One Green Bottle

by Curtis Bausse

  He was downstairs in the utility room, next to the trip switch. Slightly closer to Sophie than she was herself, and he probably had a torch. All Magali had was the advantage of knowing the place better, but that didn’t count for much when it came to fighting a psychopath.

  ‘Sophie! I’m on my way!’ she yelled, more to let the killer know than Sophie. She had to distract his attention, show him she wasn’t scared. Except that she was petrified, and she stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, unable to think or move. Who was he going to come after? If she met him on the stairs, there was no way she could fight him without a weapon of her own. Why, oh why hadn’t she brought the kitchen knife?

  There came another scream, and the sound of someone crashing into furniture.

  Magali bounded down the stairs as fast as possible. She advanced along the hall, arms outstretched, her eyes fixed on a crazily dancing light that came from the sitting room. Sophie was squealing and panting and then there came a loud grunt of pain from a man and the light disappeared. Magali strode faster, immediately tripping over the suitcase she’d left, and as she slithered against the wall, trying to stay on her feet, she knocked a picture off its hook and it shattered in front of her. Her shoes crunched on broken glass as she turned into the sitting room.

  From beneath the dresser where the torch had rolled came the only source of light, just enough to make out the figure of the killer. He was standing in the middle of the room, next to the overturned coffee table. His shadow, huge and dark, covered the wall and curved on to the ceiling. He was moving towards the settee.

  She didn’t see Sophie at first, only heard her breathing, something between a hiss and a snarl, like an animal suddenly trapped. Then she distinguished a shape behind the settee and she guessed rather than saw that Sophie had managed to grab the poker from the fireplace and was waving it in front of her, the killer’s shadow engulfing her now as he crouched lower and stealthily moved towards her. In his right hand, making little circles in the air, Magali detected the glint of a knife.

  Sophie had only the poker to defend herself and only the settee between her and the killer, who was covering the door to the kitchen. But if he moved behind the settee, Sophie could escape the other side and make a dash for the hall.

  But the killer saw that too, and instead of going round the settee, he leapt on to it, arms out wide, towering above Sophie and snaring her in the corner. Sophie, taken by surprise, screamed and backed away, jabbing up with the poker as she fell against the corner table behind her.

  Magali launched herself across the room and slammed into the back of the killer’s legs, toppling him on to the settee. ‘Run!’ she yelled, but Sophie was groaning on the floor, and the killer, twisting round and wriggling off the settee, lashed out at Magali with the knife. She sprang back and ran towards the hall but the coffee table was out of position and she went flying over it and landed awkwardly on her side. She scrambled to her knees and crawled towards the door. She’d almost reached it when the killer fell on top of her, his arm round her waist, and she felt the knife pierce the side of her ribs. He rolled off her to strike again but her weight was pinning his arm to the floor and in the time it took him to break free, Sophie was there, raining blows with the poker.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  The question was screamed at whoever was there, at the crazy situation around him, at whatever had made such a mess of his life. It was screamed by Paul Daveney.

  What was he doing here? Come to kill her? Or kill himself in front of her?

  ‘Paul, be careful, he’s here, he’s armed!’

  Sophie tugged at her arm. ‘Come on!’

  Magali managed to get to her feet and they made it into the hall. She turned the bolt and was opening the door when there came a violent blow to her back and she tipped sideways into Sophie and the pair of them fell to the floor, sprawled among the broken glass of the picture. Behind them she heard the grunts and gasps of fighting, then a cry of pain from Paul. Then the flash of a torch and a shot rang out and she didn’t know what was happening any more. Did Paul have a gun? Had he shot himself?

  Sophie was the first to her feet and she tried to drag Magali away, but all Magali could see was the killer above her again, ready to bring down the knife. She pushed with her feet, sliding backwards along the hall, and her fingers closed on a piece of glass which she waved in front of her as the killer, a silhouette against the pale orange glow from the street, turned towards the light approaching from the sitting room.

  ‘Magali?’

  The familiar voice was asking not where she was but if she was still alive.

  ‘Vincent!’ she answered, closing her eyes with relief as the killer, throwing the knife to the floor, leapt down the steps and vanished into the night.

  A moment later he was at her side, cradling her head in his hands. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so.’ She twisted round to look for Sophie. She was crouched against the wall, sobbing, shaking, moaning, but unharmed.

  ‘You’re bleeding.’ Vincent shone the torch on Magali’s wound and let out a hiss of concern. He helped her to her feet. ‘You need to rest. I’ll call an ambulance.’

  They went back into the sitting room. As Vincent got out his phone, he said, ‘Well, at least he’s done for. At last.’ And the beam of light sliced across the room and settled on the crumpled body of Paul.

