The Last Witness

TWENTY-FOUR

‘I think we’ve had a breakthrough at last with the problem with Lorena.’ Lowndes had ushered Elena into his office straight after the session, leaving Lorena for a moment with the receptionist. He glanced briefly towards the closed door, as if worried she might still hear. ‘Or at least what is probably the main key to the problem.’

‘Oh, right.’ Elena sat forward slightly: one bit of hopeful news at last, though it took a moment to seep through her valerian haze and the day’s slings and arrows with Sotiris and the orphanage. Her mind was mostly on what might await her there.

‘There was one thing that troubled me at one point… but once again I’m afraid we didn’t get that far with Lorena remembering anything directly happening with your husband. My ploy of easing up any subliminal pressure on her psyche didn’t quite work as I’d hoped — or, more likely I believe now, there’s simply no such direct memory there.’

‘I see.’ Elena was suddenly adrift: Lowndes’ two comments were completely at odds.

‘But tell me more about this Eileen — the aid worker.’ Lowndes opened out his hands. ‘I think we might have hit on something there.’

‘Why, I… I don’t understand,’ Elena stumbled, frantically trying to gather her thoughts. Further adrift: what on earth had Lorena said in the session? She cursed herself now for not being there and listening in. ‘She’s very competent and cares a lot about Lorena, but I don’t see what — ’

‘I think that’s the problem right there, Mrs Waldren — she possibly cares too much. Or rather Lorena has tuned into the fact that she does and might have purposely played on her emotions with this situation now. You’ll see what I mean when you listen to the tape. Now, did Lorena insist that Eileen was told about this possible problem with your husband early on?’

Panic gripped Elena: she couldn’t even remember what she’d said last time. ‘I think so, maybe… but I’m just not sure now.’

‘Lorena says that she was told about the problem almost straight away.’

‘I see, right. Probably, yes.’ Elena felt her whole body flush hot; her palms were suddenly clammy. This was a nightmare: all she could think of was getting away from Lowndes’ clutches and listening to the tape before she said anything to possibly put her foot in it.

‘This Eileen I understand was the main one to help Lorena through her tough orphanage days, particularly after her time living rough in the sewers… and she also helped a lot I believe in getting her placed in England with you — smoothing the way?’

‘Yes, yes… she did.’ One safe foothold.

‘And when this new problem came up and Lorena wanted her to mediate with social services… was Eileen keen to get involved? Did she rally to help quickly?’

‘I… I’m not sure.’ She was frantically searching again for where to put her feet. She began to panic that Lorena had let slip about the abduction, or at least had made Lowndes suspicious; and now he was testing, trying to draw her out. ‘I… I suppose so.’

‘Because I’m beginning to fear that all of this might be just a cry for help. Mainly for this Eileen’s benefit, to get her attention… but at the same time you’ve got sucked in too.’

Elena’s head was spinning with it all. She started trembling. She just had to get away and listen to the tape. She stood up abruptly, glancing at her watch. ‘Look — I’m sorry. There’s somewhere else I’m meant to be now… and all of this has caught me a bit by surprise. I’d rather us talk when I’ve had a chance to listen to the tape — soak it all in.’

‘I understand.’ Lowndes got up to open the door, but kept one hand flat against it for a second. ‘In a nutshell what I’m trying to say is that this Eileen has been there to help Lorena with all the main dramas of her life. And through all of that they’ve formed an attachment. Probably closer than we appreciate. Then Lorena is with you and your husband and everything’s hunky-dory and suddenly there’s no dramas any more… and therefore also no Eileen. Lorena craves that attention again and the close bond she had with Eileen as a result — so she creates her own new drama.’

‘Yes, I… I suppose it makes some sense.’ Lowndes’ words touched a raw, uneasy chord deep inside her. Her world had already been tilted ninety degrees with Sotiris that morning, now it was being turned completely on end. Nothing was what it seemed any more. Or was it just the valerian pills and the lack of sleep making her feel so adrift, detached from reality? Her pulse stabbed at her temples and a grey film washed behind her eyes. She feared that if Lowndes didn’t hurry and open the door she was going to black out right there and then.

