A Killer's Game Read online

  Two minutes later and I’m in the ground-floor lobby. I study my surroundings as I hide behind an enormous but ugly green plant that catches the meagre sun in its earthen pot as it spreads its yellowish branches under the mailboxes.

  I look out through the bay window to make sure there are no passers-by. Other than a couple of young lovers engrossed in conversation and looking in the other direction, it’s deserted. The coast is clear.

  I lower my head and walk off down the boulevard. Nobody’s seen me. I hurry away from any potential witnesses, blend in with the crowd and go.

  My vehicle is a little further off. I never park near the home of a canvas. There are a few rules that must be followed at all costs when you want to kill. One: never park near the home of a target. I just told you that. Two: steer clear of banks. That’s right. Surveillance cameras have become a big thing for financial institutions in recent years. Three: plant false leads – I’ll come back to this later.

  I need coffee. I see a café and can smell the roasted aroma of the beans, but I resist. Vincit qui se vincit – ‘He conquers who conquers himself’.

  To go in and enjoy a full-bodied espresso would risk the other customers seeing my face.

  I know. Say it. Go on, say it. You think I’m paranoid, don’t you? Think I’m overdoing it a bit? The chances of an onlooker noticing me and remembering me later must be one in a million. Yes, although I have to concede that I am somewhat neurotic. Take this into consideration: I am a free paranoiac. That changes everything. You see any concrete floors around me? No. You smell that all-pervasive musty odour? No, and you know why not? Because I’m not in a cell. A cell reserved just for me. The only thing I can smell around me is the street. It smells of urine. It smells of freedom.

  I’m free because I try never to leave anything to chance. The smell coming from the café would be enough to make Tantalus salivate. I can always come back later. The pressure is on and I can’t afford to take any ill-considered risks.

  I enter the small side road where I parked my Mercedes. I open the main pocket of my backpack and pull out my keyring. There’s only the one key on it: the one for the car. I open the door, climb in and finally feel safe.

  My feet hurt, but I’m used to the stabbing pain when I wear these shoes. It’s all part of the protocol. It’s become something I look out for. If my toes weren’t crushed by the tight leather, I’d feel like there was something amiss. This crushing sensation is a stage in the ritual. It’s a ceremony and I want it to happen. A Proustian madeleine that acts as an aide-memoire.

  I start the engine and take on the traffic jams of Lille town centre. Patience, Achilles . . .

  In front of me and behind me, drivers are getting angrier by the second. Angry at the traffic lights. Angry at the other drivers. Angry at the bad weather. I don’t do anything as I listen to the constant beeping of horns. I lower my head when another vehicle passes or stops next to me. I can’t be seen. I regret the fact that my licence plate proudly displays an 06 suffix. I would prefer to be more discreet. Witnesses tend to remember department numbers more than faces. The French seem automatically to remember the geographical origin of any cars that, according to them – potential witnesses – are trespassing in their beautiful city.

  It takes me an hour to reach the dark and dingy centre of Lens and its dilapidated station. I park down the street and run to the platform. There aren’t too many people around and I waste no time. I collect my suitcase and briefcase from a locker and head back to the Mercedes. Once inside, I remove my leather gloves and roll Patroclus up in a towel. I swap my shoes: the size 9s end up in a plastic bag and I slip my comfortable size 10s back on to my relieved feet.

  It’s during these few moments that I feel most unprotected. I might fall at the mercy of a local police officer who’s stopping cars for random checks. One check like that and I’m dead. On my shoes – the size 9s – there’s blood: the blood that spilled from my canvas. This is dangerous and I’m feeling very ill at ease. Despite all my experience, a shiver runs down my spine. I thrust the gloves, Patroclus and the pair of size 9s deep in my backpack then I get out of my vehicle and look behind me warily. There’s no one there as far as I can see, but that doesn’t mean there are no prying eyes. They could be watching me right now. No. I climb back into my seat. The safest bet would be to make a run for it. I turn the key in the ignition and drive away. A knot is forming in my belly and I have to bend forward to contain it.

