by June Taylor
Water seeped into the carpet. Eloise quickly put down the bags and got onto her hands and knees. She removed a battered white lily from Juliet’s shoe, not daring to look at her, gathering all the stems into as neat a pile as possible. When she eventually stood up again, Juliet had gone. And Chrissy was standing with her hands over her face.
‘You okay, Mum?’
She slid down the wall, her head falling between her knees, hands over the top as if to protect herself.
Eloise crouched down beside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s not your fault, Eloise. None of this is your fault.’
‘I just thought … she was your best friend.’
Chrissy reached for her hand. ‘She was.’
‘So what happened?’
CHAPTER 13
France: summer, 1989
Juliet was almost sitting on her lap. Every so often his hand would wander across to her thigh, golden-brown from two months of sunshine, and she would politely return it to the steering wheel. Chrissy wondered how long Juliet would be able to keep her cool. She could usually handle her men. What concerned Chrissy even more, though, was they appeared not to be going in the direction of the autoroute. But she kept that to herself.
He made some attempt at conversation, blowing smoke into their faces. He asked, in French, what they had been doing and where were they from. Juliet’s insistence that they were nuns only made him more excitable, particularly given their attire, and it was not long before he was asking whether their suntans were all over, or were there any white bits. He laughed at his own crude remarks, eyebrows bouncing up and down on his sweaty forehead. His teeth, the few he had left, were nicotine-stained from all the chain-smoking; the stench from his mouth enough to make anyone retch.
‘Combien pour une baise? Je vous donne cinq mille francs,’ he said, flicking his cigarette out of the window. ‘Hein?’
They knew the word baiser meant either to kiss or to fuck, and they understood perfectly which one he meant. It was a lot of money, enough to get them home quickly – the equivalent of around five hundred pounds. How often had they sat and played the What if? game in Bristol: What if you were offered a million quid? The outcome was always: Depends on how badly you need the money at the time. Well, wasn’t this the time? Didn’t they desperately need the money? But when reality was staring them in the face with piss breath, bad teeth and rancid yellow tongue, they both knew there was no way they could do it even for five billion pounds. Besides, he didn’t look like he had more than five francs to his name, let alone five thousand.
Chrissy smiled politely. ‘Non merci.’
‘If we don’t get out of here soon I’m going to have to crash this fucking lorry myself,’ Juliet declared, speaking quickly in a Scottish accent. They were pretty sure he didn’t speak any English, but better safe than sorry. ‘And where are we? We seem to be on pissy little roads.’
‘Keep calm,’ said Chrissy, pretending Juliet had told her something wildly funny. ‘Look like you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘Enjoying myself?’
‘It’s okay, I have a plan,’ she tried to say reassuringly. ‘We just need to wait until we get to civilization.’
‘Well, hurry up, Chrissy, because I swear I am this close to grabbing that steering wheel and swinging us off the road.’
‘Please don’t do that, Ju.’
‘Where the hell is he taking us? We should be on the motorway by now.’
‘I don’t know. He’s probably trying to avoid paying tolls.’
Chrissy didn’t believe that for a minute. It was at least an hour since she had seen a sign for the motorway or for Paris. They seemed to be going in the direction of Toulouse for some reason when they ought to have been heading back up the Autoroute du Soleil towards Lyon. They could be anywhere now. She didn’t recognize any of these smaller places on the signs: Fumel, Cazals, Salviac, Le Back of Beyond. It would help if she could get her road atlas out of her bag, but it was firmly wedged behind their seat.
‘Okay, here goes,’ said Chrissy, beaming. ‘I want you to smile and look as flirty and dirty as you can at him.’
‘What?’
‘Just do it, Ju. Smile.’
‘Think I’m going to puke.’
‘That’s great, just keep it up. No matter what I say … Excusez-moi, Monsieur.’
