Terror Makes You Act

As each shift was twelve hours long, today Arthur had left at seven after clocking in seven am. The night shift was also twelve hours long, with brief overlaps required to relieve the daytime staff or their night-shift colleagues respectively. As neither Arthur nor Annette had any patients who required any extra medical needs or lifting, one usually arrived at just before seven am to leave twelve hours later and the other would arrive at ten am, then they'd switch the next day. This way, all of the four patients between them would be helped in or out of bed by at least one of them.

Although the system worked well, especially for patients like Mr Picot who were losing their memory, it also meant that Francis was either constantly settled into bed or woken up by one of the two most irritable members of staff. He was happily delighted, then, when he was gifted with the presence of Amélie knocking and sticking her head thorough the door instead.

'My dear, you don't know how glad I am to see you.'

She gave him a bright smile and moved fully into the room. 'I'm happy to see you too, have you had a nice evening?'

'I have indeed.' He smiled at her from his spot on the chair. 'Though, if you don't mind me asking, where is Annette?'

'Oh, it's no trouble. She's got other residents to see to as Jacques's taken the evening off sick.'

'Another member sick?'

She hmm'd sadly. 'Yes, there's something going around.'

'Well, you make sure you look after yourself; they're keeping you busy, no? I've hardly seen you all day.'

She nodded and bent to collect his nightclothes from the drawer. 'I think Julia's trying to get me properly acquainted with everyone in the building to see who I could offer the most help to. It's been very interested talking to everyone.'

She was very slim and just below average height, so Francis doubted she'd be able to help over half of the population in this building, especially those who required lifting. 'I might be lucky dear; I could be blessed with you instead of stuffy old Arthur.'

She laughed politely and gently assisted him up from the chair and into bed before helping him change into his nightclothes.

When he was comfortably settled down, she straightened up and nervously tugged her short brown hair. 'Arthur isn't… I mean he's not… cruel to you, is he? Anything you say won't go further than here, of course, unless you want it to.'

'What? Oh no no, my darling, no; we're just joking! Has Julia said something?'

She shook her head but looked relieved. 'No, I was just wondering after hearing how he speaks to you. He's so nice with everyone else and I was just worried that… maybe…well…'

Francis took her hand and gave her a wink. 'Do you really think I'd let an Englishman continue to be within shooting range of me if he were truly bothering me?'

She laughed genuinely this time and gave his hand a friendly stroke. 'I don't doubt it, Francis.

After asking if he needed anything else, Amélie fetched him his nightly pills and a glass of water before bidding him goodnight, dimming the lights and shutting the door.

Francis had a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, once he cracked open an eye warily, offered no changes in the matter of his case and Francis was content to forget that anything had ever happened to it at all. It was obviously mere paranoia; maybe he or someone else had moved the case ages ago and he had only just noticed it then. Or, maybe, the books had fallen off a few days before and he'd again not noticed. Although he had the feeling that both these scenarios were unlikely, it was far more unlikely that anything suspicious was going on and he was happy to pass the whole thing off as 'one of those things'.

He was unhappily extracted from his bed by Annette and was then seated next to old Mr Picot during breakfast, where he pretended to be surprised by the same story that he told Francis at least once a day. After his boring morning, of which neither Amélie nor any other young, fun carer was free to entertain him, Francis desperately needed a nap to fly him to the afternoon and relieve him from the hourly growing tedium.

He managed to doze in an armchair by the fancy bay windows before waking in time to catch a news bulletin about some recent storms which had caused extensive flash flooding in South East England and were leaving a death toll in their wake. Vaguely, he wondered where Arthur was from originally and if he had any family in the affected area.

As depressing news stories weren't Francis' ideal form of entertainment, he tried to pass time playing chess with another resident but, after being unable to decide whether his competitor was taking time between moves to concentrate and plan or to simply remind himself of how to play, Francis gave up. He managed to last until about five in the evening before the utter frustration at being unable to occupy himself with something burst, causing him to fidget with an agitation he knew wouldn't pass. So, when no one was watching, he escaped the home and the depressive mentions of death and degeneration to womble down to his favourite bench, the furthest yet safest distance for him from the home, with a sketch book to enjoy the sunshine.

He hadn't tried to draw in a while; recently his hands had begun to lose the perfect control his mind knew they were once capable of and this had saddened and frustrated him too much to attempt anything in a long while. Today, though, had tempted him to try.

It was nice and warm outside but it was also beautiful. The sun was low and fat with the encroaching evening and painted the grassy field and trees in warm, yellow tones. It was one of Francis' favourite times of day of paint or draw- the tones were deeper and the felt air heavy with the day. Early morning had been the other, when everything was fresh and sharp and the light was clear.

The home may be many things, but its surroundings truly were stunning and it felt nice just to sit and be alone for a while. He could be any age here- at any point in time. Francis was just a man on a bench, watching the sun sink below the horizon. And that was all.

His peace was broken over an hour later (a new record in terms of his escape attempts) by, of course, Arthur.

Francis heard him before he saw him, as seemed to be his style. 'For fuck's sake Francis, Jean was in charge of the communal room today, you could have at least told him you were leaving in passing; poor bloke looks like he's about to have kittens.' His voice came from his right; accent thick.

Francis didn't look up but continued to shakily attempt to sketch an outline of one of the trees in front of him. It was taking a while. 'My dear one, when art calls, you must answer it.'

'Yes, that's lovely, but you need to come back now and apologise to Jean first, maybe he'll let you back out again.'

'I'm not a caged animal,' Francis spat vehemently all feelings of peace shattered instantly, 'I should not need permission to be let out.'

