The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (20 page)

Without the money the project could not continue.

A man in a blue uniform asked for tickets. The passengers grouped about him. Too many, Ford thought, for the one coach, and in this he was right. The man handed out numbered notes which were soon gone. Too late to take one, Ford realized he would not make the coach.

‘It’s too many.’ The man removed himself from the arguments sprouting about him. When Ford followed after him and asked about the bus the man shrugged, pushed through to the office, and returned with a new set of numbers for the next coach, due to leave at 23:00.

How typical was this? Ford took a ticket. 32.

Nathalie leaned forward to say goodbye but hesitated, slowly understanding what was happening. ‘You can’t go?’ Relief and hope grew in her smile as she asked him to help. ‘I shouldn’t ask. I know. It’s not your problem. But he likes you. Eric is fond of you, and if he won’t speak to me, it’s possible he will show himself to you. We could go to Birsim and see if he’s there. I promise we’ll be back in time for your coach.’

Ford wanted to be gone, for christsakes. He didn’t want to find Eric for many obvious reasons. The boy knew who he was,
surely
, he’d stolen his money and traveller’s cheques, and insulted him in some way he still couldn’t fathom. To add to this both Eric and Nathalie knew that he was heading to Ankara – the police could discover his destination without trouble.

Compliant, Ford returned to the kiosk and asked the attendant if he could change his ticket. The attendant shrugged, confirmed the time of the later coach, and said if he wanted to leave for somewhere else he would need to buy another ticket. Ford collected his bag, smiled through the glass at Nathalie, and signalled that he would only be a moment.

‘I still have a seat for the eleven o’clock coach?’ The man closed his eyes while he nodded. Ford wanted to be clear about his options.

‘I’ve spoken with Martin.’ Nathalie held up her phone. ‘Eric hasn’t come back. He isn’t at the hotel. I just don’t know where he is.’

As they returned to the Maison du Rève, Nathalie said that it was kind of him to help. Ford insisted it wasn’t any trouble. The late bus meant that he would arrive in the early morning rather than in the middle of the night. He didn’t mind at all.

He waited at the door to the courtyard and felt immeasurable relief that Eric had still not appeared. Neither Eric nor the police.

Nathalie talked with Martin in their room, Ford sat outside and drank the last of the whisky, lightly sweating, his back to the town, the sky beginning to darken. He needed to leave. Make some excuse and get away from Narapi. The boy was still in town, had to be, so if he could persuade Martin and Nathalie to go to Birsim he would be safe.

Martin remained silent as Nathalie repeated the afternoon’s events. Stern, arms crossed, Martin asked if Eric had said anything about leaving.

Ford emptied his glass, sucked air through his teeth. ‘He didn’t say much. He was angry with you but we didn’t talk about that.’

‘So what did you speak about?’ Martin stood in front of Ford, impatient, suspicious.

‘He talked about going to Malta. He was looking forward to it.’

Nathalie shook her head. ‘No, no.’ She spoke in French. ‘This doesn’t make sense. I spoke with him yesterday and he said that he didn’t want to go. Just yesterday. This was the whole point of him coming here, he didn’t want to go. He had no interest at all in going to Malta.’

Martin repeated his question. ‘Did Eric say anything about leaving?’

‘Not in so many words.’

Martin and Nathalie exchanged glances. Nathalie sat beside Ford. She felt sick, she said. ‘Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps he intends to go to Malta early. It’s strange, but maybe it’s possible.’ He would have to change his ticket. The only place close by where he could change his flight was in Birsim. She turned to Ford. ‘This must be what he’s doing.’ They should go to Birsim. Could Mehmet get a van?

Martin shook his head, stern and unmovable, he didn’t want Mehmet to have anything to do with this. Eric had already caused enough trouble. He would take the bus tomorrow morning and search for Eric himself. As far as he was concerned the boy was finished. He could take his money, they would manage some other way.

‘How? Tomorrow is too late,’ Nathalie insisted, angry now. ‘His bag is still here, but not his ticket, and not his passport. I think he’s using the money to change his flight. You want to do nothing?’

Ford agreed. If they were going to do anything, then they needed to act immediately. He lifted his bag to his shoulder to prompt them into action.

Ford sat at the front of the car with Mehmet. Nathalie and Martin silent in the back. Dust billowed across the road and they squinted into the cloud with rising dissatisfaction. In the last long light before sunset, a sickly orange hue settled above the horizon.

