by J Ryan
We all look up as Monsieur comes back to us, alone. He says quietly, ‘You can see Talia now. She is greatly recovered but it must be brief.’
Arnaud’s dark eyes connect with his father’s. ‘You have talked with her? How much does she know?’
‘The police were allowed one interview when she was out of immediate danger, to try and ascertain where her mother might have gone. The poor child knows nothing. Only that her mother has disappeared.’
‘Does she know who you are?’ The tension in Arnaud’s voice could snap a wire.
‘I have told her that I am a friend, the Comte de la Rochelle whom her mother spoke of, and that you are with me. That is all for now. She will be glad to see you and Becks, Joe.’
‘Is she going to be alright, Monsieur?’
‘She needs an operation on her heart. They are planning for this evening.’
‘Are they going to tell her…about her mother?’
‘Not until she has had the operation and is completely well. If she found out before then, the shock could trigger another heart attack.’
Arnaud’s voice is unsteady. ‘May I meet her, father?’
‘Yes, I think you should, Arnaud. Talia is in need of friends.’
***
Talia’s light blonde hair streams onto the pillow. There’s a drip going into her arm and a heart monitor beeps steadily at the side of the bed. But her blue eyes brighten as she sees me and Becks. Monsieur and Arnaud come quietly in behind us and sit down at a distance. Arnaud gazes intently at the Contessa’s daughter.
‘My friends. You are so kind to come…’
Becks says softly, ‘It’s good to see you again, Talia. How do you feel?’
She smiles. ‘Just sleepy all the time. I think I have never slept so much in my life.’
I glance at the bowl of grapes on the table next to her. ‘What’s the food like in here?’
She says teasingly, ‘Always the food, Joe. I remember my first lunchtime at the school. The bacon and egg baguette…’
‘And the free water. Don’t forget that.’
She smiles again then a shadow passes across her eyes. ‘Andy…is he…?’
Becks says quickly, ‘It’s good news, Talia. Andy’s going to be fine.’
Talia breathes out, ‘I am so glad.’ She sees Arnaud and looks questioningly at Monsieur. Becks and I back off so as not to crowd her, as Monsieur and Arnaud approach her bedside.
Monsieur says quietly, ‘You remember when we were talking just now, Talia, I told you that my son Arnaud was with me. He would like to meet you.’
Alarmed, we look on as the blue eyes look up at Arnaud and suddenly fill with tears. ‘You are Arnaud…I am so sorry…those lies…’
‘Please – don’t be sorry.’ Arnaud slowly holds out his hand. ‘I am very happy to meet you, Talia.’ Her small hand lifts towards his tanned one and he takes it gently.
‘Can you forgive me? And you, Joe and Becks?’
Becks says firmly, ‘It wasn’t your fault, Talia.’
Still holding Talia’s hand, Arnaud smiles. ‘There are no lies anymore, now that we are friends.’
Her voice is stronger as she looks up at his dark eyes. ‘You are right…no lies, anymore.’
Monsieur flashes us a warning glance. ‘My dear child, we must not tire you. Arnaud and I will come and see you again tomorrow. And you must say Aurevoir to Joe and Becks.’
‘We’ll text you Talia, every day. Keep you in touch with the lunch menu.’
Becks gives her a gentle hug. ‘You have to keep getting better, OK?’
‘Goodbye, my dear friends.’ Her eyes are bright as Monsieur quietly closes the door of her room behind us.
In the waiting area, Becks asks anxiously, ‘What will happen…when she’s better?’
I remember Monsieur’s words, There is no one else, now. ‘Monsieur, what about Talia’s father. Do you know where he is? Who he is?’
As Monsieur hesitates, Becks asks, ‘Is he dead, Monsieur?’
He says quietly, ‘I am afraid that he is dead to Talia. My contacts tell me that shortly before she was born, he disappeared. He has never been heard from since.’
Suddenly, it feels so cold in here. ‘How awful…for Talia.’
Monsieur’s face is grave. ‘It is suspected that he too became one of the Contessa’s victims. Because of the child’s extreme vulnerability, I have put proceedings in train to shelter her until she is old enough and strong enough to look after herself.’
