The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Jean-Paul was shaking hard, his palms clammy on the wheel. If they pulled alongside, what was he going to do? If he put the window down to get a shot at them, he’d be all the more vulnerable. And he wasn’t even sure he could get in a good shot and control the car with one hand at this speed.

  The lights ahead changed to orange, but he kept his foot down hard, screaming through as it turned to red. The car behind stayed with him, a couple of cars beeping at it as they started across the intersection.

  ‘Watch out!’ Lillian shouted as a bike with a weak tail-light loomed suddenly on the inside.

  She’d been remarkably restrained so far: normally she complained if he was doing 10 mph over on a downtown shopping trip. Jean-Paul swung a yard out to clear it, and felt the back drift slightly.

  At this speed he risked killing them all anyway. The Cadillac was heavy, difficult to control if he had to swerve or make last second adjustments. He wished now he’d brought the Jag: they’d have been cramped and had less protection, but he could have weaved in and out easier and sped away and probably lost them. Heavy. It suddenly gave him the spark of an idea.

  As the car started to close the gap again, this time Jean-Paul let them; he didn’t speed up to try and gain distance. But at the same time he had one eye on the car lights coming towards them.

  ‘Okay, I think we’ve got him now,’ Lorenzo announced as he closed the distance down to only five yards. He tapped one finger on the steering wheel as he waited on a car passing, then swung quickly out and accelerated. The next approaching lights were some distance away, and didn’t seem to be moving that fast.

  Nunzio opened the side window and the air-rush filled the car. He levelled his gun: the Cadillac glass was only slightly tinted, he could pick Jean-Paul out clearly. He thought he had him with a clean shot when the Cadillac suddenly pulled forward a few yards.

  Nunzio looked across as Lorenzo frantically pulled level again, eyes darting between the Cadillac and the traffic ahead. And suddenly the shot was there again. Clean. Clear. Nunzio levelled his gun at Jean-Paul’s head and eased the trigger.

  A heavy kick and the Cadillac seemed to swing away a fraction with the impact. But as Nunzio focused on the starburst where the bullet had hit, he saw that it hadn’t penetrated. Bullet proof glass! The side of Jean-Paul’s mouth curled in a smile. Nunzio levelled his gun again.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Lorenzo screamed, glancing across and suddenly registering what had happened.

  ‘A couple more in the same spot should do it!’

  ‘But quick, huh!’ Lorenzo’s eyes were fixed back on the lights ahead, faint sweat beads popping on his forehead. He could see now that it was a large truck. But they’d still be able to swing back in time.

  Nunzio got aimed square-on again, but then the Cadillac suddenly swung in towards them at the last second, startling him – it swerving away or pulling forward again would have been the natural reaction. He squeezed off the shots anyway, saw two more star bursts appear to the right of the first just before Jean-Paul’s face loomed inches away and the Cadillac crunched against them.

  They drifted away a few yards, and Lorenzo juggled frantically with the wheel, pulling them back in. His eyes opened wider. The truck was bearing down hard, its air-horn blaring – but they should still make it in time. He accelerated to cut in front of Jean-Paul, but at that instant the Cadillac swung towards them again. Another shot squeezed off by Nunzio, and Lorenzo had anticipated this time by turning his wheel back in just before impact.

  But it was no contest – the Cadillac was almost twice their car’s weight, and the shunt was much harder this time. They careened wildly towards the truck as Lorenzo tried to make a last second compensation with the wheel.

  Too sharp. ‘What the…’ The back swung around and they slued totally out of control.

  The screeching of tyres and air-brakes filled the air. The truck driver had expected them to cut in, or even if they pulled over slightly there’d have still been room for him to pass – so he was late braking. The car fish-tailed at the last moment and he hit it broadside, staving in the driver’s side and carrying it along for ten yards before the momentum rolled it over: it turned through 480º, coming to rest on its roof.

