by Kitty Sewell
Mimi
It seemed to take forever to move just a few metres. She could hardly walk, and she’d become aware of the terrible smell of her body. Mohammed alternated in supporting and carrying her. Despite his slight physique, he was strong. He stumbled along in silence, but that surge of strength was soon spent, and finally he had to stop for a rest.
They flopped down on the tunnel floor. She failed to repress a moan; he took her into his arms and cradled her.
‘I’m so foul, I can’t bear myself,’ she whispered, trying to push him away. ‘Don’t touch me.’
He held her closer. ‘You’re like a rose,’ he said.
‘I don’t like roses,’ she cried. ‘I hate them.’
‘Okay. How about a wet dog, then,’ he suggested, ‘or a wart hog?’
But he didn’t let go of her. They both must have slept for a few minutes, then her body jerked her awake. ‘Is someone after us?’
‘Be brave, Imogen. We mustn’t lose our cool. As long as we stay calm, I’ll get us out of here.’
She began to realise what a hair-raising mission her rescue had been for him. He’d brought a rucksack, and from it pulled a chocolate bar. Despite her sense of urgency and menace, she savoured the little pieces he put into her mouth. It was the most delicious thing she’d tasted in all her life. She felt the sugar rush right through her body. He passed her a bottle of water, and she took one sip, then another.
Mimi rolled in to face him and covered his face with feeble kisses. ‘Oh my God, Mohammed. How did you find me? You’ve rescued me. You’ve saved my life.’
He chuckled and returned her kisses. ‘One rescue deserves another! You saved me, remember?’
They walked and stumbled. He carried her piggyback for a while. He dragged her by the arms, and sometimes they both ran hand-in-hand, panic-stricken by some real or perceived noise. Hours must have passed before she became aware of a soft draught on her face, and she knew they were getting close. They came around a corner and air hit her like a blow. She gasped like a baby just out of the womb.
She had no idea where they’d come out, but it wasn’t in the Jungle. They were on a tarmacked road littered with stones and debris, obviously barred to cars and people. It was evening or night; on the west side of the Rock because the lights of Algeciras twinkled across the bay. There was little sound of traffic.
She took all this in, then sank down on her haunches. ‘What time is it? How long have I been gone?’
‘You’ve been gone three days, almost four.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s three in the morning.’
She lay down on the tarmac and was glad of the darkness. Only the lights across the waters pierced her eyes.
He pulled at her arm. ‘Imogen, please. We can’t stay here.’
She allowed him to raise her up and help her straighten her knees. Looking ahead up the road, she was sure she saw the place called Devil’s Gap Battery, where she’d once walked and seen kids hanging out smoking weed.
‘Come on, Imogen. We’ve got to keep moving. We don’t want anyone to catch up with us.’
He led her around a locked gate and down a footpath which looked as though it might take them to Upper Town. The path was disused and overgrown, but it wasn’t too long. He was holding her by the waist and they half stumbled, half slipped down it, her legs loose like spaghetti. They reached a set of crumbling moss-covered steps, then saw a proper street sign: Bacca’s Passage.
‘Can we sit for a moment?’ she cried. ‘I’m shattered.’
‘You’ve lost weight,’ he said and sat her down on a step. ‘You’re light as a feather. I can carry you home. Just think how happy your brother is going to be.’
She scowled at him. It seemed a bad joke but she let it pass, too tired to protest. ‘How on earth did you find me?’
‘Mr Montegriffo showed me the place once,’ said Mohammed.
‘He did?’ She turned to look at his face. ‘Sebastian told me the chamber was undiscovered. No-one had been there for fifty years.’
Mohammed chuckled. ‘He thought he could keep his cave secret, but he was too vain. I sort-of knew he’d found the tandem chamber. It’s on the other side of Operation Tracer, and much further down. He had no-one else to show it to, so in a weak moment he took me there. We were nearby and he offered to lead me to it if I wore a blindfold. I know he led me round and about in order to confuse me.’
