The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  He clung onto her hand a second longer, telling himself that his depth of feeling in that moment had little to do with dependency; even though throughout his life – from his mother dying and the years of abandonment in the orphanage, and even the times his stepfather let the family down financially, his concept of love had often been forged through dependency. He couldn’t face being left out in the cold again: it would be almost as bad as the more ominous threats Chenouda was warning of with Roman. A tingling chill washed through his shoulder blades and the nape of his neck, and as it showed in a faint trembling in his hand, he let go of Simone’s. Almost.

  But little doubt remained now that he was dependent on Simone – and as she began to talk about how best to tackle the subject with her father, he realized just how much so. She stressed that it was important she didn’t come across just as the concerned girlfriend doing her duty: she had to sell herself as the right and only person to cover the problem, given the circumstances.

  And it struck Georges that for her father to take her seriously and her pull it off, heartfelt, old-before-her-time Simone was needed; yet he didn’t know, nor had ever troubled to find out, how Jean-Paul viewed his daughter. If like most people he saw her simply as a carefree, happy-go-lucky twenty-three year old, then he was sunk.

  Roman was in heaven. Having watched Viana writhe in the club half the night, now she was writhing on top of him.

  He held his hands by her waist as if to guide her, but her body had a rhythm and purpose all of its own. He tried to match his thrusts to it, but more often than not he’d be a beat out, so would just relax and let her do it all. It was as if she mimed all evening to screwing, just building up to the real thing so that she could let it all go with one final, virtuoso performance.

  That’s why he liked to show up half an hour early for the take when he was planning to head home with her. He could look at her dancing and gloat: you guys are just getting the play-acting, I’ll be getting the real thing. The anticipation added to his excitement: that was his build-up.

  She’d already had one orgasm, and the second was even more tumultuous, bringing him to a finish at the same time – quicker than he’d have liked. He was trying to draw it out, savour the experience longer. She shuddered with a last few strangled gasps and then lay on top of him, her breath hot in his ear, her chest rising and falling hard as she clawed back to normality.

  Her gasps and screams had been loud enough to make neighbours think she was being murdered – except that his nearest Mount Royal neighbours were at least a Cadillac length away behind thick brownstone walls.

  Her breathing gradually settled, but he could still feel her heart racing hard. Her body poured out heat like a steam blanket against him, and he could feel her still moist and pressing against his thigh. Another moment to savour – but there was no point in delaying longer. He’d not wanted to broach the topic before sex; he would have spoilt the mood. Now that was over, and time was tight: he still had to get back to the club later with Funicelli. He rolled her off gently, but the jolt in the mood still registered faintly in her eyes. He touched her face with the back of one hand: re-assurance.

  ‘Babe, I’ve got this little problem… but I think you might just be ideal to help me out with it.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’ Curiosity rather than suspicion: he’d never before asked anything of her outside of sex.

  Roman ran through the story he’d constructed: Georges was fooling around, it was threatening all sorts of problems with Simone and the rest of the family, but the problem was he didn’t have proof. So his only choice left was to set him up and take a few photos, and that was where Viana and an escort agency girl he’d arranged came in. She looked perplexed, doubt starting to set in, so he jumped quickly to the money.

  ‘This is important to me, so I’m paying top dollar. Eight grand – and don’t worry none about paying for supplies the next four, five months.’ He gently touched her nose. ‘The treats on me.’

  Her smile slowly emerged. ‘That’s good of you, Roman. Thanks.’ Her eyes flickered, searching his fleetingly. ‘This must be important to you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, as I say… it is.’ He knew he’d have to be generous: she earned fifteen hundred dollars some weeks. But probably the nose candy was enticing her most.

  A sly twinkle suddenly came to her eyes. ‘Anyways, Georges… I always thought he was quite a cutie. Would hardly seem like work.’

