The Burning (18 page)

Kate looked up. “
Really?
Have you lost any children?”

“They’re not lost.”

“So where are they?”

Laura took a second or two. She had been given no instructions to keep it secret. “They’re in France.”

“
France?
What the hell are they doing in…?” Kate gave up before she’d finished the question; her head dropped as
though the hopelessness of her situation was more than she could bear.

Given the shocking things that Kate had learned about her own children from Laura since she’d been in England, the idea of them now being in France did not come as so much of a surprise. It just meant that they were further away from her. Again.

“We don’t know,” Laura said. “
Really
, we don’t. We’re guessing they’re headed for another site. You know, something like the one we found in Triskellion. Not that we know why…” She let out a heavy sigh. “Like I said, we’re
guessing
.”

Another long minute passed. Laura winced at the sound of cutlery being scraped across a plate on the adjacent table. When Kate finally spoke, her voice was no more than a whisper, but there was steel in it.

“I trusted you.”

“I know.”

“I know why you are interested in them, but you swore that they wouldn’t come to any harm.”

“I meant it. I still mean it. They may even be safer there.” Laura took a deep breath.

“So you
really
have no idea why they went to France? Where they might be headed?” Kate raised her head, enough menace in her smile to make Laura draw back a little from the table. “You’re sitting there telling me you know how I feel, like you’re on our side. Making out like you care about Rachel and Adam—”

“I
do
care.”

“And all the time you’re just after information.”

“I’m trying to help, Kate.”

Kate stared hard across the table, unblinking. Her eyes never left those of the woman opposite her, even as her hand was reaching for the knife and tightening round it. “There’s not much I can do, stuck in here, I know that. But I can be honest with you. Would you like that?”

Laura nodded, said that she would.

“Good. Because if anything happens to my children, anything at all, I promise I will kill you. You understand
that
?”

Laura mumbled a “yes,” but her eyes never left the knife. Kate smiled again and let the blade drop on to the table as she pushed back her chair and stood up. She saw the relief in Laura’s eyes and used that second of relaxation to grab the coffee cup and hurl the liquid into the archaeologist’s face.

Laura screamed.

Mr Cheung came dashing across to help, but Laura raised a hand to let him know it was OK. That
she
was OK. She sat and watched Kate Newman walk out of the room, feeling the tears come.

Pathetically grateful that they were hotter than the coffee had been.

T
hey had just about warmed up by the time the train rumbled through the Paris suburbs into the Gare du Nord.

They had spent the early hours of the dawn on a cold, flat beach in Calais, huddled together in front of a small row of beach huts which had protected them from the worst of the wind. Gabriel and Adam had lit a fire and Rachel had wrapped the little twins in the blankets that they had taken from the hotel. They had all fuelled themselves on a slab of dark chocolate and the last of a bottle of milk. As the two sets of twins had become increasingly cold, Gabriel had strolled up and down the dark beach, apparently impervious to the chill, staring out to sea, as if looking for something.

Looking for someone.

As soon as it had become light, they had walked the half kilometre to the train station. They had been glad of the exercise. Happy that it had restored feeling to their feet and hands, and happier still to see the orange lights of the station
platform glowing ahead of them, promising escape.

“What time’s the train?” Adam had asked, not really expecting anyone to have had an answer.

“First one’s 05.48,” Duncan had said. “Arriving in Paris at 09.23.”

Rachel and Adam had laughed, despite the cold and lack of sleep, and Adam had ruffed Duncan’s hair. “The boy’s a genius,” he’d said.

“He’s got a good memory,” Morag had agreed.

“But the 06.29 is better.” Duncan had continued, getting into his stride. “It takes forty-four minutes less, stops at fewer stations and arrives three minutes earlier at 09.20.” Then he had become silent again.

“Perfect timing,” Gabriel had said.

They had trudged on towards the station, happy enough, though Rachel was still unsure as to just what the timing was perfect for.

Now, after a three-hour train journey, they walked out between the columns of the Gare du Nord into a chilly Paris morning. This was France as Rachel had imagined it: less like grey, industrial Calais and more like the pictures she had seen at school. She smiled as a man walked past, holding a long stick of bread under his arm. Small motorbikes and mopeds raced down the street, missing oncoming taxis and cars by millimetres. Horns honked and the mopeds buzzed away from them like angry bees. Past the queue of taxis and across the street, a cafe was already busily serving
customers at small, round tables. Rachel, Adam, Morag and Duncan wove through the traffic, following Gabriel, who seemed oblivious to the congestion that surrounded him.

They sat at a table while a waiter, smart in a black waistcoat and white apron, took their order for breakfast: coffee, hot chocolate, croissants.

Rachel cradled the bowl-sized cup of milky coffee in her hands, enjoying its warmth as much as its comforting smell.

Opposite, the rows of statues that decorated the classical front of the station gazed impassively over the city. Some metres beneath them, under the station awning, several street entertainers were beginning to set up for the day. One was painted from head to toe in gold: hair, hands, face, clothes, shoes, hat, umbrella. He moved slowly and deliberately, setting up a wooden plinth, also painted gold. He put his hat on the pavement, ready for contributions, then mounted the plinth.

He struck a pose, held it statue-like and began to stare out across the street.

