by Karen Swan
She took a breath, stepping back, feeling her legs take the weight again. ‘I’m okay.’
‘What just happened?’
She took another step back. She needed air, to get away. Everyone was staring at her. Sam. The girl behind the counter. A man in a brown uniform with just a tray and no cups. A man with brown eyes.
Brown eyes.
She looked away and did what she should have done back then.
She ran.
Chapter Fifteen
The morning light was soft in her room, diffuse, as though she was looking at it through a veil. For a few rare moments she had a feeling of utter peace, as though nothing bad ever could happen, and never had. But the sound of breathing beside her intruded on her consciousness and she turned her head to find Jasper fast asleep next to her. She sighed, anxiety pinching at her; she didn’t remember him coming in, which was a sure sign the nightmares must have been bad. They were getting steadily worse again; more often than not now, she was waking to find him beside her, his tiny hand in hers.
She felt her heart break. This was all wrong. She should be protecting him.
He was lying on his side and curled up like a shrimp, his thumb in his mouth as he clutched Ducky; she wriggled over and kissed his temple tenderly, loving that he still had his baby smell. She always used to tell him that, even blindfolded, she would be able to travel the world and find him by the smell of his head alone.
She watched him as he slept, untroubled. Unbroken. Somehow, in spite of everything, in spite of her, he was perfect—
Her phone buzzed with a text and she reached for it. ‘Are you awake?’
The number wasn’t logged in her phone, and yet she knew exactly who it was from.
‘Why?’ she replied.
‘I’m on your doorstep.’
She stared at the words, feeling her muscles clench in unwelcome surprise as the full reality of her wholly imperfect world crashed back into her consciousness. Yesterday’s panic attack – he’d come for an explanation. She had run out on him when all he’d done was help.
She slid out of bed and pulled the duvet over Jasper’s shoulders. She kissed him on the temple again and slipped from the room, tying her dressing gown – a vintage kimono – over her pyjamas. She quickly brushed her teeth and ran some drops of serum over her face. It was as far as her efforts towards early morning acceptability went.
She unlocked the various bolts, locks and chains, and Sam got up from sitting on her top step. He looked at her carefully, as though searching for signs of bruises. ‘You left this.’ He held out her tartan coat, carefully bundled in a roll.
‘Oh!’ She had forgotten all about it yesterday; she hadn’t felt the cold as she’d raced through the streets, back home, onto the sofa where she had slept dreamlessly, heavily, until it had been time to collect Jasper; the flashbacks always drained her. She had been steeling herself to go back to the coffee house today to collect it. ‘Thank you.’
She clutched it to her, unable to meet his gaze. ‘. . . Do you want to come in?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I just wanted to catch you before you left for the day.’
‘Oh.’ She shifted her weight, knowing she had to explain herself. Give him something to understand. ‘Look, Sam—’
But he stepped forward and silenced her with a kiss. Nothing dramatic. It wasn’t like the urgent first kiss in the kitchen that had left her feeling so confused, wanting more; this was gentle, soft. Complete. It said what words couldn’t. It told her that words weren’t needed.
He stepped back again. ‘Goodbye, Lee.’
Mute, floored, she watched him go down the steps. Was that it? No one had ever kissed her before without it leading to something. A kiss had never been just a kiss, in her experience.
His bike was propped against the lamp post and he cocked a leg over the top frame, glancing back at her before he pedalled off. No wink, no smile, no intimacy to hint at the moment they’d just shared. Like she might almost have imagined the whole thing.
Heart still booming, she watched him pedal out of sight, turning onto the next bridge and heading towards the grand Prinsengracht canal. He had his head tucked low, keeping out of the wind, looking like an ordinary person when really she was beginning to suspect he was anything but.
She might have expected many reactions to her behaviour yesterday, but tenderness hadn’t been one of them. The ground kept moving beneath their feet and she never quite knew where things were between them. They weren’t lovers but nor were they strangers or friends; not colleagues and yet they’d worked together; they weren’t dating but they were jealous; they kept saying goodbye and yet walking back into each other’s lives. For something that was supposed to have been fleetingly simple, it was already so complicated.
