The String Diaries Part 27

Beckett settled back in his chair. 'Secret death squad, set up to wipe the hosszu eletek from the face of the planet. From the evidence, they must have done a pretty good job.' He chuckled. 'Unless you know something I don't.'

'And they're still in existence today.'

'Ha. Battle re-enactors probably. You know how it goes with this kind of thing.'

'I'd like to see the scroll again.'

'Yes, of course.' Beckett blinked, looked over at Charles. 'Sorry?'

'The scroll. The one you showed me yesterday.'

The academic frowned. 'My dear boy, are you pulling Patrick's leg?'

'The Royal Decree.'

'Charles, frankly, I'm getting a bit old and a bit slow. I must confess I have no idea what you're talking about. I was here all day yesterday.'

'I met you in the physic garden.'

'With my hay fever? I can't even go there in the depths of winter. You think cats are bad. Try me with pollen. I sneeze out a lung even thinking about the place.'

Charles felt his chest tightening. 'Patrick, when did you last see Nicole?'

'Who?' The academic scratched his head. 'Is this some kind of initiation rite?'

Jumping to his feet, Charles sprinted through the flat, down the flight of stairs and out into the street.

Nicole was lying on the bed, a crocheted pillow in her arms, when the back door slammed and Charles called out her name.

'Up here.' Nicole heard his feet pounding up the stairs and when the door to the bedroom opened, she rolled over and smiled at him.

He looked terrible. For the first time since she'd known him, he hadn't shaved. And his eyes looked different. Haunted.

'Hi.' He stared down at her, and then he noticed the journal propped open on the bed: European Folklore and Mythology. 'You've read it, then.'

She shrugged. 'Curiosity got the better of me in the end.'

'It gets us all.'

'Are you OK?'

He shut the door and came over to the bed. 'I think we need to talk about some things.'

She patted the covers. 'I think we probably do.'

'Nicole-' His voice cracked. He sat down, his head bowed.

'Charles, are you crying?'

Wiping his eyes, he shook his head.

'What is it?' She propped herself up on one arm. 'What's wrong?'

'Nicole . . . My G.o.d, Nicole. However did I have the good grace to find you?'

'Overwhelming luck, probably.' Reaching for him, she tugged him on to the bed.

'If I ever lost you-'

'You came spectacularly close.'

'Do you really want to stay here?' he asked. 'In Oxford?'

'Don't you?'

He sighed, touched her face. 'I love you so much.'

'I know. You've a strange way of showing it sometimes, but I know you do. Come here.'

She pulled him to her. And then, for the first time in weeks, they made love. Afterwards, lying naked in his arms, Nicole reflected just how much she had missed their closeness. She had never seen him cry, had never seen him so vulnerable. It troubled her. She wondered what had caused it.

Stirring, Charles rolled on to his side and stared into her eyes. 'I'll do whatever you want.'

She reached out a hand, ruffling his hair. 'I'm a lucky girl indeed. The great Professor Meredith, prostrate before me, prepared to grant my every whim.'

'I'm serious. Whatever you want.' He looked over at the bedside table, where the diaries of her ancestors lay in a pile. 'What are those?'

Nicole smiled. She managed not to jerk away from him. Hoped that her face did not betray her. 'Just some old books.'

He nodded.

Wanting to gasp for air, forcing herself instead to take a measured breath, she studied his face the line of his jaw, the sagging skin at his throat, his bushy eyebrows, matted hair.

And then, as calmly as she could, Nicole rose naked from the bed. She felt his eyes on her body as she pulled on her dressing gown. When she turned back to him, he was smirking, a predator's smile.

'I'm going to make some coffee,' she said.

'I'll join you.'

Nicole went out into the hall. She blotted two tears from her eyes.

Don't let him see. Don't let him suspect.

Was Charles dead? Was it already too late? Down the hall to the landing. Down a twisting flight of stairs to the lobby. Through to the kitchen, where she filled the kettle, plugged it in and turned to see that the man who looked like her husband but might not be had followed her into the room.

Trembling, she opened a cupboard and removed two cups. Took the pouch of coffee from the fridge. Spooned grains into the cafetiere. Fumbled the container trying to put it back in the fridge. Dropped it.

Coffee grains slid across the floor in a brown tide. 'Jesus.'

The creature that might not be Charles shook its head. 'Never mind. Is there a brush?'

'I can do it.' Nicole fetched the brush and swept up the grains, teeth grinding. She emptied the dustpan into the bin as the kettle boiled, then poured water into the cafetiere. 'I saw Sarah this morning.'

'Oh yes?'

There was no Sarah. Facing the counter, her back to him, Nicole suppressed a sob. 'She said you've agreed to teach her French cla.s.s again.'

'I did?'

'Apparently.'

'I don't remember. But I'm happy to.'

Next to the cafetiere stood the kettle. Next to the kettle, the toaster. Next to the toaster, a wooden block containing six incredibly sharp Sabatier knives Nicole had brought back from Thiers.

