A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

  ‘Pascal, I’m so sorry I’m late. My taxi had trouble getting through . . . It’s amazing how much of a mess the road system is in Morocco.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been making myself comfortable.’

  Vermillon is dressed like a tourist and I’m embarrassed for him. His bald skull gleams with sweat, betraying his anxiety. Wayward strands of hair are glued to his temples by the heat, giving the impression that he’s dirty. His fuchsia-pink shirt is so dazzling that for a moment I think he can’t have chosen to dress like that without good reason.

  What if Hector really is a rival of my calibre? And all this grotesque display, idiotic look and anxious voice are merely an attempt to throw me off course and underestimate him?

  Here’s a tip, in case you ever get the urge yourself to become a halfway decent criminal: to be successful, a killer needs to be a social chameleon. If you want a long career and a high body count, you need to be able to act freely without risk of arrest, and the police are too stupid to hunt down a man with more than one face.

  If you want to kill, my dear canvas, you need to learn to hide. I’m talking about a physical as well as psychological transformation. Act naive by widening your eyes, smiling too much, and speaking softly and kindly. Be someone else and you won’t fall under suspicion. I learned this lesson from my mentor, Antoine, who, although he didn’t exactly explain this within the context of committing murders, made me realise it was a mistake to enter the world without a mask.

  So this is Hector in front of me, that much I know, and if all the cards are on the table, then we’re not playing any more. No more bluffing. He’s the one to get the conversation rolling, which surprises me.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve ever eaten here.’

  ‘Oh, really? It’s quite famous, this restaurant, though, isn’t it?’

  Pascal flashes me a slight grin that I find disturbing. Although tacitly we’re both agreeing here not to reveal our intentions, we’re walking on eggshells and nothing we say tonight will be said lightly. Every word will have a hidden meaning. Even so, I’m waiting for the moment when one of us will say to the other: ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘So, Achilles, tell me about yourself. Did you say you were married?’

  That’s right. Take the initiative, you fool.

  ‘No, not married, and no children, although I do live with a beautiful woman.’

  ‘Wonderful! What’s her name?’

  ‘Briseis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Briseis. You’ve never read The Iliad?’

  ‘Huh? The Ili-what?’

  ‘The Iliad! Briseis is a gift from the Greeks to Achilles during the Trojan War. She is the one who will lead him to his downfall.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s a joke, is that it?’

  ‘Well spotted, Pascal! Yes, it’s a joke. My partner is my Briseis, but she won’t be leading me to my downfall. You’ve not read The Iliad then? But you do know about the war between the Greeks and the Trojans, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it in films, but I don’t know that much about it.’

  ‘You should read The Iliad sometime. It’s extraordinary and way more modern than you might think. It’s mainly about treachery. I think you’d enjoy it.’

  The waiter interrupts to ask if we want an aperitif. Why the hell not? I order a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Can you often afford to come to restaurants like this, Achilles?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well . . . expensive places like this . . .’

  ‘I make good money. I’m doing well for myself and I’m not afraid to show it.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. I always knew you’d become someone.’

  ‘I’m rather proud of what I’ve achieved, Pascal. If you only knew . . . Not everything is rosy in the garden, of course. For example, there is something I’m a little upset about at the moment.’

  ‘Oh? Anything serious?’

  ‘Not really . . . There’s just this man who thinks he’s more intelligent than me.’

  ‘What? At work?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’d say he’s more of an annoyance when it comes to one of my . . . leisure pursuits, but let’s forget about him for now. I’ll be dealing with him soon enough.’

  Pascal is silent. I spoke loudly and confidently and now he’s blushing. You can’t pretend to blush. It’s a physical reaction that can’t be controlled. I hold the upper hand.

  Pascal orders a lamb tagine with mushrooms, and I choose a mrouzia after confirmation from the waiter that the ras-el-hanout is not one of those pseudo-traditional preparations made by mixing two bags of just any old spices. I trust the sommelier, who advises me to try a 1975 Perle Grise from a producer I’ve never heard of.

