He leans forward. His face is illuminated by the glow from his screen. He’s smiling.
He’s unchanged, yet I don’t recognize him at all. The Lukas I knew has gone completely.
‘Where’s Connor?’
‘I have no idea.’
His words are loaded with threat.
‘Let me see him.’
He ignores me. ‘Like I said, I’ve decided I want Connor’s share of your sister’s money.’
I know he’s lying. His words are flat, and unconvincing. Even if I didn’t know the truth, I’d be able to tell.
‘This isn’t about money. I know who you are.’
‘Really?’
I close my eyes. Hatred pours into me; my mind will not be still. How long has this man been talking to my son? His father, pretending to be his girlfriend.
For a moment I feel huge, unstoppable, as if my hatred is limitless and I could transcend the hardware that links us, the fibre optics, the satellites, and destroy him simply by willing it.
Yet I know I can’t. I force myself to refocus on the screen. Lukas is still talking, but I can’t hear him.
‘Let him go,’ I say. ‘Let them both go. What have they ever done to you?’
He doesn’t answer. He ignores me. He holds up the memory stick. ‘I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave me and Anna alone…’
An image swims into view. Me and him, in a hotel room, fucking. I have one hand on the headboard; he’s behind me. I feel sick.
‘Don’t do this. Please. Let me see Connor.’
He laughs. ‘Too late. I told you I’d tell your family the truth.’
He stands up, holding his camera phone in front of him so that his face remains static. It looks as though it’s the background that’s wheeling violently, a ship upturned. A bare light bulb spins into view – dead, I guess, or not switched on – and then a glass-panelled doorway, beyond which must be another room, and next to it a cooker.
‘Julia…’ he says. The image spins again, then freezes; he’s standing still, as if deep in thought. Over his shoulder I can see a window, through it the street. ‘I want Connor’s share of your sister’s money. It seems only fair, as I won’t be getting Anna’s any more.’
I can’t understand why he’s doing this. ‘I know this isn’t about the fucking money!’ I’m shouting, my anger coursing through me, a boiling intensity. ‘I know who you are, you creep!’
He ignores me. ‘Don’t forget those pictures. Tell you what. Why don’t you stay there tonight? Make yourself at home, I’m sure Anna won’t mind. Then tomorrow, first thing, I’ll come round. You can give me the money, and then you can have this.’ He holds up the memory stick once again. ‘Or else I can give it to your family. It’s up to you.’
I’m silent. I have nothing to say, nowhere to turn.
‘Right. Until tomorrow, then.’ He laughs. I’m about to answer when he says, ‘And if you like we can have one last fuck, just for old time’s sake.’
And then he’s gone.
I stand up. My rage is volcanic, yet impotent. I want to lash out, to smash and destroy, but there’s nothing I can do. I look down at the gun and pick it up. It feels heavy in my hand.
I don’t have time to think. The police haven’t turned up yet, but they might be here soon. A wasted journey for them, but I’ve effectively broken in. I’m holding a gun, they’ll ask questions. I have to get out. I pick up the pistol and rummage through the chest of drawers over by the window. I pull out a lemon sweater and wrap the gun in it, then put it in my bag. I close the door behind me as I leave, then slam down the stairs.
Lukas has made a mistake. When he turned his phone round in the kitchen I’d caught a glimpse through the window to the right of his shoulder, on to the street outside. It hadn’t been for long, but it’d been enough. Through the window I’d seen a street, a row of shops, a neon sign reading ‘CLUB SANTÉ!’ with a jaunty exclamation mark and a logo of a runner formed out of a curve and a dot. Above it was one word. ‘Berger’.
When I’m out of sight of the apartment I search on my phone, typing the words into the browser, praying that there’ll only be one branch. My heart sinks as two appear – one in the nineteenth, the other the seventeenth – but both have maps attached and one looks to be on a busy road while the other is opposite a park.
It must be the nineteenth, which I guess is a couple of miles away.
I have to go there. I have to get Connor back, and maybe I can force Lukas to give me the memory stick, scare him into letting Anna go and leaving us all alone.
I hail a cab. I give the address, then get in. ‘How long?’ I say to the driver, in English. It takes a moment before I realize my mistake and say it again: ‘Combien de temps pour y arriver?’
He looks at me in the rear-view mirror. He’s indifferent, largely. He shrugs, says, ‘Nous ne sommes pas loin.’ A plastic tree hangs off the mirror, and on the dashboard there’s a photo: a woman, a child. His family, I guess, mirroring mine. I look away, out of the window, at the streets as they slide by. Rain has begun to fall; it’s heavy, people have put up their umbrellas or are dashing with newspapers held over their heads. I rest my head against the cool glass and close my eyes. I want to stay like this for ever. Silent, warm.
But I can’t. I take out my phone and call my husband.
‘Hugh, where are you?’
‘We’re just getting into Gare du Nord.’
‘Did you call the police?’
He’s silent.
‘Hugh?’
‘Yes. I called them. They’re on their way.’
‘You need to call them back. Please. I went to Anna’s. She isn’t there. The place is deserted. She and Connor… I think something terrible has happened.’
‘Terrible?’
‘Just meet me here,’ I say. I give him the address. ‘As soon as you can.’
‘Why? Julia? What’s there?’
I close my eyes. This is it. I have to tell him. ‘Hugh, listen. It’s where Connor’s gone. This Evie, she doesn’t exist.’
‘But I spoke to her.’
‘It’s just a name he’s used to lure him here.’
‘Who? You’re not making any sense, Julia.’
‘Hugh, listen to me. Connor’s found his father. His real father. He’s here to meet him, but he’s in danger.’
There’s a silence. I can’t begin to imagine what my husband must be feeling. In a moment he’ll ask me how I know, what’s happened, and it will all come spilling out. I take a deep breath. I’m ready.
‘Connor’s father… I know him. He didn’t tell me who he was, but—’
Hugh interrupts me.
‘But that’s not possible.’
‘What?’
I hear him sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Julia. Kate told me—’
‘What?’
‘Connor’s father is dead.’
I’m silent. ‘What? Who is he then? That’s ridiculous.’
‘I can’t tell you now. Not like this.’
I hear an announcement in the background. His train is pulling in.
I begin to shout. ‘Hugh? Tell me!’
‘We’re here. I’ve got to go.’
‘Hugh!’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be there soon. I’ll tell you everything.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
We slow to a crawl, then stop in traffic. There are lights ahead, a busy junction where a railway bridge spans the road. Hugh is wrong, he must be. Connor’s father isn’t dead, he’s here, and he’s lured his son here, too.
‘Nous sommes ici,’ says the driver, but he’s pointing forward. I peer through the rain; ahead I can see the place. Berger. It’s still open, its doorway looks warm, inviting. A woman comes out, almost collides with a guy going in. I watch as she stands, lights a cigarette. I can’t sit still any longer; I have to get moving. The driver grunts as I tell him I’ll get out here; I pay him and then I’m on the pavement. The rain hits, instantly I’m soaked through. The woman with the cigarette is walking towards me; she nods as we pass, then I’m outside the gym. Lukas’s apartment should be just on the other side of the road, yet now I’m here I don’t know what to do. I glance over the road, past a stack of prefab offices covered in spray-painted graffiti. The building opposite is grey, its windows monotonously regular. It looks institutional; it could be a prison. I wonder which flat is his, and how I’ll get in. Further up the street a train thunders along rails and I see a row of bollards strung like sentinels along the pavement. Just beyond them is a kiosk, bright blue, advertising Cosmétiques Antilles, and just this side of it an alleyway arcs off the road, unlit, towards who-knows-where.