‘Oh, one word of warning: some parts of the tape are probably best not played in Lorena’s presence… she gets quite distressed at points. And as before — certainly don’t play my notes at the end while she’s listening.’

‘Right, right.’ All Elena could focus on was the door ahead. The trembling reached her legs, she felt them weakening, threatening to crumple… then suddenly the door was open and she was walking into the reception area. She hoped that she wasn’t swaying or looked unsteady. Small smile from Lorena as she stood up. Elena gave her a light embrace with one arm — something to steady her at least — as she turned to Lowndes, ‘I’ll call you later,’ and swiftly led Lorena out.

Elena was still trembling slightly 20 miles north of Montreal on the open highway heading for Baie du Febvre.

On the outskirts of Montreal she’d stopped at a Radio Shack and picked up a set of headphones to plug into the car’s cassette player. She was going to be with Lorena all day, and she couldn’t bear waiting till that night to hear what was on tape. The salesman had at first offered her an impressive, studio-quality set with bulbous cushioned earpieces. But in the end she’d gone for the most discreet set with thin black wire and small black earpieces that would be mostly hidden by her hair. It would be an ironic slap of fate to be stopped by the police for wearing headphones while driving. But still she was careful not to put them on and start listening to the tape until she was well clear of Montreal and driving with open fields each side, not a police car in sight.

Lorena had said that she was ‘sorry’ as soon as they’d jumped in the car. ‘He asked a lot of questions about this Eileen… well, you. And I just didn’t know what to say half the time.’ Lorena looked disconsolate, close to tears, perhaps partly in sympathy with how shaken Elena appeared.

‘That’s alright. It wasn’t your fault. I should have been there.’ She was sure Lowndes hadn’t given away his suspicions to Lorena, and there wasn’t much more she could say herself until she’d listened to the tape, gauged the extent of damage.

It was getting worse by the minute: Lorena lying to Lowndes, Lowndes lying to Lorena, and her in the middle — half-zonked with valerian, whisky and sleep-depravation — pathetically trying to juggle it all when she already had a full set of balls in the air from her own lies of the past twenty-nine years… and this was proving to be the day when the balls were finally starting to slip from her grasp, hit the ground with a thud of reality.

Still she felt awkward playing the tape with Lorena looking over at intervals, so after the first eight minutes she stopped it and didn’t press ‘play’ again until Lorena dozed off thirty-odd miles into the drive.

‘…He was standing by the bedside, saying that it was okay… I was very tired, couldn’t remember.’

‘And you’re sure you were asleep at that point… that you were only dreaming?’

‘Yes, yes… I’m pretty sure. And he was saying some numbers… seven… eight.’

The first event of any significance — the first minutes on tape had been mostly re-establishing the ground built up in the last session — probably what had ‘troubled’ Lowndes at one point. She could see where Lowndes was coming from: it was the sort of conversation that happened when you were awake, it wasn’t particularly dreamlike.

‘Some numbers? Was that part of a story perhaps, something from school? Or was he saying that you couldn’t remember the numbers?

‘I… I don’t remember now. It wasn’t clear.’

‘And did you talk back at any point? Did you say anything in return to your stepfather?’

‘No, no… I didn’t. It was just him talking all the time.’

Which then was more dreamlike, Elena reflected: one voice talking, no two-way conversation. Lowndes asked if her stepfather touching her was part of the same dream.

‘Yes, but later.’

‘Later?’

‘…There seemed to be a gap in between, as if I’d slept a bit in the middle without dreaming… and it was a second dream.’ Lorena’s breathing was laboured and unsettled. ‘I… I didn’t like it.’

‘I know. That’s why you’re here.’ Calming tone from Lowndes. ‘But I don’t need to know about the specifics of him touching you in the dream — it’s just enough for you to say that it was where it shouldn’t have been… lower down?’

‘Yes, yes… it was.’ Even that simple admittance seemed difficult for Lorena to make, her breathing becoming more laboured, staccato.

‘… But what I’m more interested in is did you talk to your stepfather then… say or shout back anything in protest, ask him to stop?’

