Lily blends with Kazumi’s group as they crowd into the lift. She holds the window bar and brushes the grit from a cut on the back of her hand. Her stomach unhitches and her head dives with the sudden motion of the giant hauling machinery. The turning wheels drop out of sight and an aerial view of Paris appears through the ironwork mountainside. The lift grips hold of her body. It will not release her until she weakens from its force.
The view darkens.
Motion stops.
The doors to her left do not open. Lily hears the lift assistant announcing the lift has reached the first floor. She sees tourists on the lower deck of the lift shuffling out and realises she hasn’t told Kazumi where she needs to be.
She waves in Kazumi’s direction. ‘I have to get out at the first floor—’
She freezes, spotting the man in the black polo shirt getting out of the lower deck, his reddened neck screaming up at her. She turns to face her tourist friends, hugging her body. ‘Oh God,’ she says.
Kazumi calls over. ‘This deck is for the second platform, Lily. The lift will move off soon.’
Lily shudders, thankful to be in the upper deck by mistake. She sends her hand back to the window bar and braces herself, closing her eyes. Her mind leaps at an image of Mrs Kite wagging her finger with the measure of a metronome as the lift drags her upwards a second time. The momentum of her thoughts breaks as she reaches the second platform and the tourists unload.
‘I’m on the wrong level,’ she says.
The lift assistant overhears. ‘It’s going down? Trois minutes.’
Kazumi allows her group to step out of the lift. ‘You need to go back to the first floor?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ Lily replies. ‘My teacher is there waiting.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No,’ Lily replies. ‘I will just stay in the lift.’
‘You will be OK?’
‘I will be fine.’
‘Wait.’ Kazumi opens her waist pack and hands Lily a vibrantly coloured business card. ‘In case you would like to write to Japan. I will be pleased to hear from you.’
Lily’s foot falls heavily on the first floor platform. She brings the other foot to meet it and stands perfectly still. Her heels do not move. She longs to hear Flora’s voice and to see Mrs Kite.
Instead she sees the tall, rough figure of a man with a reddened neck. She makes out a sharp outline of a face under the short hairline but can’t distinguish his eyes; they hide in the shadows. The sun hits at the stanchions behind him and the rays blind her.
She feels the man’s grasp around her waist as he pulls her behind a kiosk. She goes to scream but his face is there.
She smells the putrid sweat in his stubble. He angles her head with his chin. She tears her neck muscles.
Somehow he pushes her to the outside stairs of the Eiffel Tower; the exposure and the height tear away her senses.
He pushes her against the wire safety grill. Her lips rub against the metal cage and Paris sways in front of her, as if in a dance.
People at the base of the tower swarm in pin man motion beneath her feet. Her back is pounded by the wind. The man straightens her up and holds both her hands from behind to point her forwards. Another man passes as they stand on the stairs, but his head is down and he is not concentrating on them.
Her cries are captured by the wind.
They move down the stairs in tandem. She can only follow her feet as they land on each step, cover each small landing and each turn.
Flashes of green. Flashes of grey.
A crosswind whistle.
Lily’s foot crashes hard over a step and she feels power in the man’s forearms. She loses her voice to the wind and to strains of cymbals, drums and trumpets. The parade, somewhere below. Her hair sticks through her glasses. She cannot see her feet. She cannot fall forward; his grip is too strong. Her instinct is to sit. Her knees give. Her arms are wrenched in front of her. He lets her hands slip and she watches him fall. He howls as his shoe catches between steps and he thrusts his leg forward. He hits the landing on one knee, his legs twist and his back bangs against the wire grill. She doesn’t look at his face. His hand reaches to catch her leg but it hits the floor.
Suddenly she is free.
The clang of metal bounces high.
‘Stop! Merde!’ he shouts.
The tone is familiar.
It is the echo of the voice that pursued her through the road tunnel at the Rue de la Bastille. It ties itself in her head and as she sees an open path down, rips itself from her pattern of descent and makes her head spin.
The man shouts out.
‘Whatever you want, I have nothing!’ she yells. ‘Believe me!’
She takes off, jumping two steps at a time down the empty staircase. Almost falling headfirst.
She must keep going.
Someone will be able to help.
Mrs Kite will have called the police and soon they will be swarming the parks around the Eiffel Tower to rescue her.
The descent is never ending.
Her vision blurs as concrete and grass grow closer to her feet. Her thighs are like jelly and when finally the land arrives to meet her, she loses her grip on the handrail.
Lily emerges dazed and disoriented. She stands in the folds of a concessions tent before weaving her way through the souvenir sellers and tourist groups.
Her thoughts are of the school bus. But she doesn’t know where it will be parked.
Nor can she see any police.
The proximity of the river rushes her thought process and her eyes catch the grandeur of the buildings situated on the opposite bank.
The chariots on the roof of the Grand Palais.
Her goal must be to reach the Commissariat Central.
She can see the building clearly.
Her legs carry her towards the bridge across the Seine. A warm breeze blows off the water rippling over her T-shirt and stroking her face. Her thighs ache as her feet pick up pace again, pulsing the pavement with an all-together different resonance. The bridge passes her by in a blur. Her body pulses. She loses herself under the avenue of trees lining the riverside. She sees the Grand Palais ahead.