by Amy Cross
“He should be wiped from history!” a man yelled. “Don't insult his victims! Zieghoff deserves to rot!”
It felt strange to hear his name again, after so many years. I had not forgotten the man, of course, but sometimes I had let myself believe that the world had begun to bury all thoughts of his life and crimes. A few times, I had even gone out to look at his abandoned mansion at the edge of the city, albeit only from afar. And I had found myself thinking back to those awful days when it had seemed that he might take over the world. Finally, I was starting to believe that Zieghoff should not have been forgotten at all; for once he had been forgotten, the world might lose the lessons that it had learned, and a new Zieghoff might rise.
Realizing that I had no stomach for the council's deliberations, I turned and began to limp away. I could still hear the crowds shouting over my shoulder, and I flinched every time the name Zieghoff was used. I wanted to forget that the man ever existed, but I knew that I could have no such luxury. Klaus Zieghoff had been dead for several decades, yet I knew full well that he was soon to bring more evil and suffering to the world.
Chapter Seven
Chloe
The whistling sound followed me home at lunchtime.
I was supposed to work a full day, but after the police left I'd been unable to get anything done. Eventually Liam and the others had suggested shutting the office for the afternoon, to let everyone have some time to get over the shock. I'd agreed, barely able to think straight, and then I'd turned down the chance to go with the rest of the staff and get a coffee somewhere. I think they were worried about me, but I insisted I'd be better off just going home alone, so I'd set off in the opposite direction.
The sounds of the city had seemed to retreat during my journey, as if the tide of noise had gone out and had been replaced by that high-pitched, constant whistling dirge that I'd first heard while I was talking to the police officer. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't rouse my thoughts and make myself worry. Instead, I was simply replaying that final night with Belinda over and over.
“Are you sure you'll be okay going home by yourself?” she'd asked me, at the top of the steps leading down to the metro.
“Do I look like a child?” I'd replied, with just a hint of drunkenness.
“It's no problem for me to walk you to your door,” she'd continued. “Come on, let me help out.”
“I'm fine!” I'd been so keen to prove my independence, it hadn't occurred to me that I was the one who should have been worrying about her. Then again, why would I ever have worried about her? Belinda was bullet-proof.
Eventually she'd walked off along the street, and I remembered how her black leather jacket had caught the glow of the streetlights as she'd disappeared into the distance. I remembered the exact moment I'd lost sight of her, after which I'd turned and headed down into the bright, empty metro system.
“Chloe?”
Suddenly something touched my arm as I approached the door to my building, pulling me out of my memories. Turning, I saw a familiar figure standing next to me, holding a ridiculously large bouquet of red roses, but it took a moment before my addled mind could put a name to the face.
“Jackson?” I asked, feeling as if the world was starting to spin all around me. “What are you doing here?”
***
“They're really nice,” I said, swallowing hard as I placed the roses on the kitchen counter. “Really... red.”
“I remembered how much you like roses,” he replied, standing in the doorway and watching me intently. “Chloe, are you sure you're okay? You look kind of pale.”
“I'm fine,” I whispered, staring at the roses. The petals were such a bright, striking shade of red, they made me think of blood, which in turn made me think of Belinda's body in that alley. “I'm fine,” I said again, turning to Jackson and trying to smile. The last thing I wanted was to tell him what had happened. He didn't know Belinda anyway, so it was none of his business.
I didn't want to tell him how much I was hurting.
I didn't want to let him get that close again.
“So aren't you gonna ask why I'm here?” he replied.
Staring at him, I realized that was a good question. Jackson belonged in London.
“Why are you here?” I asked, trying not to appear too dazed.
“Because of you, dumbass.”
I stared at him, trying to understand. My thoughts briefly drifted back to Belinda, before I forced myself to focus.
“I'm sorry,” I stammered, “what?”
“Because of you,” he continued, stepping toward me. “After you left London, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Maybe I didn't appreciate you before, but I do now. I think I just started taking everything for granted, that's why things didn't work out between us.”
“That's not why,” I told him.
“It is,” he replied. “Really, it is, if you think about it.” He put his hands on the sides of my arms, just above the elbows. “I've figured it all out. Why we broke up, why the magic faded, why our souls became less entwined. It was a psychic thing, Chloe. We let our intimate connection get disrupted by the negative energy of the city around us.”
“You slept with someone else,” I pointed out, struggling to think back to that awful time. All the drama suddenly seemed so petty and pointless when set aside everything that had happened to Belinda. “Two someone elses, actually,” I added. “But who's counting? It's in the past.”
“I was taking you for granted.”
I stepped back. He tried to keep hold of my arms, but I pulled away.
“I came all the way to Paris to win you back,” he continued. “Doesn't that say something about the strength of my feelings for you? I took the coach all the way here from London. I got your address from your mother.”
“Thanks, Mum,” I muttered under my breath.
“I waited all morning out there on the street,” he added, “just so I'd be able to catch you when you came home. I mean, doesn't that prove that I'm being genuine?”
Staring at him, I realized I'd barely been paying attention to a word he'd said.
