by EJ Swift
Léon squeezes my hand.
“It’ll be okay,” he says quietly. “They’ll have alerted secret services. The whole region will be under surveillance. There’s no chance of anyone getting through.”
“We should have moved,” I say.
The hotel has become oppressive. I can feel the denseness of its bricks and mortar, the burr of glass brittle in its frames. I look about the room, taking in each detail: the slightly loose light fitting, the smudge of fingertips on the wallpaper by the dresser, the heavy folds of floor-length curtains, muffling sound from outside. Everything seems significant, everything holds potential.
Aide comes back through.
“They’re asleep, for now. Sofie will stay with them.”
“You should get some sleep too,” says Issa. “You need to be on your game tomorrow.”
Aide makes an impatient noise. “As if that will happen.”
She looks at me and Léon.
“Do you know how many death threats I receive each day?”
“Several,” I venture.
“There’s a conservative estimate. Yes, ‘several’ would cover it. A lot of people out there don’t want a Moulin Vert representative in power, plenty more don’t want a woman in power who’s both black and gay. But they’re threats, you understand? The disenfranchised, the psychopaths, the scum of the internet. Who would go to the length of assassinating me? That’s a statement of intent. Even the Front national wouldn’t stoop so low.”
“And who’s bankrolling them?” Léon asks. “You must have enemies in the international community.”
Aide drops down on the sofa.
“There are always enemies,” she says. “Always someone who’d be happy to see you destroyed. And there are easier ways to destroy someone than murder. My God, I’m tired.”
That’s why the assassin is doing this, I think. They’re not just after Aide, they want to compromise her legacy too.
“Aide?” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
“You’ve got a captive audience. God knows who the pair of you are, police can’t find a thing on you. I don’t know why I’m listening to you. Probably because I’m exhausted and delusional. What do you want to know?”
“I was wondering why you decided to run for president, when you’ve refused for so many years. Why now?”
Aide looks at me thoughtfully. There’s weight in that glance: the weight of long years, of decisions taken and sacrifices made. Then she sighs.
“I guess it was my time to stand up and be counted.”
The overhead light flickers. I look up anxiously.
“It’s nothing,” says Léon.
All of the lights go out.
For a moment nobody moves. There’s the sound of people breathing, shallow and frightened, trying to make as little noise as possible, and then we scramble to our feet.
“Sofie!” For the first time, fear touches Aide’s voice.
“Aide, what happened—”
“Madame, stay where you are—” One of the guards. Click of his gun, readying.
“My comms are down—”
The door opens, closes.
“Aide—”
“Madame Lefort—”
“Everyone stay calm—”
“Madame Lefort?”
“Yes, I’m here, Francois—”
I find my phone. Dim blue light from the screen. Léon crosses to the window, stands by the curtains.
“Street’s down too.”
I activate the torch function on my phone, illuminating eight people: Aide and Sofie, the confused, sleepy faces of the children, Léon, three of Aide’s security detail.
“Everyone get below window level,” says one of the guards. It won’t be a sniper, I think, but I do as I’m asked, getting to my knees with everyone else. Aide looks about her.
“Where’s my brother?”
“We didn’t see him, madame—”
“Issa?” she calls. “Issa, where are you?”
One of the guards checks the connecting room where the children were sleeping.
“He must have slipped out.”
“He didn’t say he was going out—”
I meet Léon’s eyes, see the same thought dawning in his face.
“Léon, what did the Remembrist say?”
“The Remembrist? What’s she talking about, what’s this Remem—”
“Did she mention Issa? In the hotel room?”
“No,” he says slowly. “She didn’t.”
Aide stares at us.
“What are you saying?”
“Why wouldn’t your brother say where he was going?”
“He obviously went to get help—”
“Who knew you were staying here?”
“No.” Aide shakes her head. “No, never. How dare you even suggest—”
Sofie, staring at us in horror, pulls the children to her. One of them starts to cry. The security guards exchange glances.
“If comms are down, someone needs to warn the police,” says Léon. “I’m going.”
“What? Léon, no—”
He’s out the door before anyone can stop him. I want to follow but I can’t leave Aide. In the torchlight, her face is a storm of emotion. I check my battery. It’s down to fifty per cent. The light will only last so long.
“Madame, we should get you out of this hotel,” says the guard called Francois. “Ramez will fetch the car once we’re out.”
“We’re not leaving without Issa,” she says.
“Aide,” Sofie whispers. She looks down at the children. I can see the conflict in Aide’s face, the struggle to process even the possibility of betrayal, the imperative to protect their children at all costs.
“The lift will be down,” she says. “The stairwell’s a trap.”
“Secret services will be moving in, madame—”
“Not if their comms are down too.” She looks to me. “Is yours working? It looks like something from the ’twenties.”
I try the phone, knowing it won’t work.
“It’s down too.”
