She: Part 2 (48 page)

Immediately, annoyance and confusion courses through me.
Would a gun
-
wielding man say that
,
Gem
? No, I think, and yet after I hear the elevator doors shut, I can’t stop myself from breaking into a run and hurrying over to my stationary car, my hands fumbling so badly that I drop my car keys twice on route. These mixed messages are doing my head in! I can’t explain this shuddering, shivering feeling of terror, I can’t explain why I feel like I’m simultaneously four and twenty-seven, and I don’t want to try right now. All I want to do is get away from here, from him.
Far away
.

Composing and calming myself, I get into my car, pull the door shut and lock myself inside.
Bullets go through glass
, a very unhelpful thought flits across my mind. I turn on the ignition, about to have a serious talk with myself about my tendency for extreme overreacting, when I hear a deafening gunshot issue somewhere above me.

No way
! No. Fucking. Way!

I gasp loudly and catch sight of my terror-strewn face in the rear view mirror. I’m taken back once more to the last time that I heard that noise, in my father’s car, petrified. Somehow I knew what had happened, yet I had no ability to run, to remove myself from the situation. I had no choice but to sit and wait and hope that I wasn’t next.

I have a choice now. Fuck what’s realistic, fuck giving someone the benefit of the doubt, my instincts were right, and I
have
to get myself out of this garage!
Drive
,
Gemima
, I order, and I cease doubting and questioning myself. I put the car into gear and flatten the accelerator to the floor.

I’m out of the confined underground space in record time, swerving onto the road, narrowly avoiding a collision. I check my rearview mirror — my neighbour is nowhere in sight. I check the faces of the people walking on the street. Concern is prevalent — they all heard the gunshot too, and most of them are on their phones, no doubt to the police.

I need to do that
, I think, except I don’t have my phone! I could pull over; anyone of the numerous shops that I’m hurtling past will have a telephone for me to use, and yet I’m too filled with fear to stop moving. Perhaps I’d feel safe enough to stop if I were outside a police station, but I can’t remember where the nearest one is.
Dammit
! I know there’s one somewhere near my house, I’ve seen it so often, but my brain can’t compute correctly right now, it just can’t. All I’m good for is driving. I don’t even know where I’m driving to. My movements are entirely auto-piloted, the adrenalin kicking in and taking over.

I’m in pure survival mode, feeling as insecure as though that bullet were meant for me. But even in my heightened state of fear, I know it wasn’t. What
was
it then? A warning shot…or the real thing? Intended for him…or her?

I see an image of my neighbour’s wife (or girlfriend) in my mind’s eye. They’ve been fighting recently, I remind myself. I’ve heard their raised voices, and I’ve told myself to keep my nose out of it when I thought about intervening. I’ve seen his threatening grip on her body, and I’ve watched her defend herself. But how do you defend yourself against a gun? Is that
really
what just happened?

My breath catches in my chest once more and I instantly feel like I could throw up. Anyone in my shoes would be worked up right now, but my bone-chilling history makes a bad situation feel much, much worse. I had no idea how vividly my four-year-old self documented every detail of that fateful day. No idea that I could still feel her fear and her coldness and her sense of foreboding. And no clue as to what, or whom, put one foot in front of the other to remove me from the confines of the elevator. Where the hell did that feeling of being pushed and pulled come from? How is that even possible?

Needless to say there are a torrent of questions circling in my head as I continue to drive, and I find myself only slowing to a stop, mentally and physically, once I am outside of Pierson House. So this is where my auto-pilot leads me? To work? I would roll my eyes at myself if I didn’t feel so incredibly nauseous. My legs feel like jelly, and not the good post-sex jelly, but the I-don’t-know-how-much-longer-I-can-stay-standing jelly. I manage to get myself through the front door and make a beeline for the bathroom. Layla isn’t at reception, which is just as well, because I wouldn’t trust myself to say a word without first vomiting.