‘Talia will come to L’Étoile?’ Arnaud’s eyes are alight.
‘Once she is fully recovered, yes. She will be in great need of help, as all her mother’s wealth is likely to be confiscated by the state. I am also fortunate enough to be able to make some provision for her future, whatever her choices may be.’ Looking across at Arnaud and remembering Talia’s brilliant eyes, I have an idea what one of her choices may be.
There’s a fraction of a pause before Monsieur says, ‘And now my friends, it is time for you to go home to your families. Arnaud and I will take you to the airport.’
Becks hesitates. ‘All our stuff is at her place.’
‘You will be allowed to collect it. I spoke to the Paris Chief of Police while we were in the helicopter.’
The authority in Monsieur’s voice is such a contrast to the uncertainty when Becks and I said goodbye to him and Arnaud after Corsica. ‘Are you in the clear now, Monsieur? The police aren’t after you anymore?’
His grey eyes look at us. ‘Thanks to you both, Arnaud and I are no longer under suspicion. Bertolini has begun to tell the truth to his interrogators.’
‘Why would he…?’
‘They must have told him, Joe. About her.’
Monsieur nods. ‘The person that he feared more than the police can no longer reach him.’
Becks’ voice is wary. ‘Now that he’s co-operating, will he get out of prison sooner?’
‘That depends on how much truth he is prepared to tell. But he can trouble us no more.’
As we head for the lift I notice Arnaud walking behind us, deep in thought. Then quick, tapping feet catch up with us and a hand touches my arm. The nurse looks enquiringly at me. ‘Excusez-moi – vous êtes Monsieur Joe?’
I stutter, ‘Oui, c’est moi…’
She gestures towards Talia’s room. ‘La jeune demoiselle – elle veut parler avec vous.’
I glance towards Monsieur. ‘We will wait for you in the foyer, Joe. But she is so tired, you must not be long.’ As I turn to follow the nurse I can feel Arnaud’s eyes on my back.
Closing the door behind me, the nurse whispers, ‘Cinq minutes!’ I sit slowly down beside Talia, noticing the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
‘I…I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a question, Joe?’
I take her hand. ‘Course not, Talia…ask anything you want.’
‘Becks told me once, her parents were divorced but they never told her why…’
I can hear Becks’ soft voice as she talked to Arnaud on the leaping yacht, while he struggled with the wreckage of his mother’s death. ‘She knew they were trying to protect her.’
‘Who does she live with, Joe?’
‘Her dad…’
‘Is he kind to her?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I think…he does his best.’
‘And she does not like her mother, does she?’
‘From what she tells me, I don’t think they ever got on very well.’
‘Do you like your mother, Joe?’
‘Oh yeah…’ I nearly add that I love Mum but somehow I don’t think that will help the way this conversation’s going, I can feel Talia’s pain so sharply.
‘And your father, Joe?’
‘He’s
away a lot…I haven’t seen him for some time.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘We’re your mates, Talia – Arnaud, Becks and me. And Monsieur’s going to take care of you. We’ll see you again, for sure.’
The nurse bustles in. ‘Monsieur, assez! Elle est épuisée.’
‘Oui, madame.’
As I get to my feet, Talia’s small fingers slip from mine. ‘You are my good friend, Joe.’
‘Get better soon…’
Down in the foyer, Arnaud jumps to his feet as he sees me. ‘Is she alright?’
‘She’s thinking about her mother. And her father.’
Monsieur murmurs, ‘She must sense that she will never see her mother again.’
‘I think she knows, Monsieur.’
‘Arnaud and I will be at her side.’ That tiny pause again. ‘Meanwhile, you have homes to return to.’
***
Notre Dame towers towards the blue skies as we cross the Seine and the taxi heads for that cobbled street. The car waits, engine running, outside the Contessa’s hotel while Monsieur talks to the police guard. The cop gives us a curt nod and Becks and I dash inside, flying up the dark stairs. ‘It’s weird, but I keep looking over my shoulder for Freddie?’
