The World As It Should Be, a murder on the orient express fanfic

The World As It Should Be

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Murder on the Orient Express (2017 film)

They first meet when they are children.

Katherine peeks through the hedge at the neighbors' son, who is pacing in frantic circles around the garden. At first she wonders if he's playing a game, but when he curls up on a wooden bench and starts rocking back and forth, with the face of someone trying not to cry, she knows it's something else.

She wriggles through the hedge, brushes the dirt off her dress, and says: "What's wrong?"

"I can't find him." The boy looks up at her, blue eyes wild. "I lost him."

"Who?"

"Napoleon!" He opens a wooden box he's holding, showing her a collection of painted tin soldiers. "Without him, the battle will be ruined. And Papa will be so mad – these belong to him, really, not me – and he'll say I was stupid and careless, and he'll never let me play with them again and – and – " He's breathing hard and fast, as if he's been running for miles, and Katherine doesn't understand it, but she can't leave him like this.

"It's all right." She puts her hand on his shoulder. He looks startled, but doesn't pull away. "You'll find him. My Papa says if you lose something, you should go back to the beginning. Where did you see Napoleon last? Close your eyes and take a deep breath. Can you see it?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and sits so still, she might think he's fallen asleep if she couldn't still feel the electric currents of tension running through him. But when he opens his eyes again, they're blazing with determination.

"By the pond," he says. "I exiled him to Elba. C'mon."

He grabs her hand and tugs her along to the ornamental pond at the other end of the garden. Sure enough, there stands the tin soldier Napoleon with his bicorn hat and one hand tucked into his coat, proud and lonely on a flat rock that stands above the water.

The boy scoops him up, tucks him into his slot in the wooden box, and lets out a sigh of relief.

"That was clever of you," he says. "What's your name?"

"Katherine."

"I'm Hercule. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

He takes her hand and bows over it like grown-ups do, and she giggles. She knows they're going to be friends.

Katherine has been excited for weeks about attending her first dance: the corsage, the floor-length gown, getting her hair curled, and most of all, being escorted by the handsome young Monsieur Poirot. He's polite to all the young ladies, but she is his oldest friend, and only she gets the privilege of walking into a ballroom on his arm.

Still, it's a privilege that comes with complications, especially as the night goes on.

She turns around after chatting with some friends of hers to find he has disappeared. Riding a familiar wave of irritation and concern, she looks for him in the darkest, quietest place she can find, which turns out to be a balcony overlooking the garden. He's pacing back and forth with his head in his hands, muttering something, which at first she thinks is a prayer but turns out to be a string of numbers.

He's counting the dancing couples, she realizes. And losing track, because of the random way they move around the floor. And the more he loses track, the more it frightens him.

"How bad is it?"

"Don't speak." He holds up an imperious white-gloved hand. "You'll make it worse. The lights and the spinning and, my God, the noise … "

She leans against the balcony railing and waits, biting her lip, trying to radiate calm as best she can in spite of her longing to get back to the party. The random whirl of skirts and tailcoats, the flickering of a thousand candles, the ring of laughter and gossip rising above the music – all those things that torment him so are only beautiful to her.

She moves back toward the doors, thinking that perhaps he needs to be alone. But he catches her by the wrist and says, "Please. Stay."

"May I speak now?"

"Yes. Forgive me, I was rude."

"I've seen you ruder."

He shows her a tentative smile and, still keeping hold of her hand, tucks it into his elbow. They watch the sky together, and she feels him relax, though whether it's the silver serenity of the moon or having her next to him, she's not sure.

"I'm sorry," she says. "If I'd known it would be so difficult for you ..."

"Nonsense." He waves away her apology with one of his elegant gestures, even though his collar is still soaked through with nervous sweat. "It's your first ball. I may be a poor excuse for a man, but I am still a gentleman, and I would never forget what is due to a lady."

And just like that, she feels her annoyance tip over into awe. How does he do that? How did he walk right into his own personal nightmare for her sake alone?

"You are the strongest person I've ever met, Hercule, and don't you forget it. Even your namesake himself couldn't have slain the monsters you live with."

"Ah, well." He looks out at the shadowy garden beneath them, frowning, probably counting all the flaws in the arrangement of the plants that she can't even see. "Sometimes it feels like the monsters might slay me."

"I won't let them." She squeezes his arm and he smiles at her, even while gently dislodging her grip because she wrinkled the fabric of his coat.

He turns those piercing blue eyes on her. What does he see? All the human asymmetry of her face – the birthmark on the left side of her mouth, one eyebrow higher than the other, the sheen of sweat from all the dancing, the spot on her chin that refuses to go away no matter how much powder she uses?

"Katherine … "

"Yes?"

"Could you, ah … could you please hold still for a moment?"

He adjusts her necklace, which she hadn't realized was off-center, and tucks one of her loose curls back into its pin. He's always doing that, but tonight the brush of his fingers makes her shiver.

"There," he whispers, "Perfect," cupping her cheek with his hand.

She knows him. He doesn't use that word lightly. But he says it like he means it, looking right into her eyes.

Afterwards, she can't remember which of them moved in for the kiss. All she remembers is that it was her first.

And it is, indeed, perfect.

Thankfully, they are standing apart again by the time Katherine's mother bursts through the doors. Still, by the look on her face, one would think she'd caught them naked.

"I've been looking everywhere for you! What are you doing out here?"

"It's so hot and stuffy in that room, Maman." Katherine fans herself with one hand and wilts against the balcony rail, every inch the fragile young lady. "Monsieur Poirot was kind enough to lead me out into the fresh air."

