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mardi

  Tuesday

  Lily dressed later than she wished.

  Light filled the uncluttered master bedroom at the end of the corridor and the table lamp glowed meekly. As she walked through the living room she noticed Pascale had already folded up the sofabed and laid the bed linen on top.

  Dumping her rucksack by the front door, Lily decided to busy herself in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. She began stacking plates on the crowded kitchen counter.

  Mrs Kite’s voice made her jump. ‘Let me do it,’ the teacher said, taking the piece of crockery from her hand. ‘You go with Pascale to fetch the bread. The air will do you good.’

  Lily conceded with a nod.

  Freshly showered and with her hair still wet and tightly curled, Pascale breezed in to collect a shopping basket from the base of the tall cupboard. ‘Ready?’ She tucked her purse under her arm. ‘We can take the back way,’ she said.

  They left Mrs Kite tunefully content in setting out the cutlery in a side drawer.

  Pascale turned off the lamp and unlocked the French windows in the master bedroom; the doors flew back from her hands. The wind blew more strongly across their faces than the previous day and the tops of the trees shook only metres away.

  Lily remembered seeing the fire escape from the bus, pinned to the side of the building, twisting its way skywards over an aged Orangina mural.

  Pascale secured the doors behind them and pointed. ‘That way goes to the main road. But you have to go under the road bridge to get to it, and that way goes to the Place Gilbert, la boulangerie and on to the churchyard.’ She jumped the first step. ‘Viens,’ she said, not stopping until she reached the bottom.

  They followed the trodden winding path and soon emerged from between two more apartment blocks into the open space and cobbled roadway of the Place Gilbert.

  Flanked by an older electrical shop and a small clothing boutique, the tiled frontage of the Boulangerie/Pâtisserie Étienne Brouillard dominated the old square, with its inviting spread of breads and cakes displayed across two windows.

  The bell rang as they pushed against the door. A lady hurried in from a back room, dusting off her flour-covered fingers with a tea towel.

  ‘Bonjour,’ the lady called, after a few seconds.

  ‘Bonjour Madame,’ Lily replied.

  Sugar and sweet cinnamon teased Lily’s senses. Sweet jars on white shelves. Assortments of patisseries in white boxes.

  ‘Vous désirez?’ the lady asked.

  Pascale prompted Lily to speak again and Lily asked for bread and macaroons in French. When she had finished she took even greater pleasure in continuing a conversation about French confectionery, as the lady pointed out various jars and ribbon tied packets.

  ‘À tout à l’heure,’ the lady said, dropping a small parcel of sugared almonds into the basket.

  The shop bell cut in over Lily’s reply. ‘Merci bien, Madame, à tout à l’heure,’

  Beaming in appreciation of the gift, Lily took hold of the shopping, immediately finding her way out blocked by the unmistakeable figure of Madame Claude.

  The woman’s fiery-eyed stare sent her backwards.

  ‘Oh Madame—’ Lily exclaimed.

  Pascale stepped in, immediately enquiring after Madame Claude’s health, and speaking of Thierry and the incident at the Bar Tabac.

  The shop filled with the whirr of a mixing machine from the back room.

  Instead of a kindly response, the widow shouted above the noise with a torrent of accusations, her wide contoured facial features tightened in anguish as she jolted her hand in all directions.

  Pascale withdrew, her face blanched.

  ‘Mesdames,’ called the lady from behind the counter, in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

  Madame Claude had not finished.

  Lily slid out into the square, leaving Pascale almost hanging to the doorway until finally Madame Claude turned her back on her to recommence her ranting at the shop counter.

  ‘Mon Dieu. I have never seen her like that. Ever.’ Pascale grew quiet as they walked away from the shop.

  They crossed through cars, the sky darkening as a bank of clouds passed overhead. Pascale stopped in the shelter of the alleyway. ‘I want to tell you,’ she said. ‘I think Madame Claude acts to protect her grandsons. One of them, Luc, works part-time in the kitchen at the Bar Tabac. On Mondays.’

