Queen of the Hide Out Read online

  “That’s three.”

  “Three what?”

  “Words. It’s more like a sentence really.”

  “Fine, three words then!”

  “Do you think you might be a bit wound up? Or are ‘bit wound up’ another three words you don’t want to hear? Would you rather all those rich people throw all their extra toys in the garbage, or would you rather they give them to the food bank?”

  “Sure, fine then, Ismène. It’s better than throwing them out. I suppose it’s nice really. But it’s just that I don’t want to be someone’s trash can. Do you see? It doesn’t really put me in the best of moods.”

  I hung up on her. She’d really pissed me off this time.

  It was weird. I always seemed to end up in the same spot no matter what I did. Time and time again I found myself standing in the welfare line, stone-cold broke, with nothing to feed the kids. Occasionally, though, a bit of good luck did show up to counteract my legendary terrible luck.

  I still didn’t feel like getting out of bed, but Ismène’s call had riled me up. It was time for my daily grind to begin. Refusing to get out of bed is never an option for me. So there I was again, ready to face the day . . .

  2

  I was so lucky that, unlike Simon and Sabrina, my twins didn’t have any idea how catalogs worked. It went right over their teeny heads. They lived in their own little world, and nothing ever got in their way.

  Sabrina and Simon had been all over that catalog since they’d first laid eyes on it. The whole weekend, they’d been drooling and dreaming and dancing around, giggling together about all the pretty pictures.

  At one point they’d gotten bored of just dancing and chattering about it all and decided to address Santa himself. The Big Man. They made up a little song. Sabrina sang a lot louder than Simon (who kind of mumbled in the background). Her speech was really improving. At one point, she hadn’t been able to say her l’s, r’s, or s’s. Now it was just the s sound she had trouble with. I thought it sounded so cute:

  Deeeeeaaaaarrrrr Thannntttaaa Claaaauuuuth,

  We love you more and more . . .

  We love pirateth . . . Yeah, yeah, yeah!

  With Captain Jack Thparrow . . . Argh, argh, argh!

  And hith big thip . . . Whoop, whoop, whoop!

  And Beauty and the Beatht are the betht!

  We wish we lived in a cathtle . . . Yeaaahhhhh!

  Neither of them know how to write, but I had great confidence in their drawing abilities. They were going to draw a letter to Santa, I just knew it. And who was Santa exactly? Well, yours truly, that’s who!

  OK, so I wasn’t going to complain because, like Ismène had said, I could always get some gifts from the food bank if I didn’t let my pride stand in the way. It wouldn’t be the pirate ship or the princess castle they wanted, but at least they’d have some toys for Christmas, right? But I still couldn’t get it out of my skull that I wanted to give Sabrina and Simon new gifts in beautiful wrapping paper and all that jazz.

  I’d hoped that over the weekend, my mother, up there on her little fluffy white cloud, would send me the solution through a song, like she usually did. But it seemed she was keeping her mouth shut for the time being. Nothing. Total silence. And then this morning, that Walker Brothers song about not being loved and a lack of natural daylight or some rubbish entered my mind. How depressing! Enough to make you want to put a bullet in your dome. Or maybe she was just trying to let me know what the weather was going to be like? Because if there was a deeper meaning than that . . . Well, hello misery!

  Anyway, unless she sent me further info, it seemed I was going to have to cope on my own. If I counted up the money I owed Ismène and my friend Mimi and the school cafeteria on top of the gifts I wanted to buy for Christmas—thanks very much to whoever invented that bullshit—the amount I had to come up with was a pretty hefty lump.

  It’s not like I was really poor or anything. First off, Ismène was right, I did have a best friend, Gaston, who was megarich. He gets royalties every time Madonna sings some song because he’d written the lyrics.

