It happens all the time. Everyone engages in one social pretense or another. Domesticated by the duty to be socially acceptable and presentable, most people do things like concealing their morose insides to trick others into believing that they're fine when they're really not. Undomesticated, Villanelle's pretense was more rehearsed than interiorized, but she still needed one; she obviously didn't go around saying that she killed people for a living. So why should it be made out to be bizarre and hideous that she could very well go shopping for frivolous and lavish things one moment and set out to slash people's throats and chop their knobs off the next?
Of course the slashing and chopping part was abhorrent, but Villanelle's capacity to be more than one thing was inherently human. At least it better be, Eve mused, staring at the palm of her right hand, which felt numb from the icy drink she had been clutching. Because she, too, was more than one thing, and not in a neat kind of way like highway lanes, but in a thicket, crisscrossing like the lines in the map of the London Tube.
She had gravitated to this unremarkable pub as an intermediate step before shoving off home, just letting her thoughts roll by along with the dust bunnies on the floor. Dimly illuminated by one of the neon beer signs on the wall, the booth provided the isolation she very much wanted but probably didn't need, as Elena insisted on telling her. But she felt trapped in an ouroboros; it was all too overwhelming to talk about, yet she couldn't abide being sucked out of her mental loop to partake in everyday chatter.
Her mind was like an obstinate editor, rewinding and fast-forwarding compulsively, but unable to cut out or alter anything. Sometimes she replayed her frantic search for Villanelle, looking out every window of the apartment in the hope of spotting her hobbling down the street, following the smudged blood path down the stairs until its abrupt disappearance. Other times, she rolled back and started from the beginning.
Before Villanelle, there were clear divisions between her domestic life, her pointless job, and her passion. She had conformed to indulge in the third privately, reading books about homicidal women and sneakily researching a pattern of colorful murders she thought only she cared to see: a trail of tiny light bulbs blooming across a map of Europe. But then, the Vienna hit fell into her lap -or rather, landed in her vicinity-, and this time, she couldn't stay on the sidelines. The gnawing certainty that it was all the handiwork of one fruitful, female assassin had been impossible to contain.
The move from MI5 to a marginal MI6 detail caused the two lines of her job and her passion to swerve brusquely and conflate. To the detriment of her simple life, which became a shambles. This was, she thought, the undercurrent of what Carolyn had warned her about in that corner shop, just before instructing her to get some milk. An affair they could understand, but that relentless drive to follow one's calling above everything and everyone else… That was a hard pill to swallow, perhaps even an unswallowable one.
"You're not saving the world, honeybunch! You're getting off on sniffing out a psycho!" Niko had finally spat out, torpedoing any bullshit attempt on Eve's part to make it about the greater good. From the start, it had been as much about stopping said psycho as about Eve being the one to do it. Her motivation had never been about making the world safer, unlike Elena, for instance, whom Eve had all but mocked for being a romantic. It was personal, and she did sort of get off on it, she had to admit, considering nothing had ever satisfied her as much as the prospect of finding Villanelle. She had renounced every chance to drop it, and that was the problem; the knowledge that she would not relinquish her passion, no matter the risks. Which was a horrible thing to realize about oneself.
It was the proverbial mouth sore she couldn't help but go after with her tongue and probe over and over, and then bite on when tonguing wasn't enough. And then blink out tears of pained surprise, as if she couldn't have possibly guessed what would happen.
Knowing that Niko was right and not wanting him to be, she'd exploded against him in a totally inexcusable manner that felt both alien and endemic to her. How was she supposed to detach who she really was from the part of her that did those things, when they came from within?
"Please answer me. I promise I'll explain everything." she typed, and let her thumb hover over the "Send" button. Wondering how in hell she was going to fulfill that promise, she tapped on the message and added the words "try to" between "I'll" and "explain". That was a more genuine sentiment. Still, was that what he wanted, information? Or would she have to revert to her eccentric but completely safe desk jokey persona?
Her phone bleeped with a new message, which she hadn't anticipated. If Niko was open to having a conversation and if she managed to break out of her moody mute routine and be honest, then all that remained was that he would still recognize her as who she was. If he confirmed that he still saw her as Eve, then wouldn't they be able to reconcile…?
The text wasn't from Niko. Blinking incredulously at the name on the screen, Eve unlocked her phone and opened the message. "Madame/Mademoiselle," it said, "Julie has returned for the first time after the incidents. She has opened the door of the apartment, although I am sure that the owner changed the lock, and she is there now. She seems in good state of health. Cordially, Mme Tattevin."
Eve allowed herself a moment to feel an amalgam of relief and worry and guilt and heart-quickening anticipation wash over her. There had been no doubt in her mind that Villanelle had survived "the incidents" -as Madame Tattevin had labeled them-, however, whether that was because they hadn't found a bled-out body in the streets of Montmartre or because Eve believed something inside her would sting or hurt as a sign that she was no longer alive… that changed from day to day. Nevertheless, this first sign of life was revitalizing to her as well. Never would she have expected that her conversation with the diminutive, elderly woman tasked with spying on "Julie Lefebrue" from the other side of the landing would bear any fruit.
