Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  I sometimes cry – something that hasn’t happened to me since I was seven or eight years old; heavy tears drip down my cheeks without warning, and I have trouble understanding them.

  It’s two days until our flight. It’s evening now, and I am sitting in my special spot having one of my existential crises when I see Chloé walking towards me. The sun is disappearing behind the pine trees on top of the rocks and I can only see her silhouette, but I recognise her gait.

  She has the decency not to ask me what’s wrong. Nor does she offer to console me when she plainly sees my tear-stained face. She simply sits down next to me and tucks her light skirt in under her thighs. She looks in the same direction as me – to the horizon, beyond the ocean. For me, it symbolises the lack of a future. A deadline.

  The tears come again. She puts her hand gently on mine and asks if I want to go back with her. I shrug my shoulders, trying to communicate that it doesn’t really matter where I am. I feel devoid of energy.

  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ she whispers.

  A surprise. I know all about her surprises. She’ll have found someone to kill or it’ll be something to do with someone we’ve already killed. It’ll be about killing, anyway. But I just don’t have the strength to object and without asking for an explanation I get to my feet and walk back to the hotel with her.

  On the way, I find her attempts to cheer me up a little on the ridiculous side, but they’re not completely without effect. She allows me to think back on some of the more pleasant moments of my existence and as we enter the main foyer of the Hard Rock Hotel, I do feel in lighter spirits.

  I imagine we’re on the way to the bar, because we’ve been hanging out there rather a lot over the last week, but she guides me to the lifts and up to our room. I’m wondering whether the surprise she has in store might be one that we enjoy naked, but even having fantasised about it for so long, I don’t actually think I feel like it, or am up to it. As things stand right now, I just want it to be two days later and to be back on home turf. And then I just want to wait it out.

  I don’t even have time to protest before she’s opened the door and I see my surprise straight away. As promised. This surprise of hers takes my breath away and I can think of nothing to say for several seconds.

  He is sitting comfortably on one of the armchairs, sipping a fruit juice. I hover, not knowing what to do next, and then step into the room. My thunderstruck look seems to have greatly amused him. He stands and, just as he always does in his office back home, invites me to take a seat. He returns to his own chair and Chloé squats down on the floor next to him.

  ‘What does this mean?’ I finally manage to splutter.

  ‘It’s nothing alarming. Quite the contrary, I assure you,’ replies Professor Lazreg, his smile widening further.

  He looks down at Chloé. ‘He hasn’t changed his mind about Lionel Boucher, then?’

  ‘No,’ she states matter-of-factly. ‘Or if he has, it’s a very recent decision.’

  I don’t understand a thing here. I can do nothing but look at one, and then the other, over and over again. I think I’m in shock. My thoughts are all over the place and I’m incapable of slowing them down. They know each other. That much is clear. But it strikes me that they know one another very well. They are partners of some kind. They look at me in complicit silence. This might well have been going on for years.

  ‘Chloé is my daughter,’ declares Lazreg after the lengthy pause, for he is the one used to giving people hard-hitting news.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  I am having trouble taking this in. There is not the slightest physical resemblance between the two – I would have noticed. Maybe in the eyes? Actually . . .

  He must know what I’m thinking because he adds, ‘We don’t look much alike, I know . . . But that’s quite normal. Chloé is my darling daughter. My only daughter. And my adopted daughter.’

  They both seem to think this is all extraordinarily funny, but I don’t.

  Lazreg understands this almost immediately and hastens to explain. ‘We’ve been waiting to find someone like you for a long time. Sincerely – even given the number of patients I see – I didn’t ever think it would actually happen. But when you first walked into my office, you had that look about you; it’s in the shoulders. And I knew you could do the job. Or jobs. When we talked, right back at the beginning, I sensed the loathing you have for people. And I imagined, rightly so, that you’d accept our offer. So I sent my daughter to you.’

