A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  Perhaps Peter would be able to get in touch with him from the UK.

  ‘Morning, Amelie, what a nice surprise,’ Peter answered almost immediately.

  ‘Peter, I need help. My money’s disappeared. My agent’s gone AWOL. I’m in this city alone, almost penniless and I don’t know what to do, who to talk to…’

  ‘Amelie. Tell me all of that again. But slowly.’ His deep and calm voice eased her mind a little. She began again, slowly. Telling him about the failed investment scheme and her recent attempt to get some cash, and her failed efforts to reach Bernard.

  ‘First things first,’ Peter said. ‘Do you have money to pay for your rent? We don’t want you on the street.’

  ‘Bernard paid six months upfront. So I have –’ she made a quick calculation ‘– about ten weeks left.’

  ‘Good. What about food, drink, utilities?’ Peter’s matter-of-fact approach simultaneously soothed and frustrated her. She was used to coping on her own. She shouldn’t need to ask anyone else for help.

  ‘The utilities are paid monthly from my main bank account…’ Which is now empty, she thought.

  ‘It’s the middle of the month so you’ll have a couple of weeks before you get into default, so we have time.’

  ‘For what?’ How was she going to get a job that quickly?

  ‘I’ll wire you some money across.’

  ‘Peter, you can’t.’

  ‘I can and I will.’ His tone brooked no dissent. ‘You have a short-term emergency. Let’s fix that and then you can concern yourself with paying me back once you are clearer about what you are going to do.’

  ‘OK.’ She felt better thinking that this was a loan. ‘I will pay you back.’

  ‘No rush. Just when it suits.’ He paused as if something oc­curred to him. ‘Open a new bank account, in another bank, with the money I send you.’

  ‘Why?’ She wondered what kind of hassle that might be.

  ‘Someone’s cleared out your cash, Amelie. If they see more in your account they might take that as well.’

  ‘But how…?’

  ‘Financial crooks are getting cleverer all the time. Who had access to your accounts?’

  ‘No one. I’m the only one with the cards and the access.’

  ‘Bernard acted as your agent? All payments to you came via him?’

  ‘Yes.’ What was he getting at?

  ‘Bernard had full knowledge of your account details then.’

  ‘But, no, Bernard would never steal from me. He’s like a father to me.’

  ‘Some fathers are dicks, Amelie.’

  ‘No. I refuse to believe Bernard would do something like that.’

  ‘You say he hasn’t returned your calls…’

  ‘It’s only been just short of a day.’

  ‘How long does it usually take him to get back to you?’

  ‘Usually it’s within the hour, but…’

  ‘Does he have a full rostrum of clients? Might he be busy with one of them? Does he keep well?’

  ‘You don’t think he’s ill, do you?’ In her mind’s eye she saw Bernard in a hospital bed, wired up to a multitude of machines.

  ‘We have to discount the obvious before we move to the un­thinkable.’

  The unthinkable. Bernard stealing from her. No. She couldn’t countenance that.

  ‘Do you recall how much money you lost through this invest­ment scheme?’

  ‘It was a low seven-figure sum.’

  ‘How much has gone missing from your bank accounts?’

  ‘A low six-figure sum.’ She cringed at the amounts. How stupid had she been not to take more care of that side of the business.

  ‘I’m aware your financial situation … didn’t, ah, match your fame…’

  ‘An accurate summary,’ Amelie replied with a wry grin. The sums they were talking about were clearly way beyond the earnings of most people but, as Lisa had told her on numerous occasions, she should have been able to leverage her name for much, much more. There had been a few contracts signed with major film studios and advertisers that would have pushed her, financially, onto a whole other level, but that was all binned when she refused to distance herself from Dave.

  ‘I’m also guessing, these financial troubles aside, standing by my son has cost you a great deal of money?’ His tone was so worn through with sympathy that Amelie almost started crying. ‘Anyway,’ Peter continued as if he could read her silence. ‘Let’s get you sorted for now. I can transfer the money across. It won’t take too long to organise. Anything else you need?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she replied in a small voice.

  ‘Do you want me to contact the police?’

  ‘The police?’ She flinched from the idea. If this got out, the press would have a great time. She could almost hear a grand chorus of ‘Serves Her Right’ ring throughout the world.

  ‘If there’s a crime here we don’t want them to get away with it, do we?’

  ‘Let’s wait until I hear back from Bernard. I’m sure there’s a per­fectly plausible explanation.’

  ‘I’ve been an accountant for decades, Amelie, and I’ve found that when money goes missing more often than not the explana­tion is greed.’

  After she’d ended the call with Peter she felt so relieved and ex­hausted after a night of dire scenarios running through her mind, she fell asleep on the sofa.

  She woke sometime later to a sore neck, dry mouth and the nearby church bells ringing twice. The screen on her phone con­tinued to display a blank as far as Bernard was concerned, but there was an email from Peter. As she brewed a much-needed coffee she opened it to read his instructions.

  A couple of hours later she was sitting on a bench in the park across from her apartment with two hundred euros in cash in her purse, and was the relieved owner of a new account at a bank just a few streets from where she sat.

