A Killer's Game

by Luca Tahtieazym

  I am master of everything that I do. Nothing is left to chance.

  23.

  Having to knock on the front door is an inconvenience. I well remember Viviane’s reaction back in 1984 when I threw myself in at the deep end and my hand met the painted and crumbling wood on the door of her house.

  The woman was cold. Icy even.

  The ‘knock, knock’ sounds out loud. I think it’s ridiculous to write it down. ‘Knock, knock’ is ridiculous, isn’t it? There you go, I’ve written it twice now.

  She’ll be here any second. I’m going to hit her in the middle of her face. I’m aiming to break her nose and perhaps her upper jaw. She’ll collapse to the ground, and her blood will spurt upwards, and then I’ll squat down. My back has been hurting a little recently, but I think I can manage it. I like this position. In combat sports, when a wrestler sits on his opponent, he is said to be in a dominant position.

  So: ‘Knock, knock.’

  Nothing.

  I conclude that Viviane is not in. She may be out at work.

  I’m good at waiting. Except that right now, I’m so agitated that it’s going to be hard to keep my cool if I have several hours of waiting ahead of me. I leave. I walk and walk and walk, and then walk some more with a view to tiring myself out. I want to feel the blisters blossoming under my arches. I want to be exhausted. I use every ounce of energy my body has, so that my brain can finally switch off.

  Eventually I return to Lazaret, where I play for time. I don’t know what to do. I’m in a state of high expectation and I’ve started to doubt myself. That’s rare, doubting myself, but my pulse is racing.

  I knock on Viviane’s door. Nothing. Fucking silence, that’s all. I cross the pavement and sit on the kerb between a pair of green bins. I’ll close my eyes and wait to see what will happen next.

  I smoke a cigarette. I smoke a whole pack of cigarettes. Now I have no cigarettes left. I walk back to my hotel. Hours and hours of walking. It’s like a penance. I really give it everything I’ve got. Any muscle that dares to complain is thoroughly reprimanded.

  Finally I get back to my room, undress and collapse on the bed.

  I lie naked on top of the covers, where there’s barely time to contemplate my withered penis before I fall into a deep limbo.

  My eyes are swollen. I drag myself into the shower, feeling thoroughly miserable. The water beats down on my skin and reality returns. I get dressed and hold back the pout of disgust that manifests itself when I have to put the shorts back on again. I look every inch the average Frenchman on holiday.

  I return to Lazaret, but first head to a bar for coffee. When I go over to her house an hour later, there’s a light on. I can see the lampshade glowing in the living room.

  We’re going to have to do something about that. I’m hesitating. Several ideas are jostling in my mind, but none of them make much sense. I need to revert to the methodical and manipulative Achilles that I once was.

  There’s a phone box down the street a little to my left. I go inside after making sure that no one has seen me, then slip in a two-franc coin and dial 12 for directory enquiries.

  ‘Could you connect me with Madame Destrien from La Rochelle, please?’

  I give the address to the operator so as to avoid any errors.

  The beep lasts forever, but finally I hear a voice on the line. Bad luck. It’s a male voice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello? Could I please speak to Madame Destrien?’

  ‘Madame Destrien? Viviane?’

  ‘That’s right, Viviane.’

  ‘It’s just . . . Who’s speaking?’

  ‘An old friend.’

  ‘An old friend? Who exactly? This is Sébastien. Who are you?’

  ‘We don’t know each other. I was a friend of Viviane’s when we were students.’

  ‘Viviane and I went to university together so we must know each other. Who is it?’

  Oh, shit.

  ‘It’s Claude. Claude Talbot. I don’t think we know each other.’

  ‘Uh, no . . . Were you on the same course as Viviane?’

  ‘No, it was further back than that.’

  This is a man who’s hearing of his wife’s relationship with some other chap for the first time and he’s taking it badly. It’s only human. I need to take this into account.

  ‘I haven’t seen her since high school, but we’re having a reunion and I’m in charge of tracking down all the pupils in our year. That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘OK, I understand. Listen, I’m sorry, but Viviane passed away.’

  It can’t be true. No! Deceased? Viviane? And it wasn’t even me who killed her.

  ‘What, she died? No!’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry to have to tell you like this. I’m her husband.’

  ‘What on earth happened?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I don’t know . . . I don’t feel comfortable. We don’t know each other. You’re saying you went to secondary school with Viviane?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know her well. I remember some of her friends though. They’ll be shocked to hear this – she was very popular. Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘She took her own life.’

  ‘What? No! I’m so sorry . . . It must be so hard for you as her husband.’

  ‘Hard? It’s a living hell. It’s . . . It’s absolutely dreadful.’

  I say nothing for a moment, and then when I judge the time to be right, I speak with the peremptory tone of someone who wants the ground to open and swallow them up.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m truly sorry for your loss. If I may ask, when did she pass?’

  ‘Two and a half years ago.’

  My escapade is drawing to a close, but I’d like to know if the suicide of Viviane Destrien had anything to do with me.

  The day after this informative phone conversation with her husband, while he’s at work, I decide to pick the lock on their front door.

