

The Switch

by Catherine Condie

While on an exchange visit to Paris, a young teenager becomes an unexpected witness to a drugs raid. English exchange student Lily holds the key to a serious crime incident at the local Bar Tabac. Making her escape, she heads for the banks of the Seine. But now she's not sure why and from whom she is running . . .

For the 11+ age group.

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Published by Bear Books

The Switch

Copyright 2011 Catherine Condie

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) for commercial purposes without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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The Switch

Hyperlinked Contents

PART ONE

le lundi précédent

mardi

mercredi

PART TWO

mercredi 14:05

jeudi

About the author

PART ONE

mercredi

Wednesday

13:58

Monsieur Briac steps out of the Bar Tabac onto the wide Parisian walkway with his mobile pressed against his ear, his face contorting with the wild movement of his lips. He reaches his other arm over the limp straggles of his dark hair and grips as if he is pulling at something in his brain. He tugs his head back further and looks up to the second floor window of the apartment on the _Rue de la Bastille_. His mouth is stilled in its openness. He hurls the mobile into the crashed Citroën and ignoring the pleading reach of the blooded youth on the ground, begins to run towards her. Lily flies back from the window glass, dropping the dust-laden net curtain to the floor. Her feet are in stone.

She has to get out.

Dust catches in her throat. Coughing violently she hurls herself over the thin rug covering the lino floor of the bedroom and into the hall to the front door. The brass handle burns into her hand as she presses, again and again.

Her palm is shocked into the air as someone levers from the other side. She turns in slow motion, her mind flashing with images of the carnage outside. With raw instinct she runs into the body of the apartment.

Glass bottles smash in the bathroom sink as she grabs Monsieur Briac's cut-throat razor from a Pernod glass. She is rooted behind the bathroom door with the razor at arm's length, her muscles trembling, her arm on fire.

Brrrrrrrrrr . . . brrrrrrrrr

The toll of the intercom rises to the high ornamented ceiling of the old 11th Arrondissement apartment, ripping into her body and splitting her heart with such a fear as she has never experienced in all her fourteen years.

Silence.

Then a crackle as someone speaks from the ground floor.

' _Allo Briac? Vous êtes là? C'est Madame Claude_.'

Relief at the gravelled voice of Madame Claude, _la conçierge_. Lily has seen her, dressed in shades of black, grey hair pinned tightly to her scalp, prune-like wrinkles folding in the sun as she sits in her kitchen chair on the pavement.

' _Briac._ _Je monte_. _Tout de suite_.'

Madame Claude's shoes shuffle in an echo of distorted tones from the sepulchral marble of the hall. The intercom clicks off as rudely as it burst in.

Thank God, Madame Claude is coming up.

Suddenly men's voices, elevated and enraged, echo and chase through the five floors of the block. Their shouts are within metres. The weight of a body slams against the front door, the impact reverberating down the hall, smashing any hope of reprieve from the slow-footed Madame Claude.

Lily's back tenses against the tiled wall and she blanks her mind, drawing in on the stench of Monsieur Briac's aftershave from the broken bottle in the sink. Her stomach boils and the cavern of her chest heaves desperately against her instinct to retch. The back of her throat and her cheeks inflate.

She turns her head to the crack in the doorway.

The air is clean.

She breathes hard into the silence.

le lundi précédent

Monday, two days earlier

_L'École du Sacre Coeur_ had overgrown its tiny location between the church of the same name and the district railway station not too far from Paris' _Gare du Nord_. A rough patch of dry grass ran down from the school playground to a line of trees along the railway line. A couple of tennis courts settled into the view over the steep bank.

Lily's French exchange partner Pascale took hold of Lily's rucksack from the line of cases on the playground and swung it over her bare shoulders.

' _Photo?_ ' she exclaimed, her grin revealing the small gap between her two front teeth. Her hair framed her face like a modern Mary Quant, as Lily's mum said when Pascale came to stay with her in England.

' _Oui, une photo_ ,' Lily replied.

Lily and Pascale crowded with the school party towards the edge of the railway bank. Pulling Lily's camera from her hand, Pascale tossed it to a taller, older boy who was following. The boy unzipped the camera case while the girls found a place to stand. Lily grinned straight to camera and did her best not to squint through her new frames.

'Again?' the boy said. He crouched to adjust a setting.

Pascale fooled about, holding a succession of different smiley faces until it became too much. 'Are we finished, Thierry?' she said. 'You take too long.'

'OK, finished.' The boy zipped up the camera case.

'It's my brother,' Pascale said. 'He is good at taking pictures but sometimes he is too serious.'

Thierry flicked his hair from his eyes, and dropped the camera into Lily's hands.

'You can e-mail them to your parents,' he said. He stared with an intensity to scare then strode off, plugging his earphones into his ears, and seemingly oblivious to an older dreadlocked youth goading him from behind.

'Pah,' Pascale said, watching her brother go. She flipped open her mobile. _'Trois heures et quart_.'

'Three fifteen!' exclaimed Lily's best friend Flora in her broad Scots accent. 'No wonder I'm tired. Not used to early starts.'

'Or any sort of timekeeping,' joked Lily.

Flora pulled a face. 'It was a long trip.'

'You were asleep. The whole time!'

'Not the whole time. Camille, don't listen.'

Flora's exchange partner Camille wagged her finger. 'I know,' she said. 'I remember at your house.'

'It's four o'clock,' Pascale said. 'It gets busy. We should find the bus.'

'My parents are already here,' Camille said, wafting her hand towards the school entrance. 'We live to the east, a few miles away.'

'The same,' Lily said.

'We might see each other.' Flora twisted her long blonde hair and fastened it on the back of her head with a clip before pulling her heavy bag over the top. She followed Camille towards the diminutive figure of Mrs Kite their French teacher and the smartly suited outlines of Camille's parents, before climbing into a waiting car.

'Pupils from Marching Lane School, we'll meet here tomorrow. Your families have the timetable,' Mrs Kite called out shrilly, searching over children's heads to locate the remaining members of her group. The teacher caught Lily's eye. 'Don't forget, you have my mobile number in case you need to contact me.'

Lily hoped she wouldn't.

They reached the bus stop where Thierry, who she knew to be nearly sixteen and in Year 11 or the French equivalent, stood with his back to them, his rock-star styled mid-length hair dropped down over his face, tapping out a rhythm on the ground with his trainer.

'He is listening to heavy metal,' Pascale said, screwing up her face. 'I can hear, it is his band. They did a recording one time.'

' _Indie musique, pah!_ ' Thierry called, in response to his sister's whispering. He began to air drum the rhythm of his music.

Lily detected from his voice that under his hair his face held a grin. For that, she decided over the course of the five-day trip she might grow to like him.

By four-thirty the bendy bus had stopped in _Rue de la Bastille_ , where the smell of wet tarmac mingled with the aroma of stewed coffee and French pizza from the Bar Tabac. Raucous laughter lifted across the road. As Lily stepped out to the pavement, a lady with scraped-back red hair and piercing green eyes rushed forward.

'Lily!' the lady exclaimed, clasping her slender hands over Lily's long brown hair and smothering her face with scented lipstick. ' _Bienvenue à Paris_.'

' _Merci, Madame Briac_.'

' _Bonjour Maman_.' Pascale said.

'My husband is at his work,' Madame Briac continued, in her best English accent. 'You will meet him after dinner.'

' _Bon_ ,' Lily replied.

' _Suivez-moi_ ,' Madame Briac said. She reached in the pocket of her culottes and produced a cardkey, adding a loud and curt, ' _Bonjour Madame Claude_ ,' over her shoulder. The elderly widow to whom the greeting was addressed sat nodding as they ran up the steps to the block.

'Madame Claude doesn't hear very well,' Pascale whispered, holding open the entrance door. 'But she is always watching. She sees like a bat in the dark!'

Lily contained her amusement as she pictured Madame Claude sat out in her chair in the pitch black.

Madame Briac closed the front door of the apartment. Stepping out of her heeled shoes, she led the girls along the carpet runner.

' _La salle de bain_ ,' she said, pointing into the bathroom with its shiny white suite of old style porcelain and wood furnishings. ' _Et voila ta chambre_.' She pushed at the bedroom door. 'Please enter,' she said, before padding away along the corridor.

Lily stepped through, then Pascale. The bedroom door jumped back on its spring – the closing thud creating a resonance in the body of an acoustic guitar like the ring of a tuning fork.

Pascale laid Lily's rucksack on the duvet. 'It's going to be fun,' she said. She ran her finger over the poster calendar fixed over the bed. 'It's been four months since we first met, I can't believe it. England was so cool but so cold!'

Lily laughed. She didn't feel the awkwardness of the first pairing up in the school hall four months earlier. Their meeting in London began quietly, natural uncertainty, both girls looking round for their own friends. Once they'd left the school building it began to click. They learned how to speak to each other  mostly a mixture of English and French  taking the dog for walks, looking at books, finding out what they liked to eat and comparing web sites. Lily felt lucky it all turned out so well. One boy in her class didn't have the same experience. His exchange partner wanted to go home straight away. The English boy's mum visited school almost every day and once Lily saw her leave in tears. The English boy had come over to Paris today, but was invited to stay with someone new.

Madame Briac pushed open the door carrying two small glass bottles stuffed with a straw each. ' _On mange à sept heures ce soir_ ,' she said. ' _Pascale, viens_.'

'Meaning I go for a bit while you settle in. Dinner at seven. OK? We have plenty of time.' Pascale slurped through her straw.

Lily made herself move from the bed to unpack her rucksack, stuffing clothes into the empty perfumed drawers at the bottom of a wardrobe she didn't think even her dad could reach the top of. She lined up her toiletries on a shelf, looking at her lack-lustre blue-grey eyes, tired face and lank hair in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. She imagined the comments her mother might make about her appearance then shook her head with a half-smile. She brushed her hair, vowing to make her next stop the bathroom, and ground the heavy wardrobe doors to a close.

Somewhere nearby a siren sounded. Dropping her hairbrush on the bed, she crossed to the window, dividing the net curtain and turning the window handle. The window bar lifted from the floor and the cool evening air with its mad cacophony of sound leapt into the room, teasing at the tassels on the hanging lampshade above her head, pulling at her ears. Pigeons flew to rest on the ledges of nearby important looking buildings and the evening rush hour traffic jostled to pass her quickly by. The siren died away.

At the Bar Tabac, an upturned cafe chair rocked on the pavement.

The unexpected intensity of the moment raised the hairs on Lily's neck and brought goose bumps to her arms.

A terrifying hoarse scream tore down the hallway.

It was Thierry.

He dropped to the floor, blood heaving from a large gash or maybe more in one arm, his other hand and forearm drenched from holding it tight.

Nausea struck. It mangled Lily's head and the scene in front of her became one of a slow-motion movie shot. She struggled to keep her consciousness, pressing a hand to one of the walls to keep herself upright.

' _Mon Dieu, Maman!_ ' Pascale shrieked, curling over and seizing her brother's hand in hers.

The ruddiness of Thierry's cheeks had drained away and when he looked Lily's way, his eyes no longer bounced with the blue of his football shirt.

Lily sank to her knees.

Madame Briac gripped the telephone and drilled in the emergency number. ' _Ambulance! 263 Rue de la Bastille. Mon fils, Thierry Briac, quinze ans, blessure de couteau_.' Her voice remained calm but her body squirmed while she looked Thierry's slumped figure up and down. _'Non, rien d'autre_ . . .'

Closing the line, Madame Briac ran to her bedroom. Drawers and cupboards banged open and shut until Madame Briac returned to the hall to fasten a makeshift tourniquet above the wound. The intense flicker of the woman's eyes and her steady control as she tended to her son's knife wounds told Lily that Madame Briac was no stranger to crisis.

Streaks of blood crossed Pascale's face where she had rubbed her forehead after holding Thierry's hand. Lily followed into the kitchen and collected towels from a suspended wooden airer. Pascale filled a mixing bowl with boiled water.

As they knelt beside him, Thierry tried to speak. ' _Maman_ . . .'

Lily felt the pain dripping from his eyes.

'Sssssssh,' Madame Briac placed a finger to his lips. 'They are deep cuts,' she said in English. Stroking at Thierry's hair she reached out to Lily and Pascale, and appearing to sense their emotional state, motioned for them to go to the ground floor to wait for the ambulance.

Following the path of Thierry's blood as she ran down the stairs, Lily's nausea deepened. Gusts of air billowed up the lift shaft. She steadied herself as she stepped on the spoiled stone floor of the hallway to the entrance porch, her sense of direction in confusion as she saw Madame Claude's kitchen chair now merely a prop, lying against a 1960's style hat stand with its array of empty arms. The hallway enveloped in darkness, the sunlight of twenty minutes earlier, gone.

' _Madame Claude, vous êtes là?_ ' Pascale rapped on the door of the ground floor apartment, pressing her ear against the wood. _'Madame, il y a eu un accident! Vous êtes là? Madame!_ ' She pressed her ear to the door again and shook her head. 'Not there, ' she said, banging her palms against the glass entrance door to open it wide.

Outside, the revving of moto engines bore through Lily's ears. The smell of petrol filled her lungs and she could only think to swallow to rid herself of the sensation of sickness in her gut. She stood at the top of the steps to the apartment building looking for a continuation of the blood trail. Across the road at the Bar Tabac, a small amount of broken glass spilled onto the pavement next to the upturned cafe chair. The accelerated scream of voices from within and the waft of burning food compressed her chest. 'Pascale,' she managed to call. On the pavement, Pascale remained still, her curled hair lifting as the wind pummelled from behind.

A gunshot rang out.

Pigeons fanned into the sky, their beating wings deadened by the excruciating rearing-up of a battered old Citroën as it left a parking bay, spitting out black exhaust smoke.

The road fell quiet for only a moment.

A single siren took over.

' _La voilà!_ ' screamed Pascale.

The ambulance sailed past the smoking Citroën and into the bus zone. Pascale shouted out information about Thierry as paramedics prepared a stretcher. Lily held the lift gate open. She couldn't see past the ambulance into the street. Traffic ebbed and flowed behind it. The Bar Tabac became shielded. Temporarily forgotten.

With the paramedics inside the lift, Lily closed the concertina gate and the lift rose.

She took to the stairs, running then stopping dead at a first floor window. She raised her head to the squeaking of the stretcher being wheeled on the floor above. French voices lifted and fell with a certain control.

Sirens filled the air again. An older man wearing a casual suit jacket tucked a handgun into an inside pocket and brushed back his hair with his hands as he strode calmly out of the Bar Tabac and turned into a side street.

Two police cars screeched to a halt. Three, four, five police officers ran into the building in the man's wake.

Lily held a clear line of sight over the top of the ambulance, and she closed her eyes to remember the scene.

