The Change 3: Paris

by Guy Adams

  Beyond the ghosts should have been the obelisk, rising up at the centre of the square. It was gone, replaced by a new structure, just as tall, but far wider and alive. It was a guillotine, built from old, dark wood that creaked like an old sailing ship as it flexed in excitement. Rising up and down between the vertical runners was the blade, a rusty thing, its edge jagged like human teeth. It moved up slowly then slammed down, eager to chew on human throats.

  Surrounding the guillotine were sat four hooded figures. They were twice the size of a normal human, thin, grey fingers poking out of the sleeves of their robes. The nails on those fingers tapered into long needles that clattered together as they knitted with lengths of dripping wool. As we got closer I began to suspect that it wasn’t wool at all, but the glistening innards of the victims they called to their mistress the guillotine.

  Dotted around this awful group were pillars standing at shoulder height. On the tops of the pillars sat severed heads, rolling their eyes and chattering to one another.

  ‘Here come some more for Madame Loisette,’ one said, ‘she’s so hungry today, so impatient to slice and chew and sever.’

  ‘They don’t look like nobles,’ said another, squinting at us, his face pinched and disapproving, ‘they look like commoners if you ask me, dirty little peasants.’

  ‘They execute just about anyone these days,’ said another, ‘it’s awfully insulting.’

  The leading Impressionist halted and raised its hands so that words could appear from them.

  Where. Exhibits? it asked.

  One of the knitting figures stopped working, slipped the wet garment from its nails onto the stone floor where it fell with a slap. It got to its feet and beckoned with a sharp finger. From the other side of the square, a wooden cart rolled forward. There was nobody pulling it, its wheels rattled under their own steam. It was the kind of thing that prisoners would have once been carried in, now it contained a pile of junk. I could see a satellite dish, a small tricycle, a display of plastic flowers. The Impressionists quivered with what I guessed was excitement as it drew closer.

  Most. Acceptable! announced the creature that was doing all the talking. We. Trade!

  ‘Right,’ said the man who had been moaning the night before, ‘if you’ve got a plan now would be a good time.’ He sneered. ‘But you haven’t have you? We’ll just have to have our heads cut off.’

  ‘If it was good enough for me…’ said one of the severed heads.

  I turned to Adrien and whispered. ‘You got your knife?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then start cutting the ropes so we can run.’

  ‘What good will that do?’ the man asked as we were tugged towards the guillotine. ‘They’ll soon grab us back won’t they? You can’t outrun them, I tried. They shoot their long arms at you and snatch you back.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I called to the Impressionist who seemed to be in charge, the one that had been doing all the ‘talking’. I did my best to move away from Adrien slightly so I wasn’t drawing attention to him.

  The creature turned to face me. What? it asked, the word bursting in a spray of bright yellow from its mouth.

  ‘Well, I can see that you’re trying to collect all the really important things for the museum,’ I said, ‘but you haven’t got the really good stuff have you? The really amazing things.’

  Its skin rippled with red, I wondered if this meant it was angry. Each word spurted aggressively from its chest. What. Amazing. Things?!?

  ‘The really rare stuff, you know, the iconic, breathtaking things.’ I looked towards the guillotine. ‘Like that for example. A grotesque guillotine, evoking an entire period of our history, an emblem of a political movement that changed our country forever. It should definitely be in the museum don’t you think? It’s essential. Breathtaking. I feel moved to tears just looking at it.’

  It turned to look at the guillotine.

  ‘They won’t stand for that,’ said one of the severed heads. ‘Madame Loisette is the boss around here, La Tricoteuse are just her feeders. There may be only four of them but you watch, they’ll tear you apart before you so much as lay a finger on her.’

  ‘There’s only four of them?’ I asked.

  ‘More than enough,’ it replied, nodding so vigorously it rolled forward and landed on the floor with the popping of a broken nose.