He had gone again and she turned to go back in, but her gaze sharpened into focus on a couple walking briskly over the bridge, their heads dipped too. Something in their gait caught her eye, familiar. It took her a moment to register that it was Gus from next door – but the woman he was with wasn’t Lenka.
‘Oh no,’ she sighed, feeling a pang of sorrow for her shy, pretty neighbour. She was unable to see from this distance whether they were holding hands, unable to make out anything except that the woman had short, bleached blonde hair. It could all be perfectly innocent, of course. But in her experience, it usually wasn’t.
‘Lee? It’s me.’ Dita’s signature husky voice was crystal clear down the line; she could have been talking from the other side of the desk, not the other side of the world.
Lee hadn’t even got her coat off as she’d lunged for the phone. Bart was coming in late this morning, stopping off first to get the stroopwafels for today’s shoot.
‘Dita! How was Pyongyang?’
‘About as enjoyable as eating my own leg.’
‘Huh. Powerful image.’ Lee sank into her chair and swung back on it, letting her own legs go floppy. She had felt in an unaccountably good mood since Sam’s visit yesterday morning; she told herself that if nothing else it had broken the monotony of her morning routine, but she was still quietly fizzing with the anticipation of his next surprise visit, waiting for some kind of follow-up text or call . . . ‘Where are you now?’
‘Hong Kong. Listen, can you talk? Is anyone with you?’
‘No, I’m on my own. Why? What’s up?’ She hadn’t yet had her constitutional coffee, but Lee’s mind was already sharpening up. There was only one reason why Dita would be calling. Her old friend didn’t do social calls.
‘Cunningham’s in Kobanî.’ Straight to the point.
Lee dropped her head into her hands. ‘Right.’ She’d known it; her every instinct had told her as much as soon as she’d heard he’d crossed the border at Jarabulus. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Derek Blasenberg thinks he saw him.’
‘Thinks?’
‘Said he would have been 100 per cent certain it was Cunningham except the guy didn’t react when he called his name. Didn’t look over, nothing. Acted like he hadn’t heard anything. Like he didn’t even speak English.’
‘That’s weird.’ She bit her lip, thinking hard. That wasn’t like Cunningham; he knew everyone and everyone knew him; he loved the fraternity out there. ‘Could he be injured, do you think? Head injury? Amnesia?’
‘Always possible.’
Lee winced, trying not to think of the possible ramifications of that – Harry wandering disoriented in a war zone. There was no one to help out there. No doctors, no UN, no MSF. ‘So where is he now? Did Blasenberg see where he went?’
‘No, the shelling’s bad there at the moment, he only saw him momentarily. But he said he heard later that an American had been asking for a ride to one of the villages.’
She felt her heart stutter at the last word. ‘Which one?’ she murmured, willing Dita not to say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. There was still a chance . . .
‘Khrah Eshek.’
Lee dropped her head into
her hands.
‘. . . Lee, are you there?’
It was several moments before she could speak again. ‘Yeah, I’m here.’
‘You know I know what that place is to you.’
‘I know.’
‘So what’s he doing back there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t heard from him?’
‘Not meaningfully.’
‘What does that mean, Lee?’
She groaned, frustrated. ‘He called, but it was a bad line. He’s written a letter but seemingly not sent it. Clearly there’s something he wants to tell me, but I don’t know what it is.’
There was a puzzled pause. ‘It’s not like Cunningham to write a letter. He’s hardly the sentimental type.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Suggesting, again, that this is somehow personal.’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he just wants to follow up on . . . what happened next. Get the sequel. You know Cunningham, always got to tell the story.’
‘But there is no story. ISIL is dead. The international coalition regained control of the Kobanî canton almost immediately.’
‘There are still smaller cells operating out there, though, isolated pockets of fighters still battling for the caliphate cause,’ she said, desperately reaching.