  ‘Do you think he could have attacked Thierry?’

  ‘It is possible. If Thierry went into the Bar.’ Pascale rocks her head to the sky. ‘Luc is part of a group of youths at school that they say is getting deeper into drugs.’ Her sigh echoes between the concreted walls. ‘Luc makes life hard for my brother to handle.’

  ‘Won’t Thierry tell someone what he knows?’

  Pascale shrugged.

  ‘If you know then the police will find out, surely?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ answered Pascale. ‘From Madame Claude’s reaction I have a feeling Luc is already at the Commissariat.’

  They sunk their teeth into croissants with peach jam, played solitaire and card games. Mrs Kite spent time studying France 24 and quietly checking for local news updates (presumably there were none as she did not say anything) on her multimedia tablet then bustling with her coffee between the balcony and the front door, looking out for her husband.

  ‘You’re expected at the Morneau household at 12.00pm,’ Mrs Kite said, posting her cup on the table. ‘About the same time as Madame Briac gets back.’

  ‘I will stay when Maman arrives,’ Pascale said. She collected up the loose playing cards and replaced the deck in its box. ‘I would like to see my brother.’

  ‘Of course. Camille’s family will look after Lily.’ Mrs Kite continued to speak about how charming Camille’s parents were when they had met on the playground.

  ‘I know you will be happy,’ Pascale said. ‘I have spent a lot of time at Camille’s house. We have been friends since before we started school.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ Lily said. ‘But I feel awkward.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Pascale replied.

  ‘No need at all, Lily,’ Mrs Kite said, encouragingly. ‘It’s all sorted.’

  A low volume buzz ground against the embroidered tablecloth.

  Mrs Kite put down the tablet and looked at her mobile. ‘Our cue to go,’ she said. ‘Mr Kite is here.’

  Mr Kite’s hire car sped up the left-hand lane of the dual carriageway in the direction of Opéra Bastille. Lily fell against her rucksack, watching people and streets go by as she listened to the animated patter of French radio.

  Soon the car slowed to a stop in a residential area beside a battered black Citroën, partly obstructing a driveway.

  ‘Mademoiselle Chandris knows you won’t be joining the group at school today,’ Mrs Kite announced from the front passenger seat. ‘You won’t miss much. It’s a walk to the Church and a potted history of the local area. I can give you the notes and Pascale can fill you in. Besides, I think Madame Morneau is arranging something much more relaxing.’

  ‘Great.’ Lily dragged her rucksack to her shoulder as a voice called in through the car window.

  ‘You don’t know how glad I am to see you!’

  The suddenness of Flora’s arrival took Lily by surprise.

  ‘I’m glad too,’ she said, clutching her friend. ‘I feel bad about leaving Pascale at the apartment.’

  ‘She’s coming here too, isn’t she?’ Flora said.

  ‘Bien sûr,’ Camille interjected, kissing Lily lightly on her cheeks. ‘She is invited to stay.’

  The French girl wore her short hair pinned with giant flower clips. Her dress was vibrantly coloured and quirky in style, and as Camille stepped away, Lily noticed a matching flower ring on her finger.

  Camille held open the gate to the traditional three storey Parisian house with green shutters and a deep-pitched roof. A contrast to Pascale’s apartment on the Rue de la Bastille, the property was the highest p
ositioned of three similar houses facing a newly gravelled pétanque area with plane trees along the edges.

  Lily closed her car door, watching Mrs Kite tottering towards Madame Morneau.

  ‘It is OK,’ Camille said. ‘My mother is delighted to have not one but two English guests. It is good for me because I have this afternoon away from school to go out to the river with you.’ She pointed at open windows jutting out above. ‘Tonight we can share the attic room.’

  Madame Morneau ran forward with a haste and manner that reminded Lily of her mum, taking her by the hand to lead her through the door to a conservatory. The cool air of a desk fan brushed against her top.