The ring of Madame Briac's instructions about the casserole supper faded away as the front door slammed, leaving Lily alone in the quiet of the apartment. She didn't remember much of what had been said, and not much of what followed. She balanced herself on the edge of a sofa as colour and sound flared from the television, adding to the reverberation of the gunshot splitting into her head. The mix fought with a sudden burst of a new siren, another ambulance perhaps, and through the window a flashing of blue lights. She muted the TV but otherwise did not dare to move from her position, except to lower her head into her hands. Her thoughts jumped from Paris to London, imagining herself back in her own bedroom in Roman Crescent, South Bridingworth. A comfort to know her parents were downstairs and to see twins Robbie and Ruby playing in the garden. She almost heard them shrieking with delight under her window.

She must have fallen asleep because she had no idea of the time when she heard a key turn in the door. She made herself stand to depress the power button on the front of the television.

'The paramedic told us they had control of Thierry's bleeding,' Pascale said, putting down a small shopping parcel and stepping aside for Mrs Kite. 'He praised _Maman_ for working quickly.'

'She did very well to stem the flow,' Mrs Kite said.

'Thank goodness he's OK,' Lily replied.

Pascale took off her jacket and waited while Mrs Kite smoothed her wispy hair. 'The boy's in shock and they will need to watch him,' she said.

'I understand.'

'Lily dear, it's partly the reason I came straight away.' Mrs Kite postured her slender frame against the dining table. 'Madame Briac called to say she wanted to stay with him for the time being.'

Lily remembered the second ambulance. 'What about the gunshot? Another ambulance arrived,' she said.

'I think it was for a boy,' Pascale said. 'I overheard the cashiers in the mini-market. But they didn't talk about how he became hurt or how badly. I know it must be related to the attack on Thierry.

'They'll be witnesses and suspects,' Mrs Kite said.

'The man in the shop said the police took the proprietor of the bar in for questioning, although I cannot believe he is a suspect,' Pascale said.

'You never know,' Mrs Kite said.

'Perhaps Madame Claude saw something,' Lily said.

'Perhaps,' Pascale tendered. 'I didn't see her when we went downstairs.'

'It's a busy road,' Mrs Kite said. ' There must be any number of people with information.'

'Including Pascale and me,' Lily said.

Mrs Kite's hand jittered on Lily's shoulder. 'Yes,' she said. 'I hope you know I'll stay with you if you have to make a statement.'

'Thank you,' Lily replied.

'When did _Maman_ say she would return?' Pascale asked.

'She doesn't know. Monsieur Briac's final appointment is at eight. At least he'll be here for you.' Mrs Kite pulled a face as if remembering. 'There's something else, Lily,' she said. 'Madame Briac thinks it might be best if you were to stay somewhere different after tonight  for a few days anyway. She hopes you understand.'

'Oh.' Lily turned her head, filling her lungs with the air blowing through the open French doors. 'Yes, of course.'

'We will see each other at school,' Pascale said.

'Where will I stay?' Lily asked.

'Flora's exchange family, _la famille Morneau_ , live a mile or so away. They have offered their spare room. Tomorrow after lunch Mr Kite and I will take you to the house so you can get settled.' Mrs Kite gave Lily a sympathetic wink. 'Have you called your parents?'

'No. I didn't think I would—'

Mrs Kite interrupted. 'No, of course, not until you knew more. But you can now.' She reached into her pouch. 'You can use my phone. You might want to let them know Mr Kite will give them a ring later with your temporary address.'

Lily decided the conversation with her mum had to be short and to the point. She swore her mum didn't take in any detail.

'Mum, there's been an accident and Pascale's brother has been injured,' she said.

'Oh my goodness, Darling. What happened?'

'Several youths attacked him with a knife. He's OK. We're OK. Don't panic.'

'I'm not panicking, Darling. And you're going where? Oh yes, with Flora. That's good. Hold on, Robbie's got hold of my earring.'

'Mr Kite will call you.'

'Yes, you said so.'

'I'll ring you from Flora's exchange's house. Maybe.'

'Yes, please do.'

'Bye Mum.

'Take care Lily. Dad's waving. He sends his love.'

Lily held the mobile away from her head as the clattering of her mum's handset hitting the floor hit her ear.

'That's Robbie,' Lily said.

Eight o'clock came and went and Monsieur Briac did not arrive.

The walkway had been swept following the raid and, with its chairs and tables upright, the Bar Tabac presented normality. The synonymous Bar Tabac sign flashed on and off intermittently and inside a huddle of dark figures silhouetted against an orange-red background.

The door folded in and out and she heard the escape of music reminiscent of George Brassens melodies she became familiar with on her holidays in France. Her eyes glazed, and she fell away from the balcony railing  her body flagging from the effects of motion from the sea crossing, her head splintered with sudden thoughts of gun murder and other worries implanted during the strained half-hour conversation she had when her mum rang back to cross-question her only minutes after they had spoken first.

Pascale came into the dining room, her pallor more striking in the brightness of the lights. 'Thierry is doing OK,' she said. 'Although he says he cannot remember anything. He just talks about not being able to drum in his band any more. _Maman_ is staying with him for the night.'

Mrs Kite twisted her bangle round and round on her wrist. 'There's no hurry in any of this,' she said, standing up from the armchair to address Pascale. 'I can stay as long as necessary.'

'It's OK,' Pascale replied.

'It's my duty to your parents,' said Mrs Kite. She pulled out her mobile and began to text.

'There's enough food,' Pascale said. 'I will put the casserole into the oven. We will eat late.'

Mrs Kite sat down again, doing her best to look relaxed, and with the same expression she put on when the Howles brothers played up to her in French class. 'I'll stay the night on the floor if I have to,' she said.

Lily acknowledged the severity of the hunger pulling at her insides when Pascale finally brought the bubbling casserole to the table. She took small mouthfuls for fear of giving herself indigestion, and watched how little time it took for Mrs Kite to clear her plate.

'Can I ask . . . did anyone see Thierry before—' Mrs Kite sipped a glass of red wine and coughed ungraciously as it attacked her throat.

'You mean before he was hurt,' Lily finished.

'Umm,' Mrs Kite managed.

'We left the bus together. Madame Briac was waiting on the pavement for Pascale and me. I didn't see Thierry. He didn't come into the apartment block. At least I don't think so.'

'He went off somewhere,' Pascale said. 'He was behind us but he disappeared.'

'Into the Bar Tabac?' Mrs Kite said, having recovered enough to serve herself with seconds.

'Someone will know,' Lily said.

'Thierry knows,' Pascale said. 'We have to wait for him to tell us.'

Watching Mrs Kite eat, Lily slowed down even further. She put down her knife and fork. 'Lovely, Pascale,' she said. ' But I can't manage any more . . .'

'It doesn't matter,' said Pascale. 'I cannot eat either.'

'What a shame,' Mrs Kite said, gingerly. 'It's such beautiful food. Please tell your mother.'

'I will.' Pascale replaced the lid on the casserole dish and carried it to the kitchen.

Mrs Kite sighed as a succession of vacant clacks came from a nearby clock. 'Ten o'clock already,' she said. 'Perhaps the police know more by now.'

'Perhaps,' Lily said.

'Have you tried Monsieur Briac recently?' Mrs Kite asked.

'I can try again,' Pascale replied from the doorway. She shook her head and replaced her phone on a ledge almost straight away. 'He must be out of town.'

'Is it usual?' Mrs Kite asked.

'Now and again,' Pascale replied. 'But strange—'

Brrrrrrrrrr . . . brrrrrrrrr

The intercom above the hall table interrupted like an inconvenient alarm clock.

' _Allo? C'est bien, la maison Briac?'_ The voice boomed from the box.

' _Oui_ ,' said Pascale into the microphone. ' _Qui est-ce?_ '

The agent de police soon appeared at the door, tall and straight as a sentry in his tailored blue uniform. Taking off his _képi_ , he held out ID and began a conversation with Pascale, at times gesturing towards the street, at times capturing Lily's eye.

Mrs Kite's face quivered but to Lily the man's behaviour didn't indicate he might be the bearer of more bad news.

Pulling a long cardigan over her shoulders, Lily took to the balcony again. She sipped her water.

The four-lane road carried a slow mesmerising train of headlights and tail lights, flashing and distorting across her glass. Earlier, Thierry's ambulance had crossed the lines of traffic with its high-pitched siren clearing the way under the railway bridge. Now the bridge traced a dark outline topped with a single green light, which appeared to be hanging mid-air. If there were stars out, she couldn't see for the canopy of light haze.

' _A drugs raid_.'

Mrs Kite's chewed up words fought with the drone of the street noise. The teacher fired out her questions and the policeman answered until she let out a long sigh, almost whinnying. Lily kept her eyes on the road. Soon after, she saw the police car pulling away from the kerbside parking bays to join the traffic.

Pascale beckoned her from the balcony, closing the shutters. 'The police raided the Bar Tabac,' she said. 'Some of those inside got away through the side streets. Some are answering questions at the station, about Thierry and about what was going on at the time. Someone will want to speak to us tomorrow.'

'I understand,' Lily said.

'Oh God,' said Mrs Kite, collapsing on the chaise longue. 'They're not taking your statements until tomorrow. And we're on our own.'

Lily's patience snapped. 'We're not on our own,' she said, with brutal vigour. 'We're surrounded by flats and the police have been to brief us.'

'We must be calm,' Pascale said.

'Yes, we must.' Mrs Kite took a sheepish glance at her mobile. 'I'm counting on your father returning soon,' she said.

'No one can get hold of him,' Pascale said. 'So I will make you a bed.'

Mrs Kite looked up, screwing up her petite features to hide a look of despair.

'You can have Thierry's room, Madame, and I will take the sofabed,' Pascale said forcibly, then busied herself collecting the plates.

The clacks of one, two and three o'clock came and went. Mrs Kite's snores bellowed along the hallway, slipping under Lily's door and feeding her mind with relentless images of Hercule Poirot, Mr and Mrs Kite and her parents in a scene resembling Agatha Christie's _Murder on the Orient Express_. Frustrated, Lily jammed her feet out of the bed, making her way along the corridor to the bathroom to splash water on her face. She paused at the open door to the master bedroom. A single table lamp lit the room with a yellow hue, picking out the smoothed contours of the silk bedspread.

Still Monsieur Briac had not returned.

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 positioned 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, the 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.

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.

mercredi

Wednesday

Shortly after 7.00am Camille opened the curtains of the attic bedroom to a dull and misty sky.

Pinned down with an intense dream memory of being isolated, Lily lay in bed watching the clouds pass and trying to make sense of Marc-Olivier's words.

Guilty.

Monsieur Briac was a police officer. Did Marc-Olivier have some sort of a grudge against the man?

Dangerous.

Did he mean Monsieur Briac was a part of something illegal? Marc-Olivier must know what was going on.

She rolled out of bed, stretching while Flora and Camille clattered their way down the spiral staircase.

The leaves on the trees along the avenue hung with solace, and as Lily moved closer to the window she saw Madame Morneau sauntering back with the morning post from the box.

Marc-Olivier's Citroën no longer obscured her path on the driveway and Lily guessed he had gone to college.

She began to gather her clothes, and as she dressed she thought of seeing Pascale.

The smallest hint of sunshine rippled beneath the kitchen window blind as Lily took breakfast opposite Monsieur Morneau.

'What is it today?' he asked. The collar of his casual shirt flared open, his brightly coloured tie folded and positioned on a laptop case on the counter.

'School lessons and _la Tour Eiffel_ ,' Lily replied. She helped herself to a bread roll.

'A good schedule,' he quipped.

Madame Morneau bustled by. 'The girls are on the grass,' she said, in broken English. She hurried into the house with no more than a glance in Lily's direction.

Monsieur Morneau put down his coffee. It splashed over the table.

'Look,' he said, fetching a cloth. 'I need to tell you the position with Marc.'

Lily buttered one half of her roll. Waiting.

'He's troubled.' he said.

'Yes, I can tell.'

'We are all troubled. My wife especially. But I don't want you to feel our house is unwelcoming. You've been through too much already.'

'It's OK,' Lily said.

She sensed Monsieur Morneau had more to say.

'I think you came down here last night,' he said, after a long pause.

'For ten minutes. I came for water.'

'And Marc – did he bother you?'

'A bit,' she admitted. 'He wanted a cigarette.'

Monsieur Morneau's face displayed doubt. 'He is nervous of the situation.'

'Yes,' she replied. 'He was nervous.'

'Getting together with youths involved the drugs scene is a recent thing. Marc wants help although he won't admit. He doesn't want to lose the chance to go into the army. He has ambition. But it is in danger.' The man poured himself a second coffee.

Monsieur Morneau's revelation took her aback and she admired the honesty. She thought about Marc-Olivier's behaviour, his demeanour, and his words.

She raised her voice a level. 'He spoke a lot about Monsieur Briac. About guilt.'

Monsieur Morneau clunked his cup on the kitchen counter and spun to face her, his troubles entering the lines of his brow. 'This business at the Bar Tabac takes us backwards.' He regained his composure, meeting Lily's stare. 'The police asked Marc in for questioning, first thing.'

'Oh,' Lily mumbled.

'It will be an interview,' Monsieur Morneau continued. 'Marc will call me when he's ready to tell me anything. My wife Lisette will be here when he returns.'

'Camille knows about this?' Lily asked.

'We've spoken. I know she is concerned for her brother.' Monsieur Morneau stretched back to fetch his tie, dropping it straight to the floor. Lily read the hospital card pass hung around his neck as he picked it up.

_Directeur, recherche oncologique_.

Cancer research director. Camille had explained the importance of the work her dad carried out.

He took off the chain as he fumbled to fasten his top button. She felt his confusion.

' _Merci bien, Lily_ ,' he said. 'I hope you have a good day.'

Lily responded, pursing her lips to gesture a smile.

She finished her breakfast and ran into the garden with a heavy stomach.

At school, Camille pulled Flora into the jostle of older students. Pascale and Lily stood alone in the playground.

' _Bonjour. Ça va_ _?_ ' Pascale said.

' _Oui ça va bien. Et toi_ _?_ '

Pascale pulled a pout. 'It's good to see you,' she said.

'You too.' Lily noticed dark patches beneath Pascale's eyes. 'You're coming to Camille's house after supper?' Lily said.

'Yes.'

'Everything good at home?'

'Thierry has been quiet. But he is recovering.'

'It must be difficult for him. And for you and your mother.'

'Thierry tries to do too much.' Pascale's scowl merged her freckles. 'Us? We cope with the disruption. Nothing is different, except _Maman_ drove to work at the _Commissariat_ rather than take _le métro_. Jean, Monsieur Briac, has not come back just yet.'

'Perhaps he will be at the apartment later today,' Lily said.

'Perhaps.'

A stout boy found his way between them. He scribbled some details on the back of a ticket and handed it to Pascale.

When the boy was out of earshot, 'That was Laurent. He plays bass guitar. Thierry's friend from his rock band,' Pascale said. 'They have a school concert to play next week. Thierry cannot take part of course. They have a substitute drummer from the college. Laurent asks if Thierry will be there to support. I think he will want to go if he can.' Pascale put the ticket in her purse. 'And you, Lily?' she asked.

'I'm good, thanks. Camille's family has made me very welcome.'

'It is much better you are with Camille.' Pascale pushed her hair from her face, her eyes pensive. 'Did you meet her brother?'

