The Paris Apartment(29)

I take a step back. Look at the blade, crusted with something that looks like rust or dirt but isn’t, something that’s also streaked all over the cloth it was wrapped in.

And I start to scream.





Jess




I can’t stop thinking about how Ben sounded at the end of that message. The fear in his voice. “What are you doing here?” The emphasis. Whoever was there in the room, it sounded like he knew them. And then the “What the fuck?” My brother, always so in control of any situation. I’ve never heard him like that. It hardly even sounded like Ben.

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s been there all along, really, growing since last night. But now I can’t ignore it any longer. I think something happened to my brother last night, before I arrived. Something bad.

“Are you going to go back to that place?” Theo asks. “After hearing that?”

I’m kind of struck by his concern, especially as he doesn’t seem the sensitive sort.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel, “I need to be there.”

And I do. Besides—I don’t say this—I don’t have anywhere else to go.



I decide to walk back instead of taking the Metro—it’s a long way but I need to be out in the air, need to try and think clearly. I look at my phone to check my route. It buzzes:

You have used nearly all your Roaming Data! To buy more, follow this link . . .



Shit. I put it back in my pocket.

I pass little chi-chi shops painted red, emerald-green, navy blue, their brightly lit windows displaying printed dresses, candles, sofas, jewelry, chocolates, even some special bloody meringues tinted pale blue and pink. There’s something for everyone here, I suppose, if you’ve got the money to spend. On the bridge I push through crowds of tourists taking selfies in front of the river, kissing, smiling, talking and laughing. It’s like they’re living in a different universe. And now the beauty of this place feels like so much colorful wrapping hiding something evil inside. I can smell things rotting beneath the sweet sugary scents from the bakeries and chocolate shops: fish on the ice outside a fishmonger’s leaving stinking puddles collecting on the pavement, the reek of dog shit trodden into the pavement, the stench of blocked drains. The sick feeling grows. What happened to Ben last night? What can I do?

There have been times in my life when I’ve been pretty desperate. Not quite sure how I’m going to make the rent that month. Times I’ve thanked God I have a half brother with deeper pockets than me. Because, yeah, I might have resented him in the past, for having so much more than I ever did. But he has got me out of some pretty tight spots.

He came and collected me from a bad foster situation once in the Golf his parents had bought him, even though it was in the middle of his exams:

“We have to stick together, us orphans. No: worse than orphans. Because our dads don’t want us. They’re out there but they don’t want us.”

“You’re not like me,” I told him. “You’ve got a family: the Daniels. Look at you. Listen to how you talk. Look at this frigging car. You’ve got so much of everything.”

A shrug. “I’ve only got one little sister.”

Now it’s my turn to help him. And even though every part of me recoils from calling the police, I think I have to.

I take out my phone, search the number, dial 112.

I’m on hold for a few moments. I wait, listening to the engaged tone, fiddling with my St. Christopher. Finally someone picks up: “Comment puis-je vous aider?” A woman’s voice.

“Um, parlez-vous anglais?”

“Non.”

“Can I speak to someone who does?”

A sigh. “Une minute.”

After a long pause another voice—a man’s. “Yes?”

I begin to explain. Somehow the whole thing sounds so much flimsier out loud.

“Excuse me. I do not understand. Your brother left you a voice message. From his apartment? And you are worried?”

“He sounded scared.”

“But there was no sign of a break-in in his home?”

“No, I think it was someone he knew—”

“Your brother is . . . a child?”

“No, he’s in his thirties. But he’s disappeared.”

“And you are certain he has not, for example, gone away for a few days? Because that seems like the likeliest possibility, non?”

I have this growing feeling of hopelessness. I don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere here. “I’m fairly certain, yeah. It’s all pretty fucking weird—sorry—and he’s not answering his phone, he’s left his wallet, his keys.”

A long pause. “OK, Mademoiselle. Give me your name and your address, I will make a formal record and we will come back to you.”

“I—” I don’t want to be on any formal record of anything. What if they compare notes with the UK, run my name? And the way he says, “formal record,” in that bored flat voice, sounds like—yeah, we’ll think about doing something in a couple of years after we’ve done all the stuff that actually matters and maybe a bit of the stuff that doesn’t.

“Mademoiselle?” he prompts.