by Amy Cross
As I squeeze behind Suzette's chair, she looks up at me with those big green eyes.
“I'll be two minutes,” I tell her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I just want to run to the ATM.”
“Pay by card.”
“I'd rather take the cash out. I'll be two minutes, I promise.”
I can see the disappointment in her face. Nevertheless, I never trust my English bank card here in France, so I'd much rather get the cash out and avoid any potential embarrassment. I meant to go to the ATM earlier, but somehow I never quite found the time.
“Two minutes,” I say again, before leaning down and kissing the top of her head. Her hair smells of that new peach shampoo. “I promise.”
As I walk away from the restaurant, I can't help glancing back over my shoulder. Suzette is sipping at her glass of water, and a moment later the waiter comes over to offer a refill. For a moment, as Suzette speaks to him, I can't help thinking that she's the most beautiful woman in all the world. I know most husbands think that about their wives, and I'm sure they think it's true, but in my case I honestly think Suzette is more beautiful than any other woman. I guess it's just something about her eyes, and about -
Suddenly I bump into someone. Turning, I find that I've managed to walk straight into a scruffy-looking guy outside a shuttered store. I mumble an apology, and he does the same in French, and then I continue on my way. This time, however, I make sure to keep looking straight ahead. There'll be time to ogle my wife later, but for now I just need to get to the ATM and keep my promise to be back in two minutes.
She always hates it when I leave her alone.
Okay, so maybe two minutes was a slight exaggeration. It takes at least that just for me to find a machine that works. As I slide my card into the slot, I already know that Suzette will lightly make fun of me when I get back. She always comments that when I say 'two minutes', I actually mean at least double that. To be fair, she has a point. Still, as I enter my pin code, I tell myself that I'll make it up to her by taking her for a walk along the harbor wall. That's always her – our – favorite way to finish off an evening, ever since we moved to France six months ago.
Honestly, as I take my card from the machine and then my money comes out, I can't help feeling as if – at the age of forty-five – I've finally got the perfect life.
I don't notice the first bang in the distance. Or rather, I notice it but I pay no attention.
Turning away from the machine, I take a moment to put my wallet away, and then I stuff the folded banknotes into the breast pocket of my jacket.
And then there's another bang, and another.
I look along the street, and at that moment people start screaming.
As the bangs continue, I realize with a sudden sense of horror that they actually sound very sharp and clipped. I've never heard gunfire in person before, only in movies, but right now the bangs are somehow, impossibly, starting to sound like shots from a gun.
Suddenly I see people running this way, crying out and screaming. I start hurrying forward, still convinced that this has to be a mistake. My first thought is that there's some kind of street art performance going on, but then the crowd of panicking people gets closer and I see real fear in their faces. They start slamming against me, but I push against them and keep going, heading back toward the restaurant.
Toward the sound of gunfire.
A moment later, the sirens start.
Around me, people are shouting now about a man with a gun. Two men, maybe, or even three. The gunfire – if that's what it really is – is continuing up ahead, and sirens seem to coming closer from all directions. I know this has to be a mistake, that somehow it won't turn out to be what it seems like, but right now all I can think is that I have to get back to Suzette and tell her that everything's okay. She'll be worried, and she'll need me to calm her down.
Suddenly a man runs straight into me, with enough force to knock me down. I land hard on the cobbled street, and when I try to get up I'm almost trampled by two other men. I shout at them to get out of the way, but they don't even seem to have noticed me. Finally, holding my arms up to give myself a little space, I haul myself back up and start running against the crowd, toward the sound of gunfire and – after a few seconds – the sight of flashing blue and red lights.
And still the banging sound continues.
The sound that's starting to sound an awful lot like gunfire.
“Get out of my way!” I shout, pushing past the crowd of people as they rush along the street. “Excuse me! Can you get out of my way?”
“Run!” a man yells at me. “You're going the wrong way! Run!”
“I'm not going the wrong way!” I mutter, but it's getting harder and harder to push against the rush of people. They're forcing me back, no matter how much I try to fight and get to the restaurant.
“You have to let me through to check she's okay!” I yell, trying harder than ever to push past. “You have to let me through! I only left for two minutes! You have to let me get back to my wife!”
II
“Her name is Suzette Evans!” I shout, leaning over the desk at the hospital. “No-one's telling me anything!”
The woman says something in French, but she doesn't even look at me. Instead, she seems focused on whatever she's hearing over her earpiece, and then she turns away as a nurse hurries over and whispers something in her ear.
Turning, I look along the corridor, and all I see is absolute chaos.
There are people everywhere, yelling into cellphones and arguing with one another and sobbing and rushing from room to room. I can hear more voices in the distance, shouting frantically, and a moment later a set of double doors swings open and several doctors hurry through with a heavily bandaged and bloodied figure on a trolley. I rush over to take a closer look, as do several other people nearby, but then I turn away as soon as I see that the figure is a man.