‘I wanted to… I tried. But it was as if my voice was trapped in my throat and I couldn’t make any noise, however much I tried. I felt stifled, somehow couldn’t breathe… and then I was back in the sewers again with the waters rising. It went up quickly above my head, started to fill my mouth and nose, and I was trying hard to scream out for help, but… I… I just couldn’t…I — ’

‘It’s okay… it’s okay.’ Heavily placating with an edge of concern. ‘It’s just to get clear that you didn’t at any time speak to your stepfather while all this was happening.’

‘No, no… I didn’t’

Elena could tell that for Lowndes that practically sealed it: he saw it as hardly conceivable that Lorena would have said nothing if she’d been awake. He moved onto the subject of Eileen. The questions were relaxed and conversational at first, no edge: when did you first meet her? Did you see her a lot while you were at the orphanages? So, she helped you quite a bit through those days — you became quite close. ‘Then when you arrived in England — did you see her much then?

Lorena answered calmly, casually; she obviously felt she could talk freely, without worry about the period before her problem with Ryall. But Elena felt the tension building with each question because she knew already that a trap was looming.

Lowndes gradually circled in.

‘So with you not seeing much of Eileen once you were in England — you must have missed her.’

‘Yes… I suppose I did a little.’ The first hesitation from Lorena.

‘I mean, you’d become so close from before. She’d become one of your closest friends… and practically the only person you felt you could confide in.’

‘Yes, I… I suppose she had.’ The hesitation was marked now: probably Lorena didn’t see where Lowndes was heading yet, but she was obviously becoming unsettled at so many questions centred around Eileen.

‘Is that why you confided in Eileen with this problem now?’

‘Yes… but I told my mother first.’ Lorena was suddenly more alert, wary, starting to fight back. ‘I only told Eileen because my mother couldn’t be in the interviews with me, and I didn’t want to be on my own with someone I didn’t know from social services. I wanted someone there I knew.’

‘I appreciate that.’ Slow exhalation from Lowndes, as if he was slightly peeved at getting dragged from his target. ‘But without this new drama now with your stepfather — it’s unlikely you’d have even seen Eileen again. There would have been no reason for you to see her.’

‘I… I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’ Lorena was on uncertain ground again.

‘And that would have made you very sad, wouldn’t it? Because you liked Eileen — in fact before your stepmother she was the person you felt closest to.’

Elena bit at her lip: what Lowndes didn’t know and made it all the more poignant was that in Lorena’s mind at that moment, Eileen and her stepmother were one and the same. Lorena paused for a moment, only the shallow fall of her breath coming over on tape. Finally:

‘Yes, that’s true. That would have made me sad.’

Elena glanced over at Lorena curled slightly away in sleep, and felt like suddenly swinging the car in and hugging her tight. One simple sentence that somehow made all the long years of her work in the orphanages worthwhile — however much it might have given them a dilemma now with Lowndes.

‘And so this problem with your stepfather at least gave you something you’d long missed and craved — seeing Eileen again. Being close to her again and sharing a problem with her… like the good old, bad old days in Romania.’

‘Yes, that’s so. I like Eileen a lot, and I — ’ Lorena faltered with an uneven intake of breath, almost a gasp. She’d seen where Lowndes was heading. A suspended second, then as she let her breath free: ‘But I wouldn’t have done anything like that to Eileen. She took a very great risk taking me away and — ’ She stopped herself again, suddenly realizing.

‘Taking you away?’

Oh God. She should have been there. The pressure on Lorena must have been insufferable. Elena would have probably decided to throw in the towel and bare all to Lowndes, felt that it was all too much for Lorena to face alone. But once again she’d put her own quest first and left Lorena forgotten.

‘Yes, my… my mother asked Eileen to take me away one day to see her house and the nearby chine and beach — but in fact it was to talk about my problem with my stepfather. My stepfather found out and was very angry about it, told on Eileen to the social services.’

Elena couldn’t resist hissing ‘Yes’ under her breath: Lorena’s Bucharest street-wiliness obviously had its uses.

‘Right… I see.’ Lowndes had little choice but to accept it, but the lingering doubt was evident in his voice.

He went back for a moment to the dreams and her stepfather, as if seeking one last affirmation that she remembered absolutely nothing on that front while awake — then he closed the session.

