John Matthews - The Last Witness

And Lorena’s first night back after such an ordeal — it was just the time that any father would brow-soothe, reassure. He turned and started towards Lorena’s room, his mouth suddenly dry with anticipation. And he’d desperately missed her: missed the gentle feel of her skin at his fingertips; the soft, even fall of her breath on his cheek as he’d lean over, lightly trace one finger across her closed eyelids just before he counted her back awake. She was totally his in that moment; he had control over practically her every breath.

He stood stock still for a second, controlling his own breathing now as he looked down at Lorena; then, his hand visibly trembling, he reached out and lightly touched her hair. And in that moment it suddenly struck him how he might find out what had happened in the sessions in Canada.

Bell’s every nerve-end was as taut as piano-wire as he watched the images on screen.

And as Ryall started to talk and count Lorena down into a hypnotic sleep, he punched the air with a fist. ‘Yes, yes! Got you, you bastard! First night back, but you just couldn’t wait.’

‘…Seven… eight… feeling drowsier now, every limb in your body feeling totally relaxed. Drifting deeper… deeper…’

Bell was on the edge of his seat as Ryall hit nine and ten, then reached out and lightly stroked Lorena’s cheek and passed the same hand twice only inches in front of her eyes.

Then silence. Stone silence.

Bell couldn’t tell whether Lorena was in a real sleep or not. Had Lowndes advice about mentally counting down other numbers worked?

Bell watched Ryall’s hand. It had made contact again at her shoulder and traced down her arm a few inches, then stopped.

Some trivia about the trip and Canada and the rough time she’d been through to which Bell didn’t pay much attention — he was too busy watching where Ryall’s hand might travel next. Then suddenly he tuned in to where the conversation was heading.

‘…And when you were there you saw a doctor. A psychiatrist. What did you talk to him about?’

Bell’s whole body went rigid. Ryall was digging for what had happened in the sessions! If Lorena was really under, at any second she’d spill the beans. The whole operation would be over before it had started!

‘About my time at the orphanages… the sewers and Patrika. And about my family.’

‘I see. Your family. So what did he ask you about them?’

Oh Jesus. Bell swallowed hard. He tapped one finger repeatedly on the desk by the screen, could hardly bare the tension of everything hanging on what Lorena said next. His eyes were back on Ryall’s hand. It had moved a fraction to lower on her arm, the thumb spread and touching the edge of her breast. But was it enough? Probably not. Could be construed as innocent.

‘Come on!’ Bell hissed. ‘Move that hand lower and — ’ Then he suddenly stopped, could hardly believe he was egging Ryall on because he feared they might only have seconds left. And it suddenly hit him that if Ryall uncovered their game, realized that they were trying to entrap him — Lorena could be in danger. He glanced anxiously at the phone, wondering whether to call Crowley and stop it all now; except that they wouldn’t get there in time. If the game was up, Ryall would know everything within the next couple of minutes.

‘Different things. He… he seemed worried if I was happy with them.’

‘Happy with them… happy with them? But what did he ask you in particular about them?’

Crunch time. Bell’s stomach sank. Their only hope was if Lorena wasn’t really under, could bluff and lie her way through. Ryall’s hand was on the move again: it traced tantalisingly down her arm and across, coming to rest on her stomach. Still not enough.

‘He… he asked me if anything bad was happening to me. Anything I didn’t like.’

‘What sort of bad things? What did he — ’ Ryall suddenly broke off, looking towards the door as the telephone started ringing.

Late for anyone to be calling, but then this was the night his stepdaughter had returned: maybe a relative or well-wisher. Bell’s pulse raced double-time. Was Lorena awake and fending Ryall off, or relating accurately how the session had gone? With the danger of FMS, Lowndes would probably have avoided directly prompting about Ryall molesting her. But within a few questions, Ryall would unearth the truth. The telephone stopped ringing: either they’d given up or Nicola Ryall had answered.

And as Ryall looked down again at Lorena and finished his question, Bell leant closer to the screen, his eyes only inches away, following every small movement: the delicate flicker behind her closed eyes, her gentle moistening with her tongue as she spoke. His hands were balled tight in fists, and he unclenched one and lightly touched the screen. ‘Come on little angel, be awake. Be awake.’ But he couldn’t tell either way.

Jean-Paul noticed the car trailing in his rear-view mirror soon after hanging up on Chenouda. Two cars behind, a steady fifty yards. But he was sure it was the same car he’d seen follow him into Avenue Papineau from Gouin. He’d since taken two more turns, and it was still with him a mile further on along St Denis.

Just to make sure, Jean-Paul took the next right at Rue Jarry, then left again onto St Laurent heading towards the city centre. It followed at each turn the same steady distance behind — except for the last turn when almost a hundred yards grew between them when they had to wait for a car to pass before pulling out. No doubt left: they were trailing him!

‘Why are we trailing around like this?’ Raphael asked from the back ‘I though we were going to Le Piemontais?’

‘Yes, we are. We are.’ Jean-Paul wrenched his eyes from the mirror. He’d frightened them to get them out of the house, but he didn’t want to panic them now. He’d told Lillian where they were heading when she’d impatiently asked as soon as they’d started moving.

But his eyes couldn’t help being drawn back to the car as he noticed it swing out and overtake the two cars in between, closing the gap again to fifty yards.

As Lorenzo Petrilli cut back in from overtaking the last car, Nunzio asked, ‘Do you think he’s made us?’

‘I don’t know, I…’ Then, as he noticed Jean-Paul glance once more in the mirror. ‘Yeah, yeah — looks like it. I think he must have had some kind of warning. The way he left the house like his ass was on fire… and he made us too easily.’

Nunzio looked at his brother for a second, not sure if he was just making excuses for following too obviously; but what he said made sense. He shrugged. ‘Whatever. We’re going to have to make our move sooner rather than later. Closer to downtown it’s going to get more difficult.’

Lorenzo nodded. Right now they could make the hit and swing on to one of the cross highways and get away easily. Downtown there’d be more junctions before they could get clear, and more police cars. Lorenzo put his foot down, closing the gap towards Jean-Paul’s car.

Jean-Paul’s palms were damp on the steering wheel as he watched the car move closer behind. Surely they weren’t going to make a move with his son and mother with him? They’d wait until he was alone. But as he watched the car edge closer still, that hope began to fade.

With his repeated glances in the mirror, this time Raphael picked up on his consternation. ‘What’s wrong?’

Your uncle has sent someone to have me killed. And Lillian would be even more destroyed at discovering this Cain and Abel drama between her two beloved sons. All he said was, ‘What I was worried about earlier.’ Then, towards Lillian beside him in the front, he hissed under his breath: ‘Cacchione!’ The name meant something to her, but not the boy. That’s what it had been about all along: changing their lives so that his son didn’t have to live in the shadows like he’d had to. But now his son was in the middle of it all; in the end the shadows had reached out to him anyway.