Arthur didn't reply for so long that Francis looked up to make sure that he was still there. He glanced to where the Arthur voice had come from and had to consciously stop himself from forming an expression of shock. If possible, Arthur looked worse than yesterday; it was obvious that he once again had not slept and his face was so pale and pained looking it was surprising that he wasn't asleep on his feet.

Arthur didn't change his expression. 'It's rude to stare, you know.'

'My God, are you ill?' Francis scooted up the bench with the obvious intention of forcing Arthur to sit down.

Arthur scowled at him but accepted the unspoken offer, sitting heavily and slouching forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. 'No, I'm not. God knows what the rest of them are getting; I just haven't slept at all.'

'Have you not tried sleeping pills?' If Arthur hadn't looked so terrible, Francis probably would have laughed at the similarities of their situations.

Arthur shook his head slowly, hair ruffling in the breeze. 'No, they don't work on me, never have.'

'Well God, I know you don't exactly do much in the way of help around here but you can't be of much use to anyone like this.'

Arthur didn't rise to the insult, merely grunted before answering in a flat tone. 'No, I'm not, but with the number of staff currently off sick there's not enough left to manage everyone safely. I can't afford to take time off if I'm not actually ill. Besides,' Arthur ran a hand down his face, 'I'm only tired; I can still help and I'm not a risk to the vulnerable elderly, such as yourself.'

Francis frowned at him but let him be, turning back to his sketch book and continuing to draw.

They sat for a while in companionable silence, Arthur seemingly having given up the fight to return him after sitting down and not moving. It was swiftly broken, however, as Arthur's phone bleeped a new text message. Retrieving it from his trouser pocket, he read it swiftly as Francis continued to draw and then released a deep sigh through his nose. 'Come on Francis, time to go. Jean is really starting to panic.'

Francis concentrated on shading the trunk of the tree. 'Can't you text him to let him know where I am?'

'I did,' Arthur placed his phone back in his pocket after flying his fingers across the screen, 'but it's going to start getting dark soon and chilly, and I'd rather not drag you back up hill in limited visibility; I don't think your frail old man eyes could take it.'

Being unable to protest, and unwilling to admit that he was becoming slightly cold; Francis slotted his pencil into the ringed binder and shut the book. 'Fine, let's go.'

Arthur stood in an easy movement but, once up, clenched his eyes shut and gripped the back of the bench as he swayed suddenly. Francis, despite himself, found himself horribly concerned. 'Arthur? Are you alright?' He shifted himself along the bench and tried to tug him into sitting again, but Arthur wouldn't budge. 'Please, sit back down.'

Arthur opened his eyes and took a shaky breath before speaking. 'I'm okay; I just stood up too quickly.'

'Nonsense! Arthur, seriously, you need to go home and rest.'

'It's fine, I'll take some of that coffee Jean keeps trying to force on me; wake me up a bit.' Arthur moved in front of him and made to help him stand, but Francis wouldn't cooperate and kept batting his hands away. Frustrated, Arthur stood back and run a hand through his hair exasperatedly. 'Okay, okay, fine. I'll take you back and then I'll ask Jean if he'll let me go, alright?'

If anything, Arthur's quick consent to time off work due to poor health without a fight made Francis worry more and he tried to put as little of his weight on Arthur as possible as he was helped up. As they set off, Arthur kept pace with Francis, but Francis couldn't help but notice that the orderly walked slowly even without Francis pacing them and with a slight stiffness hindering his left leg. Back in the home, Francis made sure to deliver Arthur to Jean himself who promptly, upon seeing him, agreed with Francis that he needed to go home and rest. Francis was then given a firm scolding and a promise that Annette would be made aware of what he'd been up to, something Francis dreaded more than anything.

He wasn't wrong to be afraid. As Arthur had left just after five, Annette was still prowling about and searched for him until he was found. Francis had a sickening suspicion that she must have had something to do with law enforcement in previous years.

She caught him whilst he was rearranging the books that usually sat on his case and strode in without even a hello.

'Mr Bonnefoy, I'm warning you right now that if you walk off again, without telling anyone, your outside privileges will be revoked and if you do ever gain them back again, you will be companied by a member of staff at all times.'

She held up a hand as Francis opened his mouth to interject. 'I don't want to hear it, sir, you have no say in this matter; myself and Mr Kirkland are responsible for your care and it will be our decision and ours alone. Do you understand?'

He clenched his teeth but managed to ground out a 'perfectly' before she nodded haughtily and left him alone to seethe.

He was in a room where the air was cool, overlooking a vast green field. The setting sun carved long, deep shadows through the grass, dark fingers of the night stretching thin across the land and he stood, teetering on tip toes, to peer over the window ledge to see more. The beauty of it made his heart skip.

A hand clasped his shoulder, giving it a tight, friendly squeeze and he dropped back down. The walls in front of him were white and gritty, small stones and careful construction. New.

'You'll grow up nice and strong; I know you'll make me proud.' The hand moved to ruffle his hair and Francis felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin, joy and pride bubbling in his chest to push it wider.

He looked down- to the man's feet, to his own. Sandaled and strong, sandaled and small. Matching, created in likeness. They'd do perfectly for exploring the fields tomorrow.

It was Jean who shook him away the next morning.

'Francis? It's lovely that you're sleeping again, my friend, but I'm afraid it's time to get up now.' He had a pleasant voice usually, but this morning it was grating and made Francis want to burrow into his blankets to get away from it.

He cracked open and eye to see Jean's lanky form and thinning head loom above him.

