by A. D. Winch
By now Eric was wide awake. Rather than lay in bed and listen to Ursula sleeping he decided to get up. As quiet as possible, he tiptoed out of Ursula’s bedroom, down the narrow corridor and into the bright living room.
“Good morning, mon cheri,” greeted Mémé, popping her head out of the kitchen. “Have a seat and I’ll bring you some breakfast.”
Eric sat down at the Formica table and looked around the room. The television looked like an antique; the sofa looked like it had been rescued from a rubbish dump and a glass cabinet proudly displayed a collection of Kinder egg toys, glass animals and a wind-up clock standing on a CD. It was like nowhere he had ever seen but, to his surprise, Eric realized that he didn’t care what the room looked like.
From the kitchen, he could hear Mémé softly singing in a language he did not recognize. The sweet smell of pastries wafted from the oven and teased his morning hunger. By the time Mémé placed two homemade croissants and homemade strawberry jam in front of him, his stomach was rumbling. She kissed him on the forehead and sat down heavily beside him. Her behind spilled over the sides of the seat.
“How are they?” she asked, as he took a bite of a croissant covered in jam.
The pastry melted in his mouth, and the strawberry jam tickled his taste buds.
“Delicious, merci,” Eric answered, before he had even swallowed.
“It’s always a pleasure, but don’t speak with your mouth full,” she scolded.
A flake of pastry rested on Eric’s cheek. Mémé softly flicked it off and then stroked the side of Eric’s face. Her plump fingers felt warm and comforting.
“You’re a good boy, Eric Meyer,” she said and then, out of the blue, added, “don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Before Eric had a chance to reply Andrea entered the living room. Her unzipped leather jacket revealed a Rammstein T-shirt but apart from this there was no difference in her appearance. In her hands, she carried two bags from a designer clothes shop, which she dropped onto the floor. Underneath both arms were thick piles of newspapers, which she placed on the table with a thud.
“I have some bad news, Eric,” she announced.
More bad news, thought Eric, but he did not say anything.
Flicking through the newspapers, she said, “You are dead around the world, from Australia to England.”
She sat down opposite him, and Eric couldn’t work out if she was joking or not. Lifting the first newspaper he read aloud the paper name and the headline.
“El Pais. Family Dead in Explosion!”
Strangely the Spanish headline had no effect on him. It was as if overnight he had stopped feeling; as if these stories were not about him. Even the second paper was fine.
“Das Bild. His biggest bluff? Is Martin Meyer really dead?”
Eric looked through a few more.
“Hindustan Times. The Beauty World Mourns. The Australian. 500 MILLION on the table? Who will take the pot? De Telegraaf. Their chips are down. The International Herald Tribune. Terrorists Attack Families - No One Is Safe!”
Granddad Benjamin entered the room in his jogging bottoms and an old T-shirt. He was followed by Ursula, who still looked half-asleep. There was no room at the table, so they sat on the itchy sofa.
“I have read all the articles and not one paper reports that you are alive. It is the same on the TV and radio. It is likely that the same will be true on the internet, but I have not checked this yet. This is a difficult situation we find ourselves in,” explained Andrea in her usual calm manner.
“Why?” asked Eric, taking another bite of his croissant.
“Because it is much harder to bring someone back from the dead than to kill them,” Andrea replied.
Mémé and Granddad Benjamin hoped that Eric and Ursula had not noticed what Andrea had said. For a moment, there was silence.
“Kill? You said kill,” they both observed.
Following a short cough to clear his throat, Granddad Benjamin joined in the conversation. Eric was reminded of his father.
“I think it is best if we are honest with you. Andrea believes that the explosion on the yacht was not an accident.”
“Nor do I,” replied Eric and Ursula together.
Eric continued, “And I’ll make them pay.”
“History has proven that revenge only worsens the situation,” remarked Andrea.
Mémé tutted, “There is never a good time for revenge.”
