by Amy Cross
“Are you okay?” I asked, starting to fear the worst. In the back of my mind, I'd begun to realize that I didn't even know the number of the emergency services in Paris. Did they use 999, like England, or did they have some other number?
The figure in the chair didn't respond, but I could hear his slow, rasping breaths and I could just about see his chest rising and falling. At least he was alive.
“My name is Chloe,” I continued, still hoping against hope that he'd suddenly spring up and tell me he was fine. “I live in the apartment across from yours, and I saw your door was open so I wanted to check that you're okay. I figured I should probably introduce myself, and then...”
My voice trailed off as I realized that the figure didn't even seem to have noticed my presence. Dressed in what appeared to be some kind of old-fashioned dinner jacket, as if he'd only recently returned from a party that had ended a century ago, he was at least breathing, although after a moment I realized I could hear a series of faint, mumbled gasps coming from his mouth. Stepping a little closer, I realized he actually seemed to be talking to himself.
“Okay,” I said finally, as it became clear that the guy really did need help, “I'm going to call a doctor or someone, okay?”
I waited, but still there was no response.
“Just hold tight,” I continued, pulling my phone from my pocket. Opening a browser window, I tried to stay calm as I typed in a search for French emergency numbers, and I quickly came up with the answer. “One, one, two,” I muttered, starting to type the number into my phone. I turned to the old man and forced a smile. “It's fine, I've -”
Stopping suddenly, I saw that his head had turned and that he was now staring straight at me.
“I...”
For a moment, all I could do was watch his old, reddened, watery eyes.
“My name,” I continued finally, “is -”
I fell silent. The man's gaze was more intense than anything I'd ever felt before, as if he was pinning me to the spot through sheer willpower.
“Get out,” he stammered finally.
I swallowed hard.
“My name is -”
“Get out!” he said again, more firmly this time.
“I just came to help,” I told him. “My name is Chloe -”
“Get out!” he screamed, suddenly stumbling to his feet and grabbing my shoulders, pushing me toward the door. “Out! Get out of here!”
“I'm sorry!” I shouted, almost dropping my phone as I stepped back across the room. “I was only trying to -”
Before I could finish, he pushed me hard enough to send me clattering against the wall. Bumping my elbow hard, I let out a gasp of pain and then turned to see the old man advancing, as if he was getting ready to physically manhandle me out of his apartment.
“I'm leaving!” I told him, holding my hands up to indicate surrender. “I'm sorry, I'll go right now!”
Ducking out into the hallway, I made my way toward the front door and then out to the stairwell. When I turned, I saw to my surprise that the old man was still following me, shuffling as quickly as he could manage along the corridor with an expression of pure fury in his eyes.
“My name is Chloe,” I explained, hoping to set things right, “and I -”
Suddenly he slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing alone in the stairwell. I could hear the sound of him muttering to himself as he headed back through his apartment, but my heart was racing and I was still trying to work out whether I'd done anything wrong.
“My name is Chloe,” I said out loud finally, a little forlornly. “I just wondered if you needed help.”
I waited a moment longer, before turning and starting the long trudge down the stairs to fetch my bag.
“I guess that's a no, then.”
Chapter Two
Matthias
So it begins.
Slumping against the wall, I tried to get my breath back. I had wanted to embrace Chloe as soon as I saw her, but I didn't dare. I knew what was supposed to happen next, and I couldn't risk making any changes. Already I was worrying about the effect of small mistakes I might have made, but I reminded myself that it was only the big changes that would cause trouble. I knew that I had to focus my energy on the task of restoring my body to its former state. I vowed that the next time I saw Chloe, I would have my old, younger face again.
The jaws of destiny were closing tight around us.
Chapter Three
Chloe
“Men get worse with age,” Belinda said matter-of-factly as she topped up my glass from the bottle of champagne she'd ordered at the bar. “It's a fact. Women age like a fine wine, and men age like...” She paused, searching for the right word. “Men age like a chocolate biscuit. They get soggy and runny and increasingly unpleasant.”
“It was my fault,” I replied, taking a sip of champagne but still not liking it very much. To be honest, I'd never been much of a drinker and I was struggling to keep up. At the same time, I wanted to start experiencing real Paris life, and I figured I had to learn to drink like a local. “I went into his apartment without permission, and I disturbed him when he was obviously just taking an afternoon nap.”
“You were trying to help him!”
“I was intruding.”
“His door was open!”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
Rolling her eyes, she clinked her glass against mine and then took a long, heavy swig. Setting her glass back down, she let out a brief burp that seemed entirely at odds with her otherwise chic appearance.
“Are you sure I don't look like a prostitute?” I asked. “This dress is kinda short.”
“My longest dress is shorter than what you're wearing tonight,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
“I suppose,” I muttered, but I couldn't help looking down at my exposed knees.
“Let me tell you something about men,” Belinda continued, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. “Men get worse with age and -”
She frowned.
“Did I already say that?”