  I leave Lens and stop at the edge of a small wooded area. The evening is drawing in and I’m losing the light.

  I open up the boot. In one corner, I remove a metal plate that blends in with the bodywork. Behind this is a compartment into which I shove the backpack. I’ll be in Paris tomorrow and the day after that I’ll be in Dijon. Then on to Lyon, and finally home to Nice – where I’ll be truly safe. On the way back, just before seeing my Claire, I’ll stop off in Grasse and bury the backpack. I’ll leave it there for about two years until my thirst for art returns to tempt me. No doubt I’ll come back occasionally to check on how Patroclus is doing.

  I’m apprehensive about the day when the police finally piece this all together. They’ll join the dots and embark on a massive manhunt. What’ll happen then? Will they stop and search people? Will they put up roadblocks? And if I’m stopped, will the investigating officers find evidence of my misdeeds – my flagrant misdemeanours? There’s no chance I’d ever be able to give them any kind of rational explanation.

  I’ve often thought about the risks I take, but then again, I take them willingly. Of course, travelling to all corners of France with Patroclus and evidence that I am The Artist might be considered foolhardy, but that’s just the way it is. I’m not reckless. Absolutely not. I’ve never been reckless, but what else am I supposed to do? What would you do in my shoes? Would you kill these women and then get rid of everything connecting you to them? Even the shoes? Would you throw them in a lake? What about the blade? Should it be buried three feet deep under the earth? And the gloves and clothes you were wearing? Would you burn them all in an incinerator somewhere?

  I could never bring myself to part with Patroclus. To understand the ins and outs of these reflexes of mine, as I’d like you to, you really have to be a part of it. Think of those daft little things you hold dear and from which you wouldn’t be parted for all the money in the world. If you can’t think of anything, shame on you. As for me, there are things I care about more than my own life. Patroclus is one of them. For me, he has what one might call real sentimental value.

  Actually, there’d be little point in me getting rid of the shoes and gloves because the blade alone would be enough to incriminate me.

  Every artist has his or her own little obsession, so why would I be any different? As soon as I’m in Grasse and have buried the backpack, I’ll feel a strong sense of relief. If I could, I’d get rid of the murder weapon and use something else for my next work of art, but there’s only one Patroclus. If you lose a son or daughter, you don’t just shrug it off and go to the kid shop to buy a substitute, do you?

  Each time my thirst for art is quenched, an entire patchwork of virulent emotions starts to intertwine. So many feelings spread throughout my body, it’s as though a mass of snakes are writhing through my veins and guts. A snake of satisfied desire, a snake of fear (of being arrested), a snake of melancholy and a snake of hope.

  I know this will only last a while, a year and a half – two at most – and then my thirst for art will become too strong again. A tide of desire will overwhelm what patience I possess, and if I don’t want to drown in lust, if I don’t wish to dive to the very bottom of the abyss, I will have to kill again. It’s almost as if I am the victim – a slave to the diktat of my needs.

  But that’s just the way it is. The craving will be back before long. It’ll stir something deep within me and I’ll do whatever it takes.

  You know what? I want to be as honest as I can. You’re taking the time to read this and lying to you
would be a mistake. I have nothing to lose by revealing the very depths of my soul to you, do I? I don’t know you. Perhaps you’re not a worthy recipient of my sincerity. For all I know, you may not even care. Maybe you simply stumbled upon these words by chance. You might even be my next canvas.

  Moving on.

  The raw and despicable truth is this: I’m not ashamed of what I do.

  No, that’s not quite right. I’m not in the slightest bit ashamed. When the thirst first makes its appearance, I welcome it with both resignation and impatience. I know of people – both men and women – who repress their dark sides, and these people are so very rarely happy. One should never banish one’s desires. If you put a lid on your instincts, you end up evaporating. Those who don’t give in to their wants suffer. I am not one of those people.

