by Verner Jones
“Don’t do it man.” Then stumbled through the makeshift channel of onlookers. Pierre hesitated then changed direction and ran towards theoffice. Shocked guests cowered together as Zoran made his way to the exit and his rendezvous with the last part of his unfinished business.
31
Pierre crashed through the office door the baseball bat at the ready. The mayhem that greeted him took him by surprise. Sebastian was staggering to his feet aided by a cursing Celine. Stipe lay on the floor motionless, as did the doorman. A pool of blood was rearranging the colour pattern on the carpet around him. It didn’t look good for the doorman. The twins had regained some composure enough to lend a hand to Pierre who had dropped the bat and was trying to turn the doorman over. They flipped him and checked his pulse. It was shallow, but still beating. He ordered one twin to call an ambulance and the other to check on the guy on the floor. Sebastian steadied himself then as quick as his legs would carry him went to his desk and pulled out a berretta from the top draw. Stipe started to move. First onto his knees, then with strength returning, he managed to stand taking deep breaths from the effort. He saw the two bullet holes in the floor inches away from where he had been laying. In his semi-conscious state he had felt them slam into the floorboards not sure until now exactly what had happened. A second doorman appeared in the entrance. Sebastian shouted to him,
“ Call an ambulance, then go get the fucking car and meet me out front.” The doorman left with “Yes Boss,” trailing behind him. Sebastian looked at the spilt whisky and then across to Pierre. “How is he?”
The doorman had opened his eyes; a modicum of recognition and a sense of shock were etched into his face. Celine had joined Pierre on the floor and was applying pressure onto the wound with a bar towel.
“I think he will pull through. Paramedics can’t be far away.”
“ Good. Celine stay here and do what you can for him until they arrive. I’m going to get that son of a bitch. Who the fuck does he think he is.”
“Don’t do it, Sebastian. I don’t want you getting hurt.” said Celine.
“I think you know better than that Celine. Don’t worry I’ll be back.”
“You don’t know where he’s gone.”
“My guess by foot or by car he has to go up to the main boulevard. He’ll either be going by metro or on the on the one-way system. The quicker I move the…”
“I think I know where he is heading,” interrupted Stipe. His head cleared and the disjointed snippets of Zoran's ranting sparked fear into his voice. “He said something about Muslim bitch and getting to that later. I think he knows where your apartment is Celine. He’s going after Marta.”
Zoran reached his car breathing heavily. The walls and traffic were morphing in and out of clarity. The obsession of wreaking his revenge on the Muslim bitch was the only thing that he was focused on.
“ Yes my darling, Zorans coming for you,” he shouted out to an imaginary audience. A short drive across the city, that’s all it was and he would have her at his mercy. “ Yeeesss.” A twisted laugh followed his erratic outburst as he imagined Marta’s demise. With a fumbled blur he started the car and drove past the Crazy Girls cabaret only half seeing the traffic in front of him. The white fiat skirted the entrance then blended into the late night traffic.
Celine shot an anxious look to Sebastian. “Marta’s is looking after Jean Paul, Sebastian.” There was Hysteria in her voice. “He’s with her in my apartment! Quick Sebastian go, go get our son.” Sebastian ran towards the door. Stipe shouted after him to wait for him. He carried on oblivious to Stipe’s call, only seeing the face of Jean Paul and the threat that faced him. He ran through the door to the entrance of the club and the waiting car outside and jumped into the passenger seat.
“Head over to St Germaine, cross at the Pont Neuf Bridge. Quick go, go, go.” The driver pulled away and jostled into the bustle of Pigalle traffic.
The punters in the club had evaporated into the ether deserting any aspiration of an erotic evening. The music had ceased and the club felt like a jilted bride on her wedding day. The wailing of sirens was trilling ever closer. Stipe took hold of Celine’s shoulders.
“How can I get to your apartment? Tell me. The quickest way Celine.” Celine took a moments thought.
“The metro. The metro it’s your best chance.” Celine scrambled her thoughts. “ Get on at Blanche, you have to change after a few stops onto the M7 I think, then change at Auber. Leave at the Pont Neuf station and cross the bridge there. It’s quicker than trying to go under the river.” Stipe started to leave then thought a moment.
“ Call the apartment get Marta and the boy out of there. Tell her to join me along the, what’s the name of the bridge?”
“ It’s the Pont Neuf Bridge.”
“Tell her to come onto the bridge and wait for me. I’ll find her on the bridge. Do it now.” Stipe ran out of the office and the club entrance into the bristling atmosphere of the Pigalle district. He paused at the end of the junction searching the skyline for a metro station, spinning on his heels in frantic desperation. He cursed himself for not asking more specific directions. He stepped out into the traffic vying for a better position to locate one. A car rapped its horn at him as it swerved direction. Stipe jumped back, then through a clearing in the traffic, he caught a glimpse of a station entrance some two hundred meters along the opposite side of the road. He bolted towards it weaving in and out of the oncoming traffic and the flurry of revellers. He reached the stairs and took them two at a time, bought an all day ticket from the vending machine, then scrutinized the subway map looking for Pont Neuf station. The rush of blood to his head intensified his throbbing temple. He restrained an urge to vomit and found the stairs to the platform and the name of the station where he would have to change for the M7 line. A display on the platform said the next train would arrive in 3 minutes. Bending forward he rested his hands on his knees and tried to calm himself.
