Pippa concentrated on her breathing, trying to remember her yoga instructor’s soothing voice. Slow, steady, not too deep because her mouth was covered and the only air she could get was through her nose. She was desperate to tear the wooly fabric from between her teeth, but he had grabbed the old jumper from the back of the chair and knotted one arm of it around her face as a gag when she began to shout. She tried not to think about the cat hairs and worse that were undoubtedly being sucked into her throat with every breath. Before being silenced, she had tried to find out what he wanted, but he spoke at high speed, entirely in French, and seemed close to hysteria. Important not to panic. The man pacing back and forth in front of her was panicked enough for both of them and he was doing all the talking. And crying now.
Pippa couldn’t understand most of it. Occasionally, he would twist toward where she sat, one foot tied to the bed leg with her old tights, her hands pinned behind her with a rope he must have brought. He brandished the fireplace poker from downstairs now and then, although it was such a general motion that she thought he’d only hit her if he did it by accident. With his free hand, he rubbed his hair, wiped his eyes, and occasionally slapped his forehead. She bloody well understood that he was frightened, that he blamed her for something, and that he might at any moment, if he focused on her long enough, bash her with the fireplace tool.
Her eyes followed him around the perimeter of the room. Being an involuntary listener seemed to be the best option right now, but oh, how she wished someone would come and rescue her right this second.
He dragged over the only chair in the room to where she perched and sat abruptly. He said something at warp speed that sounded like a question. She looked at him and shrugged to show she didn’t understand. She wondered if this was the same fail that plagued the Neanderthals when they came upon the species that would eventually wipe them out. Bloody, bloody hell, how was she supposed to reason with a lunatic when she had a gag in her mouth and no French even if he took it out?
As they stared at each other, Pippa accepted that she was looking into the face of a murderer. His skin was slick with sweat and mottled, his eyes were red, there was a little mucus coming out of one nostril. Something to think about for the book, a small part of her brain noted. If I live that long, she pointed out to herself.
“Understand, yes?” he said at last in heavily accented English.
All she could do was shake her head. No, she didn’t understand anything. She had no effing idea what was happening, nothing since she had opened the door without checking first, so sure it was Katherine or Philippe, and this man had come barging in, scattering cats, slamming the door and pulling her up the stairs. She had flailed her arms in his direction and kicked at him, but he was strong.
“You come. No hurt,” he had yelled.
“You’re hurting me right now,” she had shouted back.
At first, she had been sure he was going to kill her in spite of his words, but he seemed distracted by his thoughts.
“What is it you want? Aren’t you the butcher’s brother?” she had stammered. “You need to leave here at once.”
He raised his arm and made a fist, and Pippa screamed. At that, he had grabbed her stupid jumper, which belonged in the dirty clothes hamper, if she was to be honest. When he was satisfied she couldn’t move or speak, he slumped on the other edge of the bed for a few minutes, mumbling to himself. Her tights were stretchy and she had begun to wiggle her leg free. But he noticed and ran down the stairs, stomping heavily up again with the stupid poker and bottle of water that looked like what she kept in the refrigerator. As he swigged it and rubbed the plastic bottle against his forehead, he talked, calmly at first, almost as if he were explaining something to a friend. Then, his phone rang. All he said was, “Non, non, non,” a word she actually knew. After the call ended, he began pacing back and forth, seeming alternately to plead with her and to wave the poker at her.
Now, he said, “I go soon. You be okay, yes?”
Really? she wanted to answer. I am tied to a bed, can’t talk, can hardly breathe, and you think I’m going to be all right? You think bloody Superman is going to fly through the window and rescue me after you toodle away? Not bloody likely.
“I go,” he said again, nodding and pressing his hand against his forehead. “Les flics, they will come to you, yes?”
What a cock up, Pippa thought. He’s counting on the police to come looking for me when they’re more likely to come and arrest me. Although, she realized, even that would be a rescue of sorts. The trick was not to upset him, though, so she nodded and tried to smile under the gag.
He leaned so far in to her that his nose almost touched her cheek. Breathe, breathe, she reminded herself. If I’m calm, maybe he’ll see I’m no threat. “I no do it,” he said, his words slow but strong. “You understand, I no do it.”
Bollocks, she thought, but she nodded. What else could she do? Of course he did the murder. Why else would he be here, threatening her and acting like a crazy man? Too bad she couldn’t ask him why.
Quiet descended on the old house for a moment, broken only by the sharp meow of a cat coming from somewhere outside. Poor things, Pippa thought. What will happen to them if I don’t get out of this alive? The thought, which she’d been avoiding, made her gasp for air, yoga techniques forgotten. The man jumped up and would have spoken if there had not been a loud noise like a firecracker, sounding like it was right in the room with them. Before she could recover from the shock of the sound, Superman appeared in the doorway, gun held steady in front of him, eyes on her captor, who crumpled to the floor, yelling and weeping, his hands covering his head.
Philippe had arrived.