Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  She almost dances as she goes to get the champagne. She returns from the kitchen looking jubilant. This woman is joie de vivre personified and yet she’s obsessed with killing people. It’s quite terrifying, really.

  It’s a struggle for her to get the cork out – a struggle she doesn’t win. I go to her aid and get the job done in a heartbeat.

  ‘To working together!’ she cries, lifting her glass.

  For a flicker of a moment, I want to say no. I want to say that I won’t work with her, that I won’t kill anyone . . . and that I won’t help her do it either. But the fatigue and desire to vomit remind me that my end is not far from sight. I think back to what Professor Lazreg said. What if he was right? What if there’s something I’m supposed to accomplish before I die – something other than the discovery of a new boson with a mass of 126GeV/c2? Something that could be of real use to humankind, or at least the society in which we live . . .

  After checking the time on her phone once more, Chloé grabs the remote control, switches the TV on and flicks through the channels. Arthur Reimbach’s face fills the screen. He looks fit to bursting with pride when the presenter mentions that his latest publication, The Expected Decline, has sold more than 100,000 copies. He nevertheless does his best to speak with modesty as he explains that this success is in no way due to any literary talent, but simply to people having become aware of the consequences of the mass immigration encouraged by the left, and the mistakes made following May 1968 in terms of the place of women in our society. He describes these as two plagues that will eventually take over our Christian values.

  I don’t know whether it’s what he’s saying or the first few sips of the Cristal that make my stomach heave, but I make my apologies to Chloé. ‘Sorry about the champagne, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave so I can rest. I really don’t feel well at all. My treatment . . .’

  ‘Please don’t be sorry! It doesn’t matter! We’ll make a toast to all this when you’re in a better state.’

  She is already at the door. When she turns to say her goodbyes, her face shows genuine sympathy; at least, I convince myself it does.

  ‘Promise me you’ll take some time to relax. There’s no hurry.’

  I nod but say nothing. She steps out into the hallway and presses the button for the lift. I wait with her until it arrives, trying to get my thoughts in order and to commit to memory everything we’ve said to one another this evening. Something strikes me. A detail. Maybe more than that.

  ‘Chloé?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Reimbach’s homosexual tendencies – is that just a rumour or can it be verified?’

  The lift arrives. She holds the door open, looking like she’s deciding whether or not to reveal something to me. ‘Are you asking me if I’ve got actual proof, or are you interested in my personal impressions?’

  ‘Both – if it helps us move forward in any way.’

  ‘It’s a rumour. Just a rumour. But, if you want my opinion, I’m convinced he’s never been attracted to women. To make the jump from that . . . that he’s . . .’

  My head is spinning. I understand what she’s trying to tell me, but I can’t carry on this conversation. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m feeling up to it,’ I say, stepping back inside and closing the door behind me.

  Tomorrow, I hope.

  CHAPTER 7

  I fall apart in the minutes following her departure. I go on to have a restless night, shaken by frightening dreams mixed with periods of insomnia during which Reimbach’s face looms mockingly in my mind’s eye. It must be around five or six in the morning when the worst of the nightmares come. As I lie confused on my bed, his face returns, emaciated this time, a dark shade of grey, and his empty eyes won’t leave me.

  I go on to get some real sleep just before waking. I feel in much better shape this morning. My appetite is back as I take my usual seat in front of the television, armed with a full cafetière and three slices of brioche smothered in Nutella.

  I watch the news, which nearly bores me to death. Football, insipid statements from more or less obscure politicians and reports from seaside resorts where everything is being readied for the season ahead. I have always been able to sit in front of the TV for hours without really watching it, but for the first time in years I turn down the sound to think about the events of the previous day, the commitment I made to Chloé and, above all, what’s going to happen next.

  What’s got into me? Is it Chloé and her charm? The aversion I have towards Arthur Reimbach? Other more obscure reasons linked to my imminent demise? I can’t quite fathom how I’ve got to this point, but one thing stands out, an unavoidable truth: I’m going to kill that piece of filth. At least, I think I’m going to try. All that’s left to work out is how . . .

  The first essential consideration: this man is under police protection. So there can be no playing at cowboys and just recklessly wading in. I’d stand no chance. Maybe I could make it look like a terrorist attack by planting explosives in his car? No way. I don’t want to cause any collateral damage. The only option that seems conceivable to me is to go into his home when we know he’s there alone and make a homicide look like a suicide. I mean, why not? That’s why I’m interested in his possible homosexuality.

  As things stand, I don’t think we’d have much chance convincing people that a man like this would kill himself. He’s a roaring success. He has never sold so many books, never been as hated by what he calls the bleeding-heart liberals, and never been as in demand by the media. And to their disgrace, he has never been as popular in the eyes of the public. The reactionary element of our society, supported by an ever-increasing number of ordinary citizens, have found a spokesperson to help them appear respectable. It really is high time we intervened and found a believable reason for him to commit suicide.

