The Switch

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 fle
w 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.

  ‘S
he 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,’ P
ascale 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.