The Actuality Page 19

  When their turn comes, they shuffle forwards nervously under a series of signs warning about the incursion of rats, rabid dogs and wolves.

  The security system relies on facial recognition. She is counting on them not triggering anything but if they give no reading at all, that surely would be even worse. Or what if their pictures have arrived ahead of them?

  At the barrier, a bar of blue light passes rapidly down over their faces, too quickly for her to blink. Briefly everything is streaked grey, even the square-jawed men beside the gate, who stir from their seats and stiffly approach, removing from their belts long truncheons which they slap against their hands.

  Evie steps back into David’s chest, primed for flight. She can’t help herself. She has suffered too much physically already to take any more. Since Maplin, she has grown petrified of pain.

  Before she can run, David wraps his arm around her. ‘It’s all right,’ he murmurs, holding her firmly and for a crucial moment her fear is held in check. In Cambridge she was the one to calm his nerves; now their roles are reversed.

  The guards shove past and take the man cringing behind them away from his terrified family and, when he belatedly opts to resist, beat him to the ground.

  The train that will take them under the channel is a large express with broad carriages, very different to the throbbing diesels belching fumes that had carried them through England.

  They descend into the tunnel. The overhead lights flicker and, through the intermittently darkened windows, Evie spots isolated figures sloshing through the oily water between the tracks. She blinks to clear her eyes, to make sure she has seen what she thinks she has seen.

  They emerge back into the light, and, relieved to be safely in France, she collapses into the deeply cushioned seats. Lulled, she gazes out at the passing countryside, barely noticing the camps for illegal immigrants stretching for miles either side of the line.

  David rests in the corner, his body coiled, legs knitted one around the other, knees drawn up and arms folded and held tightly over his chest. The awkward pose speaks for their shared sense of insecurity, its essence utterly human. A glow from the ceiling and walls, the source of which she cannot locate, shines on his face, accentuating the line of his jaw. A loop of dark hair curls over his forehead.

  Gazing at him, Evie realises that he is not without flaws – his chin is fleshier than she had noticed and his hair has a stubborn flick. These little human touches strangely make his otherwise perfection all the more complete.

  She lays her head on the seat-back close to his shoulder and tots up his good points. It’s a growing list: 1) he’s strong and can smoothly lift her over high walls; 2) he’s physically impressive/intimidating, so people give them a wide berth; 3) he is good, no, make that ‘great’, with languages, a skill that could be useful once they are across the channel; 4) he has a sense of humour – it needs more work but she has had glimpse of it; and 5) well, what can she say? – he’s easy on the eye. Lizzie Long, in her stories, may have been in love only with adventure, but Evie wasn’t designed that way.

  The electric door at the carriage end peels back and Evie looks up sharply, ready to hide or to run. But it is only a train attendant pushing a trolley. She stops alongside the only other passengers, two women and two men, dressed in plus-sized sportswear.

  ‘Good morning,’ she commences. ‘Today, I have coffee, tea, wine . . .’

  ‘So, que thinkez-vous u guys taking all de human jobs?’ one of the men interrupts in Eurospeak – a blend of French and English slang.

  ‘I’m sorry Sir, I do not have an opinion,’ the attendant replies. A coffee is ordered and she starts to fill a plastic cup but he jerks her elbow, not even pretending it was an accident. She observes the liquid stream over her wrist without curiosity, before sharply drawing breath and withdrawing her scorched hand.

  The group giggles. ‘Oh honey, you’re hurt,’ one of the women says.

  ‘I’m sorry Ma’am, but I must . . .’ She struggles to find the right words, then turns briskly to face the man behind. ‘Sir, it is prohibited to touch. All infringements I am obliged to report to my supervisor.’

  ‘Sugar, he was only messing,’ the woman says. ‘Don’t get uptight. What’s it to your supervisor anyway? Is he your boyfriend? Do you let him, you know . . . here on the train?’