It’s worse than my post-roller coaster vomit yesterday. I’m retching long after my stomach is empty, my body’s desperate attempt to get rid of something that I just can’t shake — the eeriness, the coldness, the unparalleled fear. Another memory shows me my father talking to me and smiling at me while he filled up the gas tank.
He was happy that morning
, I recall the look of calm and contentment on his face. Then I see him leaving the car and walking into the petrol station, never to exit it. I watched him standing in line to pay, until the doll in my hands became more interesting to me.
Just as well
, I think, given what happened next. These are all scenes that I’ve never remembered before now, and they serve as inspiration for yet another retch.

A few draining minutes later I leave my stall to wash my mouth out at the sink. While I’m bent double over the faucet the stall door shuts with a loud bang and I practically jump out of my skin.
Shit
! The debilitating fear crumbles until I’m just plain scared. My eyes start watering as I look at myself in the mirror. I hate feeling so unsafe, I hate not knowing what happened, I hate the memories that keep infiltrating my psyche, I hate, hate,
hate
this morning! Yet I don’t have the luxury to indulge in my hatred, I have to call the police. Am I going to be a witness in a murder trial?

I stop myself getting carried away as best as I can as I exit the bathroom and walk towards the doors that separate reception from the work cubicles beyond.

“
She
’
s coming
,” I very distinctly hear Layla whisper, only realising right then that she’s still not manning her usual post.

I don’t have a thought to spare to wonder what’s going on. I push the doors open and find most of my work colleagues, including Layla and Amélie, huddled around my desk a few metres in front of me.

“Congratulations!” they all cry when I spot them, taking me completely by surprise.

I gasp in a mixture of shock and confusion, internally deliberating how I should handle this (whatever the fuck this is) before my body decides for me. My legs buckle under me and I fall to the ground, bursting into tears. It’s all just too much for me!

Margaret hurries forward, sinking to the ground next to me, pulling me into a hug.

Somewhere above us, I hear Layla whisper, “Pensez-vous leur relation est déjà terminée?”
Do you think their relationship is over already
?

Ah-ha, the non-emotional part of my brain registers her words and realises that they are congratulating me on mine and Logan’s engagement. Amélie must’ve heard on Saturday night and spread the news, I think. That would also explain the
huge
bouquet of flowers on my desk.

“Gemima, what’s wrong?” Margaret whispers, her voice laced with authentic concern.

“I have to call the police,” I snob.

There’s an audible collective intake of breath which would be humorous if it weren’t at the expense of someones life.

“I heard a gunshot near my house and I sort of know the gunman,” I tell them all. My body starts shaking and I can’t get it to stop; adrenalin is doing weird things to me.

“Logan?” Layla assumes, and I glare up at her.

“No,” I snap. “Logan’s not in Paris today,” I say, lamenting the truth of my words. He’s the only one that I want right now, and I quickly add him to my must-call list. Just the sound of his voice will calm me, I know it will. “My neighbour,” I mutter, “I think he shot his partner…or himself…I don’t know, but I should—”

“Come with me,” Amélie says, stepping forward and offering her hand to help me up. “We’ll call from a meeting room. Layla, set one up,” she orders.

Layla jumps to life, putting down the party-popper in her hand, and disappearing into the nearest meeting room.

Taking Amélie’s outstretched hand, I feel a strange combination of ridiculousness, embarrassment, and gratitude as I get to my feet. “Thank you for the congratulations,” I say to my colleagues, wiping my tears away before indicating the abundant flowers. “It’s so lovely of you,” I gush. I just wish it had occurred on any other morning besides
this
one!

“Votre bague est belle,” Margaret says, catching sight of my ring.
Your ring is beautiful
. She holds my hand out to better examine it, and several curious pairs of eyes look over it, voices muttering their agreement.

“Thank you,” I say again.

“You weren’t wearing
that
on Saturday,” Amélie notes, looking at it too. “He’s got good taste, doesn’t he?” she says, giving me a small, kind smile. “Come on, dear, let’s get this mess sorted,” she takes charge, pulling me behind her into the meeting room.

At the head of the table Layla is already nattering away to a police officer. When she sees us walking towards her she taps the
loudspeaker
button.

“Où le coup de feu a-t-il eu lieu?” a serious voice asks.
Where did the gunshot take place
?

