The Girl in Green

by Derek B. Miller

‘That’s not an appropriate conversation, and it hardly seems significant, given the circumstances.’

  ‘You mean for a hostage situation?’

  Benton tips his head and concedes that Arwood may have a point. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Usual stuff. A nail, a sharp edge, wire cutters, machine gun, talkie-walkie. Anything useful.’

  ‘I thought you had a plan.’

  ‘Wire cutters won’t hurt my plan.’ Not finding any, though, Arwood flops down again onto the other mattress. ‘Was it any good?’ he asks.

  ‘You honestly think I’m going to tell you?’

  ‘The weird thing about my plan is how much it depends on whether or not Märta woke up feeling like she’d stick her neck out for you in a pinch. It’s not much of a nail to hang this plan on, I admit, but I still need to know. So how was it?’

  ‘You’re a troglodyte.’

  ‘We’re in a cave.’

  Benton is unresponsive.

  ‘Look, I don’t need any of the fluid and sticky details, I simply need to know what level of risk Märta is prepared to take to get you back. So was it not nice, nice, very nice, or complex?’

  ‘It was nice and complex,’ Benton says.

  ‘We stand a chance, then.’

  They both face outward into the empty room, which is as large as a two-car garage. There is nothing to look at except the burning bulb and the two machine-gun slits about six feet up the eight-foot wall.

  ‘I’m terrified for those kids. I don’t want them to die,’ Benton says.

  ‘The Three Stooges were all Jewish,’ Arwood says. ‘In fact, all four of the Three Stooges were Jews. That’s the problem with your labelling scheme. I don’t think these guys are Jewish. I suppose we could ask.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Benton says.

  ‘I dated a Jewish girl once,’ Arwood says. ‘Rebecca Caplan. For three whole years.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She came to her senses, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘The thing about Jews—’

  ‘Arwood, please.’

  ‘No, seriously. The thing about Jews is that they know everyone else who’s Jewish. It’s a thing with them — people you wouldn’t have known were Jewish. Like the Stooges. Or Lou Reed.’

  ‘That’s fascinating, Arwood,’ Benton says.

  ‘Amy Winehouse.’

  ‘Did anyone see you kill the colonel?’

  ‘Julianna Margulies — you know who she is? The Good Wife? I like that show. Mark Knopfler from Dire Staits. Rebecca would point out Jews like it was a version of punch buggy. Jew. Not a Jew. Like that. Everyone knows Einstein and Kafka and Barbra Streisand, but not necessarily Scarlett Johansson or Harrison Ford.’

  ‘It could be why the security forces set up the roadblock. Because they were looking for you.’

  ‘Jack Black. You see High Fidelity? That was a great movie. I’ve heard it’s a book now, too.’

  ‘And then ISIL attacked the security forces,’ Benton says. ‘But they did it quickly. So was it a target of opportunity, or a coincidence?’

  ‘Captain Kirk and Mr Spock were both Jewish. Shatner and Nimoy. So was Chekhov, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You’re not answering my questions.’ Benton’s shoulders are beginning to ache. He lowers his head to stretch, as on long-haul flights.

  ‘OK, you want to talk about this? Fine. I was in the car thinking about what these knuckleheads are up to,’ Arwood says, ‘and all I can think is that none of this was planned. An attack was probably planned. Killing people was planned. Blowing up the cops, the whole thing. Was it because of me? Who the hell knows? All you need to do to get the emergency services to show up around here is blow something up real good. And if it was a roadblock set up for me, and the Stooges took advantage, what of it? They were obviously planning to do it at some point anyway. But not this part. Capturing us could not have been planned. We didn’t even know we were gonna be there, so they sure as shit didn’t. They’ve now got themselves some hostages they don’t know what to do with. And I think Abu Shemp got pretty annoyed when the rest of the barber quartet came back with us. I think we’re off-book. I think orders are not being upheld. I think this is improv, and we can affect the dynamic. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Abu Shemp?’

