I shrugged. “Je ne sais pas.” I’d never heard of them. I’d never listened to the Velvet Underground record I’d picked up, either. I’d just liked the Warhol design; had planned to copy it in my sketchbook when I got home. I go to the Sorbonne, but what I’d really like to do (if it were left up to me) is art. Sometimes, when I’ve got a stick of charcoal or a paintbrush in my hand, it feels like the only time I’m complete. The only way I can speak properly.
“Well—I’ve got to run.” He made a face. “Got a deadline to meet.” Even that sounded kind of cool: having a deadline. He was a journalist; I’d watched him working late into the night at his laptop. “But you guys are on the fourth floor, right? Back at the apartment? You and your flatmate? What’s her name—”
“Camille.” No one forgets Camille. She’s the hot one, the fun one. But he’d forgotten her name. He’d remembered mine.
A few days later a note was pushed under the apartment door.
I found it!
I couldn’t work out what it meant at first. Who had found what? It didn’t make any sense. It had to be something for Camille. And then I remembered our conversation in the record store. Could it be? I went to the cupboard that contained the dumbwaiter, pulled out the hidden handle, cranked it to bring the little cart upward. And I saw there was something in it: the Yeah Yeah Yeahs record he’d bought in the store. A note was attached to it. Hey Mimi. Thought you might like to try this. Let me know what you think. B x
“Who’s that from?” Camille came over, read the note over my shoulder. “He lent it to you? Ben?” I could hear the surprise in her voice. “I saw him yesterday,” she said. “He told me he’d love it if I could feed his kitty, if he ever goes away. He’s given me his spare key.” She flipped a lock of caramel-colored hair behind one ear. I felt a little sting of jealousy. But I reminded myself he hadn’t left her a note. He hadn’t sent her a record.
There’s this expression in French. être bien dans sa peau. To feel good in your own skin. I don’t feel that way often. But holding that record, I did. Like I had something that was just mine.
Now, I look at the cupboard that has the dumbwaiter hidden inside it. I find myself drifting over to it. I open the cupboard to expose the pulleys, crank the handle, just like I did that day in August. Wait for the little cart to come into view.
What?
I stare. There’s something inside it. Just like when he sent me the record. But this isn’t a record. It’s something wrapped in cloth. I reach down to pick it up and, as I close my hand around it, I feel a sting. Hold my hand up and see blood beading from my palm. Merde. Whatever is inside here has cut me, biting through the fabric. I drop it and the cloth spills its contents onto the ground.
I take a step back. Look at the blade, crusted with something that looks like rust or dirt but isn’t, something that’s also streaked all over the cloth it was wrapped in.
And I start to scream.
Jess
I can’t stop thinking about how Ben sounded at the end of that message. The fear in his voice. “What are you doing here?” The emphasis. Whoever was there in the room, it sounded like he knew them. And then the “What the fuck?” My brother, always so in control of any situation. I’ve never heard him like that. It hardly even sounded like Ben.
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s been there all along, really, growing since last night. But now I can’t ignore it any longer. I think something happened to my brother last night, before I arrived. Something bad.
“Are you going to go back to that place?” Theo asks. “After hearing that?”
I’m kind of struck by his concern, especially as he doesn’t seem the sensitive sort.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel, “I need to be there.”
And I do. Besides—I don’t say this—I don’t have anywhere else to go.
I decide to walk back instead of taking the Metro—it’s a long way but I need to be out in the air, need to try and think clearly. I look at my phone to check my route. It buzzes:
You have used nearly all your Roaming Data! To buy more, follow this link . . .
Shit. I put it back in my pocket.
I pass little chi-chi shops painted red, emerald-green, navy blue, their brightly lit windows displaying printed dresses, candles, sofas, jewelry, chocolates, even some special bloody meringues tinted pale blue and pink. There’s something for everyone here, I suppose, if you’ve got the money to spend. On the bridge I push through crowds of tourists taking selfies in front of the river, kissing, smiling, talking and laughing. It’s like they’re living in a different universe. And now the beauty of this place feels like so much colorful wrapping hiding something evil inside. I can smell things rotting beneath the sweet sugary scents from the bakeries and chocolate shops: fish on the ice outside a fishmonger’s leaving stinking puddles collecting on the pavement, the reek of dog shit trodden into the pavement, the stench of blocked drains. The sick feeling grows. What happened to Ben last night? What can I do?
There have been times in my life when I’ve been pretty desperate. Not quite sure how I’m going to make the rent that month. Times I’ve thanked God I have a half brother with deeper pockets than me. Because, yeah, I might have resented him in the past, for having so much more than I ever did. But he has got me out of some pretty tight spots.
He came and collected me from a bad foster situation once in the Golf his parents had bought him, even though it was in the middle of his exams:
“We have to stick together, us orphans. No: worse than orphans. Because our dads don’t want us. They’re out there but they don’t want us.”
“You’re not like me,” I told him. “You’ve got a family: the Daniels. Look at you. Listen to how you talk. Look at this frigging car. You’ve got so much of everything.”
A shrug. “I’ve only got one little sister.”
Now it’s my turn to help him. And even though every part of me recoils from calling the police, I think I have to.
I take out my phone, search the number, dial 112.
I’m on hold for a few moments. I wait, listening to the engaged tone, fiddling with my St. Christopher. Finally someone picks up: “Comment puis-je vous aider?” A woman’s voice.
“Um, parlez-vous anglais?”
“Non.”
“Can I speak to someone who does?”
A sigh. “Une minute.”
After a long pause another voice—a man’s. “Yes?”
I begin to explain. Somehow the whole thing sounds so much flimsier out loud.
“Excuse me. I do not understand. Your brother left you a voice message. From his apartment? And you are worried?”
“He sounded scared.”
“But there was no sign of a break-in in his home?”
“No, I think it was someone he knew—”
“Your brother is . . . a child?”
“No, he’s in his thirties. But he’s disappeared.”
“And you are certain he has not, for example, gone away for a few days? Because that seems like the likeliest possibility, non?”
I have this growing feeling of hopelessness. I don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere here. “I’m fairly certain, yeah. It’s all pretty fucking weird—sorry—and he’s not answering his phone, he’s left his wallet, his keys.”