The Switch

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!’

&
nbsp; 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 t
o 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.’