  ‘So it’s you . . . who’s had me kill . . . all these people?’ I ask, finding it difficult to articulate. ‘And you used your daughter.’

  Chloé immediately comes to the defence of her father. ‘No, it’s not only him. We both wanted to get rid of them.’

  ‘But I just don’t get it.’

  It’s written all over Lazreg’s face that he is still enjoying my disbelief immensely. He leans forward to answer my question with what looks like sheer delight. ‘We can take each case one by one if you want. We already gave you reasons enough, but you’ll soon come to understand a little more. Let’s start with Arthur Reimbach.’

  ‘There was the child rapist before him . . .’

  ‘Grégoire Thule? That was just to lure you in. We knew that he didn’t have long left anyway, and that someone close to one of the victims was going to deal with it. And, to be honest, on a personal level, neither of us really had anything against him.’

  ‘Huh? But you gave me the name of that soldier you hired. Chloé, you told me he was an addict with HIV.’

  ‘I made all that druggie-squaddie stuff up,’ laughs Chloé. ‘And you never thought to check out what I was saying, did you?’

  Yes, I admit it: I had utter confidence in her every word. Infuriatingly, this just makes them laugh all the more.

  ‘Right, just forget about that one,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Arthur Reimbach, then?’

  ‘Monsieur Gaudin, listen. You must have clocked my ethnic origins and you’ve seen me decline many an alcoholic beverage. And you are fully aware of how much hatred that man bore towards people like me. I’m sure that his opinions disgusted you as much as they did most people. So . . .’

  ‘Erm . . . Well, yes, that’s true. But deciding to just . . . There are legal measures that can be taken nowadays, official institutions against discrimination . . .’

  Lazreg raises his hand to stop me. Although he still wears a grin on his face, he looks at me fixedly. He lifts his hand further still, up to his temple, and starts massaging a small scar that I’ve noticed before but not given any particular attention.

  ‘Do you remember the events of the first of May 1988?’

  ‘The first? No. I imagine you’re talking about some sort of protest? I was only fourteen at the time and all I was thinking about was algorithms and trigonometry. I’d even started my own theory on the speed of certain subatomic particles. So, no. Whatever happened on the first of May isn’t something that’s stayed with me.’

  He barely takes any notice of my words and continues to explain. ‘I was in my fifth year of medical school. I had two close friends in my class. Their families were originally from Tunisia, just like mine. We had the rather naive idea that we could just stand by the side of the road and watch as a group of neo-Nazis, who were masquerading as members of the Front National out on a march, stomped past us. We didn’t even go down intentionally. We were on our way to a lecture. It was the first time the party had ever been out on a demonstration. The whole pretext was that they were celebrating Joan of Arc. Bad luck for us. We were beaten up. No, we were savagely beaten up. And for no reason whatsoever. Well . . . actually . . . “just for the hell of it”, as I heard one of them shout in between kicks to my stomach. Two of us came out of it barely alive – but our friend never regained consciousness and has lived ever since in a vegetative state with his family in Tunis.’

  ‘I didn’t know that . . .’

  ‘Of course you didn’t! Nobody knew about it, bec
ause it wasn’t made public.’

  I wait a few seconds before saying, ‘So, Arthur Reimbach . . . He was one of them.’

  ‘The ringleader. I’d like to leave it there, if you don’t mind, because I find the whole episode haunting and it’s painful even to think of it.’

  He does look sincere in his suffering. I understand his need for this act of vengeance – even if it was executed thirty years later. And Reimbach wasn’t one of the good guys in my book, but still I’m left with a bitter taste in my mouth about not being told the whole truth . . .

  For the moment, I’m trying to put events in chronological order. I feel so mixed up, though. I think of Stéphanie Tisserand. She came next, but what comes back to me is the night Chloé first presented me with the folder on my second victim.

  ‘If I remember rightly,’ I say, not really directing my words at one or the other as I feel quite indifferent as to who explains it to me, ‘the two of you almost bumped into one another at my place. Was that done on purpose? Was something happening there?’

