The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  ‘You don’t rate Athens, Hamburg or Rome too highly, do you?’ Uncle Christos commented.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Three of the five stamps in her father’s passport around the time of the Stephanou’s disappearance. ‘I think their names being anglicised and then them turning up somewhere where those names would stand out would be pointless. Whereas in Chicago the name Stevens would be commonplace, and almost half of Montreal’s population is anglophile.’

  ‘You’re working on the assumption that your father had it all planned out.’

  ‘Do you know of any time that he didn’t plan everything to the last?’

  Uncle Christos shrugged a tame accord, and they sat silently for a second.

  ‘Anyway, we’ll know soon enough,’ she said. They’d used Terry to put in trace requests with both the American and Canadian embassies for visa or emigration applications in the name of Stevens or Stephanou around the time the family disappeared. Terry had been asked to call back the next day.

  Uncle Christos merely nodded. She could tell that something else was on his mind, and finally he turned to her, his expression slightly drawn, concerned.

  ‘Elena. You really should see her some time. I know with picking up the trunks it could have been difficult – she might have asked too many questions. But before you leave London, you should make the effort. Maybe when I return the trunks tomorrow, you could come along at the same time.’

  ‘No, no… it would be too painful – for both of us. Too much has gone before.’ Uncle Christos’s pet beef: reconciliation with her mother. She watched his expression change from hopeful to questioning, and added. ‘Especially not now with everything else I’ve got on my plate.’

  Uncle Christos grimaced with reluctant understanding and turned to stare blankly ahead again. Night-time London rolled by their taxi windows, the lights from an oncoming car making his profile shadow more pronounced for a second. She could practically read his mind: always an excuse. Whenever he broached the subject, she’d usually raise how her mother had always taken her father’s side, was practically a silent conspirator: she found that difficult to forgive. Or, last time, that it was too close to her not showing up at her father’s funeral: her mother wouldn’t have forgiven her yet. Now it was the search for her son.

  ‘You know, she’s not getting any younger, Elena.’

  ‘I know.’ Elena bit lightly at her lip, guilt worming deeper. Then after a second: ‘She’s not ill again is she?’

  ‘No, she’s not.’ Christos shot her a look of tired reproach. ‘But that shouldn’t be the only reason you feel you must make contact again – because you fear she might be on her deathbed. Besides…’ His eyes flickered down slightly; direct eye contact was suddenly difficult. ‘Has it ever struck you that she was equally as afraid of your father. That alone, apart from the fact that she’s your mother, is something you have in common: you were both on the same side of the fence more than you probably realized.’

  ‘But I was barely more than a child, Uncle Christos. Only fifteen! At least at her age she had a voice; she should have said something, she might have been able to–’ She stopped herself, realizing she was launching again into a diatribe about how much more her mother could have done. She didn’t want to spoil the mood for the restaurant, and she hated to see Uncle Christos’s face darken: the lighter, jovial side would suddenly be gone, he would remind her too much of her father. Despite her own feelings, she understood why Uncle Christos felt so deeply grieved by the split in the family: Andreos and her father long dead, her years apart from all of them, and now the thought that her mother might die after years of being alone without any reconciliation between them, was too much for Uncle Christos to take. She reached across and gripped his hand.

  ‘You’re right. I should make the effort some time. And perhaps when I’m through all this, will be that time. I can show up at her door with my son for a big re-union. She’ll know then that I have back what I want – there’d be no reason for me to still hold any resentment. I’m there at her door because I want to be there, not because I feel I have to be there.’

  Uncle Christos smiled tightly and patted her hand. But as he looked away again, she could tell that he was only half re-assured: it could be just another excuse, pushed out of reach again by being tied to something that might never happen. She had so many hopes and desires riding aboard this, and now Uncle Christos’s hopes that one day their shattered family would be patched back, she’d strapped to the same possibly doomed ship.

  At least they didn’t have to wait long to know. Two calls the next day could decide it: Montreal or Chicago.

  But when the next morning Terry called with the good news that the Canadian embassy had confirmed they had a Stevens family listed in October, 1970 for immigration to Montreal, ‘Father, mother and a young baby,’ Elena had other problems: two calls late the night before from young Lorena.

  Gordon phoned her about them not long after she’d called with the news from Terry. ‘They came through to your studio, so I didn’t even hear the phone ringing last night and didn’t play the answerphone back until just now.’

  ‘I see.’ She swallowed slightly, then asked Gordon to play them. ‘ I should hear them.’

  ‘Okay, one second.’ But Gordon sounded hesitant, as if worried the effect they might have on her. A rustling and clicking as Gordon set it up, then Lorena’s frail, uncertain voice.

  ‘Elena… Elena… I thought you were going to help me. Since you came to the house… I… I’ve heard nothing… and Mr Ryall is still coming to my room. Please, please… if you can hear me, pick up the phone…’ A moment’s silence, then the sound of soft whimpering before the line went dead. A short beep, then her voice again.

