The messenger, p.1
The Messenger, page 1
Contents
Prologue
NOW
One
THEN
Two
Three
Four
Five
NOW
Six
Seven
Eight
THEN
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
NOW
Thirteen
Fourteen
THEN
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
NOW
Eighteen
Nineteen
THEN
Twenty
Twenty-One
NOW
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
THEN
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
NOW
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
THEN
Twenty-Nine
NOW
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
THEN
Thirty-Three
NOW
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
THEN
Thirty-Six
NOW
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
BREAKING NEWS
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
Christmas Eve
Montparnasse Cemetery
A
SHOUT FROM THE DARKNESS UP ahead.
Then a dog – some kind of muscled mongrel – nosed at my ankles, a low growl rolling in its throat.
A man jerked the leash bound double round his fist, flesh white and glistening, puckered by the links. He smacked the dog with a rolled-up newspaper, then laughed as it scuttled on, tail between its legs.
‘Gotta show ’em who’s boss,’ the man said to me, as I stepped back against the railing that wrapped around the cemetery.
I glanced towards the corner – Sami was fifteen minutes late – enough time for the rain to soak through my clothes bringing with it second thoughts while dark, earthy smells crept over from the shadows behind me.
Up ahead there were yellow headlights and slanting rain, shiny umbrellas floating through the night. And when I turned back, Sami was there, hood up, his face shadowed under the street lamp.
‘Start by just asking him for money,’ I said. ‘Tell him I owe you money.’
It was cold, and my breath hung in the air.
Sami smoked as we walked along the tall black rails with their gilded spikes, back towards the Boulevard Raspail.
‘Tell him I’m in trouble. Get him to hand over his wallet. He always keeps a lot of cash. Cards and cash.’ I was jabbering now, teeth chattering with the cold.
‘Uh-huh. Cards and cash,’ Sami repeated.
‘In his wallet.’
‘OK,’ said Sami, checking the road before we ran across.
‘I know the PIN codes – always the same ones. I told you.’
‘Yeah.’
‘If he thinks it’s a one-off payment, he’ll go along with it,’ I said, grabbing Sami’s arm. ‘Make it clear it’s a one-off thing.’
‘It is a one-off thing,’ Sami said quietly, drawing half a step ahead.
‘He puts his wallet on a tray by the door,’ I said, as a wave of nausea engulfed me, thinking of the warm apartment and Sami’s cold intrusion.
Sami checked his phone and then scanned the street as though there was somewhere else he needed to be. He looked at me as if he’d only just heard.
‘Yeah, yeah, you already told me.’
I tried to breathe, the air catching in my throat. ‘There are gold cufflinks and stuff in his bedroom. On the chest of drawers in a little silver bowl.’
Sami grinned, and I felt like throwing up. He quickened his pace, and I ran to keep up, my stomach lurching like the sea. We hadn’t talked things through, not properly, not beyond getting into the apartment and a few things Sami should take. As for what we’d do afterwards – we hadn’t even thought about that.
We came to the church, crossed over and turned right into my street, the rain needling our faces, sharp and silvery under the street lamps. Our footsteps echoed along the narrow footpath between the buildings, dark and shuttered save for a faint glow on one of the upper floors.
‘Just let me in and leave me here,’ he said at the entrance to my building.
‘It’s raining. I’ll wait in the lobby.’
‘That’s not what we agreed.’
‘So what?’ I said, suddenly not trusting him at all. ‘It’s better if I’m here. In case there’s a change of plan.’
I pressed the numbers on the keypad, but the door didn’t budge. A surge of relief coursed through me – they must have changed the code.
‘Try again,’ he said, his breath warm and rank on my cheek.
This time the door clicked open and we went inside, shaking off the rain. The radiators were cranked up and it was stifling. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, its red fairy lights dancing round the small, mirror-panelled lobby as if to some upbeat Christmas tune.
There was a note taped to the gardienne’s door, her perfect cursive saying she was away for Christmas and New Year, and wishing everyone Joyeuses fêtes. Outside in the street, there was a shriek of laughter – someone singing a drunken song – but inside was quiet as a tomb.
I pressed the interphone and stood back. My father took a while to answer. I almost heard the squeak of the chair as he pushed back from his desk. In my mind I saw him take off his reading glasses, rub his eyes and smooth the thin grey hair from his forehead, his hand pausing for that last irritable scratch of the nape. I imagined the swig from the crystal glass before he stood, replacing it on the well-worn coaster with the faded sailing ship, lone ice cube swirling in the coppery liquid as he walked towards the door. I could smell the apartment – that sour, old man’s reek, and the soft, leather-bound mustiness of the bookshelves.
Sami eased back his hood, checking his reflection in the mirrors all around. He cocked his face to either side, cheeks sucked in, and raked a hand through his hair. He puffed his chest and drew a finger across his lip, wiping clear a light sweat.
‘Hello.’ My father’s voice crackled through the interphone. ‘Yes? Who’s there?’
A pause, as the interphone scratched.
‘Speak.’
Finally, Sami stepped forward. ‘It’s Sami, Alex’s friend.’
