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.
He 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.