Emily Barr - The Sleeper

I find myself nodding blankly. ‘OK.’

‘That’s my girl.’

I know that he is right. I am his girl. I haven’t seen Iris. I don’t think she is here. I hope she didn’t do her part of the plan, because I certainly haven’t done mine.

It flashes into my mind: I could still do it. After that sleep I am slightly more alert. I have to try. I must make one last-ditch attempt.

I hang back, and Leon waits for me with infinite patience. He likes me being slow and useless. Eventually we are off the plane, walking down the steps in stifling humidity, Leon’s hand, as ever, above my elbow. He supports me as I feel my way to the next step, again and again, with my foot in its impeccably tasteful shoe.

The sky in Singapore is grey and low. I am prickling with the heat. It is tangible in my lungs. I hate this place.

In the building, I see a shop.

‘Can I have perfume?’ I ask, tugging pathetically at his arm. ‘Please, Leon? I want perfume. Will you …?’

He hesitates. ‘You want perfume? Really?’

‘Want to smell nice.’

He laughs. ‘By all means. How can I argue with that? Come on then. We have hours to kill, after all. But sweetie? You are going to have to walk through security at some point. This is the only stalling I’m going to allow you to do. It’s going to be all right.’

Leon picks me a perfume, carefully sniffing until he laughs and takes a white box to the counter.

‘If in doubt,’ he says, and hands a woman in a white lab coat the Chanel No. 5 box. I pass him a scarf that I have picked up randomly, and he swaps it for a different one, rosy pink, and buys that.

‘Thank you, sir,’ says the woman behind the counter, and I take the bag from him and look into it.

‘Thanks,’ I say. He nods and strokes my wig.

‘We’ll get you back to yourself,’ he says, fingering a strand of it, and I am not sure whether it is a threat or a promise. ‘My Lara.’

I walk along swinging the bag. I have done too little, too late, but this is an attempt at following the plan. I try to tell myself that at least I have some perfume and a scarf, and wonder if I could escape in Delhi. At some point I might be able to get his phone again.

It won’t work. None of it will work. The only way I will get away is by leaping off a mountainside to my death. That will do. That is my next plan. I can’t wait.

We are approaching the queues for immigration when a woman with short hair walks into me, brushes me, and, before I realise what is happening, gently takes my bag out of my unresisting hand and replaces it with another. I look down. The new bag also says Duty Free on it. It looks the same as the old one. I look around. Was it her? I am not even sure that it happened. I could have imagined the whole thing.

All the same, I know what to do.

‘Leon?’

He looks at me, his grey eyes serious. ‘Yes?’

‘Could you take this? Bit … wobbly.’

He smiles and takes the bag without a word, without looking at it. We queue up and present our passports. Nobody stops us. The man who stamps them looks at me hard, but lets us in.

We have the bags, and Leon piles everything on to a trolley.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Here we go.’

I clutch my stomach.

‘The loo!’ I say. ‘See you in a second. Sorry.’

I walk away from him, carrying nothing but my handbag. I have done this before. I hold my head high, and I walk casually, as elegantly as I can in this state, through the Customs area and out into the airport concourse, pretending that I am hurrying towards a bathroom.

Last time I did this, Rachel never followed.

This time, Leon doesn’t follow. I hardly dare to hope that he will not be along in a moment, taking my arm, steering me to the next check-in.

I wonder what to do. I am on my own. I don’t know where to go. I have no phone and no money, and I might not have time to get anywhere. He is going to come along at any time. But he isn’t here yet.

I try to concentrate. Need to get away. I cannot think what to do, but I need to do it quickly.

Focus.

I turn to look back. Leon is still not there. I cannot go anywhere without money. Leon took everything I had, such as it was. He took my mind and my memory and my lover and my life. I walk in an aimless line, heading approximately for the exit.

I stand still, letting the people pass me. The air conditioning is strong here. The little hairs on my arms are standing on end. He will be here in a moment, and I cannot order my thoughts for long enough to get away.

I stand and watch. People are coming through the door, but not one of them is Leon. He doesn’t come.

And then he still doesn’t come.

I will sit here for a bit. I lower myself to the floor and cross my legs and wait.

A moment later, a hand is on my arm.

‘Get up. Come on. Get up and come with me.’

But it is not his voice. The person taking my hand and helping me to my feet is not Leon.

‘Come on, lovely. Come on. Your insane plan, you nutter. It seems to have worked. Up you get. You’re all right, Lara. He’s gone.’ She puts a hand on each of my shoulders and turns me around so her face is right in front of mine. I stare at her. ‘Lara. You’re going to be OK. We’re going to look after you.’

I look around. Who, I wonder, does ‘we’ include? There are five police officers nearby, looking at us. That scares me.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘You’re not in trouble. Not at all. You’re out of trouble. Don’t tell them what we did to Leon, though, OK? That’s a secret. Not something the police need to know about. I made the call and they stopped him. It’s done. Look, this is Alex. Don’t tell him either. He’s from Falmouth. I was trying to call him for ages but he didn’t answer because he was flying out here, to meet me. To find you.’

A tall white man walks over to us. He looks at Iris, who nods.

‘Hello, Lara,’ he says. ‘Alex Zielowski. You don’t know me, but I must say it is a privilege and a delight to meet you at last.’

I look at Iris. We don’t look the same any more, not now that she has cut her hair. That reminds me of the wig. I reach up and pull it off. She takes it from me and puts it into her bag.

‘There you go,’ she says. ‘Lara Wilberforce. Lara Finch. Welcome back. We’re going to take you home.’

epilogue

Iris

September

I am standing in a cemetery in west London, talking, as ever, to a man who isn’t there. I am talking aloud, because there is no one nearby, and I do not feel ridiculous. I have spent years talking to this particular dead man: it is, it transpires, a hard habit to break.

The autumn sunlight is slanted straight into my eyes, and I am squinting, dazzled yet cold. I’m stamping as I speak, trying to keep my optimistically clad feet warm. I cannot bear to stop wearing the sandals I bought in Bangkok, even though it is definitely too cold for them now. In fact I am still dressed for summer. It has been an emotional year so far, but largely, strangely, a happy one.

There is a headstone with his name on it: Laurence Jonathan Madaki. There are the dates of his birth and, thirty-two years on, his death. I have brought him some flowers, and it is strangely comforting to see them here. Remembering him in the conventional way gives me a huge feeling of solidarity with the unseen visitors who tend to the other graves, who remember all these other people.

‘And so,’ I tell him, ‘I’m going away. You don’t mind, do you? I know you don’t. You’d want me to do this.’ I politely leave a space for him to talk. ‘It’s all fixed up. Well, it’s kind of fixed up. Actually, I’m terrified. But it’s going to be incredible. Why do you buy a lottery ticket if you’re not going to do something life-changing with your prize? I know that. I need to do it. I’ll always miss you, Laurie. Always. You’ll always be the love of my life. But since you’re not here, and since it’s all short and definitely unpredictable, I think I’d better carry on living it.’