'He came and went.'

Pascale peered at her. 'How was he behaving?'

'Strange. Edgy, I suppose. He was looking for something and it made him crazy.'

'He sees the wrong people.'

'Monsieur Morneau said he was at the _Commissariat_.'

'Marc knows things I am certain.'

'Is he a danger?'

' _Non._ _Marc . . . il est stupide. C'est tout_. He is not the person he used to be but he is not dangerous. Misguided, more likely.'

The two girls headed a short way to sit on the grassy bank overlooking the railway, where they stood for the photo only days before. Carriage by carriage, they watched a train roll by, its passengers obscured by heavily misted windows. Pascale stared as the train disappeared into the distance.

'When I told Thierry you were staying with Camille and her brother, he could not control his anger,' she said.

'If there is something going on, why won't Thierry explain?'

'He doesn't know who to trust.'

'Surely, your mother?'

' _Maman_ has asked but he is not saying much. He likes to make a stand against the establishment. It is not popular to be the child of a police officer.'

'You mean at school?'

'He fights it.'

'But he has friends on his side?'

'Not so many now Marc-Olivier has moved on to college.'

'Marc-Olivier?'

'We all used to play together when we were small. Before Papa died. We had fun. Marc was kind.' She gave a tight-chested laugh and her face settled rapidly. 'He still looks up to Marc, like an older brother.'

'The incident at the Bar Tabac—'

'I think Marc is smoking drugs. Thierry is vulnerable. I worry he will go for harder stuff because he won't stand smoke.'

Another train crawled by, decreasing in speed as it slipped between the banks and into the station approach.

'It's time for lessons,' Pascale said, offering her hand. ' _On y va_.'

Pascale jumped to her feet, her bus pass wallet dropping to the ground and letting slip a colour photograph.

Lily launched herself forward as it blew a short way down the bank. Scooping up the image in her hands, a halted breath stopped her from blurting out.

'Your mother . . . and _Jean_?' she said, after a moment.

She wanted to say so much more.

About the pale suit jacket and the distinct dark wavy hair.

She wanted to ask a million questions. But the words didn't come in any language.

Over and over, Lily's mind replayed the image she saw from the stairs leading up to the apartment. Her view over the top of the ambulance could not have been better.

It was Monsieur Briac.

No doubt about it. He came out of the Bar Tabac, past the upturned café chair and into the side street.

Why hadn't he come over to help Thierry? Surely he would have known his stepson had been hurt and seen the ambulance . . .

Her confusion thickened. Her anger brimmed.

Ten, maybe twenty minutes passed and Lily found herself watching a well-dubbed version of a black and white film, of which she had a vague recollection, in a darkened school classroom.

The film dragged. The humour didn't come across in translation. The final scene played out and the classroom's black blinds ripped into the top of the window frames almost without her noticing.

Mrs Kite came into focus at the front of class standing with the beautifully poised Mademoiselle Chandris. The projection screen refilled with a shot of the Eiffel Tower.

They would be there in a matter of hours.

Mrs Kite trilled away merrily as Mademoiselle Chandris extended her jewellery-clad wrist to timetable the afternoon on the whiteboard.

Dinnertime.

Lily felt no less uncomfortable.

The crashing of plates and clinking of cutlery echoed down the stairwell and a warm draught of stewed meatballs infused with the fluttering she felt inside. Lily looked beyond the orderly queue of English exchange students, to the bundles of eyes fixed down on her. The students thumped their shoes over wooden boards into the upstairs dining hall.

The image of Monsieur Briac haunted her again, this time through the metal catering racks full of yoghurts. Lily struggled with an obscure feeling of betrayal as Pascale waved at her from across the room. Several older boys dispersed from the corner where Pascale and Camille sat.

'It is true. Luc was taken into the police station on Monday during the raid. He is answering questions about the knife attack on Thierry,' Camille whispered.

'And they will ask him what happened to Didier,' Pascale said. She spoke solemnly, the yellow ceiling lights reflecting in the glassiness of her eyes.

'Fabien in my class says Luc's younger brother Didier almost ties himself around Luc's ankles,' Camille said. 'Didier might only have been there by accident.'

A boy tipped his chair backwards as Lily struggled to put down her tray. 'No accident Didier was there,' he countered.

Lily tried to squeeze into the space as the boy turned away. 'Do you think Luc held a gun too?' she whispered.

'Huh?' Flora said.

Pascale shook her head. 'I don't know. But Luc wouldn't have put his little brother in danger like that. No. There were others. I am certain of it.'

Lily dragged her hand across one side of her face. Her throat sore as she tried to swallow her first mouthful of food. Her head aching with knowledge about Monsieur Briac that she didn't quite know what to do with.

The heat of the room became too much and her fork clattered on the plate. 'I need to cool down. I won't be long,' she said.

'Lily, are you OK?' Pascale asked.

'Yes, please don't worry.'

The corridor screeched with sporadic feedback and the raucous tones of heavy rock music. The door to the school hall swung and Lily saw the band practising on the stage.

Four boys, about Thierry's age.

The drummer tapped sticks, and instrument by instrument the song stopped.

' _Encore une fois, le refrain,_ ' the drummer shouted to the boy with spiked hair who was standing at the microphone.

The door flew wide again with the corridor draught, drawing the band members' attention to her presence. Lily recognised the bass player Laurent.

The drummer beckoned her with one of his sticks.

Lily's cheeks burned, her ears throbbed.

' _J'écoutais,_ ' she said quickly. And as loudly as she could manage. ' _La musique, c'est cool.'_

' _Oui?_ ' The drummer laughed. 'Come next week to see us, English,' he called. 'Or do you lie?' He laughed again.

Lily shook her head. 'I'm sorry. We will be gone,' she replied. 'To the UK.'

' _C'est dommage_ ,' the drummer jeered.

The guitarist turned to his amp and started to retune his guitar.

'You're staying with Thierry, yes?' the singer said, his voice booming out of the PA.

' _Oui_ ,' Lily croaked.

'He drums, for us. _Normalement_.'

Lily nodded.

'He is better?'

'Yes. Well, I don't know exactly . . . better I think. His sister says so. He is at home.'

The singer stood for a moment then pulled ear monitors out of his ears and waved his arms. ' _Fini_ ,' he said, unplugging himself and his microphone. ' _Jusqu'à demain_ ,' he shouted to Laurent then whipped his way behind the stage curtain.

The drummer jumped from the stage, his blonde dreadlocks mopping the air.

'I have to go too,' Lily whispered, inaudibly. She backed out of the hall, almost running towards the cloakroom door.

A rush of air at the nape of her neck.

A poke of a drumstick on her upper arm.

'The bullet came from the pistol of Monsieur Briac,' a voice said.

The drumstick landed on the floor in front of her feet.

The sharp-eyed drummer put his foot on it and stood before her.

'Just as it did before. Made my uncle deaf, dumb and blind at _Le Maître d'Or_. Didn't they tell you?'

Lily stared up at the drummer as if she did not understand.

Except she understood his accusation only too well.

'It is no wonder Marc-Olivier left the band, mixing with a family like that,' he carried on, his voice as penetrating as his hard-hitting drumming.

Fast footsteps.

To Lily's relief Mademoiselle Chandris appeared from nowhere, anger spreading over the teacher's face as she drew closer. ' _Yves! Viens!_ ' she shouted, lifting the youth away.

Lily almost fell into the cloakroom, and clutched the hand basin tight to compose herself. She felt her heart accelerating to explode. The door creaked behind her and she heard Flora's voice.

'Are you OK, Lil?'

'Just,' Lily replied, opening her eyes.

'Will you be OK to go to the Eiffel Tower this afternoon?'

'Sure.' Lily managed to sound in control.

'Really?'

'Really. It's lack of sleep.'

'Don't fib to me.' Flora pulled up a stool. 'Here, sit down. I know when you're fibbing.'

'I'll sit when I've done this.'

Lily rested one knee on the stool while she filled the basin. She splashed her face as the water level rose.

The door banged again.

' _Ca va?_ ' came the voice of Mademoiselle Chandris.

Lily heard someone pulling out paper towels. When she opened her eyes, the teacher held them out to her.

' _Merci bien_ ,' Lily replied.

Mademoiselle Chandris bit her lip. 'I'm so sorry for what happened with Yves. I will not have anyone intimidating the English students in this school.'

Lily dabbed at her face and threw the towels into the waste bin. 'It's OK. He didn't mean anything against me, I don't think.'

'Whatever he meant, he shouldn't have cornered you,' Mademoiselle Chandris replied.

'Did something happen?' Flora asked, her eyes widening.

'Yeah, but it doesn't matter,' Lily replied. 'I didn't understand what he said to me anyway.'

Flora eyed her with suspicion.

'It's fine, Flora,' Lily said.

Mademoiselle Chandris spoke in dulcet tones. 'Of course it matters, whatever he said, and you must come and find me any time you feel you need to talk. Both of you. It's what I'm here for.'

Lily felt a compelling urge to confide in the young teacher there and then.

She didn't.

She managed to eat morsels of food as she joined in with the conversation with Pascale and Camille in the dining room.

The church clock showed 12.30pm at the time she caught up with Mrs Kite in the school playground.

The teacher cradled Lily's face in her ice-cold palms. 'You don't look so well.'

'I'm not ill,' Lily said, abruptly. 'I need to talk to the police.'

Mrs Kite's face whitened. 'Again? Is it about the drummer boy in the corridor? Mireille told me what happened.'

'No, it's not about the drummer boy in the corridor.'

'Do you want to talk somewhere private?'

Politely, Lily tugged herself away. 'I don't want to speak here, for certain.'

'Yes of course.' Mrs Kite thought for a second and tapped at her phone. Her voice elevated in its pitch, 'I can contact Madame Briac and she can advise whether it's necessary for you to speak to anyone.'

Anxiety wriggled in Lily's chest. She gripped at Mrs Kite's arm. 'It's necessary.'

Mrs Kite put on her crushed face, checking her watch. 'I'll find Mademoiselle Chandris in the staff room to let her know I'm taking you to the _Commissariat_ ,' she said.

A clashing of symbols, drums and trumpets filled the air as Lily and Mrs Kite stood in the reception of the _Commissariat Central_. 'It's a _fête_ day,' Mrs Kite said, and through the open entrance door Lily caught sight of a string of uniformed musicians marching in front of schoolchildren dressed as crocodiles, tigers and snakes. 'The school group will leave for the Eiffel Tower at two-thirty,' the teacher continued as the tail end of the celebration passed. 'We should be able to get this done and get over the bridge to meet them.'

Heels snapped against the stone floor and Lily turned. ' _Madame Briac!_ ' Lily said.

Madame Briac appeared. ' _Lily, ma petite_. _Ça va bien?_ '

' _Oui, Madame_.'

Madame Briac continued to hold Lily's hand, the woman's cheeks drooped sympathetically and clearly she did not know what to say. 'It is a terrible thing to happen during your school trip. I am so sorry. Would you like me to stay in the interview room? I don't have to be in my court liaison meeting until later this afternoon.'

Panic.

Lily hadn't considered Madame Briac might be there. Lily's breath knotted over her reply. ' _Non_. _Merci Madame_. I will manage.'

Madame Briac released Lily's hand. 'Remember,' she said. 'I am just along the corridor.'

The interview room door sucked to a close.

The police officer that had taken Lily's statement began to recap on the notes she took on Sunday afternoon. 'You have something to add I think?' she said, her pen poised.

'Yes.' Lily stared down at her feet not really knowing how to start.

She gulped air.

'It's to do with Monsieur Briac. I saw him at the Bar Tabac on the day of the shooting. The day Thierry was hurt. I know he was the man I saw leaving the scene.'

Mrs Kite didn't flinch as she translated. Gradually her cheery-cheeked expression dropped into a hard-faced stare. No reaction came from the officer.

'Walking away from the scene at the Bar Tabac? Are you sure, Lily?' Mrs Kite asked.

'I've seen a photo of Pascale's family.'

'A photo?' Mrs Kite said in exasperation. 'But you haven't met Monsieur Briac in person.'

'I know it was Monsieur Briac,' Lily said, in cold reply. 'I saw his face. He was wearing the same clothes.'

' _Ma pauvre_. There must be a mistake.'

She thought of the drummer Yves. 'Other people have said—' Her utterance met a wall. She stared blankly, her eyes stinging in the dry air.

Without writing a word on the page of notes, the officer snapped shut her dossier and caught the attention of someone through the interview room window.

Madame Briac came hurrying in and the two women nestled in whispered conversation.

'Is that it?' whispered Mrs Kite, clutching at her scarf. 'Will they not explain to me why we've stopped?'

With her face pained, and patent court shoes squeaking with each step, Madame Briac ushered the police officer from the room. 'These sorts of crime are rare,' she said, linking her arm through Lily's as they strolled along the corridor.

They stood in the reception area, the atmosphere between them as uncomfortable as the lack of ventilation. Lily freed herself from Madame Briac's grasp to rub at annoying marks on her glasses lenses.

Why did Monsieur Briac turn up at the Bar Tabac and disappear again? Did Madame Briac know what her husband had been doing?

Outside, a succession of orange and blue streamers tumbled along the street. Lily took in the fresher air.

'Well, it's exactly as I planned,' Mrs Kite said, triumphantly, and in an obvious attempt to lighten the situation. 'Plenty of time to meet the group at the Eiffel Tower. We've time to spare.'

'Good,' Lily muttered, carelessly.

'And I will need to get to Thierry to make his lunch,' Madame Briac said.

'How is he?' Lily asked.

'Watching a film when I telephoned. He is still weak.' Madame Briac pulled out her car keys and unlocked her car. 'But it will come. I have learned to give him more space, ever since his father died.'

'Absolutely,' Mrs Kite said. But the look on her face was one of perplexity. 'He doesn't remember anything about the attack?'

Madame Briac flashed a smile. 'Sometimes police work is confusing to us all,' she said. 'Now you must go to your group. The sight seeing will be good.'

Lily hesitated. 'If I needed to come along—'

Madame Briac bowed a sympathetic ear towards Lily.

'No Lily. There won't be time,' Mrs Kite exclaimed.

'It's my camera. I left it in the wardrobe,' Lily responded.

'Well,' Madame Briac replied. 'We could make it, couldn't we. And you would be sorry not to take pictures from the Eiffel Tower.'

Mrs Kite adopted an aggrieved stance. 'Lily, how will you get back to meet us?'

'It's not a problem. I will bring her back by three. That is what you want, no?' Madame Briac said. 'You will only need to tell me where you are going to meet.'

Lily felt a fulfilling sense of accomplishment at having escaped Mrs Kite again, even if only for a short time. She climbed into the passenger seat of Madame Briac's car and as she enjoyed the freedom of the drive, her thoughts became fixed on home and the anxious conversation she held on the telephone with her mum the night before. Her dad, with his practical banking hat on, was much more realistic about the whole issue.