'There we go.' Jean clapped him on the shoulder and raised him up. Francis liked Jean; he often sat with him and told him dirty jokes and stories or gave Francis more leeway when it came to things to meddling in the kitchen or other forms of rule breaking.

'I'm sorry about feeding you to Annette yesterday,' he continued, a guilty tone lacing his voice, 'but I was really panicking when I couldn't find you and I need you to understand how important it is that you tell someone where you go.'

Francis nodded glumly but gave him a smile. 'I know, I probably deserved it.'

Jean laughed, 'You did, what if something happened to you and no one knew where you were? I'd lose my best partner in crime!'

Francis gave him a grin in return and allowed himself to be helped up and dressed by Jean's rough hands- carer hands.

'Arthur not here?'

Jean shook his head sadly. 'No, he requested some time off saying that he felt worse.' He stopped to shift Francis' arms through his sleeves and pull them into position, 'I knew he looked awful yesterday but we have so many people off and he said he was fine and willing to work. I was so desperate for people but I should have realised that he wasn't up for it.'

Frustratingly, this news made Francis more worried about him. Bastard, causing issues even when he wasn't here.

Jean finished dressing him and accompanied him to the communal area for breakfast. The day, although it had started off with a good morning, didn't stay that way.

During breakfast, Francis happened to glance out of the window in the eating area by chance and could have sworn that he saw someone pass by outside that he didn't know which, considering the location of the home, was concerning. After passing it off as most likely a gardener, Francis wandered back to his room with the aim of retrieving a book to read back in the communal area. Pushing open his door, his eyes were drawn to the window to find that it was slightly open and the shelf of knick-knacks underneath it had been disturbed slightly, things shuffled about.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, bewildered, before cautiously moving forward to have a closer look.

For the life of him, he could have sworn that when he left for breakfast, he'd left the window tightly shut. That's not to say that an orderly hadn't been in after him and had pushed it open again, but that didn't explain the disturbance of his things. The shelf underneath was low and was placed accordingly for a wheelchair user to get to easily. The carers often brushed things by accident when they reached to swing open the window, but it was low enough that they'd never moved or knocked anything too much before. Rooms were polished once a week, but the cleaners only came in a couple of days ago.

Francis stood staring at the shelf and then warily cast his eyes about the room. Nothing else had been touched. Even the case sat, as it had done for a while now, unmoved and innocent looking tucked in its corner. After a further, careful inspection of his room turned up nothing else abnormal, he cautiously sat in his chair to read rather than going back to the main room.

Things felt…strange. Francis couldn't put his finger on what felt strange, exactly, but something didn't feel right. He felt as though he were on the edge of a moment, agitated and fidgety, waiting for something that he knew was bound to happen but not what, or when. But something was happening, he was sure of it. Something was out of place, and someone had intentionally made it so.

Incidents such at this continued for the next two days. Although some staff filtered back in again to replace more that recently become ill, more people continued to take time off work. Whatever it was that was affecting the staff was continuing to do so in earnest, but routines in the home continued to run smoothly.

Francis, meanwhile, was anything but comfortable. Although he hadn't seen anything else apart from the disturbance of this things, he constantly felt watched, or as though there was someone lurking in his peripheral vision. He'd turn his head to find no one but he was filled with the sense that someone had just moved out of sight.

His room felt different. Nothing was out of place at all, but things didn't seem as though they were in the same place either. It felt as though someone had touched something and then put it straight back again, almost exactly as it had been originally but maybe an inch or so out of place.

Berating himself for suddenly becoming so paranoid about nothing, Francis tried his hardest to ignore the feeling and continue as normal but, as the days went by, he found that this grew increasingly more difficult to do.

He dreamt that he was holding a practise sword tight in a fist, hands bunched around the rough-hewn wood. Handmade by clumsy hands.

Father had dressed him in a top that was too long and it hung lower than he could ever remember it being before. There was the smell of blood in the air; sharp and intruding it caught his nose and he connected the smell to the swirling pool of rage and guilt twisting and roaring in his chest.

A child was crying and Francis tried to tell himself that he felt nothing.

On the third day of Arthur's absence, rather than enjoying the benefits of having some pest freer mornings and evenings Francis was feeling so anxious that if anyone were to touch him unawares, he'd probably scream and/or have a heart attack. If the carers noticed this increased strange behaviour they hadn't said anything, but Annette was being oddly calm with him and had even suggested that he take a walk, or sign up for the beach trip that was being held in a few days' time.

Francis calmed himself, as much as possible, by baking. He'd been allowed into the kitchen by Amélie's suggestion to give him something practical to do -supervised only- creating a few tarts in the honour of one of the residents' birthdays.

For a few hours Francis forgot himself entirely. If it weren't for his hands that shook when he tried to do anything too delicate, he wouldn't have noticed his age at all. Emma, the kitchen help, also turned out to be a very cheerful and jokey lady, when not being loomed over by Louisa. She helped him operate the oven and anything else up too high or low.

'These need to go into the oven for how long?' She spoke to him over her shoulder as she placed the little tarts on a tray.

Francis patted some crumbs from his hands before washing them in the sink. 'Just half an hour on a high heat; make sure not to open the door though otherwise the pastry won't come out right.'

Emma raised her eyebrow at him and bent down to put them in. 'I know, Francis.' Straightening up again, she smiled at him. 'Okay, you may as well go back to your room again and rest for a bit; we've got to get ready for lunch but I'll let you know when they're done.'

He conceded and moved into the corridor. The passage to his room was empty and, apart from muffled background chatter behind him and the sound of someone talking in their room, it was beautifully silent. As he approached his room, a small pip of anxiety dropped into his stomach. His door was shut, which was odd as he could have sworn that he'd left it open to help keep it cool as the day warmed.