‘Is Alex there? Alex, are you there?’
Sami glanced at me. ‘He’s on his way. He said I should wait for him upstairs.’
More static through the interphone, then the lock released. A rush of cold air blasted in from the back stairwell as Sami pushed the door open and then entered the lift at the foot of the stairs, his body strange and unfamiliar in the wrought-iron cage. He turned, and a halo of light cast shadows on his face as the lift jerked upwards. I had the urge to run upstairs, warn my father he was coming, to call the whole thing off. But I didn’t move, and the door to the apartments closed softly in my face.
I stood there listening, counting off the floors as he glided upwards. I imagined the lift juddering to a halt with that familiar last jerk, Sami stepping out to the darkened landing, pressing the doorbell. I swear I almost heard the soft tread of my father’s loafers on the parquet as he stepped forward and opened the door.
I turned and saw my image in the cold mercury glass of the mirrors that surrounded me. My face was damp with rain, flushed red, and the lights from the Christmas tree flashed crazily in time with my heartbeat. As I looked around, my reflections receded into the corners. The images mocked my movements, and in each of my eyes there was a tiny, flashing red blob of light.
A chill ran through the lobby and I wiped my hands on my jeans.
Minutes passed like hours and still Sami hadn’t appeared. I walked to the door that led to the apartments, pressing my ear against the crack, against its cool brass edge. My tongue rasped on the roof of my mouth, humid breath over dry lips, blood throbbing in my ears.
Where was he? What if he’d screwed it up? What if the police were on their way?
I rattled the handle, pushed against the foggy glass. No sound from beyond the door, nothing. Then I pressed the buzzer to my home – three quick blasts – hurry up! I waited and pressed again, then again, longer now. Still no sound.
Then I heard it – someone coming down the stairs fast, taking them two, maybe three at a time, the pounding getting closer, louder. I stood back as Sami burst through the door, fear and adrenaline rising from him like steam. He held a white plastic bag, the handles twisted round his fist. There were dark shadows on the inside, the weight of the hammer warping the bag, pulling it sideways.
He fumbled with my father’s wallet, shaking as he held it out.
‘Take this,’ he said, forcing the wallet into my hand.
I stared in horror at the blood on his hands, on the wallet, the dark smudges on his jeans.
‘He was drunk. He went for me!’ Sami said, wiping his face, my father’s blood blooming across his cheek.
My head burned, the muscles in my neck like twisted ropes, skin flaming across my chest. I turned towards the door, catching it with my foot before it closed.
H e grabbed my sweatshirt. ‘Do not go up there! It’s OK. He’ll be all right. He was still speaking.’
‘Still speaking? Jesus, Sami, what have you done?’ I said, tears streaming down my face.
Sami’s eyes were crazed, red and flashing, and they locked on mine. ‘We’ve done this now. Come on.’
‘Done what?’
He pulled at me. ‘Come on. Don’t be so gutless. We need to get out of here. Let’s go.’
*
They say the human body replaces itself every seven years, but that some cells, like those in the lens of the eye, can last a lifetime. That’s why, more than seven years on, images from the night my father died still haunt me. Most of the cells in my body have died and regenerated, yet these images recur. Each night the dream’s different, but the feeling is the same, and it’s like I’m seeing it again for the first time.
And in the back of my eyes there’s always that tiny red flash of light.
NOW
Seven and a half years later
One
Aubervilliers
‘A
RE YOU GOING TO ANSWER me?’ my parole officer asks, her head on one side, brow heavy.
I glance around the room – plates in the sink, unmade bed. From behind the bathroom door, the loamy stench of bad plumbing.
‘No comment.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t give me that. You’re not under arrest.’
My throat contracts and I look outside. Wet clothes strung out along the balconies of the tower block opposite, and satellite dishes tilt towards us like cupped ears. The wind lashes rain against the window, forcing it into diagonal streaks. Drops race like needles, wet tracks along the glass.
She glances at her notes. ‘Let’s go through it again. Lisa Dallet says she saw you near her apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement.’
‘Wasn’t me.’
‘You know you can’t contact her,’ she says, her brown eyes straining against mine. ‘Or stalk her.’
‘I wasn’t stalking her,’ I say. ‘I was here all night.’
She leans back, arms folded. ‘I didn’t say it was night-time.’ Then a smile. ‘You’re a bad liar, Alex. But you know that already.’
I start to object, then stop. I need to learn to shut up. It’s always safer to say nothing, do nothing, and for a while we just sit there listening to the drone of rush-hour traffic on the autoroute below.
She goes over, pours a glass of water from the tap. ‘You’ll be on CCTV, you know. There are cameras at the stations and all the main roads, probably right outside her house. Dashcams, buses. They’re everywhere now.’ She puts the water in front of me and leans in close, placing her hand on my mobile. ‘I can also track your phone.’
She gives the screen two hollow raps with her fingernail. I reach over, and she grabs my wrist.
‘You need to be straight with me, Alex. I can’t help you otherwise,’ she says, releasing my hand. ‘Lisa hasn’t made a formal complaint, but this is a warning. If you do anything stupid, I’ll have to tag you or put you on curfew. Things are tighter now with the new laws. I have fewer options.’
