Julie went on nodding her head, sniffing.
‘Don’t cry. Take off your coat.’
She obeyed, still trembling. Threw the coat over the corner of the sofa that she and Claire had gone to buy last week, at Ikea.
He sat on a chair, lit a cigarette.
Julie stammered: ‘What . . . What’s your name?’
‘Florent. My mother’s French, my father’s Algerian.’
Her heart sank. Florent . . . Flo. Doubt was no longer possible. The name he’d given Elisabeth before she escaped. She was in the presence of Guy Georges. The prisoner of Guy Georges. The Beast of Bastille . . .
Now she knew what was in store. Claire had told her enough times:
He ties the girl up, trying to reassure her. Then he takes out a knife and rips her clothes. His usual method is to slice the bra between the cups. That’s his serial killer ‘signature’. Then he slashes her knickers, on the side. He tells the girl to suck him, then he rapes her. Finally, he starts stabbing, violently, going for the neck . . .
Since she couldn’t scream, Julie attempted to soften him up.
Seem friendly. Human. That way, maybe . . .
The ones who were nice to him, who did whatever he said - like Catherine Rocher who gave him her credit card, with the pin number - it was no use. They’re all dead.
‘Would . . . Would you like a coffee?’
Guy Georges smiled. ‘Good idea.’
Shaking, Julie went to the kitchen area. She took out an aluminium saucepan, turned on the tap, poured in cold water. Lit the gas (she broke four matches before managing to light one). Then, standing on tiptoe, she took the packet of coffee from the cupboard.
‘Do you want a hand?’
‘N-no thank you.’
My forensic medicine professor performed the autopsies on three of the victims. He told me that to reach the vertebrae, having gone through the throat, required tremendous strength . . .
Or a tremendous hatred of women. Of women, or the whole world . . .
Julie struggled to open the filter and put it in the plastic cone over the coffee pot. Poured ground coffee into the filter. Poured in double the amount before she realised.
‘What do you do?’ asked Guy Georges, behind her.
‘G-graphic designer for a magazine . . . You?’
‘I was working in a Japanese restaurant, washing up . . . But I got sick of it, I didn’t go back and they fired me. Can I help with the cups?’
She moved aside.
‘No, stay there . . . Please.’
In Julie’s handbag, the phone began to ring. Beating her to it, Guy Georges fell on the bag, opened it, found the mobile, pressed the red button. The ring tone broke off. He put the phone in the top pocket of his jean jacket.
‘You can call your friends back tomorrow,’ he smiled. ‘After I’ve gone . . .’
The water was boiling in the pan. Julie turned off the gas, poured the water onto the coffee. She took two cups and two saucers from the kitchen cabinet and two spoons from the drawer. She turned back to the centre of the tiny studio flat and, making the spoon quiver, put a cup and a saucer on the coffee table, in front of the sofa.
What would he use to tie her up?
Usually, he finds shoelaces in the flat. And he brings his own gaffer tape . . .
The coffee had almost finished filtering. Julie threw the filter into the sink and picked up the pot of black, boiling liquid.
Which pocket was he hiding the gaffer tape in? And the knife? And when would he say ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to tie you up and gag you for the night’?
After the coffee?
Guy Georges, still with his reassuring smile (but his eyes were cold), raised his cup towards her, holding the edge of the saucer. Julie flung the contents of the coffee pot straight into his face.
He let out a howl. Leapt up from the chair, which toppled over behind him. He lurched forward, his face dripping with black streaks and his skin visibly reddening. He walked forward, hands out in front of him. His big killer’s hands . . .
Julie turned back to the cooker, grabbed the enormous iron frying pan given her by Grandma Coray, who lived on the Brittany coast.
And brought it down, with all the strength she possessed, on the Bastille killer’s shaved head. Again and again. A red mist passed before her eyes. The man had fallen to his knees, and uttered a groan between every thud of metal to his skull.
By the time Julie Coray had recovered her wits, Guy Georges was no longer moving. A large pool of blood was seeping across the carpet, mixed with the spatterings of coffee.
Julie went to vomit in the sink. Nor having eaten, all she brought up was a little bitter bile. Wiping her mouth and face with a cloth, she went back to the lifeless body.
A wallet was sticking out of the front pocket of the killer’s jeans.
Overcoming her revulsion, Julie tried to find a pulse on the man’s right wrist. Nothing. She placed her fingers on the carotid artery. Nothing there either. Finally, she decided to pull out the wallet, and opened it.
She found an identity card in the name of Florent Chétoui, born 22 September 1967 in Blida (Algeria). And a pay slip from the restaurant Delices d’Osaka, rue de la Croix-Nivert, Paris 15, with a short letter of dismissal.
Julie’s mobile began to ring again. In the front pocket of Florent Chétoui’s jacket. Fighting waves of nausea, the young woman turned the inert body over and retrieved the phone. Big blisters were swelling the face, turning it a purplish red.
‘Julie? You OK?’
Claire.
