Matt
The man sitting across the table from her is
Matt’s impossibly young and attractive uncle, not more than ten years older
than his nephew. He looks haggard, but his eyes are serious, business-
like.
"Do you have any idea of why I
contacted you?"
"No. And to be honest, I’m not
even sure how you got my email address."
"Matt gave it to
me."
"Why?"
"It will all become clear. Have
you read the papers lately?"
Susie shakes her head. How can she
explain to him the curves and spaces of the Lourve, the airy homage of
Picasso’s gallery, the train strike, a string of short blacks in various cafes, the
skeletal elegance of the Eiffel Tower. None of this is an answer to his
question.
"I’m on holidays, so even if I
could read French, I don’t want to be reminded of the real
world."
"Not homesick?"
"Not yet."
He pushes a manilla folder
across the table to her.
When she opens it, newspaper clippings
cascade from the folder like autumn leaves. Snippets of history that once
graced page five of the Sydney Morning Herald for a day.
Susie plucks headlines randomly from the
pile. The sequence is determined by accident, or fate. Murder Victim into
Kinky Sex. Police Deny Satanic Link. Australian Academic Murdered in
Tuscany. Pedophile Evidence Surfaces.
"Here, this one."
Australian Backpacker
Missing.
"Matt?"
He nods.
"Are you sure, it could
be…"
"Matt hasn’t been seen for three
weeks, and no-one had heard from him until three days ago."
"Then he’s not
missing."