The Truth and Lies of Ella Black

by Emily Barr

  I was always so careful about the way I dressed and presented myself. Right up until Tessa cut my hair and Bella got me to dye it purple, I did everything I could to blend in. I hated attention because it was always bad. There is an English girl here, Lauren, who reminds me a tiny bit of Ella Black; though Lauren seems more straightforward. I often see her watching everyone else, making an effort to do things the way they do them, anxious above all to fit in. She sometimes seems awestruck by me: she thinks I’m older than her, when I’m actually younger. When Lauren looks at me I feel as if Ella Black is gazing at Jo, amazed by what she was able to become.

  The waiter in his white tuxedo is standing grinning at us, electronic notebook in hand, little pen poised above it. Jasmine, as the birthday girl, orders first and picks a passionfruit caipirinha at a cost of considerably more than I was imagining I would spend on this entire evening. Lauren orders the same. So does Sasha.

  It is my turn.

  ‘The same, please,’ I say in Portuguese.

  By the time he’s finished, everyone has ordered a passionfruit caipirinha.

  The drinks arrive, and we all toast Jasmine’s birthday.

  Jasmine is the only person who knows that I slept rough on the doorstep. She took me in and gave me food and a shower and her bed, and I will always love her for that. I hope she has the best birthday ever.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she says. ‘And thanks to everyone for coming out with me. Four months I’ve been in Rio, and this is the first time I’ve done anything like this.’

  Jasmine looks happy. She has put her hair up in a bun and tried her hardest to look like a grown-up (and this is her nineteenth birthday so she very much is a grown-up), but she seems to me to be someone who will look better when she’s older. Her dress suits her: it has a big full skirt that works perfectly with her tiny waist. I had no idea she had anything like that packed away in our bedroom. I know she’s spending another month at the project and then moving on to a different project in Ecuador, and I will miss her hugely when she goes.

  I realize that I am assuming I will still be at the school in a month, and that takes me back to my project fees being paid, and that makes me giddy.

  ‘Happy birthday, Jasmine,’ I say as our glasses clink together. ‘You deserve all the happiness in the world.’

  ‘Oh – thank you, Jo! So do you.’

  The passionfruit caipirinhas are wonderful. I take a sip and am instantly back in the street in Lapa, dancing with the love of my life. The fruitiness is different and it’s more sophisticated, but it’s the same drink.

  We are not far from Lapa here. Christian is back in Florida now.

  Hours later I finish my third cocktail and look for someone to dance with. I don’t feel drunk because I’ve been dancing more than drinking, and the music and the people and the heat and the joy will keep me going forever. The club, which was a stately tourist place when we arrived, has become a nightclub with wild Brazilian dance music and sweaty people on the dance floor. Hundreds and hundreds of people are here. I have been dancing and dancing and dancing, letting everything out without stopping to think. I’ve lost the others and I don’t care.

  The people are a mixture of tourists and Brazilians. Some of the local people are spectacular dancers. I stand at the edge of the dance floor, my empty glass in my hand, and watch their legs and feet, their hips, their arms, the poise of their bodies. It makes me forget everything, and the music goes right through me. It’s so loud that even if I did want to talk to anyone I wouldn’t be able to.

  A man comes over and extends his hand, inviting me to dance. He is handsome, black and stylishly dressed. I take his hand.

  I remember dancing with Christian somewhere down the road from here, and following other people’s feet, and having the best night of my life.

  Now I dance carefully with my new partner. I try to mimic the samba moves with my feet, but it doesn’t really matter what I do. He dances in front of me, not touching, and he clearly wants nothing from me but a dance. After a while he tries to talk, but I can’t hear what he’s saying so I tell him that by mime and we just dance. The song changes and we keep dancing. When I am sweaty and exhausted I thank him, and he gives me a little bow, and I wander away.

  I step out on to the balcony for some fresh air. From up here I can see that people are queueing right down the street to get into this place. I watch them standing out there in the tropical heat. There are bars all the way down this road and they have tables outside, and there is a pink flowery vine growing up the building opposite. My head is spinning with the music and the dancing, and the sweat is hot along my hairline.

