A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Help us get to the bottom of this then. What happened?’

  ‘I don’t remember, sir.’ Dave knew that the law of this particular jungle was that you said nothing. Snitch and your life would be even more of a misery. Besides, he had no idea what punishment Angus might get if he told the truth. Would his sentence be in­creased? Despite everything he didn’t want the boy to spend any more time inside.

  ‘Where did the blade come from?’ The governor picked up a clear plastic evidence bag by a corner. Dave could see the knife inside weighing it down.

  ‘No idea, sir,’ Dave said, thinking at least he could be honest about this.

  ‘My officers tell me there was an air of acrimony between you and Mr Young in the days leading up to the incident. What was happening? I’m assuming you can remember that?’

  ‘Nothing more than two men being held in close confines for too long. You’ve periods where you get on fine, and then periods where you annoy the hell out of each other. What your officers are telling you about is … sorry, was, nothing more than that.’

  ‘So how did you end up almost missing an ear lobe, and bleed­ing all over your cell-mate while you attempted to throttle him?’

  ‘Can’t remember, sir.’

  ‘Strikes me that this memory loss is very convenient, Mr Robbins.’

  The governor asked more questions. Ran through events of that night over and over again, trying from different angles to trip Dave up. He simply zoned out the man in front of him with the white, freshly laundered shirt, and whenever there was a silence, assumed that it was left for him to fill. He answered with the only phrase he could.

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  The governor threw his pen down on the pad of paper in front of him. ‘I will not tolerate violence in my prison, Mr Robbins. Am I understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Dave studied his hands.

  ‘Seven days of no TV, no library access and you’re on your own for two weeks.’ The governor looked to the guard who was stand­ing just behind Dave. ‘Take him out of my sight.’

  Dave was escorted in silence back to E Hall. When he arrived back in his cell he asked the guard, ‘Angus – is he alright?’

  The guard looked at him with disbelief. ‘The guy shanked you and you’re asking after him?’

  ‘There’s something else going on there. Angus didn’t have a violent bone in his body before he came in here.’

  ‘He gets out next week.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Listen, Dave.’ The guard put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him before he entered his cell. Dave noticed the cotton of the guard’s shirt was so thin he could clearly see the design of the man’s tattoo on the skin of his upper arm. Quite a difference from the quality cotton of the governor’s shirt. ‘The boss will do what he can to keep you on your own for as long as possible, but an empty bunk isn’t going to stay empty for very long. You hear me?’

  Dave nodded.

  ‘Word will get out that you kept schtum. That you’re a stand-up guy.’ Notes of fatigue and frustration trailed through the guard’s words. His tired expression said that the same discordant song was being played over and over again on a battered guitar and nothing was ever going to change. ‘But be careful. As long as you’re still in here you’re going to be a target for any nutter who wants to make a name for himself.’

  Chapter 46

  London 2010

  The first thing she became aware of was that her wrists hurt. And her arms had been pulled back over her head.

  They were tied to the bed.

  She kicked out in weak protest. Her feet barely moved. Binding around her ankles let her know they were also tied.

  ‘Help,’ she croaked. Her mouth was so dry.

  Why was she so tired? She could barely sustain a thought.

  Had she been drugged?

  Then she became aware she was being watched. An outline in the dark. Someone was sitting in the corner of her bedroom, on the sheepskin cocktail chair she’d found in a local market. And why had that random fact popped in to her head in this moment? Was she seeking some sort of normality? Because this was as far from normal as you could get.

  ‘What do you want?’ She could hear just from those four syl­lables that her voice was fractured, as if her mind sent the signal, but someone else did the work.

  They said nothing. Weak light from the streetlamps filtered in through a crack in her curtains, picking out a line from his knee to the black leather shoes on his feet.

  ‘Let me go, please…’ She hated herself for begging. ‘Please.’

  Silence.

  Then: ‘Do you like the dress I bought you?’ His voice was deep, the accent English but enunciated in a way that made it difficult to pin down the exact location. ‘I managed to work out your size.’ There was pride in his tone.

  Sensations began to emerge through the fog of fear. A scratch of lace at her throat, a weight of fabric over her legs and something pinned to her hair.

  She lifted her head from the pillow and scanned the length of her body. Her answering scream rent the room.

  He had put her in a blood-red wedding dress.

  Amelie waited until the man walked away before leaving the café. She had lost years of her life to fear; she was not going to allow that to happen again. Gathering every last piece of her courage, she got to her feet and followed him at what she hoped was a safe distance until he reached the fringes of the Place de Martyrs de la Résistance, and then, from behind a queue of people waiting at a bus stop, she watched as he sauntered across Rue Judaïque towards Rue Pierre Charron in the direction of the multi-screen UGC cinema.

  Only when she was sure he was safely on his way did she double back and go home to her apartment. Once inside she checked every room, and even went up to her little rooftop garden to make sure no one was there.

  Then with a glass of wine she sat on the sofa, facing the door, thinking through a rushed exit, and considering her next move. This was her sanctuary; there was no way some random stranger was going to make her leave. Not a chance.