Spotting a TV running in the corner, I head over and join a group of people who have gathered to watch. The sound is off, but the screen is showing flashing blue and red lights in the center of town. A moment later the image switches, and I see what looks like a dead body on the cobbles with a sheet over its head. The text on the screen is constantly changing, but I barely understand a word. There's a number at the bottom, however, and even with my limited French I think I know exactly what it means.
23 mort.
23 dead.
A face appears on the screen. A scruffy, dirty-looking man caught in what appears to be a mugshot. The text under the photo says – I think – that this is the shooter, and that he's dead.
When the image changes again, I see a shot of the restaurant. Armed police are silhouetted against the lights, and the restaurant's windows looked to have been shot out. Most of the tables have been overturned, and the camera pans to show blood smeared on a broken chair.
“Where are the survivors?” I whisper, before turning and looking at the other people around me. “Does anyone know where they're taking the survivors?”
Nobody answers. Spotting a man sitting on a chair nearby, I'm about to go and ask whether he's heard anything, but then I see that there's blood all over the front of his shirt, and blood on his trembling hands too. He's staring down at his hands, as if he's mesmerized by the sight of so much blood, but he doesn't seem to have any injuries himself. I step closer, but now I can see tears running down his face, and his bottom lip is trembling. Even though I want to ask him if he knows what's happening, I get the impression that he's in no position to answer.
“Where are the survivors?” I whisper, before turning and pushing my way through the crowd, trying to get back to the desk. “Where are they taking the survivors?” I shout. “Where's my wife?”
III
One year later
The picture on the desk shows me smiling next to Suzette. It was taken on our first trip to France, back when we were just thinking about moving here. We didn't have any concrete plans, but we figured we'd take a look
at the property market. And when we realized we could afford to buy a place here, suddenly our vague flights of fancy seemed shockingly realistic.
Three months after that, we packed our belongings and moved here from England.
It's getting late now, as I stop at the desk and pick up the framed picture. I don't quite know why, but I haven't turned any of the lights on tonight. Instead I'm standing in darkness, and I have to tilt the photo so that I can see the picture of Suzette's smiling face. She's looking straight at the camera, as if she's looking straight at me now, and her happiness is so completely obvious. This is the photo of a woman who had her whole life ahead of her, of a woman who couldn't possibly understand the kind of hatred that would make a man take a gun and shoot diners outside a restaurant.
All she wanted was to help people.
I take a sip of whiskey.
“Nick, don't leave.”
For the hundredth time this evening, I hear her voice echoing in my thoughts.
“Nick, don't leave.”
The crazy thing is, I remember very little of what we talked about that evening. Small-talk, I guess. Maybe we were chatting about opening a guesthouse, or maybe about holiday plans. There were never any dull moments with Suzette, never any awkward silences, and we were always mulling over possibilities. In fact, as I stand here and look at the photo of her smiling face, I think I remember Suzette saying something that evening about wanting to look at houses a little further inland, away from the hustle of the beaches.
Yeah, that's what we were talking about.
We were talking about moving.
Suddenly the memories come rushing back. Why now, on the anniversary of what happened? Then again, I don't suppose it matters why I'm remembering. We sat at the restaurant and I ate the mussels while she had salmon, and we talked about getting a house in the hills. She was saying that maybe she'd take her driving test, so she'd be able to drive in and out of town without relying on me, and I remember realizing that she was actually serious. Maybe right now, if things hadn't gone so horribly wrong, we'd be living out there along one of those winding roads that -
Suddenly I hear a brief clicking sound from somewhere else in the apartment.
Turning, I look across the dark living room, toward the dark door that leads into the dark hallway.
I wait, hearing nothing but silence now but convinced that I heard something.
I wait for a couple of minutes, in case the sound comes back. I know that I'm alone here, and over the past year I've heard enough silence to know that there are no ghosts, but at the same time that little click couldn't have come from anything here in the apartment. Finally, after setting the framed photo back down on the desk, I carry my whiskey across the darkened room and then I stop to look through to the hallway. As I walk, the only sound is my feet against the carpet, and when I stop the apartment falls silent again.
A moment later I hear a very distant set of footsteps, but I know that's just one of the neighbors going up or down the stairs.
And then I hear voices in the next apartment. Arguing voices. That couple who are always arguing. I swear Suzette and I almost never argued, but we heard the couple all the time, and we often made jokes about how they seemed constantly on the verge of all-out war. I stand completely still, listening to them, and then I hear a door slamming shut. As usual, one of them has stormed out, and I listen to the sound of footsteps heading to the stairs and then hurrying down to the lobby.
Then I hear the distant sound of the building's front door opening and closing, and then I'm left in silence again. It's the complete, absolute silence of an apartment from which one person is missing.
IV
There are so many people out here, even so late at night. Sitting on a bench near the harbor, I watch as people wander past arm-in-arm, enjoying the warm evening air as they talk.