  Chapter 34

  ‘See that? That’s old. That’s more than a million years old.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A dinosaur egg. There used to be lots of dinosaurs round here.’

  ‘You mean there’s a baby dinosaur inside?’

  ‘Not any more. There used to be.’

  ‘But it’s hard. It’s like a stone.’

  ‘Now it’s a stone but that’s because it’s so old. A million years ago it was an egg. With a real baby dinosaur inside.’

  Elodie was impressed. That’s what he loved about her. One of the many things he loved about her. She was so easy to impress. She listened to him and trusted him and believed everything he said.

  ‘What happened to it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nobody knows. It never got born for some reason.’ He looked away and murmured, ‘Sometimes it’s better that way.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Elodie.

  ‘Maybe if that dinosaur had been born it would have grown up into something terrible.’

  ‘All dinosaurs are terrible.’

  ‘Not all of them. Some are nice. They just eat grass and stuff.’

  This went against what Elodie knew. ‘But they’re monsters. They run after other animals and eat them.’

  ‘Some do. But some are nice, like I said.’

  ‘So how do they choose?’

  ‘How do they choose what?’

  ‘If they want to be nasty or nice.’

  ‘Oh… I don’t think they do. They’re just born that way. That’s why it’s sometimes just as well not to be born.’

  Elodie considered this for a while. ‘You mean everyone’s born nice or nasty? We don’t decide?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s difficult.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘To decide. Sometimes we don’t really know if we’re nice or nasty. Sometimes we want to be nice and we end up nasty.’

  ‘Everyone I know is nice. Does that mean I’m lucky?’

  ‘Even at school? Everyone’s nice?’

  ‘Not everyone. Lucie’s not nice.’

  ‘Lucie?’ He saw the young woman’s body on the floor.

  ‘She threw her crayon at me. We’re not friends any more.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  Elodie shrugged elaborately. ‘She’s not nice.’

  ‘Well… I don’t know. Maybe you ought to give her another chance. Maybe she was just in a bad mood.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I think Lucie’s probably very nice.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Elodie didn’t seem convinced. ‘She’s not as nice as
Sarah. Or Camille.’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to be nice all the time.’

  ‘But you are. So’s Mummy. Most of the time.’

  ‘Not all of the time?’

  ‘Sometimes she gets angry. If I’m naughty. But you never get angry.’

  ‘No. Because you’re too nice. I can’t.’

  ‘Sometimes I’m naughty.’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think you’re ever really naughty.’

  ‘Mummy thinks I am. Sometimes.’

  ‘That’s because she’s Mummy.’

  ‘Sometimes she doesn’t love me.’

  ‘She does, Elodie. She loves you. She loves you as much as a mother can and even more.’

  ‘But sometimes she shouts at me and she doesn’t love me then.’

  ‘She loves you. But sometimes being a mother means telling you not to do things that are wrong.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever tell me not to do things that are wrong?’

  ‘I’m not a good father. I ought to but it’s difficult. I love you too much. Marion loves you just enough. She’s a good mother. She’s perfect.’

  Elodie frowned. ‘How can you love someone too much?’

  ‘That’s a difficult question. I don’t know,’ said David. ‘Actually, I don’t think you can.’

  ***

  The three of them went into town. It was Saturday afternoon and the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers. Marion bought a brown felt hat for her father and a handbag for her mother. David bought a CD. Then they went to a tea shop and Elodie had some chocolate cake and gave him a spoonful to taste. When they came out it was getting dark and the Christmas lights were on. They strolled around for a while till Elodie said she was cold, then they went back home. Marion curled up on the settee and Elodie lay on the floor, reading The Little Red Hen. David put on the CD he’d bought, Purcell’s Sweeter than Roses. Marion said it was beautiful and asked him where he’d first heard it. He said he’d heard it on the radio.

  It was three days after the shooting at Rousseau’s house and he still hadn’t been arrested. Franck had spent a night at the police station but the only charge they could stick on him was trespassing. When he told David about it, he made it sound like a joke, boasting about the improbable story he’d made up to explain his presence at the house. The fuzz did all they could to break him down, short of physically beating him, then suddenly they lost interest. Franck didn’t make the connection with the rumpus at Rousseau’s house, he just thought he’d got the better of them.

  Captain Darlier’s killing of Paul Daveney made the national news. He was suspended from his duties and an official enquiry was launched. David expected to see Rousseau on television, but apart from an interview in La Provence, she stayed out of the limelight, letting Commander Marty do the explaining. A coordinated effort was under way, he said, to find the man who’d killed at least six people.

  David made a stew with barley and pork and tomatoes, Elodie’s favourite supper. He left it to simmer and went into the sitting room where Marion and Elodie were reading. He watched them silently for a while, then announced that he was going to the shop to get some sparkling water.