  From her bench she looked around herself and watched the Bor­delais going about their business and wondered if any of them were suffering anywhere near the same amount of turmoil that she was.

  To her left hunkered the limestone might of the ancient basil­ica. Ahead of her the children’s park under the sheltering span of giant fir and oak trees. A woman strolled past with a small girl in a bright-yellow coat. ‘Maman,’ she chirruped. ‘Can I play, can I?’

  A couple walked just behind her. The man smiled at the woman. She raised an eyebrow and nudged him with her shoulder. He stuck his tongue out. They laughed. No words, but in those simple actions they managed to convey a symphony of affection.

  And as the church bells pealed out four languid notes she ached for similar, simple interaction and wondered how she might look to these people, hunched over on the wooden slats of the bench. This stoop of bone. A semi-quaver on an empty fret. A melody whose movement had been stopped. A song of isolation.

  Chapter 41

  ‘Who was that guy?’

  ‘What guy?’ Angus demanded.

  ‘At the showers yesterday. The guy with the hair. Looked like he was giving you grief about something.’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  Many of their conversations in the cell were face to face. More than a few were held while they were each sitting on their bed, one above the other, both facing the opposite wall. This latter posi­tion was one they’d taken to adopting when one of them felt like they needed more space.

  ‘I don’t dispute that,’ Dave replied, aiming his voice at the bed below him. ‘It just looked…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Uncomfortable. Who is he?’

  ‘Just some guy.’

  ‘What does he want from you?’

  ‘Fuckssake, give it a rest, eh?’ Angus’s voice was high with irri­tation.

  ‘Just asking. Jesus.’

  The cell door opened. ‘You two have got a library visit booked in,’ the guard said.

>   ‘Great.’ Dave jumped off his bunk and stepped across the cell to the desk where a book he had just finished lay. ‘I need some­thing different this time. I fancy something historical.’ He was speaking needlessly in an attempt to lighten the mood. Aware that Angus was still lying on his bunk, Dave paused and looked over at the younger man.

  ‘You not coming?’ he asked.

  ‘Cannae be bothered.’

  ‘What?’ Dave was astonished. Angus took up any reason to leave the cell. ‘You feeling alright? Should I get the guard to call out the doc?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just can’t be bothered.’

  ‘Who are you and what have you done with Angus Young?’

  ‘Give it a rest, eh?’

  Having spent so much time in close confines together the two men were well able to read each other’s signals. Most times when the other’s mood was edging towards hostile they knew to back down and let the other recover their equilibrium. There were times, however, when that spike of irritation was impossible to beat down. ‘You’ve got a chance to leave your cell and you’re just going to lie there? I’m not buying it, Angus. What’s going on?’

  ‘Away and get yourself some gay historical shite and give me peace, will you?’

  ‘Wanker.’ Dave picked up his book and his prison-issue fleece jacket, and left the cell. As he was escorted across the open yard to the building that housed the library he cursed himself for his reaction. He should know better. He should be the bigger guy, but sometimes, too many times, he simply couldn’t control his frustration. On the outside, since his one rampage in his late teens he rarely lost his temper and was always the one to talk people down from theirs, but here, in this place he was becoming some­thing else, someone else, and he hated himself for it.

  Dave was instantly awake. Senses on high alert. Not his usual re­luctant, slow climb to awareness.

  He turned from his position facing the wall and saw in the dark of the cell Angus’s profile. His co-pilot was just standing there, facing him. Frozen.

  Dave’s body prickled with adrenaline.

  ‘Angus?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Angus,’ he said a little louder. ‘What are you doing?’

  Angus coughed. ‘Just going for a piss.’ Then he moved over to the tiny toilet in the corner. There was no sound for a long moment. Then Angus’s feet shuffling back along the floor as he made the return journey. ‘Didn’t need a piss after all.’

  The bunk bed shifted under Dave as Angus climbed into the bed below him.

  ‘What were you doing there, Angus?’

  ‘Gimme peace,’ he replied. ‘Told ye, I was going to the loo.’

  ‘You were standing staring at me, you dick. What were you doing?’

  ‘Fuck off and let me sleep.’ The bed shifted again as if Angus was moving onto his side.

  It felt like an age before Dave got back to sleep. In his mind’s eye all he could see was Angus’s outline in the gloom of the pre-dawn room, as if he was locked in indecision.

  Chapter 42

  The office was in a giant, grey brutalist building near the Rue Georges-Bonnac, a structure that didn’t feel in keeping with the splendour of the majority of the city. As she was directed to the waiting room of the job agency she was visiting, Amelie hoped this wasn’t a sign. She shook her hair free of raindrops, and using her bare hand swiped them from her shoulders, arms and thighs. She took a seat, making a mental note to invest in an umbrella. For a warm part of the country Bordeaux had a surprising amount of rain, although, if this is what passed as January weather she was fine with it.

  ‘Solange Meric,’ the woman behind the reception desk called her moments after she had sat down. Temporarily forgetting that was the name she’d booked under, Amelie looked to the other women sitting around her. Then she realised the receptionist was looking straight at her.

  She stood up and smiled. ‘Sorry, I was…’ she considered how she might explain herself; ‘…elsewhere.’