But her calming thoughts crashed the moment Madame Briac angled the car into a parking bay in front of Apartments 316-325 _Rue de la Bastille_. Releasing her hands from the steering wheel, Madame Briac thrust her fingers into her handbag, dragging out her mobile and pressing it to her ear. Her relaxed driving expression metamorphosed into one of panic. Face powder appeared to drop away from her cheeks.

' _Jean? Oh la! Attends!_ '

Madame Briac hurried into her bag again and held out a cardkey and a single silver key attached to a key ring. ' _Tiens_ ,' she said, shaking them at Lily. 'You won't be too long fetching your things will you? I'll be back very soon.'

Lily began, 'OK—' but Madame Briac returned to her caller. She flagged Lily away.

Lily pushed the car door shut and, with a tentative look behind, strode up the steps to the apartment block.

' _Bonjour Madame_ ,' she called out to Madame Claude, hoping the widow had calmed. The elderly lady in black tipped herself forward from her kitchen chair, and seeming to remember Lily at the last moment, lifted a conciliatory sun-browned arm in response, her forehead crinkling into her severely pinned hair and a gold-toothed gape breaking her solemn vigil over the comings and goings of the street.

Lily left Madame Claude behind, swiping the cardkey and pushing through the glass doors to the hallway.

A steady mechanical whirr dragged at Lily's ears as the oil-clogged cords of the lift squeaked their way through the pulley mechanism. A heavy clunk and the cords vibrated with the crashing of the concertina gate. She bypassed the lift and made her way across Madame Claude's open front door to climb the stairs to the first floor window, not stopping to look.

Up to the second floor, where two apartment doors faced each other.

316.

She knocked hard.

The noise filled the stairwell.

' _Thierry? C'est Lily . . ._ '

No reply.

She pushed the key into the lock.

' _Thierry?_ '

The tone of her call and the juddering of the closing door echoed inharmoniously around the delicate French decor of the apartment. Her footsteps thudded over the polished floorboards and the stretches of runner that Mrs Kite had cleaned and disinfected 48 hours earlier.

' _Thierry?_ ' she called one more time, throwing her voice carefully along the corridor.

The building creaked and stretched in reply, coveting her in its emptiness.

She jabbed at the bedroom door, as if she were almost tempting fate, and paced through determinedly as it swung.

One door to the heavy wardrobe lay ajar. She dragged it wide, doing her best to ignore the small, bespectacled body in tight jeans reflecting back at her in its mirror. At her head height she drew open a small drawer, just large enough for a collection of pocket-handkerchiefs. Reaching over with her other hand she touched at the cool metal of her small camera and gathering it up by its cord, slipped it into her back pocket.

Rather than force it to close, she allowed the wardrobe door to hang free. She hurried to the window and stroking aside the net curtain, leaned her head on the window glass.

A red service van occupied the car parking space where Madame Briac had stopped. A man wheeled an electrical appliance along the pavement.

Suddenly an explosive decompression of air blocked her ears, and from behind the van with a tearing of metal on tarmac, a battered black Citroën mounted the high kerb and with its wheels in the air, smashed into the front windows of the Bar Tabac.

Lily's hands shook as she turned the window bar. She let the wind push the long second floor window back against the net curtains. She lifted the nets and reached a hand into her pocket.

Someone threw open the driver's door of the crushed Citroën.

' _Briac_ . . . but I don't understand.' She hardly heard herself whisper over the throbbing pulse of her heart.

The wardrobe door squealed on its hinges. Her sub-conscious stirred.

She scrabbled her fingers over the 'on' button of her camera.

Monsieur Briac with dark wavy hair and the same creased jacket gripped something with both hands and heaved. He stopped, his body rocked, and he began the motion again.

This time Lily saw the gun. Monsieur Briac banged it against the moving body as he lugged it from the car.

The body of a younger man hit the walkway. The young man rolled, pushing himself to all fours. Blood poured on the pavement from his hairline. The young man brought his hands around his head.

Only now could she see his face.

_Marc-Olivier_.

The wind whipped up a whirl of the leaves around the figures. Monsieur Briac spat a mouthful of fluid and abandoned the teenager, disappearing into the broken shell of the Bar Tabac.

Lily stood, as a picture framed, holding up the net curtain on her shoulders. One, then two clacks from the nearby clock grated over the outdoor scene.

Monsieur Briac stepped out of the Bar Tabac onto the smashed glass and debris of the wide Parisian walkway with his mobile pressed to his ear. He reached his other arm over the limp straggles of his dark hair as if he were pulling at something in his brain. He tugged his head back further and looked up to where she stood behind the second floor window. Throwing his phone at the open window of the car, he pulled out a handgun and tipped it to the ground as he charged at the entrance beneath her.

Lily flew back from the glass, dropping the dust-laden net curtain to the floor.

She had to get out.

PART TWO

mercredi

Wednesday

14:05

Brrrrrrrrrr . . . brrrrrrrrr

The front doorbell roars through Lily's body.

She breathes hard though the crack at the side of the bathroom door, watching as the dining room shutters smash against their hinges in the wind. For a moment she thinks she hears a stifled cry from inside the apartment. She stops inhaling until the pain in her chest is too much to bear.

Silence.

It stretches far too long.

Two shots ricochet on metal, rocketing her forward.

Her lungs tighten as another shot from the hallway blasts her with the stamina to throw herself out of the bathroom. She clenches the razor against her body with explosive courage.

The outside hall echoes with screaming, shouting and the cracking of footsteps on the stairs.

Louder and louder.

She screws her eyes shut.

Escape.

The fire exit.

Madame Briac would return to collect her from the main road.

She pictures the back route from the fire escape.

Catching sight of the terror moulded in grey on her face in a dressing mirror, she flings open the French windows in the master bedroom.

She looks down at the nettles and an assortment of bins.

Wide, spiky, metal struts beneath her feet – her bright green Converse covering the widest of the gaps, the struts digging into the sole of the shoes. The framework of the fire exit rattles with every hurried step, her hand dragging on the rusting rail.

The staircase gives with the weight of another body.

Lily shrieks, not daring to look up. Jumping past the open window of the ground floor apartment, she hits the concreted yard harder than she expects, hardly noticing the razor dropping from her hand. She knocks into a crate of glass bottles as she stumbles under a group of trees. Cars stream across the road bridge ahead. The path curves away towards the _Rue de la Bastille,_ disappearing under the bridge. Nettles prick at her legs and her stride becomes heavy.

Someone launches themselves from the fire exit, pushing into her from behind.

Lily follows her glasses headlong.

She opens her eyes against dry earth and reaches out into blurred vision, extending her fingers until they ache over weeds and stones.

She finds her glasses. She holds the scratched lenses to her face and, ankles stinging, brings herself upright, dragging her feet over a tree root. She sways, bringing the dust of her fingertips to her mouth to scratch away the dirt.

She catches sight of a longhaired youth in a mustard yellow T-shirt disappearing through the foliage.

His running beats into the distance.

She turns.

Gold glints from Madame Claude's vulgar gawp. The elderly woman steadies her, brushing her down with leathered hands, exhibiting concern without using words. She tugs at Lily's elbow as if to lead her back to the apartment block.

' _Non_ ,' Lily fires, pointing towards the bridge. ' _Non, merci, Madame_.' She pins her glasses to her face, as Madame Claude's dismayed features come into focus.

' _Arrêtes-là_!'

A new voice and simultaneous striking of feet on the fire escape.

Lily will not look up.

She will run.

' _Stop! Attention_!'

The raw strength of the man's call penetrates as she runs under the void of the road bridge – the noise following her into the smell of urine and discarded alcohol, forcing her legs work to harder. The traffic noise rushes. Her adrenalin pushes her up a hard-mudded path, turning her back on herself as she reaches the top.

She cannot tell if he is chasing still.

The paved footpath finally eats away at her legs and she drops to the ground.

Car passengers point her way.

As the vehicles and buses clear with the changing of the lights, she sees the youth in the mustard yellow T-shirt staring into her.

Now she sees his face.

Thierry turns his body away from her and hangs over the wall looking in the direction of the apartment block. The sirens of ambulances and police cars merge in an ear-splitting collaboration. They pass and he falls away from the wall to meet her.

'You OK?' he says.

The grit cuts like shards of glass into the whites of her eyes as she tries to focus on the smooth features of his face. 'Maybe,' she replies, her chest heaves as she looks up from the pavement. 'You heard the shooting. Someone's following.' Her nose presses against the graffiti logo on his yellow T-shirt as he lifts her to her feet. They are alone on the pavement as the traffic snakes past and car passengers stare.

'They won't come on the bridge,' Thierry says. 'Hear the sirens? Too much going on up here.'

'Thank God,' she says. Her fingers tremble as she straightens her glasses.

He bows forward. 'But we still have to run.'

'Who are we running from? Why were they shooting?'

'No matter,' he says, abruptly.

Her eyes widen. 'No matter? How can you say that!'

He flicks his hair from his eyes and winces.

She looks at the red sodden dressing on his arm.

'You haven't got a sling,' she says.

'It got in the way.' He pulls the twisted bandage from his pocket. She helps him to wrap it around the dressing.

'Who did this to you?' she demands.

He puts his hand over her mouth before she can speak. 'Just know you're involved,' he says, turning on an aggressive look killing her feelings of sympathy for him.

She fights free. 'Tell me why we have to run,' she says.

'Because you're with me now.'

'I'm not with anyone,' she says, incensed. 'Tell me why you texted Camille to be careful.'

He backs off, skin rippling at the sides of his mouth. 'Marc-Olivier is in trouble.'

'So.'

He glares.

'Why do you care? Is it for the shooting? Did he shoot at Didier?' she demands.

The emotion leaves Thierry's already drawn face.

She lowers her voice. 'They're after you too. Is that it?'

'It's not simple.'

'You're running away. You said as much.'

'I'm not running away. I'm going to the police.'

Her exasperation boils over. 'Briac _is_ the police.'

Thierry spits, his face bound up with pain as fresh blood seeps through the bandage.

'You saw,' he says. 'Briac is far too close to everything.'

'Too close to be told why someone attacked you? Too close to the shooting at the Bar Tabac? Too close to the drugs dealing?'

'What does it matter to you?'

Now his hands are on her shoulders and he eyeballs her. She loses balance, smashing her back against the wall.

'What does it matter to Marc-Olivier?' she retorts.

'It matters,' he barks.

He turns as a bus rumbles over a series of service plates. He pulls her away from the brick.

'Now we have to go,' he says.

He pays for bus tickets and leads her to the nearest seat.

Her head thumps with anger and fear. She scrapes her fingernails into her hair. Her eyes are closed.

'I have to contact my group,' she whispers. 'They'll be at the Eiffel Tower.' She feels her shaking legs rubbing against the coarse weave of his jeans.

He doesn't reply.

The bus jolts her eyes open, and within minutes they draw up to the façade of the _Gare du Nord_. People climb on and they crowd her, hanging their sweaty bodies over her head. Thierry grips his arm as he retrieves a phone from a pouch on his belt.

She nods her gratitude and reads off the telephone number scrawled on the back of her hand.

' _Allo, c'est bien Madame Kite_?' Lily's voice trails away.

'Lily, is it you?' the voice of Mrs Kite replies, anxiously.

'I'm on my way, Mrs Kite,' Lily says, searching for a road name.

'How long will you be? We're at the front of the queue for the lifts.'

'How far to the Eiffel Tower?' she asks Thierry.

'About three kilometres, a little more,' he says, with disinterest.

'Can I meet you in about thirty minutes?' Lily tells Mrs Kite.

'I'll wait at the kiosk. Mr Kite and Mireille will take the others.'

Lily hangs up.

'The bus will take me there, won't it?' she asks.

Thierry shrugs. He holds his arm again, gripping at the wound pad.

'You'll get better,' she says, flippantly. 'You'll be OK to bang the drums in the band with Laurent the next time.'

'And Didier?' he shouts in her face.

She recoils, humbled. 'You mean the boy who was shot?'

He winces. ' _Oui. Didier_.'

She watches his face.

Nothing.

'No wonder Madame Claude's behaviour was volatile,' she says.

'Pah,' he says. 'The grandmother.'

'What do you mean by that?'

A man standing above her pushes his briefcase into her shoulder as he makes his way towards the bus exit.

'Nothing,' Thierry grunts.

Lily's insides roll. 'You know Didier . . . he—'

'He . . . what?' Thierry's cheek turns to the window as he speaks. Sweat dribbles on his forehead. He hunches his body.

She will not finish her sentence unless he looks at her.

She taps him on the shoulder.

He spins angrily.

'The boy Didier is still unconscious,' she says.

Lines furrow Thierry's wet brow and he looks as if he's going to be sick. He reaches for the back of the seat in front to help him to his feet. She stands with him.

'Where are you going?' she cries.

He pushes through the bodies to the doors as if his life depends on it. The bus nears a stop and he hits the button.

'Off,' he says, pulling at her top. 'You have to come with me.'

'We can't. You're going to the police, and I have to be—'

He directs her to the pavement and marches her along. He breaks into a run. 'We're going back this way,' he says. She feels a bruising ache in her right arm. She stares up at the clock face on the front of the _Gare du Nord_.

Two forty-five.

They enter the echoing departure hall. He leads her between its pillars. Through a drifting haze of tobacco smoke.

'I don't want to be here,' she says. 'I need to go.'

He looks behind, avoiding her eyes, and doesn't answer. His face is blue, as if he is drowning in fear.

14:46

The departure board rolls as they slide underneath, and he changes his hold to lead her by the wrist around the back of a stone pillar.

He expels. His cheeks regain colour. He cranes his head to her ear, brushing his damp hair across her face.

'Now things change. With Didier . . . and I need more time to think,' he whispers. 'I need to breathe.'

She tips her head and her eyes follow the tear in his T-shirt. The cut-throat razor she dropped from the fire escape is fastened next to his mobile in his jeans belt.

She points to it but he lifts her chin. 'You'll wait with me,' he says, pulling at her hair.

She rips herself away, shocked at his aggression, staring at the blood-shot around his pleading eyes. 'I don't want to. I don't want to be any part of this,' she shouts.

A couple stepping by turns to question their argument but takes no more notice as Thierry brings his arm around her.

He clips at Lily's hand, taking hold of two of her fingers.

'But you are part of this. You are involved. And you must listen,' he says, staring searchingly into her eyes. 'Your camera—' His grip tightens and she squeezes back. 'I need it . . . I switched the memory card with mine.'

She scoffs. 'Don't be ridiculous. When did you switch the memory card?'

'At the school,' he says. 'When I took your pictures at the railway bank.'

She reaches her free hand to an empty back pocket . . . remembering . . . realising he could be telling the truth.

'I don't have the camera,' she says, patting at her jeans pockets and showing an empty palm close to his face. 'I fell. You know I fell.'

He relaxes his grip.

'What's on the card in any case?'

'Pictures . . . and a film from another day at the Bar Tabac,' he says as if she should know what he is talking about. 'I took it a week ago when they were there. Everyone knows I have it now. When the police see it, it will put them all in prison.'

'Well it won't will it because you haven't got it, have you! You gave it to me!' He moves towards her and she baulks. 'I'm not going back for it. If that's what you're thinking. You'll need to go and get it yourself before _everyone_ else does. You may be too late.'