I nodded. “It's okay. Maybe I need to hear it again.”
“Let me tell you something else about men,” she added, taking another long gulp of champagne and immediately refilling her glass. “They get worse with -”
I smiled.
“No, something else,” she continued, before taking a moment to concentrate. “I'm not senile. Men will suck you dry if you let them. I'm taking about emotions here, before your dirty mind starts wandering.”
“I'm fine,” I replied, although I looked down at my drink, hoping that the lights of the bar would hide my blushes.
“I mean it,” Belinda said loudly, nudging my arm. “Let a man into your life and he'll sink his teeth into you, and he'll start sucking your life-force like...” She took another swig. “Like a vampire.”
“Not all men are like that,” I pointed out.
“You say that from experience?”
“Well, no,” I replied, “not really. Not much.” Was I blushing? “I just don't think you can say all men are all similar. Some are bad, and some aren't. It's the same with any group of people.”
“True,” she said with a smile. “Maybe. You'll harden with age, as the knocks pile up.” With that, she clinked her glass against mine again. “Now drink up. I've got tonight all mapped out, and we've still got four more bars to hit before midnight!”
“Four?” I replied, my eyes widening with shock. “I can't manage four!”
***
“Four,” I muttered, sitting on a bench on the metro platform, waiting for a train. “I shouldn't have... tried to manage...”
I hiccuped.
“Four...”
Checking my watch, I saw that it was almost 2am. I wasn't drunk drunk, not by party girl standards, but I'd had way more than I'd usually contemplate and I was definitely feeling a little light-headed. Belinda had led me from bar to bar, and she'd easily consumed four times as much alcohol as I had, yet she'
d seemed bright and perky when we'd headed our separate ways a few minutes earlier. Now I was alone on a little wooden bench, waiting for my train, and all I could think about was that I wanted to crawl into bed and spend the whole of the next day under the covers.
I hiccuped again.
And then I smiled as I heard my mother's voice in my head.
“You'll get murdered sitting there!” she was yelling. “They'll find your poor little corpse floating in the Seine! Get a taxi, Chloe!”
Glancing along the platform, I saw a middle-aged woman on one of the other benches. I quickly told myself that she looked nothing like a murderer, although then it occurred to me that that's exactly what a murderer would want me to think. I stared at her for a moment until suddenly she glanced at me, at which point I looked down at my purse and waited until I saw, out the corner of my eye, that she'd gone back to reading her newspaper. At that moment, I heard a distant rattling sound approaching along the tracks, and I turned to see the lights of the train approaching.
Getting to my feet wasn't quite as easy as normal.
A couple of minutes later, as the train rumbled and creaked out of the station, I sat slumped in a tatty old seat. The bright lights of the carriage offended me somehow, but I had to concede that the late-night Paris metro was at least less busy that its London counterpart. In London, I reminded myself, there'd be gangs of wild drunks, and even someone as plain-looking as me would be whistled at and probably propositioned. Taking a deep breath, I made a mental note that at the age of twenty-three, I was way too old to be out and about so late. I'd tried a night out in Paris and I hadn't really enjoyed it that much, so from now on I'd just chill at home, even on Saturdays.
After all, I hadn't moved to Paris for fun, or for adventure. I'd moved because -
Suddenly glancing out the window as the train slowed, I realized I was already at my stop. I got to my feet and tottered to the door, and finally I stepped out onto the platform. Looking both ways, I saw that there was no-one else around, so I began to make my way toward the steps at the far end as the train sped up and then whooshed away. A gust of wind blew against me, bringing a faint stench of dirt and cigarettes, but finally I was all alone and the only sound came from my heels as I picked up the pace and made for the steps in the distance.
Bed.
I just wanted to get to bed.
And sleep.
I needed -
“You must stop!” a voice shouted suddenly, as a hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.
Startled, I pulled away and turned to find an old man lunging at me with wild, panicked eyed. Stepping back against the wall, I reached into my purse and fumbled for the mace spray that my mother had made me pack.
“Where is he?” the old man continued, putting his hands on my shoulder again.
“I'm sorry,” I replied, twisting away, “I don't know what you're -”
“Where is he?” he stammered again, seeming even more panicked than a moment ago. “I need to see him one more time!”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I replied, taking the can of spray from my bag but not opening it yet. After all, I figured the old man couldn't be too dangerous. “Please,” I told him, “I think you've got me confused with someone else.”
“I have been searching,” he continued, limping toward me as I took a couple more steps back. He reached out to grab me, but this time I dipped out of the way. “Where is he?” he asked again, almost pleading with me. “I thought I might never find him, but then I realized I just had to try one more time!” He started coughing, doubling over for a moment and leaning against the side of a bench. “I remembered the story...” he added, before breaking into another series of coughs.
“I'm sorry,” I told him, taking a couple more steps back, “but I think this is a case of mistaken identity. I don't know who you are. My name is Chloe and -”
“Please,” he gasped, between yet more coughs, “you have to help me. I know he's still here, but I can't find him without your help.”