Francis approached it slowly. 'Don't be so stupid, you senile old fool,' he scolding himself, before grabbing the handle with confidence he didn't really feel. As he gripped it though, as the mechanism caught and clicked, there came a sharp sound from inside the room.

Francis froze, hand stuck and listening.

Silence.

He waited a few moments. This was stupid. He couldn't stand out here all day. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his door, remaining in the corridor just in case there was anyone dangerous inside. The room was empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the light from the window, a cry caught in his throat and died there.

His case, that he'd pushed back and everyday made sure was pushed back, had once again been moved. Further forward this time and pulled horizontally, the top was exposed; his books were strewn across the bed as though they'd been thrown in a hurry and forgotten about. The room was, thankfully, empty, but all Francis could see was his case, which now had deep, violent scratches running through the old leather by the locks. The locks themselves were scratched and the leather impressions were deep and jagged. Although old, the leather was very thick and the locks very strong, so the cuts themselves were testimony to the furious, unrestrained violence someone had inflicted upon the briefcase wielding something very sharp and with a lot of strength.

Francis' mind went blank. Too shocked to feel any fear or panic, he could only stand there in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame and the other hanging uselessly by his side. The window was once again open, curtains fluttering pathetically in the slight breeze. Whoever it was that was doing this, whoever it was going through his things, breaking into his room, and attempting to rip their way into his stupid old case, it wasn't Arthur and Francis was completely and utterly alone.

It had taken a few minutes to move into his room again.

Unable to tear his eyes from the case, every instinct Francis possessed was screaming at him to get out of the room and go to somewhere with people as fast as he possibly could. The thing which frightened him the most at the moment was the violence of it all- those gashes were deep and frenzied and the person must have had such an anger, either for the importance of the contents, or the inability to gain access to whatever was inside.

Checking the entire room first to make sure that he was once again alone, Francis shut the door and window and went to look closer at the case. After his heart had stopped beating so furiously, logic had replaced fear with anger. Who the hell was doing this? What damned right did they have, to damage and attempt to steal from him?

He gripped the arm of his chair and eased himself to the floor in front of the blasted thing. He knees instantly protested but Francis ignored them in favour of pulling the case forward to inspect it.

The cuts, although being deep and caused by someone with a lot of power, had not been enough to penetrate the interior. No cut was straight, each deep gauge had been created through repeated slashes aimed at the same spot. The tough leather had held out, despite its age. Turning to the locks, Francis tried to pry the case open and still found it stuck fast. Locks were just as well made, for there were smaller cuts aimed at the joining where metal met leather that had obviously been made with more care and intention. Maybe with a sawing motion rather than a slashing one had caused these.

The locks themselves were ones fastened shut with a key that Francis had never seen, even though he had thoroughly searched his loft a thousand times after he first found it. It made sense that the person had attempted to break the lock, maybe by picking it first and then cutting them open, but had lost their temper and self-control and had let anger loose in a last-ditch attempt to gain entry.

Francis looked up and scanned the shelf by the window.

Sure enough, there was evidence of a disturbance again. Evidently, someone was climbing in through the window. Creaking himself up, Francis got up and crossed the room before checking inside a ring box and inspecting his watch which both sat atop the shelf. Both still there.

He then walked to his wardrobe to open his drawers where other valuables lay hidden, the same was repeated for the bedside table. All valuables were there.

The wardrobe, however, showed signs of disturbance. Drawers were slightly open and the clothes inside were disorganised and ruffled- obvious signs of someone rifling through them quickly in search of something.

Clearly, someone was searching for the key to the case. This was obviously not a break in- nothing was taken, even things obviously on show, and no other resident had experienced any problems. This was all down to the case, and whatever it was guarding.

Francis gingerly sunk himself into his chair and rested his head in his hands, fingers gripping into his hair. They must have heard him returning and fled. Whoever it was, they probably wouldn't be coming back today. Daytime itself carried a big risk and gave an indication to the would-be thief's desperation; residents could see anyone entering either from outside or from the rooms opposite and staff could easily catch someone being somewhere they shouldn't.

Now that he knew the perpetrator was entering through the window, the other residents could definitely be ruled out. None were fit enough and nor did they have the key to the window. Only the carers and cleaners did, which also ruled out a person from the nearby town and the gardeners. But why would a carer or cleaner take such a big risk by acting during the day and risk being recognised? When would they have the time? Or had they been seen and were convincing a resident or fellow staff member to stay quiet?

The other break-ins to his room -for now, with hard evidence in front of him, Francis knew that's what the other incidents were- had been subtle, leaving behind no suspicious clues to anyone other than sharp eyed Francis. This, however, could not be explained away by logic or blaming it on paranoia. This was real, and this was happening now.

By almost catching them in the act, Francis had started a timer towards a consequence. He had to do something, the options being to continue to ignore it, or tell someone. Whoever did this must know that. If he did nothing, the attacker couldn't run the risk of him exposing the event later; someone would surely ask questions about the case's new appearance. If he told someone, the police may become involved which would lead to increased security around the case- the intruder wouldn't want that.

Either way, Francis was putting himself in very real danger. If this person was willing to overtly attempt to break in during the day, who knew what lengths they would go to next. The increase in ferocity and frequency indicated a time frame of some sort, as well as a personal need to get into the case. They wouldn't risk losing it now.

The time between Francis telling someone, or falling asleep at night. That was his time frame to act; he didn't have any longer. He was sure of it.

