Mum said he’d moved to San Francisco, something about an accounting job, but I know he didn’t. She made it all up. I’ve searched San Francisco high and low. Not the place (I’ve never been to America); I looked on the internet. Everyone has an online presence. We all exist on there, in the ether. There’s no Alvin Knightly in S. F., or anywhere in California. I checked and rechecked every couple of months, just in case he showed up on a bowling team or a company bio, on LinkedIn or a poker account, but he never did.
I wasn’t giving up. I extended my search to other countries, went Lisbeth Salander on his ass. Alvin Knightly’s an unusual name; surely, if I looked hard enough, eventually he’d show up? I called the Institute of Chartered Accountants, but they had never heard of him. I thought about hiring a private detective, but I couldn’t afford the fees.
I finally came to the sorry conclusion that there weren’t any stupid Alvin Knightlys anywhere in the whole damn world. Unless (and I know this is a long shot) he’d changed his name to Alvin Knightley. (I found one of those in 2003, but it’s highly unlikely, honestly, because the guy in the photo was black.) I’ve been looking since I was eleven, when I first had access to a PC, and there’s never been any sign of my father. I’m not dumb. I know what it means. It means he’s fucking dead. Or if he’s off the grid, it’s on purpose. That kind of thing takes cunning. Planning. You have to really fucking mean it. Have to want to disappear. It once crossed my mind that he might be a spy, like Austin Powers or John le Carré (which would explain where Beth gets it from: Miss Spanish Inquisition), and the government might have swapped his name for a code, like 007. But then I thought, don’t be an idiot. This is real life, not the movies. He’s not Jason Bourne; he’s a bookkeeper.
Beth reaches out and touches my arm, breaking my train of thought.
‘DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME.’
I jump up and unlock the bathroom door, but the metal bolt catches. It pinches my skin. I force it and slam the door shut behind me. I sprint down all fifteen stairs.
My sister’s voice calls after me. ‘Alvie. I’m sorry. Come back. Please.’
Whatever, bitch.
Too late.
Chapter Four
TODAY
Tuesday, 1 September 2015
Henri Coandã International Airport,
Bucharest, Romania
‘Wake up please, madam, we’re here.’
‘No, no.’
The clown. Where’s the clown? The seat is wet from where a little bit of dribble ran out of my mouth and formed a pool. I feel a hand shaking my shoulder.
‘ARGH. Get off,’ I say.
‘Excuse me, but you need to get up. Everyone else has alighted the plane.’
‘Plane? What plane?’
I open my eyes. It’s that infuriating air hostess, Guinevere or Geraldine or something. And this is clearly a plane.
‘Where are we again?’ I try to sit up.
‘Henri Coandã International. We’ve landed in Bucharest.’
I rub my eyes with both my hands. I really need to go back to sleep. I roll over on the seat and curl into the cushion.
‘Just five more minutes,’ I say.
‘Madam? Madam?’
‘I don’t want to go. Just leave me alone,’ I say.
‘Would you like me to get a mobility cart?’
‘No. Yeah. Fine. Whatever.’
She disappears, leaving only the scent of too much ylang-ylang in her over-perfumed wake. I close my eyes. Everything’s quiet, apart from the hum of the air-conditioning. There’s nobody around. I sink into synthetic material. This is beyond shit. I’m far from home, wherever that is. All I want to do is sleep. But now that we’ve landed I can turn on my phone (without risking almost certain death). I need to check on Nino. I reach for my phone in the little net pocket at the back of the seat in front of me. I stare at the screen. Current location: ‘Bucharest, Romania. Henri Coandã International Airport.’
My shoulders tense.
He’s here.
‘Here we are. We got you a cart.’
I look up and see the air hostess accompanied by a couple more stewards. They arrive at my row and peer in. They study me cautiously, as though I were an escaped meerkat on the run from London Zoo, one that’s frothing at the mouth and highly likely to be rabid.
‘Are you ready, my love?’ says one of the stewards. ‘We’ll just lift you up and into the cart.’
‘One, two, three, lift.’
Oh man, here we go.
