by L. S. Hilton
*
As Timothy steered Edouard away from the murmuring guests, into the shadow of a huge black rubber sculpture of an obese cavorting Buddha, he cued me with a slight nod and I crossed towards them. Timothy turned away to study the exhibit and I approached Guiche.
‘Monsieur Guiche? Good evening. I wonder if I could –’
I’d simply planned to ask if we could have a word in private, but Guiche didn’t exactly offer the welcome I’d been hoping for. His distracted social smile froze as he took in my face, then he reeled backwards as though I’d punched him.
‘Monsieur Guiche?’
He looked over my shoulder and his expression changed from shock to alarm.
‘Both of you? Here? What the fuck?!’
I was shocked by both the language and the vehemence of his tone.
‘I –’
But Guiche wasn’t talking to me. He pushed me brusquely aside, and as I turned to follow his gaze I caught a glimpse of a bald head with a familiar smudge of ink beneath the ear, from behind the rolls of the god’s pirouetting leg. Yury. My back was to him, and as he moved towards Guiche I dodged sideways, my body moving before my thoughts began to process what the Russian’s presence implied. I began to push through the group surrounding the drinks trays at the exit – no, don’t be stupid – turned back, ducked under the skeletal arm of a chicken-wire concubine wearing a Madame Mao mask and walked briskly, not hurrying, towards the curve of the stairs, where I had seen the waiters emerging. A corridor gave on to a service kitchen, where a brigade of chefs in whites were plating miniature lobster summer rolls.
‘Madame? Les toilettes sont par la –’ one of them called helpfully, but I deposited my water glass and barged past, knowing there would be a fire exit, spotted the red sign –
‘Madame! Vous ne pouvez pas –’
‘Désolée, excusez-moi,’ I called gaily, pushing the bar on the door down and slipping out into the twilight before they had a chance to stop me. I ran with no sense of where I was going, a strange elation within the urgency. I felt weirdly strong, inhabiting my body for the first time in so long, hurtling over a lawn, wanting to put as much distance between myself and the building as possible. After about twenty seconds I looked back at the open fire door, from which a confused toqued head was protruding. I could see a line of waiting cars, their drivers smoking and chatting as they waited for their clients. The lasers were swooping over the roof and I was caught in their light, the logo travelling across my pale shirt. I crouched, making myself small until they passed, then waddled like a crab towards a copse of manicured trees, ducked under the wire – did they have guards? No time – and dodged the trunks until I came onto another road, this time back in the parkland of the Bois. I walked along one of the avenues which cut through the park until I came to a crossroads, peering at the signs, and took the route marked ‘Étoile’. The paths were empty, though every now and then a car crawled slowly past, the headlights making me flinch. Trawling for trade, I thought. The Bois had once been the parade ground for the demi-monde of Paris, gorgeous courtesans – ‘diamond crunchers’ lolling in their furbelowed carriages. I passed a gently swaying minivan which suggested the locals were keeping up the tradition. Further on, the road divided; no sign. I looked in vain for a passing cab, chose the right fork at random. Every second that passed I saw Yury crossing the city ahead of me, nodding to the Chinese concierge, mounting the stairs to my room . . .
*
Stop it. It could be a coincidence. For all I knew, Yermolov might be in the city for the Vuitton event, just another staging post in the art caravan. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Yeah. Right.
*
It was properly dark now, and with the sweat drying on my skin I was shivering in my grubby cotton shirt. There was an odd smell of sausages, and the juicy odour made my stomach growl. I rounded a bend and practically fell over a plump woman planted in a camping chair on the narrow verge between the road and the trees.
‘Oh, I’m very sorry, excuse me!’
‘Looking for company, darling?’
‘No, sorry. I’m just a bit lost. If you could please tell me –’
She stood, and even though she must have been six two it took me a minute in the shadowy light of the storm lantern on the table in front of her to realise she was a he. A he in full slap, dodgy red nylon wig and a zebra-print minidress straining over a colossal pair of fake tits.
‘Lost?’
‘I’m just trying to get to Étoile – I’m in a bit of a hurry.’ The quickest way to get back to the Marais would be to take Métro line one down to Bastille. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that she had a very neat set-up. On the table was a half-empty bottle of red, two glasses, plates, baguette, silver and a pot of mustard. Next to the table was a camping stove, with a pan of cheerfully hissing merguez. Another minivan was parked under the trees with the back doors invitingly open to reveal a double mattress, a cool box and a small vase of artificial roses taped to the inside handle.
My clutch was only large enough for a wallet and keys, no phone. I rootled inside for some cash. ‘If you could possibly call me a cab – I’d be glad to pay for the call.’
‘Seriously, darling, did you come down with the last rainfall?’
I really didn’t have time for this. Yury was probably having a go on my Crème de la Mer while he waited to kill me at the Hearse. I turned to go, felt a large palm on my shoulder and a snarl rising in my throat.
‘Where are you going?’
I straightened up. ‘I told you, I’m in a hurry. I don’t care if you’ve got a machete along with whatever else you’re hiding in your g-string, you can have the cash, all right? Just leave it.’
