A Killer's Game Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Luca Tahtieazym

  Translation copyright © 2020 by Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Versus by Thomas & Mercer in France in 2018. Translated from French by Alexandra Maldwyn-Davies. First published in English by Thomas & Mercer in collaboration with Amazon Crossing in 2020.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, in collaboration with Amazon Crossing, Seattle

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  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Thomas & Mercer, and Amazon Crossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503991460

  ISBN-10: 1503991466

  Cover design by kid-ethic

  First edition

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PART ONE

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  PART TWO

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  PART THREE

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  PART FOUR

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  ‘Shame fails to exist when nobody is watching.’

  Boris Cyrulnik – Mourir de dire: la honte

  PART ONE

  The man – The Artist

  1.

  Tuesday, 4 March 1986

  With my thumbnail, I scrape the surface of the club chair in which I’m comfortably seated. It’s real leather, believe me. The entire weight of my body seems to be resting on my kidneys and I can feel a delicate pressure massaging my vertebrae. I breathe out a moan of pleasure that might well be inappropriate in this context. The genuine club chair is recognisable by its seams; none of your fakes from Asia have this typical grain I can feel on the tip of my index finger as it passes over the armrest.

  But . . . I want to let out another moan, I really want to . . .

  And so I moan.

  It feels good to ignore convention.

  I close my eyes as I lean back. With a Benny Moré tune playing in my head, I almost feel as though I could be in Havana, sipping a Ron Varadero while smoking a good Cohiba. I can almost smell the scent of the place tickling my nostrils. I adore the thick, pungent smoke, but to truly appreciate a genuine Cuban, you have to savour it on the island itself, surrounded by dilapidated fences in pastel shades with rocky plains in the distance.

  In the apartment, it seems as though the walls are sweating with fear. This humidity further reinforces the impression that I could be in Cuba. If I open my eyes, I’ll see long, dusty streets scattered with sturdy Studebakers patched up over the decades by ingenious mechanics. Women in revealing clothing with smooth complexions may smile at me as they glance in my direction. I’ll be gently rocked by the languor of the tropics. I’ll wipe away the streams of perspiration that stick my white cotton shirt to my skin. I’ll eat Cuban food, sing Cuban songs and my heart will beat to a Cuban rhythm.

  Should I open my eyes?

  To my left there’s a window with dirty glass. It’s raining outside. The Caribbean sun shines all the more brightly through its absence, hidden far behind the grey skies of Lille. I’m on the fifth floor. The view is spectacular. It really is. It overlooks a rust-coloured brick wall, and I welcome the warmth of its coppery hue against the dull tones of the surrounding area. Clouds from the north release a weak drizzle and, in the distance, thunder rebukes them with a low growl. I only visit this region on occasion. I work for a small local company, Albret, which sells all sorts of rubbish. I never stay longer than required.

  Coming back to reality is tough. How I miss those warm and welcoming lands, but I’ll be getting down to work soon and am rather looking forward to it. I was so anxious about ballsing it up my first time that I didn’t enjoy the moment. I left with regrets and a feeling of having wasted an opportunity. However, with experience, I now know how to gauge my time perfectly, take a step back from my work and correct it should it fail to go in the right direction. I realise it sounds like a cliché, but for a task to be carried out with rigour and panache, one needs to maintain a certain composure.

  Please understand that I’m not here to point out the failures of my less-experienced contemporaries – for I was a novice once too. The stress is legitimate but can be beneficial if managed, but if The Artist allows himself to be overwhelmed by stage fright, he will not be able to give free reign to the creative fervour he must possess in order to flourish. Nerves must nourish a man. They must galvanise him. Neophytes rush in and don’t calculate sufficiently. Now, I know what you’re going to say here: an artist must ad lib, abandon himself, break free of his shackles. Yes, I’ll give you that much, although it’s during the preparation that we must be conscientious. One can’t prepare gouache with a shaky hand. One can’t get lost in the act without having first studied the task. This is why I don’t sharpen Patroclus until I’m ready. When the conditions are just right, then, yes, I will close my eyes and give my art permission to invade the world.

  This is my sixth masterpiece. Although my self-esteem suffers by merely acknowledging the fact, I am apprehensive. I can’t afford to make a single mistake. The slightest error, the slightest line that forks where it should not, and the whole thing will be ruined. I won’t be able to start afresh. My drawings are unique, and a slip-up can’t simply be rubbed out. I must maintain a firm hand.

  You know what? Let me just ask my modesty to go and smoke a cigarette out on the balcony and I’ll tell you what I really think. I’m an expert. It may well sound pretentious – and it more than likely is – but every time I finish a piece of work, I step back and truly contemplate it. I contemplate the knowledge behind it, the unspoken truth and its nuances. I contemplate its beauty. I drink in its aura and I experience the most enormous sense of pride. I know that not everyone understands this. Art is sensitive and only addresses those who deserve to comprehend it.