A dozen Métro stops away, the Englishman shuffled painfully into the Cafe Meteor for his usual breakfast. He placed his stick on the bench beside him and took out a laptop computer from his shoulder bag. He sat down and booted it up.

“Un café, m’sieur … et un calvados.”
The waiter laid down
black coffee and the small glass of strong, apple brandy that the man always ordered. The Englishman grunted his approval, then, with a shaky hand, pushed back the front of his hood, before draining the brandy in a single gulp.

The email browser appeared on his screen and, once the laptop had found the cafe’s Wi-Fi connection, he watched as mail began to stack up in his in box. He deleted the usual spam with a few lazy clicks, then began to read the messages that really interested him.

The messages from those who were pledging their help.

The croissants and coffee had not long been finished before Gabriel began to seem agitated. He walked back through the traffic to the station, pacing back and forth underneath the awning and looking up and down the street.

Rachel watched him as the others chattered around her.

When Gabriel arrived back to the table, the waiter was clearing away the cups and plates and seemed happy with the handful of Calais pebbles that Adam gave him in payment.

“Who were you looking for?” Rachel asked.

“Something’s gone wrong,” Gabriel said. “They’re late.”

“Who’s late?” Rachel persisted.

“Some friends. People we need to hook up with.” Gabriel craned his neck to look back across the street. “I can’t … hear them.”

“Hear
who
?”

Gabriel shook his head, impatient. “We’re going to have to go and meet them later.”

“Go?” Adam said. “Go where?”

Gabriel stood up and gestured around him. “We’re in Paris. It’s a big city. Let’s go and see some of the sights. At least we know we’re not being tracked.” He led them back towards the Gare du Nord. “We can get the Underground here and go into the centre of town.” Rachel was still asking questions as he ushered the group towards a flight of steps leading down off the street, beneath a sign saying “Métro”.

As they walked towards the entrance, Morag was transfixed by the “living” statue. The golden figure nodded suddenly, making Morag jump, then gave her a robotic wave. Morag’s mouth opened wide. Rachel waited patiently, remembering how and where the little girl had grown up and guessing that she had never seen such a thing in her life.

“I don’t like that man,” Morag said, pointing at the statue. Rachel laughed and dragged her along after the others down into the Métro.

As the five of them disappeared underground, the statue watched them go with jerky head movements. Then, as soon as they were out of sight, he took a gold-painted phone from his coat and began sending a text.

T
hey got off the Métro at a stop called Saint-Michel and walked to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. The church loomed over them, massive and dark against the grey sky, as a crowd of tourists and worshippers filed through its doors, a bell clanging a doleful note high above them.

Gabriel seemed keen for them to see inside. Rachel and Adam’s only experience of a European church had been in the village of Triskellion. This cathedral was almost as old as the tiny parish church but inside it couldn’t have been more different: the unfamiliar smell of incense hit them as soon as they walked in and the high-vaulted ceilings, which soared up into space, way above their heads, made them feel dizzy. The huge, circular stained glass window twinkled ahead of them like a giant, antiquated roulette wheel.

Adam was familiar with the name Notre-Dame from the Disney film and the legend of the hunchbacked bellringer.

“What was he called again?” Rachel asked.

“Quasimodo,” Adam told her. He started to gurn and perform a very poor impression of a hunchback, until a smartly dressed French lady put a finger to her lips and told him to “
shhh
”.

“I don’t remember the name, but the face rings a bell!” Adam whispered to his sister, who thumped his arm, acknowledging the bad joke. Adam was encouraged both by her playful punch and also by his feeling of relief: the safety that they felt being anonymous in a big city, almost as if they were home in New York.

He tried his other hunchback joke: “Hey, where does Quasimodo keep his sandwiches?” he said, smirking at Morag. “In the
lunch
-pack of Notre-Dame!” Rachel groaned and Morag looked confused, but suddenly Duncan began to gurgle with laughter. Gabriel looked at them all blankly. This time they were told to be quiet by several, stern middle-aged French people, and the gargoyles that peered down from every pillar and buttress watched their exit with fixed snarls and stony stares.

They crossed a bridge over the river and stopped to eat crêpes from a stall on the riverbank.

Rachel sighed and looked across the sluggish brown river. For a few hours it had been possible to feel almost normal, and the water flowing slowly by, through the heart of the city, had begun to make her feel relaxed.

She chewed the last of her lemony pancake, licking granules of sugar from the corners of her mouth. She screwed
up the paper plate. “Where next?” she asked Gabriel. “When are your … friends arriving?”

“Still no sign,” he said. “Let’s keep walking. They’ll be in touch.”

They walked away from the riverbank into an area that became busier, passing shops with smart window displays of glamorous mannequins and modern furniture. A few streets further on, the shops gave way to a vast, open square. On the far side, looking like a giant aircraft hangar, covered in coloured, oversized scaffolding and snaking walkways, stood the Centre Georges Pompidou.

“Pompidou Centre,” Rachel said, reading a street sign in English. “It’s some kind of art space.”

“Awesome!” Adam said. He instinctively preferred this sleek, modern architecture to that of Notre-Dame, and liked the look of the fashionable young crowd thronging through its doors. “Can we go in?”