“So here's what I think,” he continued. “Let's try again. I get it, you came to Paris to make a fresh start, but is this really your home? Why don't you come back to London and we can start again, eh? I mean, come on, you always told me how much you hated being alone.”
“I did?” I replied, genuinely not remembering any of that.
He nodded, before taking another step toward me.
“Chloe,” he continued, “sweetheart, what do you have here in Paris? Your friends are back in London. You had a decent job there, too, and a life. Have you got any of that out here?”
“I haven't exactly been here for very long,” I pointed out, feeling a cold shiver pass through my chest. “I barely know the place.”
“And do you speak a word of French?”
“Enough to get by,” I lied.
“I will never, ever take you for granted again,” he continued, stepping closer. My back was against the kitchen wall this time, so I couldn't move away without seeming rude. “I promise, Chloe. Hand on heart, I swear I won't. Doesn't that sound good?”
“You shouldn't have come,” I told him. “Not today.”
“What's wrong with today?”
I opened my mouth to tell him about Belinda, but that last thing I wanted was his sympathy or concern. I just wanted to get rid of him, and to never see him again.
“Nothing,” I stammered. “I'm just tired, that's all.”
“Chloe, let's talk.”
“Maybe you should go back to your hotel,” I told him, “or wherever you're staying. I can't talk about this right now.”
“Chloe, please...”
“Just go,” I continued. “I'll meet you later, but right now, I need some time alone.”
He sighed. “I haven't got a hotel,” he said after a moment. “Actually, I was...” He paused, before offering a faint, cheeky smile. “I was kinda th
inking you wouldn't mind me crashing here. With you.”
***
“Goodbye, Jackson,” I said firmly, swinging the door shut and then immediately sliding the chain across.
“Chloe,” he replied from out in the hallway, “come on, seriously. Don't be weird about this. Let's talk.”
“You should start looking for a hotel room,” I replied. “They fill up fast.”
Turning, I made my way through to the kitchen. When I got there, however, I realized I had no idea what to do next. All I could think about was Belinda, and as I leaned against the door-frame I couldn't help imagining her body in that alley.
“Chloe!” Jackson shouted, banging on the door. “Let me in! Don't be such a bitch! I came all the way from London for you!”
Closing my eyes, I managed to ignore his voice. The high-pitched whistling sound had returned, drowning everything else out, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the air pressure was increasing all around me. With tears in my eyes, I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, and finally I started sobbing.
I don't know how long I stayed like that, but eventually I realized it was getting dark outside, and that Jackson had finally stopped banging on my door.
***
The streets were busy that night, busier than I'd have liked, but I couldn't help myself. I had to get out of the apartment, even though I didn't really have anywhere to go. I told myself I could just walk around for a while and get to know the area, but after an hour or so I began to realize that I should face the truth.
I was walking in one specific direction.
Sure enough, a little while later, I reached the street near the alley where Belinda's body had been found. There were flashing blue lights up ahead, and as I got closer I saw that a couple of news crews were still reporting from the scene. I didn't understand a word of what they were saying, but they had very serious expressions as they talked into their cameras. Part of me wanted to run over and tell the people watching at home about Belinda, to let them know what a kind and funny person she'd been, but instead I simply walked past, before stopping at a nearby kiosk and buying some gum. My hands were shaking again, as if to remind me that I could put on a brave face but that deep down I was still a wreck inside.
Turning, I looked over at the alley, where a couple of policemen looked to be clearing up the scene.
“And this newspaper,” a voice said nearby, as someone else made a purchase at the kiosk.
Still watching the alley, I imagined Belinda walking down there, probably taking a shortcut home.
“I'm sorry,” the voice said suddenly, “but... I think we've met before, haven't we?”
Turning, I saw the man from the apartment building standing next to me. I still had to stare at him for a moment, blinking like a weirdo, before I realized that it was actually, truly him.
“I...” Startled, I considered turning and running, before finally realizing that I should at least be polite. “I... Yes, I... I think so...”
“I take it you heard about what happened?” he asked, looking toward the reporters. “Such a tragic waste of life, and so unnecessary.”
“I knew her,” I replied, before I even had time to stop myself. I immediately felt as if I'd made a mistake, but the cat was out of the bag and when I turned to him I could see that he was concerned. “I knew her,” I said again, and this time I felt tears in my eyes. “She was my friend,” I added, holding the tears back. “I was with her the night she died, just a few hours before. I was with her, we went to some bars, I said goodnight to her at a metro station and then I went home and she went off and got murdered and now I'll never see her again and...”
My voice trailed off, and I suddenly realized that I was on the verge of tears.
The man paused, before removing a black glove and reaching out to touch my shoulder.
“My name is Matthias,” he told me. “Do you want to get out of the night air and find somewhere to talk?”
Chapter Eight
Matthias
I knew I was making a terrible mistake, but I couldn't help myself. I needed to see her. To talk to her. To hear her voice. To be close to her again. Even if, by doing so, I risked making the same mistake as my brother.
