The Silent Friend, page 27
Shortly after Dave Grohl and his band had taken over the stage, Connor, Rich and Tom slipped into their seats next to Laura.
‘You did it,’ she said, turning her face, which was still wet with tears, to his. ‘That was beautiful.’ Rich pushed a packet of tissues into her right hand as Connor squeezed her left hand.
There was no strobe lighting. In fact, the lights were never completely dimmed. Every now and then, memories would squeeze their way through cracks in Laura’s mind – pictures of her friends from that night – and she let them in. She was here to honour the memory of her friends. If that meant allowing her own memories to filter through, then so be it. After a while, the flashbacks stopped and when Laura closed her eyes, she could see her friends’ faces. They no longer looked terrified, but happy, smiling as they had been the day before the terrorist attack. Laura relaxed and started to enjoy the concert.
Although underscored with solemnity, the mood came close to jubilation as they got a taxi back to the city centre. Tom, Rich and Connor were understandably pleased with themselves and Laura felt proud of herself, too.
The four of them went for a beer and something to eat in the Rue Mercière, or the “restaurant street” as Tom called it, before going back to the hotel.
It wasn’t until Laura was getting ready for bed that night that she saw she’d received a text message. Opening it, the first thing Laura noticed was the number +33, the country calling code for France. She assumed it was from a mobile phone service provider and was about to toss her phone onto the bed when she spotted the name at the bottom. It was from Sandrine.
Laura read the message. Sandrine wanted to know if it was too late to meet Laura before she left Lyon. Was it too late? She was going home tomorrow. They’d planned to visit the traboules, the secret passages in Le Vieux Lyon in the morning – not Laura’s idea, but something Niall had apparently wanted to do when they were here last year. Then she and Connor had a flight to Dublin in the afternoon. Tom and Rich were taking the train to Paris where they would be joined by their girlfriends.
Laura sent a text message to Declan to say goodnight and then another message to Connor to tell him about Sandrine’s message. Declan replied straight away, sending a photo of Harry, curled up on Patrick’s lap. Then her phone pinged with Connor’s reply. She read it before typing out an answer to Sandrine, wondering what had made her change her mind.
Chapter 45
1 YEAR AFTER
Sandrine
Sandrine washed down a couple of paracetamols with a gulp of apple juice. She attributed her splitting headache to stress and lack of food – she’d lost her appetite again since Maxime’s arrest. Sitting at the table, she tried to swallow a few mouthfuls of the toasted baguette and jam that Sam had made her for breakfast while he stood behind her and massaged her shoulders.
In the end, it had been Sam who persuaded her. He told Sandrine she’d regret it if she didn’t. Sandrine knew he was right.
‘At least ask her if it’s not too late,’ he said.
‘But what will I say to her? I’ve spun a web of lies and I’ll get caught in it.’
Sam didn’t have an answer for that. Sandrine decided to stick as close to the truth as possible and avoid any questions she couldn’t answer honestly.
They arranged to meet at ten, which would give Laura plenty of time to get back to the hotel and have lunch before setting off for the airport. Sandrine offered to come to the city centre or Le Vieux Lyon, but Laura seemed keen to meet elsewhere, so Sandrine suggested Le Parc de la Tête d’Or. Laura could take the tube from Bellecour to Masséna and walk to the entrance on Boulevard des Belges. And, with a bit of luck, Sandrine would find a space near there to park her car.
Her headache hadn’t eased off much as she parked up and got out of the car, so even though it was overcast, Sandrine put her sunglasses on. Then she walked towards the deer enclosure, where she’d suggested they meet up. She was a little early and expected to arrive before Laura.
At first she thought it was a trick. She hadn’t arrived first, but it wasn’t Laura sitting on the bench waiting for her. Her initial instinct was childish – she wanted to run back to the car or hide behind a tree. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot and did a double take.
It took her only a second or two to realize that this must be Laura, but she continued to stare at her in disbelief. The resemblance to Océane was uncanny. Laura was absorbed in a book, looking up from time to time to watch the deer. She hadn’t noticed Sandrine. Standing a few metres away, Sandrine could see Laura’s profile clearly.
