by R. M. Green
“Good morning, my love. I brought you a cup of tea.”
HARPER
Harper didn’t look at the face of the man who was about to shoot him. He had always imagined that when staring death in the face, one would look at the face of the harbinger itself. Harper was surprised that he felt no terror or anguish about the prospect of his imminent and violent demise. In fact, he felt more vexed that he was about to die without having done so many of the things that he had dreamed of doing. He felt rather angry that the about-to-be murderer was so inconsiderate of the plans he had made for the next few years and most of all, he felt a mild curiosity about the fact that he was not looking at the assassin’s face, which was unmasked and just a few feet above where Harper knelt on the dirty garage floor, his hands clasped above his head. He wasn’t even looking at the dull, black 9mm Glock, which he remembered was Austrian and had a magazine capacity of seventeen bullets. Then he asked himself why this piece of trivia should pop into his brain at such a moment and decided it was probably a distraction mechanism, to deflect his attention from adjacent doom. What he was looking at with almost complete absorption and utter fascination was the stitching on the black glove of the hand holding the pistol. The glove was not particularly remarkable, almost certainly genuine leather but the stitching had become a little worn in one place on the second knuckle of the ring-finger and one stitch had worked itself partly loose and looped up from the glove leaving the tiniest of gaps between the thread and the leather. It was through this tiny eyelet that Harper concentrated his gaze as if seeing what was on the other side was all that mattered, temporarily oblivious to his predicament.
***
I wish he would get on with it already, Harper thought to himself. My knees are killing me! Still the gloved hand held the gun a few inches from Harper’s forehead and Harper noticed that the gloved hand was rock steady. Obviously a professional, he thought to himself. If it had been Harper about to kill someone, he felt sure he would have been shaking like a leaf and, when it came to it, he couldn’t have pulled the trigger no matter what the motivation to do so.
Harper considered trying to plead his case all over again, to say for the hundredth time that it was all a case of mistaken identity that whoever they were after, it wasn’t him. Maybe he looked like the chap or had a similar name but whatever someone had seen, said or done to warrant such a grisly end in an abandoned garage in a dingy northern Paris suburb, that someone wasn’t Harper. He was about to open his mouth but he changed his mind. Frankly, the whole thing was becoming rather a bore. Why didn’t the bastard shoot? Although the hand holding the gun did not waver a millimetre, Harper sensed something was holding the killer back. Definitely not conscience, Harper reflected, but what then? Doubt? Maybe he was going over all the protestations of innocence that Harper had babbled in the preceding two hours when he was snatched off the quiet side-street in broad daylight and subjected to a very uncomfortable car ride, mostly face down in the back of a Peugeot, what was it, a 407? The saloon one anyway, the one that junior executives get whose grade doesn’t qualify for a BMW yet, not even if they pay the difference to go up a grade. Again, Harper marvelled at his own capacity for trivia, particularly at such a time. In the two hours or so since the man had come up to him and stuck the pistol in his back and just said one word, “Marche,” he had uttered not a word. The same was true of the driver. All Harper had seen of him was the greasy brown hair poking out from a blue and white toque, which looked like it had been knitted by an elderly female relative, and the reflection of his watery blue eyes and unkempt brows in the rear-view mirror. The fact he hadn’t been blindfolded or hooded, Harper took to be a very bad sign indeed.
Whatever the hesitation was, it now appeared to be past as Harper saw the fingers on the pistol move slightly as if the man holding the gun were making sure of his grip. Harper closed his eyes and felt no more than vague disappointment that his entire life was not flashing before him in a super fast-forwarded special-effect moment. There was no cocking of the pistol. The Glock is an automatic. You just squeeze gently on the trigger. Harper heard the other man take a deep breath and hold it. He did the same. The maddeningly annoying, tinny chimes of the Nokia ringtone surprised both of them.