* * *
*
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The mobility cart crawls slowly along, the orange light on the top flashing bright. We clear passport security and head out to arrivals. I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool white metal bar. My brain is woozy from the wine.
Cuckoo.
Cuckoo.
Cuckoo.
Shut up, birdbrain.
Fresh air. That’s what I need. Something to wake myself up. I spot a green-lit ‘Exit’ sign and grab my bag and jump off the cart.
‘I’m going now then. Cheers,’ I say.
The little old man who is driving the cart has a hearing aid on that doesn’t seem to be working. Or maybe he can’t hear me over the hum of the battery-powered engine. I walk towards the double doors and they swish wide open. I stumble outside.
The night is black and the air is crisp. There aren’t any clouds and the moon and the stars are bright and defined as though someone has drawn around them in biro. I look both ways down the silent street. Nobody here, just me. Oh man, I’m in no state for Nino. He’d take me down in two seconds flat. I can’t just wait here in plain sight. I know he’s around here somewhere . . . somewhere . . . skulking about like a bat. I take a side street, quicken my pace, leaving the lights of the airport behind me. I’m in a residential area on the outskirts of town. My breath fogs into a cloud. I wrap my arms round myself. Oh my God, it’s freezing. I’m wearing my sister’s skimpy dress with no socks or underwear on. It probably looked great on Beth. She was always slimmer than me.
I’ll find a cab. Get a hotel. Sort myself out for tomorrow. Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. A weapon. A plan. A strategy. I’ll pull myself together.
Someone grabs my bag.
‘Hey. No. What the . . . ?’
Someone’s nicked my handbag.
My phone.
My money.
My cuckoo clock.
I stop dead in my tracks and look around. What just happened? Who was that? A man’s dark figure turns a corner and his footsteps fade. A sick feeling spreads from my stomach. Adrenaline floods to my head. Fuck. Was that Nino?
‘HEY,’ I say.
He’s not getting away.
I sprint after the thief.
A misty drizzle that isn’t quite rain fills the air with eerie grey. Tiny droplets chill my skin. I wish I was wearing more clothes. Sharp night air hits my bare arms and legs and sends a shiver down my spine. I turn into a gloomy alley; surely he’s down here? A pair of streetlights cast long shadows. The pavement’s slippery and wet. Overflowing rubbish bins and refuse sacks are strewn around. I smell the putrid stench of rotting. Something’s died. A bird? A rat? A cat with only half a tail meows and bolts when it sees me coming. It dives into a rusty bin.
‘Nino? Is that you?’ I say, but it’s too quiet. A whisper.
Cold and dirty puddle water splashes up my feet and legs. Urgh, so gross. On my Prada shoes. This place reminds me of Archway.
That’s when I spot him up ahead – and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. Footsteps echo off the walls.
‘Hey, you. Come back. Come here.’
He’s dressed all in black with his back to me. A silhouette like a giant spider. He turns round and I take a sharp breath. For a split
second I think it’s Nino. But it’s just the dark playing tricks on me. Horrors haunting my subconscious. My imagination running wild. I study his face, as white as a mask, inhuman, almost demonic. His nightmare eyes are fixed on mine. Why is he staring like that?
‘Give me my bag,’ I call into the darkness. I try to sound tough, but who am I kidding? My voice is thin and too high-pitched, trembling like a leaf.
The man begins to run again.
I start sprinting, my stupid shoes rubbing and ripping into my skin; my feet are aching, blistering. My thighs are fucking on fire. Come on, Alvie. You can do it. He’s just some guy; he’s not Usain Bolt. I’m closing in: three metres, two metres, one metre away. Shit. What if he has a weapon? What if he has a gun? Fuck it, I’m here now. It’s too late. I jump on my handbag and grab it.
‘Hey, you bastard, that’s Hermès.’
My fingers grip the leather. The bag alone is worth a grand. He reaches out a dirty hand. He has bitten-down nails. A scar by his thumb. Everything’s moving in super slow motion. He pulls down hard on my arm.
‘Urgh. Get off. This dress is Chanel.’
My handbag crashes down to the ground.
Did he just break my cuckoo clock?