  However, there were two problems when it came to asking him for cash. The first one was that I don’t like having to owe folks. That’s just the way it is. It’s in my nature. The second reason is that, like I’d already told Ismène, he’d got it into his head three months ago to head off north somewhere. Greenland, Iceland, Denmark, or some place. He said he was sick of being in southern France where it was too hot and he never saw any snow. He grumbled that it didn’t inspire him. He wanted to write an epic poem based on some Icelandic myths—don’t ask me what he was talking about—and off he rushed to Reyk— I think that’s where it was. I don’t know. I’d never even heard of the place.

  But I was also rich in my own right, and that’s something that Ismène had no clue about. You see, I had one hell of a diamond. According to all the headlines, it was possibly the most expensive jewel on the planet and had been stolen in one of the biggest heists of all time. And it had found its way to me.

  And what had I gone and done with it? Well, I’d hidden it among Sabrina’s toys. She had a doll that she’d fished out of the trash at McDonald’s. It was all dressed up in fancy chiffon clothing, made from stuff Sabrina collected from the bin, along with a stunning princess necklace to finish off the outfit. My big pink diamond. My precious!

  The year before, I’d gotten myself mixed up in some dangerous business, and my pretty little necklace was at the heart of it all. The whole time, I’d just thought it was a piece of costume jewelry. I had no idea it was real!

  I’d been so relieved when we finally got out of all the shit we’d found ourselves in that I’d let Sabrina keep the necklace. No one knew we had it, including the police. Also, what better hiding place could there be? It was fine where it was until I could be sure everyone had forgotten all about it. You see? I’m not all that slow, am I? There was no way I was going to end up inside the clink . . . or six feet under.

  What the heck was I supposed to do with it, anyway? For a hot second, I’d considered telling my old cop friend Borelli about it, but then I realized you’d have to be absolutely crazy to hand in something that could be worth so much, right? I’m an honest kind of gal, but I’m not totally nutso! So I decided to keep it for the time being. I wanted to let a little time pass by before making a concrete decision.

  So it looked like I was stuck.

  If you wind up, through a whole series of wacky events, with a huge shiny rock—one of the biggest in the world, stolen by the Russian Mafia (or the Mamma, as I call them) and hunted by cops across the globe—what better way to deal with it than to just pretend you haven’t got it? I’m not a total crazo, you know?

  But the truth was, I needed to play it safe. And with the Mamma quite possibly still keeping an eye on me—who knows with all their stupid minions?—it was best to forget all about my glittery little secret for now. There was no way I wanted to be dodging Mamma bullets. Off to the back of my mind went my Big Pink!

  3

  Pastis was keeping an eye on me from on top of the quilt. He jumped on my belly and started kneading me with his little paws. I call it troddling, but I’ve totally made that word up.

  “OK, come on now, Pastis, I get it! I know what time it is!”

  At the sound of my voice, he jumped up a second time toward my neck and wrapped himself around me like a scarf. Actually, he was almost strangling me. There was no way I could stay in bed any longer if he was playing that game.

  He got up close to examine my face, like he was hunting for zits. Gross! With a few licks of his sandpaper tongue, he exfoliated my skin, getting rid of all the dead skin cells between my eyebrows. This was a clear signal. I was now ready to tackle whatever was in front of me that day. And it was going to be rough.

  We had to have a speedy breakfast. All the thinking I’d been doing on top of the phone call had made us late. There were a few slices of bread and whatever scrapings were left at the bottom of
the jam jar. No butter, no milk. It would have to do.

  What I really wanted more than anything was an espresso.

  I’d been out of coffee for about six months. I’d only had it for a short while, anyway, back when I was rich. It didn’t last long. Now and again, I managed to save up for a packet, or on rare occasions, I’d get some from the food bank. But I always drank my way through it in record time.

  I bundled up the two older kids in layers and layers of clothing until they looked like little hotdogs. I also layered up the babies, squished them into their anoraks, put huge fluffy hats on their gorgeous twinny heads, and fixed the umbrella onto the stroller to protect their legs. Then off we trooped into the biting wind, the kids to school and me to Sélect.

  4

  Sélect is a home away from home.

