by Pip Drysdale
I close my eyes and steady my thoughts. I can do this. I will do this. I cannot just sit here and wait for him to come back with his special collection of Dexter knives, or whatever he’s gone to get, and kill me.
I edge over to the side of the bed and look down at the floor. There’s a Tupperware with a note: if you need to pee.
It seems like an oddly humane gesture all things considered, but then a mattress full of urine would require more of a clean-up.
I do need to pee, but I don’t want to pee in that.
I push the Tupperware aside and look under the bed. There might be something I can use hidden under there. But no, just: dust, hair and an old tennis ball.
Nothing thin and bendy I could use to pick this lock.
I look back at the Tupperware.
Fuck it.
Two minutes later I’m drip-drying, negotiating the awkwardness that is being cuffed to a bedpost while trying to pee.
And then I hear it: tyres pulling over dirt. The whirr of an engine. My heart speeds up.
He’s back.
The engine stops. A car door slams outside and I lie back down, pretending to be asleep. The room is filled with the metallic clicking of him unlocking the door…
The door creaks and opens: a gush of cool, sweet air. The crinkling of plastic. I open my eyes just a crack: he’s carrying a small bag of what look like groceries and my handbag. I watch his caramel hair gleam in the light as he moves inside.
He ignores me, going over to the counter where he starts unpacking things: a newspaper, some chocolate, orange juice and plastic cups.
And as I watch him, I realise how alone I am out here. Nobody is going to find me. I’m not going to get out of this.
Of course. Of course this is where it ends. The how-not-to-get-murdered girl gets murdered.
Thank you, life, for your sardonic wit.
But I can’t just sit here and wait for it to happen. If he’s going to do it, if he’s going to kill me, I need to at least make sure he gets caught. I need his DNA all over me. So I need to trigger the side of him I saw last night.
‘Thomas?’ I start. My heart banging in my chest. Because this could go either way.
He doesn’t look at me. He just keeps slowly unpacking things.
‘Thomas?’ I yell at the top of my lungs, my throat burning.
His eyes close, like he’s trying to calm himself. I think of those books on his bookshelf beside the photography collections, and imagine him saying some positivity affirmations in his head – I am happy, I am calm, I am stable – but I can’t afford for him to be calm, happy or stable right now. Because calm, happy and stable people are rational, and rational people don’t make mistakes.
And so I let rip.
‘You need to let me go now!’ I scream. And then the tears start for real. I’m howling, heat on my cheeks, my nose running. ‘You’ll never get away with this.’
‘Yes, I will,’ he says, too calm for my taste. ‘If the police investigate, and that’s a big if, they’ll blame someone like… Nicolas.’
Shit.
That message that came in from Nee-koh-lah while Thomas was holding my phone.
And he’s right.
I think of Nee-koh-lah’s sparse apartment and hairy back. Everyone will totally believe he’s a killer.
I need to up the ante.
‘You’re a fucking monster,’ I scream, going for the cutting frequency of crying babies and telephones. ‘A monster!’
His face is getting red. Almost puce, really. ‘I hope you burn in hell.’
The idea is to just keep screaming. He will only be able to stand it for so long.
He looks over at me. His eyes blaze.
Here we go.
‘Shut up,’ he seethes.
But I just keep on.
‘You shut up!’ I scream. ‘How do you look at yourself in the mirror?’
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as though to centre himself again.
‘You’re a fucking monster!’ I scream. I need to rupture any sense that might be finding its way into his psyche.
‘No,’ he says, his eyes flicking open. ‘I’m not.’
‘You are!’ I scream.
He stares at me and I know something’s about to happen. My pulse thuds, my breath is quick.
He’s looking around the room now, his eyes wild. They settle on my handbag and he reaches inside it then pulls out Anne’s pill bottle. He goes to the counter, opens the packet of plastic cups then moves to the sink. The sound of water hitting metal fills the room and then he pours a cup of water.
Is he seriously going to take a fucking Ambien?
But he doesn’t, he hands me the water. He’s thought of everything. If it were glass I could hit him with it. Then he twists off the top of the pill bottle and I know what he’s planning. He’s going to try to give that last pill to me. To sedate me.
But I have a better idea.
He drops the last of Anne’s pills onto his hand and then reaches for my face as though to force me to take it like I were a dog.
But I turn my face just before he grabs my jaw and I bite.
Hard.
I get the fleshy part of his hand.
I taste blood. His blood this time, not mine. And he lets out a yelp, his eyes wide.
And now his blood is in my mouth and he’s going to have to explain away having a bite mark on his hand when he goes into work.
I let go. And keep my eyes trained on him as I put my fingers of my free hand straight into my mouth. His DNA is under my fingernails now. On the tissue inside my mouth. He raises his hand, his bloody hand, but before he swings, he stops.
He steps backwards.
He heads out the door.
And I don’t know whether he’s suddenly developed a conscience or whether he simply didn’t want any more of his DNA mingling with mine. Or whether perhaps he just wants medical attention. But no matter the reason, he’s retreating.
