Richard House - The Kills

Compliant, Ford returned to the kiosk and asked the attendant if he could change his ticket. The attendant shrugged, confirmed the time of the later coach, and said if he wanted to leave for somewhere else he would need to buy another ticket. Ford collected his bag, smiled through the glass at Nathalie, and signalled that he would only be a moment.

‘I still have a seat for the eleven o’clock coach?’ The man closed his eyes while he nodded. Ford wanted to be clear about his options.

‘I’ve spoken with Martin.’ Nathalie held up her phone. ‘Eric hasn’t come back. He isn’t at the hotel. I just don’t know where he is.’

As they returned to the Maison du Rève, Nathalie said that it was kind of him to help. Ford insisted it wasn’t any trouble. The late bus meant that he would arrive in the early morning rather than in the middle of the night. He didn’t mind at all.

He waited at the door to the courtyard and felt immeasurable relief that Eric had still not appeared. Neither Eric nor the police.

* * *

Nathalie talked with Martin in their room, Ford sat outside and drank the last of the whisky, lightly sweating, his back to the town, the sky beginning to darken. He needed to leave. Make some excuse and get away from Narapi. The boy was still in town, had to be, so if he could persuade Martin and Nathalie to go to Birsim he would be safe.

Martin remained silent as Nathalie repeated the afternoon’s events. Stern, arms crossed, Martin asked if Eric had said anything about leaving.

Ford emptied his glass, sucked air through his teeth. ‘He didn’t say much. He was angry with you but we didn’t talk about that.’

‘So what did you speak about?’ Martin stood in front of Ford, impatient, suspicious.

‘He talked about going to Malta. He was looking forward to it.’

Nathalie shook her head. ‘No, no.’ She spoke in French. ‘This doesn’t make sense. I spoke with him yesterday and he said that he didn’t want to go. Just yesterday. This was the whole point of him coming here, he didn’t want to go. He had no interest at all in going to Malta.’

Martin repeated his question. ‘Did Eric say anything about leaving?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Martin and Nathalie exchanged glances. Nathalie sat beside Ford. She felt sick, she said. ‘Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps he intends to go to Malta early. It’s strange, but maybe it’s possible.’ He would have to change his ticket. The only place close by where he could change his flight was in Birsim. She turned to Ford. ‘This must be what he’s doing.’ They should go to Birsim. Could Mehmet get a van?

Martin shook his head, stern and unmovable, he didn’t want Mehmet to have anything to do with this. Eric had already caused enough trouble. He would take the bus tomorrow morning and search for Eric himself. As far as he was concerned the boy was finished. He could take his money, they would manage some other way.

‘How? Tomorrow is too late,’ Nathalie insisted, angry now. ‘His bag is still here, but not his ticket, and not his passport. I think he’s using the money to change his flight. You want to do nothing?’

Ford agreed. If they were going to do anything, then they needed to act immediately. He lifted his bag to his shoulder to prompt them into action.

* * *

Ford sat at the front of the car with Mehmet. Nathalie and Martin silent in the back. Dust billowed across the road and they squinted into the cloud with rising dissatisfaction. In the last long light before sunset, a sickly orange hue settled above the horizon.

In Birsim, Nathalie and Martin found the travel office and Ford agreed to check the coach times. Mehmet stayed with the car, and smoked, window down, uninvolved.

The terminus, such as it was, ran alongside the square — a few bays painted into the road and numbered poles mounted on the pavement. A long patch of blackened sand was the only sign that a bus had burned here two days ago. Apart from this the street appeared clean. There were, he thought, altogether too many police. Ford asked for the times of buses out of Birsim; an attendant pointed at a painted board listing the schedule for Narapi, Ankara, Kopeckale. These were the main routes, with only one late departure. Ford checked and double-checked the times and even though he had no choice now but to wait, he felt some reassurance in knowing that a coach was already on its way.

Nathalie and Martin came out of the office visibly frustrated. He guessed their news before he heard it. No one matching Eric’s description had made enquiries or bought tickets or attempted to change a flight, either yesterday or today. Plenty of coach tickets had been sold for the coastal resorts, and a few for Ankara/Istanbul, but none, as far as the clerk could recall, were sold to an American. Many of the coaches had already departed. As far as Martin could see, there was little point coming to Birsim, and no point staying without evidence that Eric had even come here in the first place.

They found a tea house and sat silently together. When the cay arrived, Ford paid and suggested that they order something to eat, but neither Martin nor Nathalie had any appetite and Martin decided to take a walk by himself. Apologizing, he kissed Nathalie’s forehead and said that he needed to think. He would not be long.

‘We can take you back to Narapi.’

‘Another coach leaves from here. I’m sure I can buy a supplement.’

‘But you have a ticket already from Narapi?’ Nathalie watched Martin wander away. ‘No, we can take you back.’ She shook her head and would not hear of any further disagreement. ‘The project is almost over, except for this one last interview. But without the money it won’t be possible to complete.’ It made no sense that Eric would be so selfish. ‘We each brought money. As much as we could. Eric’s money was to help someone leave the country.’ Nathalie looked across the square. ‘In exchange for an interview, we give money to help a family leave the country. These are Sunni Kurds living in Alevi villages, and Martin wanted one of these men to speak in his project. It’s taken a year to organize this interview.’ For the first time, as a conclusion to the series, Martin was to present an entire family, one at a time, each speaking about their experience. ‘But without the money the family won’t give their consent. Everything’s so complicated. It isn’t just Martin. Did Eric speak to you? You know that he likes you? You know this?’

Ford cleared his throat. ‘Sorry?’

‘He likes you, you know. He likes you very much.’

‘I think he’s hiding.’

Nathalie shook her head, weary, this did not make sense.

‘When we parted he—’

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t anything, but he was embarrassed.’

‘He said something?’

‘No. It was a gesture.’

‘A gesture?’ Incredulous, Nathalie leaned forward. ‘What are you saying? He kissed you?’

‘It wasn’t quite that.’

‘I don’t understand. Are you saying he approached you?’

‘I was — surprised. I didn’t react well. He left. He walked up to the fort. I think he might be hiding.’

Nathalie settled slowly back into her seat, a different scenario beginning to form.

* * *

On the journey back, Martin discussed Eric’s disappearance. They should check the bus station at Narapi to see if anyone matching Eric’s description had tried to leave while they were in Birsim. If not, they needed to consider other options. Unsurprised by Eric’s crude farewell to Ford, Martin pictured darker forces and motives at play. It was possible that Eric’s disappearance wasn’t voluntary. They must consider this. They needed to think carefully about what to do.

Nathalie shut her eyes, exhausted. They should contact Eric’s mother, she would be in Malta by now, and see if he had spoken with her about any change in plans. But how would they find her address? Martin sat back and wiped his hands down his face. Nothing about this was easy. He didn’t have an address, they would have to wait until the morning to contact the university? Or no, he could call as soon as they returned? None of them were sure about the time difference.