Jess

Jess

He’s coming straight for me, the guy in the parka. He’s lifting his arm. The metal of the blade gleams again. Shit.I’m about to turn and run—get a few yards on him at least—

But wait, no, no . . . I can see now that the thing in his hand isn’t a blade. It’s an iPhone, in a metallic case. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and lean against my bag, hit by a sudden wave of tiredness. I’ve been wired all day, no wonder I’m spooking at shadows.

I watch as the guy makes a call. I can make out a tinny little voice at the other end; a woman’s voice, I think. Then he begins to talk, over her, louder and louder, until he’s shouting into his handset. I have no idea what the words mean exactly but I don’t need to know much French to understand this isn’t a polite or friendly chat.

After he’s got his long, angry speech off his chest he hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket. Then he spits out a single word: “Putain.”

I know that one. I got a D in my French GCSE but I did look up all the swear words once and I’m good at remembering the stuff that interests me. Whore: that’s what it means.

Now he turns and starts walking in my direction again. And I see, quite clearly, that he just wants to use the gate to this building. I step aside, feeling a total idiot for having got so keyed up over nothing. But it makes sense; I spent the whole Eurostar journey looking over my shoulder. You know, just in case.

“Bonsoir,” I say in my best accent, flashing my most winning smile. Maybe this guy will let me in and I can go up to the third floor and hammer on Ben’s apartment door. Maybe his buzzer’s simply not working or something.

The guy doesn’t reply. He just turns to the keypad next to the gate and punches in a series of numbers. Finally he gives me a quick glance over his shoulder. It’s not the most friendly glance. I catch a waft of booze, stale and sour. Same breath as most of the punters in the Copacabana.

I smile again. “Er . . . excuse moi? Please, ah—I need some help, I’m looking for my brother, Ben. Benjamin Daniels—”

I wish I had a bit more of Ben’s flair, his charm. “Benjamin Silver-Tongue,” Mum called him. He’s always had this way of getting anyone to do what he wants. Maybe that’s why he ended up a journalist in Paris while I’ve been working for a bloke affectionately known as The Pervert in a shithole bar in Brighton serving stag dos at the weekends and local lowlifes in the week.

The guy turns back to face me, slowly. “Benjamin Daniels,” he says. Not a question: just the name, repeated. I see something: anger, or maybe fear. He knows who I’m talking about. “Benjamin Daniels is not here.”

“What do you mean, he’s not here?” I ask. “This is the address he gave me. He’s up on the third floor. I can’t get hold of him.”

The man turns his back on me. I watch as he pulls open the gate. Finally he turns round to face me a third time and I think: maybe he is going to help me, after all. Then, in accented English, very slowly and loudly, he says: “Fuck off, littlegirl.”

Before I even have time to reply there’s a clang of metal and I jump backward. He’s slammed the gate shut, right in my face. As the ringing fades from my ears I’m left with just the sound of my breathing, fast and loud.

But he’s helped me, even though he doesn’t know it. I wait a moment, take a quick look back down the street. Then I lift my hand to the keypad and punch in the same numbers I watched him use only a few seconds ago: 7561. Bingo: the little light flickers green and I hear the mechanism of the gate click open. Dragging my case after me, I slip inside.