***
Harper had spent his first few days in Paris in a sort of happy trance. His French was decidedly average but he always accompanied every foray into the Gallic tongue with such a disarming smile and deference that even the usually contemptuous shop assistants and petty officials who seemed to make up most of the people he met, warmed to him and were, for the most part, amazingly helpful. Harper had had the foresight to arrange his accommodation via the internet through an experienced firm of professional relocation specialists before leaving England rather than brave the jungle of private ads or local estate agents who demanded such an assortment of documents and guarantees that many less fortunate flat-seekers had despaired and given up. After his girlfriend of seven years, Miranda had moved out and up (she was now dating a minor marquis), he had let his flat in Fulham and the rent more than covered the mortgage. He took voluntary redundancy, which was just as well because at thirty-eight, he already felt past it in the world of ethical commodity trading, (especially when they introduced him to his new boss, Sian, a twenty-six-year-old half American, half Welsh MBA with dreadlocks and a tattoo of a satyr doing unspeakable things to an angel on her permanently exposed shoulders and whose father was the major shareholder in the company), and the generous payment that went with it and had set off for Paris to write a book about a witty, charming sales executive who gives it all up to go to Paris to write a book. Not original, perhaps, but it was his dream and he had enough money not to worry about work for a while. He had inherited a reasonably profitable portfolio from his thrifty and prudent Scottish grandfather and if he was not too extravagant, Harper figured he could live modestly for quite a few years and even then, he could always sell the flat.
After two months, he had established a pleasant routine. He would get up early and plunge into the shower, then run down the stairs three at a time before emerging onto the Rue Rivoli, crossing the river at the Pont Neuf and having coffee and pain au chocolat at a little café on the Isle de la Cité. Sometimes picking up a few groceries on the way home, Harper would bound up the stairs, again three at a time, well, until the fourth floor after which the bounding slowed to a trudge, and spend an hour or so reading or dealing with any correspondence. Loathing email except for work or administrative related matters, Harper preferred to write long letters on good quality paper with a fountain pen. He always believed that it was more personal and that he crafted his missives with more attention than simply tapping out the equivalent of an electronic postcard to the people he cared about.
After that, Harper would take his orange and red Oxford lined A4 writing pad and a few ball-points (refilling fountain pens when out and about being rather a nuisance) and head off for either the Tuileries or the Jardin de Luxembourg, if the weather was dry, or one of the famous cafes like the Zimmer or the Sarah Bernhardt if it was wet. He would take up residence in one of the comfortable green metal slatted chairs strewn about the parks or in a plush red velvet booth in the Zimmer, and chewing absent-mindedly on the pen top, he would set to writing. Often he came up with whole paragraphs, sometimes just a few sentences or even individual words and often the mental wanderings manifested themselves in the form of doodles, scribbles and other undecipherable scrawls. Some days there would be nothing more than just lists. Harper liked making lists. Lists of his favourite films (the top three at that moment being The Third Man, The Jungle Book and North by Northwest) or the number of Capital cities he had visited (seventeen) or his former ‘girlfriends’ (he wasn’t totally sure but he thought six if you count snogging Ingrid Spencer at the Youth Club disco when he was thirteen and a one night stand with a slightly drunk Bulgarian girl he had met inter-railing in Zurich and who, to his shock and dismay, had demanded thr
ee hundred Swiss Francs the next morning as payment for services rendered).
Skipping lunch if he was in a park, or ordering a sandwich and a small glass of red wine or a Kir in a café, Harper would pack up his tools around five o’clock in the afternoon and take a wander around the Latin Quarter to watch the world go by and to browse in one of the many little curio boutiques and bookshops in the area. Often, he would call in at the cramped treasure trove of an English book store, run by a somewhat cynical and diffident, yet gracious and charming, Canadian woman called Lisa, who had arrived in Paris twenty years earlier on holiday and somehow forgot to go home. Lisa had married well and divorced better and was always colourfully dressed like a rich woman’s idea of a gypsy. She was around forty-five and lived with her Mexican girlfriend, Inez, who taught Spanish at the Sorbonne by day and the Tango at a little club in the 19th Arrondissement at the weekends. Harper would stop by for half an hour or so and drink a few cups of coffee with maple syrup and chat to Lisa who was an absolute mine of useful local information from the best dry-cleaner to where to find the essential expat products such as PG Tips, Coleman’s Mustard and Bassets Liquorice Allsorts. Inez would sometimes be there. She was strikingly beautiful with jet-black hair in a plait to her waist and looked the epitome of a leading lady from a Zorro film. Harper was half in love with her, as were many men and women. But Inez only had eyes for Lisa and the two of them had been together for ten years and shared an oddly decorated yet welcoming three-room apartment nearby with two ageing stray cats.
