Six Months to Kill Read online

  She has trouble finishing her sentence. She grabs her beer, but it doesn’t go anywhere near her mouth. She’s holding it for confidence.

  ‘I don’t believe for a second it would happen,’ she continues, ‘but if you end up getting arrested, not only would you not have to deal with being banged up for years, but because of the state of your health you’d be given more flexible living conditions inside. I’m not even convinced you’d be detained while it went to trial and regrettably, if you’ll excuse me, you wouldn’t live long enough to see a courtroom.’

  ‘Honestly! Single men unknown to the police and with death sentences hanging over them can’t be all that hard to come by. And some of them must be more suited to this kind of work.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest,’ she replies. It’s now clear she’s taking great pleasure in our discussion. ‘I understand you a lot better than you’d believe, and I know you possess quite a few qualities that are indispensable to our project.’

  ‘Really? Can you name them?’

  ‘Well, I know that you’ve been working with psychiatrists on how to control your feelings since you were very young. You’ve learned to master your emotions like no one else.’

  She’s right about that. I am hyperactive, hypersensitive, hyper-emotional – and I now know how to extract myself mentally from what I deem to be an unstable situation in order to protect my psyche. But how does she know that? It’s a mystery.

  ‘So what?’ I come back with. ‘Do you think the whole aim was to make me fit for killing people?’

  ‘Of course not! On the other hand, you can’t really deny that it has helped you put up a front under stress.’

  She’s forging ahead here – perhaps a step too far – because right now I’m about to lose it and show her the door, as my intuition told me to do from the outset. What holds me back is the desire to ask her how she found all this out about me.

  But she won’t be interrupted. ‘And then there’s your unbelievable IQ. I must make you aware that the missions we have to accomplish are beyond the reach of most. We need people who can stay sharp and on their guard. If these “assassinations”, and that is the right word, are to be correctly conducted, we’re going to have to come up with a real strategy, act with complete discretion and overcome all obstacles in our path. This is an amazing challenge I’m throwing your way, which is why I referred to it as the adventure of a lifetime.’

  The adventure of a lifetime . . . What is this? If she really has delved into who I am, she should know that I like nothing better than shutting myself away in my flat and keeping my relationships with others to the bare minimum; also, that I see any trips or experiences that force me out of my daily routine as challenges that are becoming increasingly difficult to overcome.

  ‘Before we go any further, where did you get all this information about me?’

  ‘I know you must be surprised, even worried,’ she replies. ‘But please don’t view this as some sort of intrusion into your private life. These are details that certain . . . let’s say . . . “departments” keep on all our citizens. I won’t be telling you any more about the structure of our organisation. All you need to know is that we boast colossal financial means, an excellent network, and that several of our members occupy extraordinarily high governmental positions.’

  Is she trying to impress me? If so, she’s failed. I’m more than aware that the work I do can have massive repercussions on the powers that be. They didn’t give me free rein over what happens at CERN without first assuring themselves of my trustworthiness and, of course, I had to supply them with a great deal of personal information before being given access to both national and international works-in-progress. But none of that matters anyway. It’s about time I let her know she’s way off track with me. She needs to leave me in peace to watch the end of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? As if reading my thoughts, she starts coming up with responses to things I haven’t even said out loud.

  ‘I know that the word “adventure” in the strict sense isn’t exactly your cup of tea. But back when you were completing your studies, and even throughout your career, you’ve always enjoyed a challenge or finding solutions to problems that were beyond the understanding of your colleagues. So just think about my proposition from that angle. It’s an enigma that needs to be solved. It’s just that you can’t get caught solving it. Please believe me when I tell you that you’re going to love it.’

  I’m about to get up, draw this discussion to its conclusion and show her the way out when one of the points she’s raised pops back into my head.

  ‘You said something about having a lot of “means”. Perhaps I should ask how much I could expect to earn from this offer of yours?’

  The young woman smiles at me with the compassion that befits the situation. ‘Régis, you can’t hide the fact . . . and I know perfectly well anyway . . . that there’s nobody you need to look after . . . plus you have all the money you need to live very comfortably for what time you have left. No, I have nothing to offer you but an intense emotional ride and the feeling of having accomplished something great before taking leave of this world. You can trust me. Accept my offer. You won’t regret it.’

  I’m wondering whether this is a wind-up of some kind – a stitch-up. But who would do that? Who out of the few acquaintances I have would embark on a hoax like this? I don’t believe it. It’s out of the question. It is, however, highly likely that I’m in the presence of a lunatic. Which is a pity. Because I thought she was rather nice . . . Funny, even. Not to mention pleasing to the eye. Maybe, under a different set of circumstances, I could have made an effort to be sociable, or even had a go at the risky business of chatting her up.

  But reason prevails, and I stand up for good this time, inviting her to do the same. She gets to her feet with visible regret. Once standing, she pulls out a brown envelope from inside her jacket and places it down on the coffee table.

  ‘I’ll be off, Régis. But I’m going to leave this file with you. It concerns the first person we have to kill. Read it. Perhaps it’ll help change your mind. There’s also my telephone number in there. You can get hold of me any time, day or night.’