Over on the other side of the street, people are sitting on the terrace outside the restaurant.
The restaurant.
They changed the name when it reopened, of course. They fixed the place up and gave it a completely new look. It's the same building, however, no matter how much they might try to hide what happened there. I remember when I first heard they were reopening, I was horrified by the idea. I wanted the whole place to be bulldozed and turned into some kind of shrine, but then I realized that nobody was going to toss away a restaurant on such a prime piece of real estate.
For months, I came down here every night and watched as the restaurant was re-fitted. I told myself I'd stop coming once it opened, but that moment came and went. I still come most nights, and I watch the diners as they sit happily chatting to one another.
Don't they realize?
I don't know what would be worse. The idea that they don't know they're sitting where so many people died, or the idea that they do know and they just don't care.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” a man asks suddenly, with a thick French accent.
Turning, I see a middle-aged guy with a beard, carrying a newspaper.
“Of course,” I reply, even though I really don't want the company. I should leave, but I don't want to be rude, so I guess I'll wait a few minutes first.
“Busy evening, huh?” the man says as he takes a seat. “I think it's busier than I've ever seen it.”
I smile and nod, but I don't really know what to say. I can't quite take my eyes off the sight of the restaurant.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” the man continues.
I turn to him.
“I was just wondering,” he adds, “whether you're here for the same reason as me.”
I wait for him to explain, but I'm not quite sure what he means.
“The date,” he continues finally. “I told myself that I'd come here on the anniversary.”
“I...”
Pausing, I realize I still don't know how to respond.
“My wife and I were here with my sister,” he explains, turning and looking over at the restaurant. “One year ago tonight. Time really does fly, doesn't it? We were sitting right over there, where that olive tree is now. Not that there was an olive tree back then, of course. They've done the place up. I approve. It's nice that there's still life here, that some maniac with a gun wasn't able to crush the spirits of the people.”
He watches the restaurant for a moment longer, before turning to me again.
“Eh?” he continues. “Don't you agree?”
“I don't know,” I mutter. “Yeah. Sure.”
“You lost someone?”
I pause, before nodding.
“I'm sorry,” he says with a sigh, “I didn't intend to come down here and bother anyone. I've just been wandering for a while, trying to work out what to do. I thought once I got here, I'd be hit by some profound realization, but so far there's been nothing. I don't know what that says about me. Maybe that I'm shallow.”
He falls silent, which I suppose means that he expects me to say something. Quite what I should say, I have no idea, and I'm already starting to think about ways I might extricate myself from this encounter.
“Are you a whiskey man?” he asks suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I need a drink and I really don't want to sit in some bar all by myself,” he continues. “If I buy you a drink, would you like to come and try the best damn bar in the whole town. It's a well-kept secret and I guarantee you'll be glad to find the place.”
“Thank you,” I reply, “but I'd really rather not. I think I'm just going to go home.”
V
“Steady!” Jonas says as he watches me try again with the key. “Don't snap it!”
I had no idea I was so drunk, but it takes me several attempts before I finally manage to get the key into the door. I don't even remember drinking anything. As far as I recall, we were in a bar for a while and then we left, but there were no actual drinks. I know the human mind is subject to suggestions, but could I really have tricked myself into feeling drunk?
Jonas – his name is Jonas, as I learned after I was somehow persuaded to join him for a few drinks – chuckles as he watches me struggle to unlock the door, but finally I manage to get us into the apartment.
Stumbling into the hallway, I switch on the main light and then start kicking off my shoes.
“Nice place,” he mutters, leaning against the wall. “Is it me, or is the whole world spinning right now?”
“You said you needed to use the bathroom,” I remind him. “It's that door over there.”
“You're a good man, Nicholas,” he replies, stumbling past me and then almost tripping over as he goes into the bathroom. Once he's shut the door, I hear him bumping about in there, and then a moment later there's the sound of him taking a pee.
Rolling my eyes, I head through to the kitchen. After switching on the light, I look around for a bottle of wine, but somehow I seem to have run out. I've been drinking quite a lot over the past year, but I'm still surprised to find that I've somehow managed to run the place dry. In fact, after checking the cupboards, I realize that I forgot to go to the store today.
Suzette would be so mad at me.
The toilet flushes in the distance, and a moment later Jonas comes stumbling through.
“Very nice place,” he says, stopping in the doorway. “Been here long?”
“A while now,” I reply. “Years. I'm sorry, but I seem to be out of alcohol.”
“Years?” He stares at me in disbelief.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“No, but...”
He pauses, and something seems to have really shocked him.
“If you've been here for eighteen months,” he continues finally, “then does that mean... Is this where you were living with your wife when the shooting happened?”
“It is, yes.”
“And you're still here?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, no,” he replies, “but I'd have thought you might want to go somewhere new. I mean, doesn't this place have a lot of memories?”