Georgette Chambouvard awoke with a headache after a bad night of dreams. She’d been tossing and turning for hours, and in the morning when her father came to wake her, she dimly remembered snapping at him and hearing the door slam, the house shake. Her dinner had not gone down well. She’d told her mother when she went up to bed that she thought it might be the mussels. And today was Friday. She knew she had to get up early to go to work.
She squinted dubiously at the day. Behind her on the wall, the great Bernard Hinault, with a smile big as his heart, rolled jubilantly across the finish line, both hands raised high above his head. It was the 1980 World Championship in Sallanches. “Le Blaireau,” known by cycling fans the world over as the badger for never letting go of his prey, had won again. The other poster showed the irresistible Jean-Paul Belmondo in bed with a lit cigarette in his mouth, a gold chain around his neck, and Jean Seberg in his arms.
Georgette glanced at the clock. She’d skip breakfast—wasn’t hungry anyhow—and make herself coffee at work. As Georgette got on her bicycle, a small black dog came racing toward her—tail wagging and galloping at a crazy angle—her bark a shriek as she fell down and picked herself up again. The scraggly chickens ran for their lives.
“Tais-toi, Mimi.” The dog gave a whimpering cry as if she’d been kicked in the face, and dragged herself away. Mimi was blind.
Georgette raced away. The sunflower-fresh morning air filling her lungs helped her head, and she felt much better pedaling past her father’s fields as she tore along the road to L’Ermitage. There wasn’t a car to be seen, and she sprinted all the way to the turnoff, where she quickly slowed down and shifted gears. No problem for her Peugeot PX-10, which had eighteen speeds and Mafac “competition” hubs and brakes. Georgette was a triathlete and once had Olympic dreams before she was kicked off the national team. But that was bad luck and ancient history. She attacked the steep dirt road that led to the house as if it were an alpine stage of the Tour de France, her muscular legs churning up the hill like pistons. Though breathing hard, she had scarcely more fat on her thighs than the steel frame of her bike and had barely broken a sweat by the time she got to the top. Not bad, she thought, pleased with herself.
Propping up her bike with its trademark arc-en-ciel rings against the house next to the other Peugeot’s rampant lion, Georgette wondered where Ali was. She didn’t see his Beetle. Glancing up at the house, she noticed that the white shutters were still closed. They must have gotten home late again last night. She’d like to have a vacation like that. Nothing to do but eat, sleep, and screw around, instead of wiping up other people’s slop. She cleaned for them twice a week and made extra for doing the laundry. The pay was good, the work wasn’t much, and they were nice people. As jobs go, she wasn’t complaining. But one of these days … she told herself. She was looking forward to getting paid today and buying a new dress.
Georgette went up to the door and was surprised to find it locked. They had never before bothered to lock the door or she would have asked for a key. Irritated, she marched around the house to the back door, and luckily it was open. She pushed up her sleeves and in her usual no-nonsense fashion got down to work at once, opening the shutters in the living room and airing out the cigar smoke. They had been drinking. On the dining room table were four glasses and a bottle of wine that was almost empty. Taking the tray from the oak sideboard, she cleaned up the table and emptied the ashtray on top of the scraps of food left over on the plate, which she piled along with the silverware, bottle, and wineglasses onto the tray. It struck her as odd that only one of them had had anything to eat. With foreigners you never knew what to expect, but maybe that’s what she liked the most about them.
Lifting the heavy metal tray, Georgette carried it into the kitchen where, without warning, she felt dizzy and all the strength seemed to drain out of her arms, her hands. The tray slipped from her fingers, clanging and splintering glass as it struck the bloody tile floor. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Blood streaked and splattered on the windows, the walls, the ceiling, and pooled around the bound and twisted body on the floor. His eyes wide open, Monsieur Reece stared sightlessly at the blood on the ceiling, his head tipped back as if straining to see it and his gaping throat ripped from ear to ear. Where were the others? His wife? His friends? How could they have slept through such butchery?
Georgette tried to scream, but the air caught in her throat; trapped there the choked spasmodic moans she made came in guttural waves. Unable to breathe, she felt herself shaking uncontrollably. The thought of staying in that nightmare house another second was unbearable. She had to get out of there and find help. Call the police. Leaping on her bike, Georgette fled down the hill, pedaling frantically faster and faster, her whirling feet a blur.