They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

39 27 July 2007

I was very definitely out of my comfort zone by now. I reached for an L. Ron Hubbard book, called Dianetics, just for something to do, and as I grasped it my phone pinged with an incoming message.

From Nicos. Finally.

That ‘X’ had a strange effect on me. Was it the first indication of any affection towards me in a text? Or was it my mind hoping?

Hans-Jürgen had given me a number to call him on if I needed anything. When he answered I told him I couldn’t find the minibar in my room. ‘I am the minibar,’ he replied, which made me smile for the first time today.

Twenty minutes after telling him what I would like, he appeared at my door with a miniature vodka, a small can of Fever Tree tonic, a slice of lemon, an ice bucket and a glass.

I thanked him, and as soon as he left, I took a moment to prepare the drink, then downed it. Then dialled Nicos. When he answered, asking me how I was, I replied, ‘Am I doing the right thing?’

‘Get real, Sandy,’ Nicos replied, almost coldly. His voice sounded different from yesterday, the last time we had spoken. Yesterday he was my friend, saviour and future lover. Today he sounded like a transactional businessman.

‘Get real?’ I shot back. ‘Is that how you answer any problem I have, get real? How much more real is this supposed to be? I’ve left my husband and my home and I’m never going to see either of them again. I have my entire life crammed into one holdall and you’re telling me to get real? The holdall’s not even sodding real.’

‘If you don’t like it, ask Hans-Jürgen to call you a cab and go home. No one’s holding you hostage. Call your husband, tell him you’re on your way home.’

There was a long silence then he hung up. I did actually consider it yesterday, initially for one nanosecond, then for longer. Then I thought about the conversation we’d all have at the restaurant, starting with Dick Pope or Leslie asking me how my day had been. ‘Pretty uneventful,’ I’d reply. ‘You know, same old, same old.’

I’ve always been interested in ancient history. I remember reading about life when all humans were nomads, and the concept of owning property did not exist. There were no wars then. Wars only began when our ancestors stopped wandering, created farms, put boundaries around and grew crops and whatever. The day we humans started owning property was the day we started wanting more. And then more. And began killing for what wasn’t ours.

So it was actually incredibly liberating to know I had the contents of my entire fake life in that one fake bag. On the one hand I didn’t care about property any more. I didn’t care that I theoretically owned fifty per cent of our house. If I was disappearing for ever, that was part of the cost. But on the other hand, I missed it already, knowing I would never go back there. I tried to shrug it off.

Lobsters and crabs shrug off their shells as they grow. They’re not sentimental creatures, they’ll just grow new, bigger ones. And they’ll keep on doing that every time they become too big for the next one. When a lobster or a crab discards its shell does it feel sentimental about it? Or does it simply move on and grow a new carapace to protect it from all the predators out there? Living in the moment?

Does our past actually mean anything? Shouldn’t we just live in the moment, in the now? I remember that was how I had been feeling yesterday, finally driving away from my home to Gatwick.

The most nervous I had ever felt in my life. Now, by definition, a nomad. But with a small feeling of a sense of adventure. Of liberation. Along with the doom. But I focused on the future as much as I could. With my mantra of ‘mind over matter’. With three different passports and three different identities in my bag.

I did wonder whether that was overkill. And had told Nicos so. His response was that I either trusted him or did not. He explained there were over four hundred CCTV cameras at Gatwick Airport, but they were monitored by just three operators. It wasn’t easy to track someone’s movements across the airport’s two terminals — North and South — and it would be harder still if the target kept changing ID.

It was for the same reason he’d given me three passports. When Roy realized I had gone missing — properly missing rather than just not coming home — the airports would be checked — along with all the ferry ports and much else. The more I obfuscated, the less chance he would have of figuring anything out.

It was the reason Nicos had insisted I left my car in the short-term car park, to confuse Roy further. I guess, from knowing his methods, he’d start by applying the ABC rule. Assume nothing, Believe no one, Check everything.

So he would not assume it was necessarily me who had driven my car there. He would check the CCTV, but there was no guarantee he would see me leaving the car park and entering the airport. After that point, with all my rapid costume changes, it would make it even harder. And if he got as far as checking my name on any flights out, he wouldn’t find it.

Nicos was smart. He really was.

Right now, I’m aware of how much he helped me escape from a marriage that was probably doomed. But more, much more, he helped me escape a killer who I owed money to.

And almost seamlessly.

Another text pings in. It’s from Nicos.