  They laugh in tandem, but then Lazreg looks at Chloé in mock anger.

  It is she who speaks. ‘That was entirely my fault. I was overexcited about getting into this new little adventure of ours and I completely forgot that you’d be having your treatment. I took my chance when you went off to the kitchen to warn Daddy that I’d be there.’

  ‘And then,’ Lazreg continues, ‘I tried to give you the impression that I was in a dreadful hurry, if you remember. I couldn’t have you seeing me with my daughter and maybe putting two and two together.’

  Yet again, they both look simultaneously amused and impressed with themselves. I don’t share their hilarity at all. I have far too much on my mind.

  ‘So, Stéphanie Tisserand,’ continues Lazreg. ‘She was just my ex-wife. It’s as simple as that. We married in 1990 and I wouldn’t say we had the happiest of unions. We didn’t know it, but there were a lot of clouds on the horizon for us. Chloé, as I’ve said, was adopted. So you can imagine what some of those clouds were.’

  ‘You couldn’t have children?’ I hazard.

  ‘That’s exactly right. And so much aggression built up between us. We explored several avenues – mostly medical, of course – but we finally turned to adoption and that’s when Chloé entered our lives.’

  They share a look. It is as if there’s perfect harmony between them. This image turns my stomach a little. They love each other, but is it romantic love? Surely not. When they eventually take their eyes off each another, Lazreg turns back to me.

  ‘Unfortunately, our happy little family didn’t last long. My wife took a lover and fell pregnant just a few weeks later. She abandoned us and went to live with her new man and later gave birth to their son. People leave their husbands every day, but abandoning a daughter is something else entirely . . .’

  I watch as Chloé’s face transforms. The jubilation that has been plastered across her features ever since I came into the room changes into a grimace unlike any I’ve witnessed before.

  ‘I was five when she left, and she didn’t look back,’ she says. ‘I no longer existed as far as she was concerned. She refused to see me until I came across her, quite by accident, two years ago and made her hear me out.’

  ‘After so many years of pain,’ adds her father, ‘it’s a miracle Chloé is still with us. After that level of cruelty, how could we just sit back and do nothing?’

  This means they used me to get back at her. I want to express how sickening I find it all. I want to scream. But the reality of what is happening here is too frightening. I can’t take this in. I need time.

  I also need further explanation. ‘But I saw her with those two young girls. They were definitely working girls.’

  ‘All set up,’ confirms Chloé. ‘I knew that you were starting to have doubts. We hired them. We also hired an actor who pretended to be a big potential client for her and her stupid agency. He sent her a car, a driver, a bodyguard and the works, and then, after their meeting at the Plaza, he asked my mother if it would be OK if they dropped off his “nieces”. I would have loved to see her face at that precise moment.’ She dares to add with a taunting tone, ‘You were clueless, weren’t you?’

  I’m just appalled by her. She took advantage of my weaknesses, my naivety, my ignorance of the world and the people around me, my lack of discernment in certain situations . . . and most of all . . . my feelings. I see the faces of each of my victims like a series of flashes in my mind. Reimbach, Stéphanie Tisserand, the headmaster of that school, the guy on the train whose name I don’t even know (but who I don’t think I’ll bother mentioning to Chloé and Lazreg) and Nkomo . . . my most recent victim. My arm muscles still ache slightly from pressing that towel so hard into his face. Were the other killings for revenge as well? This last one? I need to know.

  ‘I imagine you’ve got more to tell me on the subject of Nkomo, then? What did he do? Are you going to tell me he wasn’t even a dealer?’

  ‘You know perfectly well that he was,’ says Chloé. ‘Don’t get stroppy. But as you’ve guessed, that’s not all he was.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He raped me last year,’ she states in a perfectly neutral voice. ‘I was in one of my depressive phases. I was mixing my medication with other drugs and alcohol. And I was out of it one night in this club and he made a beeline for me. He went too far. He took advantage and I swore I’d make him pay. It’s done now, and I thank you for that.’

