The Lollipop Shoes (49 page)

It wasn’t much of a challenge, of course. There are half a million just like her: milk-faced, mousy-haired girls with neat handwriting and bad dress sense, hiding their disappointments beneath a veil of academia and common
sense. You might even say I did her a favour; and when she was ready, I slipped her a dose of something reasonably painless to help her along.

After that, it was just a question of tying up a few loose ends – suicide note, identification, cremation and the like – before I was able to junk Mercedes, gather up what was left of Françoise – bank details, passport, birth certificate – and take her on one of those foreign trips she was always planning, but never booked, while at home, people may have wondered how it could be that a woman could vanish so completely and efficiently, leaving nothing in her wake – no family, no papers, not even a grave.

Some time later, she was to reappear as an English teacher at the Lycée Rousseau. By then, of course, she’d been largely forgotten, lost in a mound of paperwork. The truth is, most people don’t care. Life goes on at such a pace that it’s easier to forget the dead.

I tried, at the end, to make her understand. Hemlock is such a useful drug; so easy to come by in summer, of course, and makes the victim so manageable. Paralysis sets in in a matter of minutes, and after that it’s all good, with plenty of time for discussion and exchange of views – or rather
view
, in my case, as Françoise seemed incapable of speech.

Frankly, that disappointed me. I’d been looking forward to seeing her reaction when I told her, and although I wasn’t exactly expecting approval, I’d hoped for something more from a person of her intellectual calibre.

But all I got was disbelief, and that rictus in her staring face – never pretty at the best of times – so that if I’d been a susceptible person I might have seen her again in my dreams, and heard the choking sounds she made as she
struggled vainly against the draught that did for Socrates.

Nice touch, I thought. But wasted on my poor Françoise, who sadly discovered her zest for life only minutes before its end. And I was left, once again, with a sense of regret. Once more, it had been too easy for me. Françoise was no challenge at all. A silver mouse charm on my bracelet. Natural prey to one such as myself.

Which brings me to Vianne Rocher.

Now there’s an opponent worthy of me – a witch, no less, and a powerful one, for all her silly scruples and guilt. Perhaps the
only
worthy opponent that I have ever encountered thus far. And here she is, waiting for me with that quiet knowledge in her eyes, and I know she sees me clearly at last, sees me in my true colours, and there’s no sensation quite as fine as that first true moment of intimacy—

‘Hello, Vianne.’

‘Hello, Zozie.’

I sit down at the table opposite her. She looks cold, bundled up in her shapeless dark sweater, her white lips pinched with unsaid words. I smile at her, and her colours shine out – strange, how much affection I feel, now that the knives are drawn at last.

Outside, the wind is riding high. A killer wind, charged with snow. Sleepers in doorways will die tonight. Dogs will howl; doors slam. Young lovers will look into each other’s eyes and for the first time will silently question their vows. Eternity is
such
a long time – and here, at the dead-end of the year, Death seems suddenly very close.

But isn’t that what it’s all about, this festival of winter lights? This little defiance in the face of the dark? Call it Christmas if you like, but you and I know it’s older than
that. And beneath all the tinsel and the carol-singing and the glad tidings and the gifts lies a bleaker and more visceral truth.

This is a time of essential loss; of the sacrifice of innocents; of fear, darkness, barrenness, death. The Aztecs knew, and so did the Maya, that, far from wanting to
save
the world, their gods were bent on its destruction, and that only the blood of sacrifice could appease them for a little while . . .

We sat there in silence, like old friends. I fingered the charms on my bracelet; she stared into her chocolate-cup. Finally she looked at me.

‘So what are you doing here, Zozie?’

Not too original, but – hey, it’s a start.

I smiled. ‘I’m a – collector,’ I said.

‘Is that what you call it?’

‘For want of a name.’

‘And what do you collect?’ she said.

‘Debts outstanding. Promises due.’

She flinched at that, as I knew she would.

‘What do I owe you?’

‘Let’s see,’ I smiled. ‘For assorted workings, glamours, charms, tricks, protection, turning straw into gold, averting bad luck, piping the rats out of Hamelin and generally giving you back your life—’ I saw her begin to protest, but moved on. ‘I think we agreed you’d pay me in kind.’

‘In kind?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t understand.’

In fact, she understood me perfectly. It’s a very old theme, and she knows it well. The price for your heart’s desire is your heart. A life for a life. A world in balance. Stretch a rubber band far enough and at last it snaps back in your face.

Call it karma, physics, chaos theory, but without it, poles tilt; ground shifts; birds drop from the sky, seas turn to blood and before you know it, the world’s at an end.

By rights I could take her life, you know. Today I’m inclined to be generous. Vianne Rocher has two lives – I only need the one. But lives are interchangeable; in this world identities may be passed around like playing-cards; shuffled; reshuffled and redealt. That’s all I’m asking for. Your hand. And you owe me a debt. You said so yourself.

‘So what’s your name?’ said Vianne Rocher.

My
real
name?

Ye gods, it’s been so long that I’ve almost forgotten. What’s in a name? Wear it like a coat. Turn it, burn it, throw it away and steal another. The name doesn’t matter. Only the debt. And I’m calling it in. Right here, right now.

One small obstacle remains. Her name is Françoise Lavery. Clearly I must have made a mistake somewhere in my calculations; missed something in the general clean-up, because this ghost still won’t leave me alone. She’s in the papers every week – not on the front page, thankfully, but nevertheless I could do without the publicity, and this week, for the first time, the piece suggests foul play as well as simple fraud. There are posters, too, showing her face, on billboards and lamp-posts around the city. Of course I look nothing like her these days. But a combination of bank and surveillance camera footage may yet lead them uncomfortably close, and all it needs then is some random element to be thrown into the mix, and all my elaborate plans are blown.