  ‘I’m sorry Ma’am, I don’t understand. I can call my—’

  ‘She doesn’t want to ask your supervisor, she’s just curious as to whether you’re getting regularly serviced. Has your welfare at heart,’ says the other man, a skinny youth in a baggy athletics vest.

  ‘I’m sorry, I do not . . .’ Baffled as she is, she at least has the acumen to appreciate that she will make no more sales here and moves the trolley along. A crushed drinks can skims the ceiling and, striking the side of her head, knocks off her cap. This prompts cheers, more laughter and a softly cooed, ‘Ahh Mademoiselle, come back, we were just having fun.’

  She draws up alongside Evie and the sleeping David and repeats her spiel. ‘Good morning Ma’am, Sir. Today, I have coffee, tea, wine . . .’ Her face is oddly joyous, despite the mockery she has just endured. As she leans over, the light catches on the SNCF logo embossed into her temple. A bubble of oil seeps from her ear and glistens on the lobe before dripping onto her uniform lapel, giving her jacket a roasted, mechanical smell.

  Evie mouths ‘No, thank you’. However unconscious this creature is of insult, she deserves at least common courtesy.

  The attendant’s head nods stiffly and rotates to front. Her chin lifts and her shoulders straighten and, releasing the trolley brake, she moves on.

  An hour later, the train stops at Lille and two gendarmes in military uniform enter the carriage and stand by the doors. They share a handheld device, watching what appears to be a sporting event, heads nodding in time as tinny cheers rise and fall.

  Suddenly their mood changes. Their bodies come to attention and they lean in close to listen to a faint voice spilling from the tiny speaker. Over the noise of the train, even she can’t hear what they are being told.

  David dozes beside her, still in standby, conserving energy, and she nudges him back to consciousness.

  ‘We should move carriage.’

  He raises himself on his elbow, blinks up at her and then peers over the seat-back.

  ‘Police,’ she whispers.

  The external door closes and the train jolts into motion. The station platform glides past.

  While the policemen remain turned away, Evie pulls down her bag and walks slowly down the aisle, pushing David ahead of her. The end door slides back and she turns and glances at the officers in their blue-grey blouses, still listening to the device between them. She is being overly cautious, she knows it, but she is not in a position to take chances.

  As she passes through, she takes a last look behind. And immediately she wishes she hadn’t.

  One of the officers is looking her way and awkward eye contact results.

  The door to the next carriage closes behind them. What she wants to do is hide, but hide where? David blocks the aisle ahead and she prods him to move faster.

  They reach the far end of the carriage, just as the doors they had entered it through slide back. Evie doesn’t look around but judges their pursuers’ distance by the tread of their boots.

  In the next carriage they run between the seats, passengers watching as they pass.

  They enter a buffet car. Behind the service hatch stands the SNCF attendant from earlier.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says, showing no sign of recognition. ‘Today, I have . . .’

  Opening the access door to her working area, Evie pushes David through and they squeeze into the space behind her.

  The attendant opens her mouth but can only manage ‘I, I . . .’ before freezing, staring forward, locked in a search for a programmed response for such an impossible-to-predict situation.

  The only hiding place is a small pantr
y.

  Evie presses David ahead of her and squashes in behind, forcing him against the shelves. She pulls the door to, but her feet get in the way and she grips the handle to prevent it swinging back.

  His chin presses the side of her head, his quick breath ruffling her hair.

  The policemen burst through the carriage door. ‘Mademoiselle, did you see a woman and man come through?’ one asks, out of breath.

  The attendant stares forward, struggling to deal with yet another event her makers have not prepared her for. ‘I’m sorry, Sirs,’ she finally replies. ‘I am afraid I do not know. Would you like me to ask my supervisor?’

  28

  David and Evie arrive in Paris mid-morning. They leave the train cautiously, peering along the empty platform before disembarking. On finding it clear, they make their way rapidly through the barriers and out across the concourse to emerge through an arch onto a wide boulevard.

