Calista, Laura Rahme [best ereader for comics txt] 📗

under her breath. “What did I tell you, girls? Just like his father. A mouth to feed and nothing in his little pea-sized brain. Little runt will get what he deserves. And when I catch him…”

Her steps became frantic. She agitated herself. Now she was mad.

She had eyes everywhere. Nowhere could he hide. For this was home.

At four, he was too young to understand that no matter how dearly he wished it, sitting still, crouched into a ball with his knees tucked in beneath his belly, even halting his breath and shutting his eyes did not make him disappear. No one could achieve such a feat. If he could, he might have merged into the rug, taken on the crimson of the fabric, become one with the splintered wooden slats. He would have…

Calloused hands reached under the table. They grabbed at him. He smelled the strong ale on her breath, the sweat of her armpits.

“Open your eyes Maurice!” she barked.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t face her. He had to do it: he had to disappear, now.

Until the blow to his head startled him. His jaw slackened but he was tongue-tied. He blinked, then stared breathless at her flashing eyes between two chair legs. She made a triumphant snarl that promised more cruelty. She was all teeth and eyes and she roared, dragging him with force to his feet. A splinter dug deep into his knee.

In her high-pitched honey voice, the voice he dreaded, she launched into her fury.

“I told you I’d find you, didn’t I? What did I promise you? A good belting. Yes, that’s right.”

With one hand she clutched onto his locks, her grip, fierce and unyielding. With the other, she felt against the hearth and found a long metal rod.

Over the years, he had discovered ways to grow numb when she struck. Blow after blow, he’d learnt to leave his body. One. That’s how he did it. Oh it hurt, but he was long detached from his own skin. Therese’s long entangled hair danced savagely around her head as she struck him. In her eyes, malicious sparks were set alight. Two. Three. While she gripped his arm and he watched her fly into her mad dance in which he was but a prop, he would wonder at the curious blend of rage and pleasure in her eyes. Four. Five. The froth bubbled at the corners of her mouth and he would feel only repulsion. But as horrifying as she was, once she had found him, the images moved so fast that for all his tears, Maurice no longer heard, no longer feared. Six, seven, eight… countless blows. He was numb to them all. For the chase is what he feared most. Always the chase.

And the neighbours heard, how could they not? For their street was narrow and each home abutted the wall of the other. And when the Parisian rain did not wash away the slurry of household waste, each home swam in the refuse of the other. The blank faces he’d see the next day told him that no help was coming, for Therese was all he had, all he could expect. And the look in their eyes as they stared – at his bruises, at his blackened eyes – then turned their faces away, brought him only shame.

“Inspector Maurice Leroux,” began the lawyer, “I’m delighted to meet you.” Maurice’s memories vanished. He reached out to shake Mr. Wilson’s hand.

He had been standing in the stuffy office for some time, watching the rain pelting against the window, when scenes of his childhood had entered his thoughts.

Unfamiliar places, new experiences, new faces — they brought back these unsettling incidents. He felt proud to gain courage from his past, to reflect on what he had endured and overcome, despite feeling entirely alone with his memories. For some things were not spoken.

“I am in a delicate situation, Mr. Leroux,” began Mr. Wilson as they sat in his study. “Before he died, my client appended stringent stipulations to his will and I am bound to abide to them. Did you read what I sent you?”

Maurice launched into his college-level English with only a rare touch of a French accent. “I understand Mr. Nightingale was an eccentric,” he said.

“As eccentric as they come.”

“Why me?”

“For the utmost discretion. We felt it best to invite a French national to work on the case. You have a fine reputation in Normandy and one of Mr. Nightingale’s medical colleagues, a man he met in France on several occasions, recommended you.”

“Do I know this Frenchman?”

“It hardly matters, does it? He knew you and your work in private investigations. I shan’t reveal his identity. We would like to work quietly, as you’ll appreciate. While you remain here, in England, I will hold on to your passport. It will be returned to you when you wish to journey back to France.”

“I can assure you my work ethics are exemplary.”

“It is a simple formality. Mr. Leroux, if it wasn’t for Mr. Nightingale’s secretive nature, you would not be here. There’s no reason for me to distrust you. I am in your debt. Few French inspectors speak English as well as you do and I can’t see them being much inclined to brave the Channel with all the upheaval back home. Uncertain times in France.”

“I acknowledge that we have had an interesting revolution. But it is largely over, now, since June.”

Mr. Wilson smiled. “That’s quite an understatement. This is the second time you depose of your monarchy. Napoleon Bonaparte must be laughing in his grave. But let’s return to the facts. After her brother’s death in August, Aaron Nightingale’s sister approached me. She told me she wished to visit the estate and settle some matter. Due to the family ties, I did not see a problem. I gave her a set of keys and notified Mrs.