She released a labored sigh and scrolled up and down her contact list, balancing her limited options. The first thing she did was reply to Madame Tattevin's text and tell her to call the police, which she hoped wouldn't lead to a pile of dead police officers. Her second course of action would've been to phone Carolyn, but sensed that that would be futile. Carolyn had picked her up after being fired for being a crackpot, only to disband the team and get rid of her basically for that same reason. For the head of the Russia Desk, the case and the person of Villanelle were not concurrent, essentially telling Eve that she was missing the forest for the trees.
Scrolling some more, she tapped on Kenny's name instead, muttering "C'mon, c'mon" after every ring.
"Hello?" he finally answered, his voice practically drowned in a din of loud voices. "Eve?"
"Kenny! Listen… Wait, are you out?"
"Uh, yeah. There's no need to sound so incredulous. Are you out?"
"I'm just having a drink." He could of course hear the same kind of background noise coming from her end. "Nevermind! Listen to me. She's back. Don't ask me how, but I know for a fact that Villanelle's in her apartment right now."
"What?" There was a sound of glasses colliding into one another, followed by Kenny's bumbling apology.
"There must be something there she really needs or wants. Tell your mother they have to send someone right away." Eve hoped that also didn't end up with a pile of dead agents. She found no joy in handing her only lead to Carolyn, but there was no time and Eve had no agency, both literally and figuratively. "No excuses, just grow a pair and tell her." She paused. "Sorry, that was harsh."
"It's, uh… It's fine. I'll try."
"I'm going to book a flight."
"Right. But Eve… You know you're not... They won't let you near her."
"I know. But if she's there, I have to go. I can't..." She couldn't explain. But that was what her instinct was commanding her to do. "I'll call you when I get there. Okay, bye."
What could Villanelle want to recover from her apartment? It was incredibly risky of her to go back to her apartment, so it had to be something relevant to her work or else something of personal value. And whatever it was, it had to be well hidden, or the authorities would have boxed or bagged it.
The clinking sound of ice cubes against glass too close to her ear derailed her train of thought and made her raise her eyes in irritation. After a paralyzing instant, she was flooded by an onrush of panic. Her body jolted upwards, only to have her knees hit the underside of the table and cause her to plop back down immediately. Those booths were so compact that they didn't allow one to stand, but only slide in or out from the side. There, with a tall glass in her hand and a little, dimply smile on her face, stood Villanelle, effectively blocking Eve's only exit.
The green glow of the neon sign on the wall imbued her with an otherworldly aura, but Eve knew better than to grant her the gift of ubiquity and deem her presence in that dingy pub miraculous. She opened her mouth, but Villanelle was quicker, speaking in her impeccably crafted posh accent, loud enough for the surrounding booths to hear.
"Oh my God, Eve, what on earth are you still doing here?" In one fell swoop, she covered Eve's phone with her hand, slid it across the table, away from reach, and sat down in front of her.
Villanelle was the picture perfect image of propriety, complete with a braided updo and a blouse specked with tiny bunches of flowers. One needed to be up-close, like Eve was, to detect the fading souvenirs from her Russian romp: shadows of bruises on her temple and jaw and a mark on her upper lip. One had to be able to stare into her eyes to read something more in their shininess – and still refrain from trusting one's interpretation.
Her heartbeat already galloping, Eve let out a strangled gasp when she felt Villanelle's legs trapping her own under the table, very much in the manner of a car clamp. She held fast to the edge of the wooden bench, imagining she was about to be dragged out of view, horror movie-style.
"No screaming," said Villanelle, lowering her voice and switching to her usual accent. She clasped her hands together and placed them on the table, as if she wasn't responsible for what was going on underneath it. "I got tired of waiting for you at home. Is this where you spend your time now?" She cast her eyes around the place, the pleasant smile turning into a grimace of distaste.
It chilled her not to know Villanelle's intentions for breaking into her house. To trash the place out of petulant payback? To do whatever she felt she needed to do to her in peace? To see if she would find Niko there? Perhaps all three. Or maybe it was a toss-up between the first two, and the third would have been a happy happenstance.
Glancing at Villanelle's glass, which was only half-full, Eve became aware that she would've had to track her, follow her into the pub, order, mislead her about being in Paris, and watch her react and fall for it, sipping on her drink with all the calm in the world before choosing to engage her. She had the very distinct feeling that her leg was being pulled, and realized that she would've been more annoyed if she hadn't been so concerned.
"Listen-"
"No." said Villanelle softly but curtly, interrupting her.
"I just-"
"No." she repeated, more assertively.