  ‘You can leave your things here,’ Madame Morneau said.

  Lily’s rucksack fell against an ice hockey stick and an electric guitar case standing upright next to the desk. Lily apologised as the stick tumbled sideways.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Camille replied.’ My brother isn’t playing sport any more. He quit. Just as with the band and everything else at college. He goes into college sometimes but he is leaving to join the army in September.’

  Madame Morneau lowered the fan setting. ‘It’s a shame he doesn’t do the things he loves any more. Now he is nothing but an angry teenager who comes home only for food.’ Her laughter sounded genuine but it tailed off. ‘Come and have something to eat before it is gone,’ she said, the corners of her mouth breaking momentarily in their fixedness.

  Lunch filled her stomach, and Lily remained warm even as the damp of another rain shower penetrated her coat collar. She stepped on the open top deck of the tour boat.

  The good weather in-between the wet spells seemed to have brought the crowds from the museums onto the banks of the Seine and people clambered for the plastic moulded deck seats. Camille edged towards the railings, waving to her mother on the bank.

  ‘There’s a buzz,’ said Flora, with exaggerated brightness. She took a seat facing Lily. ‘Everything will work out.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, for Thierry’s sake,’ Lily replied. She kept her eyes on the Eiffel Tower and wondered. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to the apartment.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Thierry will need to recover and there are only four days left including today.’

  ‘I think your teacher said you might live with us until the end of the trip,’ Camille said.

  ‘Yes I thought she might say that,’ Lily said.

  The boat moved away from the bank and Lily’s ears filled with the back echo of audio commentary from several directions.

  Flora picked up the tour map. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Notre Dame.’ She began to talk at her usual indecipherable speed about an art programme she had seen on the television. ‘And you know I’ve seen this building before,’ she said, pointing her camera at a glass-roofed palace.

  ‘Of course, le Grand Palais,’ said Camille. ‘One of our national art centres.’

  ‘So many galleries,’ Flora replied.

  Camille pointed from one direction to another. ‘Louvre, Musée d’Orsay . . .’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Flora said.

  Lily giggled, scrambling her hand around the inside of her bag when she remembered her camera at the back of Pascale’s wardrobe.

  ‘What have you lost?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Not lost. My camera. Annoying, but I know where it is,’ she replied. ‘Take some shots for me Flo?’

  ‘Hey, yeah.’

  ‘Did you know, the Commissariat Central is underneath the Palais?’ Camille said.

  Lily strained to hear Camille as in an instant the girl’s voice became as low as to almost blend with the engine noise. She had to work out what she had said. ‘Yes, I remember about the police station,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you?’ Flora enquired at the top of her voice.

  Camille drew closer, with purpose. ‘Did you understand what was really happening at the Bar Tabac yesterday?’

  ‘No.’ Flora whispered. ‘I don’t know much at all.’

  ‘They were dealing drugs,’ Camille said. ‘Before the raid.’

  ‘Bad news. Really bad news,’ Flora said, screwing up her face.

  ‘I heard talk in the classroom first thing,’ said Camille. ‘There are rumours going around in Thierry’s year group that students were there.’

  ‘Do the police know who was in the Bar Tabac?’ Flora asked.

  Camille nods. ‘Probably. But I think only the injured boy and his brother were left in the building by the time the police arrived.’

  ‘My God. So what about the attack on Thierry?’ Flora asked. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Camille replies.

  ‘At least the police are alerted,’ Lily said.

  ‘It seems. It has taken too long. There is talk about corruption,’ Camille replied.

  ‘Goodness, poor Pascale, however can she feel in her situation,’ Lily said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Flora questioned.

  ‘Pascale will be OK. She knows about coping with real life challenges,’ Camille replied. ‘It happens when both your parents are police officers.’

  The girls didn’t speak for some time afterwards until Flora asked Camille about the progress her dad was making in his lab work at the hospital. From the boat Camille pointed out the building where he worked.