‘You’re talking about Carlo, but how the hell did Sebastian find the chamber?’
They stared at each other.
‘Hold on!’ He grabbed her arm. ‘It was Mr. Montegriffo who kidnapped you, wasn’t it?’
She shook her head in silence.
‘You mean…?’ Mohammed stared at her.
‘Yes…I do mean! It was Sebastian. My own brother.’
Eva
She recognised that she was in shock. Another glass of gin had not really helped at all. Everything around her seemed to be disintegrating. The disconcerting joy and relief she’d felt at Adrian’s death had been offset by Mimi’s disappearance and the disturbing phone call from Henry Saunders. And now Sebastian had abandoned her here in this gloomy apartment to wait it out alone.
The days had grown shorter: dusk had long ago spread its shadows around the rooms. She’d lit the lamp over the kitchen table but the rest of the apartment lay in darkness.
Sitting down in her armchair in the kitchen she saw all the drawings spread helter-skelter over the table. It looked as if a gang of apes had got in and ransacked Sebastian’s files and drawing pads, looking for scraps of food. He sometimes lost his temper when he couldn’t find something but never had she seen him make such a mess of his precious work.
She still had his mobile in her hand and was jolted into soberness when it rang.
‘Sebastian…’ she shouted. ‘Mimi?’
There was a long silence at the end of the line. ‘Not you again,’ she howled at the breather. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘This is Jane Featherington-Haugh calling,’ declared a haughty female voice.
‘Yes. What? Who are you?’
‘With whom am I speaking, please?’
‘It’s Eva Eriksson answering Sebastian Luna’s phone,’ she said impatiently.
‘Well, I am Sebastian’s mother,’ said the woman icily. ‘I assume you’re my son’s girlfriend.’
Eva cringed. A bit of a bungle not reacting to the name, but Sebastian only ever called her ‘that woman’, usually with some offensive expletive in between.
‘Yes, well. Hello. Sebastian is not at home right now.’
‘Listen,’ said the woman, her voice softening slightly. ‘Just as well I’m speaking to you. I hadn’t checked my emails for a couple of days, and I have just now seen one from Sebastian.’
A silence followed, and after a moment Eva said, ‘Hello, are you there?’
‘Is Sebastian on his way here, or has he booked a flight for Imogen to come here?’
Eva closed her eyes, trying to make sense of the questions. ‘Why would he have done that?’
‘If you have any influence over Sebastian, I ask of you, please, do not, under any circumstances allow him come to the UK and drop in on us. I don’t think my husband could tolerate another—’
‘Hold on,’ Eva interrupted. ‘Has Sebastian said he’s coming to England?’
‘No, not exactly, but in the past, when he’s had a…a relapse, his first agenda is to come and harangue me about what he imagines are my failings as a mother. And he threatened to send Imogen to us. But just in case that occurs to him, this would be the worst possible time. My husband’s children and grandchildren are coming to stay and—’
‘I can assure you, Sebastian is not in a position to leave Gibraltar at the moment, Mrs. Featheringheight… Mimi has gone missing.’
‘Featherington-Haugh,’ the woman corrected. There was a pause. ‘Well, what exactly is going on?’
‘What did you mean by relapse?’ said Eva.
‘I’m r
eferring to Sebastian’s episodes, of course.’
‘What episodes?’ Eva whispered, shivering with dread.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘His illness, his episodes of paranoid psychosis. You live with him. You must have noticed a deterioration. I could tell by his email that he’s unravelling. I imagine he’s come off his medication, has had it changed or he’s meddled with it in some way.’
Paranoid psychosis! Her head swam with images and fragments of conversations. It felt as though a series of keys were slowly being turned – one by one – and the corresponding windows clicking open. She’d been looking at them all along, not thinking (or daring) to explore or try to name what she was seeing. Eva sank back into her chair and closed her eyes. ‘Tell me more about his episodes. To be honest, I don’t know about his condition.’