"Will you stop being a prick for a second?" Eve's caution was temporarily superseded by a flash of annoyance that made her raise her voice.
Not that Villanelle seemed worried about drawing attention. It was likely that her little act with the proper accent had been more for effect than for the sake of the people surrounding them. But Eve's snappish tone did appear to amuse her, morphing the polite schoolgirl veneer into something more astute. Her lips twisted into a strangely victorious smile which, nonetheless, did not exacerbate Eve's anger, but only reminded her of how Villanelle had behaved in her kitchen, with that combination of good manners and cunningness.
"What did you do to that poor woman?"
"That's what you want to know?" Fluttering her lips, Villanelle unclasped her hands and relaxed into her seat, resting her elbows on the back of the bench. "We had coffee, we talked about your little visit, and I took her phone."
"That's it?"
"Well, she called me a 'connasse' a lot, but she always does that. It means arsehole." she flashed a smile at Eve and shrugged. "I like her."
"It's not like you won't hurt people you like."
"True..." she said, rolling and lengthening her r, while nodding pensively. "You know a thing or two about that, too, right?"
This was something Eve had been trying to fence out from the fore of her mind, the way she felt about hurting, in part so it wouldn't get picked up by Villanelle's acute powers of observation. The word "plunge" kept popping into her mind – or rather, not the word, but the concept in all its forms. The feeling of spiraling downwards, all ties and strings severed, a free fall that was not merely voluntary, but eager. But also the feeling of being a driving force – not an observer in the wake of violence, not anymore. Before panicking and trying to quench the flow of blood with her own hands, she'd brushed irreversibility with the tips of her fingers, and it had told her something about herself. A hard pill of her own.
"You nurse your drink too much. It won't do what you want it to do if you just stare at it."
"Why do all this? Why are you here?" asked Eve, snapping out of it. Was it so that no one would look for them here?
Doing that thing where she didn't answer a direct question, Villanelle bounced back with something else. "Come on, let's go."
"What? Where?"
"To your house." she scoffed, as if Eve had failed to guess the most obvious thing.
The fact that Villanelle couldn't parade any weapon in the middle of a pub certainly didn't imply that she didn't have one. If she intended to puncture her femoral artery discreetly, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Even so, staying put seemed like the better option, Eve concluded, trying and failing to shift her legs under Villanelle's iron grip.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Okay." Villanelle straightened her back, appearing to peek at something past Eve. Then, she promptly took Eve's glass and splashed its contents -including two marble-sized ice cubes- all over the woman sitting directly behind Eve.
"Eve! Why'd you do that for? Are you off your rocker?" cried Villanelle, going back to a flawless accent and sporting the most innocent and shocked of expressions.
The four occupants of the adjacent booth, all women, sprung out of their seats and surrounded Eve in a whirlwind of flashy track jackets and loutish mannerisms. Mouth agape, Eve held up her hands and glanced from the empty glass to the woman who was yelling at her and dripping vodka everywhere.
"I-I-I… Listen, it wasn't..." she stammered.
Before she was able to finish that very clumsy sentence, Villanelle retracted her legs, releasing her. Instinctively, Eve tried to slide out of the booth as soon as that happened, stumbling in the process. This sudden movement was badly received by the four women, who let out a chorus of "Hey, hey, hey". And Villanelle's scared gasp only made matters worse.
The man behind the bar was already shouting "Oi!" at them and, next thing she knew, he had thrown the two of them out of the pub.
Eve leaned against the brick wall of the building, hunched over and quite out of breath. From the corner of her eye, she could see Villanelle, one foot still on the entrance step, apologizing to whomever was there to make sure they didn't go back inside. To say that she had a penchant for the dramatic was a grave understatement.
Something she did, something which had set her apart from her team members, and they'd remarked on it, was that she wouldn't stop humanizing Villanelle. Not only had she refused to treat her as a means to a higher end, a mere name to be scratched out in order to get to the next one, or as a monster too far gone to be considered a person, but she had pounced on every opportunity to delve deeper into that personality. It was important not to fall for her theatrics and pity parties but, clearly, some things mattered to her.
As soon as the pub door closed, Villanelle modified her entire demeanor. She approached her gracefully, with her hands inside the pockets of her trousers and both their jackets hanging on the crook of her arm.
"I can't believe you almost got me beaten up by a bunch of chavs just to get me out of there." Eve snatched her jacket, put it on in a fit of rage, and glared at the other woman between clumps of messy hair.
"Hmm, that's a bit too much. The glass didn't even break. It wouldn't have been more than a black eye or a bloody nose."
"Great. Glad you're enjoying yourself."
"The question, Eve, is why aren't you?" Suddenly becoming serious, Villanelle stepped closer to her, so close that Eve retreated until her back found the wall. Her eyes blazing, Villanelle lifted her blouse, grasped Eve's hand, and placed it flat against her midriff, over a square of gauze. "Is it because of this?"