A Week Later: Jess

A Week Later

Jess

We sit in silence across the Formica table, my brother and I. Ben knocks back the espresso in its little paper cup. I tear one end from my croissant and chew. This may be a hospital café but it’s France, so the pastries are still pretty good.

Finally, Ben speaks. “I couldn’t help myself, you know? That family. Everything we never had. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted them to love me. And at the same time, I wanted to destroy them. Partly for living off women who might have been Mum, at one stage in her life. But also, I suppose, just because I could.”

He’s looking bloody awful: half his face covered in dark green bruising, the skin above his eyebrow stapled together, his arm in a cast. When we sat down the woman next to us gave a little start of shock and glanced quickly away. But knowing Ben he’ll have an attractive scar to show for it soon enough, one he’ll work into his charm offensive.

I brought him to the hospital in a taxi: with cash from his wallet, naturally. Explained that he’d had a fall on his moped near his apartment, got a pretty bad head injury. Said he’d made it back to his place and collapsed there, totally out of it, until I turned up and saved the day. It raised a few eyebrows—crazy English tourists—but they’ve treated him.

“Thanks,” he says, suddenly. “I can’t believe what you went through. I knew I should have told you not to come and stay—”

“Well, thank God you didn’t, right? Because I wouldn’t have been able to save your life.”

He swallows. I can tell he doesn’t like hearing it. It’s uncomfortable, acknowledging that you need people. I know this.

“I’m sorry, Jess.”

“Well, don’t expect me to rescue you next time.”

“Not just for that. For not being there when you needed me. For not being there the one time it really mattered. You shouldn’t have had to find her alone.”

A long silence.

Then he says, “You know, in a way I’ve always been jealous of you.”

“For what?”

“You got to see her one last time. I never got to say goodbye.” I can’t think of anything to say to this. I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than finding her. But maybe a part of me understands.

Ben glances up.

I follow his gaze and see Theo in a dark coat and scarf, hand raised, on the other side of the windows. I might have lost my phone but luckily I still had his business card in my stuff. With his split lip he now looks like a pirate who’s been in some sort of duel. He looks good, too.

I turn back to Ben. “Hey,” I say. “Your article. You still have it, right?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes. Christ knows what they did to my laptop, but I’d already backed it up to my Cloud. Any writer worth their salt knows that.”

“It needs to come out,” I say.

“I know, I was thinking the same thing—”

“But,” I hold up a finger. “We have to do it right. If it publishes, the police will have to look into the club. And those girls who work there—most of them will get deported, right?”

Ben nods.

“So it’ll be even worse for them than it is now,’ I say. I think of Irina. I can’t go back . . . it wasn’t a good situation. I think of how she spoke about wanting a new life. I promised that if I found Ben, I would find a way to help her. I’m definitely not going to be responsible for her being sent home. If we get this wrong, only the vulnerable will get screwed, I know this.

I look at Ben and then at Theo as he crosses the room to join us. “I have an idea.”