A Citizen Of Nowhere

by Seth Lynch

  'Forced his attentions?'

  'He raped me, Mr Salazar.'

  Her hand is shaking in mine. I crouch down next to her feeling weak and useless. She is still talking, going over the details. What else can I do but assume the role of her grandfather? I pat her head and say, 'My dear child.' She turns and cries into my jacket. She lets herself go for a few minutes. Now I can hear her trying to regain her composure.

  'What must you think of me?'

  'I think you are a very brave woman. Gustave Marty deserves a good hiding.'

  I hold her for a moment longer. 'Oh, shit!'

  'What is it?'

  'Oh, double shit.'

  'Please, Mr Salazar.'

  'Excuse me, Miss Sordine, I must leave. Do you know where I can find a telephone?'

  'There is one in the café on the corner. I use that one.'

  'Ah yes, I know that café – I wrote your note there. Look, I know I'm being a total cad, but my client, the one who hired me to find Marty, is a woman. I think he might have raped her too. I'm afraid she's going to do something stupid. I have to stop her. I'm going to make a quick call then I'll be right back. Please wait for me, I'll be five minutes.'

  I fly down the stairs and out of the apartment block. Luckily, the café telephone is working. I call Megan and tell her to borrow Filatre's automobile and get over here. Then I run back to mademoiselle Sordine's.

  Sordine has washed her face and removed the smudged make-up.

  'What do you think your client will do, Mr Salazar?'

  'Whatever it is, I hope I can get there in time to stop her.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Megan arrives and agrees to stay with Sordine. I take the keys and run downstairs to Filatre's automobile. A few gear crunches later I hit the road heading south. The first hour is spent getting properly out of Paris and into the country. After that I start to calm down – no point trying to maintain a sense of urgency on a seven-hour drive.

  Every half hour I stop to give my leg a five-minute stretch. I limp around the auto a few times to get the muscles moving again. Each time I get back in the automobile the physical protest is greater. I have about two ampoules of morphine with me. They will ease the pain, but they'll also leave me drowsy. If I fall asleep I'll be reading about Marie in the morning papers.

  Stupid girl. Poor girl. She said she last met him in 1919. That would make her about fifteen years old. Sordine was attacked around 1928. There must have been others victims in those nine years. Kuo had said something about the way he was with women and Céline described him as a creep. I had my eyes too firmly on the money – the sick bastard.

  Night falls. The moon traces the horizon. I smoke a cigarette then toss the butt out the window. It blows back in and onto the rear seats. I skid to a halt and frantically search out the butt. I find it on the floor - the hole is almost undetectable.

  These country roads are incredibly dark. Fatigue or the hypnotic nature of driving causes me to see things. Shadowy figures stand at the side of the road - they are scaring the hell out of me. There's someone in the back, hiding down below the seats, out of sight from the mirror. Perhaps they got in when I stopped to limp around. I stop to check. Nothing there. It's cold but I'm sweating.

  Vaour once more. In the darkness the village might not even be here. It's lost its reality. I look at my watch – a few minutes past two o'clock. After passing through the village I head up the lonely track to Marty's place. Before reaching the farm I switch off the lights and let the moon guide me. The silence is eerie. What's happened to the crickets and frogs which sang all through the night on my last visit? Was that only two nights ago?

  An automobile is parked near the house: Parisian plates. I pull up behind it and get out. The bonnet is still warm; can't have gotten here more than an hour ago. This auto was parked outside Marie's apartment earlier today.

  There's no light coming from the house. I look in through the kitchen windows. Too dark to make anything out. I knock on the kitchen door which swings gently open under my touch.

  'Hello,' I call. The sound of my voice only amplifies the silence.

  Full of trepidation I enter the kitchen and light one of the gas lamps on the wall. Everything looks as I remember it. I can hear someone walking towards me from the hallway. If I had my revolver it would now be drawn. I'm ready to run. This could all be a coincidence. Marie may not be here. The automobile may belong to some lunatic from Paris.

  'You!'