  The driver finally managed to come to a halt five yards short of the mangled wreck. He jumped out, not sure whether to advance closer or get clear. The driver he could see had been killed instantly, but he was trying to judge whether there was any movement from the passenger when the spilt petrol igniting made the decision for him. The flames quickly leapt higher, and he was only eight paces into his sprint away when the whole thing blew.

  Jean-Paul had pulled over fifty yards down on the far side and they’d got out of the car. Jean-Paul braced one hand on the Cadillac roof as they looked on. His father had bought the car in the midst of their battles with the Cacchiones: it hadn’t been able to save Pascal, but his father would have been smiling on at them now if he could see the good use it had been put to. Something from the past to allow them to escape to the future: somehow fitting.

  As the explosion came, he could see for a second the excitement reflected in Raphael’s eyes – the stock reaction of the video-game generation – then as it dawned on the boy how close they’d come to death themselves, his face crumpled and he pulled in close as his father hugged him tight. Lillian gently clasped Jean-Paul’s hand over Raphael’s shoulder – but still the circle wasn’t complete, Jean-Paul reminded himself. If Roman got to Georges, Simone never would be reaching out for his hand.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  So many emotions.

  Elena knew already what he looked like from photos at the Donatiens, so she found herself studying other things: the way he moved, the inflection in his voice, the way he looked at her and smiled – what few smiles there were.

  She’d spun so much around in her head of what to say that in the end she was tongue-tied. She just stood there stuttering ‘How are you?’ Then, realizing she’d already said that on greeting, added hastily, ‘It’s so good to see you at last.’ And she wasn’t even sure whether to hug him – whether that would be too bold, presumptuous.

  So in the end she was rooted stock still, blinking like an idiot – she was still adjusting after her hours in the darkness. And as he’d finally advanced a step, smiling hesitantly – possibly in response to how awkward and nervous she must have looked – they embraced. But it was still slightly stiff, almost formal – far from the emotional catharsis she’d envisioned. She could feel the barriers of three decades without contact with that first touch. They wouldn’t be torn down in the first minutes, or even in the few hours she had.

  But as they sat down and someone called Russell offered her coffee, at least they started to make progress. She hesitatingly started to explain, but as she faltered at one point, not sure where to head next, the questions started coming: My father, what was he like? And your father? How old did you say you were when it all happened? Where did you live then? Were you long at the orphanage – did you look around much? So you found out through my stepfather’s brother: I haven’t seen him since I was a child – what’s he like now?

  At first she was glad of the questions, she no longer had to think of what to say next to explain. But at some point they started to feel slightly mechanical, as if she was at a job interview: Georges gauging if she was good enough material to actually be his mother, or if she could score enough points for him ever to be able to forgive her; she could clearly pick up the anger in his undertone on some words. And she’d already started to become uncertain again, fumble slightly, her hand trembling on her coffee cup as she sipped at it – when the crunch question came:

  ‘You having to give me away I can understand – you were so young. But why didn’t you try and find me in the years since?’ He shook his head and looked down morosely, his eyes slowly lifting again to meet hers challengingly. ‘All those years. Why?’

  And she started to stumble through the rest: her blanking it
from her mind, her work with orphaned children to try and bury the guilt, telling herself all along that he’d have gone to a good home somewhere – until Ryall and Lorena. But as she got to that point and her thoughts turned again to what Lorena was now facing and the nightmare odyssey that had brought her here: Lowndes, the Stephanous, the orphanage, tears streaming on the phone to her mother when she learnt the truth about her father – all those years wasted not only with her son lost from her, but harbouring a grudge that was long-since misplaced – her eyes started filling. She’d got so much wrong for so long. That was a loss that she’d never make good on, let alone in these few hours now.

  As her body started gently quaking and she dabbed at the tears with the back of one hand, he moved closer and hugged her again then.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry to push you so.’ He gently patted her back. ‘It’s just… just that I felt I needed to know.’

