by Amy Cross
“I painted that,” he continues. “You are impressed?”
“Um, sure,” I reply, figuring I should be polite.
“I call it She Loved Me Once,” he explains. “It's part of a series of thirty-five paintings that I made after my last girlfriend left me. Well, thirty-five paintings so far. Each one is designed to represent a different stage of the grieving process after a relationship ends. When I finally make it as an artist, I will kiss this crappy job goodbye, you understand? I have another thirty-five at least to paint in this series about the girl. Maybe I will even take it to a hundred. And then I will invite her to the first night of my big show, and she will see what she did to me!”
“That seems very... confrontational,” I point out.
“She broke my heart. But you like my painting, yes?”
“It's very... red,” I mutter, unable to think of anything else to say. For a moment, the swirls of red paint almost seem to be moving slightly, as if they're drifting through water, and finally I turn back to the guy and see that he's pouring himself another whiskey. So much for staying sober while he works. “Are all your paintings red?”
“All red,” he says with a knowing, self-satisfied smile. “Red like blood. Blood is passion, blood is hunger, blood is the juice of life. Maybe I use the wrong words in English, but I know what I'm talking about when it comes to art. I love blood. Do you love blood? How can anyone live and not love blood?”
“Sure,” I reply, figuring I just need to drink this shot of whiskey and then make an excuse to go up to my room. This guy is very talkative, and very opinionated. “I mean, we all need blood, right?”
“Especially women,” he mutters darkly. “You know what women are? Women are vampires. They suck the life out of every man they meet.” He clinks his glass against mine as he grins, baring a gold tooth. “The life and everything else too!”
Five
I sigh as my phone buzzes again.
It's getting late, almost 9pm, and I'm just about ready for my first proper night's sleep in over a week. That's the plan, anyway. Grabbing the phone, I'm tempted to just delete the message without reading it, but against my better judgment I tap the screen and sure enough it's yet another missive from Michael, asking where I am and when I'm going back to Stockholm.
I'm not, I type. I'm going home. If you're ever in London, look me up.
A moment later, I receive a reply: Is this because of Sonja?
I pause, not quite knowing how to answer that. Yes, it's because of Sonja, I type finally. I just need to start over again. See you around.
Once I've sent the message, I sit and wait for a few minutes, staring at the screen and waiting for a reply. To my surprise, there are no more buzzes, which I guess means he understands. It's crazy that I packed up and left so suddenly, but my friends in Sweden can't be too surprised that I'm finally heading home to London. After everything that happened with Sonja, I feel like I have to make a fresh start. And sometimes making a fresh start means going back to where you came from, and taking some time to figure out where you're going next.
Hence my slightly long-way-round journey.
For a moment, however, I simply sit in the room and listen to the sound of the street outside. For the past week, I was slowly going stir-crazy in the apartment I once shared with Sonja. Small bumps in the night became footsteps in my fevered mind, and I let myself start believing in the craziest things. I've always been a rational, level-headed person, but I allowed cracks to run through my mind and fill my thoughts with dark fantasies. I even started to hallucinate. And last night, while I was trying to decide whether to go to the funeral...
But that's in the past now.
I'm better.
I'm fine.
What I saw last night was just in my head. It can't have been real.
Once I've checked that all my tickets for tomorrow are in place, and that all the timings line up, I head through to the bathroom and start getting ready for bed. My head isn't tired but my body is exhausted, and I can't help feeling a little surprised when I look at my reflection in the mirror and see rings under my eyes. Sure, the harsh electric light isn't exactly flattering, but I'm only twenty-four years old. I shouldn't look this tired. Then again, after everything that happened over the past week, I guess I can be forgiven for a little fatigue. There'll be time to recharge, to get back to being my old self, once I'm back in London.
After a moment, I spot the reflection of the empty bathtub, and I feel a faint kick in my chest. I could happily live the rest of my life without ever seeing another bathtub again.
Outside, light rain has started to fall, tapping against the window.
“It wasn't real,” I whisper, thinking back to last night. “She -”
Suddenly someone knocks on the door.
For a moment, it occurs to me that it might be the weird girl again. After the way she followed me about earlier, I figure I can't put it past her to show up again, but the more likely option is that the talkative guy from the front desk wants something. I wouldn't be surprised if he's brought his bottle of whiskey up so he can once again lecture me about women, in which case I'll have to politely get rid of him. After checking that I don't have any toothpaste around my lips, I head to the door and pull it open, while forcing a weary smile.
It's not the guy from the desk.
It's the weird girl from the coach.
“What the hell do you want?” I ask, genuinely shocked.
“You said we're in Paris,” she replies, her voice instantly sounding a little clearer and brighter than earlier. “Why? I mean... How? How did I end up in Paris?”
“How?” I pause, tempted to just shut the door in her face. She's either playing some kind of bizarre trick, or she's genuinely out of her mind. “I just... I helped you out on the coach, remember? From Hamburg?”
“Hamburg?”
“The city in Germany.”