  I wipe my chocolatey fingers on my dressing gown before walking through to my office and turning on my computer. I check through my emails as quickly as I can, resisting the temptation to find out what’s been happening with the Large Hadron Collider and the 600 million collisions that happen every second, and get ready for a roam around Google. The first thing I type in is ‘Arthur Reimbach rumour’. This search brings up a complaint filed by the man himself against one of the big weeklies for ‘publication of malicious rumours’. I then come across a satirical site revealing an affair he is supposed to have had with a rap singer last year. Encouraged by this bit of gossip, I type in ‘Is Arthur Reimbach gay?’

  I get my money’s worth this time. The gay community is clearly making him pay for his stand against equal marriage and he’s the butt of a great number of jokes across the main social networks – not all of them in the best taste. I hit upon the idea of clicking on the ‘Images’ tab in the search engine.

  A lot of people have had a lot of fun with Photoshop, it would seem. The more or less crude depictions show the tubby little man in every imaginable position, some requiring extraordinary flexibility, and with all kinds of partners, often endowed with quite astonishing attributes.

  Although my brain often has trouble processing humour, I have to admit that these jokes do raise a little chuckle. But this isn’t what I came online to find. I need something credible and consistent, something I can start a scandal with – something he won’t be able to live down.

  OK. Imagine we get past this first hurdle and manage to make his suicide plausible – we’re still going to have to stage the entire act so that it raises not a flicker of police suspicion. If we work from the principle that he doesn’t take a single step outside unless he’s flanked by those two big gorillas, we’ll have to, just as I thought yesterday, do the deed at his place.

  It’s unlikely that he’s the type to throw himself off a bridge or under a train anyway. Someone like him would be cowardly. The only method he’d really be capable of would be to take a stomachful of pills. Or maybe he’d open his veins in his bathtub – but even that takes a modicum of courage. So that’s sorted. It’ll
have to be medication and it’ll have to be in his flat.

  Without even realising it, I’m getting into my stride here. And it’s not because of the few extra hours’ sleep I managed to get last night. No. Let’s be clear about this. It’s because Chloé threw down the gauntlet and I’ve taken it up. This has rarely, if ever, happened to me before; but I’m really on board with it now. So much so that I pick up my mobile to share my intentions with her. I imagine her getting excited. But I get her answerphone. This is the ultimate disappointment.

  ‘Sorry, Régis. I’m unable to answer. I will call you back as soon as I can.’

  She really did set up a phone line just for me. I feel proud. I’ll admit this is childish, but pride is what I’m feeling. I leave her a clumsy message – it’s too late to do a complete one-eighty on my nature at this point – and go back to my ‘homework’.

  Let’s have a look at it all logically. Firstly, there’s the rumour. I can’t use Photoshopped images, as snazzy as they may be. I need something more official. Perhaps a complaint? That’s it! It doesn’t even matter if it’s totally unfounded, as long as it’s filed by the police. The most important thing here is that his reputation is sullied enough to make it look like he’s been pushed to do the worst. And why would someone press charges against him? Rape? No. Too easy to discredit. Pimping . . . There’s definitely more appeal to that. ‘Arthur Reimbach organises homosexual orgies . . .’ Yeah, I like that. Now I just need to find someone who’ll go to the police. If Chloé really possesses all the means she boasted of when we first met, then she should know how to accomplish it.

  And on top of this, we’re going to have to act quickly. We can’t leave enough time for the scandal to die down or for the police to discover it’s a hoax. So, in just a few short days, we’ll need to find a way into his place, right under the noses of his bodyguards, and then get out again after having ‘suicided’ him. All without getting caught. It’s pretty complicated if I put it like that, but certainly possible.

  My mobile starts ringing just as I’m studying the photos of Reimbach’s apartment building. I haven’t saved Chloé’s number, but I still recognise it . . . or rather, I’m on the lookout for it.

  ‘Hello, Régis. Feeling better?’

  She sounds chipper enough, but I also detect a hint of concern which I immediately shrug off.

  ‘Very well. Better, anyway.’

  ‘You tried to get in touch? Sorry – it was a bit difficult.’

  ‘No worries. It was nothing urgent. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been starting to think about . . . business. And I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Wait! Do you have the envelope I gave you yesterday?’

  ‘Erm, yes . . . I’m actually looking at the photos of . . .’

  ‘There’s a SIM card inside. I want you to use it. It’ll be more secure. I should have told you about it last night, before I left, but you were too exhausted. Do you have an old mobile phone you could put it in?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I think I can use two different SIMs with this phone. You’ll have to give me a bit of time to work out how to do it. I’ll get back to you. Does that sound OK?’

  I can almost hear her smile at the other end of the line. ‘Speak to you later, then.’

  It takes me at least half an hour just to open the blasted phone and find the slots for the SIMs. I need a further thirty minutes to track down some instructions online to help me work out how to switch between the two cards. As soon as I feel like I have the system mastered, I call Chloé, as promised.

  ‘Was it really that complicated?’ she laughs.

  ‘Don’t mock me, please. Give me a Rubik’s Cube over one of these devices any day.’

  ‘I didn’t know they were still a thing. How long does it take you to solve it, then?’

  ‘Five-point-two-five seconds. I held the record for exactly four months and five days before being beaten by a sixteen-year-old. An American.’

