The first thing I realise when I land at Berlin Schönefeld Airport is that I have no euros to get myself into the city. I can probably jump on the S-Bahn without paying, but I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I get there. I have no contacts here, nowhere to stay.
For the first time in a very long time, I feel a little afraid.
What happened in Irkutsk, and then in Moscow … I hadn’t expected things to take such a dark turn. I’m grateful to Ivan for sorting everything for me and leaving me enough cash to buy a plane ticket out of there, but even he had looked at me with disgust in the end.
He doesn’t understand. No one does.
Things have happened to me over the years. Ever since I was a little girl, it seems that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That misunderstandings and accidents have happened around me, and somehow I’ve been to blame. I know that this is why my mother was so horrible to me. Tried to push me away.
But Daddy never did.
After that horrible incident with Ophelia Morgan in sixth form, I was as traumatised as everyone else – but for some reason I was eyed with suspicion, just because I happened to be there when she’d decided to jump off the clock tower. I’d been trying to coax her down, not wind her up. But then it all happened so fast. Daddy paid the Morgans off so that they wouldn’t investigate further, and I had to leave school just before my final exams, but I didn’t care about that. What I cared about was how everyone was so quick to judge. Ophelia had been my friend. OK, so it had to be in secret because the rest of her stupid little clique hadn’t approved, but that doesn’t make it any less real. It was real to Ophelia and it was real to me.
I’m not sure I’ve ever really gotten over that.
Daddy was the only one who gave me support, stepping in when Mummy stepped back. He was the practical one. He’d accepted my grief without question. He’d sorted everything out. When I left home, I tried hard not to call on him for anything more, knowing how much it upset my mother, but I’d had to call him after Michael, and I realise that I’m going to have to call him now.
Thankfully, my mobile still has charge.
I drop my rucksack onto the floor, and sit down on top of it. It’s midday, so that means it’s 11:00am back home – too early for golf, but he might be in a meeting. The phone rings a few times and I’m about to give up, when he answers.
His breathing is fast, rasping, as if he has had to move quickly to grab the phone before it rang off. I try to picture him in his office, or maybe he was in the kitchen making tea. Mother would be out at one of her classes, I imagine. Not that she would answer the phone anyway, if she saw my name flash up on the display.
His breathing slows at last, and then there is a small sigh, before he says, ‘Veronica? Is that you?’
I open my mouth to speak, but suddenly my throat is constricted, and tears start to fall. Hearing his voice like this, I have so many memories. I have a dull ache in my stomach, a sudden, intense longing to be at home. Back in the mansion in the countryside, surrounded by fields and flowers and fresh air. Away from this place, this too-bright, echoing space filled with adrenaline and anxiety and too many chattering voices.
‘It’s me, Daddy. How are you?’
He lets out a longer sigh now, slow, steady. I imagine him slumping down onto the sofa in his office, sinking into the squashy, cracked leather. That sofa is older than me, and I had always loved sitting there – curled up, watching him work at his wide desk, framed by a picture window looking out onto the manicured lawn and the open fields behind.
‘Where are you, Veronica? We’ve been very worried—’
‘No need to worry,’ I say, cutting him off. I hold the phone away from me for a moment while I sniff, and wipe my face quickly with the back of my hand. I don’t want him to think I’m upset. I can’t be upset. He’s always said that I am so strong. ‘I’m in Berlin,’ I tell him. I considered lying, but he does need to know where I am if he’s going to be able to help me. ‘Not sure how long I’ll be here. Thing is—’
‘How much do you need?’
It’s my turn to sigh. Is this all we are now? Two people who only speak when one of them needs money. One of them being me.
‘Thing is,’ I start again, ‘I’ve actually lost my bank cards.’ This isn’t a lie. Ivan made me get rid of every single one. Cut them up and burned them and threw the ashes in the Moskva. It’s like he knew that what happened in Irkutsk wasn’t the first time. I mean, of course he’d know. Any normal person would’ve called the police.
I hear the sound of a keyboard tapping down the phone. ‘I can arrange a new card and account at Targobank – the branch on Friedrichstraße. Can you get yourself there?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘Good. Good.’ His voice is clipped, the warmth of his initial greeting gone. ‘I need to get on, Veronica. I’ve got important meetings today. Your mother will be home soon.’
Subtext: your mother will be home soon and I need this transaction dealt with before she comes back and finds out what I am doing. I get it.
‘Thank you, Daddy. I’ll pay you back soon, I promise. I’m thinking of coming home…’
The keyboard tapping stops, and I hear the sound of a door slamming shut.
