What was odd about the article was that the murder had happened right here in the centre of Montmartre (a couple of streets away from where I sat, in fact) but not one of the French dailies had picked up on the story, so why had it made the internationals?
When I ordered my next beer, I spoke to the pretty waitress and asked her whether she had heard about it. I showed her the newspaper, she claimed she didn’t speak English too well, so I tried to communicate with her in French but all I got was a Gallic shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head.
I told her to forget about it and as I sat back, sipped my beer and watched the world go by I tried to ignore it. But every now and again I would catch a glimpse of the photo of the dead girl and something would pop up in my mind. An image or two that I didn’t quite understand.
Eventually, I picked the paper up and took a closer look. No doubt about it, I was sure now that I’d seen her before, I was even positive I’d been speaking to her only a couple of nights back in the small Irish bar along the main drag.
My heart sank. Something else. I had a feeling we had exchanged numbers. I searched the jacket and trousers that I had on, but there was no sign of the matchbook she’d written her number on – I bet it was back in the hotel, in my other pair of jeans. I quickly downed my drink, threw down a couple of large Euro notes and headed away.
*
The Boulevard de Clichy was heaving even at the early time of the afternoon. I weaved my way past the sex shops, Turkish baths and quite a crowd gathering outside the Erotic Museum. I was stopped a couple of times by the attractive girls and promised quite a lot of bang for my buck, but I wasn’t interested.
I rushed through the hotel door, was about to step into the lift (yes, it was working today) when I realised I didn’t have my room key. I went to the reception counter and called the girl over.
“Oui?”
“Hey, can I have the room key for 414 please?”
The girl looked at me blankly but when it was obvious I was being serious she tutted and said, “I gave it to you earlier.” She started to walk away, her disgust in Americans obvious for all to see. There was an elderly Scandinavian couple studying a large map on the wall – they were even wryly smiling.
I followed the girl down the length of the counter. “I’m sorry, miss?!” I called out to her. “I’ve only just walked through the door, sorry but you must have confused me with someone else.”
How rude. The girl didn’t even look up, just continued to shuffle the papers or whatever she was pretending to do to make herself look busy. “Sir is mistaken, an hour or so ago, you came in that door with a girl. You said you had forgotten your key, I gave it to you, you went in that lift. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.”
I took a deep breath, tried hard to keep that smile on my face.
“I can promise you that I wasn’t me. Can you please check again?”
Eventually she did look up; she could tell that I wasn’t moving. She slammed down a pile of papers.
“Room?”
“4-1-4,” I replied, my broad grin hurting like hell.
The girl opened the key drawer under the counter, flicked through, nodded her head, pointing to an empty space in the tray. “No key, as I said.”
Someone was behind me, the manager, he was coming through the door carrying some boxes. I went and held the door open for him, guided him through.
“Merci,” he said, dropping the boxes down on the counter. He looked flushed with exhaustion.
He went to head back out but I called him over. “Have you got a moment?”
The manager looked at me, then at the girl. “Is there a problem?”
“I don’t want to make a fuss, but I was trying to get the key to my room.”
He frowned. “And?”
“Your receptionist says she gave it to earlier, but she’s mistaken.”
The manager turned to the girl. “Can you give this gentleman his key?”
She puffed out her cheeks, opened the tray, pointed to the empty slot.
“Look, we’ve already been through all this,” I explained.
“There is a fee for losing your key. Twenty Euros,” the manager stated.
I shook my head, my patience wearing thin. “I haven’t lost my key because I haven’t been given it, whatever she says.”
We stared at each other for a moment or two before he finally said to the girl, “Give him the spare.”
He picked up one of the boxes, squeezed past her behind the counter and headed into his office or whatever else was back there.
The girl, shaking her head, made a sound under her breath but she did do as she was asked. “Please don’t lose this one,” she said as I headed towards the lift. I didn’t bother answering; I knew that my words would fall on deaf ears.
I knew right away that someone had been in my room.
I had a quick scout around and whilst I could see that nothing had been taken and nothing was out of place, I was certain all the same.
It felt odd. Like all my things had been replaced with facsimiles – almost the same in appearance, but somehow very, very different.
I appreciated that the hotel staff had been there sometime during the day to tidy up but it was more than that. I went into the bathroom, switched on the light. The same feeling in there. Bizarre.
Of course I did think about calling the manager but what use was that? Also, I wondered who the other people were that the receptionist had been talking about – but I didn’t want to take her too seriously, she looked the type to be easily confused.
I came back into the bedroom, fell onto the bed, switched on the television...I was suddenly feeling very tired (maybe due to the drink?). I plumped up the pillows and settled back for a little snooze. My eyes felt very heavy. I looked over at the flashing clock; there was time for a couple of hours’ shut-eye.
I remembered I needed to find that small matchbook with the girl’s number but that could wait until later.
I prayed to God I didn’t have the nightmares again.