  She finally moves in the direction of the front door, but turns back to face me. ‘At least admit that you have trouble finding any kind of affinity with people, and that if the worst should happen to some of them you’d be more likely to rejoice than anything else.’

  I quicken my step, overtake her and stand by the door. Before I can open it, Chloé Schneider smirks at me again and I detect a touch of self-importance.

  ‘Obviously, if you’re thinking of calling the police, I didn’t give you my real name and the phone number in the file is for a prepaid mobile. If you try to describe me, rest assured you’ll get nowhere on that front either.’ She pauses – perhaps for the drama of it – before giving me one last smile. ‘And even if you did contact them, they’d have to take you seriously and to be quite honest . . .’

  I try to remain courteous as I place my hand lightly on her back and nudge her into the corridor outside, but she still has the gall to add a gentle threat.

  ‘Don’t waste time thinking about this. I have to act now, and if you continue to refuse to work with us, I’ll have to get down to finding someone more . . . cooperative.’

  I don’t hang around to watch her leave, but as she steps into the lift I swear I see her giving herself the thumbs-up in the interior mirror. As if she thinks she has this one in the bag . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  The next few days pass very quickly. Just as I did on that first night following the news of my sentence, I try to stick to my routine. I watch a lot of television and I spend hours on the web looking up the latest goings-on in the scientific world. The Large Hadron Collider in Geneva has just been put back into service after a long period of scheduled maintenance and I’m waiting with bated breath to see what data it comes up with next. Every time a new collision takes place, I stay up late into the night working on
a new flood of calculations. I follow this same itinerary all week – except on Tuesday.

  I have to switch the computer off earlier than usual that day, because that’s when Professor Lazreg comes.

  He arrives at around 7 p.m., as arranged, and is very considerate towards me. He asks how I’m feeling, and I explain that, apart from a few episodes where I’ve felt very tired, things have been going rather well. He examines me briefly before going ahead with the injection. As he presses the plunger on the syringe, he warns me that the next twelve hours may prove to be a little taxing; he recommends, even though he doesn’t wish to deprive me of the slightest thing at the moment, that I avoid too much alcohol during this time.

  I get the strange feeling that Professor Lazreg is in no hurry to leave. I even imagine that, should I dare ask, he would be happy to sit down and have a beer with me. But he doesn’t have the nerve to start up a conversation either, even though I sense that he would like to question me more about my day-to-day life and how I’m learning to live with the news he gave me last week.

  One morning, I find myself paused with my spoon hovering above my coffee cup, wondering what I could feasibly change about my mundane existence for the six months I have left. Nothing comes to me. Not even a hint of an idea. And so I remain either curled up in bed, or collapsed on my sofa, or hunched over my desk in my office having found the answer to yet another polytropic process equation.

  I am deep in thought when, driven by I know not what (probably scientific curiosity), I pick up the brown envelope left for me by the somewhat puzzling Chloé Schneider. I see a name: Grégoire Thule. This man is known to have murdered a little girl, Lilian . . . but is also presumed to have committed several rapes and to be responsible for a number of unexplained disappearances. A copy of his ID sits alongside a very full file, in which I read that he is going to be leaving the high-security prison in Aiton down in Savoie and be hospitalised in Lyon for bone marrow treatment, which it is hoped will save him from the leukaemia ravaging his body. I also find a plan of the hospital and directions to the intensive care room he is expected to occupy for three weeks following his surgery. The operation is due to take place within a fortnight, after an extensive battery of medical tests that are set to start on Tuesday, the day after his transfer from prison in an armoured police vehicle.

  I don’t have the foggiest clue as to whether this information is reliable. I return the papers to the envelope and throw it back down on to the table. Nor do I check to see if the promised phone number is contained within the file.

  Seven days following my first injection, Professor Lazreg is back at my place. He starts off by asking me how the first few hours went after his last visit. I confirm that I felt enormously tired that evening – until the next morning, in fact – but that the rest of the week has gone by without a hitch.

  Again, he gives me a quick examination. And again, I feel like he’d rather stay than go home. So I take the bull by the horns and ask if he’d like a drink. He accepts with eagerness but refuses a beer, saying that he never drinks alcohol. He seems happy enough with a glass of water. I am, however, a little taken aback when, once seated, he says, ‘I’m absolutely delighted to be able to sit down and talk properly.’

  ‘Is there a problem that falls outside the scope of our normal consultations that you wish to discuss?’ I ask, encouraging him with a smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t use the word problem. It’s just that . . .’

  I’m really not expecting this attitude from my doctor. He is usually so sure of himself but appears awkward now, at a loss for words or at least loath to speak them.

  In the end, I have to almost give him permission to get it off his chest. ‘Go ahead, Professor. I don’t know what you could possibly tell me that is any worse than what we already know.’

  This must be the right way to go about it, because he starts now with more self-assurance. ‘Well, obviously, this still concerns the state of your health. Unfortunately, you’re not the first person to whom I’ve had to give such a diagnosis, and nor will you be the last. But what usually happens is that my colleagues and I refer our patients to a psychiatrist almost immediately. And they help them with their preparations. This allows us to concentrate on other patients . . . with whom we hope to be more effective.’