Marta heard the phone ringing in the hallway. She approached it and hesitated unsure whether to answer or not. She was about to walk away when on impulse she grabbed the receiver. A panic-stricken Celine called her name. Alarm bells began to ring.
“What’s wrong, Celine?”
“You have to get out, Marta. Take Jean Paul with you. You're in danger, we were robbed by some one armed nutcase. He tried to kill Stipe and he shot one of Sebastian’s doormen. He’s heading your way. Stipe and Sebastian are on their way. He told me to tell you to make your way to the Pont Neuf Bridge and if Sebastian doesn’t get there first, too meet him on the bridge. Please take Jean Paul with you.” Marta jumped into survival mode. An image of Zoran stooped over Toni resurfaced. Anger consumed her.
“Where is the Pont Neuf Bridge?”
“Leave the apartment. Go to the end of the road and turn right. Its a few hundred meters along you can’t miss it. Hurry Marta.”
“Calm down Celine. I’m leaving now and thanks for calling me.” She dropped the receiver into the cradle, went to her bag and reloaded the magazine into her pistol then ran to the bedroom and roused Jean Paul.
“Jean Paul, wake up darling. We are going to go on a special trip. We are going to see the lights of the city from the oldest bridge in Paris. Sebastian and your Mom are going to meet us there.” Marta dressed Jean Paul as quickly as she could and grabbed her coat and left the apartment with a sleepy Jean Paul in tow. At the doorway she scrutinized the road both ways looking for anything suspicious. Only a couple of pedestrians occupied the street. She ventured out heading towards the Pont Neuf bridge speaking words of encouragement to Jean Paul, while fighting an urge to run away from the apartment as fast as she could.
Zoran weaved in and out of the traffic soliciting angry hoots from the drivers he cut up. The dizziness he was experiencing started to intensify making it difficult to drive. He blinked rapidly trying to clear his vision. The Pont Neuf crossing was only minutes away and his goal, the final notch in his holster; the Muslim Bitch. “Yes my little
ljubimac, Zorans coming for you”. Deranged laughter followed his outcry. His foot went harder on the gas.
Sebastian ordered his driver to take a short cut avoiding the busy traffic of the Pigalle district instead focusing on the side roads as much as possible. Sebastian’s head throbbed from the pistol whipping. He raised his arm and wiped away a trickle of flood from his forehead and thought about his son, Jean Paul. He cursed himself for not telling Celine to warn them that the one armed man was heading their way. He checked the Beretta was fully loaded. He knew it was, but checked it anyway. The one armed mans face kept flashing in front of him. His grip on the Beretta grew tighter and tighter.
“Don’t stop for any red lights,” shouted Sebastian. “Push it man flat out.” He had to get there first. He had to.
Marta was half dragging Jean Paul has she tried to speed up their journey to the bridge.
“Aunty Marta, you’re hurting m my hand.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but we must hurry. We don’t want to miss any of the light show do we?” Marta crossed the road her eyes constantly looking for signs of danger. She slowed her pace to accommodate Jean Paul. Her breathing was heavy, her skin felt clammy with the sweat of fear. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths to get her fear under control then she rounded the corner onto the Pont Neuf bridge and headed towards a statue of a man on a horse. She lifted Jean Paul over the railings then joined him at the base of the statue and decided to hide there until Stipe arrived.
Stipe’s metro ride seemed to take forever. Finally the tube train pulled in to the Pont Neuf station with Stipe clawing at the sliding door. He bolted forward nudging anybody in his way to the side. He found the stairs to ground level and took them two at a time. In the distance he saw the bridge and started frantically running towards it. It was closing on midnight. The traffic had lightened. The faint glow of the under-bridge-lighting against the backdrop of the far embankment highlighted the bridge like a centre stage awaiting a grand performance. A billboard advertising some grisly movie shone bright against the shadowed outline of the embankment buildings. The sky took on an angry purple appearance, and a stiff breeze was circulating through the tree line shimmering the leaves. Rain was imminent. There were only a few people crossing the bridge when Stipe reached the threshold. He scrutinized the area looking for Marta saw nothing then started to jog forward shouting her name as he went.
Marta sat at the base of the statue with John Paul having fallen asleep on her lap. She took her jacket off and covered it over him. The brief respite afforded her a little time to take in the situation, to make some sort of plan. As she was thinking she thought she heard someone calling her name. She removed her Zastava pistol, slipped it into her waistband and lifted Jean Pauls head off her lap and placed her bag underneath as a pillow. He murmured but didn’t wake. Marta peered around the statue and looked along the bridge. She saw Stipe running in her direction close to a section of barriers cordoning off an area of bridge that was being repaired. Her spirits lifted. She checked Jean Paul was ok and ventured out to meet Stipe. She side stepped the railings and called to Stipe, running briskly now to meet him. As they approached each other a white Fiat screeched onto the concourse its rear end snaking, looking for traction on the tarmac. They instantly turned towards the disturbance. Glaring back at them was Zorans twisted stare.