He appears defeated and she takes a chance.

Passers-by turn as he grunts in pain. Lily stops squeezing his fingers and slides away around the back of the stone pillar.

'People care about you, strangely,' she shouts.

Her ankles twinge as she dodges the travellers and their suitcases. She hears someone shout and the echo of squabble breaks out. A man in a greater hurry jostles her heavily from behind. The man knocks into her without apology – she sees only a black polo shirt and a neck red and peeling under his tight-shaved greying hairline.

Outside, people bank up to climb on the number 42 bus to the _Champs de Mars_ _(Tour Eiffel)_.

She meets the line, fumbling for her bus ticket. She prises it out of her pocket. She hides, flanked against the bodies of strangers and their assortments of shoulder luggage. She huddles with them until she meets the step into the bus. She doesn't dare to look out for Thierry.

A police car draws up in front of the bus. The bus moves off and she sees what looks like the figure of Monsieur Briac running into, then emerging from the station and striding over the pavement.

She looks down to hide her face from him.

She keeps herself standing. Her arms and legs tensed, she hangs on to a rail and counts the dropped sweets around her feet. A stabbing pain rushes up her spine. Her side and her buttock are numb from the fall. She contorts her body. The pain eases. She looks for a seat.

Through the dividing glass of the rear section of the bus, the light refracts on the accentuated whites of the eyes of the man in the black polo shirt. He strikes her with a crazed look that shatters all her thoughts.

14:56

She sits in a seat on the lower level of the bus, her side pushed against the wall, her hair in contact with the smudges on the window glass. She will not look back at the man in the black polo shirt. But she feels the menace in his presence.

She lurches forward as the bus halts at a stop. Half the passengers get off. The bus drifts back into the traffic flow, gathering speed. They can't be too far from the Eiffel Tower. She sees it ahead. She'd wait one more stop. She slides out of her window seat and into an aisle seat close to the front of the bus.

The sharp toxic smell of alcohol reaches her nose. The hairs on her neck lift as someone runs a fleshy finger over her thin top. Her back muscles shut down, her chest cavity contracts, her nerves her only form of control.

As the bus slows she spins round and spits in the man's face. She sees nothing but reddened skin. She doesn't wait for the front exit to open; she doubles back to the centre doorway. The doors open out as she hits against them. Behind her a woman screeches and curses, and Lily knows she must run.

The Eiffel Tower dwarfs the avenue of trees. Lily slows. She walks with a group of Japanese tourists with carrier bags emblazoned with fashion names, and she merges with them.

She continues some way with the group, side-by-side with a Japanese boy. She looks left and right but doesn't spot the man in the black polo shirt.

The Eiffel Tower is four hundred metres or so away.

Her steps are faster and she attempts a few words in French with a young-looking Japanese lady with immaculate make-up.

The lady's smile is brilliant. 'Are you lost?' she answers, in English.

'I'm trying to find my school exchange group,' Lily says. 'They're here. At the Eiffel Tower. I'm late and I think they have been here some time.'

'I fear you're half lost, and worried,' the lady replies. 'Come with us.'

Lily feels the pressure in her head easing.

They cross an area of grass and the pace slows. The lady introduces herself. 'Kazumi,' she says. 'Our party comes from Tokyo.'

'Lily. Our school is in South Bridingworth. London.'

Kazumi's face shows instant appreciation. 'South Bridingworth. I think I remember the name,' she says. 'We've come from your city. We're on a month-long tour of Europe. The coach is our home for a few weeks, and there's much we have to see.'

An elderly Japanese gentleman sends Lily an encouraging wave.

Lily manages to acknowledge him, hardly co-ordinating her thoughts as she carries on her conversation with Kazumi. 'A month on a coach?'

Kazumi's face breaks with amusement. 'We stay in some nice hotels.'

Lily dares to look around as they arrive underneath the Eiffel Tower. She can't see the man from the bus.

Kazumi gathers her group and turns to Lily. 'Do you have a ticket?' she asks.

'It's paid for but I have nothing to show,' Lily replies.

Lily moves with Kazumi into the entrance line for the _Pilier Nord_.

'There's hardly any waiting time for the North lift,' Kazumi says, reaching into her waist pack. 'Do you want to call your teacher and sort things out?'

The queue surges forward as Lily dials the number. She listens at the call tone.

' _Allo!_ ' Mrs Kite answers straight away.

'It's Lily.'

'Yes Lily, where on earth are you? I've notified the police that you could be missing. You know Madame Briac—'

'I'm not missing, I'm at the _Pilier Nord_.'

'Thank goodness. I'll come down.'

'No. It's not worth it. I'm coming up. The queue is very small.'

'All right, tell them at the booth which school group you're with. I'll meet you at the first level. There won't be enough time for you to get to the top. Time's moving on . . . the bus . . . waiting.' Mrs Kite speaks precisely. But her sentences break up over too much background noise.

'You can tell the police I'm fine,' Lily shouts at the top of her voice. She looks around nervously. She cannot see the man in the black polo shirt. She hands the mobile to Kazumi.

Kazumi holds her hand in the air, her delicate fingers displaying a bright gold ring, and makes an announcement to her group in Japanese before they make their way under the canopy.

15:45

Lily blends with Kazumi's group as they crowd into the lift. She holds the window bar and brushes the grit from a cut on the back of her hand. Her stomach unhitches and her head dives with the sudden motion of the giant hauling machinery. The turning wheels drop out of sight and an aerial view of Paris appears through the ironwork mountainside. The lift grips hold of her body. It will not release her until she weakens from its force.

The view darkens.

Motion stops.

The doors to her left do not open. Lily hears the lift assistant announcing the lift has reached the first floor. She sees tourists on the lower deck of the lift shuffling out and realises she hasn't told Kazumi where she needs to be.

She waves in Kazumi's direction. 'I have to get out at the first floor—'

She freezes, spotting the man in the black polo shirt getting out of the lower deck, his reddened neck screaming up at her. She turns to face her tourist friends, hugging her body. 'Oh God,' she says.

Kazumi calls over. 'This deck is for the second platform, Lily. The lift will move off soon.'

Lily shudders, thankful to be in the upper deck by mistake. She sends her hand back to the window bar and braces herself, closing her eyes. Her mind leaps at an image of Mrs Kite wagging her finger with the measure of a metronome as the lift drags her upwards a second time. The momentum of her thoughts breaks as she reaches the second platform and the tourists unload.

'I'm on the wrong level,' she says.

The lift assistant overhears. 'It's going down? _Trois minutes_.'

Kazumi allows her group to step out of the lift. 'You need to go back to the first floor?' she asks.

'Yes,' Lily replies. 'My teacher is there waiting.'

'Shall I come with you?'

'No,' Lily replies. 'I will just stay in the lift.'

'You will be OK?'

'I will be fine.'

'Wait.' Kazumi opens her waist pack and hands Lily a vibrantly coloured business card. 'In case you would like to write to Japan. I will be pleased to hear from you.'

Lily's foot falls heavily on the first floor platform. She brings the other foot to meet it and stands perfectly still. Her heels do not move. She longs to hear Flora's voice and to see Mrs Kite.

Instead she sees the tall, rough figure of a man with a reddened neck. She makes out a sharp outline of a face under the short hairline but can't distinguish his eyes; they hide in the shadows. The sun hits at the stanchions behind him and the rays blind her.

She feels the man's grasp around her waist as he pulls her behind a kiosk. She goes to scream but his face is there.

She smells the putrid sweat in his stubble. He angles her head with his chin. She tears her neck muscles.

Somehow he pushes her to the outside stairs of the Eiffel Tower; the exposure and the height tear away her senses.

He pushes her against the wire safety grill. Her lips rub against the metal cage and Paris sways in front of her, as if in a dance.

People at the base of the tower swarm in pin man motion beneath her feet. Her back is pounded by the wind. The man straightens her up and holds both her hands from behind to point her forwards. Another man passes as they stand on the stairs, but his head is down and he is not concentrating on them.

Her cries are captured by the wind.

They move down the stairs in tandem. She can only follow her feet as they land on each step, cover each small landing and each turn.

Flashes of green. Flashes of grey.

A crosswind whistle.

Lily's foot crashes hard over a step and she feels power in the man's forearms. She loses her voice to the wind and to strains of cymbals, drums and trumpets. The parade, somewhere below. Her hair sticks through her glasses. She cannot see her feet. She cannot fall forward; his grip is too strong. Her instinct is to sit. Her knees give. Her arms are wrenched in front of her. He lets her hands slip and she watches him fall. He howls as his shoe catches between steps and he thrusts his leg forward. He hits the landing on one knee, his legs twist and his back bangs against the wire grill. She doesn't look at his face. His hand reaches to catch her leg but it hits the floor.

Suddenly she is free.

The clang of metal bounces high.

'Stop! _Merde!_ ' he shouts.

The tone is familiar.

It is the echo of the voice that pursued her through the road tunnel at the _Rue de la Bastille_. It ties itself in her head and as she sees an open path down, rips itself from her pattern of descent and makes her head spin.

The man shouts out.

'Whatever you want, I have nothing!' she yells. 'Believe me!'

She takes off, jumping two steps at a time down the empty staircase. Almost falling headfirst.

She must keep going.

Someone will be able to help.

Mrs Kite will have called the police and soon they will be swarming the parks around the Eiffel Tower to rescue her.

The descent is never ending.

Her vision blurs as concrete and grass grow closer to her feet. Her thighs are like jelly and when finally the land arrives to meet her, she loses her grip on the handrail.

Lily emerges dazed and disoriented. She stands in the folds of a concessions tent before weaving her way through the souvenir sellers and tourist groups.

Her thoughts are of the school bus. But she doesn't know where it will be parked.

Nor can she see any police.

The proximity of the river rushes her thought process and her eyes catch the grandeur of the buildings situated on the opposite bank.

The chariots on the roof of the _Grand Palais_.

Her goal must be to reach the _Commissariat Central_.

She can see the building clearly.

Her legs carry her towards the bridge across the Seine. A warm breeze blows off the water rippling over her T-shirt and stroking her face. Her thighs ache as her feet pick up pace again, pulsing the pavement with an all-together different resonance. The bridge passes her by in a blur. Her body pulses. She loses herself under the avenue of trees lining the riverside. She sees the _Grand Palais_ ahead.

She remembers nothing else.

16:40

The greasy features of Monsieur Briac loom into view.

Lily shrinks into the cluttered shelves of the small interview room. She holds her head, hearing Madame Briac apologising again. 'It is time to explain,' the lady says, scooping her arms over Lily's shoulders.

A uniformed police officer enters with orange juice, biscuits and an armful of official papers, which he delivers to the table. Monsieur Briac raises his hand and the officer leaves.

Lily turns to Madame Briac, feeling her cheeks shallowing as she attempts to form words. Saliva blocks her speech.

Madame Briac saves her. 'You fainted at the end of the bridge and you are in shock. Don't feel you have to say anything. There is no hurry.'

Lily stares. 'How long have I been here?' she asks.

'Ten minutes. The nurse has been here. Madame Briac says. 'How do you feel?'

'Better,' Lily replies. She reaches to her legs. Her ankle twinges and her thighs ache from running. That is all. 'Yeah, I'm OK.'

' _Jean?_ ' Madame Briac says.

Monsieur Briac steps forward. Her fingers feel weighty as he clasps them. His hand is uncomfortably warm.

'My husband Monsieur Briac is in charge of drugs investigations at the _Commissariat_ ,' Madame Briac says.

Lily swallows, scouring the man's eyes. She manages a shortened, ' _Monsieur_.'

He offers a smirk and invites her to relax; his English is perfect. He surprises her again.

'You saw me. After the car crash?' he says.

He knows she saw him, she's certain. He crossed the road to the apartment, climbed the stairs.

'Yes,' she replies.

He takes a chewed biro from the top pocket of his jacket. 'The crash. I think I should make things clear.' He gives her a glass of juice. '

'Yes,' she says.

'Jean, I want to start from the beginning,' Madame Briac says, checking to see if Lily is amenable.

Lily says, 'I can listen and talk.'

Madame Briac's mouth wrinkles. 'In the car, when the mobile rang I should have been more attentive than to leave you behind.'

Lily pouts. 'No one could have known.'

'All the same,' Madame Briac says. 'Monsieur Briac's telephone call should have been a warning to me.'

Lily recalls Marc-Olivier's blood-covered face sliding over the pavement.

'I picked Marc up in town and brought him to the _Rue de la Bastille_ ,' Monsieur Briac says.

'I saw. It was dramatic.' Lily replies, with a display of sarcasm.

'Marc wasn't in a good way after his interview here at the _Commissariat_. I took his keys and drove the car. I wanted time with him and Thierry at the apartment. Alone.' Monsieur Briac wipes his face with his arm. 'The boy pulled at the wheel. It slipped from my hands. The car hit the kerb. He came off the worst.' He peers at her. 'I think this is what you want to know about what happened earlier.'

Is this all he is going to say?

She inhales his garlic wheezing as he scribbles something in the dossier. The crash scene tears into her thoughts.

'Is he OK?' is all she can say.

'He breathes,' Monsieur Briac replies. 'The boy makes friends in the wrong places. Makes the wrong choices. He will learn.'

'You left him on the ground.'

'I called the ambulance.'

She remembered Monsieur Briac's stance. ' _Oui_ ,' she says.

'I left him to recover,' he adds.

Lily's strength and courage grows with the progressive ticking of the wall clock. 'When you saw me—'

'I saw Raymond Claude first,' he says

' _Raymond Claude_ . . . related to Madame Claude?'

'Yes,' answers Madame Briac.

'The dragon lives on the ground floor of the block,' Monsieur Briac says.

Lily shakes. 'I know that. I didn't know the connection.'

Madame Briac says. 'She doesn't have much to do with Raymond.'

'He uses her,' Monsieur Briac says. 'But still she'll do everything to cover up the truth. Especially if it involves her grandsons.'

Madame Briac delivers him a look of disapproval.

'Claude was aiming a gun from the window,' Monsieur Briac says.

'He was hiding, waiting in the block . . . _for you?_ ' Lily asks.

'Not for me,' Monsieur Briac says.

'Madame Briac runs her painted nails over her mouth. 'Thierry,' she says.

'Claude tried to force his way into the apartment after that,' Lily says.

'I couldn't stop him,' Monsieur Briac says. 'He took his chance.'

'To get to the film on the memory card?'

Madame Briac and her husband exchange a charged glance.

'Lily, tell us what you know about the incident,' Madame Briac says. 'What you saw from the apartment. Where you went. And about the memory card.'

Minutes pass before Lily feels she can speak. She is afraid to look at Monsieur Briac and keeps her eyes on Madame Briac.

'I saw the crash at the Bar Tabac from Pascale's bedroom window, as Monsieur Briac described. Monsieur Briac held a gun. I saw him rush into the block. Someone, Claude, hit at the door. I ran to hide in the bathroom. When I was able to move my legs, I fled to the fire escape.'

Madame Briac's attention is unwavering.

