by Amy Cross
Everything I read about this man seems to fit with the character I saw earlier today, yet I keep coming back to the same inarguable fact.
Patrice Flambeau is dead.
X
“Nick, don't leave.”
As I squeeze behind Suzette's chair, she looks up at me with those big green eyes.
“I'll be two minutes,” I tell her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I just want to run to the ATM.”
“Pay by card.”
“I'd rather take the cash out. I'll be two minutes, I promise.”
I can see the disappointment in her face. Nevertheless, I never trust my English bank card here in France, so I'd much rather get the cash out and avoid any potential embarrassment. I meant to go to the ATM earlier, but somehow I never quite found the time.
“Two minutes,” I say again, before leaning down and kissing the top of her head. Her hair smells of that new peach shampoo. “I promise.”
“Nick, please...”
I turn to walk away.
“Nick,” she says again, and suddenly her voice sounds garbled, as if her mouth is full of liquid, “why are you leaving me?”
I glance back, to tell her that there's no need to overreact, but suddenly I see that there's blood all over her face. All over her chest, too, and I can see several thick, glistening bullet holes around her collarbone.
“Nick,” she groans, spilling blood from her mouth in the process, “why did you leave me?”
“I didn't leave you,” I stammer, stepping back over to her. “Suzette, I didn't leave. I just went to the ATM, that's all. I was only away for a few minutes.”
“That was long enough,” she replies, and suddenly her left eyeball bursts, releasing a dribble of blood as the area around the socket starts cracking.
I watch in horror as the entire eye collapses inward, and a moment later I see a thick blob of dark red blood starting to ooze from the wound, carrying shards of broken bone down her cheek.
“Why,” she gasps, “did you leave me?”
“I didn't leave you!” I shout, suddenly sitting up in bed. Looking around the darkened bedroom, I half expect to see Suzette sitting somewhere nearby, but of course there's no sign of her. Still, her voice is ringing through my thoughts, and I realize after a moment that I'm sweating profusely.
Climbing out of bed, I head over to the window and look out at the city street.
“I didn't leave you,” I whisper, although my voice trembling with fear. “I just went away for two minutes. I was coming back.”
***
I can't get back to sleep, of course, and somehow the apartment feels far too stuffy. I try opening the windows, but finally I have to accept the inevitable. Even though it's three in the morning, I get dressed and head out to cool down in the street.
There aren't too many people around, although this city never truly shuts down. A few committed party-goers come stumbling out of a club as I walk past, and unimpressed-looking bouncers stand in doorways with their arms folded across their chests. I can hear the dull, repetitive thud of dance music pounding in nearby buildings, and a little further along the street there's a girl vomiting on a bench. I walk over and offer to help, but she spits a foul-mouthed tirade at me and then a moment later her friend comes over to add a few more insults.
Leaving them to it, I continue my walk through the city, barely even paying attention to where I'm going until suddenly I find that I'm close to the main square.
Of course that's where I came.
I'm like some kind of zombie. I always end up here, several times a day.
Stopping outside an upscale department store, I take a moment to look at the brightly lit window display. The first thing I notice is a gold watch, the kind that I might have bought for Suzette. I often catch myself imagining what I'd buy her for her birthday, if she were still alive, and I'm pretty sure this watch would have been a hit. Lost in my thoughts, I imagine her slipping the watch onto her wrist, grinning all the while. She was by no means a shallow woman – far from it – but she loved jewelry.
I remember her smile.
Suddenly hearing footsteps nearby, I spot the reflection of a man in the shop window. I only see his face for a fraction of a second before he slips down an alleyway, but I feel a thud in my chest as I realize that I've seen him before.
It's Patrice Flambeau.
Except it can't be, because Patrice Flambeau is dead.
But it was him, I swear.
I briefly consider running to find a police officer, but deep down I already know that I'd be laughed at again. Besides, I'd lose track of where Flambeau had gone, so there wouldn't be much point telling anyway. I look both ways along the street, seeing very few people, and then finally I hurry over to the alley and look into the darkness ahead.
As my eyes adjust, I realize I can just about make out a figure in the distance, hurrying along the narrow gap between two buildings.
And even though I know I'm taking a terrible risk, I set off after him.
After trailing the mysterious figure for almost an hour, I finally lose sight of him near the entrance to the port area. As far as I can tell, he never realized that he was being followed, but he seems to have suddenly slipped away.
Taking care not to get caught out in the open, I make my way toward the main gate before realizing that there's no way he'd have gone to such a busy area. I look both ways along the empty street, and then I decide to head toward the seedier part of town, where numerous rundown bars and clubs offer dark distractions for the less salubrious members of society. Obviously I've never been to this part of town before, but I've certainly heard stories.
Reaching the end of another dark street, I look around and see nothing but the distant lights of port cranes. I've quite clearly lost track of Monsieur Flambeau, and I'd have a hard enough time tracking down a flesh and blood man at this time of night, let alone a ghost.
