A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

  ‘What are you going to do, Albert?’ I asked in a wavering voice.

  ‘What do you think we’re going to do, Achilles? We’re going to kill him.’

  I laughed but when I realised he was serious, felt the blood drain from my face. Albert asked me if I was having some sort of seizure? I was ashamed of my reaction, but what could I do? I felt like a tiny mosquito, a trifling little thing, a mere speck of dust.

  In the end Albert abandoned the idea because the second boy had witnessed it all and escaped.

  ‘But just you wait, Achilles,’ he assured me, ‘I’m letting them off this time, but one day . . . I’m going to teach you how to kill.’

  I watched Albert beat up the kid and started thinking: living, breathing things can be killed . . . just like that?

  I don’t know what happened to Albert. He’d been so eager to become my teacher but didn’t bother to keep in touch.

  My Mercedes is the only vehicle parked at the edge of the woods. The sky is closing in on this March evening and the damp air is starting to chill me to the bone. I need to get a move on.

  I take my gloves out of my backpack and put them on. I gaze at the stand of conifers and marvel at their resistance, even in deepest winter. Its valiant foliage, whatever the season, has made it the safest of hiding places for me. I get down on my hands and knees and sneak up to a patch of shrubbery. I sweep the bed of decaying dead leaves with my fingertips, scraping away at the soil. The shovel is only buried about ten centimetres deep. No need for a huge deal of physical effort.

  I find it in no time. The wooden handle is impregnated with mould. I back slowly out of the trees. I’ve been scratched by thorns here before and leaving any trace of blood could indicate my hiding place.

  I return to my car. Just a hundred yards or so down the road there’s a ninety-degree bend to my right. I turn the steering wheel violently and the tyres squeal. I love that sound. A further three hundred yards and I’m finally at the foot of the old oak tree. I get out of my car and dig a little way away from the freshly filled hole from which I extracted Patroclus and my shoes and gloves a few days ago.

  I’m always so afraid when I come here. Last time, I kept looking over my shoulder, convinced that someone was following me. When you cause harm yourself it makes you all the more suspicious and wary of other people.

  I remove my gloves and put them in my backpack, then throw it to the bottom of the hole and cover it up with soil. I continue to study my surroundings. If someone finds the shovel, it won’t matter. There’s nothing to connect it to me.

  But the backpack is different. If what it contains – Patroclus, the gloves, the shoes – should fall into the hands of the investigators, alarm bells would definitely ring. Loud and clear. Black leather gloves stained with blood – I washed them, of course, but blood never completely disappears – boots with traces of haemoglobin on the soles . . . and a knife.

  There could well be that one police officer a little bit brighter than the rest who would make the connection with the murders if he were to find my stash – by comparing fingerprints, for example – and he might then also guess that the murderer lives in the area. They could set a trap for me just next to my little cache. It wouldn’t be the same without Patroclus though. I can’t do this without him.

  I’m in control. I tell myself I’m in control and I believe I’m in control. I know I’m in control. I’m sharper than them. I’m stronger than that bunch. They won’t get me. I’ve been drawing on my muses for twelve years now, each of them my very own Galatea – and they haven’t yet made the cross-references necessary to attribute my first two misdeeds to me. At the time of writing, I’m officially wanted for just three crimes. Perhaps the latest one in Lille will be added to the list.

  Let’s take a little break, shall we? The fact that you’re reading my words is allowing us to create a strong relationship, don’t you think? The more I write, the more I try to imagine what you might look like. How old are you? Where do you live? What do you do? Do you have children? A husband? Passions? Are you an art fan? What’s your skin like? I like to think of you as a potential canvas. In fact, on reflection, I see you as a future canvas.

  All the more reason for you to understand what drives me. Once I’ve described what’s going on in my head, you may very well long for the blade of my trusty Patroclus to slide across your belly . . .

  I get back to my car breathing in lungfuls of air. It smells of heather, it smells of the earth . . . it smells of life.

  Just as soon as I’ve buried the shovel again, I can leave. Very soon now I’ll be back home in my beloved city of Nice. My cosy little apartment perched atop the Cimiez.

  Once the shovel is hidden, I turn the key in the ignition and without rushing leave the dark woods behind me.

  Everything went just fine. Again.

  I’m stuck on Avenue Reine Victoria. The beeping horns create the most annoying of melodies, but I’m patient. It’s good when you know you’re safe. The pressure of the last few days has been such that I’m now in a state of languid torpor. My eyelids weighing down. It’s the calm after the storm.

  The traffic finally starts moving and I make it to the underground car park of my building. I fetch my suitcase and briefcase from the boot of the Mercedes and take the lift to the fifth floor.

  I’m going to stay in and relax for a while. Work can wait. It’s such a luxury to be able to rest like I’m about to do. I’ve signed some contracts over the last few days but I couldn’t care less about them. It’s not complete indifference, but my professional achievements are rather dull when I compare them with my . . . How can I say this? . . . My hobby? When I headed up north, I had no goal other than to accomplish something beautiful and great. My clients were my alibi and no more than that. That’s a luxury indeed, let me tell you.