“Maman, what’s happening…?”
Aide kneels in front of her children.
“It’s all right, my darlings. There’s been a power cut, that’s all. We need to get out of the building and find somewhere with some light. Now, listen, I need you both to be very, very quiet. Quiet as a pair of mice. Can you do that for me and Maman?”
They nod.
Aide presses a hand to Sofie’s tearstained face. “I refuse to be taken like a rat in the night,” she says. A look passes between them.
Francois takes my phone, as it’s the only torch we have. He inches the door open, flashes the phone left and right.
“Clear,” he says. “Let’s go.”
One by one we creep out into the corridor. My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears it seems impossible no one else can hear it. We’re all in danger. Issa is on the loose, and if it isn’t Issa, it could be one of the guards. I have no idea where Léon has gone. He might have run straight into the assassin. He might already be dead.
No.
I think of that look between Aide and Sofie. The resolve in it, the absolute trust. That’s me and Léon, I think. Whatever has happened, we are meant to be together. We will survive this.
We make our way down the corridor, the guards, Sofie and I flanking Aide and the children. They don’t make a sound. I wonder if they have done this before, if they will have to do this again. I imagine how afraid they must be, and bite down on my own fear. The torch flashes ahead, whips behind, jumps ahead again. Constrained glimpses of doors, carpet, ceiling, all made hostile with shadows. Every moment I expect the rush of footsteps behind us, a shot in the dark, a scream.
We reach the stairwell. Francois goes first. As quiet as we try to be, it’s impossible to disguise our progress. Sofie moves me in front of her, insisting I go ahead. What a life, at the side of a politician, knowing you and your children are forever pawns in someon
e else’s agenda. Every day living with the terror of losing them. We descend, the soft fall of our footsteps sounding louder with the echo. One flight. Two flights. Two to go. We keep moving. It feels as though it will never end.
Francois stops. With infinite caution, he pushes open the door to the lobby. Runs the torch up and down its length. Finally he beckons us through.
The lobby is deserted. Outside, a sea of blinking blue lights. A helicopter hovers somewhere overhead. A lone man in a suit stands with a gun in his hand, completely surrounded. It’s Issa. Police cars form a road block, armed officers aiming at him from behind car doors. He must know it is all over, but he is refusing to drop the weapon.
Beside me, Aide has frozen. I can only imagine the torment she must feel at this sight, but if her heart is being ripped in two, it doesn’t show in her face. I think: you are the bravest woman I’ll ever meet. She looks almost preternaturally calm as she pushes past her security guards to step through the revolving doors of Hôtel Josephine. Sofie lets out a moan of distress, clutching the children. There’s a shout of alarm as Aide appears outside. Arms waving frantically behind the barrier, cries of, “Don’t shoot!”
Issa turns. Sees his sister.
Aide takes a step towards him.
“Issa, please—”
He looks at her, a wry smile twisting his face.
“You’ll fuck up this country, Aide,” he says.
Then he puts the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger.
Chapter Forty-Five
LÉON AND I lie side by side on the grass, the sails of the Moulin Vert creaking gently behind us. It’s almost dawn. We lie without speaking, watching as gold brushes the Parisian skyline, then fades to make way for a clearer, cooler light. My hand is in Léon’s, our fingers loosely intertwined.
“We did it,” I say. “We saved Aide.”
“And now she has to live with the knowledge that her brother was working with the nativists for years. She has to lead the country, knowing that.”
“But she will. Lead it.”
“Yes,” says Léon. “And you’ll be alive when the year comes round. You’ll get to see that.”
“We both will.”
I watch the skyline solidifying into its linear formations with a knot of sadness. Our respite here will be too brief. Soon a flare will come, we will return to 2018, and it will be time to bid the city goodbye.
“Paris really is the most beautiful place in the world,” I say.
“But Rome will be beautiful too.”
“Yes. Rome will be good.”
I squeeze Léon’s hand, turn to look at him, and see the now-familiar tightness. He’s in pain. The translucency of his skin is more evident than ever. For a moment, I think I can see straight through him.
“Léon—”
“Hallie, there’s something I didn’t tell you.”
My chest constricts.
“Léon?”
He avoids meeting my eyes. I sit up, twist to see his face. I see him reach for words, discard them, try again.
“I can’t go back,” he says.
“What do you mean? We’re going back together.”
“No.” He speaks with an effort. “I can’t.”
“Léon—”
“There was a reason I couldn’t complete Janus’s mission myself. A reason it had to be you. When I left Prague I thought I had two, maybe three travels left. Going to twenty-seventy pushed me to the brink. I wasn’t even sure I’d make it here. But I know—I know for certain—I won’t make it back. Not whole.”
I gaze at him. A hollowness expanding in my ribcage, as realization sets in. I’ve been blind, preoccupied with my own problems. I’ve been so stupid.
“The chronometrist,” I say.
