Crossfire (15 page)

She shrugged, smiling without animosity. “My mother registered me as Marcelle Cheval, but she never contacted my father again, preferring to raise me on her own. When I was about five years old, my mother fell in love with another man, and married him. At first, I liked my stepfather, though I never accepted him in place of my real father. My mother had raised me on stories of my real father, and I guess I had built him up to a hero in my mind. My mother and my stepfather had three other children, boys, and that was where the problems started.”

Stefan heard the bitterness in her voice. “More and more, my stepfather became bothered by the fact that I wasn’t his blood. I didn’t look like I belonged in the family, as I didn’t even resemble my mother. Clearly, I had taken after my father in looks. My stepfather made my life a misery, and my mother wasn’t always around to defend me. But the fights they had about me became more frequent, and he started drinking. He joined some way-out church, and they strengthened his views that I brought sin on the household by my mere presence, because I had been born out of wedlock.”

“He must have been a very cruel man, to treat you like that,” Stefan said angrily.

Marcelle shrugged again. “At the time, I guess I coped with it, but when I look back now, I see how badly it must have affected me. But at the age of twelve, I saw cycling for the first time when a tour passed through our town. I was hooked and asked my mother if I could take part in the sport. She was quite happy to let me start cycling, but my stepfather opposed her decision. He knew my biological father was a cyclist, and if I cycled, like my father, it would only remind him that I wasn’t his child. But my mother wasn’t dependent on my stepfather for funds, so she bought me a racing bike anyway, against his wishes.”

“Good mother,” Stefan said approvingly.

Marcelle smiled in response. “I excelled in the sport right from the start, and it was obvious that I had not only inherited my father’s looks. But relations between my stepfather and me reached an all time low in the next few years. I became openly hostile, sick and tired of his negativity, and his constant needling that I would be a failure.” She closed her eyes, grimacing. “One evening in October, a few months after my sixteenth birthday, things came to a head. My mother had taken my three brothers to the movies, but I had stayed at home to study for the year-end exams. And I was due to take part in a race the next day, so I needed an early night. My stepfather was still at work, and I knew that afterwards he would meet friends for a few drinks at the local pub. With any luck, I would be asleep before any of my family returned. Or so I thought.”

“And this is when it happened?” Stefan asked, sitting forward in his seat, reaching out a hand to touch Marcelle’s forearm.

She didn’t pull away, but hugged the cushion tighter to her breast. “It was a little after nine when I heard the front door slam, but I didn’t worry, thinking my mother and my brothers had returned early. I resumed my studies, but about ten minutes later, I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and realized my stepfather had come home early.” She didn’t look at Stefan, staring at the gray carpet instead. “I prayed that he would leave me alone, as I wasn’t in the mood for a fight the night before a race. But a moment later, my door burst open. My stepfather stood in the doorway, a nasty smile on his face. I could smell the booze on him, and his eyes were bloodshot, confirming my suspicions that he was dangerously drunk. I didn’t say anything, hoping he would leave if I didn’t provoke him. Then I saw the gun in his hand.” She squeezed her eyes shut, clearly still traumatized by the events of that fateful night.

Stefan waited long moments. A shudder passed through her slim frame, and he touched her upper arm to reassure her. “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

Marcelle swallowed hard. “He shoved the gun into my face, and grabbed me by the arm. He said he should have killed me years ago, but he would correct the error that night. He dragged me down the stairs, and I must have hit my head, because I blacked out. I came to when he kicked me in the ribs. Some time must have passed, because I saw my bike was broken and twisted beyond repair. I was furious, fighting all the way, as he dragged me to my feet again.”

“The man was a bloody monster, to treat a young girl like that.” Stefan jumped to his feet, unable to contain his agitation, and paced over to the window before he turned to face Marcelle again.

She didn’t appear to notice his anger, because she continued speaking, hugging the cushion to her chest, keeping her gaze focused on the gray carpet, her fists bunched so tightly that her knuckles showed white. “In the struggle, he must have lost the gun, because when he hit me in the face, and I fell to the carpet, I felt it beneath me. By then I had only one desire, and that was to survive. I grabbed the gun, and jumped to my feet. When he lifted his hand to strike me again, I pointed the gun at him, and told him to back away.

“At first he stepped back, more surprised than anything else, I guess. But then he came at me again, taunting me and saying that I wouldn’t shoot. He told me what a thrashing he would give me before he killed me, and then he rushed at me. I pulled the trigger over and over and over again, until all I heard were the dry clicks when the gun was empty...” Marcelle’s voice was devoid of emotion as she distanced herself from what had happened. “He was quite dead. The gun had been a .38 Special, and had made a real mess of him.”

“Nothing less than what he deserved, I would say,” Stefan said, coming back to sit next to her on the sofa.

Marcelle let go of the cushion, allowing it to drop into her lap. She held the cushion with her left hand, while she used the fingers of her right hand to rub out imaginary creases on the surface of the cushion. “When I came to my senses, I realized what I had done, and I knew I would have to get away. We lived in Sandton, an elite suburb of Johannesburg, and gunshots were not common. Anyone who had heard the shots might have called the police. There was no way I could face my mother, my brothers or the authorities. I was convinced I would get the death-sentence, because I was over sixteen, and who would believe my stepfather had gone mad.”

“What a terrible situation. Your mother should have done more to protect you from that man. None of that was your fault,” Stefan said sympathetically.