She was older. Older than Océane, but also older than Léa would be if she were still alive. For some reason, Sandrine had pictured Laura as a young woman who looked much like she imagined her daughter would look now. Sam’s hazel-green eyes, dark hair in ringlets. But Léa would be in her early twenties. Laura was in her late twenties or early thirties. Léa could look nothing like Laura. But in eight to ten years’ time, this is how Océane would look.
It came to her then. She’d often wondered why Antoine had spoken to Laura. He had refused to speak to his female colleagues at the supermarket, and yet he’d made the effort to speak to Laura in English. When she’d read Laura’s account of that night, particularly the part where she was held hostage, Sandrine got the impression that Antoine had singled her out. Laura was the hostage her son had chosen to release. Laura had assumed it was because he’d recognized her from when he’d bumped into her earlier that evening in the toilets. But studying her now, Sandrine knew exactly why Antoine had fixed on Laura. With her tumble of untamed ginger curls, Laura had reminded him of the love of his life, Océane. The woman he’d wanted to marry.
Laura must have sensed Sandrine watching her for she looked up then and turned her head, then smiled falteringly.
‘Hi,’ Sandrine said in English, walking towards her as she got to her feet. ‘You must be Laura. I’m delighted to meet you.’ She kissed Laura on both cheeks, as she would once have greeted her French friends.
‘Thank you for making time to see me while I’m in Lyon,’ Laura said.
She looked at Sandrine through her striking green eyes and for a split second Sandrine got the impression Laura could see through her and knew she was a fraud.
Sandrine thought conversation might be stilted if they sat on the bench, so she suggested they walk around the lake. But she needn’t have worried. Laura was bubbly and chatty. She admired the beauty of the park and Sandrine told her a little bit about its history, that a treasure – a golden head of Christ – was supposedly buried here and that Le Parc de la Tête d’Or had opened the same year as Central Park in New York. She also told her there was a zoo and botanical gardens.
Laura told her about the commemorations, the ceremony where the victims’ names were read out, which had evidently left a mark on her, the unveiling of the plaque and the concert that Connor had opened with his speech and song.
‘I went back after the gig to take some photos of the plaque for my friend Sarah,’ Laura said. ‘I looked for your son’s name, but I couldn’t find it. Then I remembered you said that Morvan is your maiden name. Does Antoine have a different name?’
Laura had shot that question alarmingly close to the mark. ‘Yes, yes he does,’ Sandrine said in a voice that came out sounding hoarse. His name is Zakaria Hamadi, but it won’t be on the plaque.
Sandrine cleared her throat but when she didn’t elaborate, Laura stopped walking and took her mobile out of her handbag. ‘You can look at the photos if you like, see if you can find Antoine’s name.’
‘Could you send them to me? These aren’t prescription sunglasses and I can’t see up close very well.’ The lie rolled off her tongue easily, as if she’d learnt her lines by heart, although a sharp stab of guilt accompanied their delivery. She’d intended to dodge the questions she couldn’t answer truthfully, even if that in itself felt dishonest. Yet here she was, adding another coat of lies to the layers of deceit she’d already painted.
She had a sudden urge to blurt out the truth, to tell Laura everything. But before she could think of how to start that conversation, Laura changed the subject.
‘Are you looking forward to moving? Have you found a place in Brittany?’
Sandrine relaxed, on safer territory with this topic. ‘I can’t wait to get away from here, actually. We’ll stay with my parents in Brittany and take our time looking for a new home. We’ve had an offer on our house here, though.’ It was a low offer, but they would accept it anyway. They’d been scared no one would be interested.
‘How’s the packing going?’
‘It’s coming along. The hardest part is sorting through the boys’ stuff,’ Sandrine said earnestly. ‘I don’t know what to keep and what to throw away. There’s no point holding on to Antoine’s clothes and books, and yet I can’t seem to bring myself to throw them away. It’s not much fun trying to box up everything, to be honest, and I’m the one doing the bulk of it because my husband is working hard to sort out transferring his business.’