‘Precisely. And if any one of them gets hold of him . . . He’s got no mandate, no official papers, no sanction, no protection. ISIL will kill him on the spot – or worse, they won’t – they’ll keep him alive, torture him, film it, make a spectacle of it, use him for propaganda—’
‘Dita, stop!’
Dita sighed. ‘Look, Lee, you and I both know there’s no protection for journalists out there, even with the right passes. In this war, everyone’s a target – civilians, press, doctors, kids – but he would be their dream catch. The headlines they would garner . . . If ISIL get hold of him, they won’t give a damn if he’s got paperwork, I know that. But I also know that if anything happens to him and it comes out that he was out there without it, on a personal agenda . . . we can’t let that happen.’
‘Cunningham won’t get caught, Dita.’
‘How can you say that? You did.’
The words were like an uppercut, sending her reeling, pushing her back and making her head ring and her chest tight. She could feel the shadows reach for her.
Dita’s voice was low – apologetic but not repentant – when she spoke again. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not happening on my watch. Not again. I’m not taking the risk.’
Lee frowned. ‘What do you mean? Dita, what have you done?’
There was a short silence. ‘I’ve reported it.’
‘No! You can’t, he’ll go nuts!’
‘It’s for his own protection. I don’t know what happened between you two back then and I don’t need to know; it’s your business, I respect that. All I know is that he’s gone back out to the last place the two of you worked together before you threw it all in. As far as I can make out, he’s risking his life and his legacy, and our reputation and our integrity – for you.’ Lee heard Dita take a deep inhale at the other end of the line, the other side of the world. ‘You say you don’t know what this is about but you’re holding something over him, Lee, and I think he’s trying to make it right.’
Lee couldn’t speak, couldn’t deny it; tears were shining in her eyes.
‘So the next time he surfaces, the Americans have authority to arrest him on sight and send him back on the next plane. I’m sorry, Lee, but whatever this is – it’s over.’
It was a full moon, the street bathed in a pale lunar glow. Somewhere a cat was mewling, but other than that, there was an unfamiliar silence. The canal was now thickly iced – the tour boats had stopped running several days ago on the bigger waterways – so that the gentle hush of sluiced water and the low chug of passing boats had come to an abrupt stop. Everything felt held in abeyance, habits disrupted, behaviours modified. The ducks were waddling on ice, and so were they, the cobbles becoming treacherously silky in the endless frosts.
Lee struggled down the steps with the bin bags, in her socks and sheepskin-lined Birkenstocks. It wasn’t a good look.
‘Ah Lee! Good evening.’
She looked up to see Pabe, her elderly neighbour, standing at the door, holding onto the frame.
‘Oh hi, Pabe, long time no see.’ She saw a bin bag by his feet and his walking stick in one hand. ‘Here, let me put that in the bin for you,’ she said, replacing the lid on hers and jogging quickly up his steps. She took the bin bag from him and carried it back down again, dropping it in his bin. A twenty-second job for her; a five-minute job and potential hip-replacement for him. ‘These steps are so slippery, you need to be really careful. Have you got good treads on your shoes?’
He chuckled. ‘You sound just like my daughter.’
Lee grinned, hoping not. His daughter was a senior school teacher with a voice that could project. ‘How is Marta? I haven’t seen her lately.’
‘No, you wouldn’t have. She’s moved to Antwerp with her husband. His job.’
‘Oh.’ Lee was surprised. ‘Well, that’s great news, for them. But how about you? She was here several times a week, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, she’s a good daughter.’
He hadn’t answered her question, she noticed. ‘Is anyone . . . helping you?’ He had to be ninety if a day and his walking was so weak he didn’t so much lift his feet off the floor as sweep it with a soft shuffle.
‘Oh yes, I’ve got a new helper coming after Christmas.’
‘Christmas? But that’s two weeks away yet. Who’s doing your shopping and cleaning till then?’
He waved a hand weakly. ‘Marta stocked up for me before she left, so I can manage until they get here.’