‘Oui? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’
Chrissy continued in French, smiling and flirting: ‘We’re actually really hungry. Maybe we can stop and get something to eat at the next services, or maybe if we pass a bar that’s open …? We’ll make it worth your while. Won’t we, Sister Rosa? We’d like to accept your kind offer.’
Juliet looked like she really was going to throw up. Chrissy gave her a sharp dig in the ribs.
‘Sure. Sure we will.’
‘Flirt, Ju. Flirt. Talk dirty. In English, then you can let rip. Do it.’
‘Okay … me and Mother Theresa will suck and fuck the shitty arse off you if that’s what you want, you slobbering, slimy dickhead piece of shit.’
‘Lick your lips,’ said Chrissy.
‘Oh please.’
‘Look sleazy and like you mean it.’
Juliet managed to make some suggestive motions with her tongue. He laughed like a drooling idiot. Meanwhile Chrissy kept an eye out for a place to stop. The sky was darkening, making it difficult to read signs or see any trace of civilization that might be out there. Everything was firmly shuttered up. He pointed to an Aire de Repos, but Chrissy shook her head. It had to be somewhere with real signs of life if they were to have any chance of escape.
He began to get desperate, keen to pull in to secluded lay-bys or go down any old rough track. Juliet had gone worryingly quiet and Chrissy had to keep reminding her to flirt. How much longer could they hold him off like this? Did she need a Plan B?
What was Plan A?
‘Non, non, non,’ Chrissy insisted when he began to veer off again. ‘C’est nous qui décidons.’
Almost another hour slipped by and darkness engulfed everything, including their hope of ever getting out of this.
A light, shining up ahead, provided them with a faint trace of optimism.
‘Là! Arrêtez là!’ said Chrissy, thinking it could even be a small service station as they got nearer to it.
The place was disappointingly empty. A few lights on here and there, three large juggernauts parked up in some sort of desolate car park. Beyond that, nothing.
A car was just pulling away from the pump. They hadn’t spotted it until now as the driver had no headlamps on. For a brief moment their faith was restored – vanishing quickly again when they drove into an area completely unlit, away from the main forecourt.
As the truck jerked to a standstill he grinned at them greedily. There was sweat nesting in his brows. A few moments later he was round their side, grubby paws at the ready.
Chrissy tried to free her rucksack from behind the seat.
‘Non, non, non,’ he said. ‘No bag.’
‘But we need them,’ she said in French.
‘No bag.’
‘He can’t be serious,’ Juliet yelled.
‘It’s okay, Ju, we’ll get them after.’
‘But I put everything in there. Passport, tickets, everything.’
‘I know. Me too. It’s okay, I have a plan.’
She didn’t. But they were stuck with him until they could retrieve their bags. They jumped down, powerlessly watching as he double-checked the doors were securely locked. Chrissy’s eyes struggled to adjust to another layer of darkness. It was unnerving to hear the trees blowing back and forth, unable to see them. The cool air made her arms feel tender. She ran her hands up and down to keep the chill off.
Juliet nudged her.
He was loosening his flies, laughing at the horror on their faces as he got into position to pee on his front tyres.
‘Wait!’ said Chrissy. ‘We need to go, too. But to the WC. Toilette.’
He nodded, zipping up. They followed him towards the main building. There was one toilet, which they could smell long before they got to it.
‘What are we going to do?’ said Juliet, her voice thin and shaky.
He had gone in first, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t get far without him. Before Chrissy could think of an answer, the toilet door opened again.
It gave him a thrill when they both went in there together.
‘Look, Ju, you’ve got to keep your head,’ she said, pulling the bolt firmly across. ‘I’ll get us out of this, I promise. Just go along with anything I say and do.’
‘Well, what are you going to say and do for god’s sake? He has our sodding bags.’
The stench of raw sewage hit them. They covered their faces, trying not to inhale as they each took a turn squatting over the hole in the ground. But if that hole had been any bigger they would have used it as their escape route, because crawling through a sewer was preferable to what was on offer outside.