Lowndes’ summary notes merely went through in more detail the concern he’d voiced earlier, now with the benefit of the tape for almost point-by-point illustration. But listening to Lowndes, Elena couldn’t help wondering as she looked across at Lorena — so innocent while asleep, but perhaps her life so far had made her wily and complex rather than just confused and vulnerable — whether Lowndes’ assessment might be right: after all, her bond with Lorena was far more acute than he even realized. Lorena’s bond with Nicola Ryall was almost non-existent, so even long before this makeshift role-play now, Elena had been filling both roles: mother and helper. Saviour. It was a powerful combination.

St Marguerita’s became progressively quieter, the atmosphere heavier as Elena started along the cloister-style corridor away from the main front building — a flat-fronted gothic stone edifice three-storeys high. Elena suspected the children’s dormitories took up the top two floors, with the classrooms and playrooms on the ground floor.

Elena spotted a playground area to the side of the building as she’d parked, and at 4 pm it was quite active and noisy. Beyond the play area was farmland, with the warehouse units and sawmills on the edge of Baie du Febvre visible half a mile away. Elena had stood for a moment taking it all in: not too bad an environment and view, and possibly the warehouse units had only appeared in the last ten or twenty years. When little George had been here, probably the… She shook her head and turned abruptly to head in. No more mental compensating after the event.

Flanking the left of the cloister corridor were four arched windows — interspersed one stained glass, one clear — looking onto a small courtyard with a statue of St Marguerite at its centre. Elena could see a Grey nun reading on a bench under St Marguerite’s outstretched palm.

Elena and Lorena were led the way by Sister Bernadine, who two-thirds along the corridor indicated towards three upright chairs to the side. ‘If you’d like to wait there. I won’t be a moment.’

Sister Bernadine walked to a door a few yards further along, and with a light knock and a small tight smile back at them, went inside.

The silence was intense as they waited. The sound of the children in the playground outside was muted and distant, barely audible. This section wrapping around the courtyard was two-storeys on one side and single-storey the remaining three. Elena got the impression that this was the nun’s private quarters, cut away from the noise of children so that they could concentrate on administrative paperwork and prayer.

Elena glanced back towards the door. Bernadine at least appeared helpful, keen to please and had a ready smile. Elena knew that orphanages could be strict about passing on information; hopefully Bernadine’s seeming compliance was an encouraging sign.

But moments later as she left Lorena in the corridor with a ‘Hopefully won’t be long’ and Bernadine ushered her into the room, Elena modified that hope on sight of the woman behind the large oak desk before her: small, no more than four-eleven, mid-fifties — almost twenty years older than Therese — and wearing thick glasses that gave her an owlish, stern countenance, not aided by the scant, economical smile upon greeting.

Bernadine introduced her as Sister Therese. ‘But her English is not perfect — so I’ll translate where necessary.’

Elena eased herself down in the proffered seat, another old-wood upright with faded red velvet seat covering. Elena felt her spirits sag another notch: language as a possible extra barrier between her and Sister Therese. But with a fresh breath she launched into it as best she could. She was careful not to mention she became pregnant under-age — a bad foot-start with nuns — she just said that she was sixteen at the time, very young, and her family and her had made a joint decision because of her studies and college plans at that time. Vocational aims seemed a better bet to get their understanding. She admitted though that she’d suffered guilt years later at what she’d done, and this had led to her working with orphaned children in Romania. Vocation and guilt: piling on the empathy stakes. She avoided too the problems with Lorena, she said that her involvement in a heartfelt reunion between one of the Romanian children and her family had finally made her realize that an important part of her life was missing.

‘…And would probably remain so until I find him.’ Despite the lies, just talking about it brought the pain of the separation and the lost years to the surface, and Elena felt the onset of tears welling. She cast her eyes down for a second: more empathy. ‘That’s why the special trip now all the way from England. I was given the name of your orphanage just this morning by my son’s step-uncle at the time — Sotiris Stephanou. I phoned straight after for this appointment now.’

Elena had aimed her set speech at Sister Therese with only occasional glances towards Bernadine, and hopefully had come across as appropriately humbled and beseeching. It was difficult to tell with the translation at intervals from Sister Bernadine: she translated only selected segments, so either Therese had rudimentary English or Bernadine was heavily editing.