‘You don’t?’ the woman said, clearly taken aback. ‘Well, frankly, Sebastian himself has always kept quiet about his illness. It shouldn’t come as a surprise; he has to be ever so careful to safeguard his career and international reputation.’
‘His medication?’ Eva said. ‘What is it? What must he take?’
‘My goodness, I don’t know. Our wonderful Dr. Matthews here in the UK has kept him stable for many years now on a combination of drugs and he knows very well that as long as he takes them religiously he stays balanced and rational. I mean, just look at what my son has achieved!’
‘What exactly does paranoid psychosis mean, in his case? Please tell me all you can,’ Eva implored. ‘I need to know what I am dealing with.’
‘Oh dear, I’m not the right person to explain it to you, but his first psychiatric diagnosis, aged about twelve, was severe manic-depressive disorder: now they call it bi-polar of course, but his condition is at the more serious end of the spectrum and more complex and debilitating than the label suggests.’
‘The episodes –’ Eva whispered, ‘what exactly happens?’
‘It usually starts with Sebastian getting increasingly obsessive and self-absorbed, followed by bizarre, elaborate fantasies and selective loss of memory. Surely you must have been aware of a decline. Especially the delusions of grandeur and the paranoia, thinking that the world is out to steal his ideas, do harm to his sister, and whatever else.’
‘Oh, God.’ Eva sank deeper into her chair. She couldn’t believe her own blindness, her ignorance, her sheer stupidity.
‘Of course, he’s highly intelligent and as such very skilled at hiding his condition,’ Mrs. Featherington-Haugh paused, then continued in a firm voice. ‘There is one thing I must make clear. Regardless of Sebastian’s mental state, it is not convenient for him to come here, and there is absolutely no way I can take Imogen onboard again. Having her in residence – after her father died – proved a veritable nightmare. Imogen is eighteen now, and she should be able to stand on her own two feet. If it’s a matter of money, my husband and I are willing to…’
‘Listen, lady; Mimi, your daughter, is missing.’
‘Well, please make this clear to Sebastian and to Imogen herself when she comes back.’
‘She is missing!’ Eva shouted. ‘Are you hearing me?’
There was a pause. ‘When Imogen was living with us she ran away countless times, so I’m afraid I can’t get excited about her disappearances.’
‘There is a difference. Here she’s loved and wanted. She has nothing to run away from.’
‘Perhaps she does if Sebastian is in the throes of one of his episodes,’ said Jane Featherington-Haugh indignantly.
Eva considered this. No, Mimi cared too much for her brother to abandon him, especially knowing he was ill. That was not the reason she had disappeared.
‘I dare say it must be comforting for Sebastian to have a woman to lean on,’ continued the mother in an appeasing tone. ‘He is such a brilliant man, such a talent. Mr. Featherington-Haugh and I read up on his achievements on the engineering web sites. We follow his career closely, and we are so, so proud.’
‘You are so, so proud,’ Eva repeated coldly. ‘But you wouldn’t welcome either of your children to your home.’
‘As I explained, right now it would be most inconvenient to…’
‘Or help them when they need you, or care if they were missing.’
‘Over the years, my husband and I have been put at an inconvenience plenty of—’
‘Go to hell, Mrs. Featherstone,’ Eva snapped. ‘You and your husband, both.’
She rang off and dropped the phone into her lap then smiled sadly, realising how little she had known about her heavy-breathing stalker.
*
She’d fallen asleep in the chair waiting for Sebastian to come home, and woke up with a start at a knock on the door. Daunted by whatever incident, development or person would present itself, she sprang up like a coil. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was nearly five o’clock in the morning. It just had to be Mimi or Sebastian, preferably both. Barefoot she ran to open the door.
Before she had time to make any exclamation or ask any questions, Mohammed put a finger to his lips in a hushing gesture.
‘Imogen is safe,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve found her.’
‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where is she?’
‘Is her brother here?’ he mouthed soundlessly.