  My keys are at the bottom of my briefcase, mixed in with all sorts of bits and bobs, and I don’t have the energy to look for them so I ring the bell.

  I hear the characteristic sound of the lock and then the door opens, just like you’d see in a slow-motion scene in the movies. Claire appears in the frame.

  She smiles then lowers her head. Claire is so shy. She blushes if someone so much as looks at her. She’s really very shy – too shy, in fact. I like to study her, and even though I know I don’t feel emotions with the same fervour as your average chap, provoking such a physical reaction, being the cause of it, does move me. It’s such a contrast from the terror I arouse in my victims, you see.

  I approach, dragging my case along behind me, and she steps back to let me in. I drop my luggage and it crashes to the ground with a soft thud. She comes into my arms. There’s something so delicate about her. I hug her tightly. It’s as if I’m making sure she doesn’t get blown away. She’s resisting a little, trying to escape my embrace.

  Strands of her hair tickle my chin. Claire is small – at least a foot shorter than I am. Her graceful beauty is not classic in nature. I who am moved only by the most beautiful things, I who succumb only to the power of the snow on the mountains and to sunny skies, recognise that this woman somehow moves me.

  Claire strokes my cheek with her left hand. Her fingers reach out to gently massage the patch of skin behind my ear. I shiver and then I hear something – a sob escaping from her throat? I don’t know. A sob or a sigh of joy. A gurgle. A babble. That’s what it’ll be.

  ‘Claire? Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I pull her further towards me. Claire is so very slender. Would she understand my art?

  I’ve always done everything to keep my two lives separate. I’ve never taken a single risk. She hasn’t the faintest idea what I do when the thirst comes upon me. Would she ever suspect me even capable of it?

  I’ve already considered how all this might end. Say if the police found me? Put an end to me? How would she react? Claire would discover a whole new facet of my personality. She already knows the real me, but I’d be truly naked in front of her
for the first time. I mean really naked. Body and soul.

  I don’t bother picking up my bags. With Claire hanging from my elbow, I head for the living room, go to the bar next to our huge bookshelf and pick up two glasses.

  ‘Do you want a whisky, Claire?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  A finger of whisky. I sniff at it and knock it back. The heat soothes me. I’m safe at home. At last. The pressure is completely off and I’m quite serene now I know I’m far from danger.

  ‘So how’s business?’

  ‘Not bad at all. I signed three or four contracts in Paris and Lyon.’

  ‘Are you back for a while?’

  ‘Yes, I need a little break. I just need to make one brief trip over to Italy next week – I won’t be long, just an overnight stop – but otherwise I’ll be home for three weeks.’

  ‘Three weeks? That’s incredible! What a treat!’

  I turn to her and her delighted smile makes me feel something close to happiness. She has never begrudged my many absences and is never intrusive. Claire knows perfectly well that my work is demanding and requires me to spend regular nights away, and she accepts it.

  I smile back at her. ‘I don’t know why I spend so much time on clients on the other side of the country. It makes absolutely no sense. I forget that some of my best work has been done closer to home, and besides, I want us to spend some time together. Why don’t you come with me next week?’

  ‘To Italy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, not too far over the border, but if you come with me, we could push on to Genoa. There’s a deli meats supplier in La Spezia who I’ve been meaning to visit for several years. We could come back via Parma. What do you think?’

  There’s no need to wait for a ‘yes’ from her. I can read the answer in her eyes.

  Do you want to know the definition of bliss? Art, my friendship with Patroclus, lying in the arms of my beautiful Claire, our home sweet home . . . Having no enemies . . . I’ve really thought about this and I just can’t see what more I could possibly want out of life.

  4.

  Thursday, 6 November 1986

  Actually, the only thing missing in my life is the constancy of the sun, but you won’t hear me complain about it. I have enough money to only need to tolerate the cold under ideal conditions and these include going to Courchevel, sitting by a log fire with sheepskin rugs on the floor, and the cosy comfort of the luxury chalet that Claire and I stay in every winter when the snowflakes call to us, whispering that it’s time to join them.

  These days I find it easier to hide my true nature behind the mask of the honest and enterprising salesman. However, this hasn’t always been the case. When I first started out, I didn’t know what I was doing. And then Viviane Destrien happened. But I really improved after that . . . and now . . . this is the result.

  The climate on the Côte d’Azur has been mild this winter. There’s no snow yet on the mountains and skiing is something we’re only thinking about adding to our diaries at a later date. For the moment, we’re simply talking about December and the upcoming celebrations. Christmas is the only thing on everyone’s mind, in fact. I would have liked to have spent more time in the Mediterranean, but I’ve been in Strasbourg since the beginning of the week. With the holidays on the horizon, my presence is required in Alsace. I’m hoping to sign some juicy contracts with the region’s central purchasing offices. There isn’t a lot of work around, but I love this region and I enjoy being here. I’m visiting really – just strolling around, looking. It’s the perfect time of year and I’ve driven a long way to get here.

  I like the loneliness of it. Eagles fly alone. It stops us from coveting the souls of those around us. I do have what are commonly referred to as ‘friends’, but this term is overused. The men and women I call my friends are just fuzzy details in the background, and ephemera I can well do without.