  Stefan walks in with blood on his hands and clothes. He has no obvious wounds.

  'What have you done?' I ask. I look him over as he approaches – no visible weapon.

  'Nothing. I mean, I killed him.' He stands with his head down and his shoulders drooping. This doesn't feel right.

  'Where is she, Stefan?'

  'In the bedroom, but -'

  I'm already on my way up. Light is coming from Marty's bedroom. I push the door open. There's blood splattered all over the walls. The bed is drenched in it. On the floor, between the bed and wardrobe, lies Marty's naked body. Belly down; his head is twisted so that his open eyes are staring straight up at me. Even from the doorway I can see the dark holes where a knife has entered him. I once found a soldier in this state. A bomb had blown all his clothes off leaving him naked and dead. His body was covered in dark shrapnel holes. I had shrugged it off. Today I feel like vomiting.

  Stefan materialises at my side like a debt collector.

  'I did it,' he says.

  I look at him for a moment then enter the room. By the window, near the little cupboard where I'd found Marty's school tie, sits Marie. She is clutching a large kitchen knife. I step past Marty's body and stand next to her.

  'Come with me,' I say.

  She takes the hand I hold out for her and stands. She is breathing rapidly and staring directly ahead.

  'I'm going to take you downstairs, Marie. Can you give me this first?'

  I reach out and take the knife, then I lead her downstairs. Once there I take her outside and sit her in my automobile. I go back for Stefan. He's still upstairs standing in the bedroom doorway.

  'Look, monsieur Salazar, I'll take the blame. You can say she wasn't here.'

  'No, you look, Stefan. I want you to do what I tell you. Can you drive?'

  'Yes.'

  'Go down and sit with her in my automobile. It's out on the road.'

  The smell of blood is repulsive; the butcher shop smell. I light a Gitane. If those two decide to drive off I'll be screwed. What do I do with this? My finger prints are on that knife and all around the house. So are Marie's, including a few bloody hand prints on the wall. We could drive off and they would probably never find us - if it weren't for my previous visit. When the police drill the maid she is going to tell them all about the English visitor. People in the village will remember me and so will the guy from the Mayor's office. Next thing – my pictures in the papers and I have to start apartment hunting in Buenos Aires.

  Marty's body is heavy - all bodies are. I gather blankets from Marty's death bed and wrap them around him. His eyes are still looking at me. Is he registering anything? I know he's dead, but is he all dead? Are there messages going around in his brain? Can he see me? Does he recognise me? I close his eyes.

  A few days ago Marty and I were enjoying a drink and a laugh. If he were alive now I'd shun him. How do you shun a carcase and what difference does it make? A dead rapist is a dead person. His likes and dislikes, his traits and actions, are all irrelevant now. Everything he was is gone. He's a corpse, one of so many, only I have to lug this one down the stairs.

  Using the blankets I drag his body to the top of the stairs. I could ask Stefan to help but I'd rather he kept an eye on Marie. Without ceremony I roll Marty down the stairs. He doesn't fall neatly – forcing me to give him a few kicks along the way. After replacing him on the blankets I start dragging him again. My back is aching and I'm breathing heavily. When this night's
work is over I'm going to need a serious break. Stopping for a breather at the kitchen door I notice that I'm covered in blood. There's a line of red smeared along the floor. I remember something Marie said: 'A slug like Marty is bound to leave a trail.'

  Logistics: if I stick the cadaver in their automobile, and take Marie in mine, that should control what Stefan does. If he decides to drive to the police and confess, they will spend five minutes beating the truth out of him - and then it's Devil's Island for me. Before we leave I'll make it clear to him - if he goes near the flics, I'll dump Marie in it.

  After dragging the body to the kitchen door I go and fetch Stefan. They are both sitting in the front of my automobile. She's in the passenger seat, a blank expression on her face. Stefan is smoking and talking. I walk around to his side and open the door.

  'Come with me, kid – I'm going to need a hand.'

