Michael Ridpath: Amnesia

‘Clémence is your mother’s granddaughter,’ said the old man. ‘That still makes her your niece.’

Fabrice turned to him. ‘I don’t care who she is! If she knows who I really am, she will tell the police. She has to die too.’

‘Madeleine won’t like that, will she?’ said the old man.

‘What’s Madeleine got to do with it?’ said Fabrice.

‘Madeleine told you Nathan killed Sophie. Madeleine helped set up Nathan’s death.’ He paused. Clémence could see an idea coming to him. ‘Madeleine told you we were here.’

‘You don’t remember that,’ said Fabrice. ‘You’re just guessing again.’

‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ said the old man. ‘Madeleine was quite happy to see me dead, but not her favourite great-niece. She forbade you to harm her.’

For a moment, hope flickered. Clémence could see the old man was trying to negotiate for her life. He knew he was going to die soon, but he was trying to keep her alive. And not doing a bad job of it.

But Fabrice was right. If he let Clémence live, she would tell the police who he was. She could try promising to stay quiet, but her promise would mean nothing, and Fabrice wouldn’t trust it.

‘I’ll just have to tell Madeleine I’m sorry,’ said Fabrice. ‘That I had no choice. She won’t like it, but she’ll have to live with it.’ He stared hard at the old man. ‘I’ve come a long way to do this, and I’m going to do it. You and Nathan, you destroyed our family. If my father hadn’t gone to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, all our lives would be different. My life wouldn’t have been the total fuck-up that it is, I wouldn’t have done the drugs. I wouldn’t have killed Wendy, wouldn’t have gone to jail...’ He paused. ‘The shrinks had a field day with all that, said I never stood a chance. And they were right. Nathan did all that. And you, you did it too. I didn’t let him escape the consequences, and I’m not going to let you.’

‘I understand why you want to kill me,’ said the old man. ‘And Nathan. But not Clémence.’

‘That’s your fault, Alastair. You brought her into this. You bear the responsibility.’

Clémence wanted to protest, to point out that it was Madeleine who had sent her to see Alastair, that none of this was the old man’s fault, but she found she couldn’t speak. And she knew Fabrice wouldn’t listen.

‘So you have my black exercise book?’ said the old man. ‘Did you steal it from here?’

‘Yes. After I knocked you down the stairs. In fact, that’s why I knocked you down the stairs; I meant to kill you then. Madeleine had told me what was in the book, that you had figured out I had run down Nathan Giannelli, and so I had to destroy it, and destroy you.’

‘What about me?’ said Stephen. ‘What are you going to do with me? Your own father?’

For a moment, Fabrice looked confused. The barrel of the rifle was wavering. Clémence thought of trying to jump him. Then she heard a soft click coming from the hallway. Fabrice hadn’t noticed.

‘I’ll hit you over the head,’ he said to his father. ‘You can pretend to have been unconscious. Say that you didn’t know who I was. Better than that, you didn’t even see me. You can do that, can’t you, Dad? To stay alive.’

Clémence looked at her grandfather. Would he abandon her after all? He might, to stay alive.

That thought seemed to have occurred to Stephen as well. He nodded. ‘All right, Fabrice. With any luck I will forget everything, just like this old fool.’

Clémence spotted movement behind Fabrice, who was standing with his back to the doorway, covering the three of them with his rifle. It was Callum!

He raised something above his head with both hands. It was a silver toaster he had grabbed from the kitchen, not much of a weapon, but it should stun Fabrice at the very least.

Too late, Clémence noticed Fabrice’s own eyes narrow as they caught where hers were focusing. He ducked, twisted and swung the butt of his rifle, just as the toaster arced downwards. The toaster glanced off Fabrice’s shoulder, but the rifle butt hit Callum hard in the ribs, and he doubled over.

Clémence rushed forwards, as Fabrice brought the butt down on Callum’s skull. He crumpled.

Clémence threw herself at Fabrice, and they both careered into the wall. But Fabrice didn’t fall. He writhed and twisted and shook her off. He took a couple of paces back and pointed his weapon at the two of them. Callum was on all fours on the floor, groaning, and Clémence slowly pulled herself to her feet.

She moved towards Callum.

‘Leave him!’ Fabrice shouted. ‘Stand back and put your hands up. And you, whoever you are, you crawl over to Alastair and stay on the floor.’

Callum looked up, rubbing the back of his head, and did as he was ordered.

Fabrice stared at them, the barrel of his rifle skipping from one to the other. ‘All right, who’s first?’ He glanced at Clémence and then his eyes fell on the old man. ‘You, I think, Alastair. Definitely you.’

The old man stared back, defiant. Brave.

Clémence didn’t feel brave, she was terrified. She didn’t want to die, but the terror paralysed her. What should she do? Scream? Pray? Hold Callum’s hand?

‘Do it outside, Fabrice,’ said Stephen.

‘Why?’

‘Less mess. Less forensic evidence. If you take them out and shoot them, we can dump them in the woods. It might be quite a while until anyone finds them. No one will even know they are dead for a bit. Shoot them here and there will be blood everywhere.’

Fabrice glanced at his father.

‘Trust me. I’m a convicted murderer. I know of what I speak.’

The old bastard was making a joke of it! Clémence was glad that he wasn’t her real grandfather after all.

‘All right,’ said Fabrice, after a moment’s thought. ‘Line up together in the hallway. If one of you runs, I will shoot the others and then you.’

He glared at Alastair. ‘You go first out the back. Then the kid. Then Clémence.’

With an effort the old man hauled himself out of his chair and shuffled out to the hallway. Callum followed, still holding his head, and Clémence came last. She could hear Fabrice behind her. It was as if she could feel the gun pointed at her back.

Then she heard a crash, and swung around. Stephen was holding the toaster in both hands, watching as Fabrice staggered, the barrel of the rifle swaying.

‘Callum!’ Clémence shouted and grabbed the barrel. There was a flash and a deafening explosion in the narrow hallway. Plaster cracked inches away.

Fabrice straightened up and tried to yank the rifle away from her. Stephen rammed the toaster on his son’s skull again, and Callum grabbed the stock of the rifle.

Clémence’s ears were ringing, but she saw her opportunity and dug her teeth into Fabrice’s hand. He let out a yell, and loosened his grip on the gun. The toaster crashed on his head again. Callum ripped the rifle away from him and then smashed the butt into his face.

Fabrice was on the floor.

‘Give me that! I know how to use it,’ said the old man. Callum handed him the rifle. The old man chambered the next round and pointed the gun at Fabrice’s head. ‘Move, and I’ll blow your head off,’ he growled. ‘In fact, I might just blow it off anyway.’

The old man glanced at Stephen, who was straightening himself up, the toaster still in his hands, a lopsided grin of triumph on his face.

The old man smiled gruffly. ‘Imaginative use of kitchen appliances, Stephen. When we’ve tidied up here, can I buy you a pint?’

‘A pint? Tight-fisted old bastard. I’d say that deserves two at least.’

Thursday 18 March 1999, Heathrow Airport