  ‘Fuck ‘em.’

  ‘I was actually reaching a pretty similar conclusion,’ Benton says.

  ‘Which means the situation can be influenced.’

  ‘It also means,’ Benton says, ‘that it can be scrubbed.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘It means they could kill us all, and pretend their error never happened.’

  ‘They could let us go, too,’ Arwood says.

  ‘Letting us go has a downside. Killing us doesn’t. They’re killers, and killers kill people to solve their problems.’

  ‘I see your point,’ Arwood says. ‘This might be a good time to call back Märta. She called you at least three times.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Vibrations through the seat. If Abu Larry—’

  ‘Abu Larry was driving. Abu Curly was in the back.’

  ‘I don’t want to play who’s on first. I’m just saying that if he’d been sitting next to us, we’d all be dead.’

  ‘I guess we’re very lucky people, then.’

  ‘The luckiest,’ Arwood says.

  ‘You’ll need to get my phone.’

  ‘Isn’t it down your pants?’

  ‘No, it’s down my trousers. My pants are what I wear under my trousers. You people are making a mess of this language, you know that?’

  ‘Let’s hope there’s a signal in here.’

  That is when they hear two gunshots from inside the next room.

  24

  The Mayflower Chinese restaurant in Bristol does not deliver to the university, for reasons Dr Charlotte Benton cannot explain. It’s on Haymarket Walk, which is too far for a pickup, and that’s why Guy has offered to bring it to her. The restaurant’s takeaway menu is only available from 6.00 p.m. on weekdays and Saturdays, which is a bit later than Charlotte would prefer, and for this reason Guy is hyper-vigilant about placing the order the moment the clock strikes, so he can deliver it to her at the palaeontology lab before her blood sugar drops.

  Guy rides a 1959 Lambretta scooter. It’s turquoise and white. It is, somehow, hipper than he is. She isn’t sure how to address this. She’s hoping the hipness might rub off and the problem will go away by itself, though she isn’t optimistic.

  He shows up wearing a retro helmet, with the straps hanging unfastened by his ears. He smiles as though he’s cooked the food himself. He wants her to be happy.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she says as he takes the roast duck with pineapple and sweet-and-sour wontons from the paper bag.

  Charlotte is no longer a fan of Westernised Chinese food, but its reassuring sameness evokes nostalgia, and nicely counterbalances the evening’s goal of locating her father, who is giving her no reassurance these days. Guy is understanding and accommodating. He smiles as he removes the chopsticks from the bag, and places the folded napkin beside her.

  He understands she needs to work alone, so he readies to leave.

  ‘You don’t mind terribly, do you?’ she asks, and of course he shakes his head and helmet. He’ll go to the movies, he explains. It starts at ten, so he’ll be back late.

  ‘What are you working on?’ he asks.

  ‘Revisions to the paper for Cladistics about methodological challenges in theorising phylogeny by inference to morphological data. It’s a big topic. I feel like I have to ground the argument in empirical data that lends itself to alternative interpretive possibilities to illustrate the problematic, otherwise it’s all a bit abstract.’<
br />
  ‘Right.’

  ‘I might add some pictures.’

  ‘Super.’

  It isn’t that she didn’t want to have dinner with Guy. It is more that she considers her parents’ problems to be a private matter, and while she loves Guy and appreciates his support, she doesn’t want his opinion just at the moment, especially in the middle of the process. Better to exclude him from the drama altogether, and report in when there is something to understand.

  Charlotte knows her mother has cheated on her father, and yet she is on her mother’s side. The injustice of this needs to be set right. And finding and talking to her father is the way to begin. The fact that he fled to Iraq at the moment he should have met with her mother to reconcile with her needs to be addressed. And preferably alone.

  As she watches Guy and his hipster helmet slip from the lab into the hall, she considers that maybe the reason she is not marrying him is that it would mean he’d always be around.