  Tony has a bit of a thing for me, I think. This is where I usually come after my welfare check has run out and I need a little extra cash. Tony has plans for me and him—he fell head over heels the first time we met. It doesn’t bother me all that much, as long as he keeps giving me a little work now and then. I need to do something to feed my hoard. And if washing pots and pans is what I’ve got to do, that’s fine by me. It’s just like that song about a waitress in a cocktail bar by the Human League! I love that song!

  I knew I’d be getting no work as soon as I set foot inside Sélect. There were two clients glued to one end of the bar with a whole load of empty glasses lined up in front of them. Tony was pretending to clean up and the TV wasn’t even on.

  “The door!” shouted Tony as the wind burst through upon opening it. He glanced up and grinned when he saw it was me. It’s always great to get a smile out of him.

  “Hey there, Cricri! If you’re hoping to do a shift, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, my sweet,” he exclaimed, pointing to the empty room.

  “Got you loud and clear! So are you going to buy me a coffee then?”

  “Oh Cricri, this isn’t the welfare office, you know! But how about you flash me those teeth of yours . . . ?”

  I grimaced and he burst out laughing, turning to switch on the espresso machine.

  I sat up on a barstool. “What’s new?” I asked.

  “Oh well, Mimi’s got big news. Did you know she had a kid? He’s in foster care.”

  I made out like I was busy stirring my coffee. I was about to lie, because I did know. I just didn’t feel comfortable discussing it.

  “Don’t know. Maybe she mentioned it once,” I replied vaguely.

  “Well, you won’t believe it, but he’s, like, adopted now or something. Name’s Léo, or something or other. She’s taken time off to see if she can arrange to see him sometimes. Like on weekends and holidays. She said she needs time to get used to the whole idea. They’re going to check out her place this afternoon. She’s got a new apartment. Two rooms. She’s painting it herself, and if everything turns out OK, she’ll be able to see her kid. Well, she’ll get to visit with him sometimes. She said it was all thanks to you, Cricri. She told me it was you who gave her the idea to get back in touch with him. But she’s real scared, you know?”

  So he knew I knew!

  I was thinking about Christmas again. Seeing as it looked like Mimi might be having Léo visit, I thought maybe she’d want to invite us over for a party with all the kids during Christmas week. I hoped not. I didn’t want to go for New Year’s either. I’m not a total masochist.

  The problem was, I didn’t have the funds to buy a full-on holiday meal . . . maybe not even party snacks. Also, my kids’ gifts would be crappier than hers, and I was worried about them standing there, mouths wide open, eyeing all of Léo’s new stuff . . . If she asked, I’d let her down gently and tell her I’d been invited to spend time with my uncle. She had no clue he was in Norway or whatever.

  Tony appeared thoughtful, standing in a corner. The two of us remained silent while the booze hounds at the end of bar continued their conversation.

  “They’ve put hidden cameras in our cell phones, even in our ID cards. Little chips . . . little cameras. Maybe the Devil’s only keeping one eye on us, but God’s got two. Then you’ve got the New World Order. The big pyramids. All watching us. They’ve got secrets. Secrets that’d be better off staying secrets. Secrets that have been secrets since the beginning of time. We’re not supposed to know anything about them. We should just leave it all well alone. They’ve got surveillance organizations, ancestral secrets. It’s a huge deal.”

  What was going on? He was freaking out! Paranoia or what? It was probably the booze talking. I was thinking about all my money troubles, and the voices of the two drunks were having an effect on me. It was something like a lullaby.

  “You’ve sure got that right, Pascal! I’ve heard there are even hidden messages in what the President of the United States says on TV. Codes and stuff. If you record what he says and then listen to it backward . . . Well, that’s when you’re gonna hear some weird business, my friend.”

  This pair must have already been high or something before they decided to come down to Sélect and drink the bar dry.

  They carried on.

  “When you finally accept the truth, it’ll be too late, bud. Wake up, would you?”