She glanced over her shoulder. In the breakfast nook, he had plucked a photo frame from the windowsill and was studying it intently. The picture was of Hannah, taken when she was thirteen. The girl sat in a canoe, life jacket over a summer vest, smiling up at the camera. They had been on a family holiday along the Dordogne. Two weeks of camping by the river, cooking over a stove, telling stories underneath the stars.

The man that might be Charles looked up at her and grinned, and Nicole finally admitted to herself that he was an impostor. She turned back to the kitchen counter, thinking that her legs might give way. Imagine that. Sprawled on the floor with that monster behind her. She swallowed, forced herself not to run.

In Carca.s.sonne, how long had Petre impersonated her father before killing him? Days? Weeks? Was this the first time Jakab had visited her? The tenth? If it had not been for that simple error upstairs, she would never have even suspected.

You made love to him.

Charles's recent publishing success must have brought him here. The book, with its dust jacket photograph. The journal article. Both had been published within the last month. How long had it taken Jakab to discover them? How long to track Charles down? He couldn't have been here more than a few weeks, perhaps only a few days. Perhaps this was the first time he had visited. If that were the case, then her husband was probably still alive.

Maybe.

Possibly.

'The jeweller phoned,' she said.

'Oh yes?'

'Said your watch was ready.'

'I'll pick it up in the morning.'

Nicole heard him walk up behind her. There was no jeweller. No watch.

She turned around.

Jakab was standing in front of her, the picture of Hannah still in his hands. He was laughing.

She picked up the cafetiere from the counter and flung its contents in his face. Boiling coffee engulfed him and he screamed, staggering backwards. The photo frame dropped from his hands. It smashed on the tiled floor.

'Do you have any idea how much that hurts?' he roared. When he straightened, she saw that the skin of his face was a bright, scalded red. Coffee grains and liquid dripped from his chin. Crazily, he laughed again. 'd.a.m.n, but it wakes you up, doesn't it? That's what they say about good coffee. Gives you a kick.'

Nicole yanked a carving knife out of the block. The wooden cube bounced off the counter. Knives clattered to the floor, their steel shafts spinning. She jumped forwards and slashed at him. He was fast too fast shielding his face with an arm. The blade sliced through the fabric of his jacket. Blood flicked across the room.

Nicole lunged, intent this time on burying the knife in his face. He dodged. Before she managed to pull back the blade far enough to thrust at him a second time, her foot slipped in the boiling coffee. She toppled backwards, cracking her head against the counter as she fell.

Sprawled on the tiles, Nicole felt coffee burning her legs. The blow had stunned her, the shock too intense to let her move. Glancing down, she saw that her dressing gown gaped open, exposing her nakedness. She gasped at the horror of it.

Jakab tore a tea towel from the back of a chair and mopped his face. Already the red blotches were fading. He tossed away the cloth and examined the tear in his jacket. 'Oh, you absolute b.i.t.c.h. Look what you've done. Seriously, Nicole, look at this. Do you know how much I liked this jacket? I saw Charles wearing something similar last week and looked everywhere for one.'

On the floor to her left, a small filleting knife lay just within reach. She inched out her fingers towards it.

Jakab paced up and down in front of her, holding his hands against the sides of his head. 'Calm down, Jakab, calm down. It's not too late, it's not. Salvage it, that's what you do. Yes. That's what you're good at.'

Nicole touched the cold handle of the filleting knife. Her stomach flipped. She thought she might be sick.

Jakab s.n.a.t.c.hed the smashed photo frame from the floor and brought it over to her. 'Who's this? Who is it?'

Her fingers crabbed over the handle of the knife. Closed around it.

'It's Erna, that's who it is. How? She's dead, Nicole. Dead. This is a colour photograph.' He thrust the picture at her.

She dragged the knife across the tiles.

'Oh, do you have to?' He lifted his foot and stamped down.

The bones in her wrist crunched. She screamed, pulling her shattered arm towards her.

Jakab kicked the filleting knife across the room. He noticed the other knives, and kicked them all away from her. 'All this time looking for you, Nicole. All these years. And look at you. Old. Old and spiteful. Vicious.' He paused, sucked in a breath. 'Who is the girl?'

'It's me, Jakab.'

'Liar! Get up.'

She scissored her legs in front of her. 'Where's Charles?'

'Get up!'

'What have you done to him?'

'He's dead. Now answer my question.'

She cried out, her heart unravelling.

Jakab grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He shoved her back against the counter. 'I'm going to ask you a final time. Who is she? Where is she?'

Tears coursing down her cheeks, Nicole stared at him, at the monster that looked like her husband but was not.

Jakab pulled back his fist and punched her in the face.

She woke, slumped on a chair in the corner of the breakfast nook. Her right eye was gummed shut. Her mouth tasted of blood. She raised her head drunkenly, looked about her.

Jakab sat across the table. He had removed the ruined jacket and was dressed in one of Charles's cashmere jumpers. Oxford Blue.