Francis let out a noise of frustration and angrily cast his eyes back towards the window again. Everyone in this damn home was suspect, even those in the kitchen; how many people could be working together? The only fucking one who wasn't, wasn't here. Whilst guaranteeing Arthur's innocence, his absence also left Francis vulnerable and alone.

Francis let out a long sigh. This wasn't about paranoid delusions or fears of an old man any more, this was a real threat and Francis knew that he didn't have long left to worry about pride or consequences. He needed to talk to someone who he knew wouldn't turn against him and something strong and unquestionable in his gut told him that that person was Arthur. He needed to call Arthur for advice or for his return and either one he needed today.

'Francis?' Emma stuck her head from around the door. He quickly and discreetly nudged the case with his foot so that the gashes were hidden as he shifted to face her.

'The tarts are okay to come out, I thought I'd let you come and see them…are you okay? You look pale.'

She came forward and rubbed her hands on her apron worriedly.

He tried to smile for her but had a sinking feeling that it turned more into a grimace instead. 'I'm fine, just a bit tired from standing up for so long, that's all.'

She looked doubtful. 'Are you sure? I think I should tell somebody…' She cast her eyes about the dishevelled room in concern.

'No! Please,' he gave a weak laugh, 'they'll just panic and pump me with pills,' he caught her gazing at the books on the bed, 'honestly Emma, my darling, I'm perfectly fine. But I do seem to have made a bit of a mess looking for one of my cookbooks, no? Now!' Francis clapped his hands and motioned for her to come closer, 'you have the opportunity to make a beautiful old man very happy, so would you be a darling and help me up? Not that I don't trust your skills at all, my sweet, but those tarts have a very delicate pastry and I need to check that they're okay.'

Emma rolled her eyes and grinned, but came over anyway. 'You, Mr Bonnefoy, are utterly horrid, you know that, yes?'

She supported him as he stood and a dollop of his old pride around women resurfaced and forced him to try and lean on her as little as possible. 'Yes, yes, I've been made aware. Now, please do me the honours.'

Arm linked in hers, he allowed her to lead him from the room without looking back.

Francis spent the next hour trying to act as though his life weren't careering towards a grisly end whilst also planning a way to contact Arthur. He knew nothing about the man and Francis cursed himself for not probing more when he'd had the chance. Where did he live? Did he live with anyone? Did he drive to work, or walk? Take the bus? So many factors that Francis had no way of knowing and it was infuriating.

Either way, hopefully talking to him would be enough. Francis knew that certain staff details and information were kept somewhere in the staff room (it was more likely stored there than anywhere else) and it was a good place to start. If Francis could get hold of a contact number for Arthur, he could ring him and let him know what was going on. At the very least, Francis would be told he was being an utter fucking idiot and that would make him feel better about the whole thing- venting at Arthur was a good stress reliever and Francis would surely gain some benefit from yelling at him down the phone.

At the most, Arthur might actually be able to do something, or at least know what Francis should do next. Francis would have an outside person know what was going on, should anything happen to him, and this might just be enough to save him.

All Francis had to do was wait for an ideal time to get to the staff room. As implied by the name, it wasn't somewhere residents went and it would most definitely raise questions if he were caught skulking about. He needed to keep an eye out for the perfect moment.

His tarts, of course, were perfect, and he spent a while fussing in the kitchen and eating some with kitchen workers to keep up appearances. Emma kept an eye on him for a while but, seeing no other symptoms she should be worried about, eventually let the matter drop and left him alone.

Eventually, he was shooed out of the kitchen and told to get ready for lunch. The corridor he was ushered to was once more, empty. The residents were congregated in the main room and, from where he stood, to his left he could already see most of them either seated or in the process of being so around the large tables. The carers, being smaller in number than usual, were all out in force to try and get things to run smoothly. Now was as good a time as any.

Ignoring the calls for dinner and the smells from the kitchen, Francis pulled away to the right. Passing his room, his door slightly ajar as he'd left it, he didn't break stride to either check its safety or alert any activity inside to what he was up to. On approaching the T split in the corridor, he turned right again towards the direction of the staff room which lay at the end, tucked out of the way.

The room was what he expected it to be. Staff didn't spend much time in here and it was sparsely decorated like the rest of the home with few personal touches. It was a large open plan room, with a small kitchen area with a fridge, some cupboards and a microwave in one half and some lockers and coat pegs in the other side with some faded, well used blue sofas in the middle of the room turned towards a small TV. There was a whiteboard taking up a large part of one cream wall, with residents' names written in groups of colours down one side and a series of ticks going along the length, probably for different pills or schedules they needed. There was also a cork-board on another wall with a sheet of what seemed to be shift times and some post-it notes to fellow workers.

Francis decided to check the cork-board first. The shift times, although useful as to who was in when, had no mentions of personal staff details. The drawers under the TV were just as helpful, he found a ledger of resident details from the opening of the home until today with their needs, medical history and family contacts but again nothing about the staff who worked for them.

Francis started to become anxious; he was running out of time until someone noticed he wasn't on his way to lunch and would come looking for him. He couldn't really think of an explanation for if he was found leafing through the staffroom either.

He quickly scanned the rest of the living room and the kitchen area and after finding nothing moved to the cloakroom part. He had no intention of going through employee belongings, but even nosing in the area made him feel uncomfortable and his quick search of the walls turned up nothing. Despairingly, he gave one last turn to scan the whole room, hoping that something would turn up, but no luck.

