The Last Witness

‘Are you with the social services?’ she asked.

‘No — let us just say I’m a family friend who knows everyone involved, including the aid worker who has taken her for counselling — and I sympathise with the reasons why.’ Gordon took the first sip of his coffee. Now for the difficult part. ‘But, you know, I wondered if there was anything from your own past experiences with your stepfather that would lead you to think that Lorena might in fact be telling the truth.’ More delicate than just asking straight out if her stepfather might have molested her as well — but the only effect was a second’s delay before the shock realization hit her.

She stood up abruptly, shaking her head. ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea… us talking.’

‘Please, I… I’ve come a long way.’ He half raised, lightly clutching her arm, his eyes imploring. ‘The woman who has taken Lorena has done so with all good intention, only because she didn’t see any other option and couldn’t bare the thought of just leaving her at your stepfather’s mercy — if something is happening. But she could be in a lot of trouble for what’s she’s done. And she happens to be a very nice person, someone I care a lot about.’

Uncertainty, the shadows in Mikaya’s eyes darker. Gordon was sure in that moment that she knew something: it surfaced only fleetingly, then was pushed back as she pulled her arm away.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you.’ She half turned, found it hard to meet the plea in his eyes. ‘Anyway, nothing happened to talk about.’ She hitched her bag hastily back on her shoulder.

She was flustered, the bravado uncertain: Gordon could tell that she was lying. Whatever had happened, the thought of it suddenly re-surfacing to face again was making her intensely anxious. He observed her hand shaking on her bag. He clutched back at her arm.

‘I know it’s difficult, but please — if you can help, if you can think of anything. The woman who’s taken Lorena could face prison if she’s got it wrong about her.’ Gordon’s tone was urgent but low under his breath so that others in the cafe couldn’t hear. Still a few were starting to look at them: an older man clutching at the arm of a beautiful young girl, the girl agitated and eager to get away. A lover’s tiff that looked like it might develop interestingly.

‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry.’ Mikaya shook her head again and looked close to tears. She kept her eyes stoically from meeting his, as if afraid of what he might see there. ‘I just can’t help you.’ She pulled her arm back and turned away.

‘Please… what about the pregnancy? Anything you can tell me.’

Gordon had to raise his voice slightly because she was already a couple of paces away. Others in the cafe did hear this time, confirming their suspicions. But Mikaya was head down, shoulder bag clutched tight to her along with her secrets, and didn’t look back as she headed out.

Elena didn’t look round at first as the policeman walked in the shop, she was too busy trying to watch and direct what Lorena picked up from the shelves: left to her own devices she’d pick up an armful of sweets, pop magazines and CDs, when all they’d come in for was some soft drinks and a chocolate bar. It was quite a large depanneur, almost a small supermarket.

She only half turned as she felt the presence of the figure a couple of paces behind: black leather jacket and dark navy trousers, motorcycle boots, wide black belt with baton and gun, French writing arched over an insignia on his jacket epaulette. A tall, rangy man, at least six-three, with his crash helmet making him look even taller. She looked away hastily, her heart thudding wildly, put her gaze back stoically on Lorena as the policeman shuffled closer behind, browsing along the newspaper and magazine shelf displays to one side.

‘Look, they’ve got the Spice Girls — but I think it’s in French.’ Lorena was looking down a rack of CDs. ‘They’ve got Billie too, and this one’s in English. Do you think I could have it?’ Lorena lifted it out of the rack with a hopeful smile.

‘Yes, fine. Fine.’ The last thing Elena wanted to do was protest and lengthen the conversation. If Lorena had picked up 1 °CDs she’d have just dumbly nodded: Right. Great. She didn’t want to hiss ‘Let’s go,’ which was her first inclination, the policeman might pick up on the tremor and haste in her voice, tune into some problem. So she just glared at Lorena and shifted her eyes slightly to indicate the problem behind. But Lorena couldn’t see the policeman because of her height and the shelf rack in between, and before Elena could catch her eye she was absorbed back with the CDs for a second before moving further down: pop posters, cards, chocolates.

Lorena picked up a chocolate bar and a bag of toffees. ‘Do you think they might have J-17?’

‘No, I don’t think so. The magazines are mostly in French.’ Come on, Elena silently screamed. The policeman was now just two feet away, she could almost feel his breath at her left shoulder. She’d injected a slight American lilt to her speech, tried not to sound so English, and she hadn’t wanted to say straight out that they wouldn’t have magazines from England. Her pulse was racing, she could feel it wildly pumping a vein in her neck and her throat felt tight; she could hardly swallow. They could easily have traced where she’d gone by now: a dispatch alert rattling around in the back of policeman’s mind about an English woman with a young girl, and then as he hears them talking it all finally gels.

The policeman approached the counter with a newspaper and magazine, said something in French, and handed across a note. The boy at the counter, pimply and barely out of his teens, cashed it on the register and held out the change. But the policeman seemed to remember something else at the last moment and pointed behind the boy. ‘Et vingt Winston.’

Elena observed with a sideways glance towards the till counter and the boy, she didn’t trust herself to look around fully at the policeman now directly at her side. She stood there clutching a bottle of orange juice and a coke, and could feel the policeman’s eyes on her for the first time as the counter-boy reached behind for some cigarettes.

‘Cinquante-cinq cent plus.’

The policeman handed some coins over, and at the moment Lorena emerged from behind the shelves.

‘Maybe they’ll have Sug…’ She stopped as she saw the policeman and her eyes went wide. Her hands suddenly seemed to lose co-ordination on the items she was clutching and she fumbled and dropped the bag of toffees. Her face flushed heavily as she bent to pick them up.

Elena stepped sharp and got there before her: she could just see Lorena dropping everything in panic as she stooped.

‘Okay. That’s everything now.’ A statement so that Lorena didn’t have to respond.

As she straightened, the policeman was smiling lightly at Lorena: hopefully thinking that Lorena was merely surprised at seeing someone so large in uniform rather than anything else. Elena gave a tentative smile back as she put everything on the counter. She pressed her hands against the counter so that hopefully he wouldn’t notice them shaking, and with a brief nod — Elena wasn’t sure if it was at them or the counter-boy, she’d pulled her eyes swiftly away — he turned and left.

The heavy step of his motorcycle boots receded almost in time with her pounding heart, and she thought: never again. She couldn’t stand another minute of this, let alone hours or days.

* * * *

‘We’re looking. Believe me, we’re looking.’ Jean-Paul closed his eyes for a second and held out one hand. That’s all he seemed to have done these past long hours: make excuses, make penance.

Simone shook her head. ‘It’s almost two days now with no sign of him. Nothing. I know something’s wrong, seriously wrong. I can feel it.’

They were in Jean-Paul’s study. Raphael had been talking to Francesca the house-maid in the corridor outside, enquiring whether two of his favourite sweat shirts were in the laundry or not, and they’d shut the door for privacy. Simone looked worse than when she’d first confronted him after her furious drinking binge. Two nights of fitful sleep and her worst fears bedding deeper with each hour had put dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was lank, unwashed, her usually immaculate make-up scrappy. She chewed nervously at the side of one nail.

‘How do you know Roman’s not done something to him already?’

‘I can’t be sure, I know.’ His eyes closed for a second again: more contrition. ‘I’m stuck with taking his word. But if it’s a bluff — it’s a good bluff. Don’t forget it’s Roman that right now has got half of Montreal looking for him.’

She switched off from what he was saying halfway through, was lost again in her own thoughts. ‘It’s just