*
It was dark outside. I looked at the clock. Christ, I had slept for far longer than I had planned too. I sat up. I had a splitting headache – perhaps due to the booze I had consumed but whatever, there was a dull thud there in the centre of my brain and a horrible sickly feeling deep in my stomach.
I headed into the bathroom, started to run the shower but as I was getting undressed, I remember to look in my other jeans and lo and behold, there it was, the matchbook. I flipped open the cover, and yes, there was the girl’s name and number. It was definitely the same one.
As I stepped under the hot water, I guessed that it would only be a matter of time before I had a visit from the flics; they would find my number on her phone and one thing would lead to another. That was all I needed, the local police on my back.
After I showered and started to get dressed, the phone in my room began to ring.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Hey Yankee, it’s Marina. Is your cell phone switched off?”
No idea who she was. “You got the right room? This is 414.”
Marina started to giggle. “Such a joker, I’m waiting for you downstairs. We’re supposed to be going out for dinner, remember?” She paused. “Shit, please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? What are you like?”
“Look, sorry...Marina. I fell asleep, I’m just finishing in the shower.”
There was obvious joy in her voice now. “Then you hadn’t forgotten?”
“Of course not. Give me ten minutes, I’ll be down as quick as I can.”
She laughed. “We can be fashionably late, it’s fine.”
I put the phone down and scratched at my forehead. I had absolutely no idea who this girl was and I certainly didn’t remember making any arrangements for dinner, but what the hell, I thought. It could be fun. I know what I’m like after a couple of drinks: friends with everyone.
I rushed back into the bathroom, found some aspirin
, downed a couple of tablets. I looked at myself in the mirror and decided to change my shirt, something more suitable for dinner.
When I came down the stairs (the lift was out again), I had a quick look around but there wasn’t anyone waiting in the lobby for me. But I did spy a girl through the window. She was outside, leaning up against the glass, smoking a long cigarette. I didn’t recognise her at all.
She smiled when she saw me. “Hey Yankee, I know I told you I gave up, but I’m little bit nervous tonight, I don’t know why, they’re only my friends, but you know how it is?” She kissed me on both cheeks and then one on the lips for good measure. She smelt of cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5.
The smile quickly left her face. She suddenly looked very serious, her eyes narrowed. “You do remember me, don’t you Yankee? Please don’t tell me I’m wasting my time?”
“Of course you’re not.” I tried laughing it off. I still had no idea but she was so drop-dead gorgeous that I decided to carry on with the illusion. “I’m just in a funk today, it’ll pass. I have a headache but I’ll be fine, I took some tablets.”
She continued to stare at me with that serious face for a few more minutes before finally nodding and that smile returned. “That’s good, otherwise this could have been very embarrassing.”
“Yes,” I replied. “It could have been.” I rubbed my hands together. “Shall we get a cab?”
She shook her head. “Americans,” she joked. “It’s a nice warm night, romantic, come on let’s walk, it’s not that far.”
I held out my arm, she took it. “You look amazing, do you know that?”
Marina smiled. “Of course.”
I wasn’t sure whether she was joking, but if she was, she certainly wasn’t letting on.
*
The restaurant was a small Italian place called Umberto’s on the Rue De Calais.
I’m not a great fan of these places in the evening where you end up sitting outside on the sidewalk, people banging into you all the time. More often or not you have to shout all the time just to make yourself heard.
I know I was feeling a little bit cranky, not just because I didn’t know who Marina was but also because I had no fucking idea who the other people were either when we sat down and joined them at the long table. She didn’t bother to introduce me, which was slightly unsettling (and damn rude), but it did appear that everyone knew who I was.
There were lots of air kissing and the firm shaking of hands. A conversation had been in full flow before we sat down and once the pleasantries were over, it started up again. Naturally it was in French and whilst I understood quite a lot of it – it was some debate about a young French actor and a foreign director – I really couldn’t face a night of idle gossip.
After listening for ten or so minutes of nothing more than tittle-tattle, I wondered what all the fuss was really about. I know the French certainly can get passionate about their cinema so I decided to stay on the fringes of the argument – safely nodding or adding a ‘oui’ or ‘non’ where I thought it was expected. When it came to movies, the French are convinced we Americans are Philistines anyway – so was it really worth getting involved too deeply? I decided no.
All though the meal Marina continued to smoke. I thought this too was a little out of order, but no one said anything, so I left it alone.
As the drinks and food flowed, I became aware that someone was staring at me.
There were a couple of tables deep inside the restaurant, and there, I noticed, an old man was sitting on his own.
I wasn’t sure exactly when I realised that he had been staring directly at me, but as the night drew on and I seemed to drift further and further away from the conversation around me (and into an alcoholic daze), it was more obvious.
At one stage, I did think about telling Marina that I had had enough and wanted to leave but when I turned to her, she was in full flow, pontificating about Catherine Deneuve’s recent movie so I thought I’d go to the bathroom first and then come back and make my excuses. I half wondered why she had made such a big fuss about me coming when she had done her best to ignore my presence anyway.