Accepting defeat for now, he turned to leave to leave and let out a cry of surprise as he spotted a notice on the back of the door. Feeling stupid for having not checked earlier, he moved to have a closer look. It was a list of staff names in what appeared to be in order of start of employment, with Amélie at the bottom and Arthur just above her and names right at the top which had been scored through. A series of numbers were beside each name, probably home and mobile numbers and Francis hurried back to the sofa space to grab a pen and piece of note paper.

After quickly scribbling the numbers next to Arthur on a post-it note Francis pocketed the paper, slipped back into the hall and smoothed his face into an innocent looking expression as he walked to lunch.

The actual finding of a phone wasn't going to be a problem. There was one in the main lounge area, and one in the T of every corridor. They were available for residents to use to call relatives or friends and, if questioned, Francis could easily pass off his call as being one to a cousin of his. To his great relief, no one questioned his lateness to lunch and his excuse of being in the bathroom went unused.

After eating, he excused himself as soon as he could without appearing too sneaky and made his way to the phone in the T by the staff room. He dialled what seemed like the home number first, but there was no answer. Hoping that someone would pick up, he dialled the second number.

'Hello?'

It wasn't Arthur. 'Can I help you?'

The voice was speaking in English but had a very strong accent that was different to Arthur's; Francis decided to hope that it was a friend or family member and the number was correct.

'Hello? Can I speak with Arthur please?' Francis spoke in French, knowing nothing else and hoping that if it was someone Arthur knew, they'd realise it was someone from work and would pass the phone along.

'May I ask who's calling?'

To Francis' surprise, the voice answered in French, albeit with what he could now tell was a Scottish lilt. At least this confirmed the number matched Arthur.

'It's someone from his work, is he available?'

'…. I'm afraid he's resting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message with me?'

'No, please,' he could feel the desperation from being so close and yet so far leaking into his voice and he tried to pull it back. 'It's extremely important; I have to talk to him.'

'Look.' The other person now had a firm edge in their voice, 'I'm sorry, but he'll be back soon, you can talk to him then. He's taken sick leave, it ain't fair to call him like this.'

The clock on the wall in front of him read 1:38pm; he didn't have time for this. 'This is an urgent matter, please just pass the phone along so I can have a quick word and then I'll leave him alone.' Even if Arthur refused to come back, at least talking to another person would help him put a perspective on things and how was best to act, he knew it would be utterly stupid to keep this to himself now.

There was talking in the background and a swear, followed by angry mutterings in English before the airway was filled with rustling and a new voice came on the phone.

'Hello? It's Arthur.'

Oh thank God…'Arthur? It's me, Francis.'

'Francis? Why'r-... what's wrong?' He, rightly, sounded bewildered, obviously expecting a co-worker.

'I know I shouldn't be calling you out of the blue but something's happened and I need your advice, right now.'

Arthur sighed heavily down the phone. 'Francis…can't you have waited? I'm sure Annette can help you as well, whatever it is.'

'No, it's not something…' He paused, frustrated at himself for not being able to articulate as quickly as his mind needed him to. Abandoning all efforts to try to appear nonchalant or aloof about the whole thing, Francis decided to just get it all out, 'someone has been breaking into my room for the past week. I never caught them or found any evidence but I knew. Today they tried to break into my briefcase; the locked on in the corner, and I- I have no fucking idea what's going on but I don't safe; this isn't normal. It was vicious and as much as I hate to admit it, you're somewhat trustworthy and I need your advice.'

Francis paused to collect himself but Arthur offered no input, so he continued. 'I'm sure it's someone inside the home. I don't know who, but I know it's not you and I needed to tell someone. I'm thinking of going to Julia-'

'Francis, please get back to your room.'

…What?

'Francis, I need you to listen to me and listen to me carefully. Whatever you do, you are to not let that case out of your sight, do you understand me?'

Whatever sarcastic response of advice he had been expecting had not come; he'd not planned for Arthur to take him seriously from the offset.

'But-?'

'This is more serious than you know and I need you to trust me and for once just do as I ask. Go back to your room right now and stay there, no matter what.' Arthur's voice had risen to cut him off and Francis found himself gripping the phone tight to his ear; heart starting to pound in his chest.

'Arthur-'

'No matter what! Any excuse, any reason, just stay there and look after that case. I don't care how you do it but until I get back there's a damn high chance that something's going to go very bloody wrong.' There were other noises in the background as if Arthur was moving about- footfalls were quick and harsh on a carpeted floor. An exasperated voice called his name but Arthur carried on talking. 'I'm coming back; I'm only in Calais so I should be back by tonight. Shit, I can't believe this!'

Arthur stopped moving, probably realising that Francis hadn't spoken in a while. 'Francis? You still there?'

He swallowed. 'Yes.'

'Do you understand me?'

'Unfortunately, I do.'

'I know this sounds incredibly strange and out of the blue but I need you to trust me. I'll see you soon.'

Arthur clicked off and Francis found himself focusing on a steady dial tone. Breathing deeply, he gently set the phone back in its cradle and glanced towards the door to his room. It was strange, but Francis did trust him; by mirroring his own fears, Arthur had confirmed the theory that this was more than just a petty break-in, this was something serious that, for whatever reason, involved the risk of Francis' life. Something deep down in his gut told him to trust Arthur and, having no other options right now, Francis decided to act on the chance that his gut was right.

There was nothing for it, the case was important and Francis needed to make sure it stayed with him.

Francis informed the nearest carer he could grab that he was going to go and read in his room. Although confident that for at least a time he was safe, Francis still shut and locked the window from the inside and closed his door before settling gingerly in his chair. Before he sat down, he'd moved the case so that it rested between his legs, thus alerting him to any disturbances to it. He planned to sleep quickly; a short nap to give him energy he knew he'd need later if he ended up lying awake at night on guard.