"That's right," Hercule says smoothly. "I was simply looking after her as an old friend should, Madame."

"Hmph. Just as long as you bring her back. The other guests haven't had a chance to speak to her yet."

He links arms with her and leads her out onto the dance floor, his head high, every hair in place. From the outside, no one would ever guess that he is battling his demons. Only the tightness of his hold on her gives it away.

She doesn't intend to let go.

Being drafted as a soldier in the Great War is unbearable. And yet Hercule Poirot somehow bears it.

He is fanatical about insect repellent. He trades everything he can for it out of his rations: cigarettes, alcohol, sometimes even food. His comrades make fun of him, but he doesn't care. He may not appreciate the Germans steamrolling over his country on the way to France, but it's the lice who are his true enemies in this war.

He gets shot in the leg. The pain doesn't matter so much, but the imbalance it creates drives him wild. He hates needing a cane to walk, hates being a living reminder of ugliness and violence everywhere he goes. He limps up and down the aisles of the hospital, to the alarm of the nurses, until he can at least walk with some semblance of dignity. Even though the leg still hurts, and probably will for the rest of his life.

He's not sure how he will face Katherine, when – if – he goes back home. Sometimes, he feels as if just being in the same room with him might contaminate her somehow, infect her with the horrors he's seen. But at other times, the idea of seeing her face again is all that keeps him going.

Her letters arrive as regularly as the army mail can manage. He handles them wearing gloves, clean ones if possible, so as not to wear them out with too much reading. Still, some of the older ones are nearly falling apart.

Dearest H,

Trust you not to tell me anything about what the front line is really like. My cousin came home on leave and he told me everything. I can't even imagine how terrible it must be for you.

Stay strong, my love. Use those little grey cells you like to boast about. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine the world as it should be.

Imagine you and me in your parents' garden, sitting by the pond and feeding bread to the ducks. Imagine the sunlight reflected in the water, the smell of lilacs, you lecturing me about a fascinating volume of history or geography, and me quite forgetting how unladylike it is to care about such things. You will tell me the sash on my dress is crooked, I will roll my eyes, and you will kiss me despite my impertinence because you love me anyway.

You always find what you are looking for. So when this war is over, come and find me.

Your Katherine

"No sign of her yet?"

A man with premature gray streaks in his hair and moustache, who walks with a cane, haunts the police stations of Brussels. He dresses like a gentleman, but has the hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes of someone who neither eats nor sleeps properly. He carries a photograph of a young blonde lady in a light-colored dress, and he shows it to anyone who stands still long enough.

"Her name is Katherine Emanuel. She's my fiancée. She's missing."

At first, the police officers are sympathetic. They listen to his long stream of theories, they take notes, they bring him coffee, and they assure him they're doing everything in their power. But as the weeks and months wear on, their assurances start to become impatient, then to shut their doors altogether - until finally Monsieur Emanuel himself, Katherine's father and the city's chief of police, comes out of his office to clap Hercule on the shoulder and firmly steer him outside.

"Son," he says, "I know it's been difficult for you. God knows it hasn't been easy for any of us. But you need to stop this, for all our sakes."

"Am I embarrassing you by showing up the incompetence of your men?" Hercule's cane is all that's keeping him upright, but he's lost none of his haughtiness. "Is keeping up appearances more important than finding your daughter? Is that it?"

"You arrogant little - " Emanuel turns red with rage, and is tempted to knock the younger man sprawling across the cobblestones. "If you think you know so much about police work, why don't you solve the case?"

"If I must." He draws his skinny figure up as tall as he can.

"You? Ha!" Emanuel scoffs. This is the boy who used to turn pale even at the sight of a gun mounted on the wall. He's the most unlikely candidate for crime-solving anyone could imagine.

"Go home, boy. Go and face facts, like the rest of us have to."

When Hercule marches into his office a week later, along with two officers leading a handcuffed man between them, the police chief is forced to eat his words.

The man who killed Katherine turns out to be an old enemy of her father's, who recently broke out of prison and took his revenge. Eventually (after certain methods of questioning Emanuel prefers not to make public), he even tells them where he hid her body.

It's a hollow victory, though, for everyone concerned.

As soon as the funeral is over, Hercule barricades himself in his apartment and does not come out for weeks. He traces the cracks in the ceiling, reads dime novels, gets blind drunk and wakes up disgusted with himself, and snaps at his family and friends until they stop coming to visit.

He does what Katherine always told him to do, closes his eyes and pictures the lost thing he's looking for.

It doesn't help.

But when the housekeeper brings him a piece of fried fish wrapped in newspaper one day, he ignores the food and pounces on the paper like a cat.

Serial Killer Strikes Again, reads the headline.

"Save that for supper, please," he tells her. "I'm going out."

"You're – did you say - ?"

"I'm going out today. By the way, would you mind straightening your apron? Thank you. That's much better."

He catches that criminal, and the next one, and the next. He joins the police force (to the dismay of Monsieur Emanuel) to learn to do it more effectively, but doesn't last long due to his low tolerance for stupidity. He learns to have his panic attacks in private, where no one can see them, and he learns to smile at people he dislikes, which comes in awfully useful for a detective. He covers up his condition so well that most people would never guess he has it. But he never marries, and he never falls in love.

Katherine's picture travels with him everywhere. He talks to it before he falls asleep. After all, he always sees the world as it should be, and that world has her in it.

"My Katherine," he whispers. "Good night."