Andrea moved away from the table and went to the window overlooking the balcony and the rest of the block. In one quick movement, she closed the patterned curtains and then returned to the table.
“You are still in danger Eric. The whole world thinks that you are dead. For anyone who knows that you are still alive you are, therefore, easier to kill. It is easier to cover up the killing of someone whom everyone believes is already dead.”
Briefly Eric closed his eyes to think about what Andrea had said, and when he opened them again, he asked, “So what can we do?”
From her right pocket, Andrea pulled out a polaroid camera and packets of film. She placed them on the table. From her other pocket, she produced a tower of envelopes. Eric picked up the first few and thumbed through them. The first envelope was addressed to Eric’s school. All the others were addressed to a major newspaper or media network around the world.
“Every envelope has an identical letter, read one,” Andrea told Eric.
Pulling back the envelope lip, Eric removed and unfolded the letter. It had been written in English, in Andrea’s precise script, using only capital letters. He read it aloud, translating into French for Mémé.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN,
MY NAME IS ERIC MEYER AND I AM ALIVE. I AM PERFECTLY SAFE AS I WAS NOT ON THE YACHT WITH MY PARENTS. HOWEVER I FEAR THAT THEY WERE KILLED AND THAT I MAY BE NEXT.
AS PROOF THAT I AM ALIVE, PLEASE FIND ATTACHED A PHOTO OF MYSELF HOLDING MY PASSPORT AND THE NEWSPAPERS FROM THE MORNING AFTER THE EXPLOSION.
I AM BEING LOOKED AFTER AND I WILL BE RETURNING TO SCHOOL SHORTLY.
I WOULD APPRECIATE BEING LEFT IN PEACE AT THIS DIFFICULT TIME.
YOURS SINCERELY, ERIC MEYER
Eric thought about what was written as he folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
“There are two things I don’t understand,” he began. “Firstly, why tell the newspapers and media networks? They will try to find me and once they do they definitely won’t leave me in peace. They’ll be everywhere, and I won’t be able to escape them. If I am in danger, we will be telling and showing everyone where I am.”
Granddad Benjamin shuffled on the sofa and smiled.
“Think about it Eric, you’re a clever boy. While journalists and people with cameras are watching you, you will be safe. Nobody will try to harm you while the world is watching.”
Eric did not look convinced, but he understood the reasoning.
“What was your second question Eric?” asked Ursula from the sofa, bringing her knees up to her chin.
“I don’t understand why we don’t just send an email; it’s a lot quicker than sending letters.”
Andrea answered, “Your father knew much about the internet and the way it works. More than most people knew or even suspected. He taught me all he knew and then I expanded on this using my own knowledge and skills. Many people and organizations monitor the internet. Powerful super computers will be searching for any traffic over the internet with the key words, ‘Meyer.’ If we send an email, it will be picked up the moment we send it, as will the location of the computer that sent it. If we send letters then we have more chance of journalists finding you first.”
With Eric’s questions answered, they put all the newspapers on the floor. Eric lay upon them with his passport in his hand and Andrea, standing on a chair, took a stack of polaroids.
The mood in the flat was strange. Everyone, except Andrea, seemed a little on edge and a little gloomy, but at the same time there was an air of excitement. After t
he photos had been taken Andrea threw Eric and Ursula one of the shopping bags each, which she had brought in earlier.
“What is this?” asked Ursula, looking surprised.
“In one week it is Eric’s twelfth birthday and in ten days it is yours. We decided you should get a birthday present each,” explained Andrea.
Inside the bags were a pair of black, wheelie shoes each, a yellow designer hoodie for Ursula, a dark blue designer hoodie for Eric and matching beanies.
An hour later, Eric and Ursula were dressed in their new clothes and were sat in the red Subaru with Andrea. The Benjamins had wanted Eric to stay indoors, but Andrea insisted that, as Eric’s guardian, he would stay near her. Ursula went with them, after convincing the adults that she would be good cover for Eric as no one was looking for two children. In truth, she just wanted to get out of the flat for a while and try wheeling around on her new shoes.
