Paris Love Match

by Nigel Blackwell

  He wiped his brow. “Nearly missed—” His gaze flicked from one person to the next. Half the subway car was staring at them. “Shit,” he mumbled.

  She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and pressed her mouth to his ear. “Shut up. Act natural.”

  “What’s going on?” he said without moving his lips.

  “Shut up,” she hissed. “We’re getting off at the next stop.”

  The train slowed and entered a station.

  Sidney grabbed his hand. “Okay, we’re going.”

  The doors rattled open. She yanked him from the seat and bundled him out of the train. The platform was packed. A loudspeaker squawked arrival and departure times. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the high-pitched voice of another TV announcer.

  “All right, I can manage,” he said, shaking himself free of her grip. “What’s going on?”

  Sidney kept pushing him across the busy platform. He threw her off, but she grabbed him again. “Just keep going.”

  The TV announcer’s voice seemed close. Piers looked up. A large yellow cube housed a small television with a badly distorted picture. A reporter with a microphone stood in a sea of police officers. “ … less than an hour ago. He was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  Sidney pushed. “Keep going.”

  Piers stumbled a single step.

  The TV camera panned back. Notre Dame came into view. “Shit,” mumbled Piers.

  “Keep going.”

  “We were there,” Piers said.

  “Full marks. Just keep going.”

  The TV picture cut away to the view from a helicopter. A police car was chasing a taxi. The taxi crashed and two figures stumbled out of the rear, a man and a girl. The men from the police car drew guns and dived for the girl, forcing her to the ground and cuffing her. The man mounted a motorbike and swung it gracefully around the front of the car in a macho cloud of smoke and raw power.

  Piers remembered how his heart had tried to jump out of his chest when the bike started, and how it hadn’t stopped trying until they reached her apartment.

  The bike leapt forward, the rider felling a giant of a man with one blow, and kicking a second clear over their car. The smoke was still clearing as the rider lifted the girl onto the back of the bike as if she were weightless. The helicopter’s perspective didn’t show how she had helped, or how she had twisted the throttle to launch them down the street on one wheel and a cloud of smoke.

  The helicopter lost the bike, but it didn’t miss the men crawling back into the police car. Nor their zigzag departure after the couple.

  “That was us,” he said, without moving his jaw.

  Sidney pushed against Piers’ paralyzed form. “Can’t deny that, but there’s lots of people. Bad time to talk. Let’s go.” She pushed again, forcing him, stumbling, toward the opposite platform.

  The TV announcer babbled excitedly about photo-enhancement.

  A train approached the platform, but Piers couldn’t drag his eyes from the TV screen. People pushed forward, ready to board the train. He struggled to hear the TV, but he couldn’t miss the picture. The camera was frozen on him on the bike. Sidney’s arms were wrapped around his chest, only a thin arc of her dark hair poked from behind his head. He was gripping the handlebars of the bike, his terror looking for all the world like grim determination. The front wheel was off the ground. He had his leg outstretched, his foot hammering the bald man in the chest. The camera zoomed in. He looked poised and purposeful, balancing the powerful bike as if he were born to it, like a real life James Bond.

  The train stopped and the doors hissed open. The crowd waited mere seconds for the travelers to exit the carriages before surging forward. Sidney clung to his wrists. He stared into her eyes as the crowd squeezed them into the center of the carriage. He grabbed a pole for support. “That was us.”

  She gave a stupid grin, and a frantic shut-up-now nod.

  Piers continued. “That was me. On the bike. Racing away.”

  Her smile softened. She tilted her head. “I know,” she gushed. “It is a great picture. They really caught your features. You’re lucky they got such a good angle. Not that you’re really bad looking … I mean, if you got a decent haircut and used a little hair product. I hope they get a good shot of me, too.”

  “But I don’t want to be on frigging TV.”

  Her smile vanished. “Keep your voice down.”

  “But—”

  She clapped her hand across his mouth and dragged his ear to her mouth. “Shut the fuck up,” she growled through clenched teeth. She pulled back and smiled. “Darling.”

  Piers’ heart raced. He felt the weight of the people around him pushing. He tried to swallow, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  Shit, what had happened? One minute he was talking to his mother and the next he was being shot at. Now he was on TV. It would be only a matter of minutes before the BBC relayed the images, and then his mum, dad, friends, everyone would know it was him. He let go of the pole and wiped his palms on his jeans.

  The train slowed with a lurch as they entered a station, and there was a push for the doors. They allowed themselves to be swept out and up the escalators with the crowd, with Sidney gripping his wrist tight the whole time.

  They emerged into a fine drizzle. Sidney held her free hand over her head. “Great, this is going to ruin my hair.”

  “Who the hell cares?” Piers said. “We’ve been shot at, watched a man die, been threatened by god knows who, and you’re worried about your stupid hair?”

  She glowered at him. “And they say old school British charm is dead.”

  “No, I meant . . .”

  Sidney walked down the street. “I know what you meant. You said it. My hair is stupid. Come on. I haven’t got time to teach you manners. We’ve got to move.”

  Piers rushed to catch up. “Look, I meant after all we’ve been through, your hair is the least of our concerns.”

