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?’
‘There’s a time and a place for your style of interrogation – now isn’t one of them.’
Two of the men looked up as Veronique and Christophe approached, the taller getting up from the wall and sloping in their direction.
‘Vous cherchez quelque chose?’ The smell of rotten teeth escaped from behind the man’s cracked lips. His eyes rested on Veronique’s scar and then darted to the street behind her.
‘Not today,’ Christophe replied. ‘Giselle Marsac. Does she still live here?’
‘Never heard of her.’ He took a step closer to Veronique. ‘Can I interest you in anything, my pretty? Ain’t got nothing to fix that face of yours, mind, but there are ways to help with the pain.’
‘I don’t have a problem with pain,’ she replied, meeting his gaze.
‘You’re sure about Giselle?’ Christophe took out a €20 note and raised one hand to his chest. ‘Redhead. About so high.’
‘How do I know you’re not police?’ The man stared at the money, bloodied fingers scratching at a sore on his sunken cheek.
‘Do we look like police?’ Christophe took out another €20, holding both notes out in front of him.
The man snatched at the money, like a rabid monkey stealing a nut. ‘Tenth floor.’ He inclined his head to the building behind. ‘Pink door, can’t miss it.’
***
As she climbed the stairs Veronique covered her nose to try and block out the stench of festering decay. The walls were littered with graffiti, twisted shapes and dark eyes following them as they ascended.
At the tenth floor they split up, Christophe turning left and she right. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling and the floor was sticky underfoot. Sounds permeated the walls: the cry of a newborn, the bark of a dog, as Veronique passed by unmarked doors.
Something else. A scent that pushed against the recesses of her mind. Burnt matches.
The rapid beat of her heart in her chest, pulse throbbing as she sucked in air through her mouth, tasting smoke that she could not see. Shadows crept over her, pushing into her skin as she leant against the wall.
The heat. She would never forget the heat, how it filled her every pore, tearing them open. Her scar pulsed with the memory, bleached light behind closed eyes, one of which now remained for ever in the dark.
‘Over here.’
She lifted her head, the silhouette of Christophe saving her from her nightmares.
He knocked against a door