Peter Corris - The Coast Road

‘Cliff-my name’s Cliff.’

‘Cliff. You said you had a daughter you hadn’t raised- perhaps you will understand.’

I was willing. I eased away and nodded.

‘I came to this country twelve years ago. Kristina’s father had died, but his brother was here and he. . sponsored me and my daughter. I had university degrees from Poland but they weren’t recognised. I had to study to get qualifications and to improve my English. I worked-cleaning, kitchens in restaurants, waitressing-it was very hard. But slowly I improved. I could speak English. An educated person in Poland speaks English.’

‘They teach languages better there than we do here,’ I said. ‘I can barely read a French menu.’

‘But I wanted to work with words, with language. Words are my passion, my…’

‘Talent,’ I said. ‘I can see that.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you. I got the Australian degree and I began to get translating work with different companies- leaflets, websites…’

‘You picked that up too?’

‘I did. It’s not so hard. What’s wrong?’

‘Not a thing. I’m impressed.’

‘I don’t understand that. I still have difficulties. But with all this work I neglected her, Kristina. I tried, but I failed. She began not going to school, missing …?’

‘Wagging, we used to say. Then it was jigging, now I think it’s ditching.’

‘English is such a strange language. Yes. I was worried. Then I met Stefan, Steve as he called himself. Swedish, handsome. He said he had heard I had a number of languages and he wanted something translated from Swedish. I know Polish, German, French and Russian. Not much Swedish, but…’ Her elegant shrug filled in the gap.

‘This is him?’

‘Yes. Stefan Parnevik. I’m still not sure what he did for money, but he had a lot. A car, clothes, credit cards. All these were things I wanted and would work to get, but they were still not there yet for me. He gave me money. Enough to put a deposit on a little flat. He was there often. He took me to dinner. I… felt stronger. I had more time. I got more work at better pay. I paid off as much of the mortgage as I could, very fast. Then I found Stefan and Kristina together in the way I said.’

Telling the story was exhausting her and I told her to stop. There was still coffee in the pot and I took the cups and microwaved it. A Hardy special, never mind if it makes it bitter-good excuse for sugar.

She’d composed herself when I got back with the coffee and the haunted look had receded a bit. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever have to talk about this,’ she said.

‘You say there were phone calls after you kicked him out. Was there any face-to-face contact?’

She shook her head. ‘With me, no. I thought he was ashamed, perhaps fearful of what I would do. I did nothing, partly…partly because I didn’t want to make it too big for Kristina. She said nothing happened. Perhaps I was wrong to…’

‘Hard to say. Do you think he saw her, met her?’

‘I don’t know. After a time she calmed down and began to seem normal. But normal for Kristina was not normal as for other girls. Oh God, what am I going to do?’

‘Find her. And give him to the police. If this is all the way we think it is, he’s connived at having an underage girl work as a prostitute. And it’s more than likely that he…’

‘Yes.’

‘So where is he? Where does he live?’

She’d taken a decent swig of the coffee as if to prepare herself for something. And here it was. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Don’t say it like that, Cliff, please. I never went to his place; he always came to mine. I didn’t ask any questions. I was looking, hoping for someone and he was… charismatic.’

‘Charismatic.’

‘Yes. Yes. Good-looking, kind, generous. And funny.’

‘Funny’ll do it.’

‘Do it?’

I knew what I meant-funny is hard to compete with- but I didn’t want to lay it out for her because I knew I’d sound jealous however I put it and she’d know. ‘Well, finding people is my speciality, so I guess I’ll just have to set about it.’

She took in more coffee and didn’t say anything. I felt wrong-footed and fidgeted with the coffee mug, waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t I moved back close, put my hand to her face and turned it towards me. Her skin was soft against my hard, gym and tennis-calloused palm.

‘Marisha, I want to help you.’

‘You despise me.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You despise me for letting my daughter fall into the hands of such a man.’

‘No.’ I had one hand on her cheek and the other on her shoulder and I drew her towards me. I bent and she strained upwards. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was opening. I felt I had to stop her speaking, saying no. I kissed her and she returned the kiss fiercely and gripped me with a strength I wouldn’t have thought possible. The kiss lasted so long I was struggling for breath when it ended. I realised we were both panting and we reached for each other again, colliding rather than embracing.

Her bedroom was dim and smelled of incense. The bed smelled of her. She eased herself off from where she’d straddled me and rolled to one side. I put out my arm and she shaped her small body to mine, clinging close.

‘Was it wrong?’ she said.

‘Didn’t feel wrong to me. Felt very right.’

‘No, I know it’s not like a doctor and patient. I meant with Kristina…’

I loved her smell-the combination of shampoo and perfume and her body. I inhaled, buried my face in her hair, kissed her ear. ‘I read that in the London Blitz, in the war,’ I said, ‘people made love where they were sheltering, in cellars, the tube stations, with other people around. Sometimes with strangers. Stress broke down barriers. That’s really something, given that we’re talking about the English.’

‘You say the English like that, but you’re English, surely?’

‘Only half on one side-the rest’s a mixture of Irish and French and God knows what. My maternal grandmother was a gypsy. She’d have said you had gypsy eyes.’ I ran a finger lightly across the dark skin under her eyes.

‘No, no. No Romany that I know of. But in Europe, who knows? Jewish certainly, on one side as you say. Cliff, you think this is just…stress?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so.’ And I meant it, although the speed of our coming together like that was a little surprising. But the times are strange and everything’s speeded up.

I spent the rest of the morning with Marisha Karatsky, interestedly if not productively. I inspected the room that had been Kristina’s. Marisha had said she’d shown me everything useful on our first meeting, but parents only ever know part of their kids’ stories. The quick look I had confirmed my impression-that the girl I’d been looking for hardly bore any resemblance to the young woman I’d found, and lost. Except for one thing. Kristina had had a hiding place-a gap between the skirting board and the wall. It was only wide enough to contain a few small things-a couple of joints maybe, money, condoms. I probed it with my Swiss army knife and came up with a five dollar note and a card. The card had a name scrawled on it, Karen Bach, and an address. No phone number.

Marisha’s work room was a mass of books, keyboards, screens, tape recorders and other machines I couldn’t identify.

‘Everything is digital now,’ she said. ‘Or will be soon.’

‘So they tell me. I’m barely analogue, myself.’

She laughed. We drank more coffee and made love again.

81

‘I only had two condoms,’ she said afterwards.

‘Just as well. Twice in eight hours is my total limit. Plus I have to go to work.’