She shook her head, but then whispered, ‘Unless he’s returned and I’ve not heard him come in.’ She ushered him into the hall. ‘Wait here.’
Mohammed detained her with a hand on her arm and murmured, ‘If he’s here, don’t tell him about me finding Imogen. She just wants you to know.’
She stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘Why ever not? He’s been frantic with worry.’
‘Please, Miss Eva. Check first and then I’ll explain.’
She ran around the apartment but there was no sign of Sebastian.
‘He’s not here, Mohammed. Tell me what’s going on?’
‘You need to know it was him. He kidnapped Imogen,’ he told her at once. ‘He locked her in a chamber inside the Rock.’
Eva stood by the hall table and reached out to steady herself. She’d finally come to know that Sebastian was sick, but this was much worse than she could ever have envisioned. She sank onto a chair. ‘Good God! Poor Mimi! Where is she now?’
‘In my room at the hostel. She’s safe there, for now.’
Eva jumped up. ‘I want to see her. Let’s go there.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Mohammed. ‘Imogen is very worried about Mr. Montegriffo’s safety. He’s the only person in the world, other than Mr. Luna, who knows about the chamber where she was held. She thinks Mr. Luna would have made sure of stopping him going down into the Rock and finding her.’
‘Stopping him… How?’
Mohammed stared at her, his eyes wide with dread. ‘Imogen says her brother is ill. She wanted me to get you, to accompany her to the police station. She doesn’t want to cause her brother any trouble but she thinks he is dangerous…to Mr. Montegriffo.’ Mohammed looked suddenly tearful. ‘She is a very strong person. No-one could endure such terror, Miss Eva. Alone there in the dark, locked in a hole deep underground, not knowing if anyone would ever come for her or if she would die there.’
‘Oh, God, that’s unbelievable, atrocious! Let’s go to her, please.’
She ran to get her shoes and bag. They tiptoed down the stairs, as if this would somehow prevent Sebastian noticing them if he were to meet them there. Mohammed paused on the first-floor landing.
‘Should we perhaps warn Mr. Montegriffo?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ Eva said, taking him by the arm. ‘He’d be furious if we woke him up at five in the morning. If we’re going to the police, they can warn him. What’s Sebastian going to do to him, anyway? He’s suffering from…he’s in a deluded state, but surely he’s not going to cause him any physical harm.’
She pulled on the young man’s arm, but at the last moment stopped to cock her ear. From somewhere deep in Montegriffo’s apartment, she heard an
eerie sound which she could not identify.
‘Shhh,’ she whispered to Mohammed. ‘Listen.’
They stood there motionless for a moment. The sound came louder now, an insistent howling.
‘It’s Raven,’ Mohammed said. ‘Why is he wailing like that?’
‘Let’s go,’ Eva insisted. ‘Mimi first. I can’t cope with anything else.’
Mimi
Her hair was still wet from a shower in some awful men’s cubicle, and she was wearing Mohammed’s best cotton trousers and T-shirt. He’d left her lying on his bed after covering her with a woolly blanket. It was way too hot for a blanket, but the gesture was so very tender, she’d waited until he’d gone before she kicked it off.
She slept fitfully for a little while, waking regularly to ascertain she was above ground, on the surface. He’d left a little light on, and she focused her eyes intently on the Moroccan posters. What a wonderful, exciting place Morocco must be. She studied the terracotta pots and the vibrant market stalls with red and orange rugs, big baskets filled with colourful spices and women in exotic clothes and beautiful silver jewellery. Looking deeply at the beauty helped keep her body from shaking. When she’d studied the posters, she turned to the bronze platter Mohammed had put beside her on a chair. On it he’d arranged some oranges, figs and dates, nuts, bananas, a mango and pear, making the whole thing look like a work of art. He’d assumed she must be hungry for fresh food, but she couldn’t bear to destroy the beautiful display he’d made. To think that on earth, trees grew these fantastic things just from the dusty soil and water. And the sun, of course. Everything needed sun to grow and live and thrive.