‘Or her!’ Becks disappears into her room while I take the stairs four at a time towards mine. The portrait of Napoleon is still there. But the door is hanging wide open. The cupboard behind is empty. No more sweets and deadly white stuff. Faintly, my hands start to tingle again. I make myself look at them. The bruising has faded to pink and purple blotches. In fact, my hands are nowhere near as sore as my feet with these sodden, smelly boots. Sitting on the bed, I haul them off and rummage in my bag. With my comfy, battered old trainers back on, my feet and my hands suddenly feel way better. Taking a last glance back at Napoleon’s stern eyes, I plonk the boots beneath the picture. ‘Have them as a souvenir, Boney!’ I grab my bag, run down the first flight and vault over the stair rail into the hall, where I almost collide with Becks. The portraits on the walls look down on us with their shadowy faces. ‘This place needs nuking. Let’s go!’
We heave our cases into the boot of the taxi and slide into the back seat with Arnaud. The gargoyles of that lowering, mighty cathedral leer down at us as we drive back across the shining river. Becks looks at the bateaux mouches with their glittering silver wakes. I slip my hand into hers. ‘We’ll come back one day, Becks, and go on that boat ride.’
‘You and your ‘one day’. I’ll be in a wheelchair by then.’
‘Alright – how about the summer hols? You can still bring the wheelchair if you want.’ I’d forgotten the sharp pain of the Becks kick on the ankle. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dumped the Napoleon boots.
Arnaud turns to me. ‘Was that Talia’s family home?’
‘I don’t think she lived in Paris much. Her mother just decided to put on the party there.’
‘With a name like Palestrina, she must have Italian origins?’
‘That’s what we thought. But we got the impression that she’d lived in lots of different places. Anywhere but with her mother, in fact. She didn’t seem to mind being sent to England on her own to go to school.’
‘So the poor girl has had no real family life at all.’
Becks and I exchange discreet smiles. I’m sure she’s thinking about Arnaud, not her own chaotic home life. But I wonder if she’s realised just how much Arnaud and Talia have in common. His lonely, self-imposed exile from his father drew him into a darkness that he narrowly escaped alive. She’s lived in the shade of that same criminal underworld all her life, with a mother who didn’t love her, and the unknown danger of her failing heart.
***
In the busy concourse of Charles de Gaulle airport, young executives in smart suits dash around with their briefcases, mobiles at their ears. My damp jeans clinging to me, I feel like a ragged castaway struggling back to shore.
‘Give me your mobile, Joe.’ Arnaud scrolls through the menu and taps the keys. ‘My number. Will you text me with how things are going? We must never lose touch again.’
‘If you text us about how it goes with Talia.’
His dark eyes shine. ‘But of course!’
‘Joe, shall I put the tickets in my bag?’
As I hand them over to Becks, Monsieur comes towards us, talking in rapid French with an airport official in a uniform. All I catch is from him is, ‘Alors, ça va s’arranger, n’est-ce pas?’
The guy in the uniform gives a quick nod. ‘Pas de problème, Monsieur le Comte. Les jeunes partiront dans une demie-heure. Vol numéro six huit zéro zéro. Bristol.’
Bristol. We’re going home.
As Monsieur hugs me and Becks, I can smell the salt water on his clothes and mine. ‘Half an hour is it, Monsieur?’
‘There were two cancellations on the next flight. Soon, you and Becks will be on your way back to your families.’
‘Thanks, Monsieur.’
His grey eyes look straight at mine. ‘It is not you and Becks who should be thanking me, Joe.’
‘We’ll keep in touch, won’t we? With Talia and…everything?’ Then, flight 6800 to Bristol is called. With last minute farewells to Monsieur and Arnaud, Becks and I grab our bags and rush towards our plane home.
***
I’m dreaming, really good dreams full of bacon and eggs and Coke, when a finger coils around my throat. My hand reaches up. ‘Get away!’
‘Did you know this piece of seaweed was round your neck? It’s disgusting, Joe.’
‘I didn’t know and I don’t care. Where are we?’
