by Karen Swan
Lee looked up and down the dirt track they were parked on. A buzzard was sitting in the branches of a dead tree a few metres away, throwing down a few scrappy shadows on the hard-baked earth. There was no one walking by, no cars, no soldiers . . . But there was also no privacy; if anyone did pass here, they would be able to look straight in and see the young women huddled there. It was no wonder they were moving on tonight. They were as vulnerable here as sleeping in the open and if any of the villagers were to know that two jihadi brides were taking refuge within their borders, it would be a lynching.
‘You okay?’ Lee murmured to Cunningham, sitting in the front seat.
He was staring ahead intently, his lips moving as he rehearsed his questions in Arabic. He had Moussef to translate for him, of course, but she knew he liked to receive the material at source. His notepad and pen were on his lap, his phone set to voice record. They were almost ready to move . . .
He inhaled sharply, as though only just hearing her question. ‘Yeah. Just working out how to get trust going. I don’t want them to spook.’
‘Sure.’ Two young French nationals trying to get their governments to take them back, trying to outrun the very organization they had run to in the first place . . . tensions would be high. They wouldn’t trust anyone.
She looked at Moussef. ‘How did you know they were here, Moussef?’ she asked.
His head turned in her direction but she was seated behind him and he could only present his profile. ‘I have eyes in these hills,’ he said. ‘There are many unwelcome intruders here.’
‘You mean ISIL?’
‘Among others.’ He nodded. ‘There is a time to fight and a time to run, no?’
‘Yes.’
Cunningham clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was the subtle mark he was ready. If he could read her, she could also read him. ‘Okay, let’s do this,’ he said quietly.
Lee pulled her hijab higher, making sure it was secure and covering her hair. She opened her door.
Moussef seemed startled by her action and put a hand on Cunningham’s arm as he went to open his. ‘I am sorry, friend, but it would be better if only you go, at least to begin. I did not know about her when this was set up. They will not be expecting two of you.’
Cunningham took his hand off the handle. ‘But I need Lee. This will be only half a story without pictures. People back home need to see these girls, see what they’ve become.’
‘Then she comes after, when all is good. She can wait here until you are ready.’ Moussef gave a shrug but his eyes were steady. He wasn’t going to back down on this; he was the facilitator, he could call the shots.
Cunningham looked back at her, knowing he had no leverage. ‘. . . Moussef’s right, Fitch,’ he said finally. ‘If they’re not expecting you, it could start us off on the wrong foot. Stay here, I’ll give a signal when you can come in.’
She looked at him with concern. They never split up. It was their golden rule – the Two Musketeers, they called themselves: one for both and both for one. They were a team. ‘And what if someone sees me here and wants to know why I’m sitting in this truck on my own? Those women are surely more likely to be rumbled if there’s a western woman with a camera sitting opposite their shelter?’
‘Hmm, this is true.’ Moussef thought for a moment. ‘. . . Okay, you see there?’ He pointed to a large-ish, squat building fifty metres away. ‘The old school. It is abandoned now. No one will see you in there. Wait for Mr Harry’s signal and then come over.’
‘Harry?’ Lee looked at Cunningham, willing him to disagree. She still didn’t like this. She couldn’t openly contradict Moussef – that wasn’t how things worked out here – but he could. Homs had shown them both why they stuck together, no matter what, and right now, she wanted that security. She needed it. There was a low vibration in her bones, a feeling she couldn’t quite explain. She was used to uneasy situations but she felt vulnerable now in a way she usually didn’t and she needed Harry, as her partner, to see that, recognize it and step up.
Cunningham looked away from her as he swallowed. ‘Moussef’s is a good plan,’ was all he said. ‘Wait for my signal, Fitch. Then we can lock this story down.’
Lee sat at the table watching the strangers pass, not one of them with an iota of familiarity to her – not the toss of a head, the turn of an ankle, the pitch of a laugh. Every few minutes her gaze would return to the statue in the middle of the square.