Stepping back again, I shook my head. “I'm gonna go, okay?” I told him. “I'm sure you'll be fine.”
“Chloe, please...”
He reached out and lunged at me again. I managed to give him the slip as he stumbled and fell onto the bench, but I was really starting to think that he was out of his mind. For one thing, he was dressed like a hobo and he stank, and for another he wasn't making any sense at all. As he broke down into a long, bone-shaking coughing fit, my first instinct was to try to get some help for him, but I knew there was probably nothing I could do. Still, I hated the idea of leaving a sick old man alone on the metro, and the shock had sobered me up a lot, so I took a step toward him.
“Hey,” I said, reaching out and touching his arm, “listen, can I -”
“Where is he?” he shouted, grabbing my wrist and pulling me closer.
“You're kinda hurting me,” I told him.
“Where is he?” he hissed, pulling me toward him.
“Please,” I replied, trying to get free, “can you let go? You're hurting my arm.”
“He can't get away with it,” he continued, leaning closer to me until I could smell his foul breath. “Chloe, I need to see him, I need to make sure -”
“Stop!” I shouted, finally managing to get my wrist out of his grasp. He'd been squeezing so tight, he'd left a red mark, and as I took a step back I began to realize that there was no way I could help him. “Listen,” I stammered, trying to stay calm, “I don't know who you are, and I hope you've got somewhere to sleep tonight, but there's absolutely nothing I can do to help you, okay? And you shouldn't go around grabbing people like that, even if you're drunk because they'll -”
“Where is he?” he shouted, scrambling across the seat and trying again to grab me, before breaking down into another coughing fit.
I stepped back, watching as his whole body shuddered, and finally I realized that I just had to get home. Turning, I began to make my way toward the steps, before stopping suddenly and slipping my hand into my purse. Finding a ten euro note, I turned back and slipped the money onto the bench next to the old man, who was still coughing violently.
“That's for you,” I told him. “Get something warm, okay? Like a cup of tea or, I don't know, a croissant or something.”
With that, I turned and started hurrying toward the steps. I forced myself to ignore the old man's continued coughs, and after a moment I looked down and saw that my wrist was still red and sore.
***
“Awful person,” I gasped breathlessly as I reached the sixth floor of my building and stopped to rest against the wall. “I'm an awful person. Get yourself a croissant. Did I really say that?”
Taking deep, hawking breaths, as I struggled to recover from the ascent, I couldn't help thinking about that poor old man on the metro platform. Ten euros wouldn't help him, not really, and I was starting to feel as if I should have tried to do more for him. I mean, sure, he'd scared me and he'd bruised my wrist, but I hated the idea of him being all alone out there and I just wanted to try to help him. He'd seemed so confused and scared, as if he genuinely hadn't understood what was happening. I couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of a life might lead a man to end up in such a mess, but I figured that it must have been a long time since someone had tried to help him. My heart ached at the thought of him alone out there in the city, night after night.
“I should go back,” I whispered. “It's the right thing to do.”
I turned. Then, stopping suddenly, I remembered that the man at the metro station had been closing the gate as I left, which meant the place would be locked up by now. I figured that either the old man had been forced out into the cold night air, or he'd taken another train to a station that stayed open a little later. Either way, finding him would be next to impossible.
“I'm an awful person,” I said again, as I turned and began sloping toward the final flight of steps. I actually started to feel cramp in my legs as I headed up to the
next floor, but I figured that was the least I deserved. After all, I'd failed to be a good Samaritan, and I'd essentially abandoned an old man to a cold night alone.
Then again, what more could I really have done?
Suddenly hearing the jangling of keys, I looked up and realized there was someone at the top of the stairs. I almost never ran into anyone in the building, and when I glanced at my watch I saw that it was 2am. Still, I knew there were people living up on the eighth floor, so I told myself that it wasn't that surprising to hear signs of life. Taking a deep breath and still fighting against my aching legs, I stumbled to the top of the stairs while rooting through my bag for my purse.
And that's when I saw him.
Stopping, I stared blankly at the man who was just in the process of unlocking the door of the apartment opposite mine. Having previously become accustomed to the idea of that particular door always remaining closed, I was now seeing it open for the second time in just a few hours, although this time the man entering the apartment was clearly not the same old man I'd disturbed earlier. As he pushed the door open, the man had his back to me but I could already tell that he was much younger, more like my own age, with jet-black hair and an immaculately tailored suit.
He stepped into the apartment, but after a moment he paused, as if he realized he was being watched. Finally he turned a little, and I saw the side of his young, impossibly handsome face. He had cheekbones to die for. Or to kill for. Or both.
A faint smile crossed his lips as he turned all the way to look at me.
“Hi,” I said, although my voice chose that exact moment to add a kind of high-pitched squeak.
Damn my voice.
He frowned.
“I mean hi,” I said again, lowering my voice a little too far this time. I sounded like I was growling.