Chapter Nineteen
When Tintin entered Serge's room, for a moment, he didn't even see him. It wasn't until he heard the man's heavy sigh that he noticed him there, sitting at the edge of his bed, a cigarette balanced between his fingertips.
"You're here," Serge said quietly, before the silence got too long.
Tintin didn't respond.
"Do you want a confession?"
"I don't need one," Tintin said simply.
Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Serge shook his head. "No," he replied. "It wouldn't do you much good." The silence began to stretch again, until he added, "But there's one thing you never figured out."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You never figured out where I've been for the past year." Running his hand through his hair, Serge sighed again, stood up, and fell into an arm chair next to the window. "I went to Russia and got caught up in some idiot's coup d'état." He grimaced, tossing the cigarette to the floor. "I meant to come back to Belgium sooner, but I was trapped there. I marched around in that forsaken wilderness for months, little to no food, just marching, day after day. When I deserted, they actually hanged me. But I survived, somehow. I guess I made myself. I just... decided I wouldn't die. And I guess God didn't want me to die yet, because: here I am." After a long pause, he added, sullenly, "Not like it matters. They shoud've just done it. Saved you the trouble."
"You were in Russia? And that was why Vogel was going there?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. It's possible. I don't think he suspected I was alive until when he started accusing you of murder. It was so random. I guessed he had learned something that made him think I was alive, and he was trying to make sure I didn't think he suspected me. He knew I had every reason in the world to kill him."
"Oui; I'd thought of that."
"You've thought of everything," Serge muttered.
They sat there together, neither saying anything, neither able to look each other in the eye. Finally, Serge murmured, "I did everything for her. Surely you can understand that."
"Your feelings can't justify murder."
"I didn't say that they could," he replied, his voice strained. "I wasn't doing it just because I was mad at them, Tintin. I was mad, but don't let that distract you from the fact that they deserved to die. They had all committed criminal offenses, and it was only because of Vogel's twisted blackmailing that they weren't in prison."
Tintin studied Serge's face. Despite the lines on his forehead, which were probably an evidence of stress rather than age, he had a friendly, boyish, and admittedly innocent looking face. Not the face of a killer. So was his face misleading? Or were his actions?
"So that makes you—what, a vigilante?" he asked quietly. "That's not a whole lot better. You have good ideals, but they don't justify your actions."
Serge groaned. "People might say the same about you, Tintin. Tintin, please. Let us go. Let us go for her."
That was a cruel card to play, and they both knew it. "If you think this will be an easy choice, you're an idiot," Tintin mumbled, staring at the ground.
"Do you think murdering Vogel was an easy choice? Do you think planning four murders was easy? My hands were clean." He raised his hands into the air, palms up, as if it would prove his point. "It wasn't just some vendetta. I was serving justice."
"You leave justice to the law!"
"But I couldn't! I couldn't tell the law what Vogel did! He was blackmailing us."
"Then you should have just told everybody what your father did."
"My father was the only thing keeping Belgium together after the war. Imagine if Vogel told everybody he had tried to betray his own country! We'd still be an anarchy. And Odette and I would have been hated, banished, and most likely murdered." The lines on his forehead deepened. "I couldn't leave justice to the law. And justice must be upheld. You should know better than anybody: if justice is withheld from one, soon, justice is withheld from everybody. Tintin, believe me when I say, I was doing what was right!"
"What was right? How were you upholding justice? You planned the systematic murder of four men!"
"Do you want to know why I killed Vogel? Do you want to know what he did? He spent months making advances on Odette, Tintin, and when he realised she wouldn't have him, he kidnapped her. He tied her spread eagle to a bed and raped her for three bloody days. Gave her nothing to eat, to drink, nothing. I didn't even know where she was. Not like it mattered, because I couldn't lift a finger, a finger, to stop him. And do you want to know how I got her back? I found her lying naked on the street, dying. Try and tell me that you wouldn't kill over that. And when I faked my death, so I could deal with him later, he took my wife and accused her of murder, then threw her into a cell, beat her, tattooed her—" His voice broke off jaggedly, and he dragged a hand over his face, trying to regain his calm.
Tintin was at a loss for words.
When Serge continued talking, his voice was quiet and broken. "I waited a year to have her back." He bit his lip, taking in a shaking breath. "A year. A whole… a whole bloody…"
But his voice cracked and broke off, and he couldn't continue. Sinking down into the chair, he turned his head away, trying to hide the tears flooding his eyes. Resting his elbows on the desk, his head fell into his hands, and his shoulders began shaking with sobs.
"You're taking her from me," he sobbed. "You're taking her…"
"Serge… I…" He swallowed, trying to steady his voice, but his words came jaggedly. "I don't want to—"
"You're going to kill her. You're going to kill her."
"I'll take you to her," Tintin said quietly, turning his back to Serge.
