Where the fuck is she?
What the hell is she mixed up in?
What do I do?
How can she face those guys on her own?
Fuck it. I have to find her.
Where will she go?
Home.
Brentford.
Yes.
I dash down the hall to the drawing room and snatch the car keys from my desk, then run to the front door, stopping only to grab my coat.
I feel sick, my stomach churning.
There is no way those guys were from “immigration.”
When I reach the garage, I press the electronic key, expecting the Discovery to open, but instead the Jag beeps to life.
Shit. In my haste I’ve picked up the wrong key.
Fuck it.
I don’t have time to go back upstairs for the correct key. I clamber into the F-Type Jag and press the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I ease the car forward out of its parking space. The garage doors rise gradually, and I exit to the left onto the street and race to the end of the road, turning left again toward Chelsea Embankment. But that’s as far as I get. Traffic is slow because it’s Friday afternoon and the beginning of rush hour. The crowded roads exacerbate my anxiety and do nothing for my temper. I run through my interaction with the thugs repeatedly, looking for any clues as to what might have happened to Alessia. They sounded Eastern European. They looked rough. Alessia bolted—so she either knows them or believes they’re from the “immigration” department, which means she must be in the UK illegally. This doesn’t surprise me. She’s brought every conversation we’ve had about what she’s doing in London to an abrupt end.
Oh, Alessia. What are you up to?
And where the hell are you?
I hope that she’s gone back to Brentford, because that’s where I’m headed.
* * *
Alessia sits on the train nervously fingering the small gold cross that hangs around her neck. It was her grandmother’s, and it’s the only possession she has that belonged to her dear nana. She treasures it. In times of stress, it brings her comfort. Though her mother and father are not religious, her grandmother was….She fiddles with it now and keeps repeating her mantra.
Please keep them safe.
Please keep them safe.
Her anxiety is overwhelming. They found her. How? How do they know about Magda? She needs to know that Magda and Michal are okay. Normally she likes traveling by train, but today it’s too slow. As the train reaches Putney, Alessia knows that it will be another twenty minutes before it reaches Brentford.
Please hurry.
Her thoughts turn to Mister Maxim. At least he is safe, for now.
Her heart stutters.
Maxim.
He kissed me.
Twice.
Twice!
He said lovely words. About her.
You’re beautiful.
You’re stunning.
And he kissed her!
That’s how I feel.
If circumstances were different, she would be ecstatic. She touches her fingers to her lips. It was a bittersweet moment. Her dreams were finally realized, only to be shattered by Dante—again.
There’s no way she can be involved with the Mister. No. Maxim. His name is Maxim.
She has brought such terrible danger to his home. She has to protect him.
Zot! Her job.
She will be out of a job. Nobody wants trouble coming to their front door and criminals like Dante threatening them.
What will she do?
She needs to be careful when she returns to Magda’s. She cannot let Dante find her there.
She cannot.
She must protect herself, too.
Fear grips her throat, and she shudders. She hugs herself, trying to contain her distress. All her vague hopes and dreams are lost. And in a rare moment of self-pity, she rocks to and fro, trying to find some comfort and alleviate her fear.
Why does the train have to take so long?
It pulls in to Barnes station, and the doors open.
“Please. Please hurry,” Alessia whispers, and her fingers find her gold cross once more.
* * *
I speed down the A4, my mind hopping from Alessia to those men and then to Kit as I dodge through the traffic.
Kit? What would you do?
He would have known. He always knew.
I remember our Christmas holiday. Kit had been in such good form. Maryanne and I had joined him and Caroline at a jazz festival in Havana. A couple days later, we’d all flown down to St. Vincent and taken a boat to Bequia to spend Christmas together in a private villa. Maryanne had gone on to Whistler to ski and to spend New Year’s Eve with friends, and Caroline, Kit, and I had returned to the UK for Hogmanay.
It had been an amazing week.
And the day after New Year’s Day, Kit died.
Or killed himself.
There. I thought it.
My unspoken suspicion.
Damn it, Kit. You fucker.
The A4 becomes the M4, and I spy the high-rise towers that dominate the Brentford landscape and signal that I’m near. I come off the motorway hitting the slip road at fifty miles per hour. I slow down, but fortunately, the lights at the junction are green, and I cruise through them thankful that I’d brought her home earlier in the week and know where she lives.
Six minutes later I pull up in front of her house, leap out of the car, and dash up the short pathway. There are still clumps of snow on the grass and the sad remains of a snowman. The doorbell trills somewhere inside, but there’s no response. The house is empty.
Fuck.
Where is she?
Apprehension overwhelms me. Where could she be?
Of course! She’ll be coming here by train.
I’d seen the sign for the station as I’d turned in to Church Walk. I sprint back down the path and turn right on to the main road. The station is less than two hundred meters on my left.
Thank God it’s so close.
As I dash down the station stairs, I see a train waiting on the far platform, but it’s heading into London. I stop and focus my attention. There are only two platforms, and the one I’m on is for trains traveling out of London. All I have to do is wait. An electronic display hanging overhead announces that the next train arrives at 15:07. I check my watch; it’s 15:03 now.
I lean against one of the white iron pillars that support the station roof and wait. There are a few other commuters waiting for the train, too. Most of them, like me, are seeking shelter from the elements. I watch as the frigid wind blows a discarded crisp packet in gusts along the station platform and across the train tracks. But it doesn’t hold my attention for long. Every few seconds I glance at the empty track, praying for the London train to materialize.
Come on. Come on. I will it to arrive.
Finally the train appears around the bend, and it slowly—oh, so fucking slowly—pulls in to the station and stops. I stand up straight, my stomach churning with anxiety as the doors open and a few people alight from the train.
Twelve of them.
But not Alessia.
Fucking hell.
As the train leaves the station, I check the electronic sign again. The next train is due in fifteen minutes.
That’s not too long.