The Last Witness

The thought put a faint ironic smile on her face, and from the side of the cafe she noticed Lorena smiling back at her, coming out in sympathy. Elena smiled more openly. Lorena was zap-crashing her way through Tombraider on a game machine, for the moment seemed happy, untroubled: brief respite from the pressure of the sessions and the tedium of reading Harry Potter or listening through the half-dozen more cassettes Elena had bought her to help pass the car-waiting time while she continued with her door-stepping vigil… each time hopefully the last one. The one that would suddenly smile and invite her in rather than the succession of knit eyebrows and shaking heads.

I’ll bury him out of sight and out of reach… Who was she kidding? Two days, and she didn’t even have the faintest sniff of a lead. And the way the sessions were going with Lorena, it didn’t look likely that anything would be uncovered there either. Her father had got the better of her, and now Ryall too. Dominant men, story of her life: why should she be so surprised? Her hand gripped tight on her teacup as she took another sip. At least she was consistent. And when she returned to England defeated, maybe even as soon as tomorrow — she was facing a jail term for this. Gordon had made that clear on their last phone conversation: the deadline for no charges being pressed was now almost twelve hours past. No possible reprieve. Don’t pass GO, don’t collect?200, go straight…

A plump woman in a thick quilted parka brushed past her heading for her table, broke her from her mental maudlin. Middle-aged, Afro-Caribbean. This area of East Montreal around Rue Hochelaga had a heavy Caribbean population, both French and English, with an equal mix of French Canadians and a wider ethnic mix than probably any other area of the city making up the remainder. Halal butchers jostled next to Greek steak houses, burrito bars and deppaneurs selling yams and cassava, with every so often shops that were boarded up and covered with posters and graffiti.

There were actually some areas of the city where Elena hoped she wouldn’t find him: she didn’t want to face the added guilt that his life might have been tough, underprivileged.

She decided to try and buoy her spirits with some calls in a better area. She paid, hung over Lorena’s shoulder a moment while she finished her game, then they headed north to the block between Rue Beaubien and d’Iberville — a Stephanou this time.

Halfway through the day it had suddenly struck her that her enquiry line was incomplete. She’d ask if there was a Nicholas, Maria or George Stevens in the house, give respective ages and some background — then that was it. There was nowhere else to go. She couldn’t ask if they might be relatives, because Stevens was an assumed named. And she began to wonder too about the choice of Montreal: if the sole purpose of the change to Stevens was a common anglicised name to help bury them deeper in the city — then why not Chicago or New York where the population was almost completely anglophile? Maybe the choice of Montreal was because they had relatives there. She checked the phone book: eight Stephanous. It added to her door-call burden, but at least she could feel assured that she was covering all the bases. She’d called on two earlier, and this now was Stephanou number three.

The street was wider and tree-lined, and her hopes raised for a second when the elderly man that answered said there was a Maria in the family. But the age was wrong, thirty-four, and she’d moved to Montreal only nine years ago.

Elena’s shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes for a moment as she sat back in the car. 6.40pm. She’d hoped to squeeze in three or four more calls before calling it a night, but the way she felt now she didn’t think she could face it. Washed-out, dejected, her nerves in shreds, she hardly felt able to raise an ounce of spirit or energy for anything.

‘I’m sorry you haven’t been able to find him yet,’ Lorena said thoughtfully, almost worriedly.

‘That’s okay.’ Elena was about to add mechanically ‘It’s not your fault’, but instead chewed at her lip for a second before commenting: ‘I’m sorry too to trail you around so much like this.’ She reached across and gave Lorena’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘You’ve been very good. Very patient.’

Elena looked again at her list and checked the map: one Stevens only five blocks away, another within a mile. She should at least check these two while she was here, then see how she felt.

She could sense that Lorena wanted to say something else. It finally came as she started up and pulled out.

‘You know what the doctor asked — about where I might go. Was it wrong that I mentioned perhaps staying with you?’

‘No, no… not at all, I — ’

‘I mean, is that something that could happen… if I had to leave the Ryalls? Maybe I could keep your Katine company and play with her — be like a sister.’

She’d jumbled it all together before Elena hardly had a chance to think about it. Elena reminded herself that Lorena could at times be cute to get what she wanted — leftover from her having to become streetwise before her time to survive in Bucharest — but the raw plea in Lorena’s voice came through strongest. She was obviously deeply concerned what might happen to her. Elena’s throat tightened. Ashamedly, she’d spared little thought to where Lorena might go: a good family somewhere, yes, without saying; but not necessarily hers.

‘Yes, of course — you know that I’d love to have you.’ Her voice was laden with assurance. She pushed from her mind the chain of procedural nightmares that might make it impossible: the whole mess uncovered with giving up her own child and her now being an abductor no longer made her exactly ideal adoption parent material. But she sensed that right now it was more important to keep up Lorena’s hopes of a familiar, welcome alternate home to hopefully ease the block in her mind.

Yet another deceit to add to the heap, albeit well-meaning. She tried not to dwell on the ludicrousness: making promises to Lorena when with the jail-term probably ahead she’d have trouble even caring for the two she already had.

As she slowed to a stop at the next junction, she noticed her hands were still shaking steadily on the steering wheel. But at least the Valerian pills had helped in one respect: they made the lying easier and numbed some of the crushing burden of the problems she faced; she felt oddly distanced from reality, driving through the night-time streets of a city strange to her with more purpose and more at stake than she’d ever known before, yet feeling totally aimless, lost.

* * * *

‘So, what sort of problem is it with my father?’ Mikaya Ryall arched an eyebrow.

‘As I said, nothing serious.’ Gordon had already assured her on first approach that her father wasn’t ill or anything. Looking agitatedly each side in the bustling university corridor, he’d added that all the same it was something he’d prefer not to discuss too openly. Guarded nod from Mikaya after a second, and they’d headed to a nearby cafe. ‘Has he phoned you in the last couple of days?’

‘No, why?’

Strange, thought Gordon. Either the Ryall’s panic with events had kept them from phoning her, or it was an indication of some distance and barrier between them. He’d introduced himself as Donald Benham, one of his clients, because he hadn’t wanted her blurting out Waldren? Aren’t you the people who’ve abducted Lorena? She’d have refused to speak to him. They’d taken a seat by the far wall of the small cafe. It was only a third full with about a dozen people interspersed. The smell of bacon frying was heavy in the air, but there was a no-smoking policy so there was only one pollutant to cope with. Gordon held one hand out and made an expression of strained apology.

‘Well, it’s young Lorena, you see… she’s been taken. Your stepparents know the person who has taken her, so there’s nothing to fear for her safety. But it is the reason why I’m here.’

That eyebrow again. ‘Are you with the police?’

‘No, nothing like that. I know both Lorena and the person who has taken her — though it’s more the reason why she’s been taken that’s brought me here.’ Gordon launched into the dramatic chain of events, interrupted only by their coffees being brought to the table: Lorena and the two social services visits, her stepfather blocking psychiatric counselling, and then the final abduction. All the while he watched Mikaya’s expression, especially her eyes: large, dark-brown with only a slight slant, but he was looking more for the shadows, her reaction as he spoke. Five-six, slim, with sleek dark hair almost to her waist and a warm if cautious smile, she was stunning. It was hard to get away from the thought that Ryall chose his stepdaughters primarily for their beauty. Heavier shadows as he mentioned Lorena possibly being interfered with — but that could have been just the shock reaction most people would have to such news.