  From here they are soon lost in a maze of twisting streets, but rather than this being a disadvantage, it makes Evie feel almost safe, easing the fear left over from the close brush on the train. Even if they continue to be hunted, there is an opportunity in Europe to disappear.

  They cross a park, passing around the skeleton of an iron bandstand with no roof. In its shadow stands a tall man in striped pantaloons and a young girl, maybe as old as ten, who despite the chill wears a dress without sleeves and a straw hat with dried flowers poked around the crown.

  Skipping down the steps, the girl performs a cartwheel on the icy path, the skirts of her dress stretched between her legs like a fan. A small dog runs yapping in her wake.

  David grins innocently and a second or two later the child is at his side, quicker than is possible, her hollow stomach grazing his hip. She slithers past and around, looping the pair of them and coming back to the front, curtsies low to the ground.

  ‘We ave a play tonight,’ she says. ‘Ere is the details,’ and she thrusts a printed flyer into Evie’s hand.

  ‘Where is it?’ Evie asks as the girl backs away.

  ‘Les Dolls’ House – it ees all there, you see. Read.’

  Something feels different with her neck, and Evie feels the back of her head and realises her ribbon is missing, just as the girl holds it up, stretching it between her thumbs.

  ‘You took it,’ Evie says, astonished at the cheek of it and the ease with which the theft was accomplished.

  ‘You ave it back, if you come tonight,’ the girl calls.

  ‘She’ll have it back right now,’ David replies and runs after her, chasing her across the bare flower borders while Evie watches, laughing. He corners her in the littered ground behind a boarded-up café.

  The child’s hat has slid from her head and dangles on its cord, exposing a tangle of yellow hair.

  Evie comes forward to help him, arms spread to block her escape, while the girl gazes about serenely, all the time in the world, figuring her next move.

  Then makes a bolt for it.

  They reach down to grab her but are too slow. Evie loses her balance (something inside is still not right) and collapses against the rotting shell of the building, bringing down the end of a sagging awning and a gush of freezing rain water, while the girl charges through the gap between David and a heap of broken folding chairs.

  David turns and follows and corners her again, but if the girl really wants to escape them, she is agile enough to have surely been able to do so.

  ‘I’ll call the police,’ he says, although from his voice it is clear he never would (or could) and is enjoying the game as much as she is.

  The child laughs. ‘La police not bon, juste fuckers.’ Telling him what they already know. ‘They not aider the likes of you.’ She curls a loose strand of hair around a knuckle like silk thread around a bobbin. ‘But je not want get you into any more shit. You ees alone ere with no’un t’aid yer.’ Evie has never imagined anyone like this. Her mouth is a sewer and she should be repelled but she finds herself transfixed.

  Evie moves in close, cutting off her escape. The child’s dog, which has managed to stick close to her heels throughout the chase, gazes up at her with disappointed eyes.

  ‘Besides,’ the girl continues, glancing behind her, ‘you ain’t clapped Pompie when he ees in a fury. He can tear un grand homme adult into two, leaving heem in bloody parts.’ She grins, the tips of her eye teeth showing cunningly over her lip, as if she might grab Evie by her outstretched arm and gnaw on it.

  ‘Time to return it,’ David says sternly.

  The child smiles and tucks the ribbon away in her pocket, making it obvious that this is what she is doing. Her pink lips form a satiny bow.

  ‘Just give it back. It’s not yours.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Evie intervenes. ‘Let her keep it, she’s only little, she means no harm.’ Then, as the girl’s guard drops away, she pounces.

  It is a clever move and the child, so full of her own tricks, is herself tricked; Evie grips her and searches inside her skirt. Despite the tight openings, stitched to suit small hands, Evie finds the interior capacious with a multitude of hidden pockets.

  She pulls out her ribbon, bringing with it in a tangle a lady’s scented handkerchief out of which bounces a gold ring.

  The child fights free and backs away through the stiff weeds and they stare at one another, both a little out of breath. The look between them holds for longer than it should, neither willing to break it off.

