Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Be serious, Régis! We’re never going to manage it.’

  She’s funny. First there was the hair dye. Forty-five minutes of a foul-smelling liquid on my head and having to put up with her dubious jokes on the resulting younger looks it would bring me. Then the rubber prosthesis on my cheeks and jawline, and now blue contact lenses. I’ve always hated being touched, anywhere at all – but my eyes! Every time Chloé nears me with those wretched lenses, I close my eyes tightly. I just can’t help it. She asks me to look up at the ceiling, but that doesn’t work. And when I look down . . . I just get an eyeful of her cleavage and that doesn’t help matters either.

  I can sense that she’s starting to get annoyed with me. ‘Do you think you could follow my instructions if I put a polo neck on?’

  She noticed, then. This isn’t easy. I’m exacerbating the situation. I need to get a grip and let her get on with it. She wrestles with me, pushes my head backwards, and there it is . . . The first one is in place. It wasn’t that bad, as it turns out. I’m less apprehensive when it comes to the second, and thirty seconds later I’m all done. I have become (according to Chloé, who very rarely spares my feelings) ‘tall, dark and handsome with stunning blue eyes’.

  ‘You’re unrecognisable,’ she tells me.

  I want to verify this for myself and go straight to my bathroom. I slip on the regulation white trousers, Crocs and pale-blue tunic of a nurse before taking a look at what we’ve created. The image in the mirror frightens me, but it’s very convincing. I look, as she said, nothing like myself. So much so that if I stepped outside and bumped into a neighbour, I know they wouldn’t recognise me. Not a single one of them would make the link between the man I now see in front of me and the ‘autistic chap on the third floor’. I’m feeling confident about what’s next and go back to join Chloé in the living room.

  ‘All good? Ready to go?’ I ask her, picking up the medical bag we put together earlier.

  ‘Wait! You’re forgetting something important.’

  I hesitate for a moment because I can’t think of a single thing we might have forgotten – other than photo ID and a nursing degree, neither of which I could obtain at such short notice.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Intravenous administration,’ she replies.

  ‘Intravenous administration. Yes. What about it?’

  ‘You’re going to have to practise. I’m sure you have absolutely no idea how to give someone an intravenous injection.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’m serious, Régis.’

  ‘So who am I supposed to practise on? You?’

  ‘Obviously you can’t go as far as actually injecting me, but at least do a tourniquet or something and prepare the syringe.’

  I open up the bag, remove a rubber band and tie it around the top of Chloé’s arm. I take a piece of cotton wool and soak it in a little alcohol before rubbing it over her most prominent vein. Then I pick up the syringe I’ve already placed on the table and push the piston as if removing the air bubbles. I am now ready to inject. I look my patient straight in the eye.

  ‘Well?’

  There is definitely a hint of admiration in her eyes. ‘It looks like you’ve been doing it forever. I bet it was your profession in a past life!’

  ‘No, but I can’t tell you the number of injections and blood tests I’ve had over the past year. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to watch nurses work.’

  This reminder of exactly what I’ve had to cope with since first being diagnosed makes her visibly uncomfortable. I pack up my equipment, then get to my feet.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  Without a word, she stands to follow me. And then we’re off.

  ‘Just a second, please.’

  The policeman on the door couldn’t look more like a member of his profession if he tried. He is bulky, somewhere in his fifties and has a full head of dark hair and thick eyebrows. He is wearing a suit which barely hides the revolver holstered under his left armpit.

  He holds up one hand as he presses the intercom with the other. The voice that comes through is muffled, like something at a fast-food drive-in. I’m unable to tell whether it belongs to a man or a woman. I hear the police officer say that the nurse has arrived (thank you, officer!) and I assume he’s given the go-ahead because he opens the door and beckons me through, pointing towards the entrance hall beyond a pair of glass doors.

  I’m just about to make my way towards the stairs at the end of the hallway when the officer stops me and asks to look in my bag. He doesn’t take long examining the few syringes, bandages and boxes of pills before giving me a quick pat-down.

  I feel numb. I simply ready myself for what lies ahead. I know that we’ve done everything we can and not left much to chance. Everything will go as planned. All I have to do is keep telling myself that in just a few minutes I’m going to kill a man. Either the thought is too abstract or I’ve discovered my true vocation in life, because this truth has no effect on my behaviour whatsoever.

  When he gives me the all-clear, I walk through the second set of doors.

  As expected, when I reach Reimbach’s floor the housekeeper opens the door to me. She is the image of the values her employer so often preaches: straight-backed, stiff and severe-looking. She looks like she’s just left mass. And that the mass was in Latin.

  I introduce myself as Thomas Guinard as she examines me from head to toe before inviting me to enter. I follow her through the apartment, noting the plush but old-fashioned furnishings and ornaments. Opposite a heavy double door opening into one of the living rooms, she leads me down a long corridor, at the end of which she moves to one side, allowing me to step into a large bedroom. There he is, lying on the bed in a red velvet dressing gown. Without even knowing it, he is adding such drama to his imminent demise. He turns to me, the harrowed look of a beaten dog on his face – but there is still something belittling in the way he looks at me.

