Chapter 27: Third Part / Chapter 7

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

Reads: 54

THIRD PART / CHAPTER 7

 

Bringing a red rose, Nicole cried in front of the grave of Alain Renard. She didn’t even open herself to him; she wasn’t sincere enough at a certain moment. She believed that her past didn’t matter. She had dreams—how she talks about Moody and Gilbert—but this never really happened. Nicole wasn’t sure whether to say this: Blood can kill Moody himself by deciding that he’s behind her. This is the bloody bank, after all.

Nicole wasn’t completely sure that Michel wasn’t a scammer. Yes, Michel was a charming, grey-haired man. At such an age, with grey hair without wrinkles on his forehead: the hell is lucky for him. To her, he is like a forty-year-old actor playing the role of an old man. Only the bruising on the side of his lips reminded of real age.

As for Alain Renard, maybe she didn’t tell to him completely everything and didn’t give all the information, but he also didn’t tell her who provided him with information about Pierre’s criminal past. She had some suspicions about the one who ordered Alain.

Nicole worked almost round-the-clock with Michel, more than in the bank itself: yes, she was formally fired from there. She had no days off. In the evening, she didn’t know where to return: to Alain’s rented flat or to one of her flats, to mom or grandmother.

She knew that now she, herself, had killed Alicia, but there was no formal charge against her. She only bowed, but when do the police have need of facts like these? Then one half of society would sentence to prison, and the other half would guard them at the prisons. Surely, someone did incline anyone to commit the most specious deeds, sometimes without intent.

In the evening, Nicole arrived at Alain’s rented flat. Pierre had asked her, wanted to arrange some kind of conversation. He only took off his shoes, didn’t even have time to take off his black jeans, he was already waiting for her in the kitchen with the red teapot. Blood opened the window and lit a cigarette.

“We need to talk,” said Pierre.

“I agree. Both of us,” she answered neutrally.

“So say the sentences. The woman goes first.”

“Pierre, you can’t even imagine who I am and what hierarchy I actually occupy in the bank. You can have anything written in there, even that I was fired, or never worked at all.”

“I don’t deny it. Our training results in wonder and you have succeeded in learning.”

“Yes, I’m not talking about that. I wonder who shot Alain Renard. I have some version.”

“Please tell me!”

“Pierre, I know that your nickname in the criminal world is Blood. You were in the criminal syndicate of the same name during the days of communist France in the seventies. Did murders by order. Somehow you moved to the banking sector. You had involved in the murder of Gerard Ruse, staged his departure out of town, buried underground, hiring an excavator driver. Then you are involved in the murder of drug addict Nicolas Kurt, the son of Norman Kurt, a former shareholder. I know everything about you. Maybe you know yourself worse.”

“Not bad. So, what is next? Will you call the police on your father?”

“You are not my father. I do not know my father at all.”

“But then who made you?”

“Someone. But children need to be educated and raised. It is not enough just to ‘make.’ So I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Did you order to kill Alain Renard?”

“I couldn’t,” he said, having smoked a cigarette while sitting at the kitchen table. “Alain Renard is my adopted son.”

“As if I would immediately believe that. He told me that you have a wife with two daughters, eleven and thirteen years old. You probably call all people who are younger than you sons or daughters.”

“You have to believe it because it was a very long time ago, and I have his children’s photographs. And what about the ‘sons’ and ‘daughters’, yes, there is a crappy idiom.”

“At the age of fifteen, I sat on the forum La Grande Échelle, dedicated to large-scale models of trucks and buses. There was one user with the nickname Dad. He was hardly more than thirty-two, and he was people who were only three years younger than him considered as his daughters and sons. Come on, are you his brother, huh?” Nicely smiling, Nicole asked playfully.

“It is not an achievement for me.” The smell of smoke in the kitchen was already distinctly felt, the open window weakly saved from it. “I raised a foster son, and you type messages on the forums.”

“The foster son didn’t respect you.”

“Prove it.”

“He wanted to get me out of the bank and to leave himself. He knew that I would open my own business to optimize someone else’s business.”

“Doesn’t matter what he wanted? He was getting this illusion. Do you think I just gave him this job? When you say a thousand times a year that you’re an allegedly fired employee, but you don’t leave your father’s business, what’s going on in your brain? That’s right, you start to believe this illusion.”

“Nevertheless, he managed to get me out of your business.”

“Not really: I got you out for him. He must think that he ‘deceived’ his father if he needs it at this stage of his life. And now what? Got you out. Yes, you’re on the blacklist. And you don’t have money for a business. We gave everything to Alicia, who was supposed to hide, but actually committed suicide.”

“Admit that you murdered your son because he was getting out of control. Doesn’t matter?”

Blood came out of the table. Nicole felt heavy his wrists first on her shoulders, and then she felt his whole elbows on her back. He knocked her onto the kitchen floor. Grabbing her head in his hands, several times hit hard on the radiator. Her head rang loudly as if Gratte had broken a bell that had drunk somewhere. The top of her head hurt terribly.

“What are you doing? Crap! It hurts me.”

“Yes, I fed him illusions, including some at the expense of you. But I didn’t kill him. Only you know who shot Alain. I didn’t do it.”

Nicole understood that she was mistaken. She had no special opponents. The only one who could order the murder of his adoptive son is some man hired by Francesco Ricardo.