Sighing, I turn to head back the way I came.
And then I spot two figures in the distance, at a car by the side of the road.
They're done on the main road that runs past the port. I head over to the railing of the overpass and look down at them from above, and I realize that one of the figures is most certainly the man I was following. He standing a little way back from the car, watching as another man reaches into the boot.
A moment later, the second man takes out some kind of rifle.
It's happening again.
Filled with a sudden, urgent sense that somehow another tragedy is about to occur, I take a step forward. Then, stopping myself, I realize that I can't possibly intervene by myself. I need to get the police, so I turn to run back toward the busier streets, and then I stop again.
What if I lose them?
Even if I find the police and persuade them that there's a danger, I might be too late. Flambeau and his associate will most likely blend into the night, and then suddenly there'll be a burst of gunfire in the distance, and more people will die. More people like Suzette.
Already, Flambeau is on the move. His friend is back in the car and driving away, so it's clear that Flambeau's the one who's actually going to carry out the attack. I duck down and hurry along an alley, determined to keep up with him, and I can tell already that he's making his way back toward the busiest part of town. I was so sure that he was dead, but I guess the police must have mis-identified a body in all the confusion, and now apparently he's determined to carry out yet another atrocity.
Spotting him heading along a dark, empty street, I take care to remain quiet as I follow. A man like Flambeau would shoot me without hesitation, and I'm starting to realize that I'll have to tackle him myself. I try to work out where he's going to strike, and I figure that he seems to be heading back toward the restaurant where Suzette died. The sick bastard must be intending to copy his own crime down to the very last detail, except that this time there's one crucial difference. This time, I'm going to stop him.
He reaches the end of the street,
and then suddenly he hesitates.
I get as close as I dare, until I'm only a few feet behind him. If he'd heard me, he'd have turned around by now, so I can only assume that he's waiting for the right moment to move forward. Perhaps he saw a police officer in the distance, or maybe he needs to build himself up before embarking upon this second reign of terror. There are voices in the distance, laughing and talking near the waterfront. For a moment, it occurs to me that maybe Patrice Flambeau is having a change of heart. Then I remind myself that he's a monster, and I realize that I have to stop him or die in the attempt.
No.
I have to stop him.
I step forward.
Suddenly he half turns, and I see the side of his face. I freeze, shocked by the sight of a dark pit where he should have an eye, and then I realize that his entire face seems skeletal, as if all the skin has been scratched away. I stare in horror as he turns more fully toward me, and then I take a step back as I realize I can hear screams in the distance. Whereas a moment ago people were laughing and enjoying the evening, now it sounds as if there's carnage and terror down by the waterfront.
Flambeau must have a partner in all this madness after all.
“Why?” I ask, as I look down at his gun and see that it's still not raised toward me. “Is it the screams? Do you like the screams? And the blood?”
He stares at me for a moment, and then he takes a step closer.
“She was innocent,” I continue, and I can hear the hurt and anger in my own voice. “She was perfect, and you took her away from me. And for what? Can't you at least tell me what it was all for? What sick, twisted beliefs made you kill all those people?”
The screams are getting louder, and now they seem to be echoing all around me, filling the darkness. I can hear gunfire too, and the sound of sirens, and it's as if all the horror of that terrible night is coming back to me.
“Why did you do it?” I shout, putting my hands over my ears in a futile attempt to keep the sounds from burning into my skull. “Why couldn't you have just let us be happy?”
His skeletal mouth opens slightly, as if he's smiling.
And I scream.
XI
As I unlock the apartment's front door, I realize the phone is ringing. It's almost 6am and morning light is starting to show through the windows, and I'm a little too dazed to think straight. Heading to the phone, I pick up the receiver before I even have time to wonder who might be calling at such an absurd hour.
“Nick Jones,” I say with a sigh, “what -”
“Why did you leave me?” Suzette's voice sobs on the other end of the line.
“Who is this?” I snap. “Do you have nothing better to do with your time than -”
“You said you'd be gone for two minutes,” she continues, interrupting me. “You said you were going to the ATM and that you'd be back in two minutes. I knew you'd be longer, but...”
Her voice trails off, and a moment later I hear her sniffing back tears.
“Who is that?” I ask again, although this time I feel a flicker of fear as I realize that nobody else should know those details about my last moments with Suzette. “How did you get this number,” I continue, “and what do you want from me?”
I wait, but all I hear on the other end of the line is the sound of a woman crying.
No, not just a woman.
It's Suzette.
I don't know how I recognize the sound of her sobs, but I do.
“Do you think this is funny?” I ask, trying not to let the prankster hear that I'm shaken by this experience. “Do you think it's funny to call me up and torment me like this?”
I should put the phone down, but somehow I can't quite bring myself to do that. Deep down, past all my logic and rational thought, there's a part of me that's wondering whether in some absurd way...
No.
