman: young, beautiful enough to be a model. Dark brown hair cut in a sharp fringe, a mole on her high cheekbone, like a piece of punctuation. A hoodie under a leather jacket. She’s staring at me in surprise.

“Hello,” I say. I take a cautious step toward her, the shock ebbing away, especially now I can see she’s not the threatening figure I’d imagined. “Why were you following me?” She backs away. It feels like I have the upper hand now. “What do you want?” I ask, more insistently.

“I—I’m looking for Ben.” A strong accent, not French. Eastern European, maybe—the thick sound of the “I.” “He isn’t answering. He told me—only if it’s very important—to come to the apartment. I heard you asking about him last night. In the street.”

I think back to when I first arrived at the building, when I thought for a moment I saw a figure crouched in the shadows behind a parked car. “Was that you? Behind the car?”

She doesn’t say anything, which I suppose is as much of an answer as I’m going to get. I take another step toward her. She takes a step back.

“Why?” I ask her. “Why are you looking for Ben? What’s important?”

“Where is Ben?” is all she says. “I must speak with him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to work out. I think something’s happened. He’s disappeared.”

It happens so quickly. Her face goes white. She looks so scared that I suddenly feel pretty scared myself. Then she swears in another language—it sounds like “koorvah.”

“What is it?” I ask her. “Why are you so frightened?”

She’s shaking her head. She takes a few more steps backward, almost tripping over her feet. Then she turns and begins walking, quickly, in the other direction.

“Wait,” I say. And then, as she gets farther away, I shout it: “Wait!” But she starts running.I hurry after her. Shit, she’s fast—those long legs. And I’m skinny but not fit. “Stop—please!” I try calling.

I chase her down onto a busier street—people are turning to look at us. At the last minute she veers off to the left and clatters down the stairs of a Metro station. A couple walking up the steps, arm in arm, break apart in alarm to let her through.

“Please,” I call, pounding down the stairs behind her, gasping for breath, feeling like I’m moving in slow motion, “wait!”

But she’s through the barrier already. Luckily there’s an out-of-order gate that’s been left open: I charge through after her. But as I get to a junction, the right fork leading to eastbound trains and the left to westbound, I realize I have no idea which way she’s gone. I’ve got a fifty percent chance, I suppose: I choose right. Panting, I make it down to the platform to find her standing on the opposite side of the tracks. Shit. She’s staring back at me, white-faced.

“Please!” I shout, trying to catch my breath, “please, I just want to talk to you—”

People are turning to stare at me, but I don’t care.

“Wait there!” I shout. There’s a big rush of warm air, the thunder of an approaching train down the tunnel. I sprint up the stairs, up over the bridge that leads to the other platform. I can feel the rumble of the train passing beneath me.

I clatter down the other side. I can’t see her. People are piling onto the train. I try to get on but it’s full, there are too many bodies packed in there, people are stepping back down onto the platform to wait for the next train. As the doors close I see her face, pale and scared, staring out at me. Now the train’s pulling away, clackety-clacking its way into the tunnel. I glance at the board displaying the route: there are fifteen stations before the end of the line.

A link to Ben, a lead—finally. But I’ve got no chance of working out where she’s going, where she might get off. Or, most likely, of ever seeing her again.