From Sister Therese’s few basic confirming questions in English that followed, it was obviously the former. Elena clarified that Stephanou was the family name before the change to Stevens, then the approximate dates when young Georges had first arrived at St Marguerite’s and then finally left for a new family.

Sister Therese spent a moment more checking through two files and a large register book on her desk. ‘Yes. George Stevens. I see it now.’ She traced along with one finger for a second before looking up. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think we can help.’

‘I… I don’t understand.’ Elena looked at the register accusingly, incredulous that it might lead to such a blunt assertion so quickly. ‘Don’t you have the information I want?’

‘No, no. We have it all here. It’s not that…’ Sister Therese turned to Bernadine and spoke in rapid French; her English had obviously gone as far as it could. Bernadine explained.

‘In the register we make note of any children who later contact us and express the desire to have contact with their parents. If the parents have also contacted us, or later do so — we then pass that information on to the child. It’s the only criteria we have for putting the two parties together.’

Elena nodded thoughtfully. Similar to the Adoption Contact Register and, for that matter, most orphanages. She more than anyone knew that the child had to make the running. But she’d come too far, leapt too many obstacles and dangers to entertain possible failure at this final hurdle now.

‘But now that I’ve made contact, you could pass this on to my son and still leave the decision with him as to whether he wanted direct contact with me or not. I know he would, I’m quite sure there wouldn’t be any problem with that.’ Just the delay: she’d have to wait on in Quebec another two or three days for his response.

Another burst of French between Therese and Bernadine. Sister Therese spoke this time. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. The system we’ve set up is the only one by which contact can be made.’

Elena couldn’t help wondering if they’d done this before, it looked almost a routine: Therese for blank refusals, Bernadine if any elaboration was necessary. The three-way nature of the conversation put an extra obstacle to fighting back, but having battled through adoption registers, Ryall’s investigator, run the gauntlet with police on two continents and endured the doorstep vigil of the last two days — she was damned if she was going to let herself be defeated by two nuns.

Elena smiled wanly. ‘I’m sorry too. Because I know from my own work that there’s a legal principal by which you’re duty bound to notify my son that I’ve made contact.’ It was a bluff: the principal held only for the ACR, the rules differed between orphanages. But it was the only straw she could think of clinging to.

Sister Therese’s eyebrows knitted heavily as Bernadine translated. Therese fired back sternly in French without looking at Elena: suddenly she was invisible, and Therese was showing her indignation by not gracing her with any more English.

With a fresh breath — awkwardness at getting caught in the crossfire more than impatience — Bernadine translated: ‘Sister Therese says that unfortunately we have our own strict rules. Rules that are explained to both the parents leaving children with us and adopting parents. These become part of our contract with them — the right to bring up that child without later harassment or interference — and we dare not breach that. If your son hasn’t told us of his desire to make contact with his parents, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Sister Therese really is truly sorry.’

Elena was sure that Therese hadn’t offered any apology: her expression was too stern, unyielding, and her French hadn’t extended that long. Bernadine was obviously edge-softening now as well as elaborating. Regardless, it was all slipping away. The light at the end of the chine was suddenly more distant, dull again — and when Elena listened for the sound of the children in the play area, she could no longer hear them. Either playtime was over, or Sister Therese’s office was too distant, remote from the children to hear anything. Remote from any emotional involvement.

Elena had a sudden image of young George as he was then scurrying in the playground or through the corridors and classrooms of St Marguerites along with the other children. And then when he might have fallen from grace, he was suddenly cut off from them and brought along this same cloister, the noise of his friends receding with each step until he reached this deathly silent, foreboding office to face some predecessor of Sister Therese and know his fate.

She wished she’d been there to hold his hand but, pathetically, she couldn’t even put a face to that lone figure. She hadn’t asked Sotiris for any photos, nor had he offered any: probably he had none. But she had no idea what her son looked like at any age.

She felt a sudden tight knot in her chest — anger, frustration, or her sinking spirits as it dawned on her that a whole lifetime of images and memories were lost to her, never to be regained. But the rest of her just felt numb: it seemed so unreal, unjust that it could all possibly end here, now.

