Together by Christmas

by Karen Swan

  She fell still as she opened it up and he looked straight back at her off the page. Even one-dimensional and inanimate, he made her catch her breath. That gaze, so unflinching, so steady . . .

  She stared back at him, not having to look away for once, and as she stared and studied and examined him, she realized what it was about him that drew her; there was a familiarity to him she had sensed but not understood, but she saw now it was because he looked at her exactly the same way as her previous subjects – not the glossy, starry types she shot here in Amsterdam, but the refugees, the victims, the women and children living in bombed-out shelters, the men carrying their wounded comrades to safety. There was honesty in their gazes, ‘Why?’ in their eyes, ‘Help us’ on their lips. There was no time for pretence when bombs were falling; no one posed or worried about angles when the ground was shaking beneath their feet. And that was what she saw in him. He was a man without a mask. No game, no propaganda, no agenda. She hadn’t needed to shoot multiple variations; he had given her the story with just one look and she knew exactly what he wanted—

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh my God, that’s so meta!’ Bart exclaimed.

  Lee looked up at him, hearing the excitement in his voice and following his gaze to find Sam, the man himself, coming through the doors.

  ‘Hi!’ she exclaimed. This was his second surprise appearance in forty-eight hours, practically bordering on a habit. She had been expecting an email or a call from him – not a personal visit.

  ‘How crazy is that?’ Bart trilled. ‘We’re literally just looking at your pictures.’

  Sam jammed his hands into his jeans pocket, his eyebrows hitched up but his gaze returning to her. Still wary. Still against his better judgement. And yet, despite that, still here. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘No!’ Lee said at the same time, shooting Bart a warning look. ‘We have to let the client see them first. It can lead to all sorts of issues otherwise.’ She shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Like me insisting on having my jaw retouched or only having images showing my best side?’ he deadpanned. She remembered his amusement when she’d asked whether he’d wanted hair and make-up artists on her set. He didn’t really care how he looked, this shoot hadn’t been important to him.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ she relented. ‘Just a quick look. But I’m not indulging any requests. The client has editorial control.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ He walked over and bent down beside her, his gaze raking over the images on her desk. His sudden proximity felt disconcerting and, though he wasn’t looking at her, she somehow felt that he had nonetheless ensnared her in his peripheral vision, their mutual gazes crossing over one another like the shadows of swords.

  He studied the black-and-white images in silence. At a glance, there was almost nothing between them – she hadn’t used any props; he’d barely even sat down. He had simply tipped his chin fractionally in some, looked from the corner of his eye in others as she prowled around him, crossed his arms in yet others. But without exception, he had not broken eye contact with the camera from the moment of her first click and it was his gaze – pinpoint-focused – that made the picture. The simplicity and honesty in his eyes was arresting, mesmeric. She felt his soul was there for everyone to see, but she hadn’t drawn it out of him; she wasn’t the genius who had tapped a hidden core – rather, he had given it freely. These images were about his power, not hers.

  He nodded, straightening up again. ‘I see.’

  ‘You see?’ Bart laughed. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘They’re very nice.’

  ‘Ni—?’ Bart’s jaw dropped to the floor.

  ‘Well, I’m no expert on what makes a good photo. And even less on what makes a good photo of me.’

  ‘The photographer. The photographer is what makes it a good photo. I mean, you know who she is, right? Lee Fitchett?’

  ‘Of course. She won the Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Photography in 2015 with Harry Cunningham.’ Sam’s gaze slid back to her meaningfully as he said the name. Who is Harry? he had asked at the party. Well, he knew now.

  Lee swallowed. ‘Bart, I’ll, uh . . .’ Words had fled her mind. She felt thrown. ‘Get some coffee, will you.’

  With a groan, Bart wandered off. Lee watched him walk over to the coffee machine. ‘Did you make the call? Have you heard anything?’ she asked in a low voice, although she wasn’t quite sure why; it wasn’t like what she had asked him to do for her was a secret.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve just come from there. You were right. They did have a map, so they could be sure the dispersion around the city was even.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She couldn’t believe it. It had been a wild, desperate guess. ‘So where was it left, then?’