  Someone is next to me. It’s a woman – an older woman I saw earlier on the dance floor doing some amazing moves – and she says, in Portuguese, that she’s hot. I wipe my forehead and I agree. We talk a little bit about nothing in particular. She asks where I am from and I say London. We stand side by side for a while, staring out at the street, at the hundreds of people wanting to come in.

  Then the woman has gone and Jasmine is beside me.

  ‘You all right, Jo?’ she says.

  ‘I’m having a wonderful night,’ I tell her. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, it’s epic, isn’t it? Will we get another drink?’

  ‘Sure.’

  We sit down at a table back at the top of the grand staircase with Lauren and Ted (one of the rare boy volunteers), and I seem to have a bottle of beer in my hand. The music is pounding but up here it’s quiet enough to talk.

  ‘So you’ve had a good night?’ Lauren asks Jasmine.

  ‘The best,’ she says, holding up her glass. ‘I’ve had the best night. I have. The very best.’

  ‘You deserve it,’ I say. ‘You know, we should find the bus back at some point. They do go all night, don’t they? Or do we have to wait around for the first one in the morning? I’m working at ten.’

  ‘You’d be all right to wait it out, if we had to, wouldn’t you?’ says Jasmine. ‘It wouldn’t bother you at all.’

  ‘Of course. It’d be fine.’

  She starts to speak, then stops. Then she puts her drink down on the table and leans towards me. ‘You’re such an enigma, Jo,’ she says. I can smell the sweet alcohol on her breath. ‘I’ve known you ages, but you’ve never said anything. Any time I tried to ask you about your life you changed the subject, and because I saw what you were like when you arrived I thought you’d been really ill and I never wanted to push you. You shout out in your sleep sometimes.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘It breaks my heart. And then – there’s a woman who called the other day looking for someone working here. She didn’t say Jo, but I’m thinking it was you she was after. Because you’re the only one who’s, you know, a bit mysterious.’

  I put down my drink.

  My mother paid my fees. And a woman was looking for me. I don’t want her to turn up. It is mean of me, but I don’t want to see the Blacks. Though apparently I’m happy to take their money.

  WE CAN HAVE THEIR MONEY WITHOUT SEEING THEM.

  That’s not fair.

  NOTHING IS FAIR.

  ‘Who did she ask for?’ I say.

  ‘Ella. Or Chrissy. I think she’s called a couple of times but I’ve only spoken to her that once. The others said.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said no. I said there’s no one here by the name of Ella or Chrissy.’

  I feel sick. Jasmine, my friend, has pulled the rug out from under me. But she didn’t give me away, and that’s what matters.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ I say quietly. ‘Thank you, Jasmine. It’s complicated. Tonight is about you. When we’re in our bedroom tomorrow, I’ll tell you about myself.’

  I don’t know what I’m going to tell her: some part of the truth, I suppose. A version. Not all of it. She looks so happy that I feel guilty about being such a bad friend; but I feel nervous too. I try to stand up but my legs are weak and wobbly, and I
quickly have to sit down again.

  Someone paid my fees. A woman has phoned, looking for me.

  Ever since Christian found me, I haven’t really been hidden. I close my eyes. The drum beat reverberates through my body. Jasmine is saying things but I don’t know what they are.

  I don’t have to hide from the Blacks. I’m eighteen. I can live in Rio and teach English if I like. I am doing fine.

  The police wouldn’t take me back to my parents like an abducted toddler because I’m old enough to live my own life, so I don’t need to hide from them either.

  I’m not in trouble with the police. Christian said I’m not.

  I didn’t hurt the man.

  It’s not the Blacks or the police I’m hiding from.

  It is not them at all.

  I turn back to Jasmine. ‘What was her voice like?’

  She is frowning because she was in the middle of saying something else and I have no idea what it was. For all I know it might have been a description of the woman’s voice.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Well. She was talking English, and she had an English kind of voice.’