'I took the path to the bridge. Claude followed, but not as far.'

'You found Thierry,' Madame Briac says.

'Yes, he must have been in the apartment all along. He ran past me on the footpath and I caught up with him on the bridge. He made me get on a bus. He said we were coming here.'

'You know that?' Monsieur Briac says.

'It's what he said.' Lily takes herself back from the table.

Monsieur Briac clears his throat. 'Words, that is all.'

She is not fazed by the remark. 'Thierry cracked when I spoke of the boy Didier. He made me get off the bus at the _Gare du Nord_. Monsieur Claude must have caught up with us. He came into the station building.'

A hiss from outside eats into Lily's ears. She watches the change in Madame Briac's face. The woman's high cheekbones appear to sink and her plumped cheeks sallow.

'This is Claude. To confirm,' Monsieur Briac says. He holds up a photocopied sheet of A4.

Lily cradles her face in her hands. 'Raymond Claude . . . yes.'

The overhead fan zips into the stillness.

'Claude followed me to the Eiffel Tower. I made a mistake with the lift, and when I reached the first platform he was waiting. He forced me onto the stairs but I escaped to get here, to the _Commissariat_.' Lily reaches into her back pocket and produces Kazumi's business card. 'This lady helped me after I got off the bus. She may have seen something.'

'So we'll contact her,' Monsieur Briac says.

'Can we go back to the _Gare du Nord_ for a moment?' Madame Briac asks.

Lily fights to sequence events.

'Yes,' she says.

'You stayed with Thierry at the _Gare_ for how long?' Monsieur Briac asks.

'About five minutes. He became confused, threatening. I ran and Claude followed. I was in another bus for the Eiffel Tower . . . the 42? I don't know what happened to Thierry.'

Monsieur Briac displays indifference.

'Thierry is always our son,' Madame Briac says. 'But we know he is mixed up in trouble.'

'I saw you there also,' Lily says to Monsieur Briac, accusingly. 'At the _Gare du Nord_.'

The adrenalin hits. Impassioned, she sits forward. 'Whatever Thierry has done, drugs, anything else – he said he was coming to the police. Didn't he tell you? He wanted to hand over the memory card.'

Monsieur Briac tosses down his pen.

'You aren't able to give this card to us yourself?' Madame Briac says.

Lily shakes her head. 'I don't have the camera.'

'It's in the equipment? Monsieur Briac asks.

'I don't know. I had the camera with me but I lost everything outside the apartment . . .' She feels the weakening of her vocal chords. 'It could be anywhere in the rough ground on the path to the bridge. I don't know if Thierry collected it.'

'I'll send someone to look,' Madame Briac says, picking up an internal telephone.

It's nearly five o'clock and Lily watches the flicker of Monsieur Briac's eyelid. 'I need to understand what's going on,' she says. '

Madame Briac's piercing eyes almost meet. Her frown is prolonged.

'OK,' she says. 'We suspect Marc-Olivier is mixed up with the group experimenting with drugs at the school. We believe Raymond Claude is the supplier. On Monday they were at the Bar Tabac: Claude, Marc-Olivier, we think, Claude's sons Luc and Didier, and others. We now know Thierry was in the back kitchen with Luc. Out front things became heated. An argument about money. It accelerated.'

'And most of them got away before the police arrived?' Lily questions.

Monsieur Briac stays quiet, watching Lily, returning his attention to his notes. Lily recognises the handwriting of the officer who had visited Camille's house the previous day.

'Thierry was injured,' Lily says to Monsieur Briac. 'Did you not see when you arrived?'

'He also left through the back door, a little earlier.'

'Unfortunate,' she mutters.

'Yes,' he replies, gruffly. 'I did not know he was in the building.'

Lily calms. 'The ambulance arrived for Thierry. I stood on the stairs watching and I heard a gunshot . . . the one that hit Didier?'

Monsieur Briac grinds his teeth. 'The _gunshot_ ,' he repeats. He looks up, directing his gaze out of the small window. He goes to lift it open further. 'Marc-Olivier thinks he fired the gun,' he says. His back remains turned.

'Oh God,' Lily says. 'It explains everything about Marc's manner.'

Monsieur Briac almost chokes in amusement, falling into the room towards her. 'Easily more than one gun in the room.'

She blinks repeatedly. 'Are you saying he isn't responsible?'

'It may be that I'm saying he deserves to be. And Thierry for covering for him afterwards.'

'Marc-Olivier _didn't_ make the shot?'

Madame Briac shakes her head. 'It's not what happened.' Her husband's candour visibly anguishes her and she bends to massage Lily's hand with her own. 'The sad fact is Didier moved at the wrong moment,' she says. ' _Vraiment tragique._ '

'And for this tragic reason, and a host of others, Claude seeks his revenge. It is why we have to find the drunken man. _Don't think we're not trying!_ ' Monsieur Briac fires back before hurling his biro to the table and marching past to slam his hand on the doorplate.

He leaves behind a trail of angst. The door yelps on its hinges.

Madame Briac releases Lily's hand. 'I think we need to move on,' she says with visible resolve. 'There is too much history here.'

The female police officer re-enters the room. ' _On a trouvé Mireille,_ ' she announces.

'Mireille?' Lily mutters.

The urgency in the officer's voice travels. 'We're in contact with Mademoiselle Chandris. She is at the Eiffel Tower.'

The officer steps back against the interview room door, leaving the way for someone new to come in.

17:00

'Lily, my lovely Lily! Everything's OK isn't it? They said you'd fainted. You _never_ faint. Everything is OK?'

'Mum!'

Lily finds the energy to rush into an embrace, exhaustion choking up her voice.

'Ssssshhh Darling, I'm here now.'

Sitting on the mosaic-floored terrace at the _Mini Palais_ restaurant, her mum stirs in a lump of Demerara sugar. It froths in her coffee. 'Nightmare,' she says. 'Your father's staying at home for the twins. But he's happy with it. They don't cause much trouble.' Her face says otherwise. She takes Lily's hand and publicly pours out all her care. Lily tussles with her urge to dispel the attention. God, she was nearly fifteen.

'Mum, I'm OK. Really.'

'It's not that I wasn't worried,' her mum says. 'You know I'm keen for you to grab opportunities . . .'

Lily twists her head. She watches a man setting out a selection of patisseries. 'It could have happened to anyone,' she says.

'I mean has anyone accepted responsibility for the danger?'

'Yes. Me,' Lily says, snapping to attention.

'I thought I'd put you in the safest hands possible, with Monsieur and Madame Briac in the police force. Lily, I'm not convinced I'm getting through. Am I? We certainly did our best to watch over Pascale when she came to England. Goodness knows it's a hard enough thing to entertain someone for a week.' Lily's mum pushes her shoulders back, trying to exude indignation.

'It's unfortunate,' Lily says. 'No one plans these things.'

They don't talk as they eat. Lily dips the edge of her filou pastry into the last of her coffee.

'Anyway,' her mum says eventually, sinking her body frame and adjusting her multiple bracelets. 'How is the Briac family coping?'

'Well enough, I think.'

'I hope they catch hold of whoever's behind the attack on Pascale's brother. What's his name?'

'Thierry.'

'Yes, and soon, for everyone's sake.'

'It's ongoing,' Lily says. 'The investigation. I don't think I'll be able to leave straight away. Is that what you mean? Were you thinking we could go right now?'

'I don't know what I'm thinking,' her mum replies. 'There's a lot going on.'

Lily holds a hand to her mouth. Her yawn stretches her jaw so wide it hurts.'

'I have a hotel room, if it's any help,' her mum says. 'Twin beds. Nice bathroom and telly. Seemed a bit noisy, right on the road.'

'I'll be fine,' Lily counters.

'I hoped I could take you out to dinner this evening.'

'I don't know. You'll have to ask Madame Briac, and Madame Morneau too.'

'All being well, I can take you home tomorrow.'

'I'm not sure.'

'You've had enough.'

'I've been here three days.'

'Perhaps you can have another go next year.'

'With a younger year group?'

'What's wrong with that?'

Lily shrugs, not bothering to reply.

'They told me not to ask you about what's been happening . . . specifically,' her mum says, rubbing Lily's back. 'Of course I want to know. Your school at Marching Lane didn't seem to know anything at all when your father went there yesterday. I think your Mrs Kite may need to have a lesson in communication.'

Lily softens at her mum's touch and flush of guilt takes hold. She tries to rescue the dialogue. 'I haven't thought how difficult it is for everyone.'

'No.'

'But I don't really know what's happening myself. Except . . . except for what happened to the boy. To Didier.'

Lily's mum's lips dip downwards. 'Darling, I don't know what to say.'

'Nobody deserves that,' Lily says.

'The poor love, in a coma.' Lily's mum drops her head to find her purse, her grey roots blending into tired dyed-blonde hair. She raises her face, pushing back her fringe to show the tramlines cutting into her forehead. 'I can't think how his family will—' She doesn't finish what she is saying.

There could be any number of different thoughts in her mum's head. She must be feeling what mum's feel.

Police sirens sound from across the Seine.

Lily feels lonelier than ever.

'I want to get a message to Flora,' she says. 'She'll be worried.'

'I have Mrs Kite's number,' her mum replies. 'Let's hope the message gets through.'

Lily decides to ignore the comment.

'It'll be OK, Mum. Don't worry.' She grasps her mum's hand, feeling her tiny cold knuckles in contrast with the warmth of the underside. 'I do love you,' she says.

17:25

They make their way out of an almost empty restaurant, agreeing they will meet in an hour. Lily watches her mum approach the Seine to take in the sights.

The interview room is colder. A smell of damp rises.

Lily still has questions.

Monsieur Briac appears, more dishevelled. He carries no papers to put on the table. He lurches over. His confrontational manner makes her feel like crying even before he starts to speak.

'I want to know whether Thierry said anything else about the attack,' he says.

'Can't you ask him?' she replies, flatly.

'I'm asking you,' he says. 'Was there anything in his behaviour? Did he talk about Luc Claude?' Monsieur Briac stabs his chewed biro on the tabletop.

She thinks.

'No. He didn't speak about Luc. Only when I mentioned that Didier was in a coma did he really flip.'

' _Alors_ . . .'

'You're questioning Luc?' she interrupts. 'He will fill in some gaps.'

'There is much we're asking Luc about the attack on Thierry.'

'And about Raymond Claude's dealings?'

' _Précisement_.'

'There's nothing else. Madame Briac said Thierry would speak in his own time.'

'She is right also.'

'I don't know any more.'

Monsieur Briac purses his lips. 'The camera? How did he behave about the camera?'

'I don't know what's on it, if that's what you mean,' she says. 'He'll say or you'll find out. He won't gain anything by keeping quiet now.'

'This is _not_ about what's on the camera,' Monsieur Briac continues, his voice laced with annoyance. 'It's about what Thierry _believes_ is happening.'

Lily answers, 'When I told him about Didier he said he needed space. I think he meant physically and mentally. He struggled with the anxiety. The camera didn't play a part of it. Not then.' She checks Monsieur Briac's stony expression. 'Look, I don't know how much he is caught up in all this,' she says.

'It is a road of discovery,' he says.

'Yes,' she replies. 'I'm trying to take it in.'

'A policeman's job.'

The remark frustrates her. Meant to placate but patronising all the same. 'He said _you_ made it easy,' she retorts.

Monsieur Briac rubs at one of his eyebrows. 'Thierry stole a gun from me to give to Marc-Olivier. Marc was fool enough to take it to look big in front of Raymond Claude and the rest of his so-called friends.'

'You didn't know?' Her voice burbles with incredulity.

Monsieur Briac's face lifts. He guffaws. 'No. But it was a replica anyway.'

Lily pulls away from him. 'Even so, I think this will put you in a dangerous position with your authorities.'

'And you are right. They will ask me.'

His lightness of manner fades and she cannot read him.

'Especially with talk of police corruption . . .' she says.

Monsieur Briac senses her fervour, his face contorts with anger.

'Not involving me, if that's what you've heard,' he snaps.

'I can't make sense of what I've heard. The drummer Yves—'

'Ssh!' he says, raising a hand. ' _Yves Devaux?_ Yes, that makes sense to me. Big talk from young mouths like his that don't know any better. Yves wants to beware of what is coming to him. He has a habit of being caught in the wrong places. He needs to learn from the past.'

Monsieur Briac strides to the small window, grinding it up to its limit.

'Raymond Claude is the one corrupted,' he says, eventually. 'We need to talk about Raymond Claude.' A chattering of magpies almost drowns him out. His tone of voice changes again. All feeling is drained. 'Claude once worked as a police officer. Here at the _Commissariat._ His knowledge of the drugs field is immense and he is a trained marksman. You already know he's not using his skills for the power of good.' Getting back to the table he towers over her again, pinning his dark eyes on hers. 'To make it worse on Monday I walked in on the scene and accidentally shot his son across the ear.'

She will not look away from him.

'They were right,' she says. 'They said it was you.'

'Do you think I don't regret firing,' he says, standing back. 'It was meant as a warning to Claude.'

'Your aim was bad,' she says.

He unwraps gum and starts to chew. 'The room was in chaos,' is his reply.

'What's more, you said Marc-Olivier thinks he made the shot. _With your gun_ ,' she enunciates. 'Thierry believes it too. How can you let them both suffer?'

'You're wrong. They are not both suffering. I told Marc the truth after the questioning this morning.' Monsieur Briac breezes over his sentence. 'I explained to him. The gun held nothing but blanks. He grabbed the wheel of the car. You saw it happen. You saw us ride over the kerb. Yes?' He sniffs, twisting his lips awkwardly.

'Yes, I saw,' she says.

'Thierry will know. Soon enough.' Monsieur Briac clicks his tongue.

Lily feels the trust between Monsieur Briac and Thierry is thin.

She sits motionless. Her eyes are twitching, aching to close.

'Where is Thierry?' she asks, her voice blends with sirens somewhere outside.

He does not answer. 'Excuse me a moment,' he says, without explanation. He lets the door bang.

She is alone.

She stands by the side of the open window.

A riverboat passes, bursting with top-deck tourists.

'He has much passion . . . for _la justice_ ,' Lily remembered Pascale saying about her stepfather.

Passion and more, Lily thinks. Monsieur Briac's voice brims with contempt for Raymond Claude. She learns more about the beige suited policeman by the minute.

And she guesses there are things she still doesn't know.

17:40

Monsieur Briac returns, shrouded with the smell of coffee. He discards his stained paper cup in the waste bin.

'Good?' he asks.

She flips her shoulders. 'Good enough.'

'I am a busy man. We will leave here to find Madame Briac.' He hurries her into the corridor.

They pass another interview room. Through the window she glimpses the black-clad figure of Madame Claude. The woman's trunk huddles close to a young man wearing a zip-up blouson jacket.

'Luc Claude. The grandmother is with him,' he says. 'We have until the end of today and without evidence for the attack, or for drugs, he goes free.'

'You think he is guilty of both,' she whispers.

'He is one of the ones we are speaking to.' Monsieur Briac sniffs, marching on.