Laura politely asked what Sam did for a living. Easy questions. Honest answers. Even the one about whether it would be difficult for Sandrine to leave her friends behind in Lyon.
‘I don’t think so. We don’t have many friends here anymore. We had lots of friends when our sons were younger – mainly parents of their classmates. We were close to many of them for years. But then the boys grew up. And since Antoine died, we haven’t seen any of our friends. People have avoided us.’
Laura nodded. ‘My mother said that happened when my daddy died. Her friends didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing at all. And she said her married female friends felt threatened by her. They left her to mourn alone.’
‘How is your mum? And your cousin?’
‘Declan’s fine,’ Laura said. ‘I’m not sure about my mum. I haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘Oh?’
‘She said something rather mean. Well, something incredibly hurtful, in fact. I haven’t been in touch with her since. I suppose you could say I’m not talking to her for the minute.’
‘What happened?’
Laura told Sandrine what her mother had said about her being unworthy and needing to do something with her life. She told her story succinctly and without a scintilla of self-pity, but Sandrine’s heart went out to the younger woman. Poor Laura. She could do with a supportive mother after what she went through. But Sandrine was in no position to criticize someone else for their lack of maternal skills, so she just tried to say the right things.
‘That must have been upsetting,’ she said. ‘Do you think you’ll patch things up with her?’
‘At some point,’ Laura said. ‘But she can make the first move for once. I’ll wait for her to apologize, although my mother can be stubborn and it may be a long wait.’
They stopped and watched a family boating on the lake. Swans circled them and the scene was like a postcard. The two children laughed and squealed as their father used his oar to flick water at them. Beside Sandrine, Laura chuckled but Sandrine felt a pang of nostalgia for a time when her boys were still innocent, when they were still a happy family.
After Laura had told her about the incident in the café with her mother, Sandrine again found herself tempted to come clean about all the lies she’d told Laura right from the start. Laura was so candid and spontaneous whereas Sandrine ran every sentence she uttered through her head first, weeding out anything that would arouse suspicion or invite an awkward question.
As they completed their walk around the lake and headed back towards the deer park, Laura said, ‘I was very sorry to hear that Maxime was ill. How is he?’
‘He’s … I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s all right,’ Sandrine said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt.
‘Sorry,’ Laura said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
Sandrine couldn’t bear it any longer. She couldn’t keep up the pretence. Without slowing her stride, she said, ‘I haven’t been honest with you, Laura. I think the time has come for me to tell you the truth.’
‘OK,’ Laura said, sounding uncertain.
‘I’m afraid from the beginning, I’ve led you to believe that my son was …’ Sandrine stole a glance at Laura, then focused her gaze firmly on the path in front of her.
She would lose Laura if she told her she’d masqueraded as the mother of a victim and was really the mother of a terrorist. That would be the end of this friendship. She couldn’t do it. The dense silence between them seemed to magnify the sounds around them – geese honking, children chattering, leaves rustling in the breeze, and from beyond the park boundaries, the noise of traffic.
‘It’s all right,’ said Laura. ‘It’s none of my business. You don’t have to tell me anything.’
‘No, I want to.’ Sandrine stopped walking and looked Laura in the eye. ‘I led you to believe that my son Maxime was ill and implied that he was in some sort of mental institution in Paris.’ Sandrine paused again and cleared her throat. Then it spewed out. ‘He’s actually in police custody in Paris. He … he plotted a school shooting. In his own school. He didn’t go through with it, thankfully, but he was arrested.’
It wasn’t what Sandrine had planned to say. She’d been about to tell Laura about Antoine. She’d been so afraid of Laura’s reaction, so scared of losing her that she’d changed her mind at the last minute. To keep her friend, she needed to keep silent about her elder son. So she’d told Laura about her younger son instead. It was almost as if this were a test. If Laura passed, maybe one day Sandrine could make a full confession.
‘I’m so sorry, Sandy,’ Laura said. ‘That must be absolutely awful for you. For you and your husband.’
