Paris Adrift

by EJ Swift

  “Are you serious? After everything you’ve just said? We do this together or not at all. Besides,” I add, “If it wasn’t for me, the Moulin Vert wouldn’t exist.”

  “And if it wasn’t for me, you’d never have gone to work at Millie’s.”

  “So we’re equally responsible.”

  “Right.”

  I give him a sideways look. “Don’t think this means you’re forgiven.”

  He smiles properly for the first time today. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He breaks off, a spasm of pain crossing his face.

  “Léon, are you all right?”

  “Yes. It’s just... recent travels. The headaches are back. I’ll be fine.”

  His skin still has that peculiar texture. A waxen, glassy quality. His words come back to me: You’re tired. You’re not well.

  “The anomaly’s making you sick,” I say.

  “I’ll be fine, I promise. It’s two more trips. There, then back again.”

  “And then?”

  “We can go our separate ways, if that’s what you want.”

  “Or?”

  He hesitates. “Rome?”

  I think about Rome. I think about Rome with Léon.

  “Let’s start by getting out of Paris. I have a feeling we’re going to need each other for that.”

  He nods. I try to ignore the wash of fear at the thought of leaving. Leaving the anomaly. Abandoning it. It won’t be easy. It won’t want to let me go. I might have been manipulated, but the future Léon has seen is the result of my actions. He is right. I can’t risk staying in Paris. I can’t risk creating something worse. Neither of us can.

  2042 will be our final trip.

  It is almost a relief.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Paris, 2042

  FROM FLOOR TO ceiling the bar thrums with bass. Jittery, nauseous from the transportation, I fight my way through gyrating bodies that jerk in strange sequences under the strobe. Sweating faces, irises dilated, fingers jabbing overhead. The dancers lost in submission to the beat. Above the bar, a digital menu flashes up special offers for the day. Bartenders lounge in sequinned vests and jeans, creating alchemy with their smoking concoctions. On the floor, an army of robots, some ferrying laden trays, others collecting empties. I eye the bartenders with envy. They haven’t done a day on the floor in their lives. Then, leaning against the counter, in full flow of the recounting of some elaborate tale, I glimpse a face that is both familiar and strange. It’s Angel.

  He must be nearly fifty. I stare at him, transfixed. He’s lost none of his charm. What is he doing back in Clichy, at this time of all times? I watch him raise his glass, cry empty. The importance of what Léon and I are about to do strikes me anew: it’s the futures of our friends that are at stake.

  I turn away, push with more urgency through the crowd. Shoulders brush mine, a boot crushes my toes. Someone flattens a sticker against my arm. I swat it away. As I exit Millie’s, the bass gives way to a cool night, a neon extravaganza of advertisements, and the unmistakeable blare of sirens. I watch a police car race down the boulevard in the direction of place de Clichy. My forearm itches. I look down. A moving graphic, apparently glued to my skin, shows eight whirling green arms. They rotate faster, blurring into a frenzy, then vanish.

  I’m in 1875 and Fabian’s face is close to mine, fireworks exploding on the backs of my eyelids, humanoid figures crawling through tunnels. You have already made it, he said. My future. I didn’t believe him then.

  I shake aside the memory. It can’t help me in 2042. Assuming the transportation went as planned, and this is 2042. What I’ve overshot, and the election has already happened?

  I turn to the bouncer.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me the date?”

  He gives me a dubious glance. “One too many pills, hey?”

  “I’m not high, I’m jet-lagged as hell and I was meant to be meeting my friend tonight but she hasn’t shown… It’s the fourth, right?”

  The bouncer breaks into a hooting laugh.

  “Lady, you are out of it. Today’s the sixth of May. Get your arse to bed.”

  I count backwards from Lefort’s assassination. I’m late for our assignment, but only by two days. Still time to save Aide. Still time to find Léon. As long as Léon has made it too. I remember his face clenched with pain and feel a stab of anxiety.