Taking a seat in the chair that Layla pulls out for me, I lean over the phone and tell the female officer everything that I can recall. Fifteen minutes later, and only after I’ve divulged all of the information that I have, she tells me that several other people have called in the shooting as well, just as I’d suspected, including two of my other neighbours who were still in their homes at the time.

That would be worse, being trapped inside. At least I got to escape the vicinity, I think gratefully.

“Did anyone die?” I ask in English.

“Oui, Mademoiselle, une femme.”
Yes
,
Miss
,
a woman
. “Elle était, tuée par balles, à extérieur de la maison qu’elle a partagée avec le bandit armé. Il a été trouvé, par mes collègues cinq minutes après l’incident, à l’intérieur de la maison, où il a tout admis,” she tells me.
She was shot dead outside of the home she shared with the gunman
.
He was found inside of the house by my colleagues five minutes after the incident
,
where he confessed everything
. “Il est maintenant sous notre garde, ainsi soyez assurée, mademoiselle, que vous n’avez rien à craindre à retourner dans votre maison.”
He
’
s now in our custody
,
so please be assured
,
Miss
,
that you have nothing to fear in returning to your home
.

“I don’t have to come in to see you? I don’t have to identify him, or be a witness?” I wonder out loud.

“Non, nous avons son entière confession,” she says once more.
No
.
We have his full confession
. “Nous vous appellerons si nous avons besoin de plus amples renseignements auprès de vous.”
We’ll call you if we need any further information from you.

“OK,” I mutter. “So, what do I do now?” I ask, feeling wholly stupid. What
do
I do now?

“Je sais que c’est très bouleversant. Veuillez agréer mes condoléances les plus sincères,” she says kindly.
I know this is very upsetting
.
Please accept my deepest condolences
. “De mon expérience, j’ai constaté que coller à votre routine est la meilleure façon d’avancer,” she adds, knowledgeably.
From my experience
,
I
’
ve found that sticking to your usual routine is the best way forward
.

It’s Monday morning — usually I’d be getting stuck into this weeks work quota. That shouldn’t be too difficult given that I’m already here.

I give the officer my assurance that I’ll try my best, before thanking her and hanging up.

I sigh deeply. The clock on the phone tells me that it’s half past nine, and yet I feel utterly exhausted. Despite this, I pick up the receiver, tuck it between my ear and shoulder and place my fingers over the buttons, all set to dial Logan’s number before I realise…I don’t know what it is! Further than the first two digits, I haven’t got the faintest idea! Every time I call him I press his name on my touchscreen without ever reading the small numbers underneath of it. How fucking useless is that? I don’t even know my fiancé’s number off by heart!

His number is on the Leary Constructions project file that I have, I note. It’s on my desk, I can call him imminently, and after I’ve done,
then
I can embark on my new to-do-list: learning Logan’s number.
Don
’
t sweat it
,
Gem
, I tell myself quickly before I get too worked up over it.

Somewhat defeatedly I put the receiver back down with another sigh, both Layla and Amélie watching me carefully.

“Routine,” Amélie repeats the instructions. “Do you think you can work today?” she asks gently. This is probably the calmest, most maternal that I’ve ever seen her.

I nod, but a few seconds later fresh tears start falling from my eyes and I bury my face in my hands. I so
can
’
t
work right now. While it’s enough of a shock that a familiar face has died mere metres from my front door, it’s the overwhelming memories that this morning has stirred up, memories of a much more significant event in my personal life, that have me feeling positively useless in a work capacity. The eerie coldness and the creeping fear as felt by my four-year-old self lingers around me still.

For the next half an hour I sit and cry in the meeting room, fighting the persistent nausea I feel, while half explaining to Layla and Amélie
why
I’m so affected by today’s events. I’m not entirely sure what they know about my father by the time that Layla leaves to make me a cup of tea, and Amélie retreats to the doorway where Rosita meets her as though summoned by some invisible microchip. She hands our boss a sticky note with a number on it and Amélie whips out her mobile phone to call whoever’s number it is. I’m hopeful that it’s Logan’s, but the formality in her tone tells me that it’s probably not.