Chapter 25: Third Part / Chapter 5

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic

Reads: 68


There are torn dreams. There are fuzzy images.

“And let me ask you about something,” said Nicole. “We know little of each other, practically do not know.”

“Yes, please. You’re welcome. I’ll answer any questions.”

“Alain ...” Nicole called his name and paused. The style of communication with the previous guys, with whom she had to intersect, quickly scrolled through her head.

Raymond and André seemed to answer dryly and strictly in the matter. André especially didn’t like long messages and emotions. She tried to think of Alain simply as an interesting person, and to avoid her stereotypes of ‘little boy or rude.’ For then she’s a little girl.

“What difficulties have you encountered, Alain? Do you really have them?”

Nicole decided to see how he would answer just such a question, depending on his tactics, she could attempt to build a discussion in her own way. She can ask this question to Denise. Oh God, she has no problems, and most likely, and it never happens. This fool just indescribably infuriates her so far!

“It seems to me that my biggest difficulty is: grandmother. She came from a village in Paris and didn’t speak the very dialect, strangely pronouncing words, syllables. At seven-years-old, I went to school. It turned out that I know the alphabet, but I write the words as their grandmother pronounces in the family. If I didn’t have a family member with a strange accent, I would succeed in English as this damn bank needs this skill,” said Alain.

“If you want to learn a language just for the sake of work: nothing will come of it. You need to live, to feel. Yes, I know, it sounds corny. You need to express emotions in a particular language, to understand a foreign culture at least partially.”

Nicole changed the subject. “Do you know who Francesco Ricardo is? Have you tried to look for him?”

“Yes, I need some of your ex-boyfriends. In reality, no.”

“Who’s Andre Moody, Gilbert and Mondel?”

“Previous youth mistakes, guys before Francesco? Also, you can say that you smoked grass with Moody, and due to this fact, apparently, is why you’re silent. I don’t know what kind of shit you’re following, but I can imagine.”

“Oh, you’re really sick,” Nicole said with irony in her voice.

“Tell me about Moody. Did you sleep with him?”

“You won’t believe it. This is just some kind of programmer from the forum with the profile picture of some grey cat. I don’t even know how he really looks.”

“Why didn’t you try to contact Moody? Maybe you would be more fortunate than with Francesco.”

“He knew some man in the French passport office. Sometimes this acquaintance provided him with information about individuals.”

“Moody brought you to me? Is he still on your hook?” Judging by the intonation, he rather joked.

“No, he doesn’t know me, and he’ll never be able to recognize me in the crowd. He didn’t see me. It’s not even Moody, but Gilbert. He has such a police character; it would be better if he went to the criminal investigation than to programming. Almost like the worst version of my mom. A supporter of tough measures to combat pirates and unlicensed software. He believes that software has the right to collect information about users and computers, including involuntarily.”

She dreamed, really dreamed, how she goes with her boyfriend, talks on a variety of topics from the past and present, and he satisfies his curiosity, recognizing her much better. But she couldn’t. She didn’t trust anyone, she didn’t believe anyone after Francesco. In addition, learning about the “dark side of Moody”, Blood can simply shoot him. It’s possible that there’s more. This man wouldn’t like tails.

* * *

Recently Nicole Gratte once again had dinner with Alain Renard, and then they walked around the city. Alain wanted a frank conversation.

He had no idea who Gilbert and Andre Moody were; he only knew about Francesco Ricardo that he was a client of Banque de Morales. Alen didn’t know anything about Carla, Hèlén, Denise, nothing from her past. None of her emotions, sensations or feelings, as if she had none.

“Nicole, please trust me.”

“Let’s just be quiet, take a walk ...”

Gratte sharply felt some burning pain in her abdomen. She didn’t immediately understand if she was dealing with menstruation or her typical toxicology. After some time, Nicole realized that these weren’t just critical days.

The fact is that Gratte never got fat like most women. She wasn’t interested in ways to lose weight or something else. But from time to time Nicko broke down, stuffed her stomach, she was nauseous and vomited.

Since Margeaux had a police character, the fact left an imprint even on this. If Nicole, for whatever reason, was frustrated and nauseous, she learned to restrain her urges in her teenage years. After all, her mother really didn’t want her to spoil any carpet or mattress, which was obviously more important for her than the stomach of her daughter.

Over the course of several years, Nicole noticed that, as a child, she seemed to vomit automatically. Now she can’t even snatch without the effort. Walking hand in hand with Alain, she opened her mouth several times; he had the impression that she wanted to cough, or her nose was stuffy. Thus, about fifteen minutes passed. She opened and opened her mouth, but she couldn’t throw. The psychological barrier acquired in adolescence was a hindrance.

Alain asked something there, he wanted frankness from her. Nicole didn’t listen. The tension in her stomach increased and increased, she opened her mouth as if she had blocked her nose. She vomited two or three times, although her abdominal pain didn’t abate. Some yellow-white mass popped out of her mouth. Bile smelled in her mouth, and it stank along the way. It’s Nicole’s nastiest, least favourite taste in the world.

“Nicole, what’s going on?” Alain asked. “Why were you silent all the way? We could leave the street.”

Her spasms were repeated several times. Nicole, in a sense, was pleased with the feeling of relief that she would receive after the natural discharge of slops. Everything else irritated her; an unpleasant smell and taste as if some poison had been pushed into her mouth.