  ‘Was it an English voice like this? Have you seen a girl called Ella?’ I do my best impression of Fiona Black, with her Radio Four accent. Instantly I regret saying my real name. My real-ish name.

  ‘No. That’s what you sound like. It was more like this: Have you seen a girl called Ella? No. That’s not quite right. It was an English accent for sure, but not your one.’

  I swallow. I have no idea what my birth mother’s voice sounds like, but I do know she is English. I know she is from Birmingham, and Jasmine’s attempt at replicating the accent sounded a bit like it might be a Midlands kind of thing. One thing is for sure: if she didn’t sound like me, then she wasn’t Fiona Black.

  And all of a sudden I begin to panic. How could someone who did the things she did and then spent half her life in prison be able to track me down like Christian did?

  I cannot imagine it; but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. I do know that she wanted to see me. The parents whisked me out here to keep me away from her, and I love them now for the madness of that plan. I have no idea if my disappearance got any coverage in Britain, but if her lawyer was able to write to the Blacks it wouldn’t have been difficult for her to find out that I was in Brazil. I told Michelle I was calling from abroad. It wouldn’t be hard.

  She could be looking for me. The woman who led five innocent people to be tortured and murdered could be ringing the right number and asking for the right person.

  Lauren is leaning forward. Lauren, the Ella Black of the favela, has been listening in from Jasmine’s other side.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I meant to say. I spoke to this woman on the phone. She said she was looking for Ella or Chrissy. After you had that gorgeous boy turn up asking for Chrissy but actually meaning you, I thought it might be you, so I asked if she meant Jo.’

  I stare. ‘When was this?’

  Lauren pulls a piece of her hair into her mouth and chews it. ‘A few days ago. Sorry, I meant to say. Anyway she said she probably did mean Jo actually. She was nice.’

  ‘Please tell me that didn’t happen.’

  ‘I was trying to be helpful.’

  ‘It wasn’t helpful.’

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t to know.’

  I am on my feet, filled with Bella. All of me is Bella. For a long time I’ve been Ella-Bella. But now I hate Lauren. I hate her more than anyone right at this moment. I cannot lose control here in public, but I cannot look at her either.

  ‘You have no idea,’ I tell her. ‘You have no idea at all what you’ve done. None. Oh, fucking hell, Lauren.’

  I want to say more, but I can’t because everything that has kept me strong has funnelled itself into anger, and I am white hot and my ears are ringing and my eyes are going and I have nothing left. I can’t do this any more. The monster is going to find me. The monster is part of me. The monster is coming.

  I turn and run. I run down the stairs, past the other dance floor, and follow the sign to the exit. I have to pay for my drinks before I can go, and so I hand my piece of card over to a man and give him the money for the cocktails. Then I am out on the street by the queue of people, and I don’t know where to go or what to do but I know I can’t stay at the English school any longer. I’ll need to move before she gets here.

  My head is ringing. My vision is going. My mother is coming, and even my demon has no idea what to do.

  Jasmine grabs me by the arm and pulls me to a table and pushes me down so I’m sitting on a chair. She reaches across and holds me and pats my hair. I know what I am really hiding from now. I should have known I couldn’t shut it out. We are out on the pavement, a few metres from the people who are still queueing to get into the samba club.

  Jasmine and Lauren have actually heard Amanda Hinchcliffe’s voice down the phone. That is impossible. I grew inside her, and she called them and they spoke to her about me.

  That

  is

  contact.

  It’s direct contact between my birth mother and her lost baby.

  I cannot control myself.

  I don’t think I will ever control myself.

  ‘It’s OK, Jo.’

  Jasmine followed me and she is looking after me and I can’t let her because Bella might hurt her. Her long hair tickles my face as she leans over. I lean away. I have to hurt myself so I won’t hurt her.

  ‘It’s OK, Jo,’ she says again. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever it is, we’ll make it all right. I promise.’

  ‘You can’t. I have to go. She’s found me.’ I can barely speak through my sobs. My plastic chair is wobbling back and forth, one of its legs shorter than the others.

