by Enzo Bartoli
‘What about all the injections?’
‘Just a light emetic. Enough to make you feel sick for a few hours and make our whole story sound believable.’
‘Come on! Just admit you’re pleased about this and we’ll move on!’ the daughter has the gall to add.
CHAPTER 26
I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.
That’s the first thought that enters my head upon waking, and I have to say that this prospect does fill me with an incredible sense of joy. A joy I haven’t ever experienced before. I’m almost floating on air without a care in the world, and the best of it is there’s no shadow of remorse bearing down on me. Even the faces of my victims that so haunted me last night are fading . . . becoming blurred.
I’m still a little dazed by everything they told me, but no more than that. As for the money they want to give me and the new identity – they can forget it. That sort of amount wouldn’t really allow me to change my life that radically. And I don’t want it anyway. I was so pleased to learn that my death has been put off, for a while at least – but simply because I want to get back to how it was before: I want to watch game shows, eat frozen pizzas and down 1664s, take up my work again with the team in Geneva and even get back into teaching . . .
Obviously, I’m going to need Major Charvin to get off my back for any of that to happen. Here’s hoping he goes looking somewhere else for Stéphanie Tisserand’s murderer, though I’m not sure I’m very optimistic on that account. But I can always ponder the matter when I get back to Paris, because for the moment, I still have these last few hours in Ibiza.
After a cold shower – let’s call it lukewarm – I get dropped off at the port in a taxi. Despite all my fears about it being the middle of the season, I manage to find exactly what I’m looking for. The price is extortionate, which maybe explains why it remains an option, but I’ve never been much of a spender so I think I can allow myself this luxury just once. So, I am now in possession of a rental agreement for a small motor boat – ideal for a little trip around the island. Obviously, I’ve never travelled out to sea on my own and my experience as a sailor is limited to a couple of days on a yacht with colleagues, but there’s a first time for everything and today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Before the big departure, I buy a few bits and pieces in town and go back to the hotel.
It’s midday when the taxi drops me off. I find Chloé propping up the bar with her father. They are both stirring freshly squeezed orange juices as they watch me approach.
‘Hi there, Régis,’ says Chloé. ‘How are things?’
‘OK. Things are . . . starting to get better, I suppose. I’ve had a lot to mull over.’
‘That’s right. Now you’ve had a little time to think about it, how do you see things going forward?’ asks Lazreg.
‘Better. Things will be infinitely better. I can’t hide the fact that I think your way of going about all this bordered on abusive, but on the other hand, the idea of this new life in Switzerland . . . It just . . . it sort of cancels all that out.’
‘That’s what you have to remember!’ declares Chloé, sounding excited. ‘I’m sure that our little escapade together will allow you to see life differently now. You’re going to really make the most of the time you have left. Trust me.’
She’s told me to trust her before and perhaps I shouldn’t have. I feel like telling her as much. But it’s pointless to go over it all again. I order a beer instead. It’s a bit early for alcohol, but I suppose we all have something to celebrate.
The three of us clink our glasses together. ‘Cheers!’
‘No resentment, then?’ asks Chloé.
‘No resentment. But I do think the pair of you have rather inflated egos. If you don’t mind me saying so.’
Lazreg lifts his glass again, as if to make a toast. ‘Let’s not get into that. I think you’ll agree that our relationship now goes far beyond that of your typical doctor and patient.’
‘Yes, I think I do agree with that.’
‘Perfect! So I’ll call you Régis from now on, if that’s all right. I’d love it if you joined us for lunch, Régis, before we go our separate ways.’
‘Oh . . . That’s very kind of you, but . . .’
‘Having lunch with someone else, are you?’
‘No. Not at all. I’ve hired a boat. You know how much I hate crowds. I’m getting cabin fever on this island, and I need to get away for a few hours. You could both come with me, if you want? I’m sure we’ll find a restaurant somewhere along the coastline. What do you say?’
‘Why not?’ replies Chloé. ‘It might be nice! We should make the most of our last day together!’
I give them a few minutes to go and collect their belongings – swimsuits and towels – and then the three of us leave the hotel.
After climbing aboard the boat, I start her up and we pull away from the port at a steady pace, leaving behind the busy beaches and dreadful din of the town. As I make a turn to the left to follow the coastline, I slow down. I have to keep my distance from the rocks and follow a route provided by the boat-hire company. We watch as more beaches come into view. Some of them have been taken over by those naturist people; it’s all rather distasteful. But as we travel further around the island, the beaches become more and more deserted.
