Jess

Jess

I pull out my phone. Last time I checked Ben hadn’t replied to any of my messages. One on the Eurostar: On my way! And then: At Gare du Nord! Do you have an Uber account?!!! Just in case, you know, he suddenly felt generous enough to send a cab to collect me. Seemed worth a shot.

There is a new message on my phone. Only it’s not from Ben.

You stupid little bitch. Think you can get away with what you’ve done?

Shit. I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. Then I delete it. Block the number.

As I say, it was all a bit last minute, coming here. Ben didn’t sound that thrilled when I called him earlier and told him I was on my way. True, I didn’t give him much time to get used to the idea. But then it’s always felt like the bond between us is more important to me than it is to my half brother. I suggested we hang out last Christmas, but he said he was busy. “Skiing,” he said. Didn’t even know he could ski. Sometimes it even feels like I’m an embarrassment to him. I represent the past, and he’d rather be cut loose from all that.

I had to explain I was desperate. “Hopefully it’ll only be for a month or two, and I’ll pay my way,” I said. “Just as soon as I get on my feet. I’ll get a job.” Yeah. One where they don’t ask too many questions. That’s how you end up in the places I’ve worked at—there aren’t that many that will take you when your references are such a shitshow.

Up until this afternoon I was gainfully employed at the Copacabana bar in Brighton. The odd massive tip made up for it. A load of wanker bankers, say, down from London celebrating some Dick or Harry or Tobias’ upcoming nuptials and too pissed to count the notes out right—or maybe to guys like that it’s just so much loose change anyway. But, as of today, I’m unemployed. Again.

I press the buzzer a second time. No answer. All the building’s windows are dark again—even the one that lit up before. Christ’s sake. He couldn’t have turned in for the night and totally forgotten about me . . . could he?

Below all the other buzzers there’s a separate one: Concierge, it reads in curly script. Like something in a hotel: further proof that this place is seriously upmarket. I press the button, wait. No answer. But I can’t help imagining someone looking at the little video image of me, assessing, then deciding not to open up.

I lift up the heavy knocker again and slam it several times against the wood. The sound echoes down the street: someone must hear it. I can just make out a dog barking, from somewhere deep inside the building.

I wait five minutes. No one comes.

Shit.

I can’t afford a hotel. I don’t have enough for a return journey to London—and even if I did there’s no way I’m going back. I consider my options. Go to a bar . . . wait it out?

I hear footsteps behind me, ringing out on the cobblestones. Ben? I spin round, ready for him to apologize, tell me he just popped out to get some ciggies or something. But the figure walking toward me isn’t my brother. He’s too tall, too broad, a parka hood with a fur rim up over his head. He’s moving quickly and there’s something purposeful about his walk. I grip the handle of my suitcase a little tighter. Literally everything I own is in here.

He’s only a few meters away now, close enough that by the light of the streetlamp I can make out the gleam of his eyes under the hood. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling his hand back out. Something makes me take a step backward. And now I see it. Something sharp and metallic, gleaming in his hand.