He lifted his head, staring at Tintin with red-rimmed eyes. He choked, "You'll…"
"I said you can go to her."
Serge looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded. "Okay," he said, quietly. "Please. Take me to her."
/
When Tintin returned to his room and reached up to turn on the lights, he felt like he had weights attached to his arms. Every movement was heavy and painful, consuming more energy than he seemed to have in his entire body. He had to stand there for a moment, not looking at anything, trying to regain the will to move, onto the couch, his bed, anywhere.
His whole body seemed to ache, as if the wear and tear on his body the all his adventures had seen was finally catching up with him. He felt old— tired and old, the last spark inside of him finally snuffed out.
He limped to his bed and sat at the edge of the mattress for a long time, thinking.
There was still time. He knew that. He could pretend to forget. When they went to the village tomorrow, he could still tell the police that Vogel had been the murderer, and then give the bodies back to the families, and that would be the end of it. He knew his word was gospel in courts of law; no questions would be asked.
But was it right?
Did you follow your conscience, even when your conscience wasn't following the law?
He wanted to believe that the answer to that question was yes. But that was what Serge had done, and Serge had killed three people because of it.
But were their deaths even wrong?
If he could, beyond a reasonable doubt, justify Serge's actions, then lying to the police would be justifiable, too.
Frowning, he rested his hand on his forehead, feeling the lines gathered beneath his fingertips. Why did it have to matter? There were hundreds of murders every day so how could it possibly matter? He could let Odette and Serge go. Nobody would ever have to know what they'd done. And they'd already been through so much. They had received their punishment anyway, right?
Finally, he stood, and made his way to his dresser. He remembered the last time he had done this. It was after Vogt had died. He had been so shaken then, but he almost wished he could go back. To a time when every heartbeat hadn't been raw and excruciating, doing nothing but pulse new pain through his aching body. To a time when every thought wasn't tortured, consumed with the question of whether or not he should kill one of the dearest friends he had ever had.
God help me, he thought, staring down at the rosary, nestled in the top drawer. God help me.
His gaze drifted to the whisky. It was still there. He could do it, he thought. He could kill his mind. Deaden his pain. The whisky could numb his emotions; it could make everything feel okay. It could drown his brain and smother everything wrong with life. And that was what he wanted: to drown. To be dead to all of this.
Suddenly, more than anything, Tintin wanted nothing but a world where he had never met Odette. Where today would be Christmas Eve and he would be drinking cider and singing carols and not have his heart aching and his entire being throbbing. The storm would be over, the hearth roaring, and he would be glad to be here, with the Captain, with Calculus, with his friends. To be content with adventures, with travelling the world and fighting criminals. He wanted to be happy, and to never, ever have known that out there, there was a girl, on a train, going to a prison in Berlin, about to die for a crime she never committed.
Why couldn't it have been that way? Why did she have to come?
It was unfair of him to think it, but it was unfair of him to make him chose whether or not she would die for what she'd done. Why did she do it? he thought, desperately. His fingers brushed the lid of the bottle of whisky. Why didn't she let Serge kill Hazar? Why did she make me have to choose to kill her?
He didn't want to. He didn't want to. But now she was going to die, and it was going to be all his fault, she was going to die—
Rage and pain rushed through him, like jagged saws running down his body, and almost screaming, he raised the bottle by its neck, lifted it above his head and flung it forward with all of his might. Before it had even touched the wall opposite, he was on the ground, curling into a ball, sobbing wretchedly.
"No," he choked, his entire body shaking. "I can't do it… I can't do it…"
/
The bedroom door opened, and Serge stepped inside.
Odette was standing there. There was only a heartbeat of hesitation, and then she fell into his arms.
"Shh," he said, quietly hushing her, stroking her hair. "It's okay. Shh."
"They're going to kill us," she sobbed.
"I know… I know…" Reaching towards her face, he wiped away a tear with his thumb, cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. "It's going to be okay."
Forcing back her tears, she closed her eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. "We'll go away from here, Serge," she said, quietly. "We'll escape. We'll find a way. We'll find somewhere… somewhere where people won't… won't hurt us…"
"Odette, no, you… " He also closed his eyes, resting his chin on her shoulder, holding her shoulders in his hands. "Please, don't."
"Serge … Serge, we can't die. We just… you just… just found…" Her lips started to tremble, and she put her head against his chest, holding his as tightly as she could. "There has to be a way. There has to… there has to."
"I should've… we should have done it so differently." He shook his head. "Every moment I saw your face, all I wanted to do was rip off my stupid beard and run to you. But I didn't. And I should've. Vogel didn't matter, Odette, I just should have…"
"We still can," she protested weakly, but she knew it was pointless, and tears began trickling from beneath her closed lashes even as she said it. "We still can."