  I appreciate his frankness. I didn’t get the impression that this was what he was doing when he suggested I go and ‘see someone’ at the hospital, but upon reflection that’s what it boiled down to. ‘I’ve done what I can,’ he’d said. ‘It hasn’t worked, and I’m sorry. Please go and see Dr So-and-So, who will help you get through this.’

  Tough luck for him and his conscience, though, because I’d refused to go and see Dr So-and-So. I had no desire whatsoever to lie down on a chaise-longue and tell someone my life story. Or my death story.

  ‘And is it because I neglected to go that you felt the need to come up with the idea of these injections? Are you checking on the state of my morale?’

  I don’t speak with any aggression, but he must think I’m angry because as he replies he has something of a confused smile on his lips.

  ‘Something like that, I must admit. But let’s also say that yours is a special case.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s as I said. I’m regularly confronted with this, but not all my patients react in the same way. Some become very quickly resigned to their fate, whereas others feel outrage at the injustice of it all. I even have certain patients who seem very much at peace with it. But with you . . . it’s unfathomable. I’m totally incapable of interpreting how you’ve taken the news. You don’t let your feelings show at all. And that’s why I’m so worried about you and may come across as so heavy-handed when I ask how things are.’

  I pick up my 1664 and clink it against his glass of water. What I want to do with this gesture is to thank him for his concern, but I can’t verbalise it. I take a sip. He follows suit and the pair of us try to regain some composure.

  It doesn’t work, and I gingerly start to speak. ‘I don’t think I could even begin to tell you where I’m at with all this.’

  ‘Please try.’

  ‘Erm . . . Well, I know I’m going to die in the not-so-distant future. It’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. But I suppose I don’t feel all that bothered about it. It’s just a simple fact.’

  ‘And are you sure you’ve taken on board what that actually means?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘And you say it’s something you repeatedly tell yourself? Is that maybe because you need to convince yourself of it? Do you think that might be so?’

  To humour him, I take some time to think about his question. But it all seems very clear from my standpoint. Yes, in six months’ time, I’ll be dead. I’ll have left a world I never asked to be part of. And this world isn’t exactly a bundle of laughs, is it? Whatever happens, the particle accelerator will continue to turn at 0.999999991 times the speed of light, game show contestants will still make fools of themselves in front of the nation, and as for me, my ashes will turn into fertiliser for plants as a small link in the great food chain. My journey on this earth will have come to an end, and if we work on the basis of the average lifespan of a man of my generation, my time here will have been cut short by 36.7 years. Big deal.

  But I know that Professor Lazreg wouldn’t believe any of this if I said it out loud. It wouldn’t add up. It’s another example of my non-standard behaviour – something I’ve been told about regularly over the last forty years. For now, he stares at me with a look of great empathy.

  ‘A few years ago,’ he says gently, ‘I had a patient who didn’t react at all when I announced that the treatment had failed. She just carried on with life as if there was nothing wrong, and told everyone around her to stop worrying. She didn’t make a single change. She went on working as long as she was able and when her time came, her husband would later tell me, her final words before losing consciousness and coming to a quiet end were, �
��So it was true, then . . .” Can you imagine? This woman stayed in denial for every moment left to her.’

  ‘And do you think it’s the same with me?’

  ‘I have no idea. What I do know is that I hope it’s not the case. The reason behind this anecdote is that I’m convinced that, at that very last moment, this patient of mine must have regretted not doing what needed to be done before her end.’

  ‘Do you mean she didn’t take the time to tell her children and her husband that she loved them? I thought you understood that none of that applies to me.’

  He cuts me off by raising a hand. ‘Yes, I know you’re a single man. I don’t know what this other patient might have wanted to do. Maybe it was to tell those close to her that she loved them, or it could have been any number of things. That’s not the point. All I know is that she refused to accept the truth and that she went with a feeling of unfinished business. And I think that’s one of the worst things that can happen to us: death coming for us, whether we’re old or not so old, and we haven’t accomplished what we were destined to do.’

  I listen attentively, and even though I’m surprised at the way he’s going about this, I’m starting to get what he’s saying. After his heartfelt speech, he finishes off his glass of water, masking his flushed cheeks with his hands. I offer him another, but he politely refuses.

  ‘I’m expected elsewhere tonight, but if you want I could rearrange my diary next week and we could continue this discussion.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ I hear myself reply, a little unwillingly.

  We both stand up and walk towards the door. As we step into the entrance hall, he stops to look at a photo – the only one of me in the entire flat. It was taken at the launch of the Ariane rocket in Kourou, Guyana. In my hands, I’m holding a medal awarded to me by the European Space Agency for my participation in the mission.

  ‘Have you travelled a lot?’ he asks me, not taking his eyes off the picture.

  ‘Very little. That was the first time I’d ever been on a plane and I have dreadful memories of it. When I was still working for them, I had to go to Geneva regularly, but I would take the train. I always managed to find a way to refuse to go to conferences that were too far away.’