“So,” he says, narrowing his eyes through the smoke. “Ben?” Something about the way he says my brother’s name suggests there’s not that much love lost there. Maybe I’ve found the one person immune to my brother’s charm.
Before I can answer a waiter comes over, looking pissed off at having to take our order, even though it’s his job. Theo, who looks equally pissed off at having to talk to him and speaking French with a determined English accent, orders a double espresso and something called a Ricard. “Late night, on a deadline,” he tells me, a little defensively.
Mainly to warm up I ask for a chocolat chaud. Six euros. Let’s assume he’s paying. “I’ll have the other thing too,” I tell the waiter.
“Un Ricard?”
I nod. The waiter slouches off. “I don’t think we served that at the Copacabana,” I say.
“The what?”
“This bar I worked in. Until a couple of days ago, actually.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “Sounds classy.”
“It was the absolute worst.” But the day The Pervert decided to show his disgusting little dick to me was the day I’d finally had enough. Also the day I decided I’d get the creep back for all the times he’d lingered too long behind me, breath hot and wet on the back of my neck, or “steered” me out of the way, hands on my hips, or the comments he’d made about the way I looked, the clothes I wore—all those things that weren’t quite “things” except were, making me feel a little bit less myself. Another girl might have left then and never come back. Another might have called the police. But I’m not that girl.
“Right,” Theo says—clearly he has no time for further chit-chat. “Why are you here?”
“Ben: does he work for you?”
“Nah. No one works for anyone these days, not in this line of work. It’s dog eat dog out there, every man for himself. But, yeah, sometimes I commission a review from him, a travel piece. He’s been wanting to get into investigative stuff. I guess you know that.” I shake my head. “He’s due to deliver a piece on the riots, in fact.”
“The riots?”
“Yeah.” He peers at me like he can’t believe I don’t know. “People are seriously fucked off about a hike in taxes, petrol prices. It’s got pretty nasty . . . tear gas, water cannons, the lot. It’s all over the news. Surely you’ve seen something?”
“I’ve only been here since last night.” But then I remember: “I saw police vans near the Pigalle Metro stop.” I remember the group with the ski goggles on the train. “And maybe some protestors.”
“Yeah, probably. Riots have been breaking out all over town. And Ben’s meant to be writing me a piece on them. But he was also going to tell me about a so-called ‘scoop’ he had for me—this morning, in fact. He was very mysterious about it. But I never heard from him.”
A new possibility. Could that be it? Ben dug too deep into something? Pissed off someone nasty? And he’s had to . . . what? Do a runner? Disappear? Or—I don’t want to think about the other possibilities.
Our drinks come; my hot chocolate thick and dark and glossy in a little jug with a cup. I pour it out and take a sip and close my eyes because it may be six euros but it is also the best fucking hot chocolate I have had in my life.
Theo pours five sachets of brown sugar into his coffee, stirs it in. Then he takes a big glug of his Ricard. I give mine a sip—it tastes of licorice, a reminder of all the sticky shots of Sambuca I’ve done behind the bar, bought for me by punters or snuck from the bottle on a slow evening. I down it. Theo raises his eyebrows.
I wipe my mouth. “Sorry. I needed that. It’s been a really shitty twenty-four hours. You see, Ben’s disappeared. I know you haven’t heard from him, but you don’t have any idea where he might be, do you?’
Theo shrugs. “Sorry.” I feel the small hope I’d been holding onto fizzle and die. “How do you mean disappeared?”
“He wasn’t in his apartment last night when he said he would be. He’s not answering any of my calls or even reading my messages. And there’s all this other stuff . . .’ I swallow, tell him about the blood on the cat’s fur, the bleach stain, the hostile neighbors. As I do I have a moment where I think: how has it come to this? Sitting here with a stranger in a strange city, trying to find my lost brother?
Theo sits there dragging on his cigarette and squinting at me through the smoke and his expression doesn’t change at all. The guy has a great poker face.
“The other strange thing,” I say, “is he’s been living in this big, swanky building. I mean, I can’t imagine Ben makes that much from writing?” Judging by the state of Theo’s outfit, I suspect not.
“Nope. You certainly don’t get into this business for the money.”
I remember something else. The strange metal card I took from Ben’s wallet. I slide it out of the back pocket of my jeans.
“I found this. Does it mean anything to you?”
He studies the gold firework design, frowning. “Not sure. I’ve definitely seen that symbol. But I can’t place it right now. Can I take it? I’ll get back to you.” I hand it over, a little reluctantly, because it’s one of the few things I have that feels like a clue. Theo takes it from me and there’s something about the way he grabs it that I don’t like. It suddenly seems too eager, despite the fact he’s told me he doesn’t know Ben all that well and doesn’t seem all that concerned for his welfare. He doesn’t exactly give off a Good Samaritan vibe. I’m not sure about this guy. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.
“There’s one other thing,” I say, remembering. “Ben left this voicenote for me last night, just before I got into Gare du Nord.”
Theo takes my phone. He plays the recording and Ben’s voice sings out. “Hey Jess—”
It’s strange hearing it again like this. It sounds different from the last time I listened, somehow not quite like Ben, like he’s that much further out of reach.
Theo listens to the whole thing. “It sounds like he says something else, at the end. Have you been able to work out what?”
“No—I can’t hear it. It’s too muffled.”
He puts up a finger. Hang on. Then he reaches into the rucksack by his chair—as crumpled as everything else about him—and pulls out a tangled pair of headphones. “Right. Noise-canceling and they go really loud. Want one?’ He holds out a bud to me.
I stick it in my ear.
He dials up the volume to the max and presses play on the voicenote again.
We listen to the familiar part of the recording. Ben’s voice: “Hey Jess, so it’s number twelve, Rue des Amants. Got that? Third floor” and “Just ring the buzzer. I’ll be up waiting for you—” His voice seems to cut off mid-sentence, just like every time I’ve listened to it before. But now I hear it. What sounded like a crackle on the voicemail is actually a creaking of wood. I recognize that creak. It’s the hinges of the door to the apartment.
And then I hear Ben’s voice at a distance, quiet but still much clearer than what had been only a mumble before: “What are you doing here?” A long pause. Then he says: “What the fuck . . . ?”