  “Hey, I’m more tuned in than you! I know all about decoding messages and numbers and all that. Take these six glasses. Square them, right? That gives you thirty-six. You with me? So take three plus six. That makes nine. Turn that number upside down. You get six again.”

  Nobody uttered a word.

  “Yep. I’ve got to admit. That was pretty good.”

  They clinked their glasses together. Best buddies again. I swallowed my coffee down in one go. Their conversation had put me on edge, and I was worried about my own shit. It was time for me to head off, back into the cold. That’s when I saw two big accordion folders on a stool at the other end of the bar just out of Tony’s line of sight. They were like the big gray box files you’d keep all your admin papers in . . . or your accounts.

  5

  “Careful. Don’t forget your files over there,” I said to Tony.

  “Where? They’re not mine,” he replied.

  He peered over at the two wonky donkeys, but they gave the same response—shakes of the head, nothing to do with them.

  I’ve always been nosy. I lifted the files onto the bar and opened up the first one. It was full of drawings, maps, and charts, all written in English. There appeared to be schedules, phone numbers, and lists of names in there too.

  But what really caused my eyes to pop out was when I saw TOP SECRET stamped in huge red lettering across all the pages and “Federal Bureau of Investigation” with a Washington, DC, address at the top of the first page.

  Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  That wasn’t French! It was the FBI, right? Had those drunks got it right? We were in it deep now. This was like a movie!

  “Who else has been in here today?” I asked.

  “Two Yankees. They had badges around their necks,” explained Tony.

  Trashed and Lashed nodded, as if they knew what was going on.

  Tony continued, “They both had a ham sandwich. They ate quickly and almost ran out of here. They must have forgotten these. We’ll have to get them back to them. They seem important, don’t they?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Let me call a friend of mine. She’ll know what to do.”

  I called Ismène, but she just thought I was fooling around and hung up on me.

  “We’ll have to call the FBI in Washington,” I said.

  “Ha! And I suppose you’ve got the number?”

  “No, but I bet I can find in online.”

  “Sure! And since when were you so geeky that you could find the phone number of the FBI on the Internet?”

  “Since I did a five-day IT course down at the employment office, that’s when! Didn’t you know?”

  I was showing off a little. I took Tony’s cell phone and connected it to the Wi-Fi. In no time I had the official FBI website on
the screen. It was the same address written in one of the files . . . and it had a phone number. Tony didn’t want to call the US because he thought it would cost a fortune, so I scoured the site for a free number. A number where you could report suspected terrorists and shit like that.

  “How’s your English? Do you speak much?” I asked Tony. “Because I think you’re going to have to handle this one. I’ve got to go now.”

  “No! I can’t speak English! You’ll have to call. I won’t understand a word . . .”

  I tutted at him and dialed the number. It was nothing like phoning the welfare office, that was for sure! I hadn’t even been waiting five seconds before someone picked up. I put the phone on loudspeaker so that Tony, Trashed, and Lashed could listen in. It was like something on TV! When I explained that I was calling from France, where they were having the jeez seven—some sort of hoity-toity meeting where all the world’s big shots talk about all the world’s problems—they understood super quick. I heard someone cry out, “Oh my God! Hold on!” Hold on? It rhymed with my surname, Maldonne. Actually, is that what she’d said? A shiver ran down my spine. No, I was overthinking things. Those two boozers have made me as paranoid as them. It must be contagious.

  They made me hang on for quite a while. I was put through to about three or four different offices. Finally I got through to someone who asked me to describe what I could see on the first page in the box.

  I didn’t know how to explain it. It looked like a floor plan of the Carlton Hotel. Then there were lots of little pictograms all over the page—a bit like smartphone apps. Microphones, cameras, lenses, keys, padlocks, files, arrows, loops, no-entry signs . . . With all these symbols all over the page, good luck to anyone who had to find their way around this place. There were also a lot of handwritten notes: names, lists of people, initials in the corner. I could also see a note that read “Location MPBO.”