‘Yes. The place burned to the ground.’
I don’t want to say it, but it’s left hanging there in the air, completely unavoidable. ‘Claude?’
She swallows, wiping the tear from her eye. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
18
Fortunately, the car seemed to sound and drive a lot better for being allowed to cool down a bit. We spent twenty-five minutes sat in the car park of the service station just outside Dijon, and by the time we reached the Swiss border it was already quarter past twelve.
In my mind’s eye I could see everything that was going on back in Herne Bay. A middle-aged woman in a cleaner’s uniform unlocking the door to my room, worrying about her husband’s impending redundancy and her tearaway teenage son’s school record. Tutting as she sees the state of the bed and the fact that I’ve left my bath towels on the floor. She’d run a hoover round, wipe down the surfaces and maybe even make the bed. Then she’d open the bathroom door and there’d be a terrible blood-curdling scream as her life as she knew it ended, and her husband’s job and her son’s schooling became minor, secondary worries at best.
The oddest thing about the drive here was the silence. Jess never seemed to be particularly keen on conversation, even when I was asking her direct questions. Even about basic things, such as where we were going to stay. We couldn’t just check into a hotel, especially not once our faces were all over the news. The good thing is, they wouldn’t be looking for us in Switzerland specifically. When I asked Jess about what we were actually going to do, she just told me she had it all in hand.
I find it bizarre that I’m just driving someone else’s car through a foreign country, with a girl I barely know, acquiescing to her entirely. Putting my whole life, future and liberty in her hands. It’s something very difficult to put into words, but there’s a strange reassurance about her. This petite, demure, troubled girl with a dark side, who somehow seems to know exactly what to do. In the strangest and most mind-fucking twenty-four hours of my life, she’s been the only constant; the comforting presence and voice of reason.
Would I have done the same if she wasn’t working at that hotel? If she hadn’t been at reception when I went down? If I’d pushed her away and driven off on my own? I don’t know at which point the story would’ve changed. Would I have even packed my bag and left the room in the first place, or was that my guilt speaking because of my involvement with Jess? Would I have even got as far as the car? Would I have had a moment of clarity and phoned the police? And if so, what then? Jess is right. I’d have been arrested, or questioned at least, and my life would’ve changed forever. My life has already changed forever, but at least this way I’ve got a chance of steering it in my own direction. That’s the paradox: even though I’ve completely handed my life over to Jess, right now it’s the only thing keeping me in control of my own destiny.
We arrive in a small town called Kerzers. It’s big enough that we’ll be able to stock up on supplies as well as blend in and not stick out like sore thumbs, but it doesn’t strike me as the sort of place to be littered with CCTV. Right now, that’s our best bet. I’ve got a baseball cap in my bag, which I take out and hand to Jess. It was the same when we stopped for fuel – the cap is a far better disguise on her than it is on me. In fact, I’m starting to think a potato sack would look good on Jess. She thumbs through the wad of euros she got from Claude – something else she neglected to tell me until very recently – and a realisation hits me.
‘They use Swiss francs here, don’t they? Not euros.’
She lets out an endearing yet slightly patronising laugh. ‘They’ll take anything. Especially euros.’
‘Won’t we stand out, though?’ I say. ‘I mean, young woman in a baseball cap paying in a foreign currency?’
‘We’re in Switzerland, Dan, a few miles over the border from France. It’s not Cambodia. Most of the stuff is priced in euros. It’s certainly going to be a better option than going to a bank and having to provide ID to change it all into Swiss francs, anyway.’
‘Fair point. I’ll just wait here, then, shall I?’ I say, feeling utterly useless. She doesn’t even reply – just opens the car door and goes marching off in the direction of the shop. And here I am, sitting in a stranger’s car in Switzerland, waiting for a virtual stranger to spend another virtual stranger’s money on supplies that we’re going to be living off of, God knows where.
I watch the people walking past on the pavement, going about their daily lives. Some are probably on their lunch break, or out to grab a coffee. I yearn for that normality. But I know that my life will never be normal again. This is normal now – being on the run, trying not to be seen, flying under the radar. And why? I did absolutely nothing wrong. The sheer injustice is what makes me mad and confuses my feelings.
The underlying anger isn’t helping me to think straight. Why couldn’t I just have stayed and pleaded my case? The simple truth is that I know it would’ve been futile. I know deep down that whoever killed Lisa, whoever set me up like this, is far cleverer than I am. This had been thought about, pre-planned and executed with precision. That’s not something I can match my wits against. Not without the space – both physically and mentally – to come to terms with what’s happened.
A few minutes later, Jess leaves the shop. I panic for a moment as she turns out and heads to her right, rather than back in the direction of the car. Then I see her enter the phone box. My body fills with adrenaline. What’s she doing? Who’s she calling? What if this is all one massive set-up and she’s phoning the police, telling them she’s caught a murderer? No, that’s stupid. Why wouldn’t she have phoned from inside the shop? If that was the case, she wouldn’t be out here doing it in full sight of me. That’s madness. Before I can even process my thoughts properly, she’s left the phone box and is heading back towards the car. I watch as she opens the door, plonks the carrier bag in the footwell and sits down.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask.
‘Hmm?’
‘The phone box,’ I say, as if she’s already forgotten.
‘Oh, that. I didn’t want to make a traceable call on my mobile and I needed to wait until I had local currency. The shop would only give change in francs, so I thought I’d do it then. Handy, really.’
‘What? Who were you calling?’ I ask, now starting to get a little irate.
‘Claude,’ she replies. ‘He asked me to call him when we were well away.’
‘Are you serious?’ I say. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Nothing. Honestly, don’t fret. I trust him.’