I stood up, excused myself and headed into the darkness of the restaurant.
As I walked past the other tables, I saw that the old man had gone – which was weird, because for him to have left, he would have had to walk past me as the entrance to the restaurant was near our table.
There was a slim chance that I had missed him but I didn’t think so. Perhaps even stranger was the fact that his table had been cleared away and laid for the next diner. I had to wonder whether all the booze I had drunk on top of the aspirin was starting to play havoc with my memory and that my imagination was playing tricks on me.
One of the waiters assumed I was looking for the bathroom; he pointed to a door further towards the back of the restaurant. I smiled thanks and headed over. As I opened the door I saw there was a second door, slightly ajar (held open by a used vegetable oil can), which led outside. I laughed and realised that the answer was simple enough; the man had finished his meal and headed out the back door. Strange perhaps, not impossible, panic over.
I shook my head, not sure why the old man had freaked me out so much. Relieved, I went into the bathroom, unzipped and did my business. Once I’d finished, I washed my hands and went to leave.
But something caught my attention: one of the cubicle doors was open. I pushed it open further.
I almost brought my meal up right there and then. I stuck my hand over my mouth just in case and tried to calm myself down.
The old man was dead.
He’d been beaten to a pulp. His throat had been slashed into ribbons. Rope burns around his hands and ankles. And his face: nose broken, his eyes swollen beyond belief. The man had also shit and pissed himself. What a way to go.
In his mouth, something was stuffed. Some kind of paper. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did; I leant over and pulled it out. It was covered in his blood and other fluids. When I saw what it was, I dropped it to the floor. It was the article about the dead girl.
I turned. There was a handprint on the door. I put my hand over it, just to see and fuck, it fitted exactly. This was getting very weird now. I knew I hadn’t been responsible for this (how had I?) yet at that moment, I could see that all fingers would be pointed at me.
Standing there in the cubicle, I started to panic. I could hear prison doors slamming. My heart beat rapidly, my brain slow in making the correct connections. The sweat was pouring. And as for my headache!
I appreciated the first thing I had to do was get that handprint off the door. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, ran the tap, soaked it and did my best to wipe it away. I knew I had to be quick; there would be only moments before someone else came in to use the bathroom.
After some furious rubbing, I managed to get off most of it. I pulled the door closed, tried to fix the lock so that perhaps it would go unnoticed for a while. I scrubbed my hands under the hot water tap until the skin was red raw, threw some water on my face and hair and headed out. For a moment, the thought did cross my mind to sneak out the back door but then I realised that could draw attention to me and make me appear guilty of something I hadn’t done, so I took a deep breath and headed back to the table.
Except when I got back there, everyone had gone.
I was totally confused.
Where there had been one long table, there were now three or four smaller ones. Also, the diners that were sitting there had, by the evidence of empty plates, half filled glasses etc, been there for some time.
“Is everything okay sir?” I turned around. A waiter stood looking at me.
I went to ask him what was going on; what had happened to Marina and everyone else?
But I decided to forget it. I smiled, nodded my head. “Everything’s fine.”
“Would you like a table?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Another time, I’ve changed my mind.”
“As you wish.” He went to ano
ther table and started to clear away.
*
It seemed to take me an age to get back to the hotel. Admittedly, I did stop off for a couple of beers in a small tavern I know on the Rue de Valois, but there wasn’t anyone of interest hanging around so I didn’t stay too long before heading back.
I walked as quickly as I could down the side streets and alleyways. All the way wild thoughts bounced around inside my head. What the hell was going on? I was totally lost trying to work out what was happening.
When I arrived at the hotel, there was a different girl on the reception desk so luckily there was no repeat of what had happened earlier. The lift was still out so I took the stairs.
When I got to my room, I was out of breath. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the key.
Inside, I switched on the light and stopped dead in my tracks. What the fuck?
The room was trashed. My stuff had been thrown everywhere. The sheets ripped from the bed, the pillows scattered on the floor. Who had done this, what were they looking for? I didn’t have anything in their particularly worth stealing – had it got something to do with the missing key and those people the receptionist had seen earlier?
That could wait. I was bursting for a leak so went into the bathroom. As I began to piss, I glanced over at the mirror.
“Shit!”
I was no longer urinating in the toilet but all over my foot and then the floor. I quickly finished. After I washed my hands, I went to the mirror.
Someone had painted what looked like two eyes on the surface of the glass. I wasn’t sure what they had used, but it was red. It was fresh, sticky. I sniffed it. Just as I thought.
Blood.
I started to panic. Felt that the room was spinning, my heart beating out of my chest. The adrenalin in free flow, could taste bile in my throat. My legs started to buckle. I reached out for support. There was a noise, a humming. I couldn’t quite work out where it was coming from, until I realised it was emanating from deep within my bones.
Through A Forest Dark Page 3