The Girl in the Shadows

‘There’s a time and a place for your style of interrogation – now isn’t one of them.’

Two of the men looked up as Veronique and Christophe approached, the taller getting up from the wall and sloping in their direction.

‘Vous cherchez quelque chose?’ The smell of rotten teeth escaped from behind the man’s cracked lips. His eyes rested on Veronique’s scar and then darted to the street behind her.

‘Not today,’ Christophe replied. ‘Giselle Marsac. Does she still live here?’

‘Never heard of her.’ He took a step closer to Veronique. ‘Can I interest you in anything, my pretty? Ain’t got nothing to fix that face of yours, mind, but there are ways to help with the pain.’

‘I don’t have a problem with pain,’ she replied, meeting his gaze.

‘You’re sure about Giselle?’ Christophe took out a €20 note and raised one hand to his chest. ‘Redhead. About so high.’

‘How do I know you’re not police?’ The man stared at the money, bloodied fingers scratching at a sore on his sunken cheek.

‘Do we look like police?’ Christophe took out another €20, holding both notes out in front of him.

The man snatched at the money, like a rabid monkey stealing a nut. ‘Tenth floor.’ He inclined his head to the building behind. ‘Pink door, can’t miss it.’

***

As she climbed the stairs Veronique covered her nose to try and block out the stench of festering decay. The walls were littered with graffiti, twisted shapes and dark eyes following them as they ascended.

At the tenth floor they split up, Christophe turning left and she right. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling and the floor was sticky underfoot. Sounds permeated the walls: the cry of a newborn, the bark of a dog, as Veronique passed by unmarked doors.

Something else. A scent that pushed against the recesses of her mind. Burnt matches.

The rapid beat of her heart in her chest, pulse throbbing as she sucked in air through her mouth, tasting smoke that she could not see. Shadows crept over her, pushing into her skin as she leant against the wall.

The heat. She would never forget the heat, how it filled her every pore, tearing them open. Her scar pulsed with the memory, bleached light behind closed eyes, one of which now remained for ever in the dark.

‘Over here.’

She lifted her head, the silhouette of Christophe saving her from her nightmares.

He knocked against a door – three clean, hollow notes echoing along the corridor towards her.

He knocked again.

‘Casse-toi!’ came the muted insult from within. Veronique began to kick the bottom of the door with rhythmic repetition, adding in the beat of her fist until it was interrupted by the sound of a lock being slid backward.

The door opened a crack, allowing a shaft of sunlight to illuminate stained floor tiles.

‘What do you want?’ Heavily kohled eyes stared at Veronique from under a long fringe, dark shadows against marbled skin.

‘Giselle?’ Christophe came around Veronique.

‘Christophe?’ The girl’s head tilted upward. ‘Is that you?’

‘Oui, c’est moi. Can we come in?’

‘Of course.’ She opened the door wider, light from the curtainless window showcasing her jutting collarbones and slight frame. She stood a little straighter as Christophe passed, a softness to her otherwise gaunt features that Veronique recognised as affection.

‘We’ve missed you at the clinic,’ Christophe said, peering out of the window to the pavement below. The sill was covered in a thick layer of grime, on top of which rested an ashtray and empty syringe.

‘That’s not mine,’ Giselle said. Fine hairs stood up on her forearms, wrists so slight they made Veronique think of newborn babies in hospital with their plastic name tags.

‘We were hoping you could help us with something.’

Giselle snapped her head round to stare at Veronique. ‘I didn’t do nothing.’

‘No one’s accusing you of anything.’ Veronique held her hands up as she took a step closer.

‘A girl’s gone missing,’ Christophe said.

‘What girl?’

‘Mathilde Benazet.’ Veronique showed Giselle a photograph of Mathilde. ‘Apparently she worked for Valentine.’

‘I’d stay away from him if I were you.’ Giselle shrank towards the makeshift kitchen in one corner of the room, fingers finding a scrap of tin foil on top of the counter and smoothing away tiny creases. ‘Valentine is like a demon, tempting the angels from above and dragging them down into the same filthy pit he’s dug out for himself below Montmartre.’

‘All the more reason we need to find Mathilde.’ Christophe rested a hand on her shoulder and she sank under its weight. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘I can’t go back there, Christophe.’ Giselle shook her head, staring up at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘Please don’t make me go back.’

‘I don’t want you going back there either.’ Christophe took the photograph from Veronique and handed it to Giselle. ‘Can you take a look for me, tell me if you remember her?’

Giselle wiped the back of her hand across her nose and went to stand by the window. ‘Someone do that to you?’ She eyed Veronique’s scar in the reflection of a mirror hanging lopsided on the wall next to her, a crack running from one corner to its centre.

‘Fire.’ Veronique expelled the word like an insult, dirty on her tongue.

‘Fire can be beautiful. As is everything the devil decides to create. No,’ she said, dropping the photograph on the windowsill.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Giselle crossed her arms over her chest.

‘How often have you been using?’ The air shifted as she came closer.

Giselle glanced at the syringe. ‘I told you that wasn’t mine.’

‘Maybe not, but the track marks on your arms tell a different story.’

‘Get out!’ she roared, picking up a filthy cup and throwing it across the room at Veronique. ‘You think you’re better than me? You think you know what it is really like in this city? You know nothing; you are a fool.’

‘Giselle, please.’ Christophe came between the two women. ‘We never meant to insult you.’

‘I said get out!’ Giselle pushed against his chest, unable to make him move.