‘You have no idea what I’ve been through to get here.’ Suddenly she was on remote scramble in the hope of striking a more poignant chord. ‘I’ve even brought my daughter with me all the way from England to see him. How do you think she’s going to feel when I tell her she can’t see her older brother? The brother she’s never seen. She’s so built up this moment in her mind hoping to finally meet him.’

The tears were suddenly welling again, threatening to brim over this time. Of course the lost hope was all hers — but that was almost too painful to voice, would probably have made her break down in racking sobs on the spot: much easier and more likely to evoke sympathy to transpose it all to a ten-year old girl.

Sister Therese and Bernadine looked more concerned at this, and some more rapid French flew between them. Absolutely everything hung by a thread on what was said next, Elena realized. Her hands started to shake, and she pressed them firmer into her lap. In the moments on the drive when her mind had drifted to how to approach everything and how she might handle the unthinkable of them saying no, she’d found herself becoming nervous. She feared that would be counter-productive, so she’d blanked her mind to it; still a trace of nerves remained, so half-an-hour before the meeting she’d downed two more valerian pills. Now those were beginning to wear off or the intensity of the moment was pushing her agitation above even their effect.

‘Sister Therese says that she’s truly sorry.’ Bernadine cast her eyes down, as if she was consoling over bereavement or found it difficult to meet the plea in Elena’s eyes head-on. ‘She fully appreciates the time and trouble you’ve put in coming here now. But there really is nothing we can do to help. Our hands are tied.’

The finality of the words, the immovable brick wall she’d suddenly run into, hit Elena with a jolt. It was as if the pressure had been quietly building up for the past twenty-nine years, then suddenly it became too much and she’d been shot like a champagne cork through the drama of the past days: search agencies, abducting Lorena, customs, ducking the police, her grinding door-call vigil with a seemingly endless succession of frowns and head-shakes, a diet of valerian and whisky just to keep her going, and finally the breakthrough with Sotiris — but she’d been gathering momentum all along, not seeing, not preparing herself for the possible dead-end ahead. And as it came now it hit her with a jolt, took her breath away, and its surreality made her slightly dizzy: surely she couldn’t have gone through all of that only to hit this brick wall now? She had to fight back. But she felt tired, oh so tired, and her scrambled mind couldn’t grapple onto what might be left to fight back with. Nothing left but to beg.

She leant across the desk. ‘Please… please.’ She slid one hand across to make contact with Therese’s hand, added weight to her imploring; but Therese’s hands were almost out of reach, and she pulled them tighter into herself and looked alarmed. ‘…If you have an ounce of compassion left in your heart.’

Elena felt her tears brimming over, running cool down her cheeks, and her trembling ran deeper, now gripping her whole body. It was clearly visible in her hand reaching across the desk — and from the shock on Sister Therese’s face she probably did in that moment look like the half-crazed heroine addict she’d viewed earlier in the mirror.

Some more words between Therese and Bernadine before they turned to her again: a defensive tone, but it was suddenly quieter, more distant, she could hardly tell if it was French or English being spoken. Their figures too were now more distant, like two apparitions in the last fading light at the end of the chine. And as the greyness behind her eyes washed through, she watched their figures slowly tilt as the floor rushed up to meet her.

Voices. Distant voices, high-pitched, excitable. The voices from the playground were back again. Then suddenly they were closer: Elena could hear the clatter of footsteps at the end of the cloister corridor. A group of children were looking on at her, their voices now muted to hushed whispers.

Young George was among them, and he broke free and ran towards her. He put one hand on her shoulder, gently shaking.

‘Are you okay now… are you okay?

Then another voice: ‘I’ve brought you coffee. Coffee.’

And as it all finally fell into focus, Elena saw that it was Lorena shaking her shoulder.

‘Are you okay now, Elena? Are you awake?’ And Bernadine was standing to one side looking equally as concerned as she held out a cup.

She was back sitting next to Lorena in the cloister corridor. She shook the last woollyness from her head and took the proffered cup.

‘Thanks.’ She noticed her hand still shaking holding the cup, but the aroma and the first warm liquid cutting the dryness in her throat felt good. She closed her eyes for a second in appreciation. As she opened them she noticed a group of small children looking on from the end of the cloisters where it joined the classroom corridors. They were quickly ushered away by a Grey nun following behind.