  ‘Only four,’ I said to The Impressionist. ‘That’s limited edition isn’t it? Extremely rare. Much rarer than all the stuff in the cart. Of course, you could take that as well couldn’t you? It’s not like they could stop you is it?’

  Limited. The Impressionist said. The word appearing in a cloud-like thought bubble above its head. Precious and iconic.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, ‘your museum isn’t going to be up to much without them is it?’

  I turned to look at Adrien, his hands were free now and the others were passing the knife around, cutting the rope.

  All four of La Tricoteuses were getting to their feet, sensing the trouble that was brewing.

  The guillotine, Madame Loisette, slammed her blade up and down with renewed energy.

  ‘She’s getting angry now,’ said another of the heads. ‘It’s alright for us, we don’t have any necks to worry about but I’d be fair terrified if I were you, things are going to get nasty any moment.’

  The Impressionist I had talked to, turned to its fellows and one massive word erupted from its body, hanging over its shoulders and head. COLLECT.

  The chaos was immediate, The Impressionists moved quicker than I had even seen them move before, their bodies losing cohesion as they flung themselves towards the guillotine and the attendant Tricoteuses. You know when you sling water out of a bucket? The way it forms a jagged rectangle that flies through the air, momentum keeping it together for a few seconds? It was just like that except that at the moment gravity normally beats momentum and the shape falls apart, they reformed into a more human shape, landing on the needle-fingered hags and tearing at them with liquid hands.

  I reached out my hands to the person now holding the knife. Once the rope had been cut a few times it all began to fall apart and most of us could just pull ourselves free, trying not to think about the violence erupting all around us.

  ‘I knew you’d do it!’ said Adrien as I grabbed his hand.

  ‘All I’ve done so far is cause a fight,’ I told him, looking around for Gabi. Everyone was running in separate directions and she was knocked to the ground in the panic.

  ‘Careful!’ I shouted as someone nearly trampled her.

  I grabbed her hand and yanked her upright. She cried out as I pulled her arm but I couldn’t worry about being gentle. Who knew how long this distraction would last?

  ‘Come on!’ I said, half carrying, half pulling them in the direction of the road.

  The Tricoteuses were wailing, though in anger or pain it was hard to tell, I turned to see one of them, her fingers a blur of movement as she knitted the fabric of one of The Impressionists into a new shape, a net of colour that thrashed and fought to release itself from the shape she had woven it into. Why didn’t it just liquefy? Did these other beasts have power over them?

  I realised I was wasting time trying to decide who was going to win. It was no benefit to me either way, the best result would be that they killed each other and knocked over that hungry guillotine while they were at it.

  The blade was sending splinters into the air now, driven mad with bloodlust at the fighting.

  ‘You’ve driven her mad!’ screamed one of the heads as we ran past. ‘She won’t be happy until she’s taken the heads of the entire city.’

  I scooped Gabi into my arms so we could move quicker, Adrien was quick on his feet but Gabi must have been hurt in the scuffle and was limping badly.

  Behind us, I heard the sound of the guillotine scaffold toppling, whether because of attack or through its own self-destructive slicing I didn’t know.

  We ran up Rue Royale, cutting off onto Saint Honoré an
d then Cambon, not once looking back, in case the winners of the battle were in pursuit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FINALLY, ACROSS THE street from the Olympia theatre, still advertising a gala night of music as if it were the most important thing in the world, we stopped running and checked to see if we’d been followed. There was no sign of anyone, not the Impressionists, the Tricoteuses or, for that matter, any of the other people that had been brought for sacrifice to the hungry guillotine.

  ‘My ankle,’ said Gabi, ‘they stood on it.’

  ‘Let me have a look,’ suggested Adrien, as if he had all the medical training she might need.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, carrying on quickly as I could already see the look of disappointment growing on his face. He didn’t like me suggesting he wasn’t capable of anything. Always so eager to prove himself. Had I been like that? I’d probably been too busy watching out for myself around the house, hiding from Uncle Jean. ‘You take a look up the street, not far, just enough to make sure the coast’s clear, we don’t want something creeping up on us.’