  The tour boat passed its sister vessel as they circled Notre Dame and for a moment the audio commentaries clashed. Lily took in as much of the information as she could, making a mental note to buy a Paris guidebook before she left the boat.

  An hour and a half on board saw the clouds lift and the sky clear to deep blue. On the walkways along the Seine, stallholders lifted covers from their displays of paintings and crafts. Camille pointed to a riverside restaurant, with its awning casting a block of shade over a clutch of relaxed Parisians and enthusiastic tourists. ‘We can sit for a little while before Maman comes back,’ she said.

  ‘Un café avec un peu de lait,’ Flora said, sinking down and beaming at the waiter.

  ‘Un chocolat, s’il vous plaît,’ said Lily.

  ‘Un Coca,’ said Camille.

  The waiter ripped the page from his order pad and stuck it under the ashtray. He disappeared through open glass doors only to reappear what seemed like seconds later with a tray of drinks.

  Flora fished out a postcard. ‘I’m writing home,’ she said. ‘I won’t say anything about what’s happened or they’ll get in a flap.’

  ‘What will you say?’ Lily asked.

  ‘The sea crossing was calm, Camille’s parents are great, and we’re going to the Eiffel Tower tomorrow. It’s enough. They just want a wee thing to put on the shelf.’ She chuckled.

  ‘You are lucky,’ Camille said. ‘To come to the Tour when I am in lessons.’

  ‘I’m going right to the top,’ Flora squealed, putting down her biro.

  ‘Of course,’ Camille said.

  ‘You can’t come to Paris without going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Hey Lily, I bet Mrs Kite will be too afraid to look over the edge.’

  ‘Cruel,’ Lily said.

  ‘It’ll be true,’ Flora said, giving an imitation. ‘She’ll tiptoe very, very carefully and only around the middle of the largest platform. Her head will be pointed forward and she won’t look down.’

  ‘Very cruel.’

  Grinning and red faced, Flora fell back to her chair. ‘But she’s a kind soul,’ she said.

  ‘What will you be doing at school?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Maths, geography and more maths,’ Camille replied. ‘So you will think of me when you are up there?’

  Before anyone could answer, a tune chimed – its notes flattened. Camille collected her phone from her pocket, her spirited face falling the longer she held her eyes on the text message. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘It’s a text from Thierry.’

  ‘Is he OK? What does he say?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Faites attention,
’ Camille held up the message.

  ‘That’s it? Be careful of what?’ Flora said.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Camille replied. A breeze fluttered the scalloped edges of the table parasol above her head and her face puckered. ‘It is curious. Thierry has not spoken to me for months.’

  ‘It must be connected with what happened yesterday,’ Lily said.

  ‘Serious,’ Flora commented, dipping her head within millimetres of her coffee.

  Camille spoke quietly. ‘Now I think of it, Thierry has been acting strangely. I remember Pascale said he was struggling because of the time of year. He is still coming to terms with the death of his real dad.’

  ‘Eight years ago, I think,’ Lily said.

  ‘Is there a connection?’ Flora asked. ‘I mean between him acting strange because of his dad and this message.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Camille said. ‘But I cannot be sure.’

  Lily said, ‘Pascale told me he died trying to get someone out of a fire.’

  ‘Och! Too awful,’ Flora replied.

  ‘Pascale deals with it well,’ Camille said. ‘She always has. But there are still things I don’t ask about.’

  ‘If you ask me Thierry must be damned afraid,’ Flora said.

  ‘I am texting him,’ Camille replied. ‘I want him to explain.’

  ‘He wants us to be careful because of what went on at the Bar Tabac,’ Flora said. ‘No need to explain.’

  ‘Careful of those that got away?’ Camille said.

  ‘We don’t know who they were,’ Flora said.

  ‘Friends of Madame Claude’s grandson, Luc?’ Lily says.

  ‘Come on. We’re relying on you, Camille.’ Flora said. ‘We don’t want to run into trouble.’