We slam into each other. I dive for the bag, his foul- smelling body up against mine. I stumble against the wall and rough bricks scrape along my arm and hack off a stinging lump of skin. I feel the warm blood sliding down all the way to my wrist. I’ll get him for that. I will. I hear his breathing, heavy, rasping. Feel his hot breath on my ear. A sudden WHACK.
No.
Not the face.
The world goes black beyond the man.
All I can see are those eyes . . .
He seizes my bag and I come to. Come on, Alvie, you’ve got shit to do.
‘Didn’t Mummy ever tell you? Don’t hit girls.’
I reach for a strap. It’s tug of war. I swear to God, if he breaks it . . .
He turns and pins me to the wall. His rough hands grip around my throat.
‘Ciao, Elisabetta,’ he says.
He knows who I am? I mean, who I’m pretending to be? But how? Is he working with Nino? The app said he was around here somewhere. My eyes flick up and down the alley. His fingers tighten round my neck. I can’t breathe. I try to scream, but there’s no sound. He holds my hands above my head. I struggle, but he’s stronger than I am. I gag. My lungs are burning. I’m squirming, but his grip is tight. Shit. Fuck. I’m stuck.
‘Ha ha. He’s going to kill you,’ says Beth.
I stamp my heel into his foot with all my might. Six inches of killer Prada. He screams. Releases his grip. Now’s my chance. He’s distracted.
I shove his head against the wall. My hands are shaking, but my aim is good. His skull makes a heavy clunking sound like a sledgehammer on a rock. A dull thump, but nice and loud. The man collapses to the ground, his body slumping in the dirt like a rag doll. He is as limp as a sack of potatoes, as heavy as a bag of manure. I squat down on to his chest, panting, gasping, out of breath. My throat is burning. Shit. That was close. I peer into his face. Another guy trying to screw me like Nino. Take that, motherfucker. A pool of blood starts to spread from his head, as slick and shiny as oil. Oh my God, have I . . . have I killed him?
Cuckoo.
Oh, look. The clock’s still working.
I slap him. Hard. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch.
‘Come on. Wake up. WAKE UP,’ I say.
‘You won’t get away with it this time.’
My heartbeat quickens. I’m shaking. Sick. What have I done? Who am I? I lift my hand towards his face. His neck is thin and sinewy, skinny like a turkey’s. I feel for his pulse at his jugular. The feeble trickle seems to wither with the slightest bit of pressure. There’s nothing there. Not even a flutter. He’s quiet. He’s still. He’s dead.
No, no, no, no. What have I become?
‘I thought you liked killing?’ says Beth. ‘I thought you were a “natural”?’
‘I do like killing. But this wasn’t the plan.’
‘You could never do anything right.’
OK. OK. Chill out, Alvie. It’s the middle of the night. The middle of nowhere. I can just disappear.
I pick up Beth’s battered Hermès tote and head back down the empty alley. I check the walls for CCTV cameras. Look back at the corpse getting wet in the rain. Who the hell was he anyway? And how the fuck did he know my name? I stop. I can’t go till I know. I have to turn back. Just for a second. Then I’m out of here. I run back towards the body, crouch down low right next to him. I reach inside his jacket pocket and find a leather wallet.
There’s a Romanian identity card. It says his name was Dragos Gabor, but that means fucking nothing. Did Nino send this guy here to mug me? Or hunt me and lure me away somewhere quiet? I peer into his ugly face. Was he in the mob as well?
I chuck the wallet in a bin. There’s no cash in there anyway. I check his other pocket. Two mobile phones. That’s weird: two phones. One for the wife and one for the girlfriend? One of them looks like Nino’s. He had one of these, a battered old Sony. Black, with a crack down the screen. It could be a coincidence . . .
But then I get it.
Nino isn’t here, is he?
Just his stupid phone.
That fucktard set me up. I knew it. He must have known about the app. I bet Nino paid him to lead me here. What else does that assgoblin have planned?
I feel like I’m underwater, drowning, sinking, searching, lost. I glance again up and down the alley, but there’s nobody here, at least not yet. I’ve got to get out of here.