Juliet stuck her face over the tiny sink. She splashed a dribble of cold water onto her cheeks whilst Chrissy stroked her back, trying to calm her.
‘We’re going to steal his keys, Ju. You’re going to go down for the blow-job whilst I go through his pockets.’
‘No way! Why can’t I go through his pockets?’
‘Because you’re his favourite.’
Juliet wiped her hand across her mouth.
‘Look, you don’t have to do it for real. You just take your time, work him into a frenzy. When I have his keys I’ll shout “Run”, then we leg it to the truck. If there’s time I’ll kick him in the bollocks.’
‘Right, okay,’ said Juliet, puffing out her cheeks like a boxer before stepping into the ring. ‘That’s actually brilliant. I love you.’
She clung to Chrissy.
‘You ready, Ju?’
She nodded.
‘Let’s go get the fucker then.’
He was nowhere to be seen. It unsettled them. Either he was hiding, about to pounce, or had driven off with their bags, passports, tickets, dirty washing, the lot. Probably the dirty washing he would be most interested in.
He emerged from a door with a battered Tabac sign above it, a packet of Gauloises stuffed into his shirt pocket. A foul odour wafted up as he put his arms around them, pulling them into his sides and slobbering down their cheeks. His breath smelt like he had just licked out the hole in the ground and then smoked a hundred fags. They were heading back to his truck, but Chrissy was trying to work out the best place to steer him. If he shoved them out of sight, there would be no telling what he might do to them. She had to ensure they would have enough time to retrieve their bags, and then, somehow, run for safety. He didn’t look in good shape, one thing in their favour; he’d been coughing and spluttering throughout their journey. His hairy belly hung over his jeans like dough.
Definitely get that kick in the bollocks, she thought.
Maybe, just maybe, they could pull this off.
‘Par ici,’ she said, indicating to some trees. It was a risk, rather secluded, but Chrissy reckoned they could still be seen if someone was to pull up onto the forecourt, which might just save them.
‘How quickly can you run fifty metres?’ she asked Juliet, this time in an Australian accent.
‘Believe me,’ Juliet replied with an Aussie twang, ‘I can break the world record if it means we get shut of this greasy arsehole.’
Juliet was getting into her part now. Whenever he went for a grope she would tell him not to rush, to take his time; he ought to get his full five thousand francs’ worth. She pouted and teased, patted his groin, blowing saucy, suggestive kisses. Meanwhile Chrissy ran her hands over his chest, checking his shirt pockets for keys, keeping an eye on the trees to make sure they were heading in the right direction.
‘Stop,’ she said, hoping they had gone far enough.
It wasn’t perfect. But it would do. It would have to. She grabbed him, slamming his back hard against a tree. He let out a growl of approval, which set him off coughing and gave them a chance to go through the plan again.
One last time.
‘When I shout “Run”, you just run like your shorts are on fire, Ju. Okay? And don’t look back; I’ll be right behind. Okay?’
Juliet took off her flip-flops and closed her eyes.
The coughing stopped.
It was time.
Chrissy watched Juliet zigzag down his fat body. It seemed like none of this was for real; she could be watching it on TV.
But it was real.
And now it was her turn.
Chrissy slipped her fingers into the back pocket of his jeans. He moaned at her touch, which made her stomach heave. Nothing. Sliding her hand to the other pocket, squeezing his saggy backside for good measure, she managed to hook her index finger around what felt like a key fob. No sooner had she got it when she lost it again; his jeans had plummeted to his ankles.
They hadn’t discussed this. Juliet had unfastened them completely. Despite slowing him up once they started making a run for it, Chrissy would first have to grovel down at his feet.
‘Haven’t you got them yet?’ cried Juliet, desperation in her voice. He had hold of her head, pressing it into his yellow-stained Y-fronts. ‘I’m not sure how much more of this I can stand. The fucking stench. Camembert!’
He slammed her head into his groin as if to say: Stop talking and get on with it.
Juliet screamed.
‘Okay run!’ Chrissy yelled.