  The tall man in pantaloons strides over. ‘Any trouble here?’ he asks gruffly, rubbing his jaw and smearing his lipstick. It is unclear which party he is asking.

  The child’s face cracks into a smile, perhaps to pacify him but it feels to Evie that it is actually for her. Dimples pop in her cheeks, ‘No Pompie, tout est bien.’

  Leaving the park, Evie and David continue to wander without knowing where they are going. The city is huge, the streets all strangely similar, dotted with shuttered shops and leafless trees. As they walk, they talk about children.

  ‘A lot came to visit me,’ he says. ‘Brought by their parents. Spoilt brats mostly who just giggled spitefully and stared. No one like that one.’

  ‘She was naughty,’ Evie muses, ‘but also very sweet.’ Feeling warm inside, she absent-mindedly links her arm through his, as she used to with Matthew.

  They need somewhere to recharge, so take a room in a small hotel, the angled facade of which is held up by scaffolding. Alone again, with the door closed and the key turned, Evie feels almost secure. She lies back on the pillow, her head full of the girl, recalling her sly stare.

  What sort of existence would the child have? Probably not a particularly sweet one. She should have let the poor thing keep the silly ribbon. What harm would it have done?

  Evie wakes in the afternoon to find David close beside her. The bed is small and his shoulders have wedged her to the edge and one of his heavy arms has fallen across her.

  To her surprise she becomes aware of his, what Matthew with boyish delicacy referred to as his ‘chap’, pressing into her thigh and, reaching behind, she slips her fingers under the waistband of his shorts. His body shifts, his grip around her tightening. He goes rigid.

  Then he recoils, knees in her back, pitching her forward over the mattress-edge to land on her hands on the floor.

  He pulls himself upright and sits, staring forward, face flushed.

  Evie slowly gets to her feet.

  Despite the shock of the fall, it is difficult not to see the funny side. ‘It’s all right,’ she says. What had stemmed from a combination of straightforward curiosity and a throb of loneliness has developed a life of its own. In some respects, she is as chaste as he is – a widow who has known only a husband’s touch. But she is unable now to call a halt to what is to all intents a seduction. I am a seductress, she thinks wryly. It is a role which previously she would have found it unseemly to admit, but one which, within the confines of marriage, she was nevertheless designed to perform.

  David’s fa
ce is an agony of confusion, but right now her own arousal is clamouring her on.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ Evie says. She moves around the bed end, slowly, so as not to frighten him further, advancing until they are less than twelve inches apart. She draws her vest over her head, watching him watch, and lifting his large smooth hands, she places them over her breasts.

  ‘It’s all right, I know what to do. This will be nicer than anything you have ever imagined, you must just trust me.’ She stands on tiptoes, laces her fingers behind his head, and tilts his face down so that she can reach his mouth.

  29

  Moving Evie’s head to one side, David unfastens her fingers from his neck and gently guides her body away. It is the tenderness of the rejection, the firm softness of his touch, which makes it so painful, and so embarrassing. She can’t look at him, nor does she know what to do with her hands which he has gently returned to her sides, where the palms throb hotly.

  ‘What is the matter?’ she asks, flush with embarrassment that her inexperience has allowed her to misread what she took to be signs.

  David shrugs and blinks. His mouth falls at the corners. ‘It is not you, it is me. What they did.’

  ‘What did they do?’ she asks impatiently.

  ‘Things.’

  ‘What things?’ She wants him to be open with her. Find a way to shift the sense of failure, despite being nervous that she may not want to hear what he has to say.

  ‘They’d find me after the show was over for the day,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Who?’ she asks, still in a state of confusion and not cottoning on to what he is trying to tell her.

  ‘All of them. All of them,’ he repeats, and he begins to list the multitude of physicists, psychologists, uniformed museum attendants, janitors, wealthy sponsors and the neglected wives and daughters of wealthy sponsors, who over the years have taken advantage of his being alone at night and restrained, and straddled his lap as if he was nothing more than an elaborate sex aid.