  Once she hears the old Italian scooter start up and zip away, she double-clicks on Miguel’s icon and listens to the computer connect her to the camp in Iraq.

  Miguel is alone at Märta’s desk in the prefab office. Hers is the fastest computer the NGO has, and she doesn’t mind him using it. Curfew has fallen, and he’s decided to spend the night on the sofa, which he’s allowed to do after radio check. From a care package prepared by his mother the last time he went home, he has made himself a cold plate of food with chorizo, Serrano ham, manchego cheese, fresh pita bread from the camp, and olive oil from Greece. He arrays the food on the plate, and lets it breathe.

  Pity there is no Corte Inglés supermarket here, but, compared to the people outside, he knows he is lucky to have this, and would never think to complain.

  The computer starts to ring. There is a call. It is Dr Charlotte Benton. It is wonderful timing, though he has bad news. At least he will not have to dine alone.

  ‘Hello? Charlotte? That is you, yes?’

  ‘Hello, Miguel. I’m eating. I’m sorry. My schedule—’

  ‘Oh, I was hoping for this. We can now eat together and become friends.’

  As Miguel slices a tomato and rubs it on a piece of pita, and applies olive oil and a thin slice of manchego, he sees that Charlotte is thin, with angular features and wide brown eyes. She looks intelligent and calm and — to him — older than her youthful face suggests. Hers is less a striking beauty than a maternal warmth — the kind of face that warms you with its approval and acceptance. Her glasses are round and too big for her face, like those of the librarians he used to lust for in his youth.

  ‘Ms Charlotte, I have some unfortunate news. Your father is not here in the camp now. So we cannot see him. Ms Märta has not given me news yet. So I fear we must put off our walk together until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Ah. OK.’

  ‘You look sad, Ms Charlotte.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘In your eyes. Is it because of your father? You should not be worried.’

  ‘No, no. I’m not worried.’

  ‘No, you are not. The sadness is deeper. Am I intruding? This is indiscreet. I am sorry. Is it because of your father?’

  ‘My parents, actually.’

  ‘Your relations with them are not good?’

  ‘My relations are fine. But they’re going through a hard time with each other. I’m concerned for them.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that. Why is your father here, so far away, if there is trouble at home? Should he not be there with you and your mother to help?’

  ‘Yes, I think he should.’

  ‘This is why you are looking for him. You are angry at him for his absence.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Well … yes. Actually, I am.’

  ‘Claro. I will help you. Oh my God, what are you eating?’

  ‘Oh, this?’ she says, holding it higher in her chopsticks. ‘It’s a fried wonton.’

  ‘Is it good to put that into your body?’

  ‘Probably not. But it’s comforting.’

  ‘I think we must find your father quickly, before you do further harm to yourself.’

  Charlotte looks at the wonton, and decides there is no way to bite it gracefully. It will crumble onto her shirt. Or, if she treats it like sushi and takes the whole thing in, she could be chewing it for days in front of Miguel.

  Discreetly, she places it back, and takes a tiny piece of duck instead.

  ‘Why are your parents having the troubles? Has your father taken a lover, and your mother has now learned of it, and the passions are raging?’

  ‘I don’t think we should be talking about this.’

  ‘No. Of course not. These things are very private and painful. Is it true? Am I right?’ Miguel asks.

  ‘No. Actually, it is my mother who had the affair and, in my view, my father who drove her to it.’

  ‘And to protect his ego and his honour, you think he has run off to Iraq so he might suffer by his own hand and recover his manhood?’

  ‘Well … no. I think he ran off because of his denial and cowardice and unwillingness to face my mother.’

  ‘You are angry at him for not staying to fight for your mother. For not staying to declare his love, and demand she come back to him because of the many years they have shared their lives together. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, actually. That’s it.’

  ‘And yet—’ Miguel adds.

  ‘And yet what?’

  ‘It sounds almost too selfless. Too detached. Too … how do you say? When something floats above and looks down, but does not emotionally touch?’