  It’s divine and I enjoy myself. I make the most of it. After all, if death comes for me in an hour or two – you never know – I might as well expire having had the satisfaction of tasting some very good food indeed.

  ‘Tell me, Pascal . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How is your meal?’

  ‘Delicious, thank you, Achilles.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome. I was right to insist, wasn’t I? It would have been a shame if we’d said our farewells without enjoying a last meal together.’

  Hector doesn’t say anything. A worried look darkens his features, and I can sense that he’s on his guard. I can see Hector all right behind this mild-mannered mask of his. I need to be ready to spring into action. He’s not going to get one over on me. I’ve spent far too long being paranoid to allow that to happen. I am a virtuoso, as well as an excellent observer, as well as a ferocious beast that will tear flesh before the night is out. It’s going to be bloody. It is written in the stars.

  I take the flick knife from the holster on my belt. Pascal’s eyes widen.

  ‘The knife they’ve given me isn’t very sharp.’

  I plunge the weapon into the shoulder of lamb on my plate and the juices pour out. Vermillon is livid.

  ‘Achilles, what are you doing with a knife like that in a restaurant? You . . . you’re going to scare the hell out of—’

  ‘Are you scared, Hector?’

  ‘Hector? What?’

  ‘I’m asking you if you’re afraid, Hector?’

  ‘Afraid? Why? No . . . Stop . . . Achilles . . .’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid, Hector?’

  ‘Why are you calling me Hector? Achilles, what’s wrong with you? I’m going to go. I think . . . I was . . . I was happy to see you, but I have to go . . .’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid, Hector?’

  ‘Stop it, Achilles . . . I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’re scaring me.’

  ‘So you are scared, Hector. Maybe you just had to think about it a little.’

  ‘What? Think about it? What are you talking about?’

  My eyes must be bloodshot. I can hear my teeth grinding. My jaw is clenched so tightly I can feel the pain working its way through to my eardrums. You asked for it, Hector. You’re the one who challenged me.

  ‘Achilles! I hope that—’

  ‘Hope? Hope is a type of palliative care, Hector.’

  Pascal jumps up with a movement so sudden that his chair falls backwards. It makes a noise no one can ignore. Crash . . . I then hear something that sounds like a sob. He takes two steps to the side and our eyes meet.

  I see fear in his. He sees hatred in mine. I see incomprehension. He sees determination.

  Vermillon is out of here. He shoves aside a swarthy young man bearing aloft an immense lobster on a tray. A guy in uniform tries to grab him, but Pascal makes a run for it.

  He opens the heavy main door of Le Kechir, turns around to look back and promptly falls down the steps. He must have forgotten they were there.

  I’m on my feet now too. I carelessly throw a handful of notes on the table. The waiters are all staring at me in amazement. Holding my glass of Perle Grise by the stem, I knock it back in three large gul
ps – the first one is long and the second two more expeditious. I put the glass down to the left of my silver napkin ring. I take my napkin and fold it, dab at my wet mouth. Taking a deep breath, I smile as I chew a little on my lower lip. One step to the right and I’m making my way towards the exit. I pick up my jacket with another smile, taking my time. I slip it on. The hostess stares at me, but remains silent; she’s right to do so.

  ‘Good evening, mademoiselle. The lamb was excellent.’

  18.

  ‘The lamb was perfect, Hector. You didn’t even finish your food.’

  Vermillon is lying on the pavement, twisting and turning with slow, jerky movements. His left hand is massaging his shin.

  ‘What’s the matter, Hector? Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘Achilles . . . No . . . What do you want with me?’

  ‘Why did you run away like that? Are you in some sort of hurry? Were you running away from me? Look at me, Hector. You don’t have to run away like that. I mean . . . I would have found you . . . wherever you decided to go.’

  He doesn’t look well, my formidable opponent. He tries clumsily to get to his feet but falls back down heavily with a small, plaintive whimper.