  He nodded and jogged a little way up the road.

  ‘Stay where I can see you!’ I called. ‘Just in case.’

  He rolled his eyes at that but I didn’t care, the last thing I needed was for him to get snatched by something, I’d only just got him back.

  I looked at Gabi’s ankle. It was puffy and turning red. I roughed up a bandage using her socks, tying it as tightly as possible and then told her she would be getting a piggy-back ride for the rest of the day. That seemed an exciting enough prospect that she forgot about how much her ankle was hurting for a few minutes.

  Adrien was stood a little way up the street so, lifting Gabi onto my shoulders, I walked up to join him.

  ‘Where’s the closest way back?’ he asked.

  I told him, but obviously, I’m not telling you. Suffice to say it was a longer walk than I would have liked. Without Antonio I didn’t want to risk getting lost, so we’d have to go underground at a familiar spot that I knew I could lead us home from. That would take some walking.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you get tired carrying Gabi I can always take over.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  We walked up the street a short way, Adrien doing his very best to act as if this was all in a day’s work. I knew him well enough to see the nervousness beneath; he might be determined to pretend that everything was in his stride but the fear was only buried a short way under the surface.

  Spotting a café I decided it was worth a look just in case raiders like me had either missed it or left something behind. None of us had eaten for a long time.

  We weren’t the first to have found the place and the kitchen had been cleared out of pretty much everything. At least the water was still running so we could drink.

  I was just about to tell them we had to move on when Adrien stumbled upon a box of pancake mix at the back of a store cupboard. On the one hand: what sort of lousy café sold ready-mix pancakes? On the other: food.

  There was a bottle of gas that I managed to hook up to the stove; it was nearly empty but there was enough to light the hob for as long as we’d need. Within ten minutes we had a pile of pancakes and I was, once again, the biggest hero in all of Paris, at least to these two.

  ‘I used to like them with chocolate spread,’ said Adrien as he rolled a pancake up and began to eat it. ‘But I think they’re even better like this.’

  ‘They’re not,’ said Gabi, far more honest. She looked at me. ‘But I’m glad we have them.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed.

  Normally I wouldn’t have wanted to hang around in the café but I decided that they could both do with a little rest, especially Gabi with her foot. Even once we were back underground and comparatively safe, it would be a long trek before we were home.

  I made them both drink plenty of water and filled an empty bottle with more so we’d have some for the journey.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AFTER HALF AN hour I decided we really did need to move.

  I continued to carry Gabi. She said her ankle was feeling better but I could tell from the way she limped on it that it would only get worse if she used it. There would be sections in the tunnels when I wouldn’t have space to carry her, best to save her strength for then.

  As we continued up the street there was suddenly the most incredible sound. Operatic singing, loud and complicated, the sort of singing that’s far more interested in showing off than holding a tune. It climbed up until it hit a note so high it trailed into either silence or a frequency we could no longer hear. A few seconds later there was the shattering of glass.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Gabi asked. ‘She sounds pretty.’

  ‘She sounds shrieky,’ said Adrien, ‘like someone set fire to a singer.’

  ‘You just don’t know what nice music sounds like,’ Gabi replied and I felt her legs tense against my neck. Was she really going to have a fight about their different musical tastes? I wasn’t sure I could handle that.

  ‘Quiet you two,’ I said, ‘we don’t know it’s safe, so better to creep past without them even knowing we’re here.’

  The singing started again, more convoluted chasing through notes, low to high, like a boxer fighting a tune that was swooping down on them. As we passed the Place de l’Opéra the source of the singing was revealed. A large woman in a bright red evening gown was stood in front of the Palais Garner, arms spread wide as she hurled her voice to the sky.

  ‘Can’t we stop and listen to her for a minute?’ asked Gabi. ‘She’s so lovely.’