  ‘… He… he doesn’t touch me when he visits… maybe he’s frightened to since you visited. But he does touch me in the dreams… and they’re so real… sooo… I… I don’t know what to do.’ A pause, a sniffle as she battled to control her tears. ‘Please… if there’s anything you can do, Elena. I’m sorry to call you like this… but I don’t know who else to call. If you’re there…’ The tears had finally stopped; only shallow breathing as Lorena waited on expectantly for the phone to be picked up before finally she gave up.

  Elena took a second to compose herself as Gordon lifted the receiver away from the dull dialling tone. She pictured again Lorena reaching out her hand to the back window of Nicola Ryall’s Range Rover; but nobody was there to grip on to that hand, to help her.

  Elena took a fresh breath. ‘How did you get on with Mikaya?’

  ‘I finally found someone in the village ready and willing to speak up: Joe Hawley at the garage. He had a run in with Ryall over a bill last year. Apparently, Mikaya’s at Durham university – hardly anyone down here sees anything of her anymore. I’ve phoned the university twice now and left messages, but no return call as yet.’

  Elena sighed. ‘Might still prove fruitful, but I’m not sure we’ve got the time now to wait.’ They’d agreed that the best way to help Lorena was through finding out more about what had happened with Mikaya. Gordon had offered to start digging while Elena was in London looking through her father’s things. But now with Lorena sounding so distressed, she began to reassess: Mikaya might well decide not to speak to them now or at any time, and they had to do something quickly. She outlined her new plan.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Gordon said after a pause; as if unsure for a second that she was serious. ‘It’s far too risky.’

  ‘Maybe so. But look where I am now from not taking risks, not standing up to my father. Twenty-nine years without seeing my own son, and too afraid to admit that I’ve even got a son to anyone – just so that I don’t have to face it myself. Pathetic. If something is happening with Ryall and I do nothing, I’d never forgive myself. Lorena could end up in a few years time where I found myself – so screwed up that she empties a bottle of pills down her throat as the only way out. And Ryall’s just like my father: the only way is to make a st
and, push back. Otherwise they’ll just steam-roller straight over you.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’ Only a few ways Gordon could see it going right, and far too many of it all going horribly wrong. But he could tell that her mind was made up: he might as well start thinking of ways to help her, try and reduce the risk. Whichever way the chips fell, one thing looked certain: from this point on, their lives were going to be very different.

  SIXTEEN

  Viana wore a mask covering her bruise for her dancing that night: bright turquoise feathers with cream tinges, it covered one eye and swept in a semi-circle down one side of her nose and across just under her left cheekbone. She’d had it made especially by a friend who made costumes for the annual Caribbean carnival.

  She’d felt self-conscious at first, as if people could somehow see the ugliness of the swelling on her face behind the mask, or guessed that she was covering something. But as she realized people were none the wiser, and that with some it even heightened the mystique, the allure – made her stand out from the other girls – she relaxed back into her normal rhythm.

  She saw Georges turn up an hour after opening, but she didn’t want to rush over. Roman had assured her that he should be staying for the evening, or even if he did leave for a while to eat, he was going to be back to do the take at closing. She bided her time, kept half an eye on him between dances. For the first fifty minutes he was busy with a technical guy checking all the cash registers, just as Roman had said would happen. She waited until about fifteen minutes after the technician left before sidling over. Georges was sat at the bar nursing a beer while Azy was at the far end serving another customer.

  ‘Hi, Georges.’ She perched on the bar stool next to him. ‘You should come by more often. We always get stuck with that goon Roman.’

  ‘Trouble with the cash registers.’ He waved his beer towards the bar register and smiled back. He wasn’t sure what was more important: her paying him a complement, or taking a swipe at Roman while he wasn’t there.

  ‘Ah… and we thought it was because you couldn’t keep yourself away from us all here.’ She mocked a hurt expression.

  ‘Yep, that’s it.’ He raised his glass in acknowledgement and took a quick slug. ‘Couldn’t keep away from that smile, Viana.’ He remembered all of the girl’s names, even though he came by the club at most twice a month. He thought it was important in a trade where they were usually treated impersonally: pieces of meat just to gawk at. He often talked with the girls, and Viana had been as free and easy with the smiles and talk as any of them. But what had stayed with him most was that along with another girl, Amparo from Costa Rica, noble aims lay behind their work: they were both helping their families out. Amparo simply because of their dire poverty, while Viana was saving for surgery to help her mother’s crippling arthritis. ‘How’s your mother now? Closer to having the money together?’

  ‘Yeah. Quite close now. Thanks.’ She flinched slightly at the mention. This sting tonight would go a long way towards helping pay. Nor did Georges have any idea that if it wasn’t for her habit, she’d have probably had the money together months back. She was touched also that he remembered: Roman never asked about her mother. She hoped that this was all, as Roman said, just to split Georges from Simone because he was fooling around; that Roman wasn’t thinking of harming him. With the still tingling ache behind her mask to remind her what Roman might do if she let him down, she pushed the worry from her mind: like so much else in her life, what choice or control did she have? Her fleeting concern at least seemed to have set the right tone. ‘Georges… there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. A little problem that I…’ She looked up as Azy started down the bar towards them. Roman had stressed to keep it all out of earshot of Azy. She looked to one side. ‘Can we go over there maybe and talk.’