  And quite frankly, my creations are divine . . . It turns out that the journalists who write about me have failed to recognise their purity, but I don’t care. I have nothing to say to them, and I have nothing to say to those who enforce the laws of the land either. I address only those who may be capable of seeing the beauty through the clouds – those who can discern the brightness through the darkness. I draw rays of sunshine in black skies and if you’re hoping to spot them, you’re going to have to open up and get ready to see the passion in what I do.

  If we knew each other better, maybe I could adapt to what you might expect of me. Yes – you there, although you’re an enigma to me. Are you managing to decipher my outpourings? Are you a man or a woman? You’re obviously something of a reader because you’re holding these pages in your hesitant and cautious hands, but do you like painting? Are you one of those who fight so that real art may exist despite the fact that so few appreciate its actual essence?

  Paris. The traffic is just awful. I’ve become somewhat used to these long and endless lines of metal skeletons honking their horns in order to express their wrath. But now, with Patroclus in the boot, I’m not feeling particularly comfortable. Anxiety is an emotion I so rarely feel. Fate, however, is something I fear. There are so many dangers that I have to force myself to ignore them. If I didn’t, I’d go mad.

  Mad? Do you think I’m mad? You’re not reading me impartially in that case, are you? Why don’t you just forget your preconceptions and focus on the content of what I write?

  Even hidden in a secret compartment in the back of my purring Mercedes, I don’t feel as though Patroclus is safe. The boot is locked, of course, but let’s imagine some little druggie forces it open and chances upon my backpack? What would happen then? Would I be able to catch him? He’d have my life in his hands, wouldn’t he? Would I get him if he made a run for it? Some addict eaten up by dope? Someone poisoned. Someone rotten. What would I do to him? I’d find him and kill him without a second’s hesitation, but what if it was just your run-of-the-mill thief? I’m in excellent physical condition and despite being fifty-four, I’m fairly sure I’m faster on my feet than most. Anyway . . .

  I park the Mercedes in the private car park. I’m staying in a luxury hotel because I can afford it. I have dinner and despite my anguish, I relish a Tournedos Rossini with a 1969 Châteauneuf-du-Pape that forces me to close my eyes in delight with each exquisite sip. I consider myself something of an epicurean and love to savour such moments. Not everyone knows how to appreciate fine dining, but I do. I’m alone now and feeling calmer. I avoid talking to the waiters and keep my eyes down, but finally feel that some of the heat is off. There is no way that here, so far from Lille, any connection could possibly be made between The Artist, who has struck in the north, and a talented sales representative who’s come to do business in the capital.

  The next day, to keep people further off the scent, I meet a customer after breakfast. I’m talking the talk without much enthusiasm but manage to sign a new contract anyway. Selling is something that becomes easier with experience. It’s not so much my actual qualities as a salesman that matter, but rather my network. My customers and suppliers are loyal and some of them have been trading with me for twenty-odd years. There’s a definite routine to my life, but as you know – and because I decided to confide so much in you (so don’t go telling, OK?) – I’ve found an outlet, a way to spice things up and make my time here on earth unique.

  Dijon. I spend the night in a charming little establishment that I’ve stayed in a few times before. I always eat well here. I always sleep well here. Rooms here aren’t often available, which means I feel privileged every time I manage to get hold of one. In the morning, I meet a viticulturist who could well become a nice little earner for me. I already have a few great wines on my books, but nothing from Burgundy. I refuse to sign anything straight away and decide to take a few weeks to think about it before committing myself. I spend the latter part of the morning on the phone. I use the pay phone in the hotel lobby, which is inconvenient and leaves me very out of sorts.

  Lyon. I have to go to a gala dinner. I take three clients, who thank me warmly for allowing them the opportunity to get to know each other. Before leaving, one of them slips me an envelope – his little way of telling me that I’ve introduced him to the right people. I don’t trust him. In theory, I should get a small percentage of any business that these men do together. They’d never have met if it wasn’t for me, but I won’t be able to control any future dealings between them, and I already know I’ve more or less been ripped off. I reckon this chap will send me a small wad of cash every now and again, but the amount will be a long way off what it should be. Never mind – these are the rules of the game. I haven’t really done much for them and what I have done didn’t require a massive amount of energy, but my bank account will be healthier to the tune of a few thousand francs. I can’t complain about the extra funds.