  ‘Are you serious? You were in the Rubik’s Cube world championship?’

  ‘Yes. Quite by chance, though. I was at a conference in Holland and the competition was being held in the same hotel. It was a colleague who pushed me into having a go.’

  ‘You’d played it before, though?’

  ‘No. But I’d seen it done and more or less understood what method to apply.’

  ‘Well . . . The most important thing to remember is to call me from this card.’

  ‘Because it’s secure?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s more than that. There is no possibility of our conversations being listened in on, and no way you can be located through it either. It’s in our best interests to be as careful as possible from now on.’

  Talking of these basic precautions reminds me of a question that I’ve been wanting to ask her since our first meeting. As we can’t be overheard, I may as well make the most of the opportunity.

  ‘About security . . . You told me that you’d not used your real identity. Can I know your actual name?’

  ‘Don’t you like Chloé?’

  I’m suddenly swept up by an almost freakish boldness. I try out something that would have been out of the question only seven days earlier. A compliment.

  ‘Yes . . . It really suits you.’

  ‘Let’s keep it, then.’

  ‘And Schneider like the actress?’

  ‘She was brilliant. When I was little, I used to dream of being just like her when I grew up. I’m pretty close, wouldn’t you say?’ She laughs and then adds more seriously, ‘At the same time, I’d hate to end up like her. That was a sad little story.’ Then she cuts off abruptly and asks, ‘Have you found a solution to our problem?’

  I can sense her shiver of anticipation as I lay out my battle plan. When I finish, she demonstrates that she has perfectly understood every word. ‘That means the first thing we need to do is recruit some little hottie,’ she declares, ‘who, with gentle financial persuasion, will agree to go to the police and press charges against Reimbach.’

  ‘That’s as good a place as any to start.’

  ‘And I have an idea where we might find just the person. I’ll pick you up at your place.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  CHAPTER 8

  She’s driving a Dacia estate. I’d imagined her in a Fiat 500 or a Mini. Not that I know much about these things, but I’d definitely pictured her in more of what I’d call a ‘girly car’. But, no – not this girl. She drives the car of a family on a small budget.

  ‘This isn’t yours, is it?’ I ask as I walk towards her.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘The car.’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it’d be yours. And because you’re in the habit of hiding things from me . . . I assumed you’d have changed your car, too.’

  ‘Poor deduction, my dear Watson! This is indeed my car. But you’re right in a way. The plates are false.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less. So, where are we off to?’

  ‘We’re going to a place called “S”. It’s just “S” – the letter. Do you know it?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘If you were into group sex, or had a tendency towards . . . how should I put it? If you were more voracious, you might know it.’

  I’m tempted to tell her that, even in its most simple forms, sex and I have rarely found common ground, but that my handicaps are already so numerous that I never really think about it. But I don’t. I watch the lights through the passenger window and think to myself that this is set to be a night that could trigger all manner of emotions.

  Even during my worst anxiety attacks, I could never have imagined that such a place existed. They must have gathered everything I hate most about the world and put it under one roof. Starting with crowds. A rapid calculation allows me to ascertain that the total surface area of the establishment is 325 square metres, into which are squashed, at a low estimate, 1,500 people, no doubt of both sexes – but it’s d
ifficult to tell them apart given what they’re wearing and their outrageous make-up. This is the second time in my entire life that I’ve set foot in what I would call a disco. I must have been twenty-something when I let myself be dragged along by my CERN colleagues to some place just like this. I remember it being a particularly trying experience. What I recall most vividly are the thick clouds of sickening nicotine and the overpowering stench of armpits. While I’d be at a loss to tell you what music was being played, I’m sure of one thing – it was nothing like the noises attacking my eardrums tonight. Add to this all the alcohol and stink of sweat and I can sense that my career as a killer will soon have to be aborted if coming to this hellhole is going to be a regular occurrence. Chloé saves me by taking my hand and leading me to the far end of the room to get a drink.

  There are two of them working behind the bar. A boy and a girl. Both of them are dressed in ripped vests and kilts.

  ‘What are you having?’ Chloé howls at me while trying to attract their attention.

  ‘A beer if they have them.’

  ‘Of course they have them. Don’t start playing up, Régis.’

  The young barmaid finally notices the frantic waves of my friend and asks us what we want to drink through a series of gestures alone. When she arrives with two halves, Chloé leans over the bar to make herself heard. I don’t catch a single word of their conversation, but I guess she’s asked the girl if she can speak to the male bartender because she goes to fetch him, and we watch as he walks towards us with a far from pleasant look on his face.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks, his face averted as if he can’t look us in the eye.

  His profile reveals him to be a lot older than I’d first thought. His features are prominent and one might guess that behind all the make-up, which I find odd for a man in the first place, lies a countenance that has seen a little too much in this life.

  ‘Hi there, Karl. My name’s Chloé. They must have told you I was coming in tonight.’

  This ‘they’ that she mentions must have some sort of influence on the barman, because he deigns to look at us now and flashes what we could, with a little optimism, take to be a smile.