Although weary, he was too aware of himself and the case to drop asleep. He shifted about uncomfortably, neck stiff at being held in one position for too long and the weight of the case on his legs a constant reminder of the situation. Shutting his eyes tight he concentrated on his breathing, steady breaths in and slow, deep ones out again. His lungs felt free and the heaviness of age seemed to have lifted in the moment, caught and snatched by the adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

At some point, he managed to slip away altogether.

He was in a large room which was empty apart from himself and one other person. The dream was darkened, but he knew there to be large, brilliant windows which lined the room and beautiful statues and old damask chairs beside windowsills, with paintings in ornate gilded frames hanging on the walls. It was warm; a musty radiator smell filled the air that made the room cold and reserved in manner. The long, formal room filled with familiar, cosy smells juxtaposed and did nothing to make him feel comfortable or at ease.

He spoke with a tall man with a mop of dark hair; long and lanky he stood opposite Francis speaking and moving with the grace of a politician.

'You can help me then, yes?' the man tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips.

Francis laughed. 'Of course, I can try, but I'm not as close to him as you seem to think I am.'

The man held out a case he'd been carrying. He passed it to Francis and he held its heavy weight carefully.

'You know what this is, don't you?'

Francis shook his head and stroked his hand across the old leather.

'Don't lie!' Francis' eyes snapped up and locked with his companion's. The man now stood tense, eyes cold and stare unwavering. 'Do not, Sir, lie to me.'

'I'm not lying?' Francis sounded confused to his own ears.

Anger, sudden thick, intense anger poured from every part of the other man- his hands clenched and he tightened his jaw, head erect and chin up with cold eyes that were twisted into a scowl of such intense anger than Francis had to stop himself from stepping back. The change was so swift that it threw Francis off his mental track before his mind stuttered further to a stop at a quick flash of metal.

A loud shout, Francis throwing the case away and then a sudden bang followed by a pressure that hit him square in the chest. The ceiling swung back as he fell to the floor, the wooden boards greeting his back and forcing the air from his lungs.

'Mr Bonnefoy!'

Francis woke with a strangled gasp. Annette was shaking his shoulder violently and her face looked uncharacteristically worried. He fought to quickly control his breathing and quell his shaking before she noticed anything.

He left one hand clutching the area above his heart. 'Madame, what on earth do you think you're doing?'

'I came in to check on you, are you alright? Let me read your pulse-'

Francis batted her hand away as she tried to latch onto his wrist. 'I am fine, Annette, I must have fallen asleep reading, did you need to wake me up so violently?'

She drew back with a huff and Francis thanked his stars that she was as easy to rile as Arthur. 'You looked as though you were having a nightmare so I thought it'd be best to wake you, taking into consideration as well that sleeping during the day will do no wonders to your sleep schedule at night. We've just settled it into a nice rhythm again and it wouldn't do to ruin it.'

Francis refrained from mentioning that it was he who was sleeping regularly again, she had done nothing to aid it at all. 'Well thank you, I can't help but be awake now.'

Annette bristled. 'No need to be so short with me Mr Bonnefoy, I'm only doing what's best for you.' She glanced at the watch on her wrist, 'if you can stay awake for just forty-five more minutes, you'll be able to get something for dinner. I trust that you'll be able to do that, of course.'

Francis braced himself. 'I'd prefer to eat in here, if that's okay.'

Annette stared at him with suspicion. 'In here? Are you not feeling well, Mr Bonnefoy?'

Francis shook his head but wasn't given time to answer before Annette spoke up again, monotonous voice dutifully reciting what he already knew. 'Residents all eat together; unless you have good reason to think of yourself as deserving special treatment, I'm afraid you're going to have to come and join the rest.'

Francis quickly pulled up the first excuse he could think of. 'I had a minor… confrontation with Mrs Dubois the other day-'

Annette held up her hand before he could say much more and gave him a disapproving stare. 'You wish to stay in here because you are scared of another resident, is that correct?'

Francis swallowed his pride, Arthur's words ringing in his ears. He shuffled in his chair and tried his hardest not to care about his reputation too much. 'I wouldn't say scared…' he folded his hands together and held his head up straighter, 'more, concerned for her mental well-being, should I eat with her. I cannot guarantee my good behaviour when that detestable woman shovels food into her face like a boar-'

It worked, Annette huffed at him for antagonising fellow residents but let him be for this night and this night only- tomorrow he was to make amends and behave in a manner fit for his age. He shuffled the weight of the case from one leg and back again.

It was 6:30 and Arthur was still not here.

Francis stayed in his room for the rest of the evening, refusing to leave his room or interact with other residents at all.

For the most part, staff gave him odd looks but didn't question him too much. Francis was grateful but also a little concerned. Shouldn't staff be more attentive to residents' regular behaviours? Or were they aware of what happened to his case and had decided not to give themselves away? Francis knew that he was over analysing things but he couldn't help himself, there were too many unknowns for him to feel comfortable about anything.

It was half nine at night and Arthur was still not here.

Annette got him ready for bed. For the most part she didn't speak, handing him his hairbrush so that he could look after his hair in silence. Francis knew she disapproved of its length but that only made him more determined keep it in the style he'd always had. It made him feel as though he were still Francis as, although grey, it was so recognisably him. Regardless of what Arthur had told him, he was well aware that he wasn't going bald, although certain thinning areas were making him worry.