  I can’t get the metal hook in the bolt. Never mind. I go round the back. It’s 11 a.m. I break the pane of glass on the kitchen door and step into a house so dirty that it makes me want to throw up.

  It’s quite obvious there’s no female round here. Everything about the place screams ‘single man’.

  My nostrils flare like the hem on the old jacket I’m wearing. I’ve forced myself to put it on so that my outfit looks credible. There’s a pile of dirty plates in the sink and mouldy food on the sideboard. The stench is so strong that it makes my stomach churn.

  I walk straight through to the desk in the living room. On the worn wood, traces of rings left by beer bottles form a disordered Olympic symbol.

  I’m shivering. The desire to vomit is overpowering, and you want to know why? Over the desk, several sheets of A4 have been pinned to the wall. On each of them is a portrait, and you’ve guessed it, bright person that you are . . . They’re of me.

  In each one of them, I’m wearing a hat and my eyes look tiny and too close to my nose – it looks just like your typical PTT employee – but that’s me right there.

  Viviane Destrien liked painting and drawing. We had that in common. I see now that this woman had real artistic talent, and an amazing memory.

  It only took a few seconds for my features to be imprinted on her unconscious.

  Viviane knew my face. She remembered.

  That is a problem . . .

  24.

  My problem is that I didn’t even kill her! What are we supposed to do if the ones we don’t kill go ahead and do it all by themselves?

  In the desk, I find enough documents to get a good idea of what happened. I’d have liked to have found a diary so as not to have to extrapolate the facts, but no such luck. I read everything I come across, but try not to lose sight of the fact that I have one very specific objective. Of course, Viviane’s death has troubled me – I have a big heart, my dear reader – but I need to get to the bottom of this.

  There are bills, envelopes with scribbled notes, shop
ping lists, reminders. Gradually, by reading between the lines and cross-checking events, the life of the Destrien couple reveals itself.

  I learn so much. It’s bleak, unspoken, painful and devoid of all joy.

  Viviane died four months after the attack. Her attempted murder at my hand shook her up so much that she simply couldn’t carry on. She drew my face with charcoal. The fifty or so sheets of paper that jump out at me testify to this woman’s obsession with my own illustrious self. I’m not surprised that she remembered my features.

  I feel like I’m being shot at right here where I stand . . . but through my own vision. Fifty Achilles are watching me and judging me. I stand before a cold and determined jury. On one of the portraits, my eyes are so wrinkled that I frighten myself. On another, my weathered face overwhelms me to the point that I wonder if I have indeed ever actually looked that dreadful.

  But it’s not just that. It is a whole life spread out in front of me – trajectories stopped in their tracks . . . and all the flowers and tears that go with it. Shortly after Viviane’s suicide, her husband, Sébastien, went off the rails. Let’s just say he couldn’t cope. I think that’s the politically correct way to describe it, but it’s a euphemism, of course. I caused some great unhappiness here, but you and I already knew that.

  It could also be said that this man is a coward, but I won’t be the one to say so.

  No, this man is a coward.

  When his wife died, rather than deal with it, rather than stick two fingers up to life and decide what path he’d take next, he just lost it. I can see bills for psychiatrists, for psychological assessments. It seems normal even to me who claims to be a psychopath, to call upon a third person when you fall victim to a tragedy on this scale, but Sébastien did nothing to overcome the ordeal. What a misery. Everything I find about him shows that he’s been wallowing in an ill-defined state of extreme neurotic depression. That’s what cowards do.

  Their kid, a boy who was barely three years old at the time of the incident, now five, was placed in a children’s home.

  As I look around a little more, I also find receipts from the chemist. He’s being treated for alcoholism. I therefore conclude that Sébastien, following the death of Viviane, has found nothing better to do with his life than to indulge in drinking.

  And then there are the solicitors’ bills. I get the impression that Sébastien Destrien might have had a few minor brushes with the law. I read the words ‘suspended prison sentence’.

  So this, in a nutshell, is what the intimate life of the Destrien family has come down to. I don’t envy them. It’s all quite clear. Viviane couldn’t handle the encounter with me – she lacked backbone, that one – and when she put an end to it all, her husband had a breakdown, also due to a lack of backbone.

  Is it conceivable that with the help of these portraits, Sébastien Destrien might identify me? Yes. Three times yes. A thousand times yes.

  Imagine a guy who’s lost everything. His wife was brutally attacked and then killed herself. He blames the man who caused the death of his wife. All he has are these drawings detailing the face of the assailant and he wanders around France hoping to find him. And how does he track me down? I don’t have the faintest idea – maybe it’s by chance. Anyway, he understands all right that I’m the one responsible for his wife’s death.

  He has had a few run-ins with the law and so decides to sort it out for himself. After hunting me down, he follows me, which allows him to uncover that I’m The Artist. He sees me in the forest of Grasse hiding the backpack containing Patroclus, my gloves and my shoes, grabs the bag and goes to Montpellier to kill according to my modus operandi.

  Did Sebastian become Hector to avenge the death of his wife?

  But why not come after me directly? Why kill an innocent woman in Montpellier instead of attacking me in person?