  The Mercedes glides over the tarmac and the kilometres fly by. I do my best not to go over the speed limit. This is so often how reckless people are caught out. They develop the most Machiavellian plans imaginable and ruin all their efforts with some minor act of clumsiness. A spanner in the works.

  Soon. Yes, soon I’ll be free. There’ll be no need to control myself any longer. No need to watch my back. I shiver every time I make eye contact with a man I don’t know. I worry he might be a police officer.

  On the passenger seat is a pile of newspapers from Paris. They all contain stories about me. I’m famous and I can’t tell a soul.

  A road sign points me in the direction of Grasse.

  In Grasse there’s a small wood. In this small wood, there’s an oak tree that stands just that little bit taller than the others. At the foot of this oak tree that stands just a little taller than the others is the hole in which Patroclus will sleep.

  3.

  Patroclus won’t be happy about this period of inactivity.

  A veil of relaxation has fallen over me, but it’s not the same for him. He’s never satisfied.

  I feel calm again, and will remain so until my thirst returns – until it invades me again and the first signs appear, leading me to find the only solution to my torment. Until then I will go about life quietly. I will ride out the storm, although for a while my soul will remain in a state of suspense. It’ll be easy for the first few months, but it’ll last two years tops, never longer than that, and then it will all come flooding back.

  My thirst for art will come for me and I’ll have to find another canvas, and I’ll do it again.

  It won’t go any other way. Believe me. I’m constant in my desires. The need builds – it screams out in me, and then once my drawings are complete, the need diminishes again. It’s like a melancholic ballad that rises several octaves and ends in a brutal tenuto. Then, with a wave of the conductor’s baton, the fury dissipates and everything falls back into place. Until the next act.

  It was only the very first time that I felt a lack of fulfilment. I’d been so impatient and felt so insecure and the result was nothing short of pathetic. I didn’t then feel this much need for a period of rest. It took more than five years before I dared to
seek out a second canvas, but I wanted to go faster . . . much faster. Too fast – but I still didn’t have a full understanding of what I was doing. They were difficult years, but I’ll talk to you about all that another time. In fact, there are a number of points we’re going to have to address. I’m rather reserved in temperament, but if I can’t reveal my true self to you, then who?

  I’ll have to take the time to explain the origins of my lust, and this I will do. I’ve always had a great love of painting, but as far as crime goes, I had to take inspiration from one of my cousins, Albert – a rather dark soul, whom I haven’t seen in an age.

  Albert . . . Memories of him come to me like a tide with hints of dappled red. How I’ve tried to forget them, but they always return, like a wave that simply cannot be avoided. It’s a tsunami, in fact, and it’s sweeping through me even now as I write. Albert, my cousin, may very well be dead for all I know. Actually, I don’t see how he could still be of this world considering the life he led. Albert, my cousin, was someone I idolised for his brazenness, his utter insolence and his nerve – and also, perhaps, for the fear he instilled in me.

  I always assumed he would end up in prison, but we lost touch. When we were children, I sensed the evil eating away at him and even if he was doing what he could to hide from it, there were too many signs that betrayed the violence within. He would have been a great mentor for me when I first started my work, but I was alone from the very outset.

  Albert, my close yet disturbing cousin, is a ghost from my past that I’ll never see again. I was so taken by his recklessness and I’m convinced that he must have killed at least once in his lifetime.

  I remember a particular fight when we were teenagers. We were just walking down the street when two other kids around our age called out to ask us for a cigarette. Albert gave them some lip and a scuffle broke out, even though we’d only conversed for around twenty seconds. Albert lost his mind. He was out of control. One of the boys made a run for it while Albert ordered me to help him drag the second victim out of sight.