  ‘Aloof.’

  ‘That is not a pretty-enough word for such a melancholy and damaged state of being, but OK. Aloof. Have you no feelings about this yourself? How has he driven her to this?’

  ‘Aren’t you in the middle of a massive refugee crisis in a war-torn country with terrorists?’ Charlotte asks.

  ‘It’s dinnertime. Everyone’s eating. How did he drive her to this?’

  ‘It was his absence. He was never there.’

  ‘So he was never there for you, either.’

  Charlotte does not reply to this. She looks over at her meal, and no longer feels hungry. Miguel is right. Nothing about it can be good for her.

  ‘What do you do for a living, Ms Charlotte?’

  ‘It’s Doctor, actually. I’m a palaeontologist. I try to understand how things are related to each other.’

  ‘So you do professionally what has been impossible for you to do personally.’

  ‘Look, Miguel, I hadn’t quite formulated my thoughts yet. I don’t even discuss this with my boyfriend.’

  ‘Ah, you have a boyfriend. Of course, why wouldn’t you? What is his name?’

  ‘Guy.’

  ‘Guy?’

  ‘Yes. Guy.’

  ‘This is a name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought it was an English word for “just anyone”.’

  ‘It also means that.’

  ‘I see. You would rather settle for the embrace of just anyone rather than risk losing someone specific the way you have lost your father. I understand.’

  ‘Um—’

  ‘There is more to your father’s visit here, Dr Charlotte, than perhaps you know. And perhaps, in a way, it will soothe you. Perhaps he was running from the most important aspects of his life, but he has real business here. Ms Märta has told me he is here for the girl in green. Do you know about her?’

  ‘The girl in green?’

  ‘You have seen her, I am sure. The mortar attack in northern Iraq. It is on the news. It was on many stations. My mother, in Barcelona, she says it has played many times. The mortar came down and killed many people, and they show the video on the news. Your father thinks the girl who stood so alone in her green dress ma
y still be alive. He has come, with Mr Arwood, to find her. They left for Ninawa this morning. In fact, I scheduled this call because I thought they would be back before curfew, but they are not. Let us meet again in a few hours. We will know more then. And there are some people I would like you to meet. Do you like children?’

  ‘Sure, Miguel. But before all that, why would my father try to rescue a girl in Iraq? He’s a journalist.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Miguel says, ‘because it is his way of rescuing you.’

  ‘Honestly, Miguel, I really am not sure whether you have a remarkable insight into the human experience, or whether your certainty in yourself is what makes your arguments so compelling,’ she says.

  ‘My mother once said to me, “Miguel, the world is a noisy place. There is little point in mumbling.”’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Later, after we eat, I will affix the iPad to the walking stick, and then off we will go together in search of your father, who must now return to your mother so you will not be sad anymore and have to eat the fried wontons and marry a man who is like every other man. OK?’

  At home, Märta leans over the countertop separating the dining area from the kitchen. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, and she is sipping a beer. Tigger arrived moments ago, and is sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed and an outstretched arm. Herb is on a bright-red chair across from the sofa that both he and Tigger refer to as ‘the thinking chair,’ a term taken from a children’s television show they both watched with their kids, called Blue’s Clues.

  ‘Let’s call the meeting to order,’ Märta says.

  ‘I have a question,’ Tigger says, raising his hand.

  ‘Already?’

  ‘What the hell were you doing, letting them go out there in one of our vehicles—’

  ‘—with Jamal driving?’ Herb interjects.

  ‘I was getting to that. Yes, what Herb said.’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Märta concedes.

  Tigger and Herb glance at each other. Herb points to Tigger, who nods, agreeing to speak for them both. ‘Our question is built on the assumption that you made a mistake. We sincerely want to know what you were thinking.’

  ‘I agreed to let Arwood use the office for old times’ sake, and because I didn’t see any harm in it at first. And I think he played me. He told me Benton was coming, and I wanted to see him. And then it escalated.’