Brian Freemantle - The Predators

‘Charles was going tonight,’ said the man.

‘I’ll go,’ decided Felicite. This had to be the last time: the end. Everything was falling apart. She supposed she should talk about the television appeal: she’d left Smet telling them when she looked at the body. She felt suddenly tired of them, not wanting to be with them any more that night. Instead she was anxious to get to the beach house. To be by herself with Mary. Her Mary. She said: ‘The pictures don’t look anything like me. Nothing’s changed.’

Mary didn’t intend it to happen – didn’t know why it did – but a tiny mewing sound escaped when she heard the key. She didn’t care who it was, even if it was the woman. When it was the woman Mary was glad the heaviness of the door would have hidden the sound she’d made. She didn’t know how she came to be there but she found herself close to the door, expectantly, when it swung open. She moved back slightly, but the woman didn’t come into the cell. Instead she stepped back, smiling, gesturing Mary out into the larger room.

‘Did you think I’d forgotten you?’ Felicite’s voice was quiet, friendly, with only a trace of huskiness.

‘I don’t know.’ Mary shrugged. She felt better, being with someone. The woman didn’t seem so threatening tonight.

‘You should have known I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Let me go, then.’

‘Soon. You must be hungry.’

Mary was. The last she’d had to eat were the two rolls the snuffling man had brought for breakfast the previous morning. ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘I’ve got us both a meal,’ said Felicite, pointing. There was a tray on one of the low tables, by the central dance floor. On it was laid out bread, cold meat, fruit and cheese. There was also a bottle of red wine and a bottle of water and two glasses.

‘Do you eat with your mama and papa?’ asked Felicite, leading the way.

‘At the weekends, mostly. They’re too busy during the week. There’s a nanny. Joyce.’ She decided against telling the woman that mom and dad squabbled all the time.

‘I’m going to enjoy having supper with you.’

‘Yes.’ The food couldn’t be poisoned if the woman was going to eat it as well. She was very hungry, her tummy growling. She was embarrassed, not wanting the woman to hear. Mom said it was rude when your stomach made noises. She liked the woman being kind to her, not shouting or hitting her.

Seeing Mary’s hesitation and guessing the reason Felicite served meat on both plates, tasted hers immediately and said: ‘It’s very nice. Try it.’

Mary did, at first hungrily but then more slowly, not wanting to annoy the woman. The meat tasted wonderful, the first proper food she’d had for days. She’d forgotten how long: forgotten to keep checking the date on her watch. She didn’t mind the way the woman was looking at her, smiling. It was good, just being next to someone: not being alone.

‘How about some wine?’ suggested Felicite, taking out the already withdrawn but lightly replaced cork.

‘Mom doesn’t let me.’

‘Haven’t you ever?’

Mary smiled, guiltily. ‘Once or twice. Bits left over after meals at the weekends.’

Felicite poured into both goblets. ‘I’ll let you, because we’re friends.’

She extended her glass and Mary clinked hers against it. She liked the taste of the wine: like fruit. She felt grown up.

‘How is it?’

‘Nice.’

‘Would you like more meat?’

‘Please.’

Felicite helped her to more and when Mary finished the second helping changed her plate for cheese and fruit. ‘Drink up. There’s a whole bottle for us to finish.’

‘Maybe some water.’

‘I didn’t bring enough glasses.’

‘Where’s the man who usually comes?’

‘I’ve come instead. Aren’t you glad?’

‘I don’t want you to hit me.’ She felt funny. Not ill or sick, as if she’d been poisoned, but dizzy, things going in circles inside her head.

‘I promise I won’t hit you.’ Felicite offered her glass again and when Mary responded said: ‘Cheers. This is nice, isn’t it: just the two of us together?’

‘I suppose.’

‘More than suppose,’ encouraged Felicite.

‘It’s nice. Is there going to be someone for me to play with?’

‘I’m sorry. The girl couldn’t come, after all.’

‘You promised!’ Mary’s face felt numb.

‘I’m sorry.’ Felicite reached out and took Mary’s hand.

It was too much trouble – felt too heavy – for Mary to move it. ‘You broke a promise.’

‘There’ll be boys and girls soon.’

‘When?’

‘Very soon.’ Felicite shared the remainder of the wine between them, pouring more for Mary than for herself.

‘Have you spoken to my father?’ Mary felt sleepy, as well as dizzy.

‘We’re making plans.’

‘Honest?’

‘Honest.’

‘Please let me go.’ It was very hard, not to cry.

‘You haven’t showered for two days.’

‘No.’

‘It was very hot today.’

‘Not down here.’

‘I should shower, too. Shall we shower together?’

‘No.’

‘We’re both girls, aren’t we?’

‘You’re grown up.’

‘So are you, drinking wine.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Then it’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ve seen you with no clothes on.’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t mind seeing me with no clothes on, do you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Haven’t you ever bathed with mama?’

‘Not since I got big.’

‘Why don’t we try?’

‘You won’t hit me? Make me jump for the towel?’

‘No, I promise,’ said Felicite, her voice thicker now.

‘You broke your other promise.’

‘I won’t break this one.’

‘All right.’

‘Let me help you,’ offered Felicite.

Neither Henri Cool nor Gaston Mehre had seen the television appeal. Both had listened horrified, Cool open-mouthed, to Smet’s repeated and much more detailed account after Felicite left.

‘Was I recognizable?’ demanded the schoolteacher.

‘I think so,’ said Smet. ‘She said not: that it was because I knew it was the two of you.’

‘What am I going to do!’

‘Decide for yourself,’ said Smet. ‘They’ll be shown tonight on the late news programmes. And in the papers tomorrow.’

‘Oh, dear God!’ moaned the man, hurrying to the drinks tray.

Charles Mehre came back into the room, standing uncertainly by the door. He said: ‘He’s downstairs. I covered him up.’ The other men said nothing and Charles went back to the chair in which he had sat earlier.

‘It’s a mess,’ complained Gaston. ‘Everything’s a total mess. And getting worse. And there’s no way we can get out.’

Smet was still looking at Charles. He said: ‘Felicite’s right about the whore. There won’t be a big investigation into his disappearance: even into his killing, when the body is found.’

Cool returned with a refilled whisky glass, his hand shaking. ‘That’s not our problem.’

‘I know,’ said Smet, coming back to the two men. ‘It’s the girl, and she’s only a problem as long as she’s alive. Dead – cleaned against any forensic examination and properly disposed of – there’d be nothing to link her to us.’

Neither Cool nor Gaston spoke immediately.

Cool said: ‘You’re right. It’s what I wanted from the start.’

Gaston said: ‘Who?’

Smet looked back to the man’s hunched brother. ‘Would he, if you told him to?’

‘She’d be furious,’ said the antique dealer.

‘What’s worse, our being caught or Felicite bloody Galan being angry over something it would be too late for her to do anything about?’