  The wail of more approaching sirens. This time it’s three cars and an ambulance. I stare after the retreating vehicles. An orange glow makes the night appear brighter than it should. That’s not electric light: it’s fire, not far from here. Something is burning. I catch the scent of smoke and all at once I realize there are a lot of people on the central aisle of the boulevard, far more than you would expect on a regular weekend night, even if the city’s population has expanded. Some are drunk, some are dabbing holographic stickers onto people’s skin, some are talking loudly and earnestly and in several cases aggressively, some are just watching.

  Waiting.

  Behind me, the bouncer swears.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Another fucking car bomb. You want my advice, get yourself home and stay indoors. This shit won’t stop until the election’s done.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

  It’s beginning, I think. This is where it starts.

  TEN O’CLOCK IN the morning. I’ve been outside the Clos Montmartre for thirty minutes and there’s no sign of Léon. The vines are still here, though when I speak to one of the gardeners, he tells me the grapes are struggling with the brutally hot summers, and fewer varieties are grown each year.

  “You’ve chosen an interesting time to visit Paris,” he says. I want to ask him how he’s planning to vote, but I don’t dare.

  I sit down on the pavement. The tarmac is beginning to heat with the sun, and I listen to the patter of sprinklers moving over the rows of vines. Crop yields down, pollen count up, the gardener says. A heating world is having its impact. I ask him how we are doing on the Paris Agreement. He laughs.

  We need Lefort, I think. Her and many more like her.

  Come on, Léon.

  As the minutes tick by my worries multiply. What if he arrived too late? What if he didn’t make it at all? What if something went wrong in the transportation?

  “Still waiting?” asks the gardener, an hour later. “He’s not worth it.”

  “He’ll be here.”

  I watch people passing by. No one stops to look at the vines. Their attention is elsewhere, with devices or friends, or their internal thoughts. Between conversations in French I catch frequent snippets of Spanish and Portuguese, and I wonder if climate change in southern Europe is beginning to push people north. I wait. My anxiety grows. It’s gone noon when I see a familiar figure heading up the road. The relief is overwhelming. I scramble to my feet and run at Léon, throwing my arms around his neck. His arms encircle me, tentative at first, then squeezing me tightly. He kisses me on the lips. Unthinking, I respond.

  “You’re late,” I tell him.

  “So are you,” he says teasingly. “We said two days ago.”

  “I thought I might have missed it—we don’t have as much time now—”

  “It’s okay, Hallie. Actually, I’ve been here for a month.”

  I break free of his embrace.

  “A month? We agreed to meet a week before!”

  “I wanted to scope things out.”

  “Bloody hell, Léon.” I glare at him, furious. “You have to start trusting me, or what the hell is the point of us doing this together?”

  “Okay, okay. Je suis désolé.” He grins helplessly. You’re not sorry at all, I think. You’re loving this. Being here. “But listen, chérie. I have been doing some research.”

  I fold my arms, unwilling to be appeased so easily, even if this is for the greater good. But despite myself, my annoyance is fading, eclipsed by relief. I recognize a shift in my relationship with the anomaly: now I’m
afraid of it.

  “And?”

  “Aide Lefort is meant to be staying at the Four Seasons. But that’s not where she was found, according to the Remembrist.”

  “And?”

  “So it’s a bluff. By her security. They’ve given out false information.”

  “Which means the only people who know where she’s staying…”

  “You, me, and the assassin.”

  “Then it should be easier to get to her.”

  “Exactly. But there won’t be as much security…”

  “So we’re on our own.”

  “Oui.”

  “We always knew that, though, didn’t we?”

  “We did.”

  “Léon, did you come through okay?”

  “Fine. No bodies in the catacombs this time. You?”

  “Yes. I can hear it, though. The song. It’s muted, but it’s there.”

  “Me too.”

  I slip my hand through his. My body still responds to his touch, the heat of his skin. I can’t let you go, I think. Regardless of what you’ve done. I understand it too well.

  “Tell me everything you’ve found out.”

