Richard House - The Kills

The decision was already made. He would take the money, but, he told himself, he’d return every cent. Knowing that this was a lie, or at the very least a great improbability, he took the money and the cheques out of the bag. He checked the side pockets and found a travel itinerary with an address. Eric was due to arrive in Malta on the last day of the month. Ford slipped the paper into his back pocket and told himself that he would, almost certainly, return the money, regardless of his situation.

As he stepped into the courtyard he remembered another detail. The photograph Nathalie had taken at the church. He checked his watch and wondered if he had enough time to search for her camera. He knocked cautiously on Nathalie and Martin’s door. To his surprise Nathalie answered, telling Eric that she would be out in a moment.

Nathalie came to the door, eyes narrowed, sleepy. ‘Oh, I thought you were Eric.’ Martin huddled on the bed behind her, asleep.

‘He’s gone. I can’t find him.’

Nathalie looked back into the room. She swept her hair from her brow, still drowsy.

‘I’m serious. I think I upset him. I can’t find him.’

Nathalie followed him into the room.

‘But, everything is here?’ Nathalie paused in the doorway, unsure. ‘What’s the time? He’s supposed to be back to help Martin. He’s late. I don’t understand why you think he’s gone?’ Nathalie looked to Ford’s bed. ‘Where are your things?’

‘I’m leaving. I was just coming to say goodbye.’

‘You’re going?’ She appeared genuinely taken aback — then seeing Eric’s washbag on the bed her attention shifted. She blinked and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘This is strange.’ Nathalie picked up the washbag and looked quickly through it. The money pricked his side through his jacket as she searched.

‘I don’t understand what’s happened. Where is it?’ Nathalie spoke in a whisper, she held her hands up, aghast. ‘Oh no. He’s taken the money. Where is his book?’ She straightened up, an idea coming to her. ‘Where is his book?’

‘You mean this?’ Ford held up the novel. ‘He said I could take it and read it on the bus.’

‘Look between the pages. Is there anything inside?’

Ford held out the book and flicked through it for her to see. The pages slapped together. ‘There’s nothing here. A few clippings about the writer.’

Nathalie sat on the bed and Ford explained that he had to leave.

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ he said, trying to sound sincere. ‘He said goodbye but he seemed upset. I assumed he would come back here. I thought I would see him.’

* * *

Out of the pension Ford walked slowly, believing that the man who had been watching them might still be waiting. He followed a whitewashed wall until it curved into the main road. The moment he rounded the corner he began to run down the street.

At the terminal he asked for his bag. He tucked Eric’s novel into the pack, and couldn’t decide if the dog tags would be safer in his pocket, or in the bag in the hold. Not knowing which choice would be best he left the tags in the bag and kept the money and the wallet of traveller’s cheques in his pocket along with his passport. Just to be sure. After he returned the bag to the attendant, he sat out on the pavement in the kiosk’s shade, conscious of every passing vehicle, the quiet curiosity of the other travellers.

Forty minutes later he was surprised to see Nathalie. She walked with her head down, arms swinging purposefully. When she looked up and saw him she broke into a shuffling jog.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘Have you seen him? I’m glad you’re still here.’

Slightly out of breath she held her hand to her chest. Eyes now dark. ‘He’s supposed to go with Martin. They’re supposed to be working together this afternoon. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘Before. When you came back. Where was he?’ Frustrated, Nathalie stood with one hand at her brow. ‘Where did you see him?’

‘At one of the tea houses in the market. I think he walked up to the fort.’

‘You don’t understand. Today is important. It’s very strange for him not to be here. Martin can’t work without him. Today is important.’

Ford agreed. She was right. He didn’t understand.

‘He’s angry with Martin,’ she said, and he took this as an apology. ‘He’s upset with me. I think he’s hiding. It’s all my fault.’ She asked if he would show her the tea house and Ford said that the bus was coming shortly, but it was in the main square, where he’d bought his shirts, where they’d met, by the barber.

‘You have some time.’ Nathalie checked her watch. ‘The bus won’t leave until three.’

Crows circled the promontory and rose on the wind channelled up the rock’s steep side. Nathalie shielded her eyes as she walked, worried and angry, increasingly certain that they would not find him. ‘This is impossible,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s all so stupid. I don’t know why they’re like this with each other. I don’t know why he can’t speak with me?’

They walked together about the small market square, then returned to the larger square, making a figure eight, Ford conscious of the time, then agreed to search separately. He would take the old town and check the market, Nathalie the cafés and businesses lining the new square.

He returned to the barber shop and the hammam, the café beside it busy now, and expected to see Eric sat among the men, sulking and hurt. If he saw him he wouldn’t approach. The boy knows everything, he could be with the police right now.

Twenty minutes later he rejoined Nathalie at the kiosk, privately relieved to see her alone.

‘Nothing? No sign. I’ve looked everywhere. I don’t believe this. He can’t be here. I’ve looked everywhere. Nothing. You know, this happens all the time with Martin. Every time he makes a problem. It has to be complicated.’

As the passengers gathered for the Ankara coach, Nathalie hurried to the kiosk. Perhaps he would show himself now? ‘It’s so stupid,’ she said, looking without hope at the other passengers. ‘He must have gone.’ Convinced that Eric had quit the project, she couldn’t understand why he would take the money but leave his clothes, his bag. She looked resentfully toward the Maison du Rève, then curled her hair behind her ear and said that she was sorry that Ford had become part of this. ‘It’s so stupid. Every day is like this. Can you imagine? Eric is a boy, he’s just a boy, and Martin has no idea what he does, the effect he has. It is so stupid. And now he has taken the money.’

Without the money the project could not continue.

A man in a blue uniform asked for tickets. The passengers grouped about him. Too many, Ford thought, for the one coach, and in this he was right. The man handed out numbered notes which were soon gone. Too late to take one, Ford realized he would not make the coach.

‘It’s too many.’ The man removed himself from the arguments sprouting about him. When Ford followed after him and asked about the bus the man shrugged, pushed through to the office, and returned with a new set of numbers for the next coach, due to leave at 23:00.

How typical was this? Ford took a ticket. 32.

Nathalie leaned forward to say goodbye but hesitated, slowly understanding what was happening. ‘You can’t go?’ Relief and hope grew in her smile as she asked him to help. ‘I shouldn’t ask. I know. It’s not your problem. But he likes you. Eric is fond of you, and if he won’t speak to me, it’s possible he will show himself to you. We could go to Birsim and see if he’s there. I promise we’ll be back in time for your coach.’

Ford wanted to be gone, for christsakes. He didn’t want to find Eric for many obvious reasons. The boy knew who he was, surely, he’d stolen his money and traveller’s cheques, and insulted him in some way he still couldn’t fathom. To add to this both Eric and Nathalie knew that he was heading to Ankara — the police could discover his destination without trouble.