She bags my urine sample then holds out several sheets of paper. ‘You asked for these.’
‘The new laws apply to terrorists. I’m not a terrorist.’
She slides her coat off the chair, and for a second, her eyes say, No, you’re worse than that.
My hand shakes as I smooth the papers on the table. ‘I didn’t kill my father.’
‘So you keep saying,’ she says, shrugging the coat on, her face tight with distrust.
‘But you’re free now, Alex, so just stick to your parole conditions. If you breach those, you’ll be back at Fleury-Mérogis where no one cares what you are.’
Images of the place rise with the name – that dull concrete sprawl packed with the worst kind of men who dealt violence as easy as breathing. The sick reek of fear that shot through days of relentless boredom. No, they didn’t care who I was, they weren’t picky like that. And free? I’m only free now in the way unwanted things are free – unwelcome and with no real place.
At the door, she turns. ‘Do you have any reason to be in Zone One? Is it essential travel?’
I want to say, Yes, it is essential, and make her see that my only option is to go back and prove I didn’t do it, but I just shake my head.
‘Then just stay out of there,’ she says.
I watch the door until her footsteps recede then look at the article on the pages she’s given me. They’ve used an old photo of my father and me. It’s the same one the papers used after the trial, one my aunt had taken the previous summer. The top of my face is a pixelated blur because I was a minor then, but you can still tell it’s me. In the picture, my father’s tanned face beams into the sun, his expression relaxed and self-assured, like he’s just said something he thought was clever. He has an arm slung over my shoulders and has drawn himself up to his full height, so he has maybe half an inch on me. It’s a country club kind of pose – both of us looking as though we’d just stepped off a tennis court, as if we’d just played a match that he’d won. It’s the sort of picture that, under different circumstances, you might use as a Christmas card.
I fold the pages carefully into my jacket pocket and leave the flat.
*
The quickest way into Zone One is on the high-speed commuter train. The tracks feed into tunnels at Saint-Denis then fan out at the Gare du Nord like frayed wire. The train lurches forward, the platform stretching to a sliver of grey concrete then it’s gone. I never used to like travelling backwards, but I do now. These days I’m more focused on where I’ve been than where I’m headed. The train gathers pace in the tunnel and I feel a rush of vertigo, receding fast towards something unknown.
The journey takes nine minutes, passing under Boulevard Périphérique – the ring road that slashes around Paris like a blade, severing the city from the suburbs. The Péri lies along the shadow of the old city wall that once defended Paris from invading hordes. Today it does the same thing for a different age, as eight lanes of gridlocked traffic keep the suburbs from tarnishing the glittering centre better than any barricade.
A man sits next to me, his thigh pressed against mine. He stinks of fast food and wears dark, wraparound shades even though it’s raining outside. He nods as if he knows me and places his forearm on the rest. I steal glances at him, wondering where I’ve seen him before. Was it prison? School? Is he one of my father’s friends? His closeness makes my skin bristle and I move so we don’t touch, the muscles in my neck tightening.
I change seats and his shaded gaze follows me across the aisle, then he leans over holding a roll-up, wanting a light. I shake my head and quickly turn away, the rain-streaked window a two-way mirror. Yellow bulkhead lights flash by, illuminating blurred graffiti on the concrete walls and I close my eyes, feeling the vibrations in the pit of my stomach.
The train emerges from the tunnel, and I glance towards the man, but he’s gone. The tug of brakes as the train slows, screeching over sidings at the Gare du Nord. Checking first for guards, I leap over the ticket barriers and take the metro to the other side of town.
*
Elena Landis was an old friend of my father’s and she lives in a tall apartment building that flanks the Champ de Mars. I stand outside, scrolling through my phone. A few people leave the building, and then an old lady comes out, her dog pulling at the lead while she checks the sky for rain. A courier picks out the code on the keypad and when they’ve gone, I tap in the same numbers and enter the large, wood-panelled lobby.
At the entry phone I press the button for Landis.
‘It’s Alex,’ I say when she answers.
There’s crackling over the receiver then silence. I press the buzzer again, and the lock releases on the heavy iron door. The pungent smell of wood wax as I walk slowly up four carpeted flights to a landing and three polished doors. The middle door is ajar, chain on. She checks I’m alone before closing the door and opening it again.
When she steps out, I don’t recognise her – she’s so thin, her skin papery, almost transparent. She must be nearly seventy, the same age my father would be now, and she’s aged so much.
‘I told you I couldn’t help,’ she says, her hand on the door. ‘I’m sorry, Alex, I really have nothing to say.’
I step forward. ‘Just a few minutes. Please.’
She sighs and ushers me inside, standing back stiffly to let me pass instead of kissing me on the cheek as she’s done all my life. She hangs my backpack on a coat hook and leads me down an unlit corridor to a large, triple-room salon. There are imposing bookshelves all around stacked with old volumes and darkly framed photographs. Gesturing towards a sofa, she takes two cups and saucers from a shelf. The brown dye in her hair has stained her scalp, and damp wisps cling to her nape.