  ‘It’ll be me they’re interested in,’ Lily said.

  ‘Oh?’ Flora replied. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’m going to talk to the police.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything before the raid, did you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Flora threw Lily a panicked glance. ‘Are you saying you did?’

  ‘I’m saying I don’t know. I saw someone leaving the bar,’ Lily said. ‘It’ll be for the police to decide whether or not it’s relevant.’

  Flora’s voice lifted. ‘You didn’t say. I knew you’d seen something. What did you see? Who did you see? Was it someone from the school?’

  ‘Much older.’

  ‘He could be the one,’ Flora said. ‘It was a he wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t you have to tell the police?’ Flora continued.

  ‘Maybe they will ask me.’

  ‘Surely they’ll get something from Thierry,’ Flora replied.

  Lily wanted to be practical. ‘Don’t you think Thierry knows everything about his attacker, even if he’s not telling? He’s the one holding the key.’

  Camille pushed pensively with the plastic stirrer at the ice in her drink. ‘Sans doute,’ she said.

  ‘They said the attack shocked him. He can’t speak out,’ Lily said. ‘Shock does strange things.’

  Camille waited a moment or two while the couple at the neighbouring table stood up to leave. ‘I am calling him.’ She kept the phone pressed to her ear for at least a minute.

  Lily felt herself willing Thierry to pick up.

  The wait was too long.

  ‘He must have sent the message from the apartment,’ Lily said.

  ‘And?’ Flora said.

  ‘So he’ll be safe,’ Lily replied.

  A horn tooted gently and Camille turned to wave. ‘Certainly,’ she agreed.

  ‘Your first time in Paris, Lily?’ Madame Morneau asked, as she pulled into the traffic.

  ‘Second,’ Lily replied. ‘I visited with my family on the way to the Midi.’

  The thought of her holiday in the South of France filled her with warmth. On the way down they stopped in the heart of the Beaujolais wine region and for a few seconds Lily’s nostrils buzzed with a blend of distinctive and vintage aromas.

  ‘So you’ll know how busy our streets are in this capital city.’ Madame Morneau boomed. ‘And how beautiful some of them look.’

  Madame Morneau’s estate car pulled out of the busy square into a narrow street lined with tall thin houses with aging shutters clipped to painted walls. A view of the Eiffel Tower opened out before them as they veered away from the centre of Paris.

  Madame Morneau checked her mirror, tutting and shaking her head.

  Lily swung round. A car clung to their tail. A battered black Citroën, resembling the one she saw yesterday outside the Bar Tabac.

  ‘Passez!’ shouted Madame Morneau. She waved her arm for the car to overtake, losing her concentration and steering her own car over the lane markings of the dual carriageway.

  The Citroën stuck firmly behind them into the smaller streets. Traffic lights changed from red to green and before long they pulled into a residential area. At the very last moment the following car careered left, close to the Lily’s shoulder, pulling into the driveway to Camille’s house.

  The driver leered across.

  ‘Marc-Olivier,’ Camille exclaimed. ‘Idiot.’

  Madame Morneau growled. ‘Inexcusable,’ she said, clicking her rings on the steering wheel.

  ‘My brother is wild,’ Camille said, flinging open her car door. She stormed over the shingle and shouted after him, as he disappeared down the slope into the garage and shut the door behind him.

  Madame Morneau took a quick glance at her watch and suddenly the calm of the late afternoon became a swell. ‘You have about fifty minutes, Lily,’ she said. ‘I took a call from the Commissariat to say they are sending a plain-clothes officer at 18.00 hours. They will want to ask you some questions.’

  By the time the police officer arrived at Camille’s house for the interview, Marc-Olivier’s car had gone from the driveway.

  Lily sat bolt upright on the edge of the window seat as she spoke about the timing of her arrival at the apartment in Rue de la Bastille, and what she had seen from Pascale’s bedroom.

  ‘Can you put a time to the moment you heard the gunshot?’ Mrs Kite translated.