  Roman sat up, bristling. He reached out and pinched her cheek. ‘Look – this is just play-acting. You’re not there to fuck him for real. Besides, he’s gonna be zonked from what you put in his drink back at your place, so this’ll just be look-good stuff for the camera.’ He gave one last hard pinch and pushed her face away in disgust.

  She came sidling up against him after a second, stroking the nape of his neck. ‘Come on… I was just teasing, Roman. But I didn’t know you cared so.’

  ‘That’s where you got that wrong. I don’t care… that’s why I’m fuckin’ paying you.’ He remained rigid a moment more before finally giving in to her insistent stroking. He shrugged and smiled reluctantly. ‘Well, maybe when you’ve just fucked my brains out like now, I do care just a little.’ Her hand froze on his neck, and he gripped it and pushed her back on the bed, straddling her. Her eyes glared back at him for a moment before realizing from his smile that he was teasing too. But he was glad in a way that she’d chosen to rib him over Georges: it would make what was coming easier.

  The tension gone between them, he ran through the rest: Someone from the club that she’d made the mistake of dating. He’d become a bit freaky and possessive, was waiting outside her place the night before, and they’d ended up having a fight. Could Georges run her home, see her safely into her apartment? She was afraid the guy might be waiting for her again that night.

  She grasped the plan clearly after only a couple of minor questions, except for one point. ‘A fight? Wouldn’t it be enough just that I’m rattled, afraid?’

  ‘No, I think we’re going to have to be a little more convincing.’

  ‘What? I put on some make-up for it to look like bruising or something?’

  ‘No… I don’t think so. He might pick up that it’s just make-up, get suspicious.’ This was the best part, watching that gradual dawning of realization on her face. He was still straddled on top of her, and her eyes darted uncomprehendingly for a moment before settling on him.

  ‘No, Roman… no way. My face is my work, my money.’

  ‘Sorry, doll… I just don’t see any other way round.’ Fear settled in her eyes and she grappled out frantically to push him away. He pushed one arm back easily with his left hand and pinned the other under his right knee. ‘The bruising will be gone in just a week – back to normal.’

  ‘No, Romy… please… please.’ She writhed and bucked to try and shake him loose, but he had her pinned too tight. Her breath came short with the effort, verging finally into tears and gasping sobs as she realized the futility. She wasn’t going to get free. ‘Noooo… please!’

  ‘I’ll round it off to ten grand – and just think of all that nose candy.’ He cocked his right fist above her face.

  ‘No, Roman… don’t do this to me, I’m begging you… nooooo!’ She shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face. She let out a piercing scream that went straight through him, and he dug his knee harder into her left arm.

  ‘Shut the fuck up and keep your head still – unless you want to get your nose broken as well.’

  Her head stopped shaking and she stared straight up at him, her pupils dark and dilated, full of terror. He drank in that terror for a moment, wallowing in the heady sense of power. Combined with her body’s trembling it told him that finally he was in control, all her resistance had burnt out. But there was a plea beneath her eyes that he found disturbing.

  ‘Or maybe turn your head a little so that I can be sure of a clear shot.’

  She slowly, reluctantly turned her head to one side, te
ars streaming unashamedly down her face. Her body trembled beneath him like a trapped humming bird, her only sound a muted whimper as she bit tautly at her bottom lip; and with his final, ‘Sorry, babe,’ her eyes fluttered gently shut a second before his fist came down.

  Roman let Carlo Funicelli into the club less than an hour later.

  Funicelli perched up at the bar, Roman poured them a couple of beers, and they started talking. Aimless chatter, it was all for the sake of the security cameras: if Jean-Paul got sight of the tapes, he’d say that he met Funicelli at the club after hours to talk over surveillance of Donatiens.

  After a moment, Roman pointed something out along the rows of bottles behind, and Funicelli came around the bar. They moved along, but as soon as they were out of security camera view – Roman knew the exact position – Funicelli ducked to one side towards the cash register.

  Roman had already given him the key, and in just over a minute Funicelli was finished: two sets of codes keyed-in that he knew would disrupt the club’s four linked registers handling both cash and automatic stock ordering.