‘Yes, well ... I’m OK. I think . . .’
‘It didn’t sound like it. Your message, on my voicemail . . .’
‘Yes, I’m OK . . . Better.’
‘Did you see, they got him, huh?’
‘What? Got who?’
‘Guy Georges of course! Didn’t you listen to the news? Two cops recognised him and caught him, softly softly, early in the afternoon. He was coming out of Blanche Métro station, went into a Monoprix . . . They cornered him by the perfume counter,’ she chuckled.
‘...’
‘Apparently he didn’t struggle or anything . . .’
Stepping over the body, Julie rushed to the TV, pressed the button. She caught the start of the late-night news on TFI. First the presenter’s voice, then his smiling face:
. . . freely confessed to the murders of Pascale E, in 1991, and Magali S, in 1997. Police are continuing to question him. According to the police, Guy Georges is not North African but mixed race, Afro-European, and only vaguely resembled the two photofits . . .
Julie had another urge to vomit. She turned down the volume and picked up the mobile again.
What were they talking about, when she had a man’s body in her attic studio in the fourteenth arrondissement? A man she’d just killed, thinking she was acting in self-defence . . .
Was that Guy Georges’ fault, or Julie Coray’s?
It was all unbelievably unfair.
She had to think hard before calling the police.
Tomorrow, it was Julie Coray who’d be front page news. Unless . . .
Maybe Claire had the answer.
Dear Claire.
Breton women are strong. They help each other out. If Claire was coming from Cochin, she could borrow a dissection saw from there . . . Julie eyed the roll of 30-litre bin liners in the open kitchen cabinet, under the sink.
‘Claire . . .’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I’ve got a big favour to ask you ... If you could come now . . .’
A sigh.
‘Oh, you poor thing ... I called you because I turned my phone on again and got your message. I couldn’t sleep, they’ve stuffed me with painkillers . . . I’m in Cochin, with a long-leg cylinder cast . . .’
‘A what?’
‘A long-leg cylinder cast. The kind that goes all the way up your leg from the foot to the top of the thigh. I got hit by a taxi crossing the road outside the hosp
ital, just after we spoke, at midday today . . . D’you realise, I’m in hospital in my own department. It’s a pain ... In plaster for two months! I’m sorry, but I think you’ll have to cope on your own like a big girl . . .’
Letting the phone fall to her side, Julie Coray straightened up, dazed, and stared at the corpse for a long time. The broken skull, the dented frying pan, the overturned cup and saucer, the coffee pot she’d thrown, smashed to smithereens, the puddle of red, glistening blood with black swirls, reflecting the light bulb on the ceiling. Then her eyes turned back to the TV where the TFI newscaster opened his arms before passing to the next topic. Julie turned up the sound.
. . . that’s all we can say for the moment on what’s been today’s main news story. Guy Georges will never commit another crime. The spectre no longer haunts Paris, women are safe again and can look forward to the future with a smile!
Putting the mobile back to her ear, Julie wished her friend goodnight and a speedy recovery, promised to visit her in hospital very soon, ended the call, left the TV on for background noise - and pulled from the cupboard a plastic sheet, a broom, a bucket and a floor cloth.
On rue Cels, like everywhere else in the capital, the bin men came every day. Tomorrow morning, Julie would phone Reader’s Digest to tell them she had a cold.
Then she’d go to a DIY store to buy a metal saw.
Translation © Lulu Norman and Ros Schwartz
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* * * *
UN BON REPAS DO IT COMMENCER PAR LA FAIM...
STELLA DUFFY
T
he journey from London to Paris is easy.
Too easy. I need more time, to think, prepare, get ready. Security, supposed to be so important now, these days, ways, places, is lax to the point of ease. I love it, welcome the apparent ease. I believe in fate, in those big red buses lined up to knock us over, in your number being up, the calling in of one’s very own pleasure boat. I do not believe that taking off our shoes at airports will save us. I show my ticket and my passport, walk through to the train, and get off at the Gare du Nord. Too easy. Too fast.
Less than three hours after leaving London I walk straight into a picket line. It seems the French staff are less fond of the lax security than I. Or perhaps they just don’t like the non-essential immigrants they say Eurostar is employing. I accept the badly copied leaflet thrust into my hand and put it in my pocket. Bienvenue en France.
I can’t face the Métro. Not yet, this early, it is not yet mid-morning. In real life I would choose to be asleep, safe in bed - not always achieved, but it would be my choice. I like my Métro in the afternoon and evening, a warm ride that promises a drink at the other end, a meal maybe, lights. In the morning it is too full of workers and students, those interminable French students, segueing from lycée to university with no change of clothes between. Ten years of the same manners, same behaviour day in day out, week after week of congregating in loud groups on footpaths where they smoke and laugh, and then suddenly they’re in the world and somehow those ugly duckling student girls are born again as impossibly elegant Parisiennes, fine and tidy and so very boring in their classic outfits. French and Italian women, groomed to identical perfection and not an original outfit among them. So much more interesting naked. Round the picket line, out into the street. Road works, illegal taxi drivers offering their insane prices to American tourists doing London (theatre), Paris (art), Rome (Pope). The Grand Tour as dictated by the History Channel.