  I don’t think it necessary to say hello and turn back to address the housekeeper instead. ‘Do you have the medication?’

  ‘It’s in the fridge. The chemist told me to keep it cool. I’ll go and get it for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I walk over to him and open up my bag, pulling out a single-use syringe. My movements are calm and measured. If I feel the slightest emotion, it’s an almost imperceptible rise in adrenalin which is stimulating me just enough to get the job done. As we wait for the housekeeper to come back from the kitchen, I get out my bottle of rubbing alcohol and open up a fresh packet of cotton balls. Reimbach is already busy rolling up the sleeve of his gown.

  I repeat the same steps I performed earlier in front of Chloé. I’m just finishing up when the housekeeper arrives with the drugs. I take them from her and she has the wise idea of leaving us to it.

  As I fill up the syringe, I question him. ‘Have you been prescribed anything else?’

  He doesn’t give me a response, but instead opens up the drawer of his bedside cabinet and pulls out two packets of tablets. I use these three seconds of diversion to throw what I’ve just prepared into the bottom of my bag and swap it with the pre-filled syringe of Chloé-concocted cocktail. When he turns back towards me, I take the tablets from him and examine them with the air of a concerned medical professional.

  ‘When did you last take these?’

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he replies, breathing a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘After the injection, I don’t want you to take any more until tomorrow morning.’

  He returns them to the drawer and nods slowly as he stretches out his arm again. I feel like he can’t wait for this to be over and done with. The same goes for me. I place the needle into his vein and press down on the plunger. A pearly drop of blood runs out of the hole I’ve just made. Reimbach doesn’t take his eyes off me. I believe, in this instant, that he’s guessed what I’m doing to him. But it would seem not. He doesn’t recoil or struggle. He lets me put t
he substance into his body –a liquid that will put him to sleep for longer than he thinks.

  The effects are almost instant. Within a few seconds he starts to look lethargic . . . but agitated. His eyes appear to plead with me. He really does know now. He knows that something unexpected is happening. I only have a few seconds left. I hastily pull out the needle, slip on a pair of latex gloves, open the drawer of the bedside cabinet and empty the two packets of tablets. With one hand I pull down his jaw, and with the other I shove the tablets into the back of his mouth. He tries to push me away. He tries to spit them back out. But he’s too weak to fight me and his natural reflex takes over. His swallowing reflex.

  He’s coming to an end. Inevitably, the autopsy will conclude that his death was due to a drug overdose. I’m just about to remove the gloves when I spot a laptop on a sideboard. I walk over to it and hit a key at random. It flickers on and the screen lights up. There’s no request for a password. I open up Google and look at his ‘Favourites’ tab. Twitter’s up there. I know he is (or was) very active on social media. His session opens up automatically. This is just too good. Thoughts are whizzing through my mind. I make every effort to emulate his style and type as quietly as I can.

  I tried to let you all know what was coming. In return, I became the target of those who wish to put an end to our culture and values. With no regrets, I’m happy to say – sort it out yourselves!

  I leave the laptop open and take off my gloves as I walk back to the bed. I lean in to take a closer look at Reimbach. He’s fallen back on to the pillows and is moving his head from left to right in slow motion. A thin trail of saliva falls from his lips. He’s unable to control his movements and I doubt very much he can articulate a single word at this point. I gather together my belongings and leave the room. There’s no need for me to look at him again.

  The housekeeper is in the living room waiting for me. Her face shows concern. Something tells me she must be really attached to Reimbach.

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘His doctor prescribed a very powerful sedative. He was just nodding off as I left the room. If you want to go and check on him, I’d do it now if I were you. He’ll be fast asleep any minute.’

  I watch as she walks back to the room and pokes her head through the door. She takes a glance before closing it quietly.

  ‘I think it’s best if I let him rest,’ she says as she comes back to me. ‘Let me show you out.’

  At the front door to the apartment, I politely shake the hand of this devoted woman, advising her to ensure that her boss doesn’t exceed the prescribed doses. Then I walk unhurriedly down the stairs. I play over the last few minutes in my head and convince myself that the reason I’m totally devoid of emotion must be that I didn’t actually see him die. Because he just fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  As predicted, the autopsy reveals a massive overdose and my fake tweet is taken at face value. For three full days, his ‘suicide’ causes a huge stir, and it’s enough to mislead the investigators. I get a few twinges of guilt when I find out about them interrogating poor Thomas Guinard, but he’s only in custody for five hours and he leaves the police station with a story to dine off for years to come.

  To avoid a media circus, the prosecutor decides not to reveal immediately that a criminal investigation is underway. This suits us perfectly, even though the photofit of the presumed killer is so far removed from my actual sorry appearance that I feel safe from suspicion.

  So we’re not worried in the slightest, and on Chloé’s initiative – and because we want to celebrate this first success – we go on a short break for a few days. My first ever holiday, if we don’t include camping trips my parents sent me on as a teenager (on which I just got bullied for the duration by the other boys and had to be sent home early). Yes: Chloé manages to get me to agree to what would have been impossible only three weeks earlier – a genuine holiday.