  Adrien rolled his eyes. I have to say I wasn’t too struck by her voice either but then—feel free to mock me all you like—I’ve always hated opera. That wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to hang around though, I just wanted to keep moving, get underground, get safe.

  ‘We should keep going,’ I told her. ‘Sorry, but it’s dangerous out here in the open.’

  ‘She can’t be dangerous,’ she replied. ‘Not sounding like that.’

  ‘It’s not her I’m worried about,’ I said, but then, the woman soared for another high note and, almost directly in the line of fire, all three of us cringed as our ears began ringing.

  ‘If she keeps that up,’ said Adrien, once the note had dropped lower again, ‘she’ll blow our heads off.’

  ‘An astute observation,’ said a voice from behind us, ‘her voice is capable of anything.’ My ears were still making a buzzing noise but I turned to face a man dressed in flowing red robes that matched the singer’s dress. On his head he wore a red headscarf covered by a wide-brimmed black hat. An enormous red feather swept across the hat’s brim. His voice was muffled by the skull mask he wore, an image matched on the head of a long black cane he carried. As soon as Gabi saw him she nearly crushed my neck between her legs. Adrien took a slight step behind me, too worried to pretend he was brave.

  The man bowed, his robes and the feather on his hat waving in the wind.

  ‘Greetings my friends, I am Erik, and the delicious voice you are hearing belongs to the legendary Christine Daaé. The Mistress of the Minim, Queen of Crotchets.’

  ‘What’s a crotchet?’ asked Adrien, rather nervously.

  ‘Putty in her hand, my young friend, putty in her hand. You are privileged to hear her preparing for her comeback performance. Truly, the city is blessed to once more hear her voice.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I agreed, not wanting to get into an argument with the sort of man who wears a mask of a skull. ‘When did she last sing?’

  ‘Oh,’ Erik replied, adopting a posture of one deep in thought, ‘it is so long one can no longer remember. Perhaps she never even did. Not really. It’s so hard to be sure.’

  Now he adopted a jolly pose, hands on his hips, cane jutting up to one side. All of his movements were slightly over-the-top, as if he were miming the meaning behind everything he said. ‘You will, of course, be eager to attend the performance!’

  ‘W
ell, actually,’ I said, ‘we’d love to but we’ve got to be getting home, our friends will be worrying about us.’

  I made to move away but he shifted to block me. ‘But you can’t refuse, surely? How could you bear to live a moment longer knowing you had missed her performance?’

  ‘Maybe we could come back for it?’ suggested Adrien, ‘and bring our friends. What time does it start?’

  I was impressed by his quick thinking and nodded at the idea. ‘That would be perfect. It wouldn’t take us long to go home and gather everyone together. It would be awful for them to miss it, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘But what an awful risk,’ he said, ‘anything can happen on these streets. They are filled with terrors. If you were to die then you would do so bereft of the grace of her full performance.’

  ‘Which would be terrible,’ I agreed, ‘but how could we enjoy it knowing that our friends had missed it?’

  He thought about this for a moment. ‘How many friends do you have?’

  ‘There’s a whole colony of us,’ I explained, ‘over a hundred people.’

  He sighed. ‘That would be lovely. An audience that might begin to be worthy of her.’ He leaned in close. ‘I confess I worry that few will turn up. It was always hard to drag the dull masses to the arts. More so now so many of them keep dying and fighting one another. Nothing crushes a performer’s spirit more than the ignoble sight of empty seats.’

  He thought some more, tapping his cane on the street. Finally, he came to a decision.

  ‘I will trust you,’ he said, ‘because my love for her knows no bounds and the idea of a full house swells my heart. Go then, but be back here at eight for the experience of your lives.’

  At that moment, Christine Daaé belted out another note that took out a shop window opposite.

  Erik clutched his hands to his chest as if to keep his heart in. ‘Isn’t she the most amazing thing you ever heard?’