  They moved back into view of the security camera, with Roman pointing out some Sambuca on a high shelf as Funicelli nodded.

  Azy would call in a panic soon after they opened that night, and ever-efficient Donatiens would come running: the new system had been his recommendation. Roman knew that he couldn’t wait for Donatiens’ normal monthly till check and reconciliation – he had to somehow get him there quickly.

  Funicelli noticed Roman’s right hand clenching and unclenching, and asked, ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Roman shrugged. ‘You know, for every bit of love there’s always some pain.’

  Funicelli didn’t pursue it, he went back to silently sipping at his beer as Roman glanced at his watch: forty-eight hours for Donatiens left to live, and counting.

  FIFTEEN

  Five days since baring her soul to Gordon: five days of searching with nothing but fruitless dead ends, and now practically Elena’s last hope lay with these two old steamers trunks, raking through her father’s memorabilia and keepsakes. All that remained: sixty-two years of life neatly packed away. She was so absorbed with their contents that she barely registered the footsteps behind her.

  ‘Come on… enough, Elena. You can go through the rest later. If we don’t get ready, we’re going to be late for the restaurant.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Elena was kneeling down, her breath short from raking and sifting through. She lifted her head and half turned towards Uncle Christos. ‘Just five minutes more, and then I’ll jump into the shower. Get some of this dust off. Okay?’

  After a second a reluctant ‘Okay’ from Uncle Christos. ‘I’ll make us another coffee meanwhile.’ Then the sound of his footsteps shuffling back down the stairs.

  The first three days had been spent searching through UK credit reference agencies for the Stevens, previously Stephanou family, mostly at Gordon’s instigation: she’d all but given up, felt that she had no fight left in her to continue searching. But Gordon insisted it wasn’t the sort of thing she could give up on lightly, it would only come back later to haunt her. He offered to help with his knowledge of credit reference tracking, and the next forty-eight hours they burnt up the phone loans between Terry, Megan’s trace man, and seven reference agencies from Gordon’s card file. But they found nothing linking back to their previous Canterbury address with either Stevens or Stephanou. They concluded that either the Stevens had miraculously survived without any credit for three years after moving, had lied about their previous address or, more likely, that they’d left the country.

  They were stuck at first as to how to find out where they might have gone – then Gordon hit on the possibility of her father’s old passport providing clues. If her father had a hand in spiriting the Stevens away, then he might well have visited their destination around the time of them moving. Elena thought it worth pursuing, but the only problem was that her father’s belongings were still stored at her mother’s, and Elena didn’t want to visit her: especially not for this purpose. She’d had little or no contact with her mother while her father was alive, and with Elena not turning up for her father’s funeral five years ago, things had become even more strained between them: they’d only spoken briefly once on the phone since, when Uncle Christos informed Elena that she was ill.

  So it was Uncle Christos to the rescue again, phoning her mother with an excuse about trying to find some old business papers. ‘I’ll pick the trunks up and have them back to you within a few days.’ Then straight after he phoned Elena back and she jumped on a train to London to start her search.

  She received a call from Barbara Edelston the day after her heart to heart with Gordon, and halfway through a predictable dressing down about her being desperately out of order to still be interfering, ‘Especially given your background,’ she finally blew and gave Edelston a piece of her mind. ‘One day you’ll wake up the fact that Ryall is a control freak, and a dangerous one at that. He’s been controlling young Lorena for years. He controlled Nadine’s enquiry by taping our meeting, me by getting a secret report done, and you by sending you both the tape and the report. And just like the mug he hoped you’d be, you fell for it all and responded strictly by the rule book. If all of that doesn’t look the tiniest bit suspicious to you – then I’m afraid I can’t help you.’ She slammed down the phone before Edelston could respond, and dialled straight out to Shelley McGurran. Shelley too would no doubt have received Ryall’s poisonous file, and she didn’t want Shelley to have to phone first to get an explanation.