I scroll through the contacts on Beth’s phone, my fingers shaking, slipping and sliding. The screen shines wet with the rain. Eventually I find ‘Nino Brusca’. I press call and wait.
A split second later, the Sony starts buzzing. I pick it up and stare at the screen: ‘Elisabetta Caruso’. That was my sister’s married name. That proves it; this is Nino’s phone. I hear his voice on the answering machine – ‘Ciao, sono Nino Brusca . . .’ – and I cut him off. I can’t listen to him speak. It sounds like he’s right here.
I shove the phone inside my bag and look down at the man. What was I thinking? I can’t leave him here. I’ve got to act fast. There’s not a moment to waste. I grab him by the ankles and drag him, my tongue sticking out of the corner of my mouth. I have to walk backwards and lean away to counterbalance his great weight. But even then, it’s fucking hard. Urgh, why are corpses so heavy? I kick off my heels. That’s better. He’s medium build, average height, but somehow heavier than he looks. I yank him and his body drags on the ground like his bones are made of lead piping. His face is twisted into a grimace. His pockmarked skin is dirty-white. I shove some bin bags out of the way – there’s a crunching sound of broken glass – and haul the body against the wall. Every muscle in my body is straining. Lactic acid. Burning pain.
I grab a sack and heave it on his face. Put another bin bag on his chest. I dump another couple on his legs. That will do, at least for now. He won’t start to smell for a couple of days. But I’ll be long, long gone by then. And it stinks enough already.
I stand back and study his makeshift grave. There’s no sign of the body, just piles of trash. Not bad, nice work. I think I’m done. It’s good, considering.
The rain is really falling now, and cool drops kiss my burning skin. I take a deep breath, feeling better now. Calm, composed. Well done. See that, Alvie, you’re a pro. No need to freak out. I study my battered Hermès tote. It’s covered in muck. Dirt-black. I sling it over my shoulder and light myself a fag.
* * *
*
I trudge through the empty airport, yawning, carrying my dirty shoes on a hooked-up index finger. I need to buy another ticket. Back to London. Unbelievable. Such a fucking waste of money. I’ve only just got here. I had h
oped to be in Monaco any day now. Sipping Negronis in Monte Carlo and splurging all my new-found wealth on Dior and YSL. But no. Not yet. No rest for the wicked. So it’s back to Blighty, I guess. None of the desks are open yet, so I can’t buy my one-way ticket. I slump down in a seat in the lounge. I’m going to have to wait. I can’t believe Nino tricked me, the bastard. Now I’m really, really mad. What the hell is he playing at? Sending me flowers, a romantic note, and then hiring some nutjob to kill me? Did you ever hear anything more schizophrenic?
Oh man, he’s worse than Beth.
The chairs are hard and plastic and I’m right in the blast of the air-conditioning in front of a wide-screen TV. The telly’s showing Romanian news with the sound turned off and the subtitles on. I doubt that mugger would make the news, if/when they find him. He wasn’t young and blonde, like Beth. He wasn’t very pretty (a one or two out of ten). I hope I’ve covered him up enough. Perhaps I should go back again and check? But no. Use your head, Alvina. You should never return to the scene of a crime; that’s textbook lesson number one. They’ll never find a murder weapon (my hands are attached to my arms). No known motive. No CCTV, I checked. I’m leaving the country in a matter of hours. I’m getting pretty good at this. I stretch my arms up over my head, yawn again and relax.
I pick up Beth’s iPhone, and click into the apps.
I wonder if Beth has Tinder.
Chapter Five
I delete that stupid tracking app. I’ve got no use for that any more. How am I going to find Nino now? What am I going to do? I could be sitting here for hours before the next plane to London leaves. I scroll through Beth’s mobile phone. No Tinder. That wasn’t her scene. I doubt she even knew it existed. Or Happn or Hinge or Grindr or Bumble or any of those things. I upload Tinder. I’m just curious. I want to see what the locals look like. Do I have time for an airport quickie? I could have a holiday fling. Some dashing Romanian heart surgeon could come and whisk me off my feet . . . I download the app, find a picture of Beth and create an account as ‘Beyoncé’. So what? Who cares if I’m a catfish? That’s my whole life now.
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