  ‘It was about five o’clock,’ Lily replied. ‘The paramedics were working upstairs with Thierry and Madame Briac, and the ambulance waited below.’ She paused. ‘The paramedics must have witnessed something.’

  The officer nodded but nothing came from her lips. With lift of an eyebrow she prompted Lily to continue.

  ‘I saw a man,’ Lily said, relieved as the words spilled. ‘A few minutes before the police cars arrived on the other side of the road and after I heard the gunshot. I stopped on the landing between the first and second floor and I saw a man the other side of the ambulance. He left the Bar Tabac without looking back. I couldn’t see his face too well as he came out of the building but I would know him if I saw him again. I remember he had a thin crop of hair and a pale suit jacket. A light beige suit jacket.

  ‘Is that the full detail of his description?’ the officer asked.

  Lily faltered.

  ‘He was white skinned, with a dark complexion and dark thinning hair,’ she asserted. ‘Not thin, not fat. His suit jacket fitted him but it was creased, like linen. The man was in his forties? I’m not good at ages.’

  ‘Where did the man go?’ the officer asked.

  ‘He seemed to know where he was heading. He came out of the bar and turned into the lane by the Bar Tabac.’

  ‘Allée des Artisans?’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s what it’s called. It runs immediately to the right of the Bar Tabac.’

  The officer nods.

  ‘The police cars arrived and I lost my focus on everything . . . except for the old car,’ Lily continued, stumbling over her sentence.

  The officer looked up. ‘Tell me about the car.’

  ‘It left in a hurry, blowing exhaust smoke. An old dented Citroën with dull or dirty paint, th
e colour dark, maybe black and rusting,’ she said. ‘I don’t recall any of the registration numbers . . .’ She dried up.

  Later she thought back to the interview and wondered why she stopped short of comparing the car with the one belonging to Marc-Olivier. At the time, it hadn’t seemed relevant.

  ‘Can I go back to the afternoon,’ the officer said. ‘At the school. On the way home. How did Thierry seem?’

  Lily thought back to the time at the bus stop.

  ‘Content,’ she replied. ‘He was happy enough on the bus. I didn’t think for a moment there was anything strange going on. Normal teenager stuff. He had his earphones plugged into his ears. Drumming a tune. Not paying Pascale or me any attention. He went his own way when we reached the stop. I didn’t see him go towards the Bar Tabac. But he may have done.’

  ‘How long before he came up to the apartment?’ the officer asked.

  ‘Not too long. Fifteen, twenty minutes at most. I don’t know when he came into the building or how long it took him to reach the second floor. He didn’t use the lift. He took the stairs because he left a trail of blood.’ She relived her journey to the ground floor. Balancing her head against the curtain she said, ‘I know because I followed the spots on the stairs.’

  ‘And when he appeared in the apartment?’

  Lily recounted every detail about Thierry’s blood-covered appearance.

  ‘Did you hear him say anything?’

  ‘Nothing except Maman. He called out Maman several times as we tried to help. He didn’t say anything else in my hearing, in all the time I spent with him.’

  ‘You didn’t see or hear anything else while Thierry was in the apartment?’

  ‘Nothing upstairs.’

  ‘Downstairs?’

  ‘When we were waiting for the ambulance even Madame Claude la conçierge seemed to have disappeared. There was no answer at her door.’

  The officer looked up, as if she expected Lily to say more. In the lull, the officer’s voice compelled, ‘We need to find a weapon before we can make charges against a suspect.’

  ‘You have a suspect?’ Lily said.

  The officer’s expression remained placid.

  Lily’s insides fluttered. ‘You mean you need to find a knife?’

  ‘We’re looking for some sort of blade,’ the officer said.

  ‘I saw nothing.’

  The officer drew a double line under her writing. ‘D’accord. On a fini.’

  Too soon to finish. Lily wanted to learn more.

  About the background to the incident.