Andrea parked the car outside Serge’s post office on the busy rue Paul Baudry. Before they left the car, Andrea instructed the children to wear their beanies and put their hoods up. She wanted to make sure that Eric was not spotted on the post office security cameras and recognized. The two children did as they were told and got out.
Down the road, a black Chrysler parked behind a meat van. A man in a red cap got out and watched them enter the post office.
The post office had changed since Andrea had last entered it. It was brighter, and there was no sign of grey. The eight counters had been replaced with new, modern ones, and the old glass replaced with new safety glass. Above the counters a low roof had been added, so that no one could jump over the glass and the high domed ceiling had been repainted bright white. A ledge, joining the walls to the ceiling, had been decorated with the post office horn emblem and strip lights hung down above the customers.
Five elderly people stood in a queue waiting to get their savings. Behind them, two butch builders were holding a large parcel and three mums exchanged stories by their prams. Around the room were six, large, display boards showing the history of the postal service. They were in the shape of a crescent moon, beginning at counter one, arcing out towards the entrance and then arcing in to finish at counter eight. In the centre of the post office was a glass display case housing some very rare stamps. Standing beside this was Serge.
He looked more alive than when Andrea had seen him last. The last few strands of hair had been shaved off, and his polished bald head gave him more style. He stood tall; wore a casual shirt and a smart pair of trousers. He looked much younger.
After greeting each other with kisses on the cheek, Serge explained how he had fallen down the drain. In doing so, he had broken both legs, fallen in love with the nurse who looked after him and was now happily married to her. Eric and Ursula left Serge and Andrea to chat and wheelied off to look at the displays and the history of the post office. They both felt that anything was more interesting than a love story.
Serge was so engrossed in his tale and Andrea was listening so attentively that neither of them noticed the two dark suited individuals enter the post office. They were wearing plastic masks of ex-French presidents, Chirac and Mitterand, and each was holding a gun.
A shot was fired into the ceiling, and the babies started to scream.
“Everyone on the ground,” shouted Mitterand and everybody did as he ordered.
Behind a display board, hidden from the men, Eric and Ursula looked at each other with wide eyes but otherwise they did not move.
“Bonjour tout le monde,” began Chirac approaching the glass cabinet containing the stamps. “Allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is President Chirac, and my colleague here is President Mitterand. We are here because we have an interest in stamps. We are keen collectors but, unfortunately, we are missing some to complete our collection. By an amazing stroke of luck, these stamps are right here. Once our helpful manager,” and he kicked Serge in the ribs, “deactivates the alarm on the cabinet that will summon the police, we will take our stamps, leave and nobody will get hurt.”
Chirac picked up Serge from the floor and walked him towards his office door. It was beside the display board where Eric and Ursula were hiding.
Mitterand stood by the entrance to the post office, brandishing his gun like a trophy and warning people not to move.
Eric and Ursula stood like statues. The footsteps grew louder as Serge and Chirac walked towards them, but they still did not move. Ursula was sure her heart would give them away. It was beating so hard that it thumped against her chest like a drum.
Serge approached his office. Nervously, he took out the keys from his pocket and with shaking hands opened the door. He entered, and Chirac followed with his gun aimed squarely at Serge’s head. Neither of the two men spotted the children outside the open door.
Without a sound, Eric and Ursula lifted their toes, leant back, and using the wheels in their heels rolled towards the wall.
From inside the office they heard jangling keys and Serge’s quickened breath. There was a small crash as the keys dropped to the floor and then the sound of Serge scrambling to pick them up.
“You’re wasting my time,” barked Chirac.
Everyone in the post office heard Chirac’s boot crack against Serge’s ribs and then whimpering.
“Turn the alarm off now! Or you’ll get more of that,” threatened Chirac.