I can't let myself think like that. I have to put the phone down and -
“Why did you leave me?” she whispers suddenly, her voice trembling with fear. Or is to anger? “I asked you to stay, Nick. Why did you have to go to that ATM?”
“I needed money,” I reply, before I have time to remind myself that this can't really be her. “It was only two minutes away and I was going to come right back.”
I wait for a reply, but all I hear is more sobs.
“I'd done it before,” I continue finally. “It doesn't make me a bad person. But believe me, I've thought about that day constantly. If I'd stayed, if I'd been with you when that maniac opened fire, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I could have saved you. I'll never, ever forgive myself for not being there with you when it happened. For the rest of my life, Suzette, I'll replay those final moments over and over again. Please, you have to believe me.”
Again, I wait.
Again, all I hear is the sound of her crying.
And then, just as I'm about to tell her again that I'm sorry, the line goes dead.
I try to bring up the number she called from, but for some reason I can't find anything. Setting the receiver back down, I stare at the phone, waiting in case there's another call, but several minutes pass and finally I realize that this is ridiculous. I know full well that the person on the other end of the line wasn't Suzette, which means one of two things happened just now. Either I gave some prankster a spot of amusement, or...
Or I'm losing my mind.
Taking a seat on the chair next to the hallway table, I can't help wondering whether I'm starting to crack. After all, over the past twenty-four hours I've apparently received a phone call from my dead wife and I've seen a dead terrorist wandering the city streets. Flambeau faded away in front of my eyes, as if he'd never been there, and when I went to the restaurant I saw that everything was alright. The screams had stopped and people were enjoying the evening. Barring the rather unlikely idea that ghosts are real, it would seem most probably that I've begun to hallucinate. In which case, perhaps I really should seek out professional help.
Before it's too late.
I look toward the window, but then suddenly I realize I can hear footsteps approaching the front door. Worried that perhaps Jonas has come back, I resolve to remain quiet if he knocks. And then, with a flicker of fear, I hear someone putting a key into the lock.
I stand up, just as the door swings open, and I feel a jolt to my chest as soon as I see Suzette standing in the doorway.
She doesn't move, not at first. She just stands there, looking into the apartment, and then she takes a step forward. I open my mouth to call out to her, but then I see that she looks different somehow. She's older, and she has her hair tied back in a style that I never saw her use before. For a ghost, she looks remarkably unlike her old self, but it is her. In fact, as she takes another step forward, I realize I can even smell her favorite perfume.
I don't dare move, in case I accidentally scare her away, but there are tears in my eyes.
“I'm so sorry I'm late,” another voice says suddenly, and then a woman hurries up behind Suzette. “I hope you haven't been waiting long.”
“No, it's fine,” Suzette replies, turning to her. “It's my fault for having to meet you so early. It's just that my plane leaves at ten, so I don't have much time. I guess...”
She pauses for a moment.
“I guess I've put this off to the last possible moment,” she adds. “I'm heading back to London today. But please, come in. Let me show you around.”
“It looks lovely,” the woman replies, following Suzette inside and glancing once or twice at a clipboard. “As I mentioned yesterday, another apartment in this building sold just last year and had several offers that drove the price up. Obviously I can't guarantee anything, but the market's very buoyant right now.”
“What's happening?” I ask, stepping forward. “Suzette, who is this woman?”
“It's been a long time since I was in here,” Suzette says, as the woman walks out into the middle of the front room. “I so nearly came here a few times, but I could never quit
e bring myself to open the door. Now that I'm moving to London, though, I realize I need to make a fresh start. He wouldn't want me to...”
Her voice trails off.
“I'm sorry;” she adds finally, “You must forgive me, I don't know why I'm telling you all of this.”
“It's fine,” the woman replies. “I'm just so sorry for your loss. Even after all this time, it must be so hard to accept.”
“Well, I'm getting...”
Again, Suzette hesitates, before suddenly hurrying past me – as if I'm not here – and heading to the windows, where the curtains remain drawn.
“You'll want some light,” she says. “For the photographs.”
With that, she pulls the curtains wide open, and light fills the room. I'm immediately struck by the sight of so much dust hanging in the air, and by the realization that nothing much seems to have changed in here since Suzette died.
The woman raises her cellphone and starts taking photos.
“I don't understand,” I say, turning to Suzette. “Who's this woman? Suzette, I'm right here, can't you hear me? Can't you see me?”
“It still smells of him,” she says, as the woman heads through to the bedroom. “It's as if he's here. It's as if he's still right here and that awful night never happened.” She pauses for a moment, silhouetted against the dust that still drifts past the window. “Nick,” she adds finally, lowering her voice a little, “are you here? Can you here me?”
“I'm right in front of you,” I reply, stepping slightly to the side so that I'm in her line of sight. “Suzette, look at me!”
“If you'd just stayed with me that night, you'd still be here now,” she continues, with tears in her eyes as she continues to look almost – but not quite – at my face. “Why did you have to go, Nick? Why did you leave me?”