  How dare he follow her?

  Lifting her glass to her mouth she noticed the tremble of her muscles was making the deep-red surface quiver. She put the glass on the side table and took a breath, forcing herself to stay calm.

  She was fine.

  Everything was fine.

  This man was a nobody.

  Enough.

  Time to take back some element of control. Time to get her big-girl pants on. She picked her phone out of her handbag. Peter answered straightaway.

  ‘What do I need to sign to have you act on my behalf?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll email you the forms right now.’

  ‘I’ve been an idiot, Peter. I’ve buried my head in the sand long enough. Someone stole from me and I want them to be found and to pay.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I may need other stuff and the police will want to talk to you. Just stand by.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Do you need any more money in the meantime?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She couldn’t take any more from him. He’d been too kind as it was. She needed to stand on her own two feet again.

  ‘And don’t worry, Amelie. Greed makes people stupid. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this.’

  She repeated her thanks, ended the call, scrolled through her phone and with a hard certainty in her stomach she pressed the green button.

  ‘Bonjour! Agence du Personnel.’

  Amelie explained she’d been in earlier and asked if Nicole was available. The young woman’s voice filled her ear a moment later.

  ‘Are you okay, madame?’ Nicole asked. ‘I was so worried for you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Amelie replied, and then, aware that she’d perhaps sounded too brusque, she modified her tone. ‘Thank you. I just wan
ted to get in touch to ask if you had any ideas of work I might be able to apply for.’ She paused. ‘I’m willing to consider anything.’

  ‘How much do you know about wine?’ Nicole asked after a pause.

  ‘My grand-mère had a little vineyard outside the city, to the south I think. When I was a little girl I used to visit her. I’m sure I picked up a lot without knowing.’

  ‘When I say the word terroir to you, what does that make you think of?’

  Amelie could feel a half-smile flit across her face as she heard the words of her grand-mère from what seemed to be a hundred years ago.

  ‘It’s the soil, the earth,’ she replied, as her mind, rusty with dis­tance, tried to formulate an answer that would satisfy Nicole. ‘But it’s more than that. It’s what marks a place out as specific. Every­thing that affects the wine. The weather, the climate, the aspect of the vineyards.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Nicole said. ‘Chateau Smith Haut Lafitte is a vine­yard that is one of the best in its class so I wasn’t sure if you would fit. But your response…’

  ‘Excuse me. What did you call this place?’

  Nicole repeated the name. ‘Why? Do you know it?’

  Amelie held a hand to her heart. ‘My grand-mère sold up to them years ago, I believe.’

  ‘Wonderful. This is meant to be, madame.’ Her voice was full of excitement. ‘They are interviewing tomorrow. Do you have a car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, as you may remember, this chateau is about half an hour from the city, so public transport may not suit for the hours you may be working.’

  ‘Let’s jump off that bridge when we come to it,’ said Amelie. ‘If you think I’m suitable, please set up the interview. I’ll worry about transport later.’

  Amelie climbed out of the taxi and immediately fell in love. Ranks of vines spread out on all sides, reminding her of happier times. Turning in a slow circle she could see that the vine-filled plain around her was edged with trees on all sides, and there in the centre a series of low, red-roofed buildings, ivy-covered walls, and here and there tall cypress trees. And to her right, a stone tower weathered by centuries of warm wind from the coast, built in a style that clearly pre-dated the architecture she was used to in the city.

  ‘C’est beau, non?’ the taxi driver said.

  ‘Oui,’ she agreed, paid him and asked him to return for her in two hours. Even if the interview didn’t work out, that would give her a little time to walk around this wondrous place.

  A cobbled pathway, just wide enough for two people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, led through a field of vines up to a court­yard. In one corner stood a sculpture of a man outlined in tiny sparrows, and under a canopy sat an antique car. The front chassis and the cabin were cream, and a wagon frame of dark wood covered the back. The door wore a coat of arms and the words Chateau Smith Haut Lafitte.

  She walked through a set of doors and out into another court­yard. To the right a stone stairway flanked with a pair of weather-worn, carved lions led up to a small ancient tower, and to her left, at the end of another wing, stood a wooden clocktower stretching into the clear sky.

  Imagine having this view every time she came to work.

  She felt her spirits rise at the thought.

  ‘Solange Meric?’ she heard someone say. There in front of the clocktower stood a young woman in a yellow coat. ‘This way, please.’

  Amelie followed her, walking past a bronze statue that looked like a giant wedge of crumpled-up newspaper, and round to a glass-fronted reception area.

  The woman led her inside, past a seated area and over to a large leather chair in front of a massive fireplace. ‘Please have a seat. Valérie will be with you in a moment.’

  Amelie sat down and looked around. This was not what she im­agined. Everything was in its place, sparkling but homely. Pristine.

  ‘Solange?’ A voice interrupted her reverie.

  She stood. ‘Bonjour.’

  ‘My name is Valérie,’ she smiled, and Amelie immediately felt at home. ‘Please come into my office.’