  But believe me, if you’ve never been moved by Cézanne, there must be something wrong with you. I know that this is presumptuous boastfulness and I imagine you don’t much like me for it, but, please, put aside your prejudices and just think back to those times where you’ve experienced pure emotion. A sunset, a smell that takes you back, a melody that resonates and brings a tear to your eye that you have to wipe away with unease . . . You’ve known such moments, haven’t you? Now imagine art as an inexhaustible source of such emotions. It’s annoying, I agree. It’s snobbish of me to think myself somehow superior, but that’s just the way it is.

  And I am a great artist, despite my modesty, which just lit a second cigarette outside from the stub of the last. It’s cold here in Lille and I won’t speak any further of my own excellence because it’s time to open the door and let my modesty back in. Without it, I know there’ll be no convincing you.

&
nbsp; What I want from you is an ear. That’s right, an ear. It’s why I’m confiding in you. I want an objective ear to judge me.

  However, it’s not your ears that are officiating right now, but your eyes. I don’t know which of your senses I’m asking you to use really, but let’s not quibble. Please read these lines with a benevolent neutrality. Make an effort, and if you can’t manage that, then go right ahead and judge me.

  There are two ways of going about this. You’ll either follow me in my reasoning and come to realise that I’m a deserving man, or you’ll be the obtuse type and choose to take an easier path. But don’t let me influence you: forget these words and just do as you please.

  Now, let’s get back to talking art and I promise you, I’ll try to pontificate a little less.

  I’m a talented artist. That’s something everyone agrees on. What can I say? If I refuse to acknowledge it, it would only be false modesty, but if I admit my virtuosity, I’ll simply be thought of as too proud . . . Whatever I do, I’m sure to find myself the object of your censure. So many artists through the ages have been misunderstood. I’m absolutely convinced that thousands of men and women around the world admire me, although there will always be those who are ignorant and impenetrable when it comes to the deeper sense that I want to give to my work. There’s nothing I can do about that, but I hope with all my heart that you’re not one of them.

  In the small room adjacent to this one, my canvas is ready. I’m all set to make a start on my sixth masterpiece. I look at the hairs on my forearms. They’re no longer standing on end. This is my signal that it’s time to start, time to get down to work.

  I stand up and take Patroclus in my hand. I ignore his urging for he’s always far too impatient. I count the breaths that are slowly reverberating in my chest and allow the sap to flow through my veins. I can control my blood flow. It’s a moment of pure euphoria. This is going to be good.

  It’s time for Achilles to enter the scene.

  I have a gift and I know how to exploit it. That’s all there is to it.

  I head towards the bathroom. The young woman is writhing in the shower cubicle. She must have woken up only a few seconds ago. I would love to watch her struggle so as to better define her, get to know her true self and then slowly suffocate her.

  Her name is Françoise. Françoise Laville. She’s twenty-eight years old. She’s a nurse. She lives alone. She likes cats, Thai food and crime films. Every Sunday she has lunch at her parents’ house, and her mother makes noises about wanting grandchildren. Françoise is sociable, dynamic and enjoys the good life. She takes care of herself. She enjoys exercise but hates team sports. She loves the colour red. She likes to go shopping with her friends, but manages to keep her impulses under control until she’s saved enough to buy that dream skirt, usually a short one. She doesn’t have a boyfriend and is desperate to finally meet a man who knows how to take care of her. Her last relationship was a catastrophe and she’s still not over it.

  I know this woman so well now. I’ve been following her for a month. I didn’t spy on her because I’m a sadist or even a pervert. Not at all. I just need to know my canvas if I’m to make the most of it. I know everything there is to know about her because we are to merge. There’s nothing sexual about this approach of mine. I’m beyond such low acts of violence.

  She’s beautiful, she’s young, and she’s going to die.

  I kneel down. I don’t like what I can see in her eyes: fear. I dislike fear. I abhor fear. I find no pleasure in scaring my canvasses. A great many men are bitter misogynists whose erections are proportional to the terror they imprint on their victims’ retinas. I don’t share their temperament because I’m a feminist.

  I’m not a monster.

  And it’s because I’m not a monster that I’m going to get a move on here. I don’t want Françoise to suffer – be that physically or psychologically.

  I’m focused on my mission, but I colour my voice with a warm and comforting tone.

  ‘Hello there, Françoise.’

  The young woman mumbles something, but I can’t make it out. The gag is stifling her complaints, but there’s not a chance I’m taking it off. What would be the point? I know the words that would break this padded silence I love so much. Begging for mercy would be futile. I feel sorry for this woman, I really do, and that’s why I refuse to make this ordeal last any longer than it needs to.

  Françoise tries to lift her hands up to scratch at the tape covering her mouth. It’s a vain and desperate attempt.