She was sure she saw one of them smile, probably things hadn’t been so bad here — but the fact was she was never going to see him again now. The emptiness she felt inside at that realization was overwhelming, but at least there was one compensation: she didn’t have to battle on any more and try and find him. She felt she hardly had the energy left to continue anyway, she was so battle-worn and weary; so as a result, perversely, she felt a strange sense of serenity: a feeling that she could finally let loose her breath, let it all wash away from her and say ‘It’s over’. No more door-calls, obstinate nuns and ducking from the police. Just home with Gordon, Christos and Katine, her warm and familiar bed, her studio and paintings, the chine and the fresh sea breezes, and life as it was before the nightmare started.

And as for Lorena… Oh Jesus. She bit lightly at her bottom lip between coffee sips at the thought of what might happen there. Lorena so concerned about her, as if she was the only person in this world she felt close to or cared about — which sadly was probably true — and yet even if the nuns had told her where George had gone, she was about to betray Lorena, send her packing back to England.

Everything Lowndes had said in his last session had begun to stack up in her mind as uncomfortably true. All the signals were there: her close attachment to Lorena going back all the way to Romania, Lorena’s distance not only from her stepfather but also Nicola Ryall; her being the first person Lorena had called for help, Lorena’s ready agreement to the abduction and her excitement at times on the trip, almost as if it was some sort of holiday, then finally Lorena asking if she could stay with her permanently. ‘Maybe I could keep your Katine company and play with her — be like a sister.’

Even if the mosaic didn’t slot together so well and Lowndes had somehow got it wrong — there was nowhere left for her to go with it. They’d tried their damnedest to uncover something with Ryall and still no light in sight: further sessions would just hit the same stone wall. And she couldn’t possibly return to Lowndes with this. Now that he felt he had the right bone in his mouth, he’d just continue gnawing at Lorena’s attachment to Eileen. Lorena would either crumple under the pressure or her abduction would finally be uncovered. No, she’d decided just before going in to see the nuns, there was no option left but to put Lorena on the first flight back to England.

‘Are you feeling better now, Elena? …I was very worried about you.’

That gentle, angel’s wings touch of fingers on her shoulder. Elena shuddered at the thought of what she had planned for her: Lorena would no doubt see it as a form of betrayal, or at the least that she was once again being discarded, given up on. But there was no choice. No choice!

‘Yes, I’m fine now… fine.’ She nodded and closed her eyes again for a second. At least that might now help soften the blow: she could tell Lorena that they’d be flying back to England together. Nothing left here for either of them.

Elena sensed Bernadine hovering to her side as if she wanted to say something. Bernadine glanced anxiously back towards the door of Sister Therese’s office, then slipped a piece of paper from the folds of her habit and pressed it into Elena’s hand.

Elena looked at the piece of paper almost indignantly. ‘What is this?’ Ticket perhaps to the convent fete as apology for giving her such a hard time. She unfolded it: two names, Claude and Odette Donatiens, and a Montreal address.

Bernadine leant over, whispering conspiratorially. ‘That’s where he’s gone. But I haven’t given it to you, okay?’ Another nervous glance back to Sister Therese’s office.

‘Okay.’ Barely audible mumble. Elena stared at it blankly a moment more. She should have felt elated and leapt up and hugged Bernadine until she turned blue. But clearly Bernadine wanted her to stay subdued, secretive, and a part of her still felt numb: just when she’d let free the last thread, it was back in her grasp again.

‘I should have told that man too when he came all those years ago. He was sat exactly where you are now, head in hands when he found out he wouldn’t be able to see the boy.’

‘What man?’ Elena was still in shock, reeling from the game-plan constantly changing. And where did that leave her now with what to do with Lorena?

But as Sister Bernadine sat down next to her and explained, nothing could have prepared her for this one final change, pulled from the hat as if Bernadine was some cruel magician. Elena felt her whole world turned upside down, its very foundations shaken to the core. She felt herself close to fainting again and shook her head, refusing to accept. But all she could think of was rushing to the first phone box to speak to the only two people who could possibly explain, set her world to rights again: Uncle Christos and her mother.