The door closes with a bang and I hear it click as he locks it. His engine starts. Tyres over gravel fade to silence.
And now it’s just me, the taste of his blood, and the certainty that I need to figure something out.
I turn my head quickly, looking around me. There has to be a way.
And it’s as my head swivels that I hear a jangle.
A blessed fucking jangle.
* * *
I’m wearing earrings. Earrings with hooks. Wire hooks.
Wire hooks that bend, baby.
My hands are trembling as I reach for the left one and slip it from my lobe. I don’t know if this will work. I don’t know when he’ll be back. But I have to try.
I straighten out the metal wire and insert it into the lock on the handcuff, bending it backwards so it kinks, just like I did with that paperclip when I was sitting on the sofa in my apartment.
My forehead is covered in a thin layer of sweat as I take a deep breath, insert it under the lock pin and lift it up. I expect it not to work. But, in the silence of that big and sparse wooden cabin, I hear the sound of hope.
Click.
I swallow hard and slowly pull the two sides of the cuff apart.
And now I’m free.
I stand up, my pulse thudding in my inner wrists, my eardrums, my neck, and run to the door. I reach for the handle and pull. Then push. It’s locked, of course it’s locked, and a door lock is not the sort of thing you can crack with an earring.
‘Fuck,’ I say out loud, moving over to the windows. I’ll break one with my elbow.
I tear the black cloth from the window at the rear of the cabin and get ready to shatter the glass.
But there is no glass beneath it.
There are wooden slats.
They’re screwed into the walls. A hundred little screws sparkle back at me.
My gaze snaps to the kitchen.
I may not be able to get out of here, but at least I’m free. I can fight.
I run over to the sink and open
the cupboard beneath it. I’m looking for a weapon. Any sort of weapon. Maybe the chemicals he uses for developing film. But all I find are a bunch of sponges, some insect spray and a big bottle of bleach. I hold onto the counter as the room swirls around me, because bleach is what killers use to mask the smell of blood. To get it out of things.
I swivel, look to the drawers and pull them open one by one – a couple of plastic spoons, some small packets of wasabi and soy sauce, a few napkins. I pull open the next one, it’s filled with damaged and marred photographic prints.
I reach for the top one and look closer. A curtain takes up a fifth of the frame and it’s not entirely in focus but I can still make it out. Because I know that building, I know that window. I know that room.
And I know that girl.
It’s me.
It’s me taken from my neighbour’s window.
That’s how he found me. How he chose me…
My hand is trembling as I leaf through the others. The second one is an old, worn-out, black-and-white print of a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s around seventeen or eighteen, blonde, sweet looking. She’s wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of dark shorts. The focus is slightly off but she’s very clearly smiling down at the camera. Who is that girl? Where is she now? I flick through to the third photo and I only glimpse it for a split second before I drop them all to the floor. Because it’s of Matilde.
And she’s sitting on the bed in the corner of this very room. She’s tied to the frame. And she’s crying.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
I pull open drawer number three and all I find are little packets of sugar and tomato sauce. But beside them lies a blunt butterknife.
I grab it. I can’t stab him with it. But there is something else I could do.
I run over to the back window, insert it into the groove of a screw. And then I twist. And twist. And twist. And soon my hand is sore but one screw is out. There are five more on this one slat and I don’t know when he’ll be back. Shit.
Adrenaline zings through my veins as I move onto the next screw…
Chapitre quarante
Around ten minutes later I have one wooden slat sitting on the dusty floor beside me, and am starting on the next. But then, in the distance, I hear the crunching of gravel beneath car tyres. It gets louder and louder, the engine idles for a moment and then nothingness. Silence.
I hear a car door open and close. Then another one opens. I don’t dare look through the space in the window I’ve just created. I quickly stick the black fabric back on and pray he doesn’t notice the missing slat from outside. I imagine him out there, and wonder what he’s doing. What he’s pulling from the back seat? A shovel, knives, rope? There are no good options here.
I pick up the piece of wood and move to the door.
The car door slams. I can hear the creak of the boards outside as he steps onto them. Then the clinking of keys as he puts one into the lock. My legs are wide and set so I don’t fall over. I’m ready.
The door opens, I see the back of his head, and I swing.
Hard.
He stumbles, almost falls. But he stops himself and turns towards me. I hit him again, and his arms don’t move in time to protect the side of his face. He falls to his knees, drops the bag he’s carrying and holds his head. His cigarettes and lighter fall from his pocket and scatter across the floor. But he’s between me and the door now. Shit. He pushes the door so it closes and turns to me and fucking smiles.
My heart is wild but my mind is clear. I grab his lighter and then run to the kitchen and open the cupboard beneath the sink.
He’s standing up now and running for me as I reach past the bleach and pull out the bug spray.
He’s four steps away from me.
Three steps.
Two.
I make a low guttural sound, flick the lighter, aim the nozzle and spray.
A stream of fire hits him in the face and he steps backwards, holding his face. His hair is singed and the collar of his shirt is on fire. He trips. Falls.