  When he stepped outside, he felt sad but not immeasurably so. He was rather surprised about that, disappointed really that he didn’t feel sadder, but perhaps he’d done all the crying he could and now it was simply a matter of getting it over with.

  Each step he took as he walked to the garage left behind a puddle of blood which dried like wax, preserving a perfect footprint. From behind closed shutters, the people of Orange gathered to watch him pass. Never before had he been so visible but the person they saw was the wrong one. They should have seen the luckiest man alive, father and husband blessed by the purity of love. But they nudged each other and pointed. ‘David Sollen,’ they said. ‘Who would have thought it? The killer.’

  He stood in the garage, the gun heavy in his hand, imagining how it would be. Once, out of curiosity, he’d gone into a field and fired a bullet into the trunk of a tree, making a small, neat hole. But a soft, warm body was very different, and it makes a terrible mess.

  He closed his eyes, picturing them first as they’d been when he left the flat, then as the mess they were going to become. That in itself wasn’t difficult – he knew very well what sort of mess it was. But between the two images lay a precise sequence of events that his mind was unable to picture.

  He tightened his jaws, forcing himself to concentrate. It would have to be Marion first. He’d call her into the bedroom asking her to look at something he’d put on the bed, and before she had time to be puzzled or ask him why, he’d step behind her and pull the trigger. Then he’d walk quickly out of the room and do the same to Elodie. He’d have to look at the floor all the time, make sure he didn’t see into their eyes. If he was successful in that, it might just be possible.

  He put the gun in his pocket and strode back to the flat, head down, shoulders hunched, as if battling into a gale. He opened the door of the flat and went into the kitchen. The smell of the stew was good and he wanted Elodie to have some, but he knew that if he waited, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, wondering what excuse he could use to call Marion.

  Anything – what did it matter? The first item of clothing that came to hand.

  Except that it did matter, it mattered terribly, because it would be the last thing she ever saw. And he realised now that he should have decided in the garage, because each second that passed as he stood in front of the wardrobe, all the clothes merging into a blur, made it more difficult.

  His eyes fell upon the jeans. The special, precious pair of jeans that had brought the two of them together. He reached out a hand and stroked the fabric. He screwed up his eyes and gripped the wardrobe door to steady himself. His stomach heaved and a surge of vomit rose in his throat. He went to sit on the bed, gasping for air.

  ‘Mmm, looks delicious,’ Marion said from the kitchen. ‘I’ll lay the table, OK?’

  She wasn’t expecting an answer but after a couple of seconds he managed to call back, ‘Fine.’

  He’d wanted them never to know. Spare them the horror of discovering who he was. But now it was too late and he had no right in any case because it wasn’t them he was sparing, it was himself. Because they, perhaps, could live with it but how could he? The bewilderment in their eyes, later turning to hatred – how could he ever face that?

  He put the gun to his mouth. The taste of metal spread its coldness over his tongue and its hardness tapped his teeth. A long time ago, his mother brought him a lollipop. He could smell her perfume as she knelt beside him. The lollipop tasted good.

  And if one green bottle should accidentally – ‘It’s ready, Daddy! Are you coming?’

  Even as a single, shuddering sob racked his body, the sweetness of her voice made him smile. How could she ever come to terms with such a gap in her life? How could he ever leave her?

  He’d never try to explain, never expect forgiveness. She’d grow up hurt and confused, always having to struggle with the stigma and the shame. But at least he’d be there for her to visit or not visit, to love in spite of everything, or to hate.

  He went into the kitchen and sat at the table and stared straight ahead. Marion turned towards him, features creased in concern. ‘David, are you all right?’

  He looked from one to the other, smiling through his infinite sadness. ‘I never made it to ten.’

  Elodie looked at him worriedly. Smart as she was, she could see there was something wrong with his smile. ‘Ten what, Daddy?’

  Epilogue

  Reclining in loungers by a hotel pool in Mauritius – after ten days trekking the steep volcanic slopes of La Réunion, Magali and Charlotte were blowing the proceeds from the sale of Enzo’s house in style. Magali was now a qualified private research agent, having carried out an internship with Yves Balland, passed her exams and received her diploma in person from Alain Verney. She was also, as Cha
rlotte delighted in reminding her, a grandmother.

  ‘Pass us the sun cream, Gran. Don’t want to get all wrinkly.’

  ‘Have you looked at yourself lately?’ Magali countered. ‘I think a visit to Dickhead is in order.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. Though never say never, I suppose.’ Charlotte let out a contented sigh, gazing out over the pool and, beyond it, the palm-lined beach. ‘You know, I very much like this way of spending Pierre’s money,’ she said, referring to the man who had been her husband. ‘And at least he was good at making it. In all other respects he was a complete arsehole.’