“I was in Germany?”
I pause again, trying to figure out her angle. “I got the coach from Stockholm,” I continue cautiously, “and you got on at Hamburg, except you didn't have a ticket and you were gonna get tossed off. You thought you'd bought a ticket from some guy in the street, and it turned out he'd just conned you.”
I wait for her to respond, but she's frowning slightly, as if all of this is news to her.
“So I paid for your ticket to Paris,” I add, “and now... I mean, I was just being nice. I didn't like the thought of you getting forced out onto the street close to midnight in a dodgy part of the city, so I just thought I'd be a good Samaritan. It seemed like you had no money, no-one to call, nowhere to go. I mean... That was it, really. I was just being nice.”
She stares at me for a moment. “But why Paris?”
“Why Paris?”
“Why Paris?” she asks again.
“Because that's where the coach was going,” I explain, starting to wonder if she might just be a little simple in the head. “It terminated in Paris.”
“But why would I...” Her voice trails off for a moment. “I haven't been to Paris in a long time.”
“Lucky you,” I reply. “I've been through quite a lot lately.”
I wait for her to say something else, but she seems lost in thought and genuinely confused by the situation. She's still wearing the same clothes from before, and still holding the same bag, and finally she mutters something and turns, heading back toward the elevator.
“Do you have somewhere to go?” I ask.
She stops, and slowly she turns back to look at me.
Damn it, I should have just let her go, but she seems so lost.
“Do you have somewhere to sleep?” I continue. “Do you know someone in Paris, or do you have money for a room?”
She stares at me, but she doesn't answer.
“Ben,” I say finally, even though a voice at the back of my mind is telling me this is insane. “My name's Ben. If you want...”
I pause. Is this really a good idea?
&
nbsp; “If you want, I mean...”
Another pause. This would be an insanely bad idea. So why am I about to offer?
“I mean, you can come inside, if you want,” I continue. “It's raining outside, right? And it's not the warmest night. Are you just going to wander the streets?”
She stares at me for a moment longer, before turning and coming back over to the doorway. She seems hesitant, almost nervous, but she seems to be peering past me as if she wants to see into the room.
“Are you inviting me in?” she asks cautiously.
“I guess so.”
She stares at me for a moment, and I can't help noticing that she doesn't seem to blink very much.
“You're sure?” she asks. “You're actually inviting me?”
“Well, I...” The question seems a little odd, but I take a step back so she has room to come through. “You don't seem like you have anywhere to go,” I continue, “and it's late and...”
My voice trails off, and for a moment we stand in silence on either side of the open doorway. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realize exactly why I asked if she wanted to come inside. I need a distraction, any distraction, after what happened last night in Stockholm. Inviting some crazy, weird stranger into my room is somehow better than being here alone with just my own thoughts for company.
“I can't exactly turn down an invitation,” she says suddenly, before taking a cautious step into the room and looking around. “Thank you.”
I open my mouth to tell her I've changed my mind, but I quickly realize there's no way I can do that to her.
“There are two beds,” I point out finally, as I swing the door shut. “It's paid for, I've paid for the room, I'm only here for one night but if you need somewhere to crash, somewhere to...”
Again, my voice trails off.
This is nuts. For all I know, she could be some kind of serial killer. She could be a girl who travels all over Europe, slaughtering innocent men she picks up along the way. Hell, in the morning my skin might have been peeled off and stretched across the wall like a goddamn canvas, and my head might be in the sink. At the same time, as she steps over to the bathroom door and looks through, I honestly can't believe that this girl could hurt anyone. Something about her just seems very calm and settled.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what a serial killer would want me to think.
“You have a mirror,” she says after a moment.
“Um... Sure,” I reply, feeling as if that's an unusual thing for her to notice. “So like I mentioned, my name's Ben.”
I wait for a reply, but she doesn't seem very well trained in the usual social niceties.
“What's your name?” I add.
She stands in the doorway for a moment, with one hand resting on the frame as she stares into the bathroom, and then she turns to me.
“Madeleine,” she says finally.
“Hey, Madeleine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “So, like I just...” I take a deep breath. “I guess you're welcome to the spare bed, if you want it. I'm just here for one night, I'm heading off in the morning to catch a ferry and...”
Suddenly my throat feels very dry.
“You're inviting me to spend the night here?” she asks.
“I... I guess so.” Grabbing the bottle of water, I take a swig. My mind is racing and I feel as if I've really gotten myself into something crazy. But again, at least crazy is a distraction.
“I can't exactly turn down an invitation,” she says again, before looking over at the second, undisturbed bed. As she does so, I spot what looks like the top of a nasty, blue-and-yellow bruise poking out from under her jacket, just below her left ear. There's something else, too.
Blood.
She seems to have some kind of head injury, glistening beneath her dark hair.
Six
“So where exactly were you going when you got on that coach?” I ask as I brush my teeth. “Why did you come to Paris?”