  ‘Hector, let me help you.’ I move closer. Behind us, on the porch, I spot two waiters watching us. ‘You have nothing to worry about, Hector. Look, there are witnesses.’

  Pascal is crying. I pull him up by both arms and support him with some difficulty. ‘You’re coming with me,’ I hiss. ‘You know what I’m carrying on my belt, don’t you? Come with me. Don’t make a fuss and there’s still a chance you’ll make it.’

  Vermillon is in shock. I sense fear, a touch of stress and an awful lot of pain. An explosive cocktail that’s turned him into a complete wreck. We walk a dozen or so metres down the street.

  ‘Wait, Pascal. You’re having trouble. Here, lean on this.’

  I push his miserable carcass against the car I’d parked here earlier, then walk around it and open the boot, which I’d left unlocked. The vehicle I’ve rented is hardly flash, but it’ll do.

  I grab Pascal and move him towards the boot, then glance back at the steps of Le Kechir. There’s no one there.

  I tip Vermillon forward and he falls halfway into the boot, but the idiot just won’t accept defeat. He’s resisting . . . Shouting out and struggling. If I let him carry on like this, the entire neighbourhood will be out on their doorsteps. Even if I can get him completely into the boot, it won’t stop him from screaming.

  So I hit him: a sharp blow to the side of the head. I aim for the temple but get the ear. Pain shoots through my wrist. I’m definitely not cut out for hand-to-hand combat. I blame him, my enemy, for pushing me to this kind of manly, sad and superfluous demonstration of emotion.

  I hit him in the head three more times with every ounce of strength I have. In fact, I’ve hit him so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to find bits of brain matter everywhere. On the other side of the road, an old woman walking down the avenue pauses to look at me. It’s dark enough that she can’t really see what’s going on, but I hate her for it. Vermillon might be dead.

  This isn’t the way I normally do things but he’s a threat, and to regain my peace of mind, I have to eliminate that threat. My plan is to make Pascal disappear, and I need to ensure they’ll never find his body. In France, the investigation would quickly direct police officers to examine what happened in the hours before the victim’s death. Pascal Vermillon’s whereabouts could be traced very easily. I bet he’ll have bragged to someone about having dinner at Le Kechir between the time I told him I’d booked the table and meeting me there. Then I’d be identified by the waiter and it would start a chain of events from which there’d be no escape for me. A dank and filthy cell would await.

  But we’re in Morocco, and that’s not how things work out here. I have no doubt that the police could manage to trace it back to me, but there’ll be no evidence. Yes, Inspector, I did invite my childhood friend, Pascal Vermillon, to dinner with me. Yeah, we had a little spat, but we’ve been like that since we were kids. I left him outside the restaurant, and what can I tell you? I don’t know what happened to him after that. Marrakech is dangerous at night. I told him to take a taxi home but he’s a bit of a risk-taker, that one. And then he told me he owed someone money. It sounded a bit odd. And then . . .

  No body, no case – that’s how it works in this country. People disappear every day. Vermillon isn’t a native – he’s a Frenchman – and that’s the kind of problem the authorities don’t like. Moroccans can disappear all they want, but not foreign nationals who are working here. The King needs foreign investment to help transform Morocco, and if European and Anglo-Saxon companies turn their backs on the Maghreb countries, it will be a colossal financial loss for the Crown.

  I drive and turn eastward towards the maquis, which I know to be immense. There are a million places out there to bury or hide a dead body. Nobody will ever see Hector again.

  I’ll have to leave tomorrow. If I can’t be questioned on the spot, I doubt that a major international investigation will be launched into the disappearance of a man whose body is not even in police possession. Tomorrow morning, before I fly, I’ll have to sow one or two false trails to mislead the police. All I have to do is leave an anonymous note under Vermillon’s door telling him to pay what he owes to a certain Ahmed or he’s for it. That should be enough for the police to grab the first Ahmed they come across and then they can close the case.