  When it comes down to it, I’ve only ever had one true friend. Antoine was four years older than me. We became friends through a shared passion for art and the great impressionist painters of the nineteenth century – in particular Monet. I worshipped this man like I had never idolised anyone before. Frankly, today, only a killer more gifted than me – were I to find one – could share the same pedestal as Antoine. I used to meet him at his workshop two or three times a week. We would savour a superb whisky while posturing about the twists and turns within the world of modern art.

  Antoine was an angry man with opinions forged in steel. His violence was reflected in his work and I was impressed by this. He was my main source of inspiration when I decided to draw the most famous monuments of the cities in which they had lived upon the bodies of my victims, because Antoine had started painting some of the most well-known places in France, you see, and while I was finding my feet in my newfound profession he had already completed some sublime representations of the monuments that I would later go on to carve with my blade.

  I don’t really know how I lost touch with him. When I committed my first murder, I needed to change my behaviour. I’m sure Antoine sensed that something was wrong. I moved away and stayed wrapped in a cocoon of my own making for a couple of months. Later, when I tried to reach out to him again, he had succumbed to desires elsewhere. I never saw him again. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of him. I miss his company. He had such a never-say-die attitude that I think he may be one of the few people who might understand me. Antoine, I think, was one of those extreme artists who is capable of the very worst in the name of art. Yes, definitely, now I think about it, I really do believe that if we were still in contact and I decided to confide in him, Antoine would probably congratulate me.

  The guest house where I’m staying is in Ottrott, near Obernai, which is a little too far from Strasbourg for my liking, but the room is pretty and tastefully decorated. Each time I travel in this area, I come here. The owners of the place are charming and always give me the red-carpet treatment. It’s well worth the few extra kilometres and when you drive as much as I do, a couple of extra kilometres is neither here nor there. On top of which, it’s quiet and I enjoy the silence.

  I came back late last night. Oddly enough, my memory of the day before is a little patchy and I can’t remember exactly what happened. I’ve been in a somewhat nebulous state for about a week now. I blame it on fatigue.

  The hotelier – I call him that, even though this isn’t really a hotel – serves me a cup of coffee. I didn’t sleep well, and the mists of slumber still envelop me. I need a boost.

  I try to remember everything that happened yesterday. I spent most of the day visiting a small company that makes chocolates. Quality products, of course, but currently available only in a few high-end stores. I had lunch with the boss and his accountant, and we went on to spend the rest of the day discussing the terms of our mutual contract. We finally reached an agreement and from now on, I will represent the brand throughout France, Germany and Belgium. They strongly hope that with me on board, their products will finally find their rightful place on the shelves of some of the larger outlets.

  Chocolates, why not? There haven’t been any on my books so far. With my job, I often have to take up difficult challenges. I have to be brave. It’s quite an art. Once again, it comes down to art – to select goods that we suspect might bring in a bit of money, and without blowing my own trumpet, I’m pretty good at it.

  The men running the chocolate place were in somewhat of a bind. They’d gone and hired thirty people, invested considerable sums in the whole industrial process, but neglected the commercial side of the business. What on earth were they thinking? That customers would come knocking on their door, begging to sample their delicious sweet treats? No. You have to go looking for consumers. That’s what I do for a living. So tomorrow, I’ll go along to the two largest retail buying groups in Alsace and convince them to take on my new client’s products. It’ll be a breeze once that’s done. The st
ores dependent on their selections will order their nougat bells and rabbits and their chocolate bars filled with almonds and traditional truffles all by themselves and I’ll get my commission every month. All I have to do is come to the region once or twice a year to maintain my network. When it comes down to it, I’m just a matchmaker. I seek out small businesses with no direct contact with the powers that be; I organise get-togethers with plenty of wine for the retail buyers; I provide them with the odd prostitute here and there, sometimes a little cocaine; and I line my pockets.

  Later, Claire called me at the guest house to check in with me. She was at the apartment, babysitting a clutch of noisy kids for a friend, and our discussion came to an abrupt end. Good. I couldn’t stand the racket.

  After a hearty dinner in the centre of Strasbourg in the company of a couple of customers, I went to have a few drinks in a bar near the town hall. It was one of those evenings when I welcome my loneliness. People like me who travel all the time go through periods when happiness and isolation become contented bedfellows, giving rise to the most curious of emotions. I quite like meeting the men and women who briefly enter and exit my life. My clients never become friends even though I always aim to give them the impression that we are. These exchanges feed me and my days are rich, but I’m aware that it’s merely a smokescreen. I leave for a week, sometimes more, and go back to nest within the warm embrace of my home – my Olympus – while all else vanishes like a cloud being chased away by the mistral wind.

  I love my job – I really do – but let me make this clear: it’s just an alibi. I earn a decent living as I make my way around France, but what I’m also doing is measuring up my hunting ground. Even once my thirst for art has been quenched, and even though I may not always realise what I’m doing, I’m still constantly on the lookout. I seek. I find. I plan. There comes a time when the pressure reaches boiling point and then I realise everything is already in place. A fortuitous meeting with a woman coming out of a café or a cinema. A smile as I hold open a door, although none of it is truly ever left to chance.