I wait for a reply, but when none is forthcoming, I quickly spit into the sink and glance through to the bedroom. To my surprise, Madeleine is still at the window, with the curtain pulled aside as she looks out. She certainly doesn't seem to be much of a conversationalist.
“I told you there's not much of a view,” I continue, hoping to get her talking. “No Eiffel Tower, no Notre Dame, no Arc de Triomphe. Not from that window, anyway. Just a little alley and a brick wall.”
Again, no reply.
To be honest, I'm starting to regret inviting her to stay, and I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking at the time. I guess I panicked about being alone, but that reaction feels kind of dumb now. Still, I guess it's too late to back out. I've made my bed and I'll just have to lie in it. Maybe with one eye open.
“Me, I'm going home,” I tell her, turning and grabbing my toiletry bag. I take out a razor, but the sight of the blade sends a shudder through my chest and I slip it away again. I can shave tomorrow. “I'm just taking the long route. I don't really feel like flying, and I wanted...”
I pause as I realize that perhaps I'm opening up a little too much. I mean, if I start telling her about my journey, I'll only end up having to explain why I'm leaving Stockholm in the first place.
Stepping out of the bathroom, I can't help but notice that Madeleine is still at the window, still staring out at the dark alley. I already had her pegged as someone a little weird, but in a way her weirdness is almost endearing. So many people try to hide their quirks and peculiarities, but Madeleine seems absolutely unashamed. She wants to look out the window, so that's exactly what she's doing. As I step up behind her, however, I can't help trying to get a better look at the wound on the back of her head. There's definitely dried blood in her hair.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
No answer.
“Are you tired?”
Again, silence.
“I guess it's getting kind of late,” I continue. “I don't know if you have any plans for tomorrow, but...”
My voice trails off.
This is hopeless.
“So you're not going to tell me about yourself?” I ask, heading over to the bed. Glancing at her, I realize that while she's still looking out the window, she's not looking down at the alley at all. She's looking up, toward the night sky. “Don't take this the wrong way, but you seemed kind of confused on the coach. Did some asshole scam you in Hamburg? I guess it happens to all of us at least once, right?”
I wait for her a reply, and this time she at least turns and looks at me.
“I was...” She pauses, as if she's struggling to remember. “I wasn't well,” she continues finally. “I was... It all happened very suddenly. Suddenly I was... there. That's it. I must have... There.”
“And then you just jumped on a coach with no plans, huh?”
Her left eye twitches slightly. “Something like that.” She stares at me for a moment longer, before looking out the window again. “Is this really Paris? It's so much bigger and louder than I remember.”
“Um, sure,” I reply, sitting on the bed. “How long has it been since you were last here?”
No reply.
“Places change pretty fast,” I continue. “I'm heading back to London for the first time in a few years. I'm sure it won't be exactly how it was when I left.”
Silence.
“We should probably sleep,” I say finally. “It's late and I don't really feel like going out on the town.”
God, I'm boring.
Anyone else would take her out, get her talking, and generally grease the social wheels a little. I guess I'm just not that kind of guy.
Suddenly she turns and, without saying a word, heads to the bathroom. I watch as she goes through, and I can't help noticing that she's left the door wide open. She's out of sight, and I have no idea what she's doing but I think she's over by the bath.
“I'll turn the light off, then,” I call out.
No reply.
“I guess I might as well,” I mutter, reaching up and h
itting the switch on the wall.
Once the room is dark, with such a patch of moonlight shining through the window, I slip under the bed-sheets. I can't help thinking about my friend Michael from Sweden, and what he'd do in this situation. He'd get Madeleine talking, he'd show her the best night of her life, and then he'd probably get her into bed for the night. Sometimes I wish I was like that, but I'm sure as hell no Casanova.
All things considered, however, I've managed to get myself into a pretty strange situation tonight. I just hope I don't get killed and chopped up in my sleep.
When Madeleine comes back into the room, I wait for her to go to the other bed. Instead, still fully-dressed, she returns to her spot by the window and resumes her watch of the night sky.
“Are you going to do that 'til morning?” I ask cautiously.
“I don't know,” she replies. “Maybe.”
I consider asking her what she's looking for, before finally realizing that there's probably no point. Rolling onto my back, I figure I won't get much sleep, but that's okay. I just need to make a mental note to ensure that I never invite random girls to my hotel room again.
Seven
She crawls further along the bed, through the patch of moonlight that shines through the window, letting her press against me until her mouth reaches mine. Our lips brush together for a few seconds, as if we're about to kiss. At the last moment, however, she turns her head slightly and leans closer to my neck, keeping her mouth shut as she kisses me just below the jawline.
At the same time, I feel her hot, shallow breaths against my flesh.
“Madeleine, wait...” I stammer, but the rest of the words don't come. Instead, I reach up and put my hands on her waist, and my fingertips slip beneath the fabric of her shirt, quickly brushing against several thin cuts that run through her skin. As she leans down and continues to kiss my neck, the collar of her shirt slips aside slightly and I see a series of dark bruises.