"They can't take you away," he said, almost fiercely. "I won't let them."
"It should have been so different." She opened her eyes again, and for a moment, her desperation turned into a look of brief anger, flashing in her brown eyes. "You said that we would spend our lives together. You promised."
"Odette." He reached out, trying to pull her closer, but she resisted. "Odette, please."
"The rest of our lives. You promised…"
"And we will. We will!" His fingers were shaking reached up, taking her hand and pressing it against her lips. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to fight the tears, but they came anyway. "Whatever we have left," he said, the calmness in his voice barely masking the trembling behind it. "Whatever… whatever we have left. Okay? Odette? W—whatever we have left."
"We don't have anything. We're out of time, we have nothing. Serge, I don't want you to leave again." Her breath caught in her throat, and all anger and desperation were flooded away in a new wave of sobs. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't go."
"I won't. I promise you. I promise you, Odette." He reached forward, gripping her arm with a kind of desperate urgency that showed in his eyes. "I promise. I'm not leaving you again."
"Serge, I'm scared."
"Don't be." His arms went around her waist, holding her closer. "I'm not going to leave."
Her face was pressed against his shirt, and voice was muffled. "I would die if you left again."
"For fear of that, I still will stay with thee," he said softly. "And never from this palace of dim night depart again."
A timid smile crept to her lips. "Romeo and Juliet," she choked. "That was our first play."
There was a long, tangible silence.
"Serge… you…"
He swallowed hard, reaching forward and taking her hand. "Odette."
/
Tintin rested his back against the wall, his tear-streaked face upturned, his knees curled up into his chest.
It wasn't fair, he thought. It just wasn't fair.
/
"Here will I remain. Here will I set up my everlasting rest, and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh."
She held him close, feeling his heart beating against her chest. A trembling smile rose to her face.
/
Tintin stood, pacing back and forth over the room.
He couldn't let her die.
He couldn't. It wasn't right.
/
"Eyes, look your last; arms, take your last embrace."
There was only a moment of hesitation before she slipped it around her neck.
/
Tintin opened the bedroom door. He paused for a moment, and then began walking down the hallway, towards the direction of Odette's room. But he stopped himself.
Not yet, he told himself.
/
Odette whispered, "Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark…" But she couldn't continue.
His hand reached out and found hers. "I'm not going to leave you, I swear. No matter what."
"No matter what," she repeated softly. She was still crying, but she found she wasn't scared. Her heart beat softly, calmly. There was nothing to be afraid of, she realised. For the first time in a year, she was safe.
He whispered, "Until the end of our lives."
"The very end," she choked. Her eyes were glistening with tears, and she didn't try to hold them back. "I love you, Serge. I love you."
"I love you."
They stood there for a long moment, an eternity, holding each other's gazes, clutching each other's hands as hard as they could. And then Odette nodded. They took a deep breath, and kicked out the chair out from underneath them.
/
Time passed by, slow and steady, like the beat of a heart. Tintin stood at his bedroom door, staring at the wall opposite.
He didn't know what he was going to do, or say, but he knew he couldn't take it any longer. He had to see them.
His fingers paused over the knob to Odette's bedroom door. It was silent inside. He could be trespassing.
Just go in.
The door creaked loudly as it swung slowly open. He walked into the room, treading the carpeting quietly, each step slow and hesitant.
When he saw her, his heart died.
In the centre of the room. There they were. Slowly drifting. Back and forth. Side to side.
"No," he whispered. He could feel his voice shaking with just the one word. "No."
Her face stared vacantly past Tintin, her wide open eyes looking at something that he couldn't see. Beneath her and Serge was a chair, kicked over. Around her neck was a rope.
Tintin's knees buckled.
He staggered forward, his heartbeat loud and heavy, and grasped for her limp hand, trying to feel for a pulse. There was none. He knew there wouldn't be. When he pressed her hand to his lips, he could feel that it was already cold.
His chest heaving, Tintin dragged the chair into an upright position and stood on it, taking out his pocketknife and sawing through the rope. He kept one arm tight around her, and when the rope broke, she was still in his arms as he descended the stool and gently eased her to the ground.
Tintin held her. He held her in his arms and rocked her back and forth.
"Silent night…" He began shakily, his voice tight and shaking. "Holy night. All is calm, all is bright."
Her empty brown eyes gazed up, past him, past the ceiling.
"Round yon virgin," he choked, "mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly…" But Tintin's breath caught in his throat, and his voice was becoming so strangled with tears that he could barely continue.
He couldn't force the words out, and without meaning to, he choked, "No, God, please, no. No." Resting his forehead against the side of her face, he doubled over, his body racked in sobbing so hard he was clutching his stomach in pain, barely able to get the sounds out. "No… not her, please… no… Odette..."
There was no use.
She was gone.