I can see the door, right there on the other side of him, and I need it to get out. So I flick the lighter again, aim the nozzle again, as though to threaten him. It’s not my fucking fault that he lurches at me. That I spray. There are proper flames now and the can is so hot. I drop it.
My pulse is one continuous beat.
I pull open the door, stumble outside and slam it behind me. The key is still in the lock and with shaking hands I twist it.
And then I run.
I don’t know where I’m going, I just run.
Past the car.
And down the path the car drove up. I can still see its tyre marks in the mud. That must be the way to the main road.
By the time I get there, and see the smooth tar and the promise of traffic, my lungs are burning and I’m trembling with adrenaline. I stand in the middle of the road and look around me. Left. Right.
I have no idea where I am. I have no phone. I have no money and no identification.
Left. I choose left.
I take two steps in that direction and boom.
A big, big bang behind me.
I turn to look.
There are flames and smoke and embers. And it’s coming from the cabin I left Thomas in. My mind puts together the picture quickly: gas cooker, fire, wood.
Oh god.
I’m still standing, staring at the smoke, my eyes wide, when I hear the hum of an engine and look behind me. A black car is coming down the road and I raise my hands and wave to it manically. It slows down and stops behind me. I can see the driver peering through the windscreen, his wide eyes focused on the smoke coming from the cabin behind me. He gets out of the car and rushes over to me. He’s speaking in French and pulling out his phone and I don’t really know what’s happening or what he’s saying, all I can hear is the beating of my own heart and the chattering of my teeth, but I do recognise one phrase: ‘Mon dieu’.
He’s talking very quickly on the phone now. He hands me his jacket. And I just stand still, staring at the smoke. Seconds melt into minutes and soon there are sirens.
Chapitre quarante et un
The offices of 36 Bastion des Orfevres look the same in real life as they did on Google: a big modern building with hundreds of windows reflecting the sky, on the edge of the 17th arrondissement. The same but bigger. And more menacing. Those were my first impressions as I pushed my way through the glass door and went inside. I gave the man at the desk my name, and he rode with me up an elevator, led me down a few hallways, and opened the door to a small room.
That’s where I’m sitting now. Waiting. Trying to keep my eyelids open. Because I’m that wired kind of tired; where your brain knows the threat is gone but your body refuses to let down its guard, to sleep. Just in case.
It’s Thursday now, forty-eight hours after that big boom. I spent the first twelve hours in a hospital, having all sorts of people come in and ask me questions and then all sorts of other people tell them that they really should wait. But from that hospital bed, with the smell of antiseptic in my nostrils, the sound of sirens still ringing in my ears and still in a mild delirium, I told them everything. I gave them Thomas’s name, his address, told them what he’d done, showed them my wrist and the marks from the handcuff. I told them all about that video of Thomas and Matilde on the bridge; about Sabine and the numberplate. From the looks on their faces, ‘everything’ did not make much sense to them, but notes were made in notepads all the same.
A policeman drove me home when it was time to leave the hospital. I’m pretty sure he thought I’d suffered some sort of concussion when I asked him to come upstairs and make sure there was nobody tall and ominous waiting for me.
But he came. And he looked. And there was nobody, of course.
Hyacinth hadn’t, and still hasn’t, published my article. When I checked my emails, there was a message from her saying, ‘Great, let me run with this, I’ll do some digging.’ Nothing since then b
ut I didn’t care. I was too busy scouring the streets outside every time I boiled the kettle and spoke to Mr Oiseau. Too busy lying on the sofa beneath a blanket, my eyes trained on the door just in case someone broke in.
I didn’t leave for food. For anything. I just ate and drank what was in the house until I got the call this morning.
And then I ordered an Uber and came here.
The door swings open and Luneau walks in. He’s carrying an iPad and some papers. And Brigadier Moor is trailing behind him.
‘Harper,’ Luneau says, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite me.
‘Hi,’ I reply as Moor sits down too.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, his eyes on my bruised face. But his expression is uncomfortable, he’s thinking, Please don’t go into too much detail. I don’t suppose police are hired for their bedside manner.
And so I keep my reply succinct. ‘Shit.’ My stomach twists as my eyes meet his.
He gives a small nod, reaches beside him and flicks on a black, square recording device, and a little light glows red. He runs through the date, time, location and people present all in French, pulls out his notebook, and then his eyes return to mine.
‘Harper, when did you meet Thomas Jamison?’ Luneau asks, all business.
‘In early October,’ I say. ‘It was in the laundromat.’ But now I’m thinking of that picture of me through the window. ‘I think he found me before that though. I think he was watching me.’
He nods. ‘Yes, he was. We found these.’
He fiddles around on his iPad, then pushes it towards me so I can see. I expect it to be another picture of me through my neighbour’s window but it’s not.
It’s an image of me standing outside my building, entering the door code, waiting for that big brown wooden door to swing open.
I frown down at it and then look back up at Luneau. He touches the screen to flick through to the next one.
Me, in the laundromat, texting someone. It’s taken through the window.
‘That’s it,’ I say, pointing to the laundromat. ‘That’s where I met him.’ My voice is dry and scratchy from lack of sleep and god knows what else.