  “Least of your concerns, maybe. But me? I don’t want to look like some tramp if they get my picture.”

  He grabbed her hand and stopped her. “Get your picture? Get your picture! This isn’t a bloody game!”

  Her expression hardened and she spoke through clenched teeth. “Keep your voice down.”

  “Keep my voice down? Keep my voice down?” He felt his anger flash through his veins, and forced himself to take a deep breath. “All right, all right. We need to find somewhere quiet, safe.”

  “Wow. No one can say your education was wasted. If you’d shut up and follow, I was on my way to somewhere safe.”

  She wriggled out of Piers’ grip and walked on down the street. He rushed to keep up.

  “I thought we were going to your highly trusted friend’s, the one you met in a bar last week.”

  Sidney smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Well obviously that idea lost its appeal when the police turned up.”

  Piers ground his teeth and kept silent.

  She took several turns and crossed numerous roads until they arrived at a large building with grand steps and tall columns outside.

  “This is it?” he said. “This is your idea of somewhere quiet?”

  She scowled at him. “Of course it’s bloody quiet; no one ever goes here.”

  “It’s a library. Libraries are quiet so people can concentrate. We can’t walk in there and start talking without everyone noticing.”

  “Trust me,” she said, and walked into the building.

  They took a narrow set of stairs that wound up to the third floor. She threaded her way through the long rows of shelves to an alcove in the corner.

  A statue of a mythical male creature stood on a dark wood plinth. Piers couldn’t help but notice the creature was very well endowed.

  Sidney elbowed him in the ribs. “It’s Greek. They used to exaggerate things.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  Sidney beckoned him behind the statue. There was a half height door in the wall wi
th a plaque that said “Enfants Seulement.” His eyes grew wide as she opened the door and ducked inside. He followed her into a small room.

  Sidney flipped on the light, a single bulb dangling from a wire in the center of the ceiling. The walls were lined with books and posters. He saw images of Tintin, Asterix, and Jules Verne’s sea creatures. In the middle of the room were two comfortable chairs and a coffee table. Small clouds of dust took flight as they sat down.

  She leaned back and massaged her neck. “I used to come here with my parents when we were on vacation. Told them I sat here and read all day.” She winked. “Actually, I used to stare at the statue a lot.” Her grin faded. “I made a lot of friends in this room. Teenagers. We used to run around Paris. I found out how to ride the Métro for free, and places where you could pick up food, and … well, then my father wouldn’t bring me back because of the group I’d fallen in with. He didn’t want me to grow up with a bad crowd.”

  “Well I’m glad to see his efforts weren’t wasted.”

  Sidney screwed up her face. “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Concern evaporated from her face. “Anyway, we’ll be safe here.”

  “That’s a relative term.”

  Sidney grunted and lapsed into silence.

  Piers hung his head down. “Those people at the station knew I was the person on the TV.”

  Sidney nodded.

  “So, I can’t show my face without people recognizing me.”

  Sidney nodded. “Maybe. Well, probably. Look, we should split up and get out of Paris until this blows over.”

  “Blows over? How do you think this is going to blow over?”

  She shrugged and stood to leave.

  Piers looked up. “Where are you going?”

  “To stay with friends.”

  “And what I am going to do?”

  “It’d probably be best if you went back to England.”

  “You think? Wow. Amazing how you come up with these ideas.” Piers’ head sank into his hands. “And how am I going to get through customs when they have my picture?”

  Sidney hummed then smiled. “Go to Spain. Or Portugal. You can get a boat back to England from there. Probably. They’re not as strict with the passports, I don’t think.”

  “And how am I going to get to Spain?”

  She threw her hands up. “Am I supposed to think of everything?”

  Auguste’s phone rang, shockingly loud in the small space. She flipped it open. “What?”

  Piers could hear the high-pitched voice again. Only this time it sounded different. Closer, more lifelike. “You two staying in there much longer?”

  Sidney rolled her eyes. “Oh, glee. You found us again. Whoever you are.”

  “Never you mind who I am. When you’ve finished doing whatever you’re doing in that room, I want to talk to you.”

  From outside the door Piers could hear a rumbling voice. “That should be we want to talk to you, not I. Because there’s both of us here. You and me, and we both want to talk to them.”

  Piers let his head fall back into his hands. “Oh, shit.”

  Sidney opened the door. Two men stood outside, one well over six feet tall, in a dark three-piece and sunglasses, the other considerably smaller, in an ill-fitting light green lounge suit. The small guy theatrically swiped his finger across his iPhone and placed it in his pocket. “So you’re done, eh?”

  “Done?” said Sidney, her nose wrinkling up.

  “With whatever you were doing in there.” The guy sniggered like a ten-year-old girl reading dirty words in the dictionary.

  Sidney stared at him.

  His smile faded in an instant. “Oh, never mind. Get out here.”

  Sidney and Piers ducked out through the half height door. The big guy stood in the exit from the alcove and the small guy walked up to Sidney. He was a good four inches shorter than her.

  She stared at him. “So, you’re the one who shot at us?”

  “Me? No! No. I didn’t shoot at you. That was … well … that was someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Do you think I’m going to tell you that?”