  I give this revelation some thought. In fact, there’s nothing very surprising about it. It corresponds perfectly to the man I killed earlier this week and had spent days watching. But now that she’s mentioned the word ‘rape’, my mind takes me straight to the teacher. The paedophile, Guy Brison. He’s the only one I don’t know about yet and I have to ask.

  Chloé’s response sends a shiver across the surface of my skin. ‘Brison was one of my primary school teachers . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see . . . He . . . with you . . .’

  Chloé scoffs. Her father joins her and they both seem delighted with what I’ve just said. They seem to be actually gloating over my gullibility . . . or stupidity. When they finally pull themselves together, Chloé continues. ‘No! He never made sexual advances. Not towards me. Not towards any child. But you saw the man, didn’t you? A jumped-up little headmaster, old-school style, with all his moral codes and virtues and all the rest of it. I mean, I have to admit that I was far from an easy child, but I became his whipping boy. Well, whipping girl. There were extra rules to follow for me, I had lines every lunchtime, a ruler across the knuckles at least twice a week. Pulling my hair was one of his favourites. The finer hair at the front – where it hurts the most.’

  ‘What? That’s it?’ I manage to spit out, although barely audibly.

  ‘What do you mean, “That’s it”? You can’t imagine what it was like for me. I had a terrible time of it, I can assure you. He had it coming. I can’t tell you how good it felt when I saw you plunging that needle into his neck. It was pure joy – far better than I could have ever imagined.’

  I’m going to have to get out of here. And sharpish. But, like she said, this isn’t an island you can depart from just like that. Our flight for Paris leaves in twenty-four hours, and unless something else comes up I’m going to have to travel back with this woman who has managed to manipulate me as far as anyone can, I think. I trusted her so completely.

  I am shaken to my bones. How could I have been so ridiculous? I need to get out and get some air. It’s so very claustrophobic in here. I stand up, but it takes every scrap of energy I have. Lazreg flashes me a knowing grin, which makes me gag a little.

  ‘Don’t go. We have more to tell you.’

  ‘It can wait, can’t it? It’s getting a bit too much for me.’

  ‘No. This is important. It’s about your treatment.’

  ‘I know. You’ve prolonged my life so that I would do your bidding. I understand. Thanks, though.’

&nbs
p; ‘No. That’s not what I was going to say at all. Sit back down, please.’

  I obey without knowing why, and he starts up again. ‘When you first met my daughter, she told you that she had nothing to offer you in exchange for your services. That wasn’t exactly true.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is. We’re going to reward you for all the hard work you’ve put into this. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t want to miss this part. I just couldn’t wait. We’re going to give you your life back.’

  Chloé is starting to look very enthusiastic now and picks up where her father left off. ‘You have to admit that your life was shit. Really shit! If it hadn’t been, you would never have accepted our offer. So, here’s your chance.’

  She hands me a briefcase that’s been resting at her father’s feet. ‘You have a choice. Either you continue on the course your life was taking . . .’

  Lazreg opens up the briefcase to show me its contents. ‘Or . . . you’ll find a perfectly valid and authentic passport in here. If you want, you can become Cyril Burnet. You’ll be Swiss. We’ve also put fifty thousand in there. Cash, of course. As well as the details of a bank account in Switzerland where you’ll find another fifty grand. You can give me power of attorney to liquidate your assets in Paris and I’ll send you through the corresponding funds – to the exact centime, and to that account.’

  ‘But . . . you’re forgetting my illness?’

  ‘You mean your benign tumour? We got rid of that within the first few sessions of radiotherapy. But I needed to keep you in the dark about all that because, if you’d known, you wouldn’t have been in the right frame of mind to complete our missions. I doctored your test results. But I can promise you this. Look me in the eye if you want . . . You have your whole life ahead of you.’