‘I think that my favourite little spot is around here somewhere. I recognise the shape of the cliffs,’ I announce.
‘Do you want to stop here?’ asks Chloé.
‘I think it might be a nice idea. You guys could have a little swim, I’ll look at the scenery and then we’ll head off for lunch. The map says that if we carry on for a bit we’ll reach the Torre de ses Portes and there are lots of restaurants on Las Salinas beach. What do you say?’
‘You’re the boss! Well, the captain!’ she jokes.
There it is. My creek. My little hideaway. I slow down and make my way between the rocks. I have to avoid the sheer cliffs and stay in the central channel. Just a hundred yards or so and I can draw up to the pebbled beach. As we reach the shoreline, I turn off the engine and Chloé jumps down on to the stones below with her sandals in her hand. Her father is a lot less assured as he lowers himself down. He loses his balance and stumbles backwards into the water, just about managing not to fall over. His daughter grabs him by the elbow and pulls him on to dry land. I’m still on the boat. I bend down and reach for the heavy hammer, purchased just this morning, that I’ve hidden in an ice box.
I decide to go for Chloé first because she’s by far the fitter of the two and more likely to put up a fight. From the height advantage I have on the boat, I’m able to lean over and hit her bang in the middle of her skull. I hear it crack. She’s not coming back from that. She falls backwards into the shallow waters. Still hunched over from his near fall, Lazreg takes a couple of steps towards me and looks up with an expression of pure terror in his eyes. I strike another perfect blow. He collapses next to his daughter, half landing on her. It hardly makes a sound – just the faintest of splashes.
I jump down, pulling the ice box with me. I place it on the pebbly sand and continue to hit them. I hit and I hit without letting up. It feels like I’ll never tire. Since meeting Chloé and discovering this second vocation of mine, never could I have imagined I’d use such a brutal, unrefined method. But I must say, it feels good. I didn’t think they’d look quite so disfigured, though. If I continue at this pace . . . No, I can’t . . . I’d better stop.
The water around them now runs red. But the blood starts to disperse, to wash away. Once we’ve gone, it’ll only take a few minutes for it to return to a crystal blue.
I won’t be putting the bodies back on board. I don’t want to leave any traces. It would be too big a risk. I take out a chain and padlock from the ice box and tie them together by their feet. I then fix the boat’s mooring cleat to Chloé’s upper body. I push the boat a little deeper into the water, lift the ice box in and jump back in after it. The engine starts up on
my first try. I’ve become a natural. All that’s left for me to do is to drag the bodies far enough out to sea and to attach the heavy parasol stand that was also part of this morning’s shopping list to the chains around their feet.
EPILOGUE
I’m sitting out on the terrace in front of the Bar du Caveau on Place Dauphine. It’s now the end of September and the weather is still quite mild. Only the yellowing of the leaves suggests that autumn is upon us.
I’m going to order a beer – I can only hope that they serve 1664 in this place – and if I end up sitting here for a while, perhaps I’ll allow myself to be tempted by a croque-monsieur with fries on the side.
I haven’t brought anything to read. I don’t even have my phone with me. With nothing else to distract me, I’m stuck with my thoughts.
I gave my first lesson in a long time this morning. When I walked into the lecture hall, my students all got to their feet and gave me a round of applause. It was embarrassing, but rather pleasant at the same time. I never thought I was held in particularly high regard. I also never thought I’d see any of them again.
I got back from Ibiza a couple of months ago now. I was so very scared that I’d have to resort to using that new identity I’d been given and disappear off to Switzerland, but it all went off exactly as I’d hoped.
Major Charvin showed his face again towards the end of August. Well, it was a telephone conversation, actually. He started off by asking after my health. I was on the defensive, but made sure he understood that I was in remission and hoped that it might continue a while yet. He sounded sincerely happy for me and almost forgot the real reason for his call. I had the fear . . . and was mentally preparing to pack a suitcase, order a train ticket to Geneva and a taxi to Gare de Lyon. But I managed not to overreact. I simply asked him why he was ringing.
