The Girl in the Shadows

Veronique pulled away from him. ‘No, it’s not that. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own if necessary, but…’

‘But?’

‘I don’t know.’ She trailed her hand along the railing surrounding the playground. A railing she used to walk along, arms wide to the sky. ‘It’s this place, it holds too many memories.’

‘Not all of them bad.’ Christophe took her hand, leading her in the direction of the lake beyond the trees. ‘We had our fair share of awesome times, did we not?’

‘Yes and for that I will be forever grateful, but it affected us, both of us, perhaps in ways we still don’t understand.’

‘That bastard should pay for what he did to you.’

‘I know.’ Veronique gave his hand a squeeze. ‘But even he doesn’t have the balls to come back and I can’t keep using him as an excuse.’

‘Excuse for what?’

‘Everything? Nothing at all? How else do you explain my situation?’ She stretched her hand out, allowing a child on a scooter to pass underneath their arms.

‘I thought you liked being by yourself?’ Christophe twirled her back against him, draping his arm over her shoulder. ‘Wasn’t that part of the reason you left Guillaume?’

Even she didn’t know the real reason. He asked her why she wouldn’t let him in, refused to share her life with him. But she had never dared to show anyone the real her, the one who lurked in the shadows of her mind, who wanted to rip and tear and bring pain to those who did her wrong. How could he ever understand that part of her, forgive her for what she had done?

‘I guess you get to a certain age and questions begin to surface.’

‘Certain age? Now you’re making me feel old.’ He banged his hip against hers. ‘You’re not even thirty-five!’

‘Medicine doesn’t lie. Past thirty the chances of conceiving fall off considerably. Add to that the PCOS…’

‘I understand the medical odds, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.’

‘And who’s to say I even want it to happen or that it should happen? I mean, I’d hardly consider myself ideal mother material. Which way?’

Christophe pointed towards a wooden bridge at the edge of the lake. ‘Define ideal? Neither of us even had a mother and we’ve turned out all right. More than all right I’d say.’

Veronique knew very little about her mother. She was barely out of her teens when she had given birth to Veronique, after which it was as if she had disappeared altogether, which in Veronique’s experience meant she had a very good reason to stay hidden. Why her mother ran in the first place, chose to abandon her child the very moment she was born, Veronique didn’t think she would ever know.

As for her father, he was a ghost, no name on her birth certificate, no clue as to where she came from. It was the complete lack of information that frustrated her more than anything else. Was her impulsiveness, her mistrust of everyone around her, due to circumstance or genetics? Would she still rebel, rock the system and disobey all the rules if she had been raised in a safe, loving household, or was it inherent in her DNA to be an outsider, indifferent to the status quo?

‘Everyone deserves the best possible start in life they can get. How am I supposed to raise a child of my own when I have no idea about what complications are hidden in my blood?’

‘I still think you would be the very best mother any kid could possibly get.’

Veronique picked up two sticks, handing one to Christophe. Together they went to the side and threw them into the water below.

Christophe leant over the railing. ‘You know that only works on moving water.’

‘I have to go and see a psychiatrist.’

‘Why?’ He looked over at her and she thought back to another time: a time when they would escape to this park, away from whatever was waiting for them back at the foster home.

‘Standard procedure if I want to be considered for adoption.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Because we were part of the system, every time we went to see the doctor it had to be recorded and filed away. Every single time. I can’t hide that part of my life.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Wasn’t it? Do you know how often I ask myself why I went back there? How is it that one decision, one stupid decision, can haunt you for the rest of your life?’

Christophe drew her to him, resting his head atop hers. ‘Is that why you took this case?’

‘Perhaps.’ She stepped back and walked down the other side of the bridge. ‘I’m not really sure, but I can’t help thinking about what made Mathilde run away in the first place. Can it really have been because of a boy? And why the drugs? What was it in her life that made her start using?’

‘There doesn’t always have to be a reason.’ Christophe linked arms with her again. ‘I’ve seen it over and over again. One time leads to the next, which leads to the next. People think they have it under control until they wake up one morning and the only thing they can think about is how to get their next hit.’

‘Is that what happened to Giselle?’

Christophe shook his head. ‘I think it started as a way to block out the men, then it took hold and she was lost for a very long time. Heroin is a very quick way of falling into a pit that’s often far too slippery to climb out from.’

Veronique thought about the face that plagued her own dreams. What she did at first to try and block it out. Too many underground haunts where they didn’t ask for ID and served alcohol to anyone who could pay. About the priest who visited her and Christophe at the next foster house they were shunted to, just players on a board, his sermons about forgiveness sliding off her like oil on water.

Then one damp winter morning she walked past an alleyway, a strip of light stretching out from an open garage door. She could hear the repetitive sound of breath being forced from lungs, accompanied by a soft thwack and creak of metal. Curiosity led her down that path, had her watch from underneath a nearby awning as a middle-aged man no bigger than her, with skin the colour of caramel and dressed in nothing but cut-off shorts, twirled around a boxing bag suspended from the ceiling.

It was as if she were watching a ballet as the man moved around the bag, pre-empting its swing back and forth then hitting it with hands bound tight, the sinews on his arms and legs telling her of his strength. The air around him misted with exertion, his focus never wavered, and she was transfixed.

‘You come in, or just watch?’ he asked, his eyes never leaving their target.

It took her a little over a fortnight to pluck up the courage to go in. To come out from the shadows and show him her scars. He asked no questions, offered up no sympathy, instead giving her two coiled bandages and instructing her to wrap them tight, to make sure she protected her hands.

For the next few years she met with him every day before school. That was one of his conditions for training her; she was to complete her education, after which she could come back and work for him.

‘What do you do?’ she finally got round to asking.

‘The same as you,’ he replied, a gap-toothed grin on his wrinkled face. ‘Whatever I need to survive.’

His name was Chenglei and he was from Hong Kong. He had travelled to Paris with his family as a young boy and now lived with his daughter, her husband and their child: a girl of twelve called Mingxia who would grow up to be both Veronique’s doctor and friend. Chenglei died two days after his sixty-fourth birthday and a week before Veronique turned eighteen. Veronique remembered him for his kindness, his compassion, and for trying to pull her out of the darkness.

***

Exiting the other side of the park they descended a set of stairs, walking the length of a street lined with parked cars and overflowing bins. Water flowed along the gutters, carrying litter to a street cleaner stood at the junction. Ahead of them was a twelve-storey apartment building that stretched a block in each direction.

Washing lines hung from rusted balcons, their orange awnings speckled with mildew. The lower storeys were obscured by maple trees that did little to disguise the cracked plaster and boarded-up windows. A small group of men congregated on a concrete wall, passing secrets between palms and sipping from glass bottles.

‘Is this it?’ Veronique asked.

Christophe nodded. ‘Probably best you let me do the talking.’

‘Why?’