In Birsim, Nathalie and Martin found the travel office and Ford agreed to check the coach times. Mehmet stayed with the car, and smoked, window down, uninvolved.

The terminus, such as it was, ran alongside the square – a few bays painted into the road and numbered poles mounted on the pavement. A long patch of blackened sand was the only sign that a bus had burned here two days ago. Apart from this the street appeared clean. There were, he thought, altogether too many police. Ford asked for the times of buses out of Birsim; an attendant pointed at a painted board listing the schedule for Narapi, Ankara, Kopeckale. These were the main routes, with only one late departure. Ford checked and double-checked the times and even though he had no choice now but to wait, he felt some reassurance in knowing that a coach was already on its way.

Nathalie and Martin came out of the office visibly frustrated. He guessed their news before he heard it. No one matching Eric’s description had made enquiries or bought tickets or attempted to change a flight, either yesterday or today. Plenty of coach tickets had been sold for the coastal resorts, and a few for Ankara/Istanbul, but none, as far as the clerk could recall, were sold to an American. Many of the coaches had already departed. As far as Martin could see, there was little point coming to Birsim, and no point staying without evidence that Eric had even come here in the first place.

They found a tea house and sat silently together. When the
cay
arrived, Ford paid and suggested that they order something to eat, but neither Martin nor Nathalie had any appetite and Martin decided to take a walk by himself. Apologizing, he kissed Nathalie’s forehead and said that he needed to think. He would not be long.

‘We can take you back to Narapi.’

‘Another coach leaves from here. I’m sure I can buy a supplement.’

‘But you have a ticket already from Narapi?’ Nathalie watched Martin wander away. ‘No, we can take you back.’ She shook her head and would not hear of any further disagreement. ‘The project is almost over, except for this one last interview. But without the money it won’t be possible to complete.’ It made no sense that Eric would be so selfish. ‘We each brought money. As much as we could. Eric’s money was to help someone leave the country.’ Nathalie looked across the square. ‘In exchange for an interview, we give money to help a family leave the country. These are Sunni Kurds living in Alevi villages, and Martin wanted one of these men to speak in his project. It’s taken a year to organize this interview.’ For the first time, as a conclusion to the series, Martin was to present an entire family, one at a time, each speaking about their experience. ‘But without the money the family won’t give their consent. Everything’s so complicated. It isn’t just Martin. Did Eric speak to you? You know that he likes you? You know this?’

Ford cleared his throat. ‘Sorry?’

‘He likes you, you know. He likes you very much.’

‘I think he’s hiding.’

Nathalie shook her head, weary, this did not make sense.

‘When we parted he—’

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t anything, but he was embarrassed.’

‘He said something?’

‘No. It was a gesture.’

‘A gesture?’ Incredulous, Nathalie leaned forward. ‘What are you saying? He kissed you?’

‘It wasn’t quite that.’

‘I don’t understand. Are you saying he approached you?’

‘I was – surprised. I didn’t react well. He left. He walked up to the fort. I think he might be hiding.’

Nathalie settled slowly back into her seat, a different scenario beginning to form.

On the journey back, Martin discussed Eric’s disappearance. They should check the bus station at Narapi to see if anyone matching Eric’s description had tried to leave while they were in Birsim. If not, they needed to consider other options. Unsurprised by Eric’s crude farewell to Ford, Martin pictured darker forces and motives at play. It was possible that Eric’s disappearance wasn’t voluntary. They must consider this. They needed to think carefully about what to do.

Nathalie shut her eyes, exhausted. They should contact Eric’s mother, she would be in Malta by now, and see if he had spoken with her about any change in plans. But how would they find her address? Martin sat back and wiped his hands down his face. Nothing about this was easy. He didn’t have an address, they would have to wait until the morning to contact the university? Or no, he could call as soon as they returned? None of them were sure about the time difference.

As they drew into Narapi, Ford suggested that Nathalie take a walk to the fort. ‘My coach departs in an hour.’

‘I’ll wait with you.’

‘Take a break,’ he whispered, ‘he’ll be back before long.’

Nathalie shook her head. There would be no result from any further search, she was certain. ‘You know, maybe this isn’t so strange. This is what his father did. When he was a boy his father walked away. He just left.’ She convinced herself.