I cross the street in front of the station, head down, heading down towards the river. There is something about traversing a map from north to south that feels like going downhill, even without the gentle slope from here to the water. Where I’m headed it certainly feels like going downhill. I don’t want to look at this city, not now. I see gutters running with water, Paris prides itself on clean streets, on washing every morning, a whore’s lick of running cold to sluice out the detritus. Two young women with their hands held out sit at the edge of businessmen’s feet, rattling coins in McDonalds cups. I try to pass but their insistence holds me, I say I don’t speak French, they beg again in English. I insist I don’t speak that either, they offer German, Italian and Spanish. I have no more words in which to plead either ignorance or parsimony, I scavenge in three pockets before giving them a dollar. It’s my only defence against their European polyglossary.
Still too early. Still too soon.
Paris is small. The centre of Paris I mean. Like every other city with a stage-set centre, there are all those very many suburbs, the ones Gigi never saw, where cars burn and mothers weep and it is not heaven accepting gratitude for little girls. It is not heaven I am thanking now. I continue my walking meditation, past innumerable Vietnamese restaurants, and countless small patisseries where pain au chocolat and croissants dry slowly on the plates of high glass counters, and bars serve beers to Antipodean travellers who really cannot believe this city and call home to tell loved ones readying for bed about the pleasures of a beer in a café at ten in the morning. That glass pyramid can wait, this is art, this is the life.
It is a life. Another one.
There are no secrets. This isn’t that kind of story. Nothing to work out. I can explain everything, will explain everything. But not yet. There are things to do and it must be done in order and the thing is, the thing is, we always had lunch first. She and I. She said it was proper, correct. That French thing, their reverence for food, an attitude the rest of the world outwardly respects and secretly despises. It’s just food for God’s sake, why must they make such a fuss? The linen the glass the crockery the menu the waiters with their insistence on pouring and placing and setting and getting it all right. Pattern, form, nothing deviating, nothing turning away, nothing new. Like the groomed women and the elegant men and the clean, clipped lapdogs. Nothing to surprise. So perhaps more than a reverence for just food, a reverence for reverence, reverence for form. Female form, polite form, good form, true to form. Formidable. Hah. Polyglot that.
(So strange. I can walk down the street, give money to a beggar, I can make a play on word form. I am able to buy a train ticket, sit in a bar, order wine and slowly drink the glass as if nothing has happened, as if life just goes on. Even when I know how very abruptly it can stop.)
So. Lunch. Dinner. From the Old French disner, original meaning: breakfast, then lunch, now dinner. Because any attempt to dine, at whatever time of day, will of course break the fast that has gone before, whatever time period that fast encapsulated, night, morning or afternoon. Whenever I broke my fast with her, for her, she insisted we dine first.
Some time ago I spent a weekend with friends in London. At their apartment, their flat, my London friends talk about words. The English are very good at discussing words, it lessens their power, words as landmines, easily triggered, makes them readable, understandable. Stable. My friends discussed lunch or dinner, dinner or tea. If the difference were a north/south divide or a class construct. In London they talk about north and south of the river, here it is left and right. The faux-bohemian sinister and the smooth, the near, the adroit. I prefer north and south, it’s harder to get lost. Apparently they’ve found her. Marie-Claude. Found her body. It’s why I’m here.
When I tear my eyes from the gutters and the beggars and the street corners designed to frame a new picture with every stone edge, I look to high chimneys. I am not keen to see shop doors and windows, avenues and vistas, not yet. There is something I need to see first. One thing. I can manage right up and far down, to the far sides, I have the opposite of tunnel vision. There is graffiti, very high, on tall chimneys and cracked walls where one building has been leaning too long on another. This is not what they mean when they talk about a proper view, a scene in every Parisian glance, but it’s diverting enough. I am eager to be diverted. I take a left turn and a right one and another left, still closer to the river, nearer the water, but a narrow road uphill now, heading east, there are more people on the street, or less space for them to wal
k, they touch me sometimes, their clothes, coats, swinging arms. I do not want to be touched, not like this anyway, not dressed, covered, hidden. It will all be open soon.
These side streets, those to the left and the right, east and west, are not so pretty as the views the tourists adore. She and I sat together once, in the restaurant, and listened to an old Australian couple discuss the difference between London and Paris. The woman said Paris was so much prettier, the French had done very well not to put the ugly modern beside the old beautiful. Her husband agreed. And then he said, in a tone calculated to reach the walls of stone, that the French had capitulated during the war. That is why their city was not bombed, why Paris was prettier than London. Though he agreed, the weather was better too, which helped no end. The afternoon progressed, the Australian man drank more wine, and he went on to eat every course the waiters placed before him. I cannot begin to think how much of the waiters’ saliva he must also have enjoyed.
Paris Noir [Anthology] Page 27