  ‘Well, if you’re free now, I’ll take you there myself.’

  ‘You? But . . . why can’t you just tell me?’

  ‘Because those are my terms.’

  She looked back at him in astonishment. ‘. . . You have terms? Since when?’

  ‘Since I went to the great trouble of visiting my publishers and haranguing my marketing team till I got the information you wanted.’

  Lee stared back at him. He wasn’t smiling, but nonetheless she detected a hint of a tease in his words. She also sincerely doubted the women in his marketing team felt harangued by him; they had probably been delighted to be bothered by him. ‘Okay, fine. Show me, then. I can spare an hour or so.’ She reached for her coat. ‘Bart, I’m going out.’

  ‘What?’ He turned, holding two cups in his hands. ‘But what about your coffees?’

  ‘You have them.’

  ‘But I’m detoxing.’

  ‘Just drink them, Bart.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘On a mission. I’m on my mobile if you need me.’

  ‘Are you coming back? What should I say if De Telegraaf ring again? Will you do the interview? Lee?’

  But the door was already swinging on its hinges.

  They stood in Spui Square, although ‘square’ was a misnomer: it was rectangular, being on the site of a filled-in canal. The streets were cobbled and the trees all had flat-tops that Lee knew gave a neat, decorative effect in full leaf but which, bare-armed in the depth of winter, had a distinctly military feel.

  She had been here a thousand times over the past five years, but today she stared around with a zealous, hungry newcomer’s gaze. The stall-holders for the weekly Monday morning flea market were packing away the remnants of their wares, a tour group of Japanese tourists walking through with matching orange baseball caps towards the gate to the not-so-hidden Begijnhof courtyard. A row of mopeds stood lopsided on their stands, a rack of bikes behind them. She started scanning for recognizable faces, but even just at a glance, she guessed there must be over seventy people in the vicinity. And that was just the people outside. The square was encircled by coffee shops and bookshops – this was book-lovers’ central – and at the far end stood a Christmas tree. Not huge, but it had been prettily decorated with lights and Lee’s heart automatically lifted at the sight of it; she was always grateful for these little mementos of her own cultural festivities.

  But Sam was already heading towards the large bronze statue in the centre of the cobbles. It was of an urchin boy – Het Lieverdje. He wore a cloth cap and tattered clothes, with rags wound around his legs and feet. His hands were positioned on his hips in a mildly insolent pose, a raffish smile on his open face. He was supposed to represent the mischievous street children – pranksters but with hearts of gold; supposedly it was modelled after one who had jumped into a canal to save a drowning dog – that was the legend, anyway.

  ‘So, she said she put it there,’ Sam said, stopping at the statue and pointing to the narrow gap between the bronze boy’s skinny calves. ‘A week last Thursday.’

  ‘Right,’ Lee murmured, turning on the spot, feeling her conviction begin to fade. This square was right beside Singel; it was a huge cut-through, probably used by
tens of thousands of people a day. What were the chances of ever being able to identify the one person who had chanced upon a single left-behind book? She looked back at him and she could see the bemused ‘What now?’ look in his eyes. She felt a burst of frustration; she didn’t appreciate failing. ‘You know this is all your fault?’ she said irritably.

  ‘How is it my fault?’

  ‘Because you started this, leaving your little gifts lying around the place. If you hadn’t done that, I might actually be able to sleep at night instead of wondering who it is that so desperately needs my help.’

  ‘Whoever needs your help could have asked for it without defacing my book.’ He watched her. ‘Besides, I was doing a nice thing.’

  ‘It’s glorified littering.’

  ‘It’s generosity,’ he insisted with a bemused laugh, his light mood only serving to darken hers. ‘What’s so wrong with wanting to do something good? To improve someone’s day?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘What are you? A saint?’

  ‘No. I’m just a guy who thinks that sometimes it’s nice to get something for nothing, to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.’