As Juliet tried to escape he grabbed her by the hair and she let out another scream. Chrissy reacted quickly, biting his hand so hard he was forced to let go, but when they both set off again, Chrissy felt herself being pulled back and it was her turn to scream.
Juliet stalled. She didn’t have the keys. ‘Here,’ Chrissy shouted, tossing them at her feet. ‘Just go, Ju. Get the truck open, get our bags.’ Juliet came up again, slowly, holding the keys, unsure what to do.
‘I’ll handle it, Ju. Just leg it. Fuck’s sake. Go!’
He fired a tirade of abuse as she finally took off, and Chrissy seized upon the distraction, managing to swing herself around. As she did so her hair twisted in his hand, pulling her scalp so tight it made her eyes water, but she was able to raise her knee to his groin, enough to make him crumple to the ground.
‘Please let Juliet have our bags, please let Juliet have our bags,’ she chanted as she ran, flip-flops in hand, her bare feet shredding on the concrete. In the background she could hear him launching a barrage of things he was going to do to them. It seemed a long way back to the truck, much further than she thought. A hundred metres, not fifty.
She found Juliet pounding hysterically on the door, kicking at the tyres. ‘What are you doing?’ said Chrissy, trying to get her breath back. ‘Where are the bags?’
‘They don’t fit.’
‘What do you mean “they don’t fit”?’
‘I can’t open the doors,’ Juliet wailed. ‘I’ve tried both.’
Precious time had been lost and they could hear his curses approaching. Aware that no one would be able to see them in this dark, lonely corner, Chrissy wondered if they should just abandon their bags and run. Before she even had time to suggest this, however, she was shunted out of the way, the keys ripped from her hand.
Instinctively, she stood in front of Juliet to protect her, but when he spat in Chrissy’s face Juliet shot out from behind, landing a kick on his shin with one of those slender, bronzed legs he had been admiring. He grabbed Juliet’s arm, ramming her into the side of his truck with a violent slap to put a stop to her yelling, holding her by the throat.
‘You fucking arsehole!’ Chrissy screamed. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted someone getting into a car. It was a long way off. She shouted and waved, knowing it was useless. The car disappeared and she broke down in tears. Then she realized it was doing a U-turn. She waved her arms again in despair.
A smartly dressed businessma
n got out and was coming towards them.
Chrissy stood back to let him through.
‘Let her go,’ he said in French.
Juliet was still pinned against the truck.
The lorry driver shot him a look of contempt, slyly sizing him up. The man was tall and looked like he worked out at the gym.
‘I said, let her go.’
Chrissy ran to Juliet, who was rubbing her neck where his fingers had been pressing hard into her skin. He had given her a shaking before releasing her, and her cheek was inflamed where she had been struck.
‘Now drive.’
‘No! Wait,’ Chrissy shouted. ‘He has our bags. He won’t let us have them.’
Hauling himself up into his cab, the trucker tossed down one bag then the other. He swore at them, calling them filthy English prostitutes then slammed the door. The engine coughed sluggishly into life, jerking the truck forwards. Huge, hefty tyres were thundering towards them.
The man was quick to react, pushing their bags out of the way, steering them to safety.
They stood and watched the truck turn bulkily into the road, until it disappeared into the gloom.
‘Oh god, thank you so, so much,’ said Chrissy in French. ‘What a cochon! What a disgusting pig of a man.’
‘Pas de problème. Are you okay?’
‘Well, thanks to you,’ said Juliet. ‘If you hadn’t showed up—’
She looked away, tearful.
He explained that he had been on the road all day, just pulled in to buy petrol and a coffee. ‘I could see that something was wrong,’ he said. ‘But really I did nothing.’
Chrissy wanted to throw her arms round him. He was about the same age as her father, handsome in that French way, and seemed embarrassed that they were thanking him so much.
‘Vous avez faim?’ he asked, continuing in French. ‘Because, if you are hungry I will buy you something to eat.’