  About what actually happened at the Bar Tabac, and suspicions the officer might have about the shooting.

  And about Thierry’s encounter.

  Lily swallowed away her disappointment in the moments it took the officer to finish organising her papers and straighten the lapel of her trouser suit jacket.

  The young woman stood up to leave.

  ‘Lily, you’re to let me know if you think of anything new. I can contact the Commissariat,’ Mrs Kite said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Lily replied.

  At dinner Lily sat face-to-face with Marc-Olivier. The angled features of the young man’s cheeks ressembled those of his father beside whom he sat. The shape of Marc-Olivier’s jaw accentuated his crew-cut hair, so short she could see beads of perspiration shining off the white skin of his scalp. He seemed to sense her gaze. He lifted his face and pierced her with daggers of interrogation. She forgot what she was about to say to Flora. Her bones froze. No longer did she feel quite so safe.

  Marc-Olivier didn’t attempt to make eye contact again. Instead he sat studying Flora in a disconcerting manner in-between his mouthfuls.

  What if Thierry meant to be careful of Marc-Olivier?

  As worry collected in Lily’s thinking, Marc-Olivier hitched up his jeans and left the table. He hit hard at the button on the television.

  A flush of anxious concern came over Monsieur Morneau’s moustached face. He muttered something in French in the direction of his son. Lily couldn’t hear what it was.

  Lily switched between the faces of father and son, both males were absorbed in what was playing out on the screen. The news bulletin itself raced ahead of her comprehension. She clung to words and phrases she understood, watching Camille’s reaction to the photography and the live pictures of the Bar Tabac and Rue de la Bastille.

  Suspected drugs trafficking, young man caught in the shooting, a police raid, another young man under questioning for a stabbing.

  Boy caught in the shooting unconscious after 48 hours in hospital.

  Marc-Olivier snatched himself away from the television, his face void of expression. He thrust his hand into his jeans pocket as he passed Lily by, staring down at his key fob and jamming and twisting the keyring on his finger.

  A door slammed shut.

  Madame Morneau did not flinch in her son’s wake. She sat down on the sofa, holding on to the dessert plates. ‘It’s terrible,’ she said. ‘I had no idea anyone else was injured. Pas du tout.’

  Flora’s face crumpled. ‘Oh my God,’ she murmured.

  ‘We still don’t know who the boy is,’ Camille said. ‘He took the impact of the shot at close range.’

  Camille’s father responded. ‘I would hope there’s a good chance of recovery. I heard he reached the hospital in good time,’ he said. ‘Young people are resilient.’

  Madame Morneau gave a small cough of agreement. ‘Your father usually talks sense,’ she said, her head bobbing.

  The evening’s atmosphere strained the girls’ conversations as they walked out in the dusk. Lily felt the damp rising as they sat in the lamplight on the bench opposite the house and watched the end of a game of pétanque.

  Lily found it impossible to sleep.

  The sound of gunshot fired over and over in her head. She tried hard not to picture a face as a small body collapsed. She plumped up her bolster pillow and crashed her head back down, time and time again. Her body had warmed every centimetre of the single bed. She curled to roll up her pyjama legs to her knees. Through a crack in the covers she saw the moonlight, bright, flooding across the floor of the attic room.

  A banging from outside.

  Her mind freed.

  She turned back the bedding, sitting up. Creeping past Flora and Camille, she looked out of the dorma window to see a figure crunching towards the house. The whine of an opening door. The clatter of keys like marbles bouncing on the tiles of the kitchen counter.

  She was safe, wasn’t she? Monsieur Morneau was sleeping one floor down.

  Lily prised the attic door open and pressed her bare feet onto the cold wrought iron of the spiral staircase. She heard voices as she neared its base.

  The TV.

  Her feet sank into the deep carpet pile covering the landing. She held the banister and moved steadily towards the staircase to the ground floor.

  Marc-Olivier.