Some smudges from her throat with falling pieces of food still need to be cleaned and washed.

“Give me disposable wipes, quickly!” Nicole said breathlessly.

Alain walked a half meter so that at least she wouldn’t ruin his clothes. Since he didn’t carry any wipes, he took off her maroon bag and tried to look for them inside her. She walked around the white-yellow puddles of vomit so as not to slip in them, knowing that they were very slippery on some surfaces, as well as, possibly, on this city tile.

Fortunately, she no longer wanted to vomit.

“Is that all?” Alain asked.

“Yes. I don’t want to,” Nicole croaked, unable to speak loudly. “Let’s go from here.”

Just above the right knee on black jeans was a small trace of vomit. It didn’t bother Nicole at all, it was simple to get rid of it. She felt she had peed slightly into her underpants, although there was no spot on her crotch. Moisture was felt if you touch the jeans belt just below the belly button.

Unfortunately, she heard gunshots. Someone wounded Alain Renard and he fell. It was as if he knew too much, but they wanted to shut up his mouth. Having fallen, he took a pistol out of his holster and ... froze. Someone fired at him from an unknown foreign car from Nicole’s views, although for some reason she was sure that she was most likely black.

Nicole grabbed a light grey gun with a wooden handle. On the barrel, there was the word Springfield. There’re eight rounds in one magazine. She didn’t take a clip, she couldn’t reload. She remembered that her mother told her about work in a French communist bank. Even an ordinary banker should have been able to shoot. There were no criminal cases, but once Margeaux accidentally hit the siren button.

Picking up a gun, Nicole shot at cars racing past, especially black and expensive ones. She didn’t want people to suffer, so she didn’t break the glass, but tried to fire into the tires. One bullet rebounded from the door of a foreign car, broke up into three fragments, which dug into the asphalt.

“On the street, a nutty slut addict with a gun!”

“You must leave from here until your head is shot.”

Nicole heard different voices. She spent the last seventh cartridge, firing into the tires of an SUV that frozen at a traffic light. The rear and front right wheels were deflated, the car bent to the right side and resembled a used one.

“Hey, woman! I just put these tires in the garage pit yesterday!”

“Damn it, she shot this guy three times. He vomited before death!”

“And you’re not ashamed, woman?” Some old woman approached her with a small dog. “First you killed this guy, made him vomit, then you thought you would vandalize the cars.”

“I didn’t shoot the guy! I didn’t shoot the guy!” Nicole repeated.

“How is that? Didn’t shoot?” The old woman didn’t let up. “It was you who killed the man. Confess!”

“You put the barrel down, that he was already sick!”

Nicole wiped excess food from her mouth with a wipe, the smell of bile evaporated. She couldn’t even prove that the vomiting didn’t belong to this man. Gratte tried to put pressure on intellectualism and mathematics, which she always succeeded in.

“I fired two bullets in both wheels of this SUV. I hit the door of a car, but the bullet ricocheted, two bullets flew into the wall of the house. Total, five bullets fired, but seven in the gun. There’re three wounds on the body.”

“As if I would believe that this is the only gun,” said the grandmother with the dog. “Did he sell you drugs? Maybe he didn’t want to sleep with you?”

“I repeat once again: I was sick, and someone shot him out of the car and drove away. If I shot close, then I would be in the blood myself.”

The man who drove the SUV spoke out against the grandmother.

“But what if she’s right, woman? The guy was sick. Was it at seven meters?”

“She specifically took him away so that less evidence was against her.”

“And why would she be waving a gun for five minutes? It was really cool. Why didn’t you ask someone to call the police?”

Before the police arrived, Nicole managed to call Blood:

“Pierre, listen urgently. I have an emergency!”

“Is your tampon now yellowed?”

“Fuck, I’m serious. We walked after a Chinese restaurant, Alain and I. Now some boy drove up on the car and shot him.”


“Seriously, someone fucking killed him right now.”

Five minutes later the police and ambulance arrived. Doctors shone a flashlight in Alain’s eyes: deceased, immediately understandable. Nicole Gratte is being arrested. Grandma with a dog proves her version.

“That’s her! She put a gun to his throat, he already vomited.”

“I heard from the sound that they fired from different pistols. If I was close, where is my and his blood on my clothes?”

“Yes, you sank into the water on the pavement, and then surfaced.”

“And the clothes are not sticky.”

“I’m afraid she’s right,” said the police commissioner. “The call came recently, if she fell into the water, then the clothes would not have time to dry.”

“You’re a liar!” Nicole shouted to grandmother. “It’s disgusting to listen to you!”

“And you’re a criminal! And you know the names of the pistols, and how many rounds. How much did the pimp buy this shit for you?”

“This is a pistol from his holster, he’s from a private guard,” Nicole said. “And you compose one lie after another!”

The commissar turned to the old woman.

“We warn you of responsibility for giving false testimony.”

“I didn’t give any testimony,” said the grandmother. “Don’t reproduce my words. I see badly, there is a fantasy to understand what happened. Come on, Pierre.”

The grandmother told her dog, and her name suspiciously coincided with Blood, although this didn’t mean anything. Nicole felt annoyed that the authors of false testimonies couldn’t be punished immediately, especially if they were elderly.

Submitted: December 12, 2019

© Copyright 2020 RomanBoukreev. All rights reserved.


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