“I know that now,” Marcelle said, finally looking up at him. “But at the time I was convinced that no one would believe me. A crazy idea began to surface in my head. I would find my real father. He would protect me, and give me the love I so desperately needed. But I knew the rest of the family would be home soon, so I didn’t have much time. Every breath I took was agony, and I realized I had one or more broken ribs. My face was bleeding, and my left eye had started to swell. But I managed to throw some clothing into a suitcase. I had a passport, luckily, because I had won a holiday to Mauritius a few months earlier. I had money, but not enough for an air-ticket and living expenses in France.” Marcelle grimaced. “As unsavory as the idea was to me, I knew I would have to go back to my stepfather’s body and get the keys of the safe from him. He always kept a few thousand rand in there, money he didn’t want to declare to the government. I found about forty thousand rand in cash, exactly what I needed.”

“And so you made your escape,” Stefan said, satisfaction in his tone.

“Yes, about fifteen minutes later, I drove my stepfather’s car out of the driveway. I drove to the airport, and parked the car in the underground long-term parking. I slept in the car, and the next morning went to the airport change rooms where I had a shower and changed my clothes.

“Then I bought a plane ticket for London. I had seen the report of my stepfather’s death on television that morning, and it appeared the police had assumed it was a robbery, because of the missing car and the stolen money. They believed I was a hostage, as they had found my blood on the floor and stairs. So I knew they wouldn’t be watching the airports. I would have the time I needed, and the bruises on my face disguised my appearance. Later that day I boarded a British Airways flight to London, at last able to relax.” The tension flowed from her rigid frame.

“In London I had no difficulty obtaining a three month visa for France. A day later, I boarded the ferry in Plymouth, bound for Roscoff in France. Once there, I booked into a hotel in Lanrivoare, one of the many small towns in the Province of Bretagne. I spent the next two weeks recovering from my injuries. At least I could speak the language, because I had been taking French lessons since I was ten. But I felt lost and lonely, desperately in need of my mother, and overcome by guilt. It was the middle of winter in France, and dreadfully cold. When I had recovered fully, I travelled to Paris, determined to find my father.” She turned to Stefan and said, “And that’s how I made my lucky escape.”

“So did you find your father?

“Yes, nearly four years later.”

But how did you survive in Europe until then? I mean, you were only sixteen, and you had limited funds.”

Marcelle winked at him. “That’s a story for another day.”

“You are merciless,” Stefan said with a smile.

Marcelle smiled too. “You have no idea. There’s quite a good movie showing tonight. Shall we watch it?”

“Sure, suits me fine,” he agreed.

They watched the movie in companionable silence. It was after ten when the movie ended, and dusk had turned to evening.

“Shouldn’t you be getting an early night?”

“Yes Boss, I think you’re right. But the race is only in the afternoon, so we can sleep late.”

“We?”

“You, me, separately.” She stretched like a sleepy feline.

He stared at her. In those three words, she had made clear that there would be no more physical closeness between them. The kiss that afternoon had been a mistake. “Of course,” he replied. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Her smile was a little forced. “I’ll be fine. Good night.”

She disappeared down the passage, and he followed a short while later, noticing she had already closed her bedroom door. Well, there wasn’t much more he could do for her.

~ . ~

A soft drone drew Stefan from the depths of sleep. He raised his wrist to peer at the luminous face of his watch. It was one in the morning. What was that sound?

Instinct told him to investigate. He threw the covers aside, and stepped into the passage. A blue glow shone from the living room, and he headed in that direction, the soft drone now turning into voices and laughter.

The television was on, and he froze when he saw Jean-Michel Deschamps on the huge television screen, turning towards his smiling wife, and kissing her affectionately.

He spotted Marcelle stretched out on the couch, covered by a blanket, a pillow beneath her head, fast asleep. Clearly, she had been watching the video tape until she fell asleep. Maybe this was one of her prerace rituals, to ensure a good night’s rest. Or maybe this was the last resort of an exhausted body crying out for sleep. At least she was sleeping, so maybe he should leave her.

He had started turning away when she woke, a soft cry on her lips. He turned back to find himself staring into anguished gray eyes.

“Stefan?”

“I’m here.” He approached the sofa. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Can I help you in any way?”

She hesitated. “Would you stay with me tonight?” She didn’t look at him, staring instead at the television screen, where she and Jean-Michel where still together on film.

He followed her gaze. The screen showed the young couple somewhere in a vineyard, perhaps on the Deschamps wine farm. They looked happy and playful, and unable to keep their hands off each other. If only a wish could make it so again.

He shook himself, reaching for the remote and switching off the television. He stretched a hand out to her. “Come, let’s go to sleep.”

She took his hand, her face downcast, and he led her to the main bedroom. Once there, she hesitated. “Please don’t get the wrong idea about me. I need a friend...not...”

“I know,” he replied. “And that’s what I’ll be for you. A friend.” He smiled wryly. “A very good friend, mind you.”

She smiled despite herself. “Yes, a very, very good friend.”

When he put the light off, she displayed none of the stiffness of before, and snuggled up to his warmth. She fell asleep within minutes, but he lay awake for a long time, enjoying her closeness, before he succumbed to exhaustion.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, he woke, hearing Marcelle moaning in her sleep. He turned onto his side and placed both arms around her, pulling her closer. She sighed, and he kissed her gently on the lips before going back to sleep.

* * * *

Chapter Fifteen

Morning came all too soon. They woke to find sleep had tangled them in a lover’s embrace. For a few moments, they just stared into each other’s eyes.

Stefan broke the tension by kissing her on the cheek. “Good morning, did you sleep well?”

The awkwardness that had been there when they had woken together before was gone, and she answered, “Lights out, all night long.”

She started disentangling herself from him, and he stretched luxuriously, like a great jungle cat, before throwing back the covers and rising lithely from the bed. “I’m going to get us some coffee. Relax. I’ll be back soon.” With that, he disappeared down the passage.