“Quick! Run,” said Stipe, clutching Marta’s hand and starting for the far end of the bridge. Marta pulled herself free from his grasp. Stipe turned to her. “ What are you…”
“Go get Jean Paul. He’s behind the statue. Quick go.” Marta started to run towards the car. She pulled her Zastava from her waistband and crouched behind one of the barriers. Zoran was less than a hundred meters. He gunned the car towards her ignoring Stipe. Marta thought she heard a loud, shrill, laugh as he changed direction. She took a deep breath, stood square onto him and took aim releasing a volley of shots into the wind screen. He kept coming straight for her screaming like a deranged wild animal. There were only moments before he would hit her. He mounted the pavement, less than thirty meters now. She fired again once, twice, three times. Suddenly the car jerked and pulled to the right and smashed through the barrier towards the open section of walling and the murky waters of the Seine below. It careered into the open stonework scattering sections of masonry onto the footpath aiming into the river, stopping abruptly with the front wheel and chassis teetering on the edge. Marta ran around the barrier and yanked open the drivers door. The action caused the car to slip further over the side. Zoran stared back at her barley conscious. He was bleeding heavily from a wound in his chest. He gasped out his words spitting at Marta,
“Ah my little ljubimac. You think you can forget about Zoran?” He grabbed her hair and tried to pull her into the car. At that moment Marta saw the stolen bag with the jewelled globe hanging out in the well of the passenger seat. She crashed the butt of the pistol into Zoran’s jaw and wrenched herself free from his grasp; her body slumped across his lap. She grasped at the handle of the bag, which was tantalizingly just out of reach. She started to edge a little closer and was about to try again when there was a sudden jolt and the sound of metal grating against stone as the car started its downward journey over the edge towards the waters below. Marta stared at their prize hopelessly out of reach as she scrambled back out of the car just before it tumbled over the edge leaving her hanging flat on her stomach as the Fiat, Zoran and the Globe disappeared beneath the inky water of the Seine. At that moment there was a huge thunder clap and the heavens opened. Marta rolled onto her back and let the rain soak her. She was spent emotionally. Everything was gone. Everything. She lay there unable to motivate movement. Running footsteps made her turn her head. Stipe crouched down beside her.
“Marta, you ok? Get up we have to get out of here.” Marta caught a glimpse of Jean Paul standing in the rain a few arms length behind Stipe. He was shivering. The image energized her to action. She scrambled to her feet helped by Stipe. A small group of people had started to gather across the road. A couple of men were heading towards them.
“Lets get out of here quick.” Stipe gathered Jean Paul in his arms and they started to run in the opposite direction leaving the onlookers and the approaching Samaritans bemused and bewildered. A car horn beeped at them, but they kept running. Suddenly the car swerved in front of them and the rear door was flung open.
“ Get in, get in,” screamed Sebastian from the open passenger window. Instinctively, Stipe slid Jean Paul onto the back seat and scrambled in next to him. Marta ran to the opposite side and jumped in. The car pulled away sharply closing the rear doors in its wake. Sebastian barked orders to his driver where to go then turned to check on his son. Police sirens were trilling in the distance. Marta turned and looked back at the scene that nearly took her life and in a way it had. Their dream for the future was now at the bottom of the Seine. Sebastian was questioning them. His voice trailed into nothingness; a meaningless blur. Marta’s eyes stayed locked onto the scared walling the image of the car plunging into the river playing over and over in her mind taking their future with it.
Epilogue
Marta took the basket of freshly washed clothes out to the garden to hang them out to dry. There was the promise of sunshine and a light westerly, a good drying day. She started reflecting on the recent events as she pegged the clothes on the line. It had been three weeks since they had arrived in the UK on false papers that Sebastian had arranged for them. They chose a city, Leicester, in the heart of England and found a rental property, clean and inexpensive on the city’s outskirts. Going back to their own country held no attraction for them. As it was there were superb universities in the city and Stipe was toying with the idea of resurrecting his dream of becoming a doctor. Now they were a couple together Marta liked that idea.
Then there was the demise of Zoran in Paris. Something’s were never meant to be; the jeweled globe, the Mostel Star, promises of a future from illicit gains. That hadn’t been the way her pa
rents had raised her. They hadn’t raised her to be a killer either, that had been created in her by the events of the war and a necessity to survive. At least Celine had faired better. She had the man she really loved and the father of her son, back in her life. It took the threat of loosing Jean Paul to make Sebastian realize what were the important things that really matter. Celine said the doorman was still recovering from his gunshot wound. Sebastian had compensated him handsomely, and had him cared for in a private clinic in return for not involving the police. He hushed the whole affair up and with nothing connecting the events on the bridge to him or his club, the whole incident was left with no concrete leads for the police to follow. All things considered it could have been a lot worse. At least they were in a new country, away from any connection to Paris, with a prospect of a future before them, albeit one they would have to work together to create. But that is how life is, normal, everyday a new challenge, rewarding in the small things in life. The new hope within her brought a smile to her face.