The Weekend Away

by Sarah Alderson

  Konstandin strolls after me, catching me up with no trouble.

  ‘Why is it so hard to believe?’ Konstandin asks.

  ‘Because,’ I huff. ‘She didn’t need to pay for sex.’

  ‘Maybe she hired them for you.’

  I round on him in disgust. ‘I’m married.’

  He gives a one-shouldered shrug, seemingly unperturbed by any of this strangeness. ‘From what I know of marriage, there’s not much sex happening.’

  ‘Well, that’s not true for me,’ I say, flushing and walking off again down the alley. ‘And Kate wouldn’t do that,’ I argue, albeit weakly because I’m starting to think she very well might have. I can almost see it … Kate giggling at the idea, planning it all out, thinking that our girls’ weekend could be enhanced with some male models for company.

  Maybe she only planned on sleeping with them herself, or maybe she figured she’d see if she could entice me too. She would have known that if she told me I wouldn’t have been up for it, so perhaps she did it behind my back, arranged to meet them in the bar – which would explain the hurry to get there and why she walked straight over to their table and sat down so fast; it would also explain why Kate was almost inside Emanuel’s pants just seconds after meeting him. Though it pains to admit it, it would go some way to explaining why Joaquim was so flirtatious with me. I was an idiot to think he actually thought I was attractive. My cheeks flame at what a fool I’ve been.

  Honestly, it’s a gut punch and one I have to try to ignore. Now is not exactly the time to get my feelings hurt over the fact a good-looking man only talked and flirted to me because he was being paid to do so.

  We reach Konstandin’s car, parked around a corner, illegally I note. He beeps the doors open and I get in before I realise that I’m starting to treat him like a chauffeur.

  He gets in and immediately hops on his phone. If he’s from Kosovo does that mean he fought in the war? Is he an ex-soldier? His hands are large and scarred and his face, now I study it, is the face of someone who looks like they’ve been through a lot. It’s craggy, weathered and lined and something in his hooded dark eyes tells me he’s seen some bad stuff.

  I can’t remember much about the Kosovo war – but I do remember watching the news when I was a teenager and hearing the most awful tales of mass killings. What side was Konstandin on and how old must he have been? If he’s late forties now and the war was around twenty years ago, then around his late twenties?

  ‘Here,’ Konstandin says, handing me his phone.

  I take it.

  ‘Call,’ he tells me.

  I look down and see a number on the screen.

  ‘It’s Lotus Models,’ he explains. ‘I looked them up online. Call them, give them your friend’s name. Pretend to be her. Ask if you can meet the same men again tonight.’

  ‘But what if they did something to her?’ I ask. ‘What if they know what’s happened to her? They’ll know it’s a trap.’

  ‘So, tell them you want their names to give to a friend of yours. All you want is their names and a phone number.’

  I nod and press dial, hoping that whoever picks up didn’t speak to Kate and won’t remember she doesn’t have an Irish accent.

  ‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice purrs when the call connects.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, how can I help you?’

  I have no idea how this works. What am I meant to say next? I panic and look at Konstandin who urges me on with a look.

  ‘Are you calling to book a model?’ the woman asks. She sounds like she might be Australian.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I say. I glance at Konstandin again and he nods encouragement. ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’m wanting to book two models. I … um … enjoyed their company last night.’ I wince at how hammy I sound.

  ‘OK, do you remember their names?’ the woman asks.

  Damn. ‘Um, actually I was really drunk and it’s slipped my mind, but they were about thirty, one had green eyes, dark hair, the other guy was black, maybe North African?’

  ‘Emanuel and Joaquim.’

  ‘Yes! That’s them!’ I look at Konstandin, grinning, and see he’s pulled out a scrap of paper from somewhere and a stubby pencil. He scribbles the names down. ‘Is it possible to get a number for them?’ I ask the woman on the end of the phone.

  ‘I’m afraid you have to book directly through us. We don’t share personal information.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. What do I do? I can’t book them. If they think I’m Kate they might get spooked and disappear. I could call back I suppose and pretend to be someone else.

  ‘Would you like to make a booking?’ the woman on the end of the phone prompts.

  I panic again, and not knowing what else to do, I say, ‘No, you’re all right, I’ll call back.’ I hang up and look at Konstandin. ‘I couldn’t book,’ I say. ‘If they think I’m Kate they might not show. And she wouldn’t give me their numbers.’

  ‘We have their names,’ he says. ‘Maybe it’s enough. Do you remember anything about them?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t remember anything, that’s the problem. I think they drugged me. Maybe even Kate. I don’t know for sure.’

  He scowls. ‘Did they do anything to you?’

  I shake my head, unable to hold his gaze. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Maybe they drugged you because they didn’t want to go through with it. It’s easier. They get paid for nothing, and in the morning can claim they had sex with you but you were too drunk to remember.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he says.

  ‘It’s fine. It’s a possibility I suppose.’

  Someone honks behind us, probably at his bad parking, so Konstandin starts the car and pulls out into traffic.

  ‘Are you OK to drive me back to my apartment?’ I ask, fishing around for the address.