‘And so this is your great plan, is it?’ Mila asked, sitting beside her, quietly shivering now that their lunch was eaten.
‘Yep.’
‘You’re just going to sit here every day and wait for someone you recognize to walk past?’
‘Humans are creatures of habit, Mila. The person who picked up the book from that spot right there the other Thursday could well walk past again this Thursday. Today.’
‘Or not.’
Lee shot her a look. ‘I know that,’ she murmured, her eyes still automatically scanning the square – but not, she was beginning to realize, for just her unknown stranger. She was looking for Sam too, wondering whether he might chance to join her again in waiting. After all, he’d been interested enough to wait with her on Monday when he could have just emailed her the address. Of course, that was before he’d seen what a freak she was – she had deliberately avoided going back into the same coffee house today for that very reason – but they had kissed on her doorstep since then, and now her mind kept returning to him like some sort of homing pigeon. She was regularly checking her texts, emails, making sure she had no missed calls, but there had been nothing from him since. She was growing increasingly confused. Why had he kissed her, only to do a disappearing act on her?
Unless . . . She remembered his last words. Goodbye, Lee . . . Unless it had been an actual goodbye kiss? Oh God, had he meant it that time? Had he just been returning her coat and he’d . . . he’d pitied her?
She slumped down in the chair.
‘What’s wrong with you today?’
Lee glanced at her. ‘Nothing.’
‘You look like you just got hit with a tranquilizer dart.’
Lee pulled a face and began fiddling with her camera as a distraction. It was her small vintage Nikon F2, a discreet point-and-click that she liked to use when she was out and about. She held it up to her eye and scanned the square through the lens. It made more sense to her that way for some reason. She played with the focus, zooming in and out. Bored. Cold. Restless. Hating that she hated that he hadn’t called. That his kiss goodbye had left her wanting another hello.
What a bloody idiot she was! She’d spent the past few days in a buoyant good mood – driving Bart crazy with curiosity – all because of one pitying goodbye kiss, and all the while she’d been completely oblivious that he had just stepped out of her life as quickly as he’d stepped into it. And she’d waved him off! She’d watched him till he’d glided out of sight, a smile and his kiss still on her lips.
She dropped the camera down again, fidgeting with her fingers, feeling inexplicably upset. ‘It’s useless.’
‘Of course it’s useless,’ Mila groaned, stretching out on the cafe table and laying her head on her arm. ‘But you are very sweet to have wanted to try to help this person. Only you would even have tried.’
‘Mmm.’ Lee exhaled, not wanting compliments or platitudes. She wanted him to call.
‘Hang on.’ Mila lifted her head again, an idea striking her. ‘You said the book with the message in it was left in your bike basket, yes?’
Lee’s eyes slid right to her friend’s pretty face. ‘Yes. So?’
‘Well, why don’t you put the book back in your bike basket, with another message in it from you, telling them how to get in touch directly?’
Lee looked back at her friend. That was actually a pretty good idea. ‘That’s actually a pretty good idea, Mils.’
Mila grinned. ‘Thank you. I have my moments.’
Lee sat motionless for another few
minutes, thinking it through. It surely made sense to try to communicate in the same way contact had originally been made . . . But her mind kept wandering back to Sam. He was part of this, interlocked with it. It was his book that had been used, after all; and it was because it was his book that she’d gone against all her instincts and re-established contact with him, sought him out. If it had only been anyone’s book but his—
She jumped up, clapping her gloved hands together, as if trying to physically throw him from her thoughts.
‘What now?’ Mila asked, looking bewildered.
‘Well, it’s bloody freezing and there’s no point still sitting here. He’s not coming. I need to move.’
Mila frowned, getting up too. ‘How do you know it’s a he?’
‘Huh?’
‘You said he’s not coming.’
‘Oh . . .’ Had she? She swallowed at the inadvertent slip. Her conscious and subconscious thoughts were too closely aligned. ‘They. I meant they.’