On normal evenings, Francis would do anything he could to get ready quickly and get either Arthur or Annette out of his room so that he could be left alone to either sleep, or read a bit if they were feeling generous, which was rare. Tonight, however, he wanted the company after spending the whole day alone, regardless of what company that happened to be. With Annette there prodding and scolding and fussing it felt like any other evening. Francis could let himself forget, for just one moment, the fear that had been following him about all day.

But, more than that, people meant safety.

He knew that there were other residents were being put to bed and the night shift workers were yet to fully arrive, so the home was still buzzing with activity and noise of people coming and going. Surely not everyone in the home could be involved in whatever it was that was going on and so, for now, Francis was safe. The sooner things went quiet, the sooner Francis would find himself in danger.

After being dressed and taking his nightly medicine, Francis requested to be allowed to read for a bit. Annette huffed from where she was washing her hands in his sink. 'This is because you took that nap earlier and now, you're not tired. I do hope you haven't undone all of the work that we've been doing.'

Francis gave her a thin smile. 'I do hope not.'

Despite being clearly annoyed at him, she did allow him to read until the full night shift had arrived and put him to bed, a notice she said she'd make sure to write on the staff board on her way out. As it was now ten, she was due to leave and bade him farewell before exiting and leaving his door ajar.

Francis lay back against the pillows, book in hand and listened to her footsteps disappearing down the corridor. Sighing, he placed the book on the bedside table and took a sip of water from the glass that was there. There was no point in him trying to read, he couldn't concentrate for long enough.

Laying quietly, left comfortably upright, he listened to the sounds of the home for a while. He could hear cars driving off and the soft rustle of the wind in the trees, as well as the soft footfalls of the night staff and the swift dance of the hall light as they passed along the corridor.

It was quarter to eleven, and Arthur was still not here. From Calais to Aunis, that was at least a seven-hour drive but even if he'd left at two, Arthur should have been here by now. Where was he?

All things considered, at the moment Francis was oddly relaxed, perhaps owing to his accomplishment at watching over the case successfully for the rest of the day. That changed abruptly when Jean stuck his head around the door.

'Francis!' He greeted him cheerily and moved fully into the room. 'Annette has been lamenting that you've ruined all of her hard work, if it's true I'm going to have to congratulate you.'

Francis grinned. 'I may have had a nap earlier, apparently that ruined my sleep.'

Jean laughed softly and rested a hand on his hip. 'Well, the note she left me hinted at a far more diabolical action but you succeeded in annoying her anyway, so hats off to you.'

He leant down to the mechanism by the bed and began to tilt Francis downwards but was stopped by Francis holding onto his arm. 'Could you leave me slightly up? My chest is a bit tight tonight.'

Jean raised an eyebrow but complied, leaving the bed tilted lower than before but high enough so that Francis could stare straight at the window without raising his head.

'Tight as in, "I should be worried" tight, or tight as in, "hey it's one of those things" tight?'

Francis was quick to reassure him. 'Nothing serious, this is just more comfortable for tonight it seems.'

Jean clapped his hands together before rubbing them. 'Okay then, I hope you've enjoyed your late-night entertainment but if I don't ask you go to bed now Annette will hang me out to dry come morning.' With that he grinned and turned off the light before shutting the door as Francis responded with a farewell.

Terror made itself known in his stomach with the click of the door. Francis strained his ear to listen for sounds, everything amplified and exaggerated by his concentration. Jean's footsteps receded, and then there was nothing save for the wind in the trees and the sound of his own rigidly controlled breathing. Even though the danger was still there when left alone with a carer, it grew exuberantly once alone. Now he had nothing to focus on but his own situation and it grew worse the quieter and later the night became.

He managed to stay awake for half an hour just by waiting. Adrenaline pumped by his heart fast throughout his body kept him expecting something to happen at any moment, for a hand to appear on the window, for a footfall to stop outside his door, for the rustle of the bushes outside his window as they were disturbed- anything that signified the start of something.

Slowly and against his will, tiredness began to creep in. His hands relaxed from where they gripped the bars of his bed and his breathing steadied before merging into deep, even breaths. He tried to keep himself awake by remembering the fear he felt earlier and about how important it apparently was that his case remained safe.

Despite his best efforts, he found his eyes growing gradually heavier and the last thing he remembered seeing was the chink in the curtains filtering in a smidgen of moonlight.

It was well past midnight and Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

'I know you're lying! I know that you know what's inside, I saw you! This is a possible threat to our nation; why do you not care? How DARE you lie, and think that you can trick me!'

The man plunged his hand into his pocket and whipped out a gun before Francis even had time to react. He threw away the case, throwing it to safety away from the shot just before a sharp bang filled his ears and his senses overloaded with the pressure and pain that rocketed through his chest, burning into his heart. The ceiling swung as he fell backwards and he fought to keep the air in his lungs as his back cracked against the floor.

His vision went black and he remembered nothing else.

Francis awoke to a crash of glass.

Snapping his eyes open and jerking his head up, he briefly saw a black shape lunge towards him, leather gloves holding a pillow taut between them. It was slammed into his face and his brain registered the lack of air intake before his lungs even had the chance to begin to burn. Terror overloaded his entire system, he kicked and bucked as wildly as he could but a black mist was drifting inwards from the edges of his vision as his hands tried to frantically claw a way to get to fresh air.

Eventually his limbs grew too sluggish and uncooperative and his lungs felt as though they were on fire; he thought of the case and then Francis Bonnefoy thought no more.

AN:

Hello again! Thank you very much for reading, I hope the pace is picking up a bit! Thank you to those who are sticking with me, and welcome to those of you who are new! Please drop me a review just to let me know what you thought in general or if you have any improvements; any critique helps! See you soon!