By seven, Harper was usually hungry and returning home, he would make himself something to eat, unless he accepted a rare invitation to dinner. He hadn’t yet entertained anyone at his place partly because he was still finding his feet and partly because he was enjoying the solitude. Thanks to the patient instruction of Lisa and Inez, he had a rapidly expanding repertoire of dishes which had gone from a baguette and cheese and maybe a few olives to elaborate salads, salmon in almond sauce and chicken à la king in just a few weeks. Harper hadn’t smoked since he was a student apart from a very occasional cigar but he did like a drop of wine. He would drink a couple of glasses with dinner then he would spend an hour or so typing what he had written that day into his laptop.
At ten, he might go out again for a nightcap and find a quiet or lively café (depending on his mood) with or without people he knew. He had met a few people at the bookshop and most of them were permanent expats who used the bookshop more or less as an unofficial social club; a place to chat, drink coffee and moan about the French, which is the favourite pastime of foreigners in Paris. Harper had met few French people but one couple, Patrick and Helene Bernard, who worked for a satellite TV station and who lived in his building, had invited him for dinner one night and seemed to have taken on the responsibility for finding him a French girlfriend to improve his knowledge of the language and culture.
Consequently, that very evening he was due to meet the Bernards for an apéro and they had invited, “A simply lovely girl, Audrey. She works in the news department and elle est charmante and she will just love you,” the Bernards had enthused.
***
Both men looked somewhat irritated and bemused by this Finnish musical interruption to the serious business of murder at hand. Harper suddenly felt like giggling but thought better of it when he opened his eyes and saw the Glock still levelled at his forehead. Harper knew it wasn’t his phone since his had some nondescript, jazzy factory preset, which he had yet to work out how to change. Besides, it had been switched off when the man had taken it off him when he bundled him into the car along with his wallet and his Oxford writing pad, which now lay in shreds in the corner of the filthy garage illuminated by a single, naked, low-wattage light bulb. Angrily and without lowering the pistol, the assassin reached into his inside coat pocket with his free hand and with some difficulty, encumbered by his glove as he was, extracted the still ringing mobile. Not taking his eyes off Harper for an instant, he pressed a button and holding the phone to his ear, he didn’t utter a word of greeting. He listened for a full minute with no change of expression on his expressionless face and finally grunted, “D’accord,” into the phone before pressing another button and thrusting the phone into a side pocket of his navy trench coat which, given the struggle he had had to withdraw it from its original interior pocket, seemed the easiest course of action.
Still looking intently at Harper, he slowly shook his head, then closing one eye he extended the hand holding the pistol to its full extent until the end of the barrel was pressing lightly into Harper’s forehead. Harper kept his eyes open this time and again, found his mind sidetracked from his certain and immediate death to being slightly surprised that the gun metal did not feel as cold as he had imagined.
“Fermez les yeux. Your heyes, cloze zem, please,” said the man in a dull monotone. At least he’s polite, he said please, thought Harper and then wished he had thought of something more profound and revelatory since it was to be his final thought.
He felt a blow, like a hammer, against his skull and blinding, flashing lights splintered like a million fireworks in his brain and he felt no more.