  Georges nodded with a tame smile: he could see that she looked troubled, was conscious of prying ears. They moved two booths away from the bar.

  She ran through the story exactly as Roman had coached: a club visitor who she’d made the mistake of dating; he’d became difficult and possessive, started shouting that he didn’t want her working at the club anymore while she was going out with him. She’d tried to break it up the night before ‘…and we ended up arguing. Things went from bad to worse, and that’s when he hit out. Gave me this…’ She lifted up her face mask. She was careful to keep her back to Azy, who was no doubt keeping half an eye on them; although Azy would have clearly seen Georges’ pained flinch as the ugly bruise was exposed. She bit lightly at her lip as Georges sucked in his breath. ‘I was worried that he might be waiting by my place again tonight. So I was wondering if… if you might be able to run me home tonight… see me safely to my door.’ The right emotions were easy to turn on: seeing Georges’s reaction to her bruise brought home just what a mess Roman had made of her; she was close to tears again. ‘If it’s not putting you out any… you see, normally I would–’

  Georges clasped her hand. ‘No, no… it’s okay. I can run you home.’ Georges’ eyes searched hers a moment longer. Her fear was genuine, and if her intention was to hit on him she would have chosen another time: with her face half mashed up, she wasn’t at her most alluring. ‘But what about the other nights I’m not here? What will you do – get Roman to run you back?’ He looked past her shoulder. ‘…Or Azy maybe?’

  She held up one hand. ‘No, I don’t want either of them to know about it. You know what Roman’s like if he found out – he’d half kill the guy. And Azy’s real strict on us dating clients because of past problems: he’d feel that he had to tell Yves or Roman. I’ve laid on my cousin to pick me up most nights… it’s just that he couldn’t make it tonight.’

  ‘No, it’s okay – I’ll run you.’ Georges gave her hand one last re-assuring pat before pulling his away. ‘I’ve got to nip out for something to eat, but I’ll be back later to do the take.’

  ‘Roman’s not doing it tonight?’

  ‘No. With the problem with the registers, I wanted to do the tally tonight: no point in us both being here. I phoned him an hour back.’

  Viana let out a slow breath as if a burden had been eased. ‘That was another thing I was worried about, having to cover with Roman. If he asked about the mask, I was going to have to lie to him, tell him I fell down some stairs.’ She forced a nervous smile. Everything was going how Roman planned, and hopefully she’d feigned her side well: Georges looked convinced, settled. But as she turned slightly, she was aware in her side vision of Azy still looking over at them. ‘I’d better get back now. Thanks again, Georges. See you later.’ She touched his sleeve and headed off towards the far side of the room, quickly slipping back into her normal seductive sway as she roamed for fresh dance clients.

  She hooked a client after only a minute, but as she started to dance her nerves began to build. She noticed Georges was back at the bar talking to Azy; she was sure Georges wouldn’t say anything, but what if Azy read between the lines? Azy looked up at her for a moment before moving along the bar to serve another customer. She closed her eyes, tried to absorb herself in the mood of the music and her dancing.

  Twenty minutes later, straight after another check with Azy of the bar cash register, Georges left. Viana waited ten minutes more, then went to her mobile in her handbag and put through the pre-arranged call to Roman.

  ‘It’s done. He’s gone now – but he’s coming back to pick me up later.’

  ‘Okay. Good stuff. We’ll be sitting outside. See you later.’

  But wondering if Azy suspected something each time he looked over and thinking ahead to what she’d have to do, her agitation hadn’t abated. Her hand was shaking heavily as she tucked her mobile back in her handbag.

  The passing hours didn’t help. She took a shot of vodka in each of the three cokes she had after 11pm, but still her hands were shaking, her stomach in knots. She even took a quick snort of coke in a washroom cubicle, but all that did was sharpen her focus, her sense of apprehension: Ge
orges was one of the nice guys, one of the few that took the time out to show any interest in her welfare, what might lay beneath her skin. What if Roman did intend to harm him?

  When they were getting near closing and Georges still hadn’t returned, she started to hope that he wouldn’t show. That he’d had second thoughts about them being alone together, worried that she might come on to him. As for Roman, she’d have done her bit: it wouldn’t be her fault if Georges didn’t show. Surely Roman wouldn’t take it out on her?

  The pros and cons tugged at her, but any clarity seemed out of reach beyond the pounding of the music and a slight buzzing in her head: she wished now she’d laid off the drink and cocaine, and registering the slight frown from the client before her, she realized that her pre-occupation had made her pause for a second in her dancing. She picked up the rhythm again, and halfway through a second dance for the same client, Georges walked in. By that time her nerves were so out of control that all she could manage was a small wave and a tight, nervous smile.

  She became more concerned that Azy had picked up that something was wrong when he finally wiped down the bar and just before leaving came over to her and another girl, Lucy.

  ‘Everything okay, girls?’

  ‘Yeah, my boyfriend’s coming by to pick me up,’ Lucy answered.

  ‘I’m waiting on my cousin,’ Viana said quickly.