Martin said he’d return with Mehmet to the pension to make his calls, she might as well continue looking if she wanted. Perhaps there would be some news. Nathalie hung her head, unable to make a decision. Ford opened the passenger door to say goodbye and leaned into the car unsure of the most suitable farewell. Nathalie wrapped her arms about him in a lethargic gesture, oddly mismeasured, and patted his shoulder. Maybe he was right and Eric would just return. Ford didn’t doubt it, and guessed, privately, that this kind of drama was not rare between them.

As the coach drew away from the square, Ford looked back at the town. His eyes ran along the broken outline of the fortifying walls above the market. None of this mattered, he told himself. It wasn’t important.

The coach moved softly, as if through water. Wind struck the bus and Ford imagined the coach winding slowly and steadily away from the town.

3.15

Heida argued with herself for four long hours, persuading herself out of love, or rather, out of the relationship, as she was not in love – clearly not
at this moment
. At Birsim a student took the seat beside her. Pleased to have someone to talk with, Heida began to share what was on her mind. The student appeared keen to listen.

Their problem, Heida began, was that they worked together, day and night. Grüner came with the job. More or less. Theirs was a partnership built on travel, long working nights, deadlines, which encouraged a kind of
intimacy
. The practicalities which destroyed other relationships made theirs viable, regardless of other attachments which she did not mention (Grüner’s wife, Heida’s long-term partner), so even if their couplings had become distastefully mechanical they were couplings nevertheless, they were something. At the very least Grüner was company. If she broke off the physical side of their relationship she couldn’t guarantee that they’d return to their former working relationship. Did this make sense? While they depended on each other for work their physical relationship had corrupted this. It really was that simple.

She couldn’t guess Grüner’s thinking, never knew, and suspected (kilometre after kilometre, riding through bright dust in a rising landscape, the girl beside her nodding, nodding, nodding) that the threat of an end would make him keen again. Grüner was that kind of a man. Endearingly sentimental when it came to women who despised him.

At the start of hour five Heida had to admit that there were other factors. Maybe her recent indifference had nothing to do with Grüner, because it wasn’t just Grüner; everything about her had the same colour, tone, texture, taste. It’s like this, she waved her hand at the land – even at night the landscape appeared dusty, endless, flat. Pointless.

‘This is how I feel. This.’

The young girl nodded and Heida wondered how much she actually understood.

As the coach came into Ankara the student began to gather her bags. Heida felt relieved that the girl was leaving as she didn’t want to think about these things any more. They said their goodbyes a little early and sat silent. The student looked expectantly up the central aisle, and Heida looked out of the window waiting as the coach drew at a crawl into the bay. Light spilled from the pavilion. Heida sat parallel to a man who walked along the pavement keeping pace with the coach, her knees to his shoulders. A slick movement, inside, outside, which she found funny in a small way as she could look down on the man without him being aware.

It wasn’t the backpack, so much, but the man’s rounded shoulders and his way of walking, dopey, as if medicated, slightly absent. As soon as she saw the man in profile she immediately recognized him: Stephen Lawrence Sutler. Without doubt.

The bus drew slightly ahead. Beardless, shorter hair – shorn in fact – cleaner clothes, almost fashionable. Three-fifty in the morning and she was looking down on Sutler. The man had no idea. He really didn’t. She squinted, took a good long look and did not doubt that this was the same man they had picked up a week earlier at the Turkish border. Sutler.
Stephen Lawrence Sutler
.

She followed after the man, feeling conspicuous in sunglasses, her hat pulled low, her hair tucked up. Two in the morning, the air becoming cold, thin, the fine atmosphere of the higher plains.

Sutler dodged through the waiting passengers and wandered into the waiting room, a little dazed by travel, his backpack over his left shoulder. As he approached the men’s restroom a soldier called to him, clicked his fingers for attention then pointed at a sign. No packages, no luggage. Sutler could not take his pack into the toilet. The officer shook his head and while Sutler waited, evidently confused, the policeman stopped another man going forward. Beside the doorway lay a loose stack of luggage. Clearly uncomfortable with the demand, but not ready to challenge it, Sutler dropped the pack from his shoulder. Heida turned away as he squatted next to his bag, and she watched his reflection in the long glass windows as he fumbled for a shirt. She waited for him to walk into the restroom, breath held, his bag leaning against the wall; one among a number of packages, bags, and suitcases.