Again, there has been a long gap between the updates. I apologise. Also, thank Romain Grosjean for this chapter. Without him, this would ever have been finished.
Also, Manon is Belgium, Lukas is Norway.
Two weeks ago, in the meeting with his publisher, Arthur had given up on his story and written the whole thing from a scrap, and had finished the thing just in the yesterday and sent it to her. Manon, the mentioned publisher, wasn't too happy about this sudden action, but had no choice but to let the Briton do his will. Now she had read the whole thing, and stared at the production's back page. Arthur hid his smirk when he sat before her, waiting for the review.
"Arthur, I love you, honestly, but this story...don't you think it's a little bit too much?"
"No."
His publisher sighed. Manon browsed through the pile of papers once more, and slammed her head on the desk.
"I can't see why I keep giving in on you. Your books seem to get crazier every time. I am dreading for the next one, honestly-"
"What's so dreadful in this one?" Arthur asked, slightly annoyed. He had had trouble falling asleep because some damned hooligans had been making a ruckus just on the other side of the street, keeping him awake for most of the night. It wasn't until three the noises quieted down. It was almost like a curse, every goddamn time he had something important to do the next day those hooligans materialized themselves and disturbed his sleep.
Manon lifted her head so her chin was resting on the table, green eyes drilling into Arthur's.
"There's a transvestite killing people, then raping them with a wine bottle. Then he casually returns to his work as a librarian- and oh, he gives the bottles away as presents from a secret admirer to random strangers he picks by using a phone book. That's what dreadful."
"I still can't quite see your point."
The woman straightened up and crossed her arms.
"What my point is, Arthur, is that you have a twisted imagination."
After a while of conversing what is and what isn't twisted, Manon gave in on Arthur (again) and promised to publish the book as it is. "A sick piece of a gruesome mind disguised in a wonderful form of literature", were her exact words. The Brit managed to hide his smug smirk while walking to the bus stop near the office. It was a cloudy day, rain would pour in any second. Arthur quickened his pace to get to the stop faster, if lucky he could catch the earlier bus and not have to wait for the later one 20 minutes. He had somehow forgotten his umbrella (honestly, for someone who has lived in England for 34 years he should remember such simple this as that!) and wished not to be soaking wet.
"Oi, Arthur."
A horribly monotonous, familiar voice called him from behind him. Arthur turned around to meet the cold eyes of his friend.
"Hello, Lukas. Long time no see", he greeted the calm Norwegian. Lukas nodded, not showing the faintest hint of emotion on his face. Arthur chose ignored it; he had known the other for years and knew there was no chance of seeing him expressing his inner feels.
"Indeed. What have you been up to?" Lukas asked, face still like a statue's. Arthur shrugged.
"Nothing special. I just met my publisher, and she called me a psychopath. Not directly, but that's what she meant, anyway."
"Ah, the same as always. So you have a new book coming up?"
"Yes, it should be out soon", Arthur tried to remember the exact date, but failed, "It's the usual packet, crazy serial killers and secret lives."
"Sounds nice. Looks like we are going the same way, care to tell me any details?"
So the two men walked together towards the bus stop. Arthur explained the events of the book, and tried to figure what Lukas was thinking, possibly even find signs of shock on his face, but the pokerfaced Norwegian managed to hide his thoughts well, only commenting when it was necessary.
"So", the Brit gave up his pitiful attempt of reading Lukas' expressions, "What do you think?"
Lukas tilted his head to left, thinking something.
"I have one question."
"What is it?"
"Where did you get the idea for the transvestite?"
Arthur chuckled, secretly (or not even so) he was extremely proud of himself. So there was a way to get Lukas puzzled.
"I have new neighbours. My first encounter with them...it was interesting, to put it short."
Lukas' eyes turned to Arthur, one eyebrow quirked up (the first time ever Arthur saw him do that sober).
"Oh?"
"They're quite nice people, well, Emilie atleast. I don't know Francis that well."
"Now, just hold on a second. Just...would you mind explaining what exactly happened when you met them?" Lukas showed now full marks of confusion, eyebrows furrowed and his pokerface cracked. Arthur had to hold himself from taking his mobile out of his pocket and snap a picture of this unusual event so he could present it to everyone. He let out a nervous chuckle and enlightened his friend of the extraordinary encounter with the French siblings.
