Kleptomania Redux

Kleptomania Redux

Author: Jillybean

My sofa smells of oranges. It always has. I’ve never found out why. The creases in the upholstery had transferred to my face and I rolled onto my back, one arm trailing down the front of the red fabric, my fingers brushing the floorboards. Staring at the discoloured paint on the ceiling, I felt very glad to be home.

My shoulders ached as though I’d been crucified and a cold queasiness settled in my stomach. It rose to my throat and I scrambled from my sofa, stumbling with one platform sandal on and one off towards the bathroom. I collided with the toilet and clung to the cool ceramic as my stomach acted independently of my wits and mind. Like any old fainting belle, my reaction to the peril I had been in was deeply visceral.

“Damn it,” I whispered with my throat raw. Rubbing the dampness off my cheeks, I straightened slowly, pulling on the chain to get rid of the evidence of my momentary weakness. Running the taps, I cupped my hand under the water and rinsed my mouth. When I straightened, I caught sight of a strange woman in the mirror. Her face was pinched with distaste and her lips chapped from being chewed too often. I made a conscious effort to smile, but it seemed like a grimace. Maybe a smile was too much to hope for.

Oh, George . . .

I glanced back to the door, but I had closed it in my initial dash to the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the stranger’s face conform into a picture of genuine sympathy.

Oh, George.

After a quick wash I wrapped my kimono – it was only a cheap knock off, polyester not even silk – around my body and returned to the living area. George was sprawled out on the bed, where I’d left him . . . God only knows how long ago. I felt as bleary as though I had slept for days, but my exhaustion was still completely overwhelming. Poor George. He hadn’t slept well, the sheets were tangled around his ankles and his trousers and t-shirt were wrinkled. He smelled a little funky too. I leaned against the breakfast bar, watching over him as he slept. George was out of it, he would be for a long time, and I didn’t have the heart to wake him, to force him to remember Anna Maria.

Bitch.

Still, something would have to be done about the smell. I struggled with the sash windows until they were fully open, waving to the flower seller as she glanced up at me from her stall. Holding my kimono shut as I puttered about the apartment, tidying it, I kept my mind free of everything but the immediate, where was I going to put George’s luggage in my tiny flat?

His PDA dropped from his satchel and landed heavily on the floor. I looked to George, worried he’d wake, but he didn’t even turn over. Sitting down besides a folded map, I lifted the PDA, filtering through his notes. I suppose that’s the thing with George and I, especially when we lived here together, we have no sense of personal space. I checked through his contacts until I found the one I was looking for. “Hello?” I asked as I heard the click of the line, groaning inwardly as I heard the grunt of a sleepy man. “My name is Nico Collard . . .”

“George’s friend,” the voice said blurrily. “Yeah, I think he mentioned you. Is he okay?”

“He’s . . .” I was leaning against the bed, my back to George, so I deliberately refused to look. “He’s fine. Who am I calling?”

“Virgil,” the voice replied. “I’m his partner in business.”

“I don’t think he’ll be back for a while, so you might want to take a holiday yourself,” I said. Before he could ask questions, I hung up again, and then I called Andre. It seemed wrong to sit so close to George as I talked to the one man he probably didn’t think had some core of goodness. I think George could find decency in the Grand Master if he tried. So I moved to the kitchenette.

“Bonjour? Qui vous est?”

I hesitated, blinked a few times, before realised that George’s PDA wasn’t my phone and that Andre would have no idea who was calling him. “Andre, it’s me,” I replied in English, my mind still working in the more unfamiliar language. “Just checking in to let you know I have him.”

“Hmm. Good,” Andre said. “Is he feeling sorry for himself? When I saw he had hacked into my database I - ”

“Andre!” My own irritation surprised me. “He’s fine,” I said slowly. “We’re both fine.” My hand was shaking so much I had to hold the PDA between my ear and my shoulder.

“Cherie?” Andre murmured in a gentle voice.

“I’ll call you later.”

I stayed in the kitchen for some time, leaning against the fridge, clutching my kimono to myself. It was only George, muttering something in his sleep that jolted me awake. I left the kitchen, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reaching out to cup his face with my hand. “It’s fine, George, it’s all okay.” Lies though they may have been, it soothed George enough to let him sleep again. I noticed he had the picture of Anna Maria crumpled in his hand. The black and white nun’s outfit had a scar through it, evidence of George’s fist breaking the shine on the front of the photograph.

Oh, George.

I took the photo, smoothing it out as best I could on the work surface. Then I took the golf club, the knife from the Pasha Palace, the gaudy gold lighter I’d never seen before . . . George hadn’t started smoking, had he? I sniffed his neck, and smelled sweat, but no smoke. In fact, this close to him I could smell wafers and a little bit of oil and wine. And I could also smell George, which was so much more satisfying than it ought to have been. I could have kissed him and tasted his skin, but that would have meant I had missed him . . . so I started to collect the pieces of paper. The metro ticket, the map to Topkapi, the receipts all went in an envelope. On second thoughts I put the photo in too, sealing it and tucking it into George’s luggage along side the rest of his gear.

Now things seemed more obscure. The empty bottle of wine, for instance, not even a vintage I preferred. All Italian wines are too dry. A membership card for the Black Cat Club . . . George was so drunk when I found him after my return from Phoenix, what kind of club is that anyway? The spare key to Mark’s flat, I would have to mail that back to him.

Purple gloves . . .

“Nico?” I flinched, caught with my hands in the cookie jar so to speak, as I tentatively nibbled on the edge of the salami. I was actually thinking that it would go fantastically with a little Melon de Bourgogne but George was looking at me as though I was thinking about supping upon someone’s brains.

“Yes, George?” I asked, surreptitiously setting the salami down on the counter.

Scrubbing a hand over the shadow of a beard on his jaw, George closed his eyes for a moment.

“Don’t think about it,” I advised.

He opened his eyes, they looked suspiciously misty, and then he nodded. He shuffled backwards till he had his back against the wall. “Seems strange to be back here,” he commented.

I shrugged, lifting the clown’s nose from its resting place beside my cheeseplant. I fitted it to my nose and smiled at his slightly befuddled expression. My grin grew as his confusion gave way to a simple expression of acknowledgement. “I think it feels inevitable,” I told him. “And I don’t know about you, George, but I’m out of work . . . did you ever think about setting up shop in Paris?”

He frowned at me, not realising what I was suggesting. Well fine, I wasn’t even sure what I was suggesting. But I know I’m not going to let this happen again. If you want to hurt me, hurt my friends, then you had better beware. I’m going to be ready next time. And no one knows more about the Templars, and how they think, than we do. We can do something . . . I can feel it.

But I’m tired, George is tired, and I haven’t had a thing to eat in days. I don’t count airline meals. “George, why don’t I go and buy some food, you can clean up and have a shower, you stink, by the way.” I smiled affectionately at him, ruffling his hair as I picked up my navy pinafore from the drawers under the bed. “Is that a plan?”

George was fingering a lightbulb. “Yeah . . .” he said, his voice distracted. “That sounds like a good idea, to get rid of this stuff.”

Impulsively, I kissed his forehead. “Not all of it, George,” I said. “You’d regret that.”