She’d expected Laura to get angry. Her sympathy brought tears to Sandrine’s eyes. She’d been holding her breath and now she exhaled. She was glad she’d told her. Relieved, too. It was only part of the truth, the easiest part, but it felt good to confide in Laura about it.
‘I can only imagine what you must be feeling,’ Laura continued, ‘especially after losing your other son in such a tragic way.’
Sandrine’s headache was clearing. The clouds, however, were not, and she pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head. The huge wrought-iron gates were just in front of them, exiting onto Boulevard des Belges. Sandrine asked politely about Laura’s flight.
Then it was time to say goodbye.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ Sandrine said. ‘I hope you’ll keep in touch.’ She kissed Laura on both cheeks again, noticing her freckles this time. As Laura tucked a wavy strand of hair behind her ear, Sandrine couldn’t help staring at her. Even her mannerisms were similar.
‘What?’ Laura smiled and she tipped her head to the side.
‘It’s just that you look a lot like my older son’s ex-girlfriend,’ Sandrine said, shaking her head in amazement at the resemblance. ‘It’s the red hair. She inherited her grandmother’s Irish genes.’ Sandrine saw Laura’s face fall, her eyebrows furrowing, but she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. ‘She was very pretty, like you.’
Laura’s emerald eyes bored into her and again Sandrine got the unsettling feeling that Laura could see through her.
‘What was her name?’
Was it Sandrine’s imagination or had Laura’s tone hardened? ‘Océane,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I mention that in my emails? Her name was Océane.’
‘No, you didn’t. Océane Renard? Like the animal. Red hair like the fox. Was her surname Renard?’
‘Yes,’ Sandrine said, rubbing her temples. Her headache was back all of a sudden with a vengeance. She couldn’t think straight. How did Laura know that? ‘Antoine was in love with—’
‘Antoine?’
Laura spat out his name and Sandrine realized that somehow her lies had caught up with her.
‘My son’s full name is Zakaria Antoine Hamadi,’ Sandrine said. ‘I wanted to tell you. I tried to …’
But Laura had already gone. It took all Sandrine’s strength not to crumple to the ground. Tears streamed down her face as she made her way back to the car. She knew she’d lost Laura. The pieces of their fragile friendship been sewn together with lies and now they had come apart at the seams.
Chapter 46
1 YEAR AFTER
Laura
Laura had to get away. She couldn’t listen to any more. She ran all the way to the tube station, looking over her shoulder two or three times, terrified that Sandrine would run after her. When she got there, she couldn’t catch her breath – because she’d been running or because of the shock, she didn’t know.
It was only when she was sitting in the underground train, speeding towards Bellecour, that she gave in to her tears. Thoughts and questions stampeded through her head, ramming into a jumble of emotions. Hurt, confusion, anger. Sandy had deceived her, betrayed her. She’d been lying all along.
Sandrine is Zak’s mother. Those words were on repeat in Laura’s head, but they wouldn’t register. Should Laura have realized who she really was? Was there any clue in Sandrine’s emails as to her true identity? Laura racked her brains, but couldn’t come up with anything.
Why had Sandy befriended her? Did she need a friend to comfort her because she’d lost a son? But Sandrine had been an immense comfort to her. She’d been caring; she’d given good advice and encouragement. She’d been more supportive than Laura’s own mother. Surely it couldn’t all have been an act?
With hindsight, she could see that Sandrine had pushed her to describe Antoine’s last moments alive, pressing her for details. Perhaps she’d thought one of the other terrorists had carried out the truly horrific acts. Maybe she wanted to find out if her son had shown some remorse or kindness to those who were about to lose their lives or their loved ones. Laura had told her what she wanted to know, although it certainly wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
She understood now why she’d got the impression that Sandy was defending him in her emails, suggesting that he might have been struggling with his own identity because he’d grown up feeling divided between two cultures. Sandy hadn’t read about the terrorist’s upbringing, as she’d pretended – she’d brought him up! But did the fact that she’d raised Zak make his actions her fault?
