Let’s see if I can break that record.
I roll up my sleeve, a quick tug here, back and forth, about ten times – that’s all it takes. My tongue flicks out like a deranged reptile adding the final touch, and just as I’m hitting my stride, taking a long lick on the end of his bellend, Francois groans. ‘Oui, oui.’ He exhales slowly, as I twist his cock to the side so he spews into the underbrush and not on my face. It’s the kind of sigh that feels like he’s shedding a week’s worth of weight in an instant, then, a pink blush creeps across his cheeks as he adjusts his clothing and pulls up his trousers. Without a second glance, he walks away.
‘You’re welcome,’ I mumble, not that he answers, he never does. Ashamed? Embarrassed? Who knows, but when Friday rolls round next week, Francois will be back in the same spot, the same ritual unfolding with an almost comic inevitability.
The French country roads twist through the night like veins, ever so slightly illuminated by headlights carving paths into the darkness. The trees press inwards, their bare branches clawing at the sky. I veer off, ascending my gravel track, the gravel crunching beneath the car’s tyres. Every bump sends ripples through the footwell, disturbing the two litres of blood that threaten to spill over. My cottage emerges from the shadows, a structure that’s both humble and eerie, nestled deep in the forgotten French countryside. Its windows are shuttered closed, its sloped roof slowly bowing over time. But it wasn’t always mine. It belonged to a man whose name I don’t care to remember - the kind of man who could vanish without a trace. And vanish he did. He wasn’t just a quiet man tucked away in a rural cottage. He was something far darker, hiding behind the routine of his job at the zoo. It was a chance encounter – really, it was - but something attracted me to him. And that’s when I saw through him, the cracks in his façade: the way he looked at children. True evil often blends seamlessly into the faces of the people we trust. I watched him for weeks, the way he lingered too long in places he shouldn’t, the way his eyes betrayed him as they feasted upon small children. It wasn’t hard to find where he lived – and what better place than a cottage buried so deep in isolation that neither heaven nor hell would hear the screams.It was perfect.
He became predictable, almost boring. When the time came, I made my move, and he became a memory buried beneath the old oak tree. I figured if anyone did come knocking, I’d say he’d sold the place to me and moved to Canada. But no one did. Why would they? He didn’t want anyone knowing where he lived, and when I opened the barn, I could see why.
The barn’s rafters have been reinforced, forming a network of wooden beams. Between them, nests tuck into corners, clusters of moss-lined baskets swaying faintly as I open the barn door. I walk towards the feeding station – a series of shallow trays on a sturdy wooden table, and I carefully pour out the blood. I have to give it to the guy; the bat enclosure is a world unto its own. It’s carefully constructed, surrounded by mesh panels allowing airflow while keeping the bats’ movement contained. I couldn’t release them, even if I wanted to. Not only would it be a death sentence, but potentially fatal for the local eco-system. They’re outsiders, brought here by someone who never considered the consequences of their actions. The barn hums with a movement – a faint flutter of wings, and the rhythmic lapping of blood being drunk from the shallow trays. I step back, retreating to the door.
‘Don’t worry,’ I murmur. ‘Soon! You won’t have to wait much longer.’ There’s hunger in the air that feels almost tangible, like an electric charge before the storm. ‘All right, my little monsters,’ I say with a wry smile. ‘I’ll leave you to your dinner.’
Before you start thinking I’m the appetiser.
One of the bats pauses, its eyes flicking towards me as if it heard me and thought that might have been a good idea. Slowly, I close the door. As it creaks shut, I cast a final glance, counting each sleek, furry figure perched on the trays. Every one of them is present and accounted for.
‘If it weren’t for the rabies,’ I mutter, placing a gloved hand on the weathered doorframe. ‘I’d give you all a tickle under your chins.’ I let out a soft chuckle, and latch the door shut for the night. Some boundaries, I suppose, are better left alone - even if some creatures feel oddly like family.
CHAPTER 2
THE DIPLOMAT
‘Boss, I’m on the train, just an hour out from Montpellier. I’ve got a quiet cabin,’ I say over the phone, settling into a seat by the window.
‘About time you got in touch. What do you know so far?’ Mr Lewis asks from the other end.
‘I’m checking out a few leads, and the circles these curators like to float around in.’
‘A few leads? I don’t want you playing detective, Sal, and I don’t have time for your poetry and pleasantries.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘You find that curator, and sort it – quick and clean. Don’t make me regret letting you handle this. Even if you buggered off without my approval.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.’
‘Good. Call me back when you have something worth sharing.’
As soon as the call ends, I instantly regret deciding to find the girl myself. I know he won’t like me disobeying him. In an ideal world, I wouldn’t have known anything about her. If it were up to Mr Lewis, he’d dive head first, relentless and fearless. That way, he’d ensure the job was swift and seamless, so we could all move forward without a second thought. And if I hadn’t seen her face - a photograph paired with her client profile at the Wilderness Warfare Games - she’d probably be dead already. Back then, I saw her eyes held an untold story, and in that instant, the world paused. The thought of her life ending by his hands became unbearably suffocating.
I lean back, gazing out of the window, the warm leather seat pressing into my back as I cradle the phone in my hand. The countryside blurs past the window, and I exhale slowly recalling my last meeting with Mr Lewis.
‘Boss,’ I started, ‘with all due respect, I do need space. With all that’s happened...’ I paused, knowing I had to choose my words carefully. His gaze cut through the smoke-filled air of his office, waiting for me to speak. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink - just a statue of authority and power. But I know him, and he was listening. I pressed on. ‘At thecoto- perhaps your presence would be more useful there?’ His eyes narrowed, and I was careful to lace my words with respect but with a subtle assertion. I continued, ‘Emma and Paul are volatile. They’re risks. And while Mickey and the crew are quite capable, boss, a steady hand at the right moment can make all the difference in keeping things under control. They’ll respond to you in a way they never would to Mickey.’
I didn’t back down. ‘Meanwhile, I can handle the curator. I could do with a change of scenery, no offence.’
He exhaled sharply, but I caught the slight nod of his head – a signal of approval. I won that round, but the pressure to deliver had doubled. So I left before he could impose more restrictions. I had to do this my way.
The train ride feels interminable, each station blurring into the next as the countryside rolls by in a hypnotic haze of greens and golds and other warm tones of southern France. When Montpellier comes into view, the sky is the colour of burnt copper, and as I step off the train I’m overcome with both excitement and trepidation. It’s been a long time since I made an effort like this for someone – but then again, she isn’t like anyone else.
I follow the directions I’d hastily scribbled in my notebook, weaving through a network of boulevards. Finally, I find myself standing beforeLe Musee des Moulages.
To pass the time, I read about the museum on the train. The subject matter is grotesquely fascinating, like peeling back the skin of history to find something still pulsing beneath. And then there’sher. The goth girl. Where does she fit into all of this? What is she doing here, drifting through these halls like a revenant? Shereallyis the skin girl. She belongs to this place in a way that makes my skin crawl.
The online records claim the museum first opened in 1865, though no one alive recalls the unlocking of its doors. I imagine back then, it was a dimly lit gallery with its walls lined with sketches and sepia-toned photographs of blistering boils, and lesions that bloomed like cursed flowers. The real transformation came with Jean-Michel Bernard, a fruit modeller, of all things, crafting wax fruit for aristocratic tables. Pears so lifelike they drew flies. But, when his craft turned to flesh, his career shifted. Over forty years, he sculpted more than 3,500 wax effigies: skin ruptured with puss, faces hollowed by plague, limbs flowering with decay.
Everyone has to have a hobby, I guess.
