Woman in the Fifth

me. According to Doug, the college’s Board of Directors overruled Robson, who wanted me pursued to the ends of the earth.’

‘That man really has it in for you.’

‘Yes. It’s not enough that I have been ruined. He won’t be happy until he sees me completely crushed.’

‘And if you could be revenged against him … ?’

‘I don’t want revenge.’

‘Yes, you do. And you deserve it. So does Shelley. Had he not leaked any of this to the press, she would probably still be alive today. So what do you think would be an appropriate payback for all the harm he perpetrated?’

‘You want me to fantasize here?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely. The worst thing that could happen to the bastard.’

‘You mean, like discovering that he had a huge collection of kiddy porn on his computer?’

‘That would do nicely. And say you wanted to devise an appropriate punishment for your ex-wife … ?’

‘Now let’s not get ridiculous here …’

‘Go on, it’s just loose talk.’

‘If she lost her job—’

‘You’d feel vindicated then?’

‘Why are you playing this game?’

‘To help you.’

‘Help me … what? Psychologically?’

‘The talking cure is a good one — especially when it comes to articulating your anger, your grief. But it doesn’t fully close the wound.’

‘Then what does?’

She shrugged and said nothing. Except, ‘You need to be on your way now. We will continue talking in three days’ time, if that’s fine with you.’

‘Of course.’

‘We might even have sex the next time … as you might be feeling less guilty about fucking that barmaid. You will definitely tell her to go crying to her husband about Omar’s horrible assault on her.’

‘I’m dreading the idea—’

‘You will dread a beating even more. A tres bientot …’

Having now done what Margit had demanded — having spoken to Yanna and hatched my plan with her — I felt strangely calm. Though there was part of me that wanted to go to Mr Beard and make up some story about having to leave town for a few days on ‘personal business’, I decided to stay put and see just how things played out … like someone playing Russian roulette, who was certain it was worth staying in the game because the odds were six to one that he wouldn’t get his brains blown out.

Back in my office later that night, I opened my laptop and went to work. My novel was now over four hundred pages in length. The doubts that haunted the early months of writing had been replaced by a fierce momentum — and the sense that the novel was starting to write itself. This was another reason why I was loath to run away from this small nocturnal cell. Its claustrophobic bleakness had become almost talismanic to me; the place where, free from all outside distraction, I pounded out the words and moved the story on. And I feared if I suddenly left this room, the writing would stop. So despite all the creeping doubts about everything to do with this job, this quartier, I was determined to stay working here until the novel was finished. Then, one day, I’d simply pack up my things and slip away. Until then—

Why is somebody screaming downstairs?

The scream was loud, shrill, alarming. It had an almost animalistic intensity — like that of a wild beast caught in a trap and howling in torment. After a moment it fell silent. Then I could hear the same voice engaged in loud supplications, followed by other voices shouting him down, and then …

The scream this time was agonizing. Pain was being inflicted in a merciless manner. When a further howl pierced the concrete walls of my room, I found myself on my feet and unbolting the door. But as soon as I yanked it open, the howling stopped. I peered downstairs into an empty corridor. I walked down several steps and stared at the door at the end of the corridor on the ground floor. A voice in my head whispered, Are you out of your fucking mind? I dashed upstairs, closed the door and bolted it again, trying my best to secure it quietly. But it still made a decisive thwack when I pushed it home. After a minute, the howling started again. This time, the other voices started to shout, the howls became hysterical, a word — Yok! Yok! Yok! — was repeated over and over again by the man who was screaming. There was further shouting, then one final appalling screech … then a deep, eerie silence.

I sat at my desk, chewing on a finger, feeling helpless, terrified. Don’t move, don’t move. But if you hear footsteps coming up the stairs, grab your laptop and make a dash for the emergency exit (not that I had any idea where that exit might actually bring me).

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by. I kept staring at the television monitor. No one appeared on its fuzzy screen. Twenty-five minutes. Silence. Then, suddenly, I heard the downstairs door open and footsteps in the corridor. The front door opened. A man came out into the lane. He appeared short — but it was hard to discern anything about him, as he had the hood of his parka pulled up around his head to conceal his face. He also had a broom in one hand. What the hell is he doing with that? I wondered — until he thrust the broom handle at the camera hanging above the door. I flinched — because the image that appeared on the monitor made it seem like he was jabbing the broom handle directly at me. With the first blow the camera just shook. With the second, he scored a bull’s-eye on the lens and the screen went black. Then I could hear whispered voices and low grunts accompanied by the sound of something heavy being dragged along the corridor. The dragging sound stopped, there were more whispers — Were they checking that the coast was clear before hoisting the body? — then the sound of further dragging before the front door closed with a dull thud.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic …

But say they come back for you … ?

If I left now, they could be waiting for me outside. I’d see who they were … and that would be, at best, unfortunate. If I waited here, at least I’d be sending a signal that I was playing by the rules. I wasn’t going to ask questions, go to the cops, make trouble.

I was desperate to flee. I couldn’t flee. But as soon as my watch read 6 a.m., I was gone. Though I wanted to take a long walk by the Canal Saint-Martin to try to calm down, I sensed that it was best to stick to my usual routine, just in case somebody might be watching my movements. So I hung on until 6 a.m., went to the boulangerie and bought my pains au chocolat, then returned to my room, where I found a new note stuck under my door:

I give you two more days, no more. 1000 euros or I tell.

I crumpled up the note and shoved it into my pocket. Then I went inside and took a Zopiclone and crawled into bed.

Up as usual at two. At the Internet cafe thirty minutes later. But as soon as I walked in, I could tell that Mr Beard knew all about last night. Because he came out from behind the bar and locked the front door, then motioned for me to follow him into a back room. When I hesitated, he said, ‘You do not leave here until we have a talk.’

‘Let’s talk here,’ I said, thinking if some stooges emerged from the back room, I’d have some minor chance of throwing myself through the glass of the front window and getting away with mere major lacerations.

‘It’s quiet in the back.’

‘We’ll talk here,’ I said.

A pause. I could see him staring out at the street, looking just a little paranoid.

‘What you see last night?’ he asked.

‘I saw some vandal smash the television camera.’

‘Before that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘That’s right: nothing.’

‘I don’t believe you. You opened the door. They heard you.’

‘They heard wrong.’