  ‘No, no… it’s okay.’ She sniffled back, got more control. ‘You have every right to know.’ And within the space of the time they’d been talking, she felt that his embrace was suddenly different: more open, welcoming. Maybe there was hope yet that she’d be able to break down the barriers.

  As they broke from the embrace and Georges surveyed her face – saw the shadows of the years of pain and guilt in her eyes – that was the first moment he could truly say he warmed to her. He’d spent the first forty minutes clinging tight to his own long built-up resentment for anything else to filter through. But it came more through admiration than any emotional bond or love – maybe that would come later. In that moment he appreciated and admired what she’d gone through to try and see him. She could so easily have just shrugged and turned her back on him for the other half of her life, saved herself the grief.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Explains one thing. You father being a hot-shot banker.’ He’d always had trouble relating to Nicholas Stephanous’ weak-spirited defeatism, wondering how he could possibly be of the same blood. But he wondered now if that too was what had made him look up so to Jean-Paul: the image of the proper patriarch in his mind inescapably entwined with money and power.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Elena was a second late catching on. She remembered the Donatiens telling her that Georges was in banking.

  Their hands were the last thing to part, and there was an awkward lull for a second. Elena glanced towards the glass sliding doors and the veranda: inky blackness beyond, only a faint moon picking out part of the lake and the ring of trees beyond. Her eyes had been naturally drawn there upon first walking in, a relief from the stark room-light after her hours in the dark.

  ‘Well, now you know a bit about me. Such as it is,’ She lightly chewed her bottom lip, turning back towards Georges. ‘I heard quite a bit about you from your stepparents, the Donatiens. They’re very proud. But there was a lot we –’ She suddenly froze. At that moment all the lights went out: all-enveloping blackness, the distant moonlight on the lake the only visible light.

  Almost like being back inside the blackened visor, except that now she could hear her son’s uncertain breathing along with her own.

  Faint sound of footsteps and movement from deeper in the house, and after five seconds some weak emergency lights came on and Russell’s voice trailed from near the top of the stairs:

  ‘Looks like a general power outage. The lights on a minute ago at a cabin to the west seem to have gone too. Steve’s just sorting out the generator – should be up and running in a few minutes.’

  Behind them, Chac’s head had peeped out of the kitchen. ‘Okay. Keep us posted.’ Then with a brief nod towards them he went back in.

  She relaxed again. But as she continued talking, she could see that Georges was still on edge, eyes darting, listening out for every small noise downstairs – he was hardly listening to what she was saying.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked at one point, tuning back in.

  ‘…Just I was saying how difficult it must be for you now with your fiancée, Simone. You obviously still have strong feelings for her. Sergeant Chenouda mentioned a note that –’

  More alarming noises suddenly rose: heavy scuffing footsteps and muffled shouting, then a bang that they were still pondering whether or not was connected with the generator starting when Russell’s repeated shouts rang up the stairs.

  ‘Gas… gas! Get out… oouuu.’ His pounding footsteps petered out halfway up, stumbling.

  Georges jumped up, his eyes narrowing. ‘You brought them here, didn’t you? You brought them here!’

  Chac was already three steps out of the kitchen, gun drawn. ‘Come on! We gotta go!’

  ‘What?’ She was disorientated for a second. Then suddenly her heart was in her throat as it dawned on her what Georges meant. The threat that was upon them. ‘No…no,’ she pleaded, reaching out to him. But as she rose, she felt her knees buckle, something sweet in her nostrils and at the back of her mouth, her head suddenly light. And Georges was already out of reach, heading towards the veranda doors.

  She wondered for a moment whether this was like the day at the Baie du Febvre convent, and she was just fainting with the upset; or maybe she was still lying on the convent floor waiting to come around and everything that had happened in between had been a cruel nightmare.

  But as she saw Chac crumple only two yards away, choking for breath, and Georges sink to his knees as he opened the terrace doors, she knew different. The house was rapidly filling with gas. She saw him get the door half open and partially raise to try and stagger out – but at that moment she felt the solid punch of the carpet on one cheek and everything spun into blackness. She didn’t see whether he made it.