Becks flicks the strip of seaweed onto the floor of the cabin. ‘Bristol Airport. Landing in ten minutes. I just hope Steve remembers the pick-up time.’
I rub my eyes. They sting with salt water. ‘Did I call my mum? Or didn’t I?’
‘You called her. Then you fell asleep and I spoke to her. She said something I didn’t quite get. Like, you’re ahead of schedule?’
‘What day of the week is it?’
Becks cranes to look at the newspaper of the businessman sitting in front of us. ‘It’s only Friday. How weird is that? It feels like weeks since your Grandad took us to that train on Tuesday night.’
We find Becks’ big brother in the airport car park. He’s revving his Ford Ka like it’s going to stall any second. With a slow whistle, Steve takes in our damp clothes and Becks’ bedraggled hair. ‘Blimey. Good party, then?’
***
When Steve drops me outside our house the drive is empty. Mum must be still at work. It feels like early evening. The sun is low on the horizon, long, golden beams shining through a veil of grey clouds. I give Becks a hug. ‘Shall we take in a film tomorrow?’
‘And then a meal that definitely isn’t poisoned.’
‘That rules out most of our usual eateries, then.’
As Steve blasts his Ford Ka away, I give our front door a push. It’s open. ‘You there, Jack?’
‘Come an’ look at the new angel!’
Dumping my bag beside the door I plod up the stairs, my legs as stiff as tree trunks. Inside Jack’s room, the light from the tank glows on his excited face as he trickles water in. He’s gelled his hair so that he looks like an electrocuted blond hedgehog. ‘Catch this. It’s like a face off.’
The disc-shaped little fish with their trailing fins circle around each other. ‘Will he go for her? He’s much bigger.’
‘They might have a bit of a spat but he’ll want the company. Angels stick together.’
Inside the wreck, the Black Ghost Knife Fish ripples his powerful shadow. ‘Does Darth Vader come out much, these days?’
‘He wakes me up every night, digging around for food.’
‘You don’t mind him doing that?’
‘Nah. He’s special. Hey, watch the angels now.�
� The angel fish are slowly coming towards each other. They almost touch. Then they start to swim, the new female following the male, drifting gracefully round the tank together. Jack trickles some flakes of food onto the surface. The neons shoot up to grab the tinier pieces. The angels delicately catch the larger flakes floating downwards.
‘Are they an item now?’
‘They’re cool.’ Jack turns to me. ‘How was your fishing trip?’
‘Like, very wet.’
He takes in my damp, clinging jeans. ‘I’ll make you a coffee, yeah? While you take a hot shower?’
‘Sounds good.’
As Jack’s feet jump down the stairs, a car engine revs furiously on the drive outside. I sit gazing at the dark fish who keeps himself to himself, only venturing out in the farthest reaches of the night. Then the lights catch the gleaming scales of the two angels as they come towards me. Wondering at how unafraid they are of this giant observing them, I gently put a finger on the glass. They swim right up to it. And I realise that my finger must be all they can see. They have no idea what lies beyond it.
I slip out of Jack’s room and go into mine. Fats is in his usual place. He flicks an ear and gives his chirpy little, ‘So you’re back, then?’ miaow. His fur feels as soft and cool as silk on my sore hands. Remembering the main sheet ripping at my skin like a rough-scaled, angry python, I grab my dressing gown and pyjamas and stumble into the bathroom to blast that salt water away.
Mum calls up the stairs. ‘Go easy on the shower, Joe! It’s still leaking through the kitchen ceiling!’
My mobile goes just after I get out of the shower. ‘Joe?’ Arnaud’s voice is unsteady. ‘The operation was a complete success.’ And I so want to be back in Paris with Becks and Arnaud, taking Talia a huge bunch of flowers.
***
When I go downstairs half an hour later, Mum and Grandad and Jack are sat at the kitchen table, eating chilli con carne. Jack jumps up. ‘I’ll stick your coffee in the microwave.’
‘Eat your food, bud. I’ll do it. Hey, Mum? Grandad? You OK?’