‘Don’t come home, Veronica. Goodbye.’
He cuts the connection before I can reply.
I just hope he puts enough money in the account so that I don’t have to call him again. I’m annoyed with my brief moment of vulnerability, but the sound of the door slamming pushed it away. He won’t tell my mother that he spoke to me. As far as she’s concerned, I no longer exist.
I slide my phone back into the front pocket of my bag, then lift it back up and hoist it onto my back. I’m sick of this travelling now. I want a bit of luxury for a change. I watch people push expensive wheeled cases over the concourse. Glamorous women in high heels tap-tapping on the marble floor. Over at the cash machines, people are fumbling with small travel bags, stuff wads of notes into hidden pockets, and I think for a moment about strolling over and robbing someone while they faff around with their wallets, but I decide against it. It feels riskier here, somehow. Despite everything that’s happened to me in one of the most dangerous countries in the world, I actually feel more intimidated here in this airport. It would be much easier for me to be extradited from here, and I’d rather not take the risk.
I follow the signs for the trains and hope that they haven’t changed their security systems since I was here last – when there were no barriers and rarely any guards doing spot-checks. There are electronic adverts on various screens as I walk towards the train platform, advertising the Westin Grand, and I decide that it must be fate. I wait for the correct train, and jump on. It’s a much easier system to navigate than in Moscow, and with a quick change, I am there.
The Französische Straße U-bahn stop is right next to the hotel, and I’m pleased with myself for getting here without any bother. There were no guards, as I suspected, and no one really paid me any attention. I’d like to go straight into the hotel – the glass frontage and the properly attired doorman are much better than that Soviet fleapit I had to blag my way into in Moscow. That was a blip, and I’m over it now. Back in charge of things. Or at least I will be, when I get my money. I quickly Google the bank where Daddy has arranged my new card, and I’m pleased to see it’s only a couple of streets away. It’s almost like he knew I would come to stay here. It’s the last place we visited as a family, and despite it being many years ago, I do remember it fondly. I imagine my mother would have a different view. If I remember rightly, there’s a Ritter Sport chocolate shop not far from here. It’s been too long since I had any decent chocolate. I’m walking up the street when I have a flashback to the very first night on the train – when we left Beijing for UB and everything was still fun. I’d been dozing on the bunk, enjoying the rhythm of the train sending me to sleep, but then I’d realised that Carrie was meant to be coming back with cups of tea for us.
I found her in the dining car, squeezed into a booth seat with a bunch of people wearing beige and brown tour company T-shirts, all with little shot glasses of vodka in front of them. Carrie was in her element, hands waving in front of her as she regaled them with something hilarious that made them all laugh. One of them sensed me staring, and there was silence for a moment, and Carrie turned and saw me, her smile lighting up her face.
‘Violet! There you are. Come and join us … We’re discussing the best chocolate in the world. This is Steve, and his wife Marion … and this is George, and his friend Sandra, and her sister Maude…’ She’s babbling away, and the others are muttering hellos, and giving me little waves – and I remember feeling that stab of annoyance, right there and then.
No, I’d thought. Carrie is my friend. This is our trip.
They’re all talking over each other, saying Cadbury’s, or Swiss or Belgian, and it’s unanimous that they all think that American chocolate tastes like sick – except for Peanut Butter Cups.
‘Stop!’ I shout, and they all do. Mouths hanging open. I hadn’t meant to shout, but the noise was too much, frittering around my brain, and I was sick of their inane chatter. I wanted a proper conversation with Carrie, in our cabin, about life and love and things that matter. But I could see the look on her face – that wary look that I’ve seen people get before, and I realised my mistake. So while they’re all still staring at me, mouths agape, I gestured to the barmaid to bring more drinks, and I said in a stage whisper, ‘I’m sorry, but you’re all completely mad. Everyone knows that the Germans make the best chocolate. Have you never had Ritter?’
And then the babbling starts again, and the drinks arrive, and Carrie grins up at me and I know I’ve got away with it, for now.
‘Hey, watch it.’ A short guy in a tight suit bumps me out of the way, and I realise I’ve daydreamed my way all along the street. Somehow, on some in-built autopilot, I’ve made it to the bank. It’s useful when your father is a real VIP, with fingers in many businesses and banks around the world. I catch sight of myself in the shiny metal entrance next to the glass doors. I look bedraggled, and in need of some proper attention. All I need to do now is pick up my card, draw some cash, and then I can sort everything out. Hair, clothes, proper hotel. Everything is going to be just fine.
It always is.