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PARIS, 1943
Sebastien had been skulking in the shadows all evening, waiting, and when Marianne raced out of the restaurant, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes stained by tears, lips bloodless, he hurried towards her.
‘Geoff told me about tonight, about the list, and Louisa.’
Marianne’s chin wobbled. She was holding the list, clutching it. He took it from her, and said, ‘Don’t speak here, someone might hear.’
She shook her head and her eyes were wild and she began to gasp for air like she was having a panic attack. ‘They’re all dead.’
His eyes widened in horror. ‘What?’
‘I… killed them.’
He turned to go inside the restaurant, and when he came out a minute later, his face was pale, his black eyes filled with shock. He walked slowly, almost reluctantly back to her.
‘But…the boy?’
Her face crumpled and she fell onto the street and began to keen. He rushed to her to get her to quieten. ‘It was an accident – I didn’t mean for him to eat it.’
Sebastien nodded, then held her in his arms, lifting her to her feet, but she was a dead weight. ‘Come on, you can’t be here!’
She didn’t help and he half dragged her up the street. Tracks of tears coursed down her face, as she sobbed, loud, painful sobs. Henri’s face was etched inside her brain.
‘Come on,’ he said, unwrapping the scarf around his neck and pressing it against her mouth to stifle the sound. Through glazed eyes she followed him to a flat a few blocks away, her feet leaden and uncooperative. Somehow he got her inside. It was just a studio, with a bed. ‘I can try to get you out the country,’ he said. ‘Just stay here, I’ll need to make arrangements.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I n-need to face it… I can’t run.’
He ignored her. If she faced them, she’d be killed instantly. He turned to pour her a large glass of whisky and then went to fetch a pill. But he couldn’t trust her on her own, not like this.
‘Take this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just trust me.’
They were heavy sleeping pills he took in order to stop his nightmares. While he believed in everything he was doing to help the Resistance, it came with a price. The lines blurred and sometimes it was hard to face who he’d become. The same would no doubt be true for Marianne. Poison. Jesus, that poor boy.
She swallowed the pill he gave her and drank the whisky which burned as it slid down her throat. Nothing helped to numb what she had just done.
Soon, though, her eyes turned heavy from whatever he’d given her, and when she fell asleep several minutes later, Sebastien pulled a blanket around her.
Sebastien watched her sleep, then he looked at the list and sighed; it was what they suspected. When Geoff had escaped, and came to tell him what happened: he had his suspicions that his escape was too easy. That there was a reason for it. The list was full of names of famous people, movie stars and singers. If there had been a real list, it had no doubt been put into action already. This was something they had put together in order to test if Marianne was actually informing against them – they had begun to suspect her. It was all a ruse.
He dreaded telling her when she woke up.
But he would. He didn’t believe in lying.
It took five days to get to the Abbey de Saint-Michel. Sebastien helped her to get out of the city, by arranging transport on a cheese truck bound south. She stayed beneath a blanket for eighteen hours and then got another ride from a farmer headed towards Gourdes. She dyed her hair brown and wore the clothes of a boy. She was so slim and slight that from a distance she could almost pass for one.
When she arrived it was just after nine in the morning. She slipped inside the gardens, where the roses were in bloom, and found Marguerite sitting on a picnic blanket with Sister Augustine. Birds were pecking at the seed they had scattered.
The nun shaded her eyes as she looked into the distance. Hearing her approach, she seemed to tense, but then after a while she stood, frowned and breathed, ‘Marianne?’
Marianne took a step forward only to pause as she saw her daughter. The child’s hair was down to her shoulders now, dark like Jacques’ and her eyes were so much like his too.
‘Cherie, it’s your maman,’ said Sister Augustine and the child stood up confused.
‘Maman?’ she whispered.