  I continue to drive. There’s a lot of noise coming from the boot. Pascal is awake.

  We’ve been heading down tiny little deserted roads for quarter of an hour now and he’s making a real racket. I steer the old Renault onto an even quieter secondary road. The wind is up and clouds of dust are forming in front of the windscreen, obstructing my field of vision.

  Finally I come to a stop. From the rear footwell I take out the shovel I’d stashed there earlier. I stole it from a construction site. I doubt anyone will be able to make the connection between it and the body it will be burying.

  I throw the shovel on the ground and take out my blade, then open the boot and take a step backwards. Pascal tries to get to his knees, but slips and collapses back down. I grab him by the collar and pull him out of the vehicle. He falls to the ochre earth in a state of exhaustion, his head swaying from side to side as if it’s too heavy for him to hold up.

  It’s pitch-black out here. I don’t have a flashlight and the moonlight gives the scene an eerie glow, enough to make the blood run cold.

  ‘Achilles . . . Why?’

  ‘You know why, Hector.’

  ‘Who’s Hector?’

  ‘Hector? You really don’t know anything about Greek mythology, do you? Hector is Priam’s son. He’s the Trojan who’s killed by Achilles. They are two legendary heroes, Pascal, although you’re a pretty disappointing Hector, I must admit.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this . . .’

  ‘I think that secretly I was hoping to have an enemy who would be an equal, someone who would present me with an opportunity to improve and perhaps even question myself. There was something majestic, heroic, in our fight – something Olympian. You’ve ruined everything, Hector. You just weren’t brave enough. There was nothing brave at all about you.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Achilles?’

  ‘Hector? You’ve got some sort of plan here, haven’t you? It can’t end like this! I’m not just going to rip you apart and go home . . . You’ve got a plan, haven’t you? Did you set me up? Will the police be waiting for me at my hotel? Have you given them the proof they need? Is that it?’

  ‘You’re mad. You’re out of your mind.’

  ‘Are you just pretending you’re not up to it? You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you? And when I try to kill you, you’re going to jump up and defend yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  I kick him in the chin, and he crashes back down to the ground.


  ‘Why, Hector? Why did you have to do that?’

  ‘D-do what?’

  Stuttering idiot. His stocky body is lying motionless on the ground. His mouth is bleeding and a dribble of scarlet saliva runs over his chest. He stammers something unintelligible as a spit bubble swells between his lips and bursts with a nauseating pop.

  ‘Why did you do that in Montpellier? You wanted me to stick my head above the parapet, didn’t you?’

  ‘What parapet?’

  ‘It’s an expression. Come on, spit it out! You saw me, didn’t you? You saw me in the woods hiding Patroclus?’

  ‘Patroclus?’

  ‘Yes. Patroclus, my knife. The one you used to kill Caroline Berthier. And my shoes were there too, weren’t they? You wore them, Hector, and you got them all dirty. Why did you do that? For revenge, because of what I did to you forty years ago? But I didn’t do anything wrong, Hector. I just showed you what I liked doing, that’s all. And what did you want to get out of me with that whole Montpellier business? Did you want to drive me to insanity? I beat you to it! I followed your trail and found you here. And all this for what? Just because I killed a kitten in front of you?’

  ‘The kitten? Yes, that kitten . . .’

  I sit down. Pascal manages to straighten up a little. We’re face to face now, sitting in the dirt. He’s oozing blood and I inhale deeply; the scent of death does not disappoint.

  ‘Tell me, Hector – not to ease your conscience, but just so I can understand. Did you do this because I killed that kitten?’

  ‘The kitten, yes. What are you saying, Achilles?’

  ‘And that’s all? But you know I didn’t do that in front of you to scare you. Back when we were kids, I just wanted a friend. That’s why I did that. I wanted to share it with you.’

  ‘It . . . traumatised me. Achilles, why did you do that? It was horrible. What you did to that cat was horrible. I saw the blood running down its fur. I’ve never forgotten it. I still have nightmares . . .’