  She doesn’t manage to bring about a total transformation in me, though. I still refuse to get on a plane. But after umpteen discussions on the subject in which she employs a full charm offensive, I give in and we agree to go on a spa break in Quiberon.

  I make her laugh when I frown like an undergraduate tackling the Schrödinger equation whenever a masseuse comes anywhere near me (or whenever I simply suspect a masseuse might be thinking about coming near me). She gives up champagne temporarily and replaces it with the local cider. But the Breton climate at this time of year – twenty minutes of blue sky for every four hours of rain – encourages me to return to my old self. So the trip isn’t as successful as all that.

  During this time away, we make an agreement to not bring up the Reimbach affair nor speak of any possible future operations until we return to Paris.

  So, having left all the cider and galettes behind, we find ourselves back at my place early one evening to mull over what will happen next, accompanied by beer and crisps.

  ‘Soon back to old habits,’ she says to me, almost reproachfully.

  ‘People can’t change their natures.’

  ‘What about my waistline? Have you given that any thought?’

  ‘Well, if you start piling it on, we’ll just have to go back to the spa, won’t we?’

  ‘Unbelievable! You liked it that much you’re ready to go back? Hard to believe, seeing as you had a shit fit every time one of those massage girls tried to lay a finger on you.’

  ‘Erm . . . that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Let’s just say that I know what holidays are all about now . . . and they’re not all that unpleasant. That probably has something to do with the fact that I went with you, though. The spa bit should be optional.’

  ‘Fair enough. But getting away seems to have recharged your batteries anyway. Did you notice just now that you gave me a compliment – a real one – without stammering or saying anything weird?’

  ‘Wow. I’ve become a real man, then.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  She grabs a big handful of crisps and swallows them down along with half her beer before throwing an almost challenging look in my direction. ‘Shall we get down to it, then?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  It’s the second time I’ve called her this and, even though she rolls her eyes, I know she loves it. I can tell.

  ‘Right! Let’s go!’

  I have trouble taking my eyes off the new envelope she’s just put down on the table. It looks exactly the same as the last one. Chloé looks pleased with herself as she picks it up and opens it. Her eyes change colour and become a lighter blue. I’ve noticed that this happens whenever she’s excited or anticipating something. She pulls out a series of photos and proceeds to spread them out in front of us. They’re of a plumpish brunette in her forties. Some of them are close-ups, others are full-length. She’s not what I’d call smart. She’s dressed down in either a shirt and jeans or black trousers and a dark sweater. But something does strike me. She’s grinning in every picture. In fact, I believe she’s actually laughing in one of them. This same joie de vivre is evident in every single snap.

  ‘Stéphanie Tisserand,’ declares Chloé. ‘Ring a bell?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely no idea.’

  ‘That’s fine. This woman is second to none when it comes to discretion. Even though . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘She’s the head of a massive human trafficking operation between France and Eastern Europe.’

  ‘What? Her?’

  ‘Yes. And as you can gather from these pics, I don’t think what she does stops her sleeping at night. But it’s estimated that she brings hundreds of girls a year into the country, minors more often than not, who, depending on their “qualities”, find themselves in the exclusive service of some wealthy old pervert or in a luxury brothel at best. Sometimes . . . a few of them have ended up chopped up in an abandoned van under the ring road. Nice, right?’

  I examine the photographs more closely now. How is this even possible? Not her line of work – because we know t
hat it exists already – but that it’s a woman running the show? It’s inconceivable, really. Especially this woman I’m looking at right now. She seems so bubbly and bright.

  My face must show my scepticism because Chloé adds, ‘We needed some time to get all our proof together. She’s extremely careful. I’ve never come across anyone like her. But we have no doubt. We need to act soon.’

  I don’t say a word. I bite my bottom lip and push the photos over to the far side of my coffee table, just keeping one of them in my grip.

  Chloé must be imagining what’s running through my head. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Régis. That it’s a woman and that you—’

  ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you?’ I interrupt her because the point she’s making seems pretty self-evident to me.

  ‘You think that from a moral point of view this will be more complicated. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re wrong. As soon as you get anywhere near her, you’ll know it’s the right thing to do. Trust me. Now – do you want me to brief you or not?’

  I’m not feeling fully convinced as I glance down at my watch. We have half an hour before Professor Lazreg’s visit.

  ‘Go ahead. But you know I’m waiting for my doctor, don’t you? We’ll have to break for a few minutes and I can’t have him seeing any of this stuff. He might start wondering what it is.’ I point to the photos of our future victim.

  Chloé picks them up and stuffs them back into the envelope.

  ‘I completely forgot,’ she says apologetically. ‘I’ll go now. I know that you don’t usually feel all that good after your treatment.’

  ‘No! Please don’t leave!’

  Chloé raises her eyebrows in surprise. I’m sure she’s thinking that, after those few days away and my awful attempts at chatting her up, I’m becoming too pushy.

  I try to reassure her. ‘The side effects don’t kick in for a few hours,’ I remind her.