  No, no. I’m lost here.

  Hector has a grudge and it’s the perverse side of his being that is forcing him to play with me. Destrien doesn’t work like that.

  Destrien cannot be Hector, but I don’t want him to be added to the list of all those who have a grievance against me, so I need to eradicate the information that this dreadful couple has gathered on me.

  I like keeping a lookout.

  I really love it. I’m a wolf lurking in the dark, ready to leap on the vulnerable lamb.

  All their private correspondence lies before my eyes. I read everything that looks as though it might be interesting. Many tearful testimonies indicate without a doubt that Viviane’s death is all my fault. By cross-checking all the messages, I come to several conclusions.

  After our short but eventful encounter, Viviane was plunged into depression. She would wake up at night and see the face of the stranger who had posed as a PTT employee. She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t raped her. Why hadn’t I stolen anything?

  Viviane sank lower and lower into the depths. Unlike her husband, she avoided the old alcohol trap, but in its place, sleeping pills and antidepressants became her trusted friends. She spent whole days drawing the sketches that now line the wall in front of me.

  Finally, four months after the confrontation with me, she took her son to school, went home, made herself a cup of tea and swallowed a handful of pills. When the headmaster called Sébastien to let him know that no one had come to pick up their child, Destrien went straight home to find his wife’s lifeless body on the marital bed.

  Custody of his son was removed from him as a precautionary measure two months later. He apparently accepted this decision without any fuss.

  One thing is certain: if Sébastien Destrien looks at these drawings every day, then he might easily recognise me face to face in spite of my disguise. I need to stay away. I need to find a means of contacting him without raising suspicion.

  Normally, I would do something in the same vein as with Lambert, my Parisian police officer. I would enter his inner circle little by little until he trusted me enough to tell me everything about himself, but that would be getting in too deep.

  I feel as though I’m walking across a motorway with my eyes shut. I have no plan and don’t see how I can make one when I’m this vulnerable.

  I continue going through all the papers. In the wardrobe, I come across an old cardboard box sealed with tape. There’s a layer of dust on top, which bothers me. If I open it, it’ll leave evidence of a break-in. As talented as I am, I’m unable to reproduce a layer of dust on top of a box.

  Never mind. I’ll have to count on Sébastien Destrien’s state of nerves and hope he doesn’t notice anything.

  The box is full of papers linked to Viviane in some way. I find various admin documents, including social security papers, pay slips, bank statements. It takes me about ten minutes to find the report. So Viviane did file a complaint with the police.

  Nowhere is there any mention of a lead that might suggest that the police suspect me, but I’m no fool. Viviane is a victim and a witness, but the police wouldn’t have given her written information about the investigation, so that doesn’t mean I’m off the hook.

  I find letters written by family members shortly before the tragedy took place. The content is not only brief in the extreme but so insipid I feel dizzy. I need to try and take a step back and focus on the substance.

  First of all, no one seems to be disclosing any real, incontrovertible information. I conclude from my reading that Viviane sincerely hoped her attacker would be found, but that the police had no leads.

  Nevertheless, the police investigators must have my sketch in their possession, and I don’t like that. Of course, it was just a straightforward assault – I didn’t steal anything – and the case goes back more than two years now.

  I doubt the police will be after me or even that my face will be displayed on a wall somewhere down at the station. They must have moved on.

  I’m starting to see things more clearly.

  I could disguise myself to be sure that Sébastien Destrien would never recognise me, but I
don’t feel that’s the right way to go about this. I remain convinced that I cannot and must not meet him face to face.

  So, I’m going to play this game from a distance. I’ll be a phantom. I’ll become an invisible man. Sebastian Destrien drinks, doesn’t he? I will become his delirium tremens. I will be his shadow, and if he tries to look too closely, I will disappear. I’ll be faster and smarter than him, and then I will strike.

  Sebastian won’t even see me coming. I have faith in myself and my abilities. I’m the master of the game, and this game, the one I’m playing, is not a game of chance. I’m going to control fate. I’ll never be within a hundred metres of my intended victim.

  I hear something in the hallway.

  I spin round.

  Sébastien Destrien is standing right in front of me.

  25.

  So there he is: this man who blames me for everything that’s gone wrong with his life.

  Three seconds.

  How long are three seconds? No need actually to say: ‘Three seconds’, if you don’t mind. We all experience time differently. Thank you, Mr Einstein, and your theory of relativity. So many things can happen in three seconds. Three seconds is more than enough time in which to die. It would be plenty enough time for me to get to know you, my future canvas, and make you part of history.

  Destrien has two options now: come at me or run for help.

  He hesitates for three seconds, and in my petrified brain, something is stirring. Neither of us has the advantage of surprise; both he and I appear to have fallen out of a clear blue sky, and we both stand there paralysed.

  Three seconds, during which I tell myself that I’ve done away with all my rules, that I’ve overestimated myself, underestimated Destrien. He should not be here. He’s supposed to be at work.

  My little grey cells are buzzing. He’s terrified. He’s going to leave. I don’t know why he’s still standing there, staring at me with that vacant look on his face. Maybe because he must have questions too . . .