She backed away, hairy wrists flicking upwards.
‘OK, OK. Ça va, quoi. I meant, I’ll take you if you like.’
‘You’ll give me a lift?’
‘Fifty euro. I’ve got a moped round the back.’
‘Er, thanks. Sorry for the trouble.’
‘It’s OK. There’s nothing doing here tonight anyway. Some bolloxy party over there, keeps the punters away. D’you fancy a little merguez?’
‘Thanks, but I can’t. I really have to get going.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ve got a spare helmet.’
*
While she put a plate over the sausages and stowed away the kit efficiently in the back of the van, she told me her name was Destiny-with-a-y. I did fancy a sandwich actually. Maybe I could just stay here, living in the forest, sleeping in the van, with no one to bother me. I could forage for herbs, do something about that wig, improve the business. It might not be a bad life.
‘Here we go. Put this on, darling.’ Destiny was wheeling an old Mobylette out from behind a tree.
‘I usually leave the van here, more convenient. The police keep an eye on it.’
‘I’m going to the eleventh actually. Is that OK?’
‘No problem. We’ll have you there in a tiny minute.’ She was checking her lipstick in the wing mirror, arranging the crisp rolls of nylon hair protruding from her helmet. ‘I used to be a cabbie. Hop on.’
It’s not every night you get to swoop down the Champs-Elysées with a tranny on a moped and the warm wind in your hair. I might have quite enjoyed the trip if I hadn’t felt that every traffic light might be a pause on my way to my own death. As we rounded Bastille I was squeezing Destiny’s comfortable hips so hard I feared I might bruise her. I had the crazy idea of asking her to come up with me, but she didn’t deserve that, so I had her stop at the corner of the street and gave her the fifty and a cheerful wave as she zoomed off.
I asked the concierge if anyone had inquired for me, but all I got was a grunt. I felt my heart accelerate as I walked into my room, but the panic which had swept over me when I glimpsed Yury had been overcome by that other, more familiar sensation, a stretching of the pupils, a cliff-top adrenalin rush. There might even have been an ugly little smile on my lips. Hey there, baby.
When had I forgotten that rage could feel so good?
*
But the room was empty, everything just as Timothy and I had left it, the only sound my own low panting. As I sat on the bed sucking air with my head between my knees I felt curiously disappointed. The high was passing, the fear oozing back to furnish the silence. Fumbling, my palms slick with sweat, I eased the Caracal out from the mattress, shoving it in my waistband. Passports and money stowed, I ruthlessly halved my clothes to make the bag lighter. My mouth was gummy so I swigged a handful of tapwater as I jumbled the contents of the bathroom into my washbag. Odd, when you can buy a toothbrush anywhere, that packing it always seems so important. And then I heard the footsteps. At last.
*
There was no internal lock on the door, just the keycard, which half the time didn’t work, but I didn’t think Yury would have had much trouble persuading the concierge to hand one over. Click. Pause. I imagined the red light flashing. I braced myself, back to the wall, facing the door, both hands on the gun to keep it steady. Aim and squeeze. Click. Release. I’m not a great shot, but Parisian hotel rooms are tiny. It was just as well for Timothy that he called my name before he opened the door, or I would have blown his head off.
*
‘Judith? Where did you go?’ It took him a moment to register that the thing in my hands was, indeed, a gun, and another moment for me to register that it wasn’t the first one he had seen. Things back in Rabat had obviously been rougher than he’d made them sound. Ten years crept onto his face as he spoke, slow, thin-voiced.
‘Please put that down. OK? Just put it down.’
I considered. ‘I think I might not put it down just yet. Close the door. Keep still now.’
He did as he was told.
*
You could still do it. Watch his lungs burst, watch the fat bubbles of blood, watch him thrash, watch him drown in it. Come on. Grip your forearm and pull the trigger. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.
*
Effortfully, I lowered the barrel through a treacly force field. Not now.
‘Your friend recognised me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Edouard Guiche. He knew me. Which means one of two things. Either you convince me that you know nothing about this, or I put your face on the other side of the corridor. Take your time.’
‘It’s to do with that Russian guy, isn’t it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Edouard was great tonight, at first – he seemed like his old self. He told me that he had to go away for a while tomorrow, but that I could spend the night. He said he had something to give me. That everything was going to be different. And then –’
‘What happened then?’
‘How am I supposed to know? You came over, then suddenly you vanished – I couldn’t work out what was going on. Edouard was talking to that big guy in Russian. He speaks Russian, you know.’ The pride in his voice was convincing.
‘Whatever. Carry on.’
‘So I went to see where you’d gone, and when I got back, they’d left. I tried calling him; his phone’s off. So I came back here. It’s embarrassing, you running off like that. And he said he had something for me,’ he repeated petulantly.
I sighed and pushed the hair off my face. Timothy jerked back. I’d forgotten I was still holding the Caracal. I held it out and clicked the safety on so he could see.
‘Sorry. Just sit there for a minute, will you?’