Chapter Nine
Chloe
“You can't blame yourself for the actions of a madman,” Matthias said firmly, once I'd told him about my night out with Belinda. Behind him, outside, the bright lights of late-night Paris filled the cafe's window. “You did absolutely nothing wrong.”
“I let her walk home alone,” I replied, feeling a pang of guilt that had become all-too-familiar during the course of the day. “If I'd just gone with her, or made her split a taxi with me, she might be alive now.”
“You don't know that.”
“Of course she would,” I continued. “Some psychopath was obviously lurking in the shadows, waiting to pick off the first women who wandered past.” I paused for a moment. “I guess someone else would be dead, but it wouldn't be my friend. Maybe I'm being selfish, but I'd give anything to have Belinda back. If I hadn't let her walk home alone, the killer wouldn't have got her.”
“You can't be sure of that,” he said darkly. Framed against the glittering lights of traffic that passed the cafe, his features seemed marked by deep shadows, even thought he looked to be only a few years older than me. “Sometimes, no matter what we do, no matter what choices we make, certain things are fated to happen. That doesn't mean you can't fight and try to stop them, but...”
His voice trailed off for a moment.
“A very important person once told me,” he continued, eyeing me with a hint of concern, “that destiny is like a river. You can alter its course here and there, maybe slow it down or make the waters rush faster, but ultimately you can't stop it reaching the sea. It took me a long time to realize the truth of those words, but mere mortals simply can't fight against such huge forces.”
Suddenly he flinched, as if he was in pain.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded, forcing a smile, and the moment was gone.
“I'm sorry,” he added, “I suppose that must have seemed a little... intense. I wish I could do more to put your mind at ease. It must be hard, losing a friend in such horrific circumstances.”
I looked down at my cup of tea, which I hadn't even touched yet. Pressing a finger against the cup's side, I realized it was already lukewarm at best.
“It should have been me,” I whispered.
“That's not true at all.”
“I came to Paris because I wanted to see the world,” I said after a moment, “and -” I paused again. Opening up to this stranger felt unusual but, at the same time, somehow very right. “I came to Paris because I wanted to see the world,” I said again, glancing at him, “but now I'm starting to think that I've seen more than enough.” Outside, a car sounded its horn. The more I looked at Matthias, the more the city behind him seemed to go out of focus, with the lights of the cars shining like diamonds. “I think I might just pack it in and go back to London.”
“Is that what your friend would have wanted?” he asked.
“Belinda?” I smiled as I imagined her reaction, and then I felt fresh tears in my eyes as I remembered once again that I'd never speak to her again. “No, she'd have hated that idea. She'd have told me I have to stick it out, but I don't see how I can stay here when the whole city reminds me of what happened to her.”
“You can't outrun your memories,” he replied. “Trust me, the faster you try to run from them, the harder they slam into you when you finally have to stop running. And everyone has to stop running eventually, even...” He paused for a moment. “Even people who thought they could escape it all. Especially people who thought they could escape it all. The most you can do is try to pick your spot, to decide where you'll be standing when it happens.”
I opened my mouth to tell him it was different with Belinda, to tell him I wasn't up for the fight, but somehow those words stuck in
my throat.
“Maybe,” I found myself saying finally. “Sure. Maybe you're right.”
***
“So you're here to look after your grandfather, or something?” I asked a while later, as we wandered back along a road that ran next to the river.
“My grandfather?”
“At the apartment?”
“Right.” He smiled. “Kind of. It's a long story.”
“Is he still mad at me?”
“For what?”
“For disturbing him,” I continued. “I'm sure he's told you all about the English woman who barged into his apartment and woke him up.”
“Oh, he's very understanding,” Matthias replied, with the smile still lingering on his face. “I'll put in a good word for you. I'll let him know that you only had the best -”
Suddenly he stopped and gasped. Placing a hand on the railing, he seemed to be steadying himself.
“What's wrong?” I asked, realizing he was in pain.
“It's fine,” he stammered, “just...” Reaching down, he put a hand on his waist, as if he was feeling for something. “Just... It'll pass.”
I waited, shocked, but after a moment his smile returned.
“Please,” he continued, “don't be alarmed. It's under control, I just...”
“Are you sick?” I asked, before realizing that I was prying. “I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me.”
“I'm not sick,” he replied, clearly still in a little pain. He took a series of deep breaths, before letting go of the railing. “I'm sorry, I guess I've hijacked your evening, haven't I?” he added, checking his watch. “You must excuse me, I didn't realize how time was getting away from me. It's almost eleven.”
“I have work in the morning,” I replied. “Well, at least... I guess I do. We closed the office early today because of what happened to Belinda, but I suppose tomorrow everything has to start getting back to normal.” I paused, trying to imagine how the office would feel with Belinda gone. “I guess we'll have to hire someone to take her place,” I muttered, turning as I saw the Eiffel Tower lit up in the distance. When I glanced back at Matthias, however, I saw that the discomfort had returned to his face, although he smiled as soon as he saw that I'd noticed. At that moment, I felt convinced that he was hiding something.