‘Yeah,’ Mila sighed. ‘I mean, I’m a feminist with the best of them but I can’t help but assume the person you’re looking for is a woman. “Help me” just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a man would write, does it?’ She bit her lip, looking pained. ‘Or am I being a terrible traitor to the cause?’
‘No, I’d assumed it was a woman too. You’re right though, there’s a chance it isn’t. It could be a guy,’ she added disconsolately.
They retrieved their bikes from the stands, Mila pulling on her beanie and curling the little ends of her crop into Louise Brooks curls. ‘Are you going back to the studio now?’
‘No, I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on but I’ll do it at home. I need to do some shopping for my neighbour on the way back, too. He’s in his nineties and all on his own.’
Mila pulled a face. ‘That’s sad. Hasn’t he got any family?’
‘Yeah. A daughter, but she’s just moved away for her husband’s job.’
‘And she didn’t take him with them?’
Lee shrugged. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs. He seems sweet enough, but you know what old people can be like; he’s probably not that easy. The young couple who rent the apartment from him in the basement say he’s a nightmare landlord – apparently they had a leak in their bathroom for two months, mould growing inside the walls and everything. It was a real health hazard. Then again, the poor guy’s in his nineties; what’s he going to do about finding a plumber? He’s at that age where he doesn’t buy green bananas, you know what I mean?’
Mila laughed, clutching Lee’s arm as they walked, expertly pushing their bikes with their free arms. ‘You’re outrageous.’
‘It’s true though.’
They wheeled their bikes side by side in the crisp, biting air, bundled up and looking in at the small window displays.
‘Ooooh! Now you would look incredible in that,’ Mila said, stabbing a finger against the glass of a boutique and pointing out a drapey olive-green silk dress on a mannequin. ‘It would look great against your hair.’
‘I don’t wear dresses.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Mila deadpanned. ‘It was such a disaster for you wearing that one at the party last week. Matteo Hofhuis wasn’t drooling at all.’ She laughed, incredulous. ‘I mean, Matteo Hofhuis, for crying out loud!’
‘I don’t want him drooling on me, thanks.’
‘Drooling over you, not on you! He’s not a dog!’
Lee stared at the dress. She did like the colour.
‘Go on. Just try it.’
‘No.’ She turned away dismissively.
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . you can’t wear a bra with those straps.’
‘Oh, like you need one!’ Mila pooh-poohed, joshing her with her elbow.
‘Well, I don’t have anywhere to wear something like that.’ They both knew Lee would never buy something just because she liked it. Everything had to have purpose in her life, in her home and in her wardrobe. ‘You try it.’
‘I’m on sabbatical, remember? There’s no point in me looking sexy. That is exactly the kind of dress that makes men come running. Or, in my case, married men.’
Lee gave a groan. ‘This self-imposed sabbatical is nonsense. You’re thirty, not twenty. I hate to break it to you, Mils, but you don’t have the luxury of being able to take six months out of your life at this stage, not if you want the pitter-patter of tiny feet in your future.’
‘Now that’s totally breaking the feminist code!’
Lee shook her head. ‘No, I can be a feminist and still acknowledge the very pressing reality of a biological clock ticking. Don’t waste time unnecessarily just because of a few married jerks.’
Mila looked sulky. ‘Well, it’s not like you’re out there dating.’
‘I’ve got Jasper, Mils. I don’t need to date.’
‘So you’re saying you only need a man for a baby? What about love, laughter, companionship? Someone to share the hard times with?’
Again, yet again, Sam’s face swam in front of her – dressed as Sinter and trying not to laugh as she offered him a glass of milk; his anger in the gallery courtyard as Matt came looking for her; his concern in the coffee shop as the flashback faded; his air of sadness as he’d kissed her for the second and last time . . .
Mila suddenly jabbed a finger in Lee’s direction. ‘Hey, wait, you do have somewhere to wear it to.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘You’ve got that dinner coming up, the Black Dot one.’
‘Huh?’ Lee felt a tremor of panic.