Guiche’s reaction when he saw me could mean only one thing. It was Guiche who had been waiting that night in the Place de l’Odéon. Guiche was meant to retrieve the second picture in the case. He’d never taken it, because I had. But back then Guiche couldn’t have known anything more about me, about what I’d done. He had failed to produce the picture for Yermolov, and Mischa had just seen us together. Yury was with Guiche right now. Carefully I put the gun aside.
‘You should go,’ I said. ‘Just – get your stuff and go. There’s no need for this to have anything to do with you.’
‘What is it? Please, tell me why you’re doing this. What’s going on with Edouard?’
I calculated.
‘You said Edouard seemed – affectionate?’
‘Yes. It might not seem like much, but the way he looked at me, I could tell –’
I could still use him. If Yury and Guiche were looking for me, Timothy could be a useful barrier between us. A hostage, basically.
‘I think Edouard might be in danger,’ I said eventually.
‘Should we call the police?’
‘We can’t. I – can’t. But I need to see him.’
‘Then I’ll stay with you. If Edouard’s in danger I want to help him.’ Maybe that was the first entirely sincere thing he had ever said to me.
‘OK. Then we have to leave, now.’
Timothy stuffed his things into the Saint Laurent carrier which had held his finery and followed me with bewildered obedience to the Rue de la Roquette, where after a few more anxious minutes I hailed a cab. I asked the driver to take us to the Pont de Sully, where I had first seen Timothy near Guiche’s home on the Île Saint-Louis.
The island was busy, the restaurants and cafés full of people chatting, smoking with their coats on under outdoor heaters. A glance at my watch told me it was early, only ten. I found a table and ordered two glasses of white wine.
‘Go round the corner and ring the bell. Text me if he lets you in.’
He disappeared. I wondered if he’d come back with Yury in tow, if he’d come back at all, but he returned a few minutes later, alone, to slide in next to me.
‘The lights are out upstairs and no one answered the bell. I tried phoning again too.’
‘Then we’ll wait.’
‘OK. And you can tell me what’s going on.’
I thought of Elena, giggling hysterically into her salad. Because I know too much.
‘Timothy, I really can’t. I just think someone might be after Edouard.’
‘Is it to do with that Russian bloke, the one he works for? Like your boyfriend that you told me about, in the book?’
‘Kind of. Look, I know this seems crazy. But I’m serious. We have to wait for Edouard, that’s all.’
I ordered two plates of moules frites to pass the time. Timothy ate both, in between popping round the corner to look for any sign of life. We sat as the customers dwindled away, until, after several meaningful looks and some banging with a broom, the waiter started to stack the chairs indoors and set the bill firmly on the table. We moved round to the bridge and sat for another hour on its parapet with our bags, Timothy periodically checking his phone, but no one appeared.
‘It’s nearly two. This is hopeless,’ I conceded.
‘He said he had to go away, but he wanted to see me first, remember? Maybe he’ll be here in the morning,’ he suggested.
‘I suppose so.’
We trudged all the way up to the Hôtel Ibis near Place d’Italie, where I had Timothy check in using his identity card. I gave him enough cash for the room. I didn’t want to think about how much was left. As before, we both kept politely to our respective quarters after flopping down in our clothes on the meagre double bed, but neither of us slept much. Possibly that was because I was gripping the Caracal. I watched the lights of the first morning traffic build behind the thin blind, weighing incentives, waiting for morning. I had told Kazbich I had the Caravaggio. Guiche was the person who had originally been meant to collect it. I could tell Guiche I had it, offer to give it back, in return for him telling me, if indeed he knew, who was the source who had betrayed me to Yermolov. But who could it be? I twisted under the thin duvet, flailing in my own futility. The names spun round in my head. What was that line from Brodsky – something about the speed of light equalling a fleeting view? Fucking Russians. Masha was dead. Yury was in Paris. He had been looking for Guiche. So, maybe. Fuck.
‘Timothy! Get up. Now. We have to go back.’
19
>
Still gloomy at 8 a.m. but the boulevard was already clogged with traffic. The cab ranks stood defiantly vacant; we jogged towards the river through the postcard smells of early-morning Paris – clouds of buttery baking from the boulangeries, a whiff of ammoniac cheese as an aproned woman opened a delicatessen. Twenty minutes later, as we arrived at the Quai d’Anjou, scuffling through fallen chestnut leaves at the top of the island, the sky behind us was growing light. The river was dark and choppy, scurfed with foam, and the water stilled the noise of the traffic over towards the Hôtel de Ville, but there was the usual amount of ill-natured honking and swearing as the vehicles snarled their way into the square. So when we heard it, it didn’t seem all that unusual, a crunching thud, a magnified slap, maybe a cab taking a door off a delivery van or an unlucky motorist forced over the intersection. We didn’t stop walking, just glanced over to the roadway. Then the screaming started, a woman, wailing uncontrollably, and, like a speeded-up film, the few pedestrians nearby began to run, carrying us with them along the bank. The screaming went on and on, the sound only faltering when the woman drew breath for her next hurling, hysterical cry. All I was thinking was that someone had been hurt, that they needed help, until I felt Timothy slowing beside me and saw that his face was sweating, gnarled in shock and disbelief.