Police officers rush past, almost knocking Lily into the stair railings, their feet slapping over the stone steps. They are one floor up and Monsieur Briac disappears in the group. Lily stands against the wall, not knowing which way to go.

She turns her wrist to see the time. It's too early for her mum to be here.

Relief when Madame Briac's voice fills the corridor. The woman is red-faced, and almost bundles Lily into her lap.

Lily surveys the photographic studio – lit one end for an imminent photo shoot and the other end set up with a ceiling-mounted projector and screen.

'Please sit,' Madame Briac says. She has an authority Lily hasn't heard before. 'You must forgive him. Jean is hardened to life. Like we all are in this family. We experienced a tragedy you can never imagine. We pulled through.'

'This you could do without,' Lily says.

'We cope,' Madame Briac counters. 'It is the youngsters we worry for. Didier, Luc, Marc-Olivier.

The warm-up humming of the projector motor marks the silence.

'And Thierry?' Lily asks.

'I cannot predict the future. He is climbing his mountain. I want him to find resolve. Of course I do.' She picks up a length of cabling and plugs it into a socket in the side of the equipment. 'News about Didier is good,' she says, readily. 'I took a report to Madame Claude.'

'Thank heavens. _Thank heavens_ ,' Lily repeats.

'I am expecting to hear more.'

'And if he recovers quickly?'

'He'll get help. They all will. Didier and Luc are both under sixteen. They'll get the support.'

'Aren't you angry for what happened to Thierry? I mean with Luc—'

'People can be misled. No one is guilty yet. Time will tell.'

Madame Briac's objectivity is not a surprise.

'And you, Lily,' Madame Briac says. 'Are you feeling well?'

'I've stopped trembling, if that's what you mean.'

'I want you to see the nurse again. She will be back at six.'

'Will she come to find me?'

' _Bien sûr_.' Madame Briac unravels the remaining length of cable and produces Lily's camera.

Lily straightens up. 'You've found it,' she says in surprise.

'An hour ago. We retrieved it from Madame Claude's apartment.'

'Then Madame Claude found it?'

'She said so. Picked up from her sideboard,' Madame Briac says. She draws a blind and uses the remote to adjust the image size on the screen.

The shot is fuzzy.

Lily's body jumps at the moment as the picture sharpens. 'This is the car crash at the Bar Tabac. I took the picture from the apartment window,' she says.

She sees the smashed front window of the Bar Tabac. Monsieur Briac's face is hidden as he bends to extract Marc-Olivier from the car. She cannot make out the shape of the young man's body in the shadow of the vehicle's interior. 'It's not clear enough to see the detail, even at this size,' she says. 'It won't be good for evidence.'

'We will need it nevertheless,' Madame Briac replies. 'With your permission.'

Lily nods.

A picture of Pascale and Lily standing at the edge of the railway bank flashes on screen.

'The first day. When we arrived at the school,' Lily says. 'Before we got on the bus.'

Madame Briac clicks through several similar shots.

Until the screen goes blank.

Madame Briac rewinds, running through the cycle three times.

'There is nothing else on the card, Lily.'

'There must be,' Lily replies. 'In front of these pictures. Thierry said—'

Madame Briac shakes her head.

Lily puzzles. She notices something she hadn't noticed earlier in that Madame Briac's hair falls loose and unstyled, and her face is plain, hardly made up, accentuating the small rose-like patches on her cheeks.

'Don't you think Madame Claude deleted the film to hide the truth about her family's involvement? Drugs: it's what all this is about, isn't it?' Lily says. 'And I know there are ways of retrieving deleted frames from digital cameras.'

'There are ways Lily, you are right,' Madame Briac says. 'I will speak to the police photographer when he returns with the cctv tape.'

'They have tape of what happened in the Bar Tabac?' Lily says.

'I hope so, for my husband's sake,' Madame Briac replies. 'And from the _Gare du Nord_. We will want to look at everything.'

Daylight is a welcome change, and as she waits to meet her mum Lily wanders out until she finds a wooden bench close by the river. Her body quivers against a cool breeze blowing along the Seine. The bridge she stumbled over carries a slow line of traffic.

Six o'clock.

Boats send waves folding into the river's edge.

She delves into the crisp pages of her Paris guidebook, her concentration tumbling over and over. She tries to read about _Notre Dame de Paris_ until someone bumps their body close by her side.

'Flora!'

Flora hugs her tight. 'It's been dreadful for you, my darling friend.'

Lily's mum looks on. 'We thought you could do with some extra company. Mrs Kite got in touch.'

'So worried,' Flora said.

'Don't worry.'

'I can't stop thinking about the boy Didier,' Flora says.

'He's stable,' Lily replies. 'Madame Briac told me.'

'A miracle and a blessing,' Flora says. 'I was fearing the worst.'

'Monsieur Morneau was right to be optimistic,' Lily replies.

'Yep,' Flora gives a thumbs-up. 'So is there any more to know about Thierry?' she asks.

' _Thierry?_ '

'He spent time in hospital again. You knew?'

Lily didn't know. Madame Briac didn't say.

She feels a chill cloaking her from back to front. Oh God. What if Claude got to Thierry in those moments at the station, she thinks.

'All I know is Monsieur Briac arrived at the _Gare du Nord_. I don't know anything else. The boy will be OK, I am sure,' her mum says.

Lily doesn't bother to question further. She breaks away. 'Raymond Claude,' she says, gripping her mum's hand. 'Have they found him yet?'

'Darling, I don't know anything about that.'

Flora shakes down her hair, looking vacant. 'Who is Raymond Claude?'

Their conversation wanes as a burst of classical music from one of the galleries drifts across.

Traffic is at a standstill on the road bridge. Vehicles of all sizes barricade the entrance to the avenue.

Horns meet in a tirade of tumultuous temper.

Lily slams down her guidebook on the bench and runs along the riverbank to see what is happening.

Voices snag in the wind. She runs harder, and stalls.

Flora's call catches Lily up. 'Lil, what can you see?'

She hears her friend's footsteps. ' _Stay back!_ ' she shouts. ' _Tell Mum to stay right back!_ '

Armed police officers group together under the trees then disperse.

One officer is in direct pursuit of a figure in dark clothing.

The figure grows closer and closer as Lily draws away from the river edge.

He runs straight at her. Lily hears her mum shrieking. She turns, hitting the floor under the weight of a man gathering her up from behind.

Now she cannot hear her mum.

Lily's ears are muffled. Her body is constricted.

She cannot see anything apart from murky water.

Lapping incessantly.

The man brings her to her feet, scrabbling at her pocket; his arm clasps her upper body as he drags her backwards. She gasps, as above her head she sees a raised arm with a gun pointing into the air.

She sees her mum at a distance, in a frenetic cluster of bodies. The group pulls backwards. Lily struggles against the man's hold, recognising his body odour, the pungency of the drink as he draws his head close to hers.

Her breath curdles.

Her gasps for air stab like arrows.

'Don't move,' Raymond Claude says, drawing his arm more tightly against her chest.

She begins a prayer in her head.

' _Briac_!' Claude's voice reverberates in her body. ' _Briac_ ,' he roars again.

Seconds stretch into minutes.

A hush as Monsieur Briac exits the police station and crosses the avenue, accompanied by Madame Claude and Luc Claude, in the custody of another police officer. Lily's mum and Flora have disappeared from view.

'Don't be a fool,' Monsieur Briac calls. 'It's too late.'

'Too late for Didier,' Claude shouts.

'He will live, I can assure you,' Monsieur Briac calls. 'It was a mistake, and a regret.'

'Too late for mistakes. You can save your regret for my son,' Claude replies.

Lily feels Claude's clamp hold on her loosening. She frees her hand, pins and needles shooting to her elbow. Her shoulder muscles contract, the ache so deep it is as if her arm is tearing.

'You made your mistake long ago, Briac!' Claude shouts.

Monsieur Briac holds his hands above his head. 'Let the girl go,' he calls.

Claude's leg tenses against her kneecap. 'Taking credit for a crime you didn't solve.' he shouts.

'I played my part, Claude. I've no doubts,' Monsieur Briac shouts back. 'I said, _let her go_.'

'It's not _her_ I need anyway,' Claude scoffs. 'You must know that by now.' He throws Lily to the ground. She sits rolled over her knees, not daring to move.

Claude lets out another theatrical roar. 'Don't tell me about playing your part,' he says. 'You weren't the one in line for the promotion.'

Monsieur Briac places a foot forward. The officers behind him drop weapons and back away.

'You stay there,' Claude warns. 'You ruined it all for me years ago.'

'You ruined it yourself.'

'No! You showed me up as an ignorant imbecile!'

'It's nothing you can't do yourself!'

'You know what I'm talking about,' Claude shouts back. 'The time you shot the senses from my witness at _Le Maître d'Or_.'

' _Now move away from her!_ ' Monsieur Briac demands.

'Is that a plea?'

'It's what's right.'

'How could I continue with my case with a senseless witness, Briac? _Eh?_ '

'Why bring it up. _Le Maître d'Or_ wasn't even your case.'

' _Ta gueule!_ '

'Besides Guillaume Devaux wasn't a witness, he was trafficking everything known to man,' Monsieur Briac bellows. 'You knew.'

'Never proved. Any of it.'

'Of course. He set fire to the warehouse, leaving you inside.'

'Bah! Blame the Cognac, the revelry, inside the man. He didn't plan for the building to burn.'

'Devaux had the intentions of a murderer. He lured you in. He knew what he was doing. The warehouse was a distillery . . . along with everything else. You're only taking over where he left off.'

'So you're the psychologist, yes? Devaux has been hidden away in an institution for eight years. He's not spoken to this day . . . who's to say what happened . . . a lit cigarette . . . discarded carelessly after a few drinks in the early hours. Could have been arson. Could have been a mistake.'

Monsieur Briac shouts. ' _Arson?_ Certainly. Louis Martin died getting you out. Remember?'

Claude cuts away the silence. 'You pin Martin's death on me?'

'No blame. Fact. In other circumstances it would have been manslaughter for Devaux. Martin died for you; he wouldn't have done it any other way. You know that. You're no fool, Claude. You're no fool.'

'Well it seems it's just what I am, Briac, _chef de police_ , if that's what you're calling yourself these days. You betrayed me. Then and now. By your own hand, my son Didier is as good as dead.'

Monsieur Briac shakes his head.

The wind whips.

Lily clamps her eyes shut against the dust. Her heart bounces through her head.

'You know the business,' Monsieur Briac shouts.

Claude laughs. 'We were a team.'

'You were a drunk,' Monsieur Briac shouts. 'You couldn't think straight even for a few minutes let alone lead an investigation team.'

Claude snorts.

'This is about the now, Claude. Not about the past. The now that affects the lives of our young people, ' Monsieur Briac returns. 'That you, of all men, have been lured by drugs monies.'

The river water behind Claude spits and gurgles.

Monsieur Briac begins again, 'Alcohol has taken you in. It has been leading you along the wrong path. Admit it.'

Claude scrapes at the ground with his heavy shoe.

'Let the girl come over here,' Monsieur Briac shouts. 'She has done nothing.'

Claude's growls turn into words. 'She has film on her camera,' he raves. 'Luc told me the score with Thierry and her.'

'She has nothing on her camera,' Monsieur Briac replies. 'You need to believe it.'

' _Laisse-la!_ ' calls out the unmistakeable voice of Madame Claude. Lily opens an eye as the woman rants unintelligibly in French, moving stiffly towards the river.

' _You!_ _Stay away too_ ,' Raymond Claude shouts, glowering.

'Give up this business,' she calls, her throat cackling. 'It took one of our boys from his consciousness. He needs you to help him until he is safe. Luc needs you too. You must think.'

' _Papa!_ 'Luc shouts.

Lily counts the seconds as Claude pants through his uncertainty.

Finally Claude shouts. 'My _business_ is with Briac . . .' He twists this way and that to see who is behind him.

'Raymond,' Madame Claude bleats. 'I know where you were on Monday. I saw you arrive, I saw where you went and when you left. I kept you in my apartment. You can't hide now.'

Claude flounders, '. . . my _business_ is with Briac . . . and it isn't finished.' He spits, leaving his mother's path, crab walking, and pointing his gun straight at Monsieur Briac.

'Not this, not this!' Madame Claude rasps.

Monsieur Briac ducks.

Claude launches himself at Lily. Her ears are hit with a high-pitched whistle and the silenced traverse of a gunshot.

Madame Claude's voice screeches into Lily's consciousness like the call of a stalking crow.

Blood showers over the dust. Raymond Claude crashes to the floor in front of her. He writhes, his calf torn by a bullet.

Instinctively Lily crawls towards him.

Hands hold her back.

A police officer gripping a pair of handcuffs jumps from a barge onto the bank. He signals for help.

Lily feels her emotions winding up and in the apparent void of the police reception hall, she finally allows herself to cry, losing herself in the relief. She stands holding her arm across her face as the tension in her upper body lessens, unaware she is putting one foot in front of the other until her mum lets go of her waist to open a door.

'I don't know why we're running. I have no energy to run any more,' Lily says.

'We've stopped running,' her mum says. 'Now you must cry it all away. Let the fear go.'

'It's not the fear. It's not for me. I think I'm crying for people I don't know. The boy Didier.' Lily says, sweeping her fingertips under her eyes. 'And for Thierry.'

'I know.' Madame Briac's bright green gaze fixes solemnly in front of her. 'We're hoping. You must not cry for the boys right now.'

Lily gathers herself, feeling resolute as she says: 'if they have Raymond Claude then it's over. Isn't it.'

'It's over. Almost,' Madame Briac replies. 'My husband has what he wants with Claude in custody. Luc is co-operating. And I have heard Mademoiselle Chandris is on her way.'

19:15

For the second time in the day, Lily sits on the terrace at the _Mini Palais_ restaurant. Her ankle fights against its newly applied strapping.

She listens on remote to a polite exchange of words between her mum and Madame Briac. Hardly taking anything in until Madame Briac stands to greet Mademoiselle Chandris. The French women stand in muted conversation before approaching.

'Forgive me for not introducing you straight away,' Madame Briac says, with detectable unease. 'Mademoiselle Chandris can't stay but I wanted you to meet.'

Mireille Chandris takes off her sunglasses. 'Thierry is making progress,' she says. 'Reading, watching television. We talked about making a schedule for school study as his wounds heal and he is able to concentrate.'

'Mireille has been a wonderful influence,' Madame Briac says. 'And we need her again so Thierry can finish his studies.

' _Bonjour Lily_.' Mireille proffers her hand. 'We have met before, at school, yes?'

'Yes.' Lily notices the teacher's attentive manner all the more. She lets Mireille's hand slip away as in turn the teacher greets her mum and Flora.

'Mireille is an excellent teacher and counsellor of young people,' Madame Briac explains. 'After my first husband died she became the link between school and home. Particularly for Thierry.'

'It's part of my job,' Mireille says.

'She can help you,' Madame Briac says.

'Me?'

'When you need to talk,' Mireille replies.

'I want to start by understanding.'

'I can try my best.'