  ‘Who’s found you?’

  ‘That woman.’

  Jasmine doesn’t ask any more. I don’t say anything. She hands me a pile of the tiny squares of tissue that they have in dispensers on café tables, and I try to mop myself up a bit, watching the tissue disintegrate into papier-mâché on my fingers.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s your birthday. You should be in there, having fun.’

  She rubs my back. Her hand is reassuring.

  ‘As if I’m going to let you run out into the night in that state. Honestly, Jo. I’m so sorry we upset you, Lauren and me. I didn’t mean to, and I know Lauren didn’t either.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’ I stop and laugh at the triteness of the phrase. Nothing is coming out right. ‘Oh, Jasmine. I’m so scared. I’m so, so scared.’ I take another tissue from her and wipe it carefully along the underneath of my eyes.

  ‘Who is she?’

  A waiter is standing beside us. I don’t want a drink, but Jasmine asks for two caipirinhas and then he goes. I mop my eyes a bit more and try to take control of myself, but it’s difficult because I keep hearing Lauren’s clipped voice saying: I was trying to be helpful.

  I need to get away quickly because she knows where I am. I cannot let her walk in. I cannot I cannot I cannot. I can never see that woman.

  Never.

  Never.

  Never.

  Never.

  N

  e

  v

  e

  r.

  The drinks arrive. I don’t want any but I take a sip anyway and it tastes like rocket fuel and I know I’m going to be sick. I stand up and look around. It’s a hot night and we are outside and there are too many people. I turn and run into the building and look around for the loo, and see a sign pointing up the stairs. There is an empty cubicle, and it smells and the flush isn’t working and it’s blocked with paper, but I lean over it and am noisily, hugely sick.

  My soul, my future, my happiness all pour out of me, down the toilet.

  Jasmine’s hands rub my back. I didn’t know she was following me.

  ‘There you go,’ she says. ‘It’s OK, Jo.’

  I cannot speak or look round. I just feel her hands and hear her looking
after me. The place stinks even more now, and I want water and I want to be in bed and I want to sleep and to be safe and I don’t know what I want.

  After a while I stand up. Jasmine squeezes my hand.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’ll pay for those drinks, and then we’d better go.’

  We walk together down the street, past the queue of people waiting to go dancing in the heady Rio night. It doesn’t take long, and then we are in proper Lapa, in the same places I went to with Christian. I am wobbly.

  ‘I need to go away,’ I say. ‘From here. Right away.’

  ‘Do you? Where to?’

  I shrug. ‘North, I think. North Brazil.’

  ‘You can come to Ecuador with me if you like.’

  I manage a smile. ‘Thank you. I’d need to get a new passport. But she’d still find me.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Jasmine asks again.

  My. Mother. I can’t say those words.

  ‘A monster,’ I say instead. ‘A monster who is coming after me.’

  18

  12 Hours Until She Dies

  I am up early in spite of my hangover. I watch Jasmine sleeping and I envy her calm face and the way she breathes so evenly. She looked after me last night and I owe her a massive explanation. I think I’m going to tell her everything. I creep out of the room to make myself a coffee and plan my escape. Everyone knows I’m Ella now. Amanda Hinchcliffe knows I’m here.

  I take a Brazil guidebook and sit on a tiny chair in the classroom, and wait for the painkillers to kick in. I try to shut it all away, but the fact remains: my birth mother, who went to prison for nearly eighteen years, knows where I am. She paid for me to be here and she’s been calling for me and I have to go. I need to pack up my few things and leave this place right now.

  But she’ll follow. If I don’t turn and face her she’ll follow me. I am hidden here but she found me.

  I open the book at random and decide to go to a place called Salvador. It sounds like an interesting city. I will go there and find some work and …

  I sigh. I can’t turn up in a strange Brazilian city with a limited grasp of the language and without a plan. I can’t run away forever. Things don’t actually work like that. If I’m running away from here, then the place to go is Florida, and love.