Lee stared at him. ‘Pabe, forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but that’s not right. You are . . . a man of a certain age. You can’t be doing that on your own.’ It was a wonder to Lee that he still lived here, alone, at all. The stairs in all these canalhouses were so steep.
‘Oh, you’re kind, but I assure you I’m fine.’
Lee was not at all convinced he was. He’d never been a big man, but he looked to her like he’d lost some weight; his clothes were hanging and looked grubby, stains on his jumper.
‘How was your Pakjesavond?’ she asked instead, shivering, trying to stay warm. She had only intended to nip out to the bins, not stand chatting in the street.
‘It was just a quiet one for me. I don’t need too much excitement at my age. I thought I heard merriment on your side, though?’
‘Yes, that would have been Jasper trying to shoot us with his Nerf gun . . . They’re only foam darts, but you still want to get away,’ she said, smiling at the memory. From a wobbly start, it had become a surprisingly fun evening and she had miraculously managed not to marmalize the salmon. ‘I hope we didn’t disturb you?’
‘Not at all. It’s wonderful to hear laughter.’
Lee smiled, seeing how his hand tremored, blue-tinged. She was cold but he looked frozen. Her brow puckered again. ‘Listen Pabe, I’m going to be going to the shops tomorrow. We’re out of almost everything after this weekend; Jasper’s eating me out of house and home. Can I pick anything up for you while I’m there?’
‘Oh no, no. You’re very kind, but I’ve got everything I need.’
‘Really? How about some fresh fruit?’ she pressed. ‘The pears are particularly good at the moment.’
He hesitated, possibly sensing she wasn’t going to give up. ‘. . . Well, some pears would be lovely, I have to say.’
‘Great. I’ll pop over when I’m back then. It’ll be about three-ish?’
‘You’re really too kind.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ She blew on her hands and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘Now let’s get back into the warmth before we both get hypothermia. I’ll see you tomorrow, Pabe.’
‘Tomorrow, then. Thank you, Lee.’
She watched him go back in, and the irony wasn’t lost on her that while her door closed to the symphony of bolts and chains, his shut with a simple click.
Chapter Sixteen
‘. . . keep going.’
Dr Hansje was wearing the orange silk scarf with blue bridle motifs on it, her favourite one. It was from Hermès. Lee had looked up what they cost after one of their early sessions and had been so stunned that anyone would spend that on a scarf that she had supposed her therapist was either very good or very stupid. She had crossed her fingers and hoped for very good.
She shifted position again, feeling the memories stir. They seemed to creep through her, inside her veins, up her bones, agitating her blood.
‘You said he was helping you?’
‘They are in there.’ Lee followed the direction of Moussef’s stubby finger pointed towards a tiny, mostly destroyed building, set several metres back from the road, in the scrub. Scarcely bigger than an English bus shelter, almost all of the roof had collapsed and there were no windows or door that she could see. They were really in there? Even by war zone standards, there was hardly any ‘there’ to be in.
Lee lifted the camera to her eye and, from the back seat of the truck, began snapping just as a stray dog – thin and black, with a scar on its muzzle – trotted into the frame. It cocked its leg against the ruins of a rough wall set a few metres in front of the building and began sniffing interestedly, its tail going up, ears alert. It began barking, hesitantly at first but then more insistently, prowling forward a few paces and then jumping back again. Moussef threw a full Coke can at it, hitting it hard on the flank. It yelped and whimpered, then scuttled off, head low, ribs visible beneath its shorn pelt.
‘We cannot allow it to draw attention,’ he said simply.
Lee knew he was right, even though she winced as the dog limped off. If the dog had been allowed to carry on, people would have come to check on the nuisance, noticing them and, worse, the two young French women hiding within. The nearest buildings were just a hundred metres away, the sounds of the market still audible over the low walls. In the distance the bombardment of Kobanî continued, the booms a background soundtrack as ISIL tried to lay claim to that concrete wasteland.