  After a strained half-hour on line with a condensed version of her soul-baring to Gordon, and Shelley voicing her sore disappointment that Elena hadn’t felt they were close enough to be able to share this earlier – Shelley finally rallied behind her. ‘I agree. You have to find him, Elena. And try and help young Lorena, if you can. That is, if you’ve got either the time or inclination to handle both.’ Elena wondered if that was Shelley’s polite way of saying that she no longer had a job with the aid agency, but Shelley was quick to re-assure: ‘God, no. Devoted workers like you are hard to find. I’m disappointed, and I only half accept your reasoning – but not enough to boot you out. And especially not at the bidding of that prick, Ryall. Take a month off, or whatever it takes to sort out your life, then give me a call. Your place will still be here. And give that Ryall’s ass an extra kick for me. Promise?’

  Elena was close to tears when she came off the phone from Shelley: her ready understanding made it all the harder. Another who’d so loved and trusted her, and her repayment to them had been so poor over the years; so lacking in trust.

  And it was those close to her, like Gordon and Shelley, that were now firing her up into action: after twelve days of searching with Megan and Terry that ended nowhere, and Ryall rallying half of Chelborne against her and sending his damning report, she’d all but given up, felt she had nothing left to give. Until her father’s two trunks were in front of her. Then suddenly she was on overdrive again, frantically sifting through: dusty plans for their old house, GCE results for her and Andreos, her communion prayer book, her first school photo, Andreos at nineteen standing proudly by a new Suzuki bike he’d just bought, the family all together raising glasses in a Cyprus beach bar when she was just nine.

  She’d found her father’s passport covering 1970 near the bottom of the first trunk, but still she kept going. Poignant nostalgia of the years she was there, the family all together, plus filling the gaps on the years she wasn’t. She was totally absorbed, found it impossible to break away. It was strange: looking through photos of herself and Andreos as children and some old birthday cards, one from her to her father at the age of seven with a pressed flower inside, it was as if a softly nostalgic, vulnerable side to her father had been exposed which she’d never witnessed while he was alive. When she’d aired that thought to Uncle Christos, he mentioned that her mother too had packed away some old family memora
bilia in the same trunks. So again her father remained an enigma: she couldn’t be sure of a chink in his emotional armour.

  The agreement had been that as soon as she found her father’s passport, Uncle Christos would book a table for them at ‘Beotys’, his favourite Cypriot restaurant: a small celebration. There were five entry stamps in the few months either side of the Stevens disappearing; hopefully one of them would prove fruitful.

  She made the excuse of continuing her search in case there were other papers which might give some clue, but when over an hour later Uncle Christos found her still on her knees busily raking through, now half covered in dust from the trunks’ contents, he became concerned. He reminded her that time could be tight for the restaurant, but she was sure his main worry was that she was getting too wrapped up in the trunks’ contents: some of it might be too emotionally painful for her.

  So when he returned with coffee, she immediately stood up and dusted down, took a few rushed gulps before showering, knocked back the rest straight after – and within fifteen minutes they were in a taxi wending through the remnants of rush hour traffic between Queensway and the West End. Street-lamp light bars playing across one arm. The small face looking up at her, struggling to see. She closed her eyes for a second, shaking off a faint shudder. Perhaps going through her father’s things for so long hadn’t been such a good idea.

  The face across for her now, thirty years on, wasn’t far different to her father’s: the resemblance was mainly around the eyes and nose and with the same thick hair which had turned from black to stone grey in their early fifties; but it was a slightly more rounded face, with a readier, easier smile, the edges softer. The clownish, compassionate foil to her father’s stern, all-business manner. It was no wonder that she’d warmed more to Uncle Christos as a child; and before she was old enough to discover if she might break the barrier of how she felt about her father, somewhere between cool remoteness and open fear, the rest had been written in abortion blood and sealed with court adoption papers. Never to be reversed.