  ‘It’ll all be over soon, Françoise. I’d like you to know that I’m not a monster and that you did nothing wrong. It’s not your fault you’re in this situation. Please don’t blame yourself. I won’t let you suffer. It’s all going to move very quickly. I’m so sorry about your head. You’re in a bit of pain, aren’t you? I knocked you out and I’m sorry for it, believe me.’

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’m neither febrile nor hysterical. I’m simply enjoying a moment of rare intensity.

  I can taste the silence. The emotion is palpable. Honestly, I swear to you – the tension in this room is tangible. Excitement, ecstasy, hysteria: a mixture of psychosis and electricity that seems to ignite reality. It’s all here, and it’s so pure. Silent yet fiery notes vibrate through our lack of dialogue.

  Françoise must have realised that she’s just in her underwear because her round eyes widen in panic.

  ‘No, no . . . don’t worry about that. I didn’t rape you. I told you I wasn’t a monster, didn’t I? I need you like this. That’s why I took most of your clothes off.’

  I take a deep breath. The next part is complicated but essential. It’s the moment of truth – a moment of tragedy.

  ‘Françoise, you’re going to die.’

  She struggles some more. Of course she does. They all have the same reaction and I can hardly blame them. It’s a human reflex.

  ‘I have no idea if this will be of any comfort to you, but your death will not be in vain. I’m not going to bother to explain what it’s all about but take my word for it: a beautiful death awaits you and you will be remembered.’

  We have to get it over with. The details serve little purpose. The words have to be said, but there’s no need to go on and on.

  I brandish Patroclus and approach Françoise, who is now fighting with everything she has. Her feet and fists are firmly bound, and I have no problem grabbing her by the hair. The small size of the cubicle works in my favour.

  I cut her throat cleanly.

  The skin doesn’t resist. I press hard to slice through the jugular. I hold Françoise’s body down as it jolts uncontrollably. When finally it stops moving, I allow the blood to flow freely from the wound.

  My pulse is racing and I inhale deeply to calm myself.

  Then I gently wash the corpse. The hot scarlet water disappears down the drain, and I try my best not to get blood on my clothing. I take good care of Françoise. I try to pay tribute to her remains by handling them with the utmost respect. There’s a sort of majesty in this union, but few people would recognise the splendour of the act.

  I wrap her in a clean towel and carry her out of the shower. Françoise doesn’t weigh very much. She’s like a feather that flutters around as I watch in admiration. I dry her and take her into the living room by dragging her down the hallway carpet. I lay her out on the linoleum. There she is, lying on her back like an offering. I tear the tape from her mouth and from around her wrists and ankles, and throw it in the kitchen bin.

  On entering the apartment, I left my jacket on the back of a dining chair. I slip it back on and rifle through the inside pocket to find my picture of the Place du Concert. This particular square is one of my favourite places in this northern capital and it’s certainly a challenge. I place the picture up against the foot of the sofa, right in front of her.

  I now place the tip of Patroclus upon the navel of my canvas and draw a horizontal line ten centimetres in length. The blood is barely flowing by
this point. I sponge it away by dabbing the lips of the wound. The base of the statue of Maire André will be the main focus of this piece. It is from this line that I’ll calculate all the proportions of the background. I have to really study the perspective. I have in mind some old postcards from the beginning of the century, drowned in sepia. They were printed shortly following the inauguration of the sculpture in 1908. Since then, four- and five-storey buildings have popped up out of nowhere. Ash and yew trees are dotted here and there, but all this merely serves as a foil to the nobility of the man who stood up to the Austrians at the close of the nineteenth century.

  I have trained for many months, of course, but it’s always like this: it’s only when you’re actually living it that you feel the fear of failure.

  I concentrate and let Patroclus work his magic.

  The adrenaline rush is incredible.

  2.

  This adrenaline fuels my anger. One can suffocate stress, but it only sleeps. It fails to die.

  I know how to control myself. Control is everything. Without control, I’d just be deranged. I have to repress my instincts while I’m creating my masterpiece, but it’s not the same now the work is done. I sigh and calm my breathing.

  This is where I need to take the most care. The pressure’s off, and sometimes I have a tendency to take the easy way out at this point. That’s right. I’m warm and rather generous in nature. I open my arms to whatever’s easy, hoping for a tight embrace, but I’m a clever man and above all else suspicious, so this easy way out needn’t think it can handcuff me or hinder my vigilance.

  Yes, I could flee this building in a hurry, eager to devour a few kilometres and get away from my masterpiece, but it’s better to take small steps.

  Before leaving I wash my boots in the shower, try to clean off the blood as best I can, then pick up my backpack and leave the apartment, closing the door carefully behind me, without slamming it. There are neighbours on the left and a couple in the flat across the street. They’re old and deaf, and I can hear their TV through the door. Good job. The light switch is on my right, but I don’t turn it on. I put a hesitant hand on the banister and start to walk down the stairs. I need to be absolutely silent. It’s important to channel my emotions and not to give in to the urgency I feel.