III. Curse
On another Sunday afternoon in Paris, still swelteringly hot, the young girl once known as Noir was tapping her fingers against the windowsill with a smile on her face. The cars rushing past and the babble of crowds floated up from the pavement, and it seemed to please her. The tapping grew louder; it might have been in rhythm with the flow of sound from below.
Mirielle looked up from the magazine she was reading.
"You seem restless."
Kirka flicked a stray strand of hair back out of her face.
"Do you want to go somewhere?"
"Maybe."
"Is that a yes, or a no?"
"…Maybe."
"Which one is it, then?"
"Depends."
This was something else that was different, the smallest hint of teasing. It only happened very occasionally, and when it did it was sometimes difficult to tell. This time Kirika's voice was deadpan, so Mirielle gave her a serious response anyway.
"Well, if you do decide to go, I'm not planning on going anywhere so you probably won't need to take a key."
"Okay."
She flicked through a few pages of adverts and sighed. Apart from the one pair of shoes, there wasn't anything that really caught her eye, certainly nothing worth getting up and making the effort to go out in the sun for. There were a few books she had stacked up to read anyway. Classics, that sort of thing. More likely she would crack and end up reading some crappy romance with her feet on the pool table. Really refined, as befitting the Daughter of Corsica. Her lips twisted slightly at the thought.
"I…kind of want some ice-cream."
She looked up again.
"Do you?"
"Mm."
And there was the question that wasn't a question. Mirielle scanned the last page, thinking of her books, of the heat, of what might or might not have been a tease.
"There's a place near the park."
"Okay."
The bin rattled and toppled over as the magazine landed in it.
Kirika looked over her shoulder, and smiled.
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There were too many people, dogs, cars. It seemed to make the air closer, drier. Even the shade was a little too much.
A small drop of ice-cream splattered on the table.
Kirika didn't notice it. She was bent over, propped up by her elbows, demolishing the thing lick by cautious lick. But her eyes weren't on what she was doing.
Mirielle tapped one of her long nails (crimson, why had she chosen crimson, oh really refined, talons) on the plastic surface and looked, for the fifth time, at the man sat on the bench, reading his newspaper in his suit as if he wasn't surrounded by people in shorts and summer dresses.
Had he even turned the page? She looked away. It was one of those things like the stain in her kitchen, paranoia. But the stain might not just be a stain, and the man might not just be a man in his suit reading his newspaper.
His top button was done up.
"There's a man behind you."
Tap, went her nail on the table. Pink, next time. Less flashy (trashy).
"What does he look like?"
Kirika's little pink tongue came out again, scooping up the smallest bit of ice-cream.
"He's wearing a suit."
There are lots of men in suits, Mirielle, some people have regular jobs.
"What else?" She asked, glancing around them.
"He's stood near the bookshop, talking to another man. The other man has a cane."
Her handbag brushed against her hip as she sat up. It was heavy. She wondered if Kirika had her gun.
"An old man?"
"There are people in the way."
Another scoop of ice-cream, a longer one. Her lips were slightly shiny. Mirielle looked away, a little confused with herself.
"The man with a cane's gone."
"What's the first man doing?"
The man on the bench folded up his newspaper, stood, and dropped it at his feet.
"He's coming towards us."
"Finish your ice-cream."
Kirika's eyes met hers, and she took a bite into her cone, and another. Small white teeth.
She could hear the sound of shoes on gravel behind her. The newspaper man slid his hands in his pockets as he walked away, and kept them there.
A shadow fell across them as a tall man walked past.
Kirika slid the last remains of her cone into her mouth, and stood. Mirielle did the same, hand on her bag as she did so. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the newspaper man walk towards the river.
A man with a cane, she thought to herself. Plenty of men with canes.
"Come on."
They walked out into the park. She kicked the newspaper as she walked past.
And froze.
Kirika looked up at her, and then down at the paper and began to reach for it.
Mirielle snatched at the hand that was reaching and walked quickly away, almost dragging the girl behind her. Her eyes darted left and right.
"Fuck." She muttered. The girl gave her a confused look and she realised she'd said it in Corsican.
They left the gates and started across the street. Kirika twisted suddenly, her fingers slipping free of grip, and Mirielle realised she hadn't let go of her hand.
"The man with the cane—"
"Come on."
A trickle of sweat ran down her back. Her cheeks felt hot.
They slipped into an alley and came out quickly into a side street. It was quieter here. A taxi whizzed by. A teenage boy walking past gawked openly at her. She felt a sudden urge to shout at him, anyone. A man in a leather jacket walked round the corner, hands bunched in his baggy jeans. He looked at her, and she bristled without thinking about it.
Then she noticed two things. One, apart from him, they were alone. Second, Kirika had gone very still.
Quick—
She whipped out the gun.
Bang.
--and it clattered out of her hand as she cried out.
Bastard—hit me—quick—pick up the gun—
She heard laughter and saw him aim, but not at her. Kirika stared down the barrel of the gun with the same blank expression she had on her face as always. It was almost a dare. Go on, that look said, shoot me. See how far you get. But don't waste your time trying to make me afraid, because that's just not going to happen.
But beside her, Mirielle found that suddenly, she was honestly, genuinely frightened.
Bang.
The gunfire seemed heinously loud in the small street, but she heard no voices, no screaming of passerbys. The pain seemed to have dulled her senses; she clutched her arm, feeling it quiver wetly under her hand, and tried not to make a sound.
A body lay before her in a puddle of blood, a neat hole in the back of its head.
But she wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the man behind him, the man in the suit, with his top button done, re-holstering his gun.
Kirika's aim shifted to him in an instant.
"You! Mirielle called out. Her voice was a little cracked and she cursed herself.
The man made no reply, already turning away, but looked past them. There was the sound of a car pulling away. She caught a glimpse of it; large, silver, non-descript. A shadow in the back-seat.
They were following us.
"Wait." Called Kirika.
Mirielle turned to see the man's retreating back.
"Hey, you! You're Soldats, aren't you? Hey!"
They started forward, but suddenly the ground shifted under her, and a jolt of pain shot up her arm.
Mirielle swore again, caught the first sound of sirens in the distance, and then swore a little louder.
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In the park, a pleasant breeze had picked up. It blew around the leaves and rubbish, ruffling the pages of an abandoned newspaper next to a bench. No one paid it any mind; in any case, it had the mucky mark of a shoe on it, and someone had scribbled a word across the picture on the back page.
In block capitals, it read: NOIR.
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Author's note:
Hi guys, and thanks for reading With Closed Eyes so far. I hope you're enjoying it. Now, as you may have guessed, this fic is based around the relationship between Mirielle and Kirika, and particularly the odd brand of miscommunication they seem to share. It's also a bit of an experiment for me in a new writing style, I guess.
Obviously reviews = good, but if you feel there's something that needs tuning up or there's direction you think it'd be good to see the story go in a certain direction, do drop us a line. On the other hand, if you just want to tell me I made a stupid typo on line 34 and I need to sort my life out, that would be much appreciated too.
OK, hopefully it won't be too long until the next update. Thanks again for reading.