I need to vanish – and very soon – and (this is where
you
come in, Vianne), the best way of doing that is to leave Paris for good.

This, of course, is where the problem lies. You see, Vianne, I like it here. I never imagined I could get so much fun – so much profit – from a simple
chocolaterie
. But I like what this place has become, and I see its potential as you never did.

You saw it as a hiding-place. I see it as the eye of the storm. From here, we can be the Hurakan – we can wreak havoc; shape lives; wield power – which is really the name of the whole ballgame, when you come to think about it – as well as making money, of course, always a plus in today’s venal world . . .

When I say we—

I mean
me
, of course.

‘But why Anouk?’ Her voice was harsh. ‘Why bring my daughter into this?’

‘I like her,’ I said.

She looked scornful at that. ‘
Like
her? You used her. Corrupted her. You made her think you were her friend—’

‘At least I’ve always been honest with her.’

‘And I haven’t? I’m her
mother
—’ she said.

‘You choose your family.’ I smiled. ‘You’d better be careful she doesn’t choose me.’

She thought about that one for some time. She looked calm enough, but I could see the turbulence in her colours, the distress and confusion and something else – a kind of knowledge I didn’t quite like.

At last she said, ‘I could ask you to leave.’

I grinned. ‘Why not try? Or call the police – better still, call the Social Services. I’m sure they could offer you all kinds of support. They’ve probably still got your notes in Rennes – or was it Les Laveuses?’

She cut me off. ‘What exactly do you want?’

I told her as much as she needed to know. My time is short – but she can’t know that. Nor can she know about poor Françoise – soon to reappear as someone else. But she knows I am the enemy now; her eyes were bright and cold and aware, and she laughed scornfully (if a little hysterically) as I delivered my ultimatum.

‘You’re saying
I
should leave?’ she said.

‘Well,’ I pointed out reasonably, ‘is Montmartre really big enough to hold
two
witches?’

Her laughter was like broken glass. Outside, the voice of the wind keened its eerie harmonies. ‘Well, if you think I’m going to pack up and run away just because you did a few sneak workings behind my back, then you’re going to be disappointed,’ she said. ‘You’re not the first to try this, you know. There was this priest—’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘Then what?’

Oh, that’s good. I like that defiance. It’s what I have been hoping for. Identities are so easy to take. I’ve taken enough of them in my time. But the opportunity to face another witch on her home ground, with weapons of choice, to collect her life, to add it to my charm-bracelet with the black coffin and the silver shoes . . .

How many times do you get
that
chance?

I’ll give myself three days, that’s all. Three days to win or lose. After that it’s so long, goodnight, and off to pastures green and new. Free spirit, and all that. Go wherever the wind takes me. It’s a big world out there, full of opportunities. I’m sure I’ll find something to challenge my skills.

For now, however—

‘Listen, Vianne. I’ll give you three days. Till after the party. Pack up by then, take what you can, and I won’t try to stop you. Stay, and I won’t answer for the consequences.’

‘Why? What can you do?’ she said.

‘I can take it all, piece by piece. Your life, your friends, your children—’

She stiffened. That’s her weakness, of course. Those children – especially our little Anouk, already so very talented . . .

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said.

Good. That’s what I thought you’d say. No one hands over their life like that. Even mousy Françoise fought back a little at the end, and I’m expecting rather more from you. You have three days to make your stand. Three days to placate the Hurakan. Three days to become Vianne Rocher.

Unless, of course, I can get there first.

7

Saturday, 22nd December

TILL AFTER THE
party
. What does she mean? Surely there can be no party now, with this strange threat hanging over our heads. That was my first reaction, when Zozie had gone to bed and I was left in the freezing kitchen to think out my plan of defence.

My instincts all tell me to throw her out. I know I could; but the thought of what effect that might have on my customers – let alone on Anouk – makes it quite impossible.

And as for the party – well. I am not unaware that over the past couple of weeks this party has taken on a significance far greater than any of us could have imagined. For Anouk, it is a celebration of us, an expression of hope (and maybe we still share the same perpetual fantasy, that Roux will come back and that everything will be made miraculously new).

As for our customers – no, our
friends
—

So many have contributed over the past few days,
bringing food, wine, decorations for the Advent house, the Christmas tree itself donated by the florist’s for whom little Alice works; champagne offered by Madame Luzeron; glasses and crockery supplied by Nico’s restaurant; organic meat by Jean-Louis and Paupaul, who paid for it, I suspect, with flattery and a portrait of the supplier’s wife.

Even Laurent brought
something
(mostly sugar lumps, I’ll admit), and it’s so good to be a community again, to feel included, to be a part of something larger than just the little campfire circle we make for ourselves. I’d always thought Montmartre such a cold place, its people so rude and contemptuous with their
Vieux Paris
snobbery and their mistrust of strangers. But now I can see there’s a heart behind the cobblestones. Zozie taught me that, at least. Zozie, who plays my part as well as I ever did myself.

There’s a story my mother used to tell. Like all her stories, it’s about herself – a fact I came to realize too late, when the doubts I’d had in the long months leading up to her death became too much for me to ignore, and I went in search of Sylviane Caillou.

What I found confirmed what my mother had said in the delirium of her final days.
You choose your family
, she said – and she’d chosen me, eighteen months old and somehow
hers
– like a parcel delivered to the wrong address that she could legitimately claim.