She lay on the floor on her stomach. Her forehead hurts much less. One arm acted as a support for her head. Nicole managed to get up; her walk wasn’t shaky, therefore, the damage is insignificant. Gratte noticed how Pierre undressed, he pulled down his pants and she saw his dick.

Taking a large blue vase in the kitchen, Nicole threatened Pierre:

“So, dressed up quickly! Otherwise, I’ll break this vase! I’ll smack your eggs!”

“Have you seen this?” Blood pulled out of the holster of the fallen pants, his gun, the grey Springfield, from which Nicole shot, so she immediately recalled a weapon. “Put the vase, you fool! Otherwise, this cartridge will shoot at it first. We’ll see who smacks someone. Go to the living room and undress. You and I will play lovers. After all, life is a game, and we are all actors in it. Enough for daughters and fathers today.”

Nicole placed the vase, went into the living room and sat on the sofa. She felt for a button on black jeans, and then pulled down the zipper, and then removed them.

“They said at the police station that you were without panties, but here...”

“Doesn’t matter?”

Nicole thought that even if she had killed Pierre, sooner or later she would have been found anyway. She won’t get a good job. Now she was on the blacklist of many financial companies for at least six months since she was under investigation. Theoretically, she had the opportunity to leave the blacklist. If she killed, she would never get out of there ...

Even when Nicole was lying on the floor, she felt some tension in her own crotch. She didn’t want sex, but as if at the level of physiology, a strong blow could arouse her as such. Is she slowly turning into a whore? But then she calmed down and decided that it was just physiology. People are aroused by more or less similar things, even pressing to a certain area. It’s not only about people or lovers.

“Do you think I can get pregnant? There’s speculation that I’m barren.”

“Barrenness is good,” said a brave father half an hour ago, an absolutely absurd thing now. “You think no one humiliated me? You are mistaken. I was fat at school, I was teased ‘pregnant Pierre.’ ”

Having raped her, Blood went to the kitchen.

She wasn’t surprised by the sexual functions of the body, she didn’t have especially religious prejudices against sex. She wasn’t even so much interested in his age, given her bipolar model ‘boys’, ‘rude’, but Blood at least twice hurt her.

Nicole turned on the water and took a shower. She wanted to erase both her drying tears, almost merged with her skin, and more annoying than just a couple of running streams; and the remains of all kinds of secretions, mainly in the crotch.

Since shards of glass had long been stuck in her face, even with the time of the glass smeared by Fran, if she cried a lot, her blood almost always ran from some eye. Nicole tried not to cry. So she really became the ‘daughter’ of the Blood. Annoying bleeding opened and was quickly washed away.

In the shower, her idiotic habit of brushing her teeth appeared, although now it wasn’t at all superfluous. Upon leaving, she pulled a bathrobe on her naked skin and sat on one of the chairs, lighting a thin cigarette, taking it in the bathroom. Pierre, already dressed, came up to her.

“I didn’t know that you smoke. The first time I see.”

“Can someone avoid smoke from such a life?” Nicole said neutrally.

“Understood. But I would never have ordered my adopted son killed.”

“How to tell you, Pierre. I know who ordered to kill Alain Renard. But you either don’t like it, or you don’t believe it.”

“Well, and who? You deceived someone and taken someone’s else money?”

“People are killed not only because of business.”

“Who is this?”

“Man A, who was hired by man B. I know the name of man B, as for A, he was most likely killed after the shoot-out, so as he can’t give testimony.”

“And who is this B?”

“The person who forms the majority of your share capital of the bank, and you’re not interested in killing him anyway.”

“True. I won’t kill him. I don’t even want to know who he is.”

“But this is not a business. I didn’t borrow money, I didn’t deceive anyone. And sometimes people are killed not only because of business.”

“Why didn’t he shoot you with him?”

“Apparently, to annoy me, to make me nervous, bring me an unstable state of emotions. This is the most obvious. But there is something else. There is something that only I can give him, he needs me. I’ll deal with him myself.”

After he left, being in a bathrobe, Nicole closed the door. Then she blew off her still wet hair with a hairdryer, combed it, dressed in a grey turtleneck and black pants. The belt was torn in them, so pant’s belt jumped off. Usually, when Nicole sat, her panties were slightly visible to the alive Alain. Now they had a new belt, and they kept well.

Having combed her hair again, Gratte didn’t want to return to hair any more.

Nicole went into the kitchen, saw a green cardboard box with juice. No, this is not the company owned by Francesco. She shook the box and opened it with scissors, and then poured one mug. When the juice poured, the box vibrated, compressed and unclenched like men’s dick.

There were four bottles of brandy in the kitchen, about half open and empty. After the juice, Gratte started to drink alcohol, uncorking the bottle and drinking directly from it. That’s reminded her of gastric lavage in a hospital when she needed to drink clean water and then tear it out to clear her stomach of bile. How much Nicole herself drank from the bottle, she doesn’t remember. But she wanted to return to Michel. She doesn’t know why.

She wanted to wear a black flared skirt just above her knees, with which she once sat in Signe d’argent. But she was afraid that it would be too cold. It was still remembered how she caught a cold and coughed violently, tearing her abdominal muscles. So she put on the black jeans that she was with Michel, also put on denim overalls and went out.

Gratte was not going to get on the bike, and it was just parked somewhere nearby. Passing by, she didn’t even look in his direction, as if it belonged to another person. Nicole wanted to get to him with her step.


Submitted: January 06, 2020

© Copyright 2020 RomanBoukreev. All rights reserved.

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