Something in the Water(51)

The nausea washes over me. Waves of sickness followed by blissful calm.

“What if they ask me where I got it?” I ask.

“They won’t, Erin. They just won’t. If it’s illegal, they definitely won’t want to know, will they? Think about it. The law is: if you’re aware the money is not legal, then you have to alert the authorities. If they asked every suspicious person who opened a Swiss bank account where they got their money from, Switzerland’s economy would be fucked. Nobody opens a Swiss bank account with their birthday money, Erin, come on!” He’s right, of course.

“I suppose they might just assume I’m an escort or something. Hence the cash…” I say.

“More likely they’ll think you’re siphoning off your husband’s money before a divorce. I’m sure they get that a lot. At least that’s what I’d think if I saw you.” He smiles. Wow. It’s at moments like that you wonder, Who did I marry? Judging by his face, I think he thinks he’s just complimented me.

Another ripple of nausea. I am silent until it passes.

“And he’s definitely expecting me?” I rise slowly from the bed, careful not to make any sudden movements.

“Yeah, he doesn’t know we’re married; I told him you’re a new client. He knows it’s a large cash deposit. That it’s delicate, all that.” He grabs an apple from the complimentary fruit basket and takes a bite.

I know Mark can’t go himself, as he has a direct connection to the bank, but I can’t help noticing that he really isn’t leaving any trails back to himself. It’s my face the bank will see, the memory of me that will be recalled. But then, the beauty of a Swiss account is that once the account is opened, that information will be protected. And my passport name is still Locke. I haven’t changed it to Roberts yet. As far as Mark’s old work links are concerned, the client he mentioned has no personal connection to him. Erin Locke will open an account today but my name will not be attached to the account at all. The account will bear only a number. Untraceable back to me. Untraceable back to either of us.

I stand and study myself one last time in the mirror. I’ve done a good job with the hair and makeup. I look right. Now that I think of it, I look like the type of person I had expected to see in the first-class lounge that morning two weeks ago. The kind of person that should have been in that lounge. If the world was a different place. If things always looked the way you imagined. But I guess, like in filmmaking, some things look more real when they’re not.

For a second I see my mother in my reflection, my beautiful young mother, but it’s only a flash, a ripple on the water, and she’s gone, stowed safely away again.

The nausea’s dissipating now. I’ll be just fine.

“Off I go then,” I say.

He nods, his energy high, and he hands me the bag.

“The car should be downstairs,” he says as I take it from him.

And with that I’m on my own.



* * *



—

In the lift I stand alone, reflected ad infinitum in the mirrored box, dampened silence around me. The doors slide shut soundlessly and the hallway recedes.

What if I never see its lurid red swirling pattern again? What if I’m arrested at the bank as soon as I click across the marble lobby? What would happen to the little blue cross inside me?

Or worse, what if the person who sent that text is there, waiting for me? I remember the three pulsing gray dots.

What if somehow he knows what we’re doing?

It is a “he” in my head. Of course, it could be a “she” or a “they.” They could already know our movements, our plans. Why not? It’s possible I’ve overlooked something. Or rather, we’ve overlooked something. That we’ve already made a mistake that means we’ve lost. After all, Mark and I are just two ordinary people from North London, normal, easy to find.

I do have a clearer idea of how their world works now, though, of how much more there is to everything than I could see before. My tiny life has been thrown into sharp relief. Who I was before, in the grand scheme of everything, versus who I am now.

We human beings are amazing in our capacity for adaptation, aren’t we? Like plants, we grow to fit our pots. But more than that, sometimes, we can choose our own pots; some of us get that opportunity. I guess it really depends on how far you’re willing to go, doesn’t it? I’ve never properly understood that before. I think of Alexa, her mother, their decision, their goodbye. Sometimes there’s a stark beauty to the choices we make.

For our situation now, I have adapted. I’ve become a far different person. I see her all around me reflected in the glass. Solid. Implacable.

Or at least she is visibly. Inside is different. Inside there is only breath and silence. Because I’m scared. Plain and simple, sharks-in-the-water scared. But I will breathe through it, and I will not panic, and I will not think about what I can’t control. It’s not safe to think too much. I don’t trust my mind right now, not until I get back in this elevator in a few hours’ time. Then I can think.

But one thought does break through.

It has the echo of something familiar.

The thought is: I don’t need to come back to this elevator at all, do I? I don’t need to ever come back to this hotel. I could just leave. I could set up this bank account and leave. Leave my life. What if I just disappeared? Just left Mark in a hotel room in Geneva. I could slip off now, bag in hand, and melt away. Never even go to the bank. No one would miss me, really, would they? Would they? Life goes on. Life always just goes on. I’m sure I’d make a good life for myself, somewhere. They’d never find me—Mark, our friends, the plane people, the police. They’d never find me or the money, or our unborn child.