  The following couple of days passed in a long, slow blur of waiting. Nicole called with another couple of opportunities, both in the city, but Amelie wanted the job at the vineyard. Being surrounded by so much natural beauty in combination with the quality of the entire operation sang to her.

  During those two days she barely left the apartment, and when she did she wore a long, shapeless coat and a baseball cap, on high alert for a return visit from the man in the leather jacket. The fear was still there in the dark corners of her mind, like smoke from a distant fire, but she refused to give in to it.

  The more she thought about that whole incident the more she was certain he was looking for her. It was no random occurrence. But if she was correct how did he know where to find her? Might it be linked to her missing money? The two things happening so close together might suggest that was so. In any case she had some­thing to be grateful to him for; he’d woken her up from her hibernation. Made her realise going through the motions was not good for her. She needed a purpose, something meaningful to occupy her time. And she prayed that came at Chateau Smith Haut Lafitte.

  As a distraction she researched the vineyard and learned all she could about the history of the place. Wine had been made there since the fourteenth century, which explained the architecture; and the ‘Smith’ part of the name came from an Edinburgh merchant who travelled there in the eighteenth century, fell in love with the place and bought the entire operation. Learning this, she hoped that her own Scottish connection might help with her application.

  Needing something for dinner she went along to one of her fa­vourite takeaway places, Le Poulailler d’Augustin on the Place du Pradeau, for some of their delicious roast chicken. She was eyeing up a little glass pot of crème brulée for dessert when the phone in her pocket rang.

  She didn’t recognise the number showing on the screen alert.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Solange, it’s Valérie at Smith Haut Lafitte.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ Amelie replied as she stepped outside the shop onto the street. She didn’t want her disappointment at what she was sure would be a rejection to be seen by the other people in the queue.

  ‘Okay,’ Valérie said. Amelie read her tone and her heart sank. ‘There are other people who applied for the job who have better qualifications than you.’

  ‘I understand, but thank you for letting me know so quickly.’

  Valerie laughed. ‘No, no, no. What I was about to add was that despite that, there is something about you that we like and we want to offer you the job.’

  ‘You do?’ Amelie asked. Then squealed. ‘Vraiment?’

  ‘When can you start?’

  ‘Oh my God, this is wonderful. Thank you.’ Amelie couldn’t remember being this excited when she won the part in her break­through movie. At last. Something good was going to happen in her life.

  Chapter 47

  Damaris was fine with her new house – well, flat – in the West End of the city. It was near her new school and she could walk there and back on her own, despite her Uncle Cammy’s protests. She’d heard him a number of times arguing with her mum in the kitchen, which was right next door to her bedroom. He couldn’t believe after everything she’d been through that her mum was relaxed about letting her walk about without someone to protect her.

  Uncle Cammy needed to chill.

  She was also fine with her new bedroom, even though it was tiny, with barely enough room to walk around the bed, but when she was lying there watching a movie on her wall-mounted TV, and all the fairy lights draped around the room were switched on, it was lovely and cosy.

  Also, she was fine with the new school. A couple of the girls were nice. Some of them were proper bitchy but she knew how to zone them out now. Only the head knew she was the girl at the centre of the Amelie Hart case, whic
h was what it had become known as on the TV and in the newspapers. Which was weird because Amelie had nothing to do with anything really.

  What she wasn’t fine with was that her dad had moved out. And she wasn’t fine with the stinking flat he’d moved into. There was stuff growing on the walls, the next-door neighbours screamed at each other constantly, and kids were always hanging about at the end of the street calling her names.

  ‘Thinks she’s better than us.’

  ‘Why you got your nose in the air, posh bird?’

  ‘Bet your maw nicked those trainers.’

  They’d been evicted because of financial stuff. Not that Mum or Dad told her that was what was happening. One of her friends showed it to her in a newspaper. Her parents told her it was because they weren’t in love anymore. They’d also decided that she was going to live with Mum, so agreed that her and Mum would get the bigger new place. To be honest it was a bit of a relief in a way. Before they broke up, her mum and dad argued so much Damaris wouldn’t allow herself to sleep. She was sure one of them was about to kill the other. Her money would have been on her mum being the last one standing; it was always her making actual threats, while her dad resorted to name-calling.

  ‘Mad bitch’ was his go-to now. She visited him every other weekend, which was a major source of argument for him: ‘Imagine only being allowed to see your daughter twice a month.’

  ‘Has the mad bitch finished that book yet? Nobody told her it would be so difficult to write one or to get it published, did they?’ he’d asked her during her last visit, his voice loaded with angry sarcasm. ‘Tell her I want some of the money when it eventually arrives.’ He’d then looked around, his eyes weak with loathing. Whether that emotion was aimed at her mother or himself she couldn’t say.

  Damaris loved her dad and loved seeing him, but she wished he would snap out of that dark, heavy mood that seemed to pull his eyes three inches lower in his face. It meant there was some­thing else to worry about: what if he killed himself? Some men did that, didn’t they? One of her friends at her old school found her dad dead in their car. Another boy found his oldest brother hanging in his bedroom.