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But have you eaten?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’ We’re just passing a restaurant with candlelit tables on the street and a Fado band, and I stare longingly. I’m so hungry.

  ‘There’s a place I know,’ Konstandin says. ‘Good food.’

  I glance over at him. ‘OK,’ I say, because it feels easier than having to figure it out on my own. As soon as I agree, though, I regret it. Isn’t it a bit weird? He’s a total stranger and I don’t know him from Adam. Can I trust him? And why’s he helping me?

  The thought crosses my mind that maybe he has something to do with Kate going missing. What if he got mad at her for snorting coke in the back of his cab and hung around outside the bar until we came out? What if he followed us home? What if I’m sitting in a car with the person who abducted my friend? Terror seizes hold of me, gripping me tight so I can’t draw breath. I glance at the door. It’s not locked. I glance back at Konstandin. Stop it, I tell myself, calm down. He’s helping you, that’s all. And you couldn’t have got this far without him. He has his uses. I’m a stranger in a strange city; having someone who speaks the language and knows his way around could be useful.

  I watch him switch on the radio to some obscure station and start singing along under his breath to some kind of Turkish or maybe Albanian pop song.

  My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket with the same desperate hope springing awake in me as earlier. But it’s not Kate. It’s Rob FaceTiming.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, answering.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m in an … Uber,’ I say, angling the camera lens away from Konstandin. I can’t really explain to Rob why I’m driving around with someone I don’t really know and that now I’m going to dinner with him. Rob would call me crazy and he’d probably be right too.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Rob asks. ‘Are you with Kate? Did she show up? Was she shopping?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘She’s not shown up. I’m trying to look for her.’

  ‘Did you go back to
the bar?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They haven’t seen her. She never went back there.’

  There’s silence on the end of the phone and silence in the car too – Konstandin must be listening. He’s probably wondering why I’m not telling my husband about the clue we just found out, but how can I tell him that I went home with two male prostitutes last night and I can’t actually remember what happened after that?

  ‘Can I do anything?’ Rob finally asks. ‘Is there anyone I can call?’

  I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. I really wish he was here. He’s always so good in a crisis, so calm. ‘No. I don’t think so. I’m going to wait until the morning and report her missing to the police if she still hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘God,’ Rob whispers under his breath, as the seriousness finally hits him. ‘I wonder where she is.’

  ‘Me too.’

  There’s a beat then: ‘Look, I’m sure she’s fine,’ he says, forcing a lighter tone into his voice. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Hard not to.’

  ‘I know, but best not to go down that path. She’ll be OK. I’m sure.’

  I don’t reply. The words get stuck in my throat like dry twigs, because I’m not sure. I’m not at all sure that she’s OK. And it’s impossible not to worry.

  ‘Call me later, before you go to bed,’ Rob says. ‘Or anytime you need me. I’m right here.’

  I choke down the lump in my throat. ‘Thanks, darling, I will. And give Marlow a kiss for me.’

  ‘I will. Love you,’ Rob says.

  ‘Love you too.’

  I hang up. Konstandin glances at me. ‘Your husband?’

  I nod. ‘His name’s Rob. I’ve got a baby too. Marlow. She’s nine months old and she’s just got her first tooth.’ Why am I telling him this? I don’t know. I just feel enormously sad and depressed right now. I don’t know what’s happening and I miss my family. I don’t want to be in a strange city with a strange man trying to look for my friend and trying, too, to ignore the increasing panic that’s crawling through my veins. I want to be with Rob and Marlow, back home, where everything is familiar and everything is fine.

  ‘You will get to see them soon,’ Konstandin says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I mumble, blinking away a few tears. Hold it together, I warn myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  We’re in a neighbourhood away from the hustle and bustle, somewhere I doubt tourists venture. There are several ethnic-looking shops selling fruit and veg and phone credit, I’m guessing from all the signage, and there are women in headscarves and people of all nationalities going about their business. It reminds me of Hackney a bit.

  Konstandin gestures down the street. ‘Come,’ he says, and strides off.

  I follow him, irritated at the way he’s giving me orders but also relieved that someone is making decisions for me when I feel incapable of doing so myself. And he is right. I do need to eat. Nothing has passed my lips since that custard tart earlier. Perhaps if I consume some calories my brain will kick into gear and I’ll be able to formulate a plan. Right now I’m falling into a melancholic depression caused by tiredness and fuelled by a hangover, a lack of food and a general sense of hopelessness and despair. If I’m going to find Kate I need to pull myself out of this funk and get focused.

  I need to find these two men – Joaquim and Emanuel. They must know where Kate is. Maybe she’s even with them right now, on a massive drug-fuelled bender having sex. It’s possible, I suppose. I try to imagine it, just because that image is a lot better than the other ones lining up for preview. If she is with them, I don’t even think I’ll be angry. I’ll just sob with relief.

  The restaurant Konstandin leads me into is Turkish. I surmise it from the pictures of pita bread, hummus and kebabs on the menu. The sight of the kebabs makes me immediately think of Kate and our early morning, giggle-filled walks back from whatever nightclub we’d been to that night, inevitably detouring past the kebab shop on our way home, where we’d wait in a line of other tired, drunk revellers to order our shish kebabs and where Kate would flirt with the guy carving the meat until he gave us extra chips.

