Jess

Jess

Theo and I walk to the Metro together. Funny, how after you’ve slept with someone (not that you’d call what we just did up against the sink “sleeping”) you can suddenly feel so shy, so unsure of what to say to each other. I feel stupid, thinking about the time we might have just wasted. Even if, admittedly, neither of us took that much time. It also feels almost like it just happened to someone else. Especially now I’ve changed back into my normal clothes.

Theo turns to face me, his expression solemn. “Jess. You obviously can’t go back to that place. Back into the belly of the beast? You’d be bloody mad.” His tone no longer has that drawling, sardonic edge to it: there’s a softness there. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But you strike me as the kind of person who could be a little . . . reckless. I know you probably think it’s the only way you can help Ben. And it’s really . . . commendable—”

I stare at him. “Commendable? I’m not trying to win some kind of bloody school prize. He’s my brother. He’s literally the only family I have in the entire world.”

“OK,” Theo says, putting his hands up. “That was clearly the wrong word. But it’s way, way too dangerous. Why don’t you come to mine? I have a couch. You’d still be in Paris. You’ll be able to keep looking for Ben. You could speak to the police.”

“What, the same police who supposedly know about that place and haven’t done anything about it? The same police who might well actually be in on it? Yeah, fat lot of good that would do.”

We head down the steps to the Metro together, down onto the platform. It’s almost totally empty, just some drunk guy singing to himself on the opposite side. I hear the deep rumble of a train approaching, feel it behind my breastbone.

Then I have a sudden, definite feeling that something is wrong, though I can’t work out what. A kind of sixth sense, I suppose. Then I hear something else: the sound of running feet. Several pairs of running feet.

“Theo,” I say, “look, I think—”

But before I’ve even got the words out it’s happening. Four big guys are tackling Theo to the ground. I realize that they’re in uniform—police uniforms—and one of them is triumphantly holding a baggie full of something white in the air.

“That’s not mine!” Theo shouts. “You’ve planted that on me—fuck’s s—”

But his next words are muffled, then replaced by a groan of pain as one policeman slams his face into the wall, while another clips cuffs on him. The train is pulling into the platform: I see the people in the nearest carriage staring from the windows.

Then I see that another man is approaching us from the stairs onto the platform: older, wearing a smart suit beneath an equally smart gray coat. That cropped steel-gray hair, that pitbull face. I know him. It’s the guy Nick took me into the police station to meet. Commissaire Blanchot.

Now, thinking wildly back, I make another connection. The figure I thought I recognized in the audience at the club, just before the lights went down. It was him. He must have been following us all night.

The two policemen who aren’t so preoccupied with holding Theo start toward me now: it’s my turn. I know I only have a few seconds to act. The train doors are opening. Suddenly a whole crowd of protestors are pouring from the carriage, carrying signs and makeshift weapons.

Theo manages to turn his head toward me. “Jess,” he calls through a split lip, his voice slurred. “Get on the bloody train.” The guy behind him knees him in the back; he crumples onto the platform.

I hesitate. I can’t just leave him here . . .

“Get on the fucking train, Jess. I’ll be fine. And don’t you dare go back there.”

The nearest policeman lunges for me. I step quickly out of his way, then turn and shove my way through the oncoming crowd. I leap up into the carriage just before the doors close.