  THE SEVENTH OF May 2042, the night before the biggest election in years. Allegiances over the past two decades have polarised even further. The media depicts crises of soaring unemployment and automation, rising energy costs, the ever-present threat of cyberterrorism, and an unstoppable refugee crisis fuelled by war and climate change. Voters require something radical. Once dismissed as urban hippies, the Parti Moulin Vert has gone from strength to strength, and votes for Aide Lefort are expected to dominate the left. Their greatest opposition comes from the latest iteration of the Front national. No one can predict the outcome. It’s going to be close.

  Aide Lefort’s security detail is a visible force outside the Four Seasons, while unbeknownst to the public, Aide, her partner, her brother, and her children occupy the fifth floor suite of the Hôtel Josephine on rue de la Roquette. Nobody, human or robot, stops Léon and I as we enter the foyer hand in hand, approach the reception desk and request a room on the fifth floor. Léon deals with the AI system whilst I cast an eye about the foyer. The place is almost deserted. It must have been smart once—in my time, perhaps. Now it has the look of an Ikea store exposed to the wrath of the elements. We are told the fifth floor is closed for refurbishing, so we accept a keycard for a room on the fourth.

  In the lift we call the fifth floor.

  “Apologies,” says a recorded voice. “The fifth floor is closed for refurbishment. Do you require the fourth floor?”

  “Fourth it is,” says Léon. The lift doors close, opening again on a long corridor with a steel blue carpet and beige, peeling walls. We walk its length in silence, passing door after door. We don’t see any other guests. No cleaning staff or bots. There must be people behind those doors, asleep or resting, unaware of what is about to unfold. The assassin may already be here, among them.

  We climb the stairs to the fifth floor. Room number 562. As we approach the door, my perception narrows to these three innocuous digits, and a rush of deja vu overwhelms me with its violence. I stop where I am, paralysed. This has happened before—not in my lifetime, but I know it has in Léon’s. Who else knows? Who else is coming?

  “Okay?” says Léon.

  I nod uncertainly.

  He knocks at the door. We hear voices, a child’s high-pitched tones and running footsteps, then another voice, sharp, calling the child back. Slower, heavier footsteps approach.

  There’s a long pause. I glance upward and see the eye of a camera observing us. I nudge Léon.

  “We’re being watched.”

  The footsteps subside. I hear low murmurs.

  “They’re calling security,” I say.

  Léon knocks again, louder this time.

  “Aide Lefort!” he shouts.

  “Aide,” I call. “We need to talk to you! You’re in danger—we have information!”

  “Aide, please answer the door.”

  The voices sound like they are arguing. Rapid footsteps. We hear the electronic click of locks and the door swings open with sudden force. I anticipate Aide’s partner, or a security guard with a gun, but the woman standing in the doorway is Aide Lefort herself, dressed in loose, casual clothing, exposed and completely unafraid. After the speech on the hill—just months ago, to me—it’s a shock to see her middle-aged, lines at her eyes and mouth, no attempts to disguise the strands of grey in her hair, now worn short and natural. But her face has a new force.

  “How did you find me?” Her voice is full of contempt. “Which of the media are you working for? Haven’t you had enough work hounding my family these last weeks?”

  I step forward.

  “Please, you have to listen to us. Your life is in danger.”

  “There’s going to be an attack,” says Léon. “Tonight, in this hotel. I know you have no idea who we are and this will probably sound completely crazy, but we have information.”

  “It’s not just you in danger, Aide, it’s your family—”

  “Your children.”

  Aide’s shoulders twitch.

  “Is that so?” she says. “You can tell it all to my security.”

  At the end of the corridor, I hear the chime of the lift arriving.

  “Aide, listen to us! They’re going to kill you and your family and make it look like you murdered them and then killed yourself.”

  “Issa, Sofia,” she calls back. “Can you hear this nonsense?”

  “If you die, the Moulin Vert will lose the election,” I say. “It will be the end of Paris as we know it.”

  Security guards are making their way down the corridor. A woman comes to Aide’s side. She puts a hand on her shoulder. Aide grips it.

  “Aide, you don’t have to listen to this,” says the woman firmly.

  “It’s going to happen in this room—at least move to a different location—”

  The guards reach us.