  Nicola Ryall’s hand was shaking as she put down the phone; a shaking that became more pronounced as she reached for the bedside drawer and the gun.

  ‘I’m sorry to call so late. It’s about your daughter, Mikaya…’

  It was an antique gun, a pre 2nd World War Luger. She tried to remember how the end screw-top worked, put there to make it look like a replica and avoid licensing problems. Unscrewed or pulled out like a stopper?

  ‘…She’s okay now, stable. But a minute later with her roommates returning and it would have been too late.’

  She fumbled for a second and in the end pulled it out. She checked it for ammunition, almost dropping it at one point with her hand shaking so wildly: it was fully loaded. He’d always said it was, in case of burglars. And she remembered him mentioning that he’d test-fired in the fields at the back last summer.

  ‘…Still, we’re sure that it was a real suicide attempt – not just a cry for help. Your daughter had no idea her friends would be arriving back at that time.’

  The call was from one of Mikaya’s tutors who’d gone to the hospital with her. Mikaya was heavily sedated and asleep now, but there might be the chance to talk with her in four or five hours time.

  Suicide. Nicola thought of all those years she could have done something, at least tried to stand up to him. But at every turn she’d pushed it away – took another pill or shot of gin.

  My God. She’d even seen him with Mikaya one night, but still tried to convince herself that nothing was really happening. That with the heavy shadows, she just thought she’d seen more than she really had.

  She raised the gun slowly towards her.

  All the time the veiled threat that he’d spill her little secret. ‘We’ll just live our own lives, do our own things from hereon in. No questions asked.’ He’d stopped sleeping with her soon after he’d discovered she couldn’t have children – but still it must have been a shock to him coming home unexpectedly a day early from a business trip to find her in bed with another woman. A strange, sly smile had crossed his face, though she wasn’t to fully fathom why until later when they adopted Mikaya. A lesbian scandal would be like a napalm bomb dropped amongst her little village knitting circle of Church fete organisers and charity do-gooders, and he knew it: he had the hold over her he wanted.

  She blinked for a second at the gun bar
rel as it came to eye level, then slowly turned it towards her as she held it out by her head.

  Still she should have said something. Should have done something. Her precious village-circle reputation in exchange for what had now happened with Mikaya? She closed her eyes, shaking her head. All those years Mikaya must have silently suffered. A feeble, pathetic trade-off. And poor Lorena was no doubt now suffering the same. Each time the pain wormed deeper: the pills and gin needed to numb it increased. She was at her limit: she couldn’t face the pain or guilt a second longer.

  She levelled the gun by her right temple, her hand shaking so wildly that she was worried she might miss at even those few inches.

  She remembered hearing about a famous political couple where the wife had developed lesbian preferences later in their marriage. They’d stayed married for the sake of image, and the husband had responded by playing away from home – except that unlike his wife it surfaced and hit the headlines. For a while that had made Nicola feel better about herself, not such a freak – but it was little consolation now. And the husband’s playing away had been with twenty-somethings, not little girls!

  A slow tear trailed at the corner of one eye, and she scrunched her eyes tighter shut as she tensed her finger against the trigger, her pulse pumping a wild tattoo. No other way out. No other! Too much pain. Gently squeezing, thinking how poor Mikaya must have felt in that same moment… but at the last second she suddenly eased her finger, her held breath rushing out in one. Her eyes blinked slowly open again. She’d been a coward all the way through, and now this was the coward’s final way out.

  If she pulled the trigger, still she wouldn’t be doing anything: she’d be making a pathetic gesture, not a stand! He’d just look at her body and sneer, the final proof that she never had the guts to stand up to him. Worse still, poor Lorena would be left alone with him: there’d be nothing left then to stop him.

  She lowered the gun. And where was he now? Lorena’s first night back, and still he hadn’t been able to resist sneaking along to her room.