He told me that he felt guilty at having worried a sick man unnecessarily and that, even though he really wasn’t within his rights to tell me as much, he wanted to let me know what had happened with the Stéphanie Tisserand case. He explained that her ex-husband and adopted daughter, whose relationship with the victim seemed to have been beyond complicated, had both disappeared shortly after all the drama. The only clue they had was the father’s car, which had been found in a car park at Charles de Gaulle airport. They believe that a quick getaway had been made and that the doctor was now the main suspect. Major Charvin said he was delighted to inform me that he wouldn’t be bothering me again, and apologised for all the hassle.
I hung up and pictured the body of Professor Lazreg, forever entwined with that of his daughter, sinking . . . spinning . . . into the dark depths of the ocean. What with the warm water . . . and the crabs and other little sea creatures . . . I imagine there’s not much of them left by now.
And so, I’m letting life get back to normal. But with a few added nuances.
I go out more. I’m interested in things that I wouldn’t have bothered with before. I went to the cinema for the first time in ten years the other day. I also have the semblance of a social life now. My neighbours – the journalist and the former minister – actually invited me over for dinner one night. And that’s where I met Marielle.
She’s a project manager with the Red Cross. She adores going to the theatre. So we’ve been to see two plays. And they weren’t half bad. She’s also very much the sporty type. She took me down to the Jura Mountains and we went hiking for three days. I’ve even been to the gym with her. She wants me to join; she thinks it’ll do me good. Perhaps I should listen to her.
A lot has changed. I don’t even know what game shows are being broadcast at the moment. I can sleep without taking pills. And I don’t always sleep alone. Really, my diet is the only thing that’s stayed the same. How long will all this last?
Why have I made these changes? Is it because of what I went through with Chloé? Is it because I no longer have a death sentence hanging over me? Perhaps I shouldn’t ask myself too many questions.
A new life. That reminds me . . . I was getting down to some paperwork the other day, opening up letters I’d left in a pile, and I came across the estimate sent to me by the funeral home I’d visited all those months ago. It was for my cremation and the transportation of my ashes down to Charentes. I wouldn’t dare tell them the truth if they were to contact me again. They probably think I’m dead already.
I don’t even have time to order my beer in the end, because there he is. Lionel Boucher. I recognise his frame as he walks steadily down the steps in front of the Palais de Justice. I know his pretty little two-seater Mercedes is in the underground car park across the road because I went down and checked earlier. I also took the time to smash the surveillance camera for that zone of the car park. I don’t want to be disturbed by some jumped-up security man.
If I can’t manage it today, I’ll do it tomorrow. It’ll take a while to fix that camera. And there’ll be plenty of other occasions too. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of other work to be getting on with. I’m thinking about other people in my class. Others who were always up for humiliating me. Lionel wasn’t the only one. Aurélie Lafarge was another. She should be fairly easy to find.
And then there’s the boss of this very cafe I’m sitting in. I watched as he refused to serve a young man the other day because of his wheelchair taking up too much space on the terrace. I’ll have to free up some time so I can get to know his route home, where he lives, what time he leaves and so on. You never know. The information might come in handy.
But there’s no rush. Let’s just take things one at a time. Method and organisation are and always will be the keys to success. I no longer have just six months to kill. For now, at least.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Enzo Bartoli was born in the Bastille district of Paris long before the bearded hipsters moved in. He left school at a very young age and entered the world of work in a multicultural Paris which he would later use as inspiration for his novels.
His professional career saw him walk several paths – some of them surprising, to say the least. From a mechanic’s workshop to a communications agency and the bar of an infamous dive, he finally became a journalist and rediscovered his love of reading. When he was done with the classics and had made his way through a substantial portion of the bestsellers, he decided it was perhaps time to give it a go himself, and has since written several novels set in the city streets and criminal underworld of Paris.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Back in 2001, after having read Philosophy and French at the University of Leeds and realising that being able to write a decent essay on Kant’s Categorical Imperative didn’t leave her with a great many career options, Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies decided to move to Paris, where she embarked on a career in writing and translation.
She is currently working on two projects of her own: her first novel and a sourcebook, Women in Translation (a collection of writings and articles on translation from the female perspective). She has steadily built a successful freelance French-to-English literary translation business and can now boast that she does what she loves every day of her life: she tells stories.
She lives in rural Finistère with her daughter (a future bilingual genius if ever she met one) and a motley crew of thirteen rescued dogs and cats.