a few messages asking how I am and for news so I text back, telling him I’m OK and will call him later. I miss him and Marlow so much that my throat constricts painfully, trying to suppress the sob when I think of them. My whole body aches to hold my child and feel her soft, pliable limbs against my chest, her sticky hot mouth on my cheek. I want to hold her and I want Rob to hold me and I don’t want to be away from them a second longer.
I’ll wait until I’m out of the car to call Rob back, because when I talk to him I’m going to have to come clean about the whole thing and I don’t want to do that with Konstandin sitting beside me, listening in. It’s then that I suddenly realise I should call Kate’s mum too. I should have called her already in fact. It’s terrible that I haven’t. I know she and Kate aren’t close but she is her daughter and she needs to know what’s happening. I don’t have her number, and have only met her a few times, the last time being Kate’s wedding, so I’ll have to ring Toby to get it.
I scroll through my missed calls for his number then hit dial. He doesn’t pick up so I leave a message. ‘Toby, it’s me, Orla. I really need to talk to you. It’s about Kate. She’s still missing. And … I … well call me back. It’s important,’ I add. ‘I need her mum’s number.’
After hanging up I check my social media but hesitate about uploading any messages to Facebook or Twitter about Kate still being missing. I should tell her friends and family first what’s going on.
I sit with the phone clutched in my hand, my foot tapping, drawing on the last of the cigarette like a prisoner in the final minutes before execution. I feel like I should be doing more, like I should be out on the street, pounding the pavement trying to look for her, calling her name, posting all over social media, getting local news involved. I should be printing up posters and knocking on doors. There’s so much I need to do but my brain is fried.
The level of anxiety hasn’t eased off now I know for sure that Joaquim didn’t touch me, it’s only increased. Because another thought has now arisen to take its place. If he didn’t drug me, then who did? If that powder in the glass was a drug of some sort, then the only person who could have put it there was Kate.
But what if I’m wrong and I wasn’t drugged? What if I was just drunk? I’m back to turning in circles, getting dizzier with each spin. There are so many what ifs and unknowns.
‘I was studying to be a doctor when war broke out,’ Konstandin says, making me look up in surprise, and also confusion because it’s come out of nowhere.
‘A doctor?’ I ask, stubbing out my cigarette.
‘Yes, does that surprise you?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I answer. ‘I mean, a little.’
I think about his fist connecting with Joaquim’s face. It doesn’t seem very doctorly behaviour. Also, he’s built like a prize fighter, solid and muscly, with a five-o’clock shadow that’s more salt than pepper.
‘I never got to take my final exam. But it’s what I wanted to be. Came very close. And when the war started and the hospitals were overflowing I worked anyway, to do what I could to help out. There weren’t enough actual doctors left you see.’
I nod, not sure what to say. I barely remember the facts about the Kosovo war. I know it was Serbs versus Albanian Kosovars and that horrific war crimes were carried out, mainly against the Kosovars, but that’s all.
‘Most men from my village had either run away or been killed.’
A wave of sickness washes over me. ‘You stayed,’ I say.
He nods. ‘Yes. My family was there. My parents were too old to leave. My father was bed bound. My mother refused to leave him or her home. And we thought we were safe. It was a small village, a place called Obrinje, and the fighting was miles away.’
‘What happened?’ I ask quietly.
‘I got married.’
I look at him, surprised. He’s never mentioned his wife and he doesn’t wear a ring.
‘She was a doctor,’ he says. I note the past tense. ‘Her name was Milla.’
I wait for him to continue, not wanting to interrupt his