  “Why not? Wait a minute, how did you find us?”

  The small guy gave a smug smile and leaned on the statue. “It’s my business to know how to get hold of people.”

  Sidney nodded toward his hand. “I can see that.”

  The small guy looked at his hand. “Argh.” He jerked away from the statue’s exaggerated endowment. “Why do they have to do things like that? That’s sick, that is. Sick. Suppose they think that’s funny. Bloody artists.”

  “Terpsichore,” said the large man.

  “Terpsichore? Terpsichore what?”

  “The person who carved it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “There’s a plaque here, see. Tells you all about . . .”

  “All right, all right. I don’t care.” He turned back to Sidney. “What I want to know is, what are you doing to return what Auguste took?”

  “We don’t even know what he took.”

  Little’s eyebrows inched closer together. “Don’t play dumb with me, I’m an expert at that game.”

  “We’ve gathered that impression,” Sidney said.

  Piers stepped forward, took Sidney’s hand, and led her around the small guy. “Okay, it’s been nice talking, but we’ve really got to go now.”

  The big guy shuffled into the middle of the gap out of the alcove. He practically filled the exit. He grimaced and punched his right fist into his left hand, slow and firm. It made a loud smack. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to return what Auguste took, or …”

  “Or?” Piers said, slowly.

  “Or, we’ll have to do this the hard way. And we don’t want that. Not really.” He winked. “Best to do it the easy way.”

  The small guy straightened his jacket. “So. You’ve got twenty-four hours, not a minute more. Got it?”

  “We don’t know anything about—”

  The small guy walked away, his arm held high. “Talk to the hand.” The big guy followed and in a moment the pair were lost in the rows of books.

  Sidney blew out a long sigh. “That settles it. I’m going. I don’t know who that pair are, or what they’re talking about, but I don’t like it. I’m getting a ticket straight out of Paris.”

  “What about me? I got a taxi, got shot at, got dragged round Paris by someone whose greatest concern is her hair in case she’s on TV, and now I’m on France’s most-wanted list.”

  “Look, I know you’ve got your problems, but I’ve got to think about me.”

  “That’s all we’ve done since we met.”

  “All we’ve done? When have you thought of me?”

  “I don’t know, let me see.” Piers crossed his arms and rolled his gaze upward. “Maybe it was when I rescued you from the guys with handcuffs, or when I bought you coffee, or tickets at the Métro, or . . .”

  “Oh, right, typical man. Just because you buy things you think that means you’re thinking about me.”

  “Well, I bloody well have been!”

  An old lady with a remarkable resemblance to an eagle stepped into the entrance to the alcove. “Do you mind? This is a library. If you wish to continue your shouting match, please do so outside, where I am sure you will draw a larger audience.”

  She stood to one side. Sidney looked at Piers and gave an exasperated sigh. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Madame? Monsieur?” said the old lady, with one eyebrow raised.

  Sidney stormed out and Piers assumed his usual role of following a few steps behind.

  Chapter 8

  Piers took the steps outside the library two at a time, and caught Sidney by the arm. “We have to go to the police. You and me. It’s the only way were going to sort this out.”

  She shook him off. “Don’t be stupid. Look over there.” She pointed at the two henchmen across the road. The small guy was sitting on a wall,
his head almost at the height of the big guy and his legs dangling far from the ground. “If we go to the police, what do you think Little and Large are going to do?”

  “And what do you think they’re going to do if you buy a ticket out of Paris?”

  Sidney looked at Piers and her lips curled downward. “Oh.” She sagged down onto the steps and wrapped her arms around her chest.

  Piers sat beside her. “Yeah, oh.”

  “I only came here from … well, I came here to show my designs. I only wanted a job. Just wanted someone to see what I had done.”

  “Me too.”

  “Huh?”

  “I came here for a job.”

  “Well I’m not cut out for this. I can’t deal with criminals and people threatening me. And look at you, you’re not exactly James Bond.”

  “Thanks.”

  His phone rang, but it stopped before he’d fumbled it from his pocket. His mother’s number glowed on the display. “Damn.”

  The small man across the road tapped his finger on his watch, and then drew his finger across his neck. For added effect he let his head flop sideways with his tongue hanging out.

  Sidney stood up, said “Oh, oh, oh,” and sat back down. “I’ve got an idea, just play along.”

  “What?”

  “You want to get rid of those guys, right? So play along. Trust me.”

  Sidney rocked back and forth, and burst into tears, sobbing hard. “Me? Why me?” She sniffed. “Why me? Tell me? What have I ever done?” She raised her eyebrows, urging him to reply.

  “I, er, I don’t know.”

  She raised her voice. “I’ve always been good. I’ve tried my best. I always wanted to get a good job. I work hard. I’m nice to everyone. And then all this happens.”

  “Yes … it’s terrible.”

  He noticed a group of women on the steps gesturing to Sidney, and turned his back to them as his phone rang. His mother’s number glowed on the display. His finger hovered over the reject button until he remembered the TV pictures. Had they gotten to England already? Was his picture on the news as a wanted man? She’d be going nuts if she’d seen them. He pressed the green talk button.