  I don’t order kebabs today, I order falafel and Konstandin orders in what I assume is Turkish, talking to the waiter, who I think is also the owner. He’s an older gentleman who seems deferential to Konstandin, taking both his hands in his own when we entered and kissing him on both cheeks. He waits on us with keen interest and lots of smiles in my direction and I wonder what Konstandin is telling him but focus on pulling out the scrap of paper and pencil from my bag so I can start to formulate a plan. I stare at their names – Joaquim and Emanuel. How could I have forgotten? Now I know their names, I remember them introducing themselves. ‘How will we find them?’ I mutter.

  ‘Eat first, then we think,’ Konstandin says.

  I set the pencil down. ‘Why are you helping me?’ I ask.

  Konstandin stares at me for a beat. ‘Because you need help,’ he answers finally.

  I frown. He holds my gaze with his even, steady expression. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, and fine lines are etched around them like sunrays.

  ‘Did you really threaten those people at the bar?’ I ask seriously. ‘Or were you joking? Be honest.’

  He pauses again. ‘I threatened them.’

  I’m shocked even though I half-guessed it. ‘Why?’ I ask.

  He shrugs again. ‘I want to solve the mystery.’

  ‘Why? She’s not your friend.’ He’s a stranger. Why does he care about Kate going missing?

  ‘She was in my car,’ he says.

  It seems like an odd reason and I’m about to press him on it further when the waiter appears with hummus and warm pita. Before he’s even walked away I’m tearing off the bread and dunking it in the garlicky dip, then shoving it in my mouth. It’s so good I swallow it whole and reach for more. Konstandin smiles, pushing the hummus closer. We eat for a few minutes in silence.

  I study him as he eats, his gaze fixed on the food, the frown line rigid between his eyebrows. Am I being stupid? His reasoning seems off. It doesn’t stack up. Strangers don’t just help people like this. Is Konstandin really someone I can trust? What if my previous thought is right and he’s involved somehow in Kate’s disappearance? I stare at him. What if he’s done something to her? He was looking at her funny in the car. I’ve read about killers – about how they like to return to the scene of the crime, ingratiate themselves with the cops – they get off on it, and they like to have one ear to the ground to find out where suspicions lie.

  But what am I thinking? We’re not talking about a killing. Kate’s alive. She can’t be dead. I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts.

  But she has disappeared, the voice in my head points out. And you don’t know where she is.

  Konstandin looks up just then and catches me staring.

  ‘You said you were from Kosovo,’ I say, deciding to see if I can eke out a little more information on his background. ‘You left in the war?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answers, a little gruffly, possibly suspiciously too.

  ‘Was it … bad?’ I ask, kicking myself for how stupid I sound. It was a bloody war, not a holiday. ‘I mean,’ I add hastily. ‘Of course it was, otherwise you wouldn’t have left.’

  He smiles at that, though perhaps it’s more a smirk. ‘It was bad,’ he says before turning his attention back to his plate.

  ‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it,’ I say, feeling awkward. I shouldn’t have brought it up.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says.

  ‘Did you ever want to go home?’ I ask.

  ‘This is home now, I suppose,’ he says, looking up at me, and I remember something from last night. I said the exact same words to him about London. I’m sure of it. It feels good to get a piece of last night back, even if the fragment isn’t very useful; perhaps it signals that there are other memories lying in wait, ready to be retrieved.

  ‘But it never really does feel like home, do
es it?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he agrees. ‘The sun is never as warm as it is at home.’ He glances at me. ‘It’s something we say in Albania.’

  I smile. ‘Do you still have family there?’ I ask, trying to be subtle. I’m angling to find out if he’s married or has kids. For some reason if he has got a family it will make me feel just a little bit more at ease about him.

  ‘They’re all dead,’ he answers.

  ‘Oh God,’ I stammer. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. You weren’t to know.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘Did they die in the war?’

  He nods and a small muscle pulses in his jaw.

  ‘No wonder you don’t want to go back.’

  The rest of the food comes and we eat for the most part in silence until finally Konstandin pushes aside his plate and pulls out his phone.

  ‘What were their names again?’ he asks. ‘Joaquim and Emanuel?’

  I nod, taking a final bite of my food before pushing my plate aside as well.

  ‘What else do you remember about them?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask, frowning in confusion.

  ‘What do you do?’ Konstandin repeats.

  ‘You mean as a job?’ I ask, confused as to what my job has to do with anything.

  He nods.

  ‘I work for a housing charity.’

  ‘Did they tell you what they did for work?’

  ‘Design.’

  I inhale sharply. The answer came to me so quickly and out of the blue. ‘How do I know that?’ I whisper.

  Konstandin shrugs. ‘It’s the question that people always ask in conversation. When we first met you asked me about how long I’d been an Uber driver.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, a blurry memory coming back to me, of Joaquim and I sitting next to each other, talking in the bar. He looked so interested in what I had to say about my job. I remember feeling suspicious at the time because no one ever shows that much interest in my job, not even my mum.