‘Yes, you told me about it when you were trying to wriggle out of wearing the velvet dress to the gallery party.’
Slowly realization dawned. Bart had already booked the car. She had completely forgotten about it. When even was it? . . . Friday? This Friday? Tomorrow? She hadn’t booked the babysitter! Brigit was the only student in the city who didn’t smoke weed, it seemed, and therefore the only person outside of ‘family’ that she’d trust with her son. She’d never get her now. ‘Oh, fuck.’
Mila looked delighted. ‘Yes, fuck! And you don’t have anything to wear.’ She prised Lee’s hands off the handlebars and pushed her towards the door. ‘Try it on. I’ll wait here and hold the bikes.’
‘But you need to get back to work!’ Lee spluttered, desperately trying to stall as she realized another reason why she couldn’t possibly go to that dinner tomorrow night. It wasn’t just that she had nothing to wear; it wasn’t just that she didn’t have a babysitter booked . . .
‘I know, so you’d better hurry up before they fire me. Come out of the changing room so I can look through the window.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. Do as you’re told.’ She saw Lee’s mutinous expression. ‘Unless you don’t want me to babysit my godson for you?’
‘You’ll babysit for me?’ Lee’s eyes widened hopefully. It was one problem solved at a stroke.
‘Only if you try on the dress.’ Mila shrugged. ‘Those are my terms.’
Because those are my terms. Sam . . . That was the other problem – he was going to be there too. Her stomach gave a pitch and dive in silent reply. She looked back through the window again. That is exactly the kind of dress that makes men come running.
‘Fine,’ she said, pushing open the door and hurrying in. ‘If you’re going to blackmail me, I’ll try the damn dress.’
Chapter Seventeen
It was at least four minutes before the door was opened. Lee smiled, holding up the bulging shopping bags as her neighbour’s pale, thin, baggy face appeared.
‘Hi Pabe. I got those pears for you.’
He opened the door wider. ‘That looks like a lot of pears.’
She laughed; she had indeed bought him a lot more besides those. ‘They are a bit heavy. Mind if I come in? I’ll put them away for you.’
‘Oh . . . oh yes . . . thank you,’ he stuttered, struggling to shuffle backwards out of the door’s way.
She stepped in,
instantly feeling the chill in the house. ‘Gosh, are you warm enough in here?’ she asked, only seeing after the words had left her mouth that he was wearing an overcoat over his clothes. ‘Oh.’
‘You get quite used to it,’ he said, shuffling down the long, dark hall towards the kitchen at the back. ‘I don’t like a hot house.’
She closed the front door, able to see from this elevated vantage point the new copy of Sam’s book sticking out of her bike basket. She had had to buy another copy on her way home, on account of Sam taking hers to hide it from Jasper at the bookshop, and there was no way she could give away the personalized copy he’d given her son. She had written her mobile number on the same page as Help Me had been written in the original copy, and had added: Please call. Let me help you. But how could she ever know that the book would end up back with the same person again? What if some bored kids found it and prank-called her? It was just a shot in the dark.
‘No, I don’t like a hot house either.’ She frowned, seeing some towels stuffed against the window ledges. And as she walked past the sitting room, she glimpsed a small electric two-bar fire glowing a vivid orange, set on the hearth.
‘Here we go,’ she said, lifting the bags onto the counter. The place was tidy and ordered but there was a scarcity to Pabe’s modest belongings that made her feel sad – a single hard chair by the small table, a faded and threadbare rug by the back door, no curtain at the window. His touch upon his own life seemed pitifully light, as though he floated around the building, scarcely making an impression. There was an upturned cup, saucer and a side plate on the draining board, a cat litter tray and feeding bowl in the corner of the room, a stack of empty tin cans beside the sink, rinsed out and ready to recycle. But other than that, there were no signs of a life being lived here. The air felt stale and thick and she felt an overwhelming urge to open a window. Through the back window she saw the small lawn was covered with leaves that had fallen from the sycamore tree. Everything felt neglected and gently decaying.