Barclay, slow at first, was picking it up quickly. “So we shouldn’t be “talking to fishermen,” he said, “we should be talking to lorry drivers?”
“Freight terminals, haulage firms, yes. And also, we should check for abandoned vehicles. Cars left in car parks or set fire to in fields, that sort of thing. There is always the chance she arrived here by other means...”
“But the laws of probability dictate otherwise?”
She took a second or two translating this. “If you say so,” she said finally, just as the tureen of soup was arriving.
Wednesday 10 June
The fair had yet to open for the day, but the front of Barnaby’s Gun Stall had been unlocked and drawn back. The machine gun had been connected to its compression pump, and it had been loaded with pellets, too. Keith was now fixing a three-inch-square target (half the size of the usual scorecards) to the heart of the life-size metal figure. He glanced back warily to where she was standing, balancing the gun’s weight in her hand, finding its fulcrum. Rosa’s girclass="underline" that’s who she’d always been, Rosa’s girl. Little was ever said about her. There were shrugs, and the acceptance that she had once been part of the fair. Keith couldn’t remember that far back. But he knew he fancied her now. Which was why he didn’t mind opening the gun range for her, even though the locals might complain about the noise this early in the day. She’d even put her two one-pound coins down on the counter.
“Don’t be daft,” he’d said. But she’d shaken her head.
“Keep it, I’m quite well off at the moment.”
“Lucky for some.” So Keith had pocketed the money.
He stuck the last pin into the last corner of the target. She was already lining up the gun. He could feel its sights on him like a weight pressing the back of his head. The compressor was hissing somewhere behind him.
“Okay,” he cried. “That’s it.” And he stumbled backwards away from the silhouette.
But still she did not fire. She stood there, her eye trained along the sights, the barrel of the gun barely wavering by a millimeter. Then she pulled the trigger. There was furious noise for ten seconds, then blessed silence. Keith stared at where dust was rising from in front of the silhouette figure. The edges of the paper target were still intact, like a window frame. But everything inside the frame had been reduced to a haze in the air.
He gave a loud whistle. “I’ve never seen shooting like —”
But when he turned around, she had vanished. The machine gun was lying on its side on the counter. Keith whistled more softly this time, grinning at the target and rubbing his chin. Then he stepped forwards and began carefully removing the tacks from the corners of the target. He knew exactly what he was going to do with it.
Thinking back on the evening, running the dialogue through his head, Barclay saw that there had been a great deal of competitiveness during the meal. Which wasn’t to say that it hadn’t been fun.
He was breakfasting — milky coffee and croissants in the hotel bar — while he waited for Dominique. She’d driven him back last night with beady determination. She was probably half his weight, yet she’d drunk the same as him during dinner. She’d dropped him off outside the hotel, waving and sounding her horn as she sped off. And he’d stood there for a moment, searching for his door key and wondering if he should have said something more to her, should have attempted a kiss.
“Not on a first date,” he’d muttered before dragging the key out of his pocket.
A shower before breakfast, and he felt fine. Ready for the day ahead. He even noticed how a Frenchman, eating breakfast standing at the bar, dunked his croissant into his coffee. So when Barclay’s croissants arrived without butter, he knew just what to do with them, and felt unduly pleased with himself as he ate.
The door opened and in breezed Dominique. Having met the hotelier yesterday, she was now on hailing terms with him, and uttered a loud “Bonjour” as she settled into the booth.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Hello.”
She looked as though she’d been up for hours. She had clipped a red woolen scarf around her throat with a gold-colored brooch. The scarf matched her lipstick, and made her mouth seem more glistening than ever. White T-shirt, brown leather shoulder bag, faded blue denims turned up at bared ankles, and those same sensible laced shoes. Barclay drank her in as he broke off a corner of croissant.
“Thank you for last night,” he said. He had rehearsed a longer speech, but didn’t feel the need to make it. She shrugged.
“Come on,” she said, looking down meaningfully at his cup, which was still half full. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Now listen, I’ve been thinking.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m looking for my sister. That’s the story I will tell to the drivers. She has run away from home and I think maybe she is heading for England.”
“That’s good, we’ll get their sympathy if nothing else.”
“Exactly, and they may like the idea of two sisters. It may make them remember something.”
“You’re speaking from experience?” She narrowed her eyes and he nodded. “Yes,” he admitted, “irony, sort of.”
“Well, anyway, it’s true.”
“And what role do I play?”
“You are like The Who’s Tommy: deaf and dumb.”
“And blind?”
“No, but just let me do all the talking. Yes?”
“Fine by me.”
“Now hurry up.” And to help, she seized the last piece of croissant, drowned it in his cup, then maneuvered the whole dripping concoction across the tabletop and into her mouth.
“Shall we take my car?” he suggested.
“I’m from Paris,” she snapped. “Why would I be driving a British car?”
“I won’t say another word,” he said, following her to the café door.
It was every bit as tiring and frustrating as the previous day, but with the bonus that she was doing all the work while he loitered in the background. Dominique took the truckers’ comments and double entendres in good part, even though Barclay himself felt like smashing some of them in the mouth. But though she listened, there didn’t seem much to learn. No driver knew anything. If she had a photograph of her sister, perhaps, a picture they could keep...? Maybe something of the both of them in their swimming suits...?
General laughter and guttural speech, slangy, spoken at furious speed. Barclay caught about a quarter of it and understood less than that. They ate at the French equivalent of a greasy spoon: a dingy bar which, hazy with smoke, still served up a more than passable five-course meal. Barclay ate three courses, pleading that he was still full from the previous evening. From a booth in the post office in town, Dominique made several telephone calls, paying the counter staff afterwards and asking for a receipt.
Then there were more firms to check, more fake questions to ask, always to more shakes of the head and shrugs of the shoulders. He saw her spirits flag, and suddenly he knew her. He knew her for what she was. She was young and hungry like him, keen to succeed, keen to show up the flaws and weaknesses of others before her. She wasn’t here to “assist” him: she was here to make her mark, so that she could climb the rungs of the promotion ladder. Watching her work, he saw an emptiness at his own core. Watching her fail to get results, he became more determined that they shouldn’t give up.