  I drive Marie's auto over to the farm door. We heave Marty up and into the boot. I tell Stefan he's driving the corpse to Paris. The worst part is we'll be arriving an hour or so after daybreak.

  'We could stay in a hotel somewhere tonight, couldn't we?' Stefan asks.

  'No. We'll have to risk it. When we get back, you park up normally outside Marie's place. I'll park right behind you. Make sure you stop every hour on the way back, or if I flash you, unless there are people about or we're in a town. I need to stretch my leg and we need to make sure everything is okay.'

  'All right. Shall I start off now?'

  'Not yet.'

  He's getting jumpy. I hope he doesn't crack on the long drive home.

  'Drive out to the road and park up. Keep the headlights off and wait for me.'

  I wait until I hear him turn the engine off before I re-enter the house. Hopefully the corpse in his boot will stop him getting Marie and driving off. I make one more trip to the bedroom for a change of clothes. I'd rather people pointed out that my trousers are too short than the fact I'm covered in blood.

  Going back inside is not at all pleasant. Along with the trail of blood there are red foot prints all over the place. They match my shoes. In the bedroom I try to look only at the wardrobe. Images of the horrible scenes which have taken place here flick through my mind. She must have gone at him in a frenzy. How did they get up to the bedroom? Maybe Marty left the back door open. I grab a shirt and a pair of trousers. I left my coat in the automobile, so at least that's clean.

  On Marty's dressing table I spot a large dictionary. I pick it up and pay another visit to the room I'd slept in. I get changed then take my bloodied clothes and throw them into the death room. Using the dictionary I start knocking the lamps out of the wall. The gas hisses at me. After doing three I realise what I'm doing – any one of those blows could have caused a spark. Three will do. In the kitchen I turn out the gas lamp and pile the wood from the stove onto the kitchen table. I shove the table into the doorway. There is some white spirit and rags under the basin which I use to set the table alight. If I can catch that doorframe and the door alight then the rest of the house will go up too. By the time the door starts turning black, the heat is too great to remain in the kitchen. I get out before the gas from upstairs catches.

  Stefan has resisted the temptation to go and sit next to Marie. I flash my lights as a signal for him to get ready. A few minutes later I'm following him up the road towards Vaour. A few miles from the village I flash my lights again and he stops. I get out and look back. There's an orange glow coming from the area of Marty's house and smoke is rising into the sky. We hit the road again.

  After two hours of driving Marie starts speaking: 'Do you think that I'm a bad person?'

  'I don't know you well enough to judge.'

  I look at her. She's looking back at me. There is a slight puzzlement in her eyes - she's coming back to reality. I turn to look at the road again.

  'I was stabbing him and he kept shouting "No, don't do it!" He said it over and over. As he was saying it I was remembering saying the same thing to him but he wouldn't stop. Does that make me as bad as him?'

  'I don't think so. What he did, he did to a child.'

  'You can say yes if you think it.'

  'I don't know if I do think it. Somewhere the morality and the practice of life merge and dirty each other. I believe it's wrong to kill but I'm not prepared to condemn you for this killing.'

  'I hired you to track him down. I'm not sure I planned on killing him. I'm not sure I planned anything beyond finding him. Will I go to jail?'

  'That would be a crime in itself. I have no intention of telling the police about tonight. You need to keep quiet about it too. I've a feeling you can manage that.'

  'What will we do?'

  'You will do nothing. The kid and I will clean this up.'

  'The kid, Stefan?'

  'Yes.'

  'He's changed recently,' she says. 'I think he did it to impress me – I've tried to tell him it's of no use.'

  'Can you tolerate him?'

  'He's not that bad. Now he cleans himself I almost like having him around.'

  'At the moment he's infatuated with you. That will die down over time. Meanwhile, try to put up with him.'

  'I keep seeing Marty on that bed, covered in blood, slipping to the floor,' she says.

  'When we get to Paris, put my coat on and try to get up to the apartment without anyone seeing you. You've got a lot of blood on your clothes.'

  She looks down at herself: 'God it's disgusting. I'm disgusting.'