  “Mademoiselle, monsieur, you’re coming with us…”

  One guard takes my arm, another secures Léon. I can see him itching to break free, but that will do our cause no good at all. The guards start to steer us away from the door.

  “Aide!” I shout desperately. “Aide, you have to get out of that room! Please, I’m begging you! This is not a hoax, we’re not the press, we don’t want anything from you!”

  Aide holds up a hand.

  “Wait.”

  The guards stop. I catch Léon’s eye, see him nod. We’ve got a chance.

  “We’ll hear them out,” she says. “If they managed to find us, someone else might too. Bring them in here.”

  The guards exchange glances. Clearly unhappy with the situation, they frisk and scan us with various electronic devices before herding us inside. I look about. The fifth floor suite is as shabby as the rest of the hotel. Inside the room are Aide, a man about the same age who I assume must be her brother, and her partner Sofia, shepherding two children into the next room.

  “Sit,” says Aide.

  Léon and I take a seat on the sofa, and the guards stand directly behind us. I’m intensely aware of a gun pointed in the region of my head.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Could they put those guns down?” I say.

  “I don’t think so. Start talking.”

  “There’s a plot to assassinate you. It’s planned for tonight, between one and three. It’s like Léon said. They’re planning to kill you and your children and say you went on some kind of murdering rampage. Make it look like you’re insane.”

  “This is insane,” says her brother. He has a low, forceful voice, and shares his sister’s strength of feature. “Aide, why are you giving these people the time of day? You need to get some rest. That’s why we came here in the first place.”

  “Insane or not, I can’t dismiss a threat, Issa. Not when it involves the children. You, what are you, British?”

  I nod.

&
nbsp; “You live here?”

  “I used to.”

  “And you?”

  “From Toulouse,” says Léon.

  “So who are you? Where did you hear about this so-called conspiracy?”

  We exchange glances.

  “We can’t tell you that,” says Léon slowly.

  Aide indicates her brother.

  “Then tell Issa, he’s my chief of security. Convince him, you might convince me.”

  “All we know is an assassin is coming here. They may already be in the hotel.”

  One of the guards speaks.

  “Should we evacuate the hotel, Madame Lefort?”

  Aide strides angrily up and down. “Evacuate? No. That would be a media farce. Just what I was trying to avoid.”

  “Better that than dead,” I say.

  “You,” she says. “You have no idea. You’re a kid.”

  “I’ve heard you speak,” I say. “You’d have my vote.”

  She comes to a halt. Looks to her brother.

  “Issa?”

  He gets to his feet.

  “We can’t take any risks. We’ll move down to the next floor. Have all entrances and exits monitored. Maintain an invisible police presence. I’ll alert the agencies. But let’s not evacuate. If we raise the alarm, we have no chance of apprehending this assassin—if they even exist.”

  Aide nods. “I agree. If these claims are true, I want to know who this person is.”

  “You should move to another hotel entirely—”

  Issa cuts me off.

  “If there is an assassin out there—which I doubt, because God knows why it would be on your radar and not ours, especially given you don’t even have an explanation for where you heard this nonsense—moving anywhere at all may put Aide at risk. We stay put until the morning.”

  “And you’ll keep everyone together?” I say.

  He looks at me coldly.

  “If this is a hoax, I’ll see the pair of you in a police cell by the end of tomorrow. For now, you’re staying where we have eyes on you.”

  ONCE AIDE AND Issa have made their decision, everything happens very fast. It takes minutes to move the party down to the fourth floor. Aide’s children, ten and twelve, are wide-eyed and excited and far from sleep. From the bedroom I hear the soothing tones of Aide’s partner, Sofie, and Aide herself, reassuring them nothing is wrong, all will be well. In the second room are myself and Léon, Issa—stepping out every few minutes to take a phone call—and a security guard. Two more are stationed on the other side of the door, and plainclothes police are patrolling the street. The guest list has been lifted and they are running checks on everyone staying in the hotel. I should feel reassured, but my relief quickly fades. I can’t help feeling that we should have relocated elsewhere. As long as Aide remains inside Hôtel Josephine, she hasn’t escaped history as the Remembrist told it.