John Matthews - The Last Witness

So in the end she was rooted stock still, blinking like an idiot — she was still adjusting after her hours in the darkness. And as he’d finally advanced a step, smiling hesitantly — possibly in response to how awkward and nervous she must have looked — they embraced. But it was still slightly stiff, almost formal — far from the emotional catharsis she’d envisioned. She could feel the barriers of three decades without contact with that first touch. They wouldn’t be torn down in the first minutes, or even in the few hours she had.

But as they sat down and someone called Russell offered her coffee, at least they started to make progress. She hesitatingly started to explain, but as she faltered at one point, not sure where to head next, the questions started coming: My father, what was he like? And your father? How old did you say you were when it all happened? Where did you live then? Were you long at the orphanage — did you look around much? So you found out through my stepfather’s brother: I haven’t seen him since I was a child — what’s he like now?

At first she was glad of the questions, she no longer had to think of what to say next to explain. But at some point they started to feel slightly mechanical, as if she was at a job interview: Georges gauging if she was good enough material to actually be his mother, or if she could score enough points for him ever to be able to forgive her; she could clearly pick up the anger in his undertone on some words. And she’d already started to become uncertain again, fumble slightly, her hand trembling on her coffee cup as she sipped at it — when the crunch question came:

‘You having to give me away I can understand — you were so young. But why didn’t you try and find me in the years since?’ He shook his head and looked down morosely, his eyes slowly lifting again to meet hers challengingly. ‘All those years. Why? ’

And she started to stumble through the rest: her blanking it from her mind, her work with orphaned children to try and bury the guilt, telling herself all along that he’d have gone to a good home somewhere — until Ryall and Lorena. But as she got to that point and her thoughts turned again to what Lorena was now facing and the nightmare odyssey that had brought her here: Lowndes, the Stephanous, the orphanage, tears streaming on the phone to her mother when she learnt the truth about her father — all those years wasted not only with her son lost from her, but harbouring a grudge that was long-since misplaced — her eyes started filling. She’d got so much wrong for so long. That was a loss that she’d never make good on, let alone in these few hours now.

As her body started gently quaking and she dabbed at the tears with the back of one hand, he moved closer and hugged her again then.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry to push you so.’ He gently patted her back. ‘It’s just… just that I felt I needed to know.’

‘No, no… it’s okay.’ She sniffled back, got more control. ‘You have every right to know.’ And within the space of the time they’d been talking, she felt that his embrace was suddenly different: more open, welcoming. Maybe there was hope yet that she’d be able to break down the barriers.

As they broke from the embrace and Georges surveyed her face — saw the shadows of the years of pain and guilt in her eyes — that was the first moment he could truly say he warmed to her. He’d spent the first forty minutes clinging tight to his own long built-up resentment for anything else to filter through. But it came more through admiration than any emotional bond or love — maybe that would come later. In that moment he appreciated and admired what she’d gone through to try and see him. She could so easily have just shrugged and turned her back on him for the other half of her life, saved herself the grief.

He smiled ruefully. ‘Explains one thing. You father being a hot-shot banker.’ He’d always had trouble relating to Nicholas Stephanous’ weak-spirited defeatism, wondering how he could possibly be of the same blood. But he wondered now if that too was what had made him look up so to Jean-Paul: the image of the proper patriarch in his mind inescapably entwined with money and power.

‘Oh, I see.’ Elena was a second late catching on. She remembered the Donatiens telling her that Georges was in banking.

Their hands were the last thing to part, and there was an awkward lull for a second. Elena glanced towards the glass sliding doors and the veranda: inky blackness beyond, only a faint moon picking out part of the lake and the ring of trees beyond. Her eyes had been naturally drawn there upon first walking in, a relief from the stark room-light after her hours in the dark.

‘Well, now you know a bit about me. Such as it is,’ She lightly chewed her bottom lip, turning back towards Georges. ‘I heard quite a bit about you from your stepparents, the Donatiens. They’re very proud. But there was a lot we — ’ She suddenly froze. At that moment all the lights went out: all-enveloping blackness, the distant moonlight on the lake the only visible light.

Almost like being back inside the blackened visor, except that now she could hear her son’s uncertain breathing along with her own.

Faint sound of footsteps and movement from deeper in the house, and after five seconds some weak emergency lights came on and Russell’s voice trailed from near the top of the stairs:

‘Looks like a general power outage. The lights on a minute ago at a cabin to the west seem to have gone too. Steve’s just sorting out the generator — should be up and running in a few minutes.’

Behind them, Chac’s head had peeped out of the kitchen. ‘Okay. Keep us posted.’ Then with a brief nod towards them he went back in.

She relaxed again. But as she continued talking, she could see that Georges was still on edge, eyes darting, listening out for every small noise downstairs — he was hardly listening to what she was saying.

‘What was that?’ he asked at one point, tuning back in.

‘…Just I was saying how difficult it must be for you now with your fiancee, Simone. You obviously still have strong feelings for her. Sergeant Chenouda mentioned a note that — ’

More alarming noises suddenly rose: heavy scuffing footsteps and muffled shouting, then a bang that they were still pondering whether or not was connected with the generator starting when Russell’s repeated shouts rang up the stairs.

‘Gas… gas! Get out… oouuu.’ His pounding footsteps petered out halfway up, stumbling.

Georges jumped up, his eyes narrowing. ‘You brought them here, didn’t you? You brought them here!’

Chac was already three steps out of the kitchen, gun drawn. ‘Come on! We gotta go!’

‘What?’ She was disorientated for a second. Then suddenly her heart was in her throat as it dawned on her what Georges meant. The threat that was upon them. ‘No… no, ’ she pleaded, reaching out to him. But as she rose, she felt her knees buckle, something sweet in her nostrils and at the back of her mouth, her head suddenly light. And Georges was already out of reach, heading towards the veranda doors.

She wondered for a moment whether this was like the day at the Baie du Febvre convent, and she was just fainting with the upset; or maybe she was still lying on the convent floor waiting to come around and everything that had happened in between had been a cruel nightmare.

But as she saw Chac crumple only two yards away, choking for breath, and Georges sink to his knees as he opened the terrace doors, she knew different. The house was rapidly filling with gas. She saw him get the door half open and partially raise to try and stagger out — but at that moment she felt the solid punch of the carpet on one cheek and everything spun into blackness. She didn’t see whether he made it.