  Well, wrong place, wrong time was the story of her life; but in spite of her sangfroid demeanour, she still felt the twitch of shock fire up in her muscles at his words. She had never met anyone like him before. She was used to angry men – commandos and marines, rebel fighters, dictators, fundamentalists, bigots, misogynists. Everyone out with something to prove. Generosity of spirit wasn’t something she’d encountered much before. His was the very opposite of a war-zone mentality.

  ‘. . . So what now, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Ugh . . . I’m not sure.’ She repositioned her kitten hat, fidgeting, feeling completely at a loss. She’d been so sure she had a new purpose, so sure she could deliver on it. But standing here . . . She could stand here 24/7 for a month and still not see anyone she recognized; and even if she did, they still might be entirely unconnected to the book and the message.

  His brow furrowed. ‘Well, how did you envision this going?’

  ‘I didn’t. I thought I’d just . . . know when I got here.’ She bit her lip.

  ‘And that’s worked for you before, has it?’

  ‘I like to work off my instincts, yes.’ She ignored his sarcasm as she looked around the square again. ‘But I’ll admit I was hoping the book had been left somewhere . . . smaller.’

  ‘Yes. That would have been helpful.’

  They stood on the cobbles together, watching people cycle past, a woman struggling with a bag of shopping, everyone bundled up in heavy coats, hats and scarves, going on to somewhere else. She looked up sharply, wondering if there were CCTV cameras, but she knew she had no power to access the footage, regardless.

  ‘Well, do you want to just . . . wait it out, then?’ he asked. ‘See who goes by?’

  ‘I suppose so, but—’ She shivered. ‘It’s just so cold. I can’t believe it’s not snowing.’

  ‘It is in Friesland.’ He looked around, blowing on his own hands to keep warm. ‘Let’s get a coffee. We can watch from over there, surely?’

  He led her towards a cafe. It was tiny and unprepossessing, with a brown awning and only two windows facing onto the square; but it did give directly onto the statue. There was plenty of seating outside, but the wind was far too bitter for anyone to endure today, and there were a few bar stools by a bench along the windows to sit at indoors.

  ‘How do you like your coffee?’ he asked as she shrugged off her tartan coat.

  ‘Strong and black,’ she said absently, throwing her coat over some stools. She looked around for the loos and saw the ladies signposted behind the corner. ‘I’ll be right back. Just keep an eye on my coat?’ she added as she passed, even though there was only one other customer in there. She rounded the wall – and collided headlong with a man rushing towards her. For a moment it seemed as though nothing happened at all; time itself seemed suspended. But then she heard something crash to the floor, she felt hands on her arms, brown eyes on hers – and the cafe receded . . .

  Brown eyes. White teeth.

  ‘Right, it’s looking good,’ Cunningham said in a low voice, coming back over, his shades back down again. Lee straightened up. She had been sitting in a crouch, capturing the boys as they began playing football again, the mothers sitting as still as chess pieces in the narrow strip of shade, protecting, feeding the babies. None of them seemed to mind the intrusion of her camera now. They were Moussef’s friends.

  ‘He says the girls are in an abandoned building on the fringes of the village. They’re intending on pushing for the border tonight, so we don’t have the luxury of time. It’s now or never.’

  He looked at her and she nodded, knowing what he was asking. They both knew this story would be huge, global . . . and he had to be the one to break it. He’d made his career on just such scoops as this. But might he finish on it too? Nothing would ever top this, and with sixty beginning to loom on his horizon, even he couldn’t keep doing this forever. They both knew a time was coming when he would have to hang up his boots and retire to a life of feathered luxury and lie-ins, daunting and unwelcome though that might be. Had he faced up to there being another world to this one they knew? Had she?

  A shadow fell over them both. They looked up.

  ‘My friends,’ Moussef said in heavily accented English, coming to stand by them, and Lee had to force herself not to react to his powerful body odour. Running water and soap, air conditioning in bombed-out buildings . . . These were luxuries denied to all out here. ‘You must be hungry.’