“It will only take two minutes,” replied Serge panting.
Ursula’s heart was still racing, but she was starting to think that the only people who could do anything were herself and Eric. Eric looked tense and was deep in concentration.
Next to the glass cabinet, Andrea was still lying on the floor. Slowly, barely noticeably, she turned her head towards the displays in search of Eric and Ursula. Below the boards she could see the children’s shoes and in the office she could see...
Suddenly a leather boot stomped on the ground directly in front of her face.
“And what is your name beautiful?” asked Mitterand menacingly and he tapped her forehead with his boot.
“Andrea,” she replied calmly.
“You sound very relaxed Andrea. You are not trying to be a heroine are you?”
“No,” she answered calmly again.
“Then why are you moving? When I said, DON’T MOVE!”
He screamed the last two words in her ear and then pressed his boot down on her head.
“It you move again little Andrea I’m going to crack your head open like a nut in a nutcracker.”
Behind the display board, Eric became tenser. The look of concentration passed from his face and was replaced with a look of action. All the emotion of the last two days welled up inside him, and he was about to burst. Eric had already lost his parents, but he was not going to lose Andrea as well. Ursula looked at him with pleading eyes, but she knew it was too late and that he would need her help. Without exchanging any words, they agreed to act.
Purposefully, Eric walked in front of the office door and stood opposite Ursula. Chirac immediately jumped out the office and pointed the gun directly at Eric.
Before Chirac had a chance to do anything Ursula kicked him up the backside as hard as she could. He spun round like a wild cat and Eric booted him in exactly the same spot. He spun around again and was met with a karate kick to the groin from Eric.
Chirac doubled over and collapsed onto the tiles behind the display board groaning in pain. Instantly Ursula jumped onto the hand holding the gun. The moment Chirac let go Eric kicked it into Serge’s office.
“What’s going on? Chirac, talk to me!’ ordered Mitterand.
Apart from some feeble groans there was no response.
Stepping off the injured Chirac, Ursula motioned upwards to Eric. She then turned, sprinted towards the end of the display board and wheelied quickly towards the next one. Confused by the sudden movement Mitterand fired a shot to where Ursula had been. The bullet hit the wall and sprayed fragments of brick over the floor like confetti at a wedding. Meanwhile, Eric ha
d jumped silently onto a narrow ledge above him and was starting to creep up behind Mitterand.
Ursula sped between another two boards. Mitterand fired another shot but a fraction of a second too late and it smashed a small hole in the wall. Her heart was racing. She had run out of boards, and there was nowhere else to go. In front of her were only the glass fronted counters.
Without having time to think, she sprang up onto the counter, bounced against the wall and accelerated out into the open. Mitterand took aim, and as he fired, Ursula jumped onto the roof above the counter. She lay down and disappeared from view. The bullet hit the safety glass which cracked, but didn’t shatter.
“Come out or I’ll shoot someone,” roared Mitterand.
Eric was directly above him. He launched himself at the thief like a guided missile. His feet smashed into Mitterand’s back, sending his gun into the air and propelling him forward. At the same time, Ursula jumped down from her hiding place. She grabbed hold of a hanging, strip light as she fell, swung forward and landed with two feet perfectly in Mitterand’s face. He collapsed to the ground in a moaning heap.
By the time Mitterand and Chirac had their breath back, Serge had one gun and Andrea the other. The two criminals were placed roughly against the counter by the builders and guarded by a ring of mean looking elderly people and furious mums with prams.
Before anyone had a chance to thank Eric and Ursula, Andrea placed her letters and the right amount of money on the counter, gave the gun to a mum, grabbed the two children and left. They had been in the post office less than four minutes.
In his darkened room, his face lit up by countless screens, Agent Hoover clapped.
“Impressive stuff,” he said to himself
He looked away from the screen marked rue Paul Baudry and continued his search for the solitary child, Eric Meyer.