  She saw his profile through the dining room archway. His back to her in the darkness, the colours of the TV news channel flashing past his body, picking up a random series of reflections from photo frames, ornaments and gilt-edged mirrors.

  She steeled herself.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she said, her night huskiness making her sound older than her years.

  Marc-Olivier spun round, dropping a shiny bag from his lap to the floor.

  Flora’s bag.

  ‘Qu’ est ce que—’ He launched himself at her, shaking a finger in front of her eye, showering her with a mass of words she couldn’t understand.

  She flew back. ‘Je ne comprends pas,’ she growled.

  Anxiety displayed on his face. He offered her the bag. She snatched it away.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she shouted.

  ‘Des cigarettes,’ he mumbled, as if an excuse.

  ‘Flora doesn’t smoke,’ she said.

  ‘Et toi?’

  ‘Me neither!’ she said angrily, dropping the bag on the sofa.r />
  He rummaged in the top pocket of his denim jacket and finding nothing cast it over the back of the easy chair. He sank into the same chair, fixing his eyes on the television.

  She didn’t take her eyes off him as she walked into the kitchen, turning on a small lamp on the work surface and watching him through the archway. He shook uncontrollably as she turned the cold tap to fill her glass.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  When he coughed she could hear the phlegm rolling. ‘You are lucky,’ he rasped.

  ‘Why lucky?

  ‘Things go on you know nothing about,’ he said. ‘You are lucky your friends are not your enemies.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘Do you mean Thierry?’

  ‘When they decide to show you up. Or not say anything at all. You get nervous. Do you understand?’

  ‘Are you talking about Thierry?’ she said, again. ‘If not, who do you mean?’

  He seemed to snort at her as she edged her way back to the sofa. She didn’t dare to sip her drink.

  Now she could see his eyes. Watery, squinting with tiredness. And this time they held fear defying all the brilliance reflecting from the television.

  ‘Didier, he’s not so lucky.’

  Lily’s heart stopped. Her brain accelerated. ‘You know who was shot at the Bar Tabac?’

  She sat on the sofa.

  The commercial break jingle ended and the darkness plunged her into isolation.

  His presence shrouded her with a chill.

  ‘I . . . know . . . Didier,’ she heard him whisper.

  Didier.

  She had heard the name somewhere before.

  A flash shocked her eyes. Not a torch. A light from a mobile phone. She felt Marc-Olivier standing over her. She couldn’t see him. She pushed herself further into the sofa.

  ‘You know Briac is guilty,’ he said, his cigarette breath buffeting her face. ‘He is corrupt and dangerous. He pretends he is a good policeman, but he is as guilty as the rest.’ He pushed the light of the phone closer like a weapon of torture.

  ‘He pretends,’ he repeated, his voice stronger.

  The sudden commentary of the female TF1 announcer on the screen seemed to make him reconsider his stance.

  Lily’s fogged eyes struggled to focus on the moving outline of Marc-Olivier’s body.

  Coughing again, Marc-Olivier moved back from the sofa. ‘It’s too late for this. Go back upstairs,’ he ordered.

  This time his tone did not threaten.

  His coughing began again.

  Lily didn’t remember being frightened, or climbing back into bed.

  Her dream surrounded her with familiar faces. She was in class at Marching Lane with Flora. Every time Mrs Kite turned her back they shuffled their desks further towards the far end of the French room. The dream game began with hilarity and smiling faces. It sped into fast motion. Faces blurred. Reality distorted.

  Lily woke with a start, blinking, and blinking again, her eyes resting on the underside of the wooden shelf above her head. Dark, unearthly shapes bent towards her, when earlier they stretched and shimmered in all their peacock feather beauty. The attic room creaked into its high-pitched roof and in the next bed Flora began to mutter in her sleep.

  The moonlight lifted, fluttering at the curtains and over the feathers, then fell away. Lily tried to block out her encounter with Marc-Olivier. Comfort came when she heard the raised voice of Monsieur Morneau somewhere downstairs.

  Finally she fell asleep.