  ‘We’re fine thank you, we can get some food afterwards,’ Lee replied without thinking. She just wanted to shoot and be gone.

  Moussef looked at her, seeming surprised she could speak – then laughed. ‘Nonsense. They are starving inside the city lines. But we country peasants’ – his voice was inflected with irony – ‘we have vine leaves, baba ghanoush, halloumi, goat . . . Come, eat with us.’

  ‘But the girls—?’ Lee queried.

  Moussef’s dark eyes burned into her, though his smile never faded, and she sensed he didn’t like that she spoke to him directly, unbidden. Her eyes met Cunningham’s and she saw the wariness in his expression too. Almost imperceptibly, Moussef shook his head. ‘They can only move under cover of darkness. We have time.’ He waved an arm towards the low building. ‘Please. I must insist.’

  ‘Your hospitality is much appreciated, my friend,’ Harry said, taking the attention off her and walking in with him. ‘Mmm, what is that smell?’

  ‘Saj bread. It is good, no?’ Moussef said proudly.

  Lee closed her eyes as she followed them in too, savouring the aroma. A middle-aged woman in a hijab was sitting on a low stool, a flat wheel of dough spread over a domed black surface set on bricks; a red-hot fire was blazing beneath, stoked by the straw that was strewn over the floor and fed in. At the window, a flat-pile rug was nailed up to act as a curtain and screen, mattresses on the floor in the corners.

  Immediately, Lee began clicking. The impulse was as automatic as breathing.

  ‘Come through, come through,’ Moussef said, ushering them into the next room where food had been laid out, meze style, on low tables.

  ‘This is incredible, thank you, Moussef,’ Cunningham said, smiling broadly as they stood at the doorway, admiring the feast, before passing through. ‘You honour your cousin.’

  Moussef bowed his head at the compliment.

  Lee passed by, nodding her thanks too and feeling her mouth water at the aromatic smells—

  She gasped, loudly, reflexively. Moussef’s hand had slid between her thighs and ridden up and he was openly grabbing her crotch, as though she was a brood mare being assessed for suitability. It wasn’t just the action that was so shocking but his matter-of-factness about it too. As though this was his right.

  Cunningham heard the gasp and turned back in one fluid movement to find Lee’s hand on Moussef’s ar
m, unsuccessfully trying to detach it, the two of them caught in a push–pull freeze.

  ‘My apologies, Moussef,’ he said, rushing back but still calm, a smile upon his mouth. ‘I should have explained – Lee is my photographer. I apologize, the mistake is mine.’ He pressed his hand to his chest. ‘I should have made it clear. She is my photographer, that is all.’

  Lee felt her breath coming hard – anger, fear, indignation at Cunningham’s words boiling her blood. But by allowing Moussef to save face, he was saving her; she knew this was a game they had to play. It wasn’t the first time such an altercation had happened and it wouldn’t be the last. It was why all the female journalists she knew out here wore swimsuits beneath their clothes – anything to buy time should the worst happen. All women were vulnerable here – refugees were raped at border checkpoints, women brought into jails and raped in front of their husbands – but western women in particular were seen as fair game. Infidel meat.

  Moussef smiled again, his white teeth like piano keys, as he removed his hand easily from her grasp, from her crotch. ‘I did not realize, my friend. I thank you for explaining, it is not always clear, you understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cunningham agreed, the ball of his jaw pulsing only once.

  Moussef’s smile broadened. He looked back at Lee too. ‘Then it is all good between us! Come. Let us eat.’

  ‘Lee?’

  She blinked.

  Sam was standing in front of her, holding her arms, holding her up, a look of utter panic on his face. She realized she was shaking, sweating, gasping for air.

  ‘Lee, are you okay?’ He looked stricken.

  She stared back at him, feeling her mind begin to clear, the sounds, the smells, the colours of her past begin to fade away, those sharp-toothed creatures disappearing back into the night again. She was in a coffee house, in Amsterdam. She was safe.

  She felt his hand smooth her hair back from her face; she saw sadness in his eyes. ‘Lee.’