“Yes.”
“This happened to her.”
Léon’s voice is tight.
“She faded—and faded—until there was nothing left.”
“Then there’s no question. I’ll stay too. We can still go to Rome, we can do all the things we said we would. We’ll just—be a few years ahead. It’s not so bad—”
“No.”
“It’s not your choice.” My voice cracks. This can’t be happening. This isn’t right, this isn’t fair. “Why should you be left behind?”
“This isn’t your time.”
“Or yours! Stop being so bloody noble about it!”
“But you have the chance to go back. Listen to me, Hallie. I’ve been out of time for half my life. The last few years, I pretended to myself that it wasn’t taking a toll, that I belonged. But it does. It’s not a natural state. You don’t age, have you noticed that? Other incumbents have died from it, or gone mad. If you stay here, you’ll be never be happy. And I... I can’t bear to see that.”
I shake my head. My nose is blocked, my eyes are hot with tears.
“I won’t do it. I won’t leave you.”
Léon looks at me then, and I see he is crying too.
“I love you, Hallie. And I’ll do anything—anything, you understand?—to make you go back. You have to do what I can’t. You have to be free of it.”
“How can I?” Taste of salt on my lips. “How can I do that.”
“Because you’re strong, and kind, and clever, and you deserve to live in the real world. Not with a ghost.”
“But I love you.”
Léon pulls me into an embrace. I cling to him desperately. He feels light in my arms, disconcertingly so. He’s changed already, I think. The anomaly has done this to him. He’s right: it never lets you go. And I feel a piece of my heart break.
Léon speaks into my shoulder.
“You have to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“Get me on a train. I haven’t... got the will... to walk away from Paris myself. I can feel it, every second. Tugging at me. Trying to pull me back. It wants me, Hallie. The anomaly. Can you help me do that?”
“Of course I will.” I tighten my embrace. My tears are falling freely now, and I make no attempt to stop them. “Of course I will.”
GARE DE LYON. People give Léon odd glances as they pass us on the concourse. Léon leans on me, although I barely feel his weight. It is as if I am supporting a bird, a tall, beautiful albatross, his wing resting across my shoulders, the bones within it hollow. It is true that there is something unearthly about him, something that causes people to stop and take stock of their surroundings, reassuring themselves that the ground they are connected with is real, and can be trusted to support them.
Slowly we make our way down the platform, along the carriages of the bullet service in their sleek blue livery.
“You’re lucky,” I tell Léon. “You get a direct train. I’m going to have to go via Milan.”
“You’ll go to the Colosseum,” he says. His voice is no more than a whisper. Bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep. In certain lights, he seems to vanish into his surroundings. I have only his touch to reassure myself he is here.
“And the Pantheon, and the Sistine Chapel. You will too.”
“Oui.”
We pass a family boarding the train, two young children chattering excitedly as their suitcases are passed up.
“Hallie. Promise you won’t come looking for me when you get to twenty-forty-two.”
I stop walking.
“Promise me, Hallie.”
“I promise.” My voice trembles. “I promise, Léon.”
“And after I’ve left you’ll go straight to your anomaly.”
“A flare’s already on the way,” I say.
“That’s good. You have to say goodbye to Clichy for me. Wish it well. And Millie’s. That place has been good to me.”
“Yes.”
Over the tannoy, the distinctive three-note chime of Parisian railway stations. A final call for Rome. I blink back tears. Help Léon to keep moving. It takes the greatest of efforts to look up as we reach each carriage, to tear my eyes away from his translucent face.
“
This is you.”
“It’s like Brief Encounter,” he says.
“Oh, don’t joke.”
“You weren’t at the premiere?”
“No.”
“Nor was I. I didn’t go back that far.”
“Liar. You moved half the bones from Les Halles to the catacombs.”
“That was an accident.”
“Léon—”
“Don’t,” he says gently. “There’s nothing left to say.”
I kiss him desperately, hold him as tightly as you can hold a bird without breaking it. He takes my face in his hands, brushes my lips with his.
“Live your life, Hallie.”
I help him climb into the carriage. He isn’t carrying anything except his ticket. I watch, through the windows, as he makes his way down to the seat. He looks old, I think, as if all the years he has lived out of time are finally visible. He finds me through the window. Touches his fingers to the glass. He mouths something: The Colosseum! Smiles at me.
That smile.
A whistle sounds. The carriage doors close.
“Oh, god—”
I clamp my hand to my mouth, suppressing the cry I want to let loose. Blink away tears. I won’t collapse with him watching, I won’t make that his last memory of me. I wipe my eyes, stand straight. The train starts to move. I begin to walk, then run alongside it. Lift my hand in farewell. Shout, I love you! Léon, je t’aime!
I’m nearing the end of the platform. Léon’s face, still there. Blink. When my eyes open he’s gone, the train accelerating away, departed.