Emilie glanced over the newspaper. He was sitting on the armchair opposite, eyes fixated on her. It used to creep her out, but by the time she had got used to it and managed to ignore it most of the time. But, it was beginning to annoy her slightly, he had been doing that for an hour already. She sighed, and put away the paper.
"What do you want, Jean-Pierre?"
No answer.
"You know, it would be easier to communicate if you talked."
Still, no answer.
"...Are you doing this on purpose?"
"...I don't like this apartment", he said. Jean-Pierre had a hoarse voice, a smoky feel to it. It made her shiver. Still, she knew he was quite harmless unless he was really pissed off.
"Well, too bad", she answered, "because this is what we have now. Your friend Capitaine decided it would be nice to play with the landlord and look what happened. Better get used to it."
"He's not my friend."
"Whatever. Anything else you have to say?" Emilie looked at him, trying to keep her cool. Jean-Pierre glanced the clock, then coughed.
"Formula 1 is on."
She stood up, furiously, and grabbed the remote, swearing loudly for forgetting such important matter. Jean-Pierre followed her actions, a calm (yet scary) look in his eyes.
"Hope Grosjean doesn't crash", he said.
After bidding a farewell with Lukas and managing to catch the earlier bus, Arthur walked up the stairs in the apartment building. He was aching for some tea and a good book, after that tiresome walk.
There was an obstacle between his tea, though, when he saw Emilie stepping out of her flat and walking towards the stairs.
"Oi, Emilie! Afternoon", he greeted her, gaining a polite but nervous smile from the other.
"Salut, Arthur, I'm sorry but I can't talk with you now, I have to find the landlord-"
"Oh him? He's not here. There's a note on his door, he'll be back at nine."
"What? Merde, no, this can't be happening..."
"What's wrong?" Arthur asked, growing slightly concerned. Emilie sighed, fidgeting.
"Grosjean crashed."
"Excuse me?"
"Romain Grosjean. The F1 driver. I was watching F1 with Jean-Pierre, you know, the groggy sidepersona of Francis, and Grosjean crashed. Romain is his favourite driver, and he's really upset if something happens", she explained. Arthur nodded, digesting what he had just heard.
"So...is there more?"
"Yes. He locked himself on the balcony, he doesn't want to talk to me, I can't open the door and he has a bottle of vodka with him."
"Well, that is kind of problematic."
"I was hoping the landlord might have a key or something so he could open the door but now that is a hope gone in waste", she sighed, running a hand through her hair. Arthur looked at her, feeling a bit sorry. But of course, he was a gentleman, he had a suggestion to this problem.
"I know how to pick locks."
So that was how Arthur got himself to the odd situation. Picking locks in the next door neighbour so a groggy drunk behind the door wouldn't do anything stupid.
It was Romain Grosjean's fault.
Just when had his life become this crazy?
Emilie was nervous, eyes averting between Arthur and Jean-Pierre in the outside. She had told him the sidepersona was an angry one, he didn't like when someone came to his personal space. So picking locks wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, but hell, what else there was to do.
"Where did you leard how to pick locks?" Emilie asked. Arthur chuckled.
"In church."
"What...?"
"It's a long story. I prefer not to talk about it."
"I see."
Emilie's gaze back in Jean-Pierre, her eyes widened for a second. Then she flipped the bird, and Arthur could only imagine what had happened behind the window.
Finally the lock clicked in the right way and Arthur opened the door. Emilie thanked him, and strolled to the balcony, snatching the bottle of vodka away from the Frenchman. She was talking in rapid French, Arthur could pick up only a few words as she scolded him. It was kind of amusing to watch how she managed with the personalities, especially this one, as she was a short little lady and Jean-Pierre a gloomy creature (apparently, with a taste for strong alcohol). Emilie grabbed his sleeve and dragged the Frenchman back into the apartment and shoved him into Francis's room, still scolding him. Arthur laughed a little.
"You certainly have an eventful life", he said, earning a chuckle from the woman.
"Indeed. Again, thank you for your help. And I'm sorry for bothering you with this. Would you like to have some tea?"
Jean-Pierre sat on the bed and stared the door. Emilie was talking with the man who had picked the lock.
He was English.
He decided he didn't like the man.
Also, he didn't like Fernando Alonso because he was the reason Romain Grosjean crashed.
Okay this was kind of uneventful...but it's okey, it will get better in the future! It's a promise! (Brain: Don't make promises you can't keep.)
Also, a virtual slice of cheese for the person who will catch the race reference with the crash ;D