***
The Bernards were bustling about their apartment two floors below Harper’s flat getting things ready for the evening ahead. Patrick had already opened a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape and was busy uncorking a nicely chilled Chablis. Helene Bernard was laying the table with various tasty morsels such as olives stuffed with feta cheese, avocado dip and a dozen fresh oysters she had picked up on the way home from work at the Place des Ternes. Audrey was due in thirty minutes at seven-thirty. Helene had invited her half an hour before the time they had agreed with Harper because she wanted to give her a full brief on her prospective English beau and to ply her with a glass or two to slightly loosen her inhibitions. Audrey was a good-looking, intelligent woman of thirty who had a tendency to be rather severe with men since she had spent most of her adolescence and adulthood fighting off their, largely, unwanted attentions. She had scared off most of the self-styled eligible bachelors and all of the married men at the office and wasn’t looking for a man. However, Audrey was a romantic at heart and believed that she would meet someone when she least expected it and so never went looking. Patrick and Helene loved her like a sister and had determined to find her a decent man. Why they felt the need to act as matchmaker to the people they cared for was rather a mystery but Helene suspected it was because, unable to have children themselves, they sought and found vicarious pleasure in trying to bring about the happiness of their friends. And, unusually for modern day matchmakers, they were incredibly successful. So far, even the would-be romances that they had tried to bring about which never came to be had always ended in friendship and not once had they had to face any unpleasant fallout from their well-intentioned meddling. They cared deeply for Audrey and they had found Harper delightful, elegant, lonely and immensely engaging, and Helene thought him dashingly handsome without a trace of vanity. He wasn’t looking for a wife, a lover or a mother, or, the usual dream woman for a Parisian man, a combination of the three. Harper was happy being in Paris and enjoying his new found freedom and both Patrick and Helene were sure that he and Audrey would hit it off.
At ten past seven, the buzzer sounded at the door. It was the doorbell to the apartment and not the buzzer on the street, so that meant either it had to be one of the building residents or perhaps Audrey arriving early as she knew the door code. But arriving early in Paris was unheard of. Slightly puzzled, Patrick set down the bottle of Chablis as it gently sweated condensation and went to the door. One of the guests was early.
***
Harper fell over the threshold and collapsed unconscious on the floor of the narrow, harlequin-tiled hallway. He had blood oozing from a nasty looking gash above his right temple. Helene gave a little scream but at the same moment reached for the phone on the cherry wood table by the door and dialled for an ambulance. Patrick, wh
o had served for three years in the navy and knew a thing or two about not panicking and treating wounds, didn’t try to move Harper who had twisted as he had fallen and was half on his side. Patrick, as gently as if he were handling a newborn chick, manoeuvred the prone figure into the recovery position and went to fetch some ice to hold against the wound. Finding that the remaining ice had been used up for the oysters, he grabbed the bottle of Chablis, which still had the corkscrew in it and wrapping it in a tea-towel held it against the crimson soaked temple of the unconscious man.
The ambulance arrived within ten minutes. By that time Harper, feeling sick and looking paler than Darius, one of Lisa’s cats who was a true albino, had regained painful consciousness and was trying to recollect who he was and how he had got to be lying on the floor of these nice people’s flat with blood all over his face.
Audrey, dressed in a black and white striped light-woollen dress with her hair up in a careless yet elegant chignon arrived just as the paramedics were taking Harper out on a stretcher. Ever the gracious hosts, Patrick and Helene delayed the extraction of the victim for a few moments as they effected introductions.
Harper managed a crooked smile and a slightly slurred, “Enchanté,” before slipping comfortably back onto the stretcher and into painless oblivion.
***
Harper was back on his feet and out of hospital the next day. He sported an impressive rainbow-coloured black eye and several stitches, and was almost disappointed when the doctor told him that he wouldn’t have a scar. He told the doctors at the hospital and the concerned Patrick, who had insisted on coming in the ambulance with him, that he couldn’t remember what had happened but he thought that he had probably been mugged and had his phone and wallet stolen by someone who had hit him from behind, since he didn’t remember seeing anyone.