Lily pauses before asking. 'Does Thierry know everything about what has happened. Here?'

'A little of it,' Mireille replies. 'We haven't yet spoken about Raymond Claude. Thierry must tell us everything about the attack, first of all.'

'Did he speak about my camera . . . about the film or any pictures he'd taken, on the memory card?'

'No, he didn't mention it.'

Mireille shares an unsettled glance with Madame Briac before tucking her hair behind her ears.

'Lily, there weren't any pictures on the memory card you didn't know about,' Mireille says. Her tone is soft. 'Some events didn't happen as we imagined.'

The chinking of cutlery being laid on china challenges the silence. Lily's eyes freeze on the porcelain-textured face of Mireille as the teacher's lips turn a sympathetic half-smile.

'Madame Claude told us what she knows about the camera and when she found it,' Madame Briac says. 'It backs up what Mireille is saying.'

'No pictures?' Lily exclaims. 'What do you mean?' She watches Mireille's controlled expression. 'Are you convinced Madame Claude didn't delete anything? If not Madame Claude, maybe someone else?'

'The police photographer assured me nothing on the camera was touched,' Madame Briac says.

'I don't understand.' Lily thinks back to the _Gare du Nord_ – Thierry holds her by the wrist and she looks at the cut-throat razor in his jeans belt. He lifts her chin away.

'You will wait with me,' he says.

His blue eyes plead.

She believes she comprehends his reaction to the news about Didier being unconscious. She believes she comprehends his behaviour, his fear.

It is real enough.

She can barely hear Madame Briac's voice. It is background noise to her thoughts.

She is in the _Gare du Nord_.

Thierry's grip tightens. 'But you are part of this. You are involved.'

He stares, all the more searchingly.

'I switched the memory card . . .' he says.

Those are his words.

In the next moment she is lost in the descent of the Eiffel Tower.

She feels Claude pulling at her clothes. He cries as she jumps away. ' _C'est la faute de Briac_ , _il est responsable_.' She hears him banging on the steps above her.

His voice wails, ' _Donnes-moi la caméra_ . . .'

'Whatever it is you want, I have nothing!'

Her scream fills the air.

19:25

Lily swings back to reality.

'There are no pictures and no film because there was never another memory card,' Madame Briac says.

'No other card,' Lily says. 'No switch. But he told me . . .' The warm aroma of Madame Briac's perfume alights in her head and Lily lifts her eyes. 'Why did Thierry say he had film? Why did he say he switched the memory card to my camera? Why would he make something up like that?'

Madame Briac sighs. 'To reach out to you. He wanted your help when you met up after you left the apartment. And before – the story suited him as a way of getting to Raymond Claude. To frighten him for what he was doing and for what he has done in the past. It got round . . . to Luc. . . ' She hesitates. '. . . then to Claude. Even Marc-Olivier believed it.'

Lily shivers. 'Yes,' she says. 'I believed it. Marc-Olivier believed it. He thought he was on the film. He imagined Thierry had let him down. I caught some of his anger.'

'Don't think too hard,' her mum interrupts, draping a cardigan across Lily's shoulders. Lily pulls it around herself.

'I had no idea,' Flora says.

'No big deal, Flo,' Lily replies.

'No big deal, huh?' Flora whispers.

'Thierry couldn't help himself. He spread the story. It was going to happen.' Madame Briac's voice fades.

The table grows quiet again. Waiting staff bustle in and out of the restaurant, making ready for the imminent arrival of diners.

Mireille stands. 'It has been difficult for Thierry since the death of his father. But we didn't realise things were so wrong.' In the pause she turns to speak to Lily's mum. 'I am afraid you will have to excuse me,' she says.

'Oh!' Lily's mum rises also, a pinch of dismay wrinkles her mouth. 'Well, I wish you well in what you're doing,' she bumbles.

'Thank you _Madame_. We will meet again, on a better day, yes?'

Lily's mum sits herself down uneasily. Her hair falls across her face as she reaches the chair, and she pushes the strands back with the same fluster she would employ when striding along the street with the twins' buggy.

'We can be thankful for the police surveillance to bring this business to an end,' Madame Briac says.

'Thank goodness for that.' Lily's voice barely reaches her own ears.

'Surveillance?' her mum questions. 'Why didn't the surveillance work earlier?'

'Not everything works out in time, or how we expect,' Madame Briac replies.

'Her mum falls into another hurried sentence. 'I only wonder if things could have turned out differently for the boy in the coma.'

'We won't know,' Madame Briac replies, picking up her mobile phone.

'No, we won't.' Lily's mum scolds herself. 'I was only thinking.'

Madame Briac is abrupt. 'We have to deal with what we've got.'

'Yeah,' concedes Lily's mum. 'Certainly.'

Madame Briac holds her mobile in the palm of her hand. With her other hand she tops up Lily's mum's coffee cup. 'The boy in the coma drifted into consciousness,' she reads aloud.

Flora suppresses a reaction.

'It's the best message we could hope for,' Lily's mum murmurs.

' _Absolument_ , _Madame_ ,' replies Madame Briac. 'For the boy and for his family. They will tell Raymond Claude.'

'He will be more co-operative,' Lily's mum remarks.

'I am sure he will this time,' Madame Briac replies.

'This time?' Lily asks.

'I think I have said enough.' Madame Briac holds out her hand. 'Come, Lily, we need to refocus' she says. 'There is still time and I want to show you my favourite piece of art in the exhibition.'

Lily's mum opens her mouth as if she is about to speak, then gasps, 'Good God! Madame Morneau and Camille will be here any minute. I'll wait with Flora and meet you . . .'

Lily misses the end of the sentence.

The chilled air bites as the gallery closing bell sounds. Lily takes Madame Briac's arm as they walk through the displays to reach the exhibition rooms.

'Thierry told me most of what happened when he left the bus on Monday,' Madame Briac says.

'Really?'

' _Vraiment._ '

'Did he say he went into the Bar Tabac?'

' _Oui_. He crossed immediately to the Bar to confront Luc. He blames Luc for getting Marc-Olivier into the drugs trouble. It has been tearing him up.'

'Luc hit back at him for whatever he said?'

Madame Briac stops before a Monet. 'I cannot talk about Luc, or about what may have happened next. However, in terms of events it would fit that he was in the right place when the attack took place.' She stands with her head tilted. Quietly she looks. 'The exhibition is running for a while,' she says, eventually. 'And you and Flora can return in the summer holidays.'

'Yes,' Lily murmurs.

Madame Briac beckons Lily closer.

Lily recognises the painting but cannot take in its detail. At this moment she sees only chaos in its content. She is spinning with questions about Thierry.

'Are you allowed to tell me what happened at the _Gare du Nord_ _?_ ' she blurts out. 'Was Thierry wounded?'

'Nothing happened at the _Gare du Nord_. Except a wounding of pride,' Madame Briac replies.

'I thought Raymond Claude—'

'When Monsieur Briac found Thierry in the station he took him to hospital have his injuries redressed. Afterwards he returned him to the apartment. That is it.'

'It's not what I imagined. Not at all.' Lily tries to study the art. 'I thought Claude had injured him. I thought—'

'Thankfully no,' Madame Briac replies. She takes Lily by the hand. 'It's going to be OK. Jean is with Thierry. They will talk about Claude.'

jeudi

Thursday

Lily leaves her mum packing at the hotel and continues the short way along _Rue de la Bastille_ to Apartment block 316-325.

Pascale waits outside, on the spot usually reserved by Madame Claude's kitchen chair. She holds flowers. 'How are you?' she asks.

'OK,' Lily says. 'Mademoiselle Chandris took breakfast with us at eight.'

'Mireille is amazing,' Pascale replies.

Madame Claude's chair is visible through the glass. ' _Maman_ passed on more news about Didier to his grandmother,' Pascale says. ' The boy is expected to make a good recovery. He'll stay at his great aunt's house on the Loire. Just until they need to recall him.'

'Thank God,' Lily says.

They cross the road side-by-side. Lily's step lightens.

'Marc-Olivier was allowed home,' Pascale says. 'Superficial injuries. He may be left with a scar or two.'

' _Monsieur et Madame Morneau_ will be relieved,' Lily answers.

'It will not be the end,' Pascale says. 'The police will prosecute if they have evidence of Marc's participation.'

'Do you think he was in on it?'

Pascale shakes her head. 'I think it was close.'

Lily allows herself a furtive glance at the Bar Tabac. An elderly man sits at one of its pavement tables, his cup steaming against the backdrop of the boarded shop front.

'The same for Luc and the others who were here on Monday?' Lily asks.

' _Oui, ça dépend_ ,' Pascale replies.

'It depends on the cctv evidence?' Lily says.

'For sure. And on Madame Claude's statement of what she saw. For Thierry too.'

The girls slip through the _Allée des Artisans_ and emerge in the more tranquil setting of a churchyard, with its trees bending to brush against their shoulders – its patterned landscape of stone and grass stretching out as far as Lily can see.

They step on a freshly cut area of lawn.

'Whatever happens, Papa would be proud of Thierry's spirit,' Pascale says, stooping to lay the flowers on a grave. 'Proud he is accepting help.' Pascale runs her fingertips over the script on the gravestone.

Louis Philippe Martin

1971-2003

Vainqueur des Flammes

'Victorious from the flames,' Lily reads from the stone. 'Is this the translation?'

'Yes,' Pascale replies. 'Rising victorious. This is how we think of him.'

'It's beautiful,' Lily says.

'Jean and Papa rushed into the burning warehouse to look for Raymond Claude.' Pascale runs her hand into her curls, her face appears strained. 'Jean scoured the ground floor of the _Le Maître d'Or_ building, Papa took the first floor. When Papa found Claude, drunk to the eyeballs, unable to stand, he hauled him out of a window. Claude lived. Papa didn't have the strength to survive the smoke coming down.'

Tears sting the corners of Lily's eyes. She wipes the moisture from her skin.

'The dealer Devaux stumbled out of the building before anyone. He tried to run but he weighed himself down with a holdall. Jean shouted, taking aim,' she said. 'Devaux turned and shot first. Jean fired a warning shot at a silo. A moment later the flames from the burning warehouse caught hold of a gas canister. It exploded close to Devaux. Witnesses from the clothing factory verified.'

'Then I understand.' Lily hugs Pascale tight, feeling the tension in her friend's body. 'I'm so sorry,' she whispers.

Pascale's voice is hushed: 'It is good for me to talk about it. Thierry struggles with understanding why Papa took the risk. We all do. Jean included. But life is about understanding the most complicated things.'

Lily nods into Pascale's shoulder.

They amble, making a circuit of the graveyard and passing a man taking the heads from tired roses. He stretches his hand to his back in obvious relief, acknowledging them with a nod of his beret.

' _Monsieur Albert_ ,' Pascale says.

' _Bonjour Pascale_ ,' Monsieur Albert responds. ' _J'ai vu ta mère. Elle m'a dit que Thierry va mieux.'_

' _Oui, Monsieur_. _Il va mieux. Chez nous_.'

' _Grace à Dieu_ ,' Monsieur Albert says, making the sign of the cross with his gloved hand.

Does Thierry come to visit with you?' Lily asks when they have passed by Monsieur Albert's wheelbarrow.

'No,' Pascale replies. 'He cannot face it. Not since the burial. It's too much. _Maman_ tells me when he comes here it will be his start.

For the first time, Lily sees joy casting colour across Pascale's face. 'Thierry is spending time with Jean, and Jean will work hard to make things right.' Pascale says. 'Jean is a good man despite what people say.'

'He has a tough job.'

' _Oui_. A tough outlook.' Pascale halts as they pass the grave a second time. 'He has been with the police for a long time.'

'And you have grown up with it,' Lily says. 'You are brave. About everything.'

'It's how anyone would be,' Pascale replies.

Madame Briac sits at the side of the monument with her glasses perched on top of her hair and a full face of make-up. She rises to brush her lips either side of Lily's cheeks. 'We may have to call you at home,' she whispers.

'Of course,' Lily replies.

Another car arrives and parks in the _Place Gilbert_. Madame Briac pulls herself away to speak with Madame Morneau and Lily's mum. The women converse in a mix of languages.

'It's sad we're leaving early. I'm not certain South Bridingworth is prepared.' Flora says, carrying her bag from one estate car to another.

'We can talk as we travel. Mrs Kite will see to it that we can come back. She's quick off the mark on these things.' Lily tries hard not to give away her sarcasm.

'Yeah, I wanna come back,' Flora pipes up.

'Another five minutes, girls,' Lily's mum calls.

'To be honest, right now I'd like to see my parents,' Flora says.

Lily smiles.

Camille runs from the _boulangerie_ and thrusts a cellophane packet of _brioches_ into Flora's hands. 'For the journey,' she says. 'I am taking some to Marc.'

'Marc-Olivier will be all right, won't he?' Flora asks.

'I don't know,' Camille replies. 'Papa says he is certainly not blameless.'

Pascale says, 'it is a pity.'

'He is tough, and he will learn,' Camille replies. 'If he makes it to the army, I hope he will make a good soldier. If he doesn't make it, he will find something else. We will support him.'

'What about Thierry?' Lily asks.

'I expect he will go to college,' Pascale replies. 'He has his drumming.' A grin rips across her face.

'I hope Marc and Thierry will make up,' Camille says. 'Perhaps after the school concert they will think about playing together in the band one more time.'

'Perhaps,' Pascale says.

The cracked chime of the church bell fills the square, and prompts Madame Briac to approach.

'You need to leave soon to get to the tunnel,' she says. She enfolds Lily in a perfumed embrace. 'You will take care, _ma petite_.'

'I'll text when I'm home,' Lily says to Pascale.

'I will beat you,' Pascale replies.

'Have you got my number?' Camille asks.

' _I_ have it,' Flora calls.

Intuitively, Madame Briac raises her head from the throng of activity.

Thierry and bass player Laurent approach, edging their way through the line of loosely parked cars alongside the _Place Gilbert_. Thierry has his left arm in a freshly tied sling.

Madame Briac does her best to maintain her composure as she clasps hold of him, without speaking.

Lily feels her mum's eyes biting in the back of her head.

Laurent shares several words with Pascale.

Thierry breaks away, not yet making eye contact with anyone else.

He collects Lily's hand with his uninjured arm and shakes it.

'I want to do the right thing,' he says, dropping his head, as he had done at the bus stop. 'I don't know what I was thinking.'

'It's fine,' she replies.

He tips his head back. His face blooms, his blue eyes flicker.

' _Tout est bien_ ,' he says.

fin

The Switch

Copyright 2011 Catherine Condie

About the author

Born in Cambridge, UK, Catherine Condie trained as a business linguist. Her first job was in corporate communications and public relations, where she progressed as an in-house writer and magazine editor in the science community, later working as a marketing consultant.

Catherine is also a singer/songwriter and guitarist with a catalogue of ballads and folk-pop, which she first performed in the Club Tent at the Cambridge Folk Festival at the age of 19.

Discover other titles by Catherine Condie at Smashwords.com

Whirl of the Wheel

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Cover photography: World City Photos Free Pictures of Cities