  'Try to keep calm until we're in your apartment. If the police stop us now it will be the guillotine for the kid and me. You're a woman, so they'll commute your sentence to life.'

  A few miles of silence follow. Then: 'Do you want to know what happened?'

  'No. I got a pretty good picture of what happened when I dragged him out the room.'

  'I mean to me.'

  I can't say no, although I don't want to hear a second story like this.

  'Maybe, if you are okay with it,' I say. 'It might help you get over what just happened.'

  'You know, in the war, we were occupied.'

  'Yes, that was a big recruiter for the army: think of Belgium.'

  'Well, some people worked with the Germans and some people didn't. In my family we kept ourselves to ourselves. The Martys were different. I think Marty senior played both sides. During the day he co-operated, at night he went to freedom meetings. Anyway, after it was over there was a lot of retribution. People got beaten. Women had their heads shaved if someone claimed they'd slept with a German. All sorts of nastiness came out.

  'One night Marty and a couple of his friends came to my street. They were drunk and causing trouble. My father went out to admonish them. One of them, I don't know who, hit him on the head with a walking-stick. Then they started kicking him. I saw it from my window. I ran out to stop them. Someone pushed me away. Then Marty saw me. He grabbed me, lifted me up, and took me into the house. He carried me up to my parent's room and raped me. I was crying and begging him to stop. Then I passed out. They wrote stuff on our house saying we had collaborated. We hadn't. My parents never spoke about it but they knew what had happened. My father lost an eye in that attack. The police behaved as if we'd deserved it. They knew we weren't collaborators - they pretended we were so they wouldn't have to go up against the Martys.'

  'Must have been tough.'

  'I suppose I have been thinking about tonight ever since. I guess I always did plan on killing him.'

  We arrive in Paris with the sun riding high in a clear sky. Looks like being a beautiful day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I'm so tired I don't know if I'm awake or asleep. There aren't too many people about. Everyone in this neighbourhood is already at work or sleeping after doing a night shift. Stefan parks and I pull up so close behind him that we're almost touching. This should stop anyone trying to steal from his boot. If someone steals the auto I'll claim they must have put the body in there.

&nb
sp; Marie and I walk through the lobby of her apartment block. As I'm ushering her past the concierge Stefan lets go a loud fart. I don't know whether he did it on purpose but it provides an excellent distraction.

  Once inside the apartment Marie begins pacing the floor looking like an anxious ghost. With some persuasion she washes the blood off and changes into her night clothes. Stefan's clothes are in a bad way too – and I only bought them for him yesterday. I sift through Marie's wardrobe and bring him a blouse and trousers which don't look too feminine. I light the stove and burn their bloodied attire.

  For what I have in mind we're going to need the cover of darkness. Marie takes to her bed. I take the sofa. Stefan curls up on a rug.

  There is something about this apartment which reminds me of the few years I spent in London. Between the opium and the all-night drinking I used to meet up with a few of my old university and army pals. We were young men who'd seen a lot of the bad side of life. People called us wastrels, bohemians, lost causes. I had a few happy moments then, as we each headed toward our own personal breakdowns.

  Stefan sleeps, snoring quite gently. I light a cigarette and stare at the Dada montage on the wall. What will become of Marie now, and Stefan? I guess he'll meet someone else and gradually lose his connection with Marie. Years from now, in 1943 perhaps, he'll be in a shop, two children in tow, and Marie will be there buying some coffee. They'll smile at one another but not speak. 'If not for her distances...' he'll think and then feel a moment of yearning. A yearning for her and the passions of his youth. And what of me? What will I be doing in '43? Will I have two children of my own? Will I be stalking the streets of Paris, a detective of the old school?

  I wake with a start. Marie enters the room and walks through to the kitchen area. I'm so tired I can't move. My hand reaches down and gropes for my cigarettes. The aroma of coffee, the burn of a cigarette, this is what mornings are about. Only this isn't morning and we have business. A pity really; if it weren't for the corpse outside this could make for the beginnings of a splendid evening.