  She had really been lost in thought about Bernard. Where was he? Was he avoiding her calls? Was he behind her missing money? No, she couldn’t believe that, he had always been so supportive of her. Why would he suddenly change now?

  She was guided into a small office where a woman in a navy suit was sitting behind a white desk. The desk was clear apart from a small plant on the far-right corner and a paper folder in front of the woman. When she heard Amelie enter, she looked up and greeted her with a smile. She introduced herself as Nicole and without much preamble got down to the task in hand.

  ‘What kind of work are you looking for?’

  ‘I’ll consider anything really. As you can see from my CV’ – a document that was light on detail for the last few years, concen­trating mainly on her employment when she was in her late teens and twenties – ‘most of my previous work was in retail and hos­pitality. And I’ve also done…’ She stopped talking when she was aware Nicole was staring at her.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Nicole asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve only been in the city for a few months and I’ve mainly…’

  ‘Are you sure? You look very familiar.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Amelie answered, worried that Nicole might work out who she was. Aware how brusque her response must have sounded Amelie attempted to soften her tone. ‘I haven’t been to France for years. Since my father cheated on my mother when I was a girl.’

  Nicole gave her that look. Men, eh? And another, more ques­tioning look that Amelie read as a curious thought. Why come back to France now? But as if she remembered this was a profes­sional meeting, Nicole returned to the reason for their meeting.

  ‘At the moment most of our retail jobs are temporary. I expect things to improve in the next couple of months, perhaps in April and May as more tourists start to arrive. I can see you in a classy department store, or a high-end fashion shop. We have lots of de­signer shops in the city. Have you been along Rue Saint Catherine?’

  ‘No. Too busy for me.’ And too many tourists. Someone was bound to recognise her if she went down there.

  ‘Mind you the more exclusive names are on Cours de l’Inten­dance or George Clemenceau … Are you sure we haven’t met?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Amelie bit down on her lip. Surely this woman wasn’t going to recognise her. Please God, no.

  ‘You are so familiar. There’s something of that actress in you. Her name escapes me at the moment.’

  ‘I have one of those faces.’ Amelie realised she was twisting her fingers together and made herself stop. ‘You were talking about exclusive shops?’

  ‘Amelie Hart,’ Nicole said. ‘How could I not have seen it. I loved that movie. I saw it three times.’ Nicole studied her face, her head cocked to the side. ‘She’s my favourite actress. WOW, grow your hair out, some blonde highlights and you could be her twin.’

  Feeling the heat of panic in her throat, Amelie jumped to her feet. ‘Sorry. I have to go. I suddenly feel awful. I didn’t eat break­fast this morning. Slept in and didn’t want to miss … be late. I’m so sorry,’ she garbled on. ‘Please forgive me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Nicole stood. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘No, thank you. You are kind.’ Amelie backed out of the room. ‘Thank you.’ Then feeling as if everyone was staring at her, she walked through reception, through the main doors of the office and out onto the street.

  Once there she stopped, leaned against the building and took a breath. What was she thinking, dressing up and putting on her make-up for this meeting? A haircut, ill-fitting clothes and flat shoes would have to be her uniform from now on.

  She began walking, her mind choosing a pace that would take her away from the employment agency’s doors quickly. A cool wind in her face brought with it sparks of sullen rain. She screwed her eyes against it, walking faster, sightless, anxiety a weight in her gut.

  Breathless now. Alm
ost at a run, she was a leafless branch being swept along in a silt-laden stream.

  A sound broke through. The whoosh of the tram. Just ahead, she saw the low shelter of a tram stop and a collection of people waiting to get on. She was sure they were all staring at her. And just as sure they were as harsh in their assessment as a hanging judge.

  She turned back on herself, unsure of her direction but knowing she needed to get away from people. Past the brutal grey of the building she had just been inside and she was drawn up some steps, and there found her reward. A little square was tucked away within the concrete, edged with small trees and bushes, like a cloudless patch in a storm-strewn sky.

  She saw another set of steps that led down to a short avenue of trees and beyond them, across a busy road, the gilded railings of a building she guessed might be a museum. She sat on the edge of the top step, the stone edge hard on her sit bones, and took a breath. Anonymity resumed.

  From habit, she took her phone from her bag, set it to camera mode and found some distraction and a sense of distance in viewing the world through a lens.

  Her phone began to vibrate and the call tone sounded. She looked at the screen. When she saw who was trying to get in touch she answered immediately.

  ‘Bernard, where the hell have you been?’

  Chapter 43

  As usual it was dull with drizzle, so Dave pulled his fleece jacket over his head to stop his head from getting soaked as he made his way back to his prison block. Another visit to the library and a change of reading material. As he walked he realised his thoughts that morning had been dominated by the change in Angus’s de­meanour. The guy had been all over the place since his arrival – so had he; but in the last few days and weeks the man’s mood had been all the way down. And when he wasn’t monosyllabic he was spiky with irritation, so much so they’d almost come to blows on a couple of occasions.

  Living in such close confines with someone amplified every­thing. Even a slightly brisk reply to a harmless question could take on nuclear proportions. That morning he’d asked Angus how his Weetabix was.