Relief mixes with anxiety. I wish she’d sit with him, where she is, or take him somewhere else. Anywhere but back to her flat, I want to say. She doesn’t understand the danger she’s in.
I call her back; the phone rings out. Come on, I say to myself, over and over, but she doesn’t answer. I try her again, then a third time. Still nothing. It’s no good. I leave a message, it’s all I can do, and then I try Hugh.
No answer there either; his phone goes straight to voicemail. I guess he’s on a train behind me, with no reception. I leave a message, asking him to call me. I’m on my own.
I sit where I am. I concentrate on my breathing, on staying calm. I concentrate on not wanting a drink.
I try to work out why he’s doing it. Why he’s pretending to be my son’s girlfriend, why he’s luring him to Paris.
I think of the dogs. Largos86.
Finally my mind settles on the last truth it’s been avoiding.
Lukas is Connor’s father.
The elements begin to slot into place. He must’ve befriended Kate, first, maybe Anna around the same time. It’s possible neither knew of the existence of him in the other’s life; perhaps he was friends with Kate online only. He’d have been the one persuading her to try to get Connor back, and then, just when it looked like it might be about to succeed, she’d been killed.
And so he came after my son using the only other route open to him. Through me.
Why didn’t I see it? I think of all the times I’d suspected that there was more to our relationship than I knew, all the things I’d glimpsed, and then avoided.
I wonder what Lukas thought would happen. I wonder if he’d hoped I’d end my marriage to be with him, that we’d all become one big happy family.
I think back to those times. Kate, calling me. I want him back. He’s my son. You can’t keep him. I wish I’d never let you take him from me.
Now I know it was him. Lukas, telling her what to say. Lukas, who’d come back for his son. My son.
‘I want Connor,’ she’d said, over and over, night after night.
Deep down, I know she’d still be alive if I hadn’t said no.
We reach Gare du Nord and I step off the train and get a taxi. It’s dark now, rain falls on the silvered streets of Paris as we glide towards the eleventh arrondissement. I’ve called Hugh and given him Anna’s address; he said he’ll meet us there. Now I try Anna again. I have to speak to my son.
The screen shows that she’s online, available for a video chat. I press call and a few moments later a window opens on my screen. I can see Anna’s living room, the same furniture I’m used to, the same pictures on the walls. A moment later she appears.
‘Thank God. Anna—’
I freeze. She looks distressed, her eyes are wide, tinged with red. She looks terrified.
‘What’s wrong? Where’s Connor?’
She leans in close to the screen. She’s been crying.
‘What’s happened? Where’s my son!’
‘He’s here,’ she says, but she’s shaking her head. ‘Ryan came back. He was angry—’
I interrupt. ‘But you had Connor with you!’
‘No, no. Connor was waiting outside. But … I couldn’t stop him. The pictures on his computer … I think he’s going to send them to Hugh. And … and he hit me.’
She looks numb, almost as if she’s been anaesthetized.
I think of the time with David, the incident in the car, the knife.
‘He was angry.’
‘That’s no excuse! Anna, you have to get out of there!’
She leans in, close to the machine. ‘I’m okay. Listen’ – she looks over her shoulder – ‘I haven’t got long. I need to tell you something. I have a gun.’
At first I think I’ve misheard her, but her face is grave. I realize I haven’t, and she’s serious.
‘What …? A gun? What d’you mean?’
She begins speaking quickly. ‘When Kate died … a friend of mine … he said he could get me one. For protection. And I said no, but …’
‘But what?’
‘But then, this stuff with Ryan. I was scared. I …’
‘You said yes.’
She nods. I wonder how it came to this, and whether there’s anything she’s not telling me about Ryan. About what he might’ve done already.
‘But …’ I say. ‘A gun?’
She doesn’t answer. I see her look over her shoulder. There’s been a noise, and then it comes again. A thudding.
‘Listen …’ She’s speaking quickly, whispering. I struggle to make out what she’s saying. ‘There’s something else. Hugh made me promise not to tell you, but I have to—’
‘Hugh?’ His name is the last I expected to hear.
‘—it’s about Kate. The guy. The one they found with the earring. It wasn’t him.’
I shake my head. No. No, this can’t be.
‘What do you mean, it wasn’t him?’
‘He had an alibi.’
‘Hugh would’ve told me. He wouldn’t let me go on thinking …’
The sentence peters out. Maybe he would. For the sake of peace.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. He said—’ There’s a noise at her end, loud. It sounds like a door slamming, a voice, though I can’t make out what’s being said.
‘I’ve got to go. He’s back.’
‘Anna—!’ I begin. ‘Don’t—’
I never finish the sentence. Over her shoulder I see Lukas. He’s shouting, he looks furious. There’s a flash of something in his hand, but I can’t tell what it is. Anna stands, blocking my view. I hear him ask who she’s talking to, I hear the words ‘Who the fuck?’, and ‘kid’. She gasps, and the screen goes dark. I realize he’s pushed her into the table, she’s fallen against the laptop and blocked the camera. When the image returns the computer is on the floor and through its camera I can see the floorboards, a rug, the edge of one of the chairs.
Yet I can hear what’s going on. I can hear him saying he’s going to kill her, and her, gasping, crying, saying ‘No!’, over and over. I call out her name, but it’s no use. I hear a thud, a body against the wall, or the floor. I’m unable to take my eyes off the screen. Anna’s computer is knocked, the image changes. Her head appears, flung to the floor. She gasps, and then a moment later is jerked violently backwards. There’s a thud as his fist connects with her, a sickening crunch. I call out her name, but all I can do is watch as her head is jerked back again and again until, eventually, she’s silent.
I stare at the screen. The room is quiet. Empty. And still there’s no sign of Connor. Terror descends.
Desperate, I end the call. In terrible French I ask the driver how long we’re likely to be, and he says five minutes, possibly fifteen. I’m frantic, every nerve hums with energy that won’t be contained. I want to open the car door, to leap out into the traffic, to run to our destination, but I know even if I could it would be no quicker. And so I sit back and will the traffic to clear, the cars to go faster.
I dial Hugh. Still no answer.
‘Fuck!’ I say, but there’s nothing I can do. After a while I begin to recognize the streets. I remember walking here, back in April. Consumed by grief, burning in a fire that I’d fooled myself into thinking I had managed to avoid. How simple things had been back then – all I had to do was get through it, survive the pain – yet I hadn’t even seen it.
Finally we arrive in Anna’s street. I see the laundrette, still closed, and opposite there’s a boulangerie where, last time, we bought fresh bread for our breakfast. I need to be cautious.
I ask the driver to stop a few doors down from Anna’s building; it might be better if I surprise them. He does so, and I pay him. A moment after he pulls away my phone rings.
It’s Hugh. ‘I’ve just arrived in France. Where are you?’
‘At Anna’s,’ I say. ‘I think Connor’s here.’
I tell him what I’ve seen, ask him to call the police.
‘Anna was attacked,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to explain the rest later. And Hugh?’