Killing Eve: Resurrection (10)

The tenth instalment of a new Killing Eve story, published exclusively on Substack

 

           It's turning into a beautiful evening. The car windows are down, admitting warm gusts of summer air, and I'm going to see Eve again. I'm wildly, silently overjoyed. I can't wait to see the look in her eyes, to bury my face in her hair, to feel her mouth on mine. I know I'm not perfect. I know I'm not the easiest person to live with. But I'm going to make it up to her. I'm going to be - what is it they say on those dating shows she's so addicted to - the best possible version of myself. I'll make her happy. We'll live in Paris, in my flat. And she'll arrange her makeup jars in our bathroom with perfect symmetry, keeping me safe.

            We're stopping to eat soon, some pub Maria knows (Balice, I should say), and then it's less than an hour to Teffont Castle. We've just passed something called Stonehenge. Some kind of art installation? I don't like to ask.

            I won't lie, it felt good killing Max. He was so annoying. Pretty much telling me out loud that I was a bad dancer, which is true, but honestly, so fucking rude! And him thinking he'd false-flagged me. As if the Twelve would employ someone like that! Obviously he's only got himself to blame for being dead, but it's also MI6's fault for not having better security. They really need to rethink all that. Ultimately, I had no choice about killing him. I'd been manoeuvred into a position where I was forced to assert myself. That said, I'm glad Eve wasn't there to see it. She's very much in two minds about that sort of thing.

'I think we should talk about Ron Tiberius,' Balice says. 'Bottom line, we can get you close to him, but we're leaving the actual, er... operational logistics up to you.'

            'Go on.'

            'At this time of year Tiberius is usually in Europe. Either on his superyacht, El Tiburón, or at Les Pivoines, his villa on the French Riviera. The yacht's problematical, we've got no way of getting you on board and you'd be much too visible anyway, but we've had people making enquiries locally, and the word is that Tiberius is due to stay at the villa with half a dozen guests at the end of next week, and has given orders for the place to be prepared.'

            Villanelle says nothing. Her eyes are half-closed. Her hair flutters about her face. She's trying to forget the taste of the pub food.

           'Now. We haven't come up with a way of getting you inside the villa itself, but we can get you into the grounds. Are you listening?'

            'Mm...'

            'Les Pivoines was built in the early years of the last century and both the villa and the gardens are listed as exceptional by the French Ministry of Culture. Neither is open to the public, but groups are admitted to the gardens by special arrangement, and it just so happens that one such group is visiting Les Pivoines as part of an organised horticultural tour. You and I will be joining this tour, which departs from the Eurostar terminal at St Pancras train station in a week's time.'

            'Both of us?'

            'Yes. There are eight members of the group, mostly couples, plus an expert lecturer and a tour leader. You're Goz Spurrell, as per your passport. Anglo-Polish. You'll stand out less if you're not flying solo, so you and I will be going as companions.'

            'I see.'

            'Two single women who like travel, share a love of gardening, and enjoy their creature comforts. It's all quite upscale. We've got a backstory for you, full supporting docs, wardrobe, all that sort of thing, but to be honest I doubt anyone's going to be asking any tricky questions.'

            'Do you know who the others are?'

            'Yes. They've all been vetted. A mixed bunch, shall we say.'

            'Will I like them?'

            'I've no idea. You'll certainly pretend to.'

            'And you'll be there all the time?'

            'Uh-huh.'

            'Why?'

            'Why not?'

            'Just asking.'

            By the time they arrive at Teffont, the sun has set. Balice drives half a mile beyond the village, then turns into a narrow lane bordered by wheat fields. The lane leads through a coppice of beech trees to a road barrier and a small flint-walled lodge. Balice parks outside, and a uniformed guard walks out to the driver's side window. She shows him a pass, and he peers sharply at Villanelle.

            'Who's this, Ma'am?'

            'Friend of our guest up the road.'

            He nods, his expression neutral, and Villanelle notes the holstered Glock on his belt. 'Shall I ring her?' he asks. 'Say you're coming.'

            'No,' Balice says, and turns to Villanelle. 'I expect you'd like to surprise her?'

            'Yes. Yes I would. How far is the...'

            The guard looks up the lane. 'Couple of minutes, Miss. Straight on, through the trees, you'll see the farmhouse on your left.'

            'I thought there was a castle.'

            'There was, Miss. Four centuries ago.'

            'It was abandoned after the owner was executed for treason,' Balice says. 'It's just a ruin now.'

            Villanelle takes the lane at a fast walk. Night is falling, soft and silent, and the trees are dark against the sky. Beyond them is the dim outline of the castle, or what remains of it. The farmhouse sits on a low ridge. Pale light shines at an upstairs window. As Villanelle watches, a figure in a nightdress, unmistakeably Eve, throws the window open.

            'I'm coming, my love,' Villanelle whispers.

The upstairs light has been switched off now, and the curtains drawn. Villanelle is standing by the front door in the half-dark. She's about to lift the knocker, when she sees an ancient wisteria which has been trained up the side of the building, and a more romantic idea occurs to her. The wisteria is intertwined with a flowering jasmine, whose scent is so dizzying that for a moment Villanelle feels almost drunk. Lifting a foot onto a coiling branch, she pulls herself upright. 'I'm coming,' she whispers again, and begins to climb.

            Crouching precariously alongside the open window, Villanelle parts the curtains with a finger, and peers inside. She can make out a brass bedstead, a shoulder emerging from disordered sheets, dark hair on a pillow. Cautiously she moves sideways, the wisteria limb swaying beneath her, and places both hands on the window-sill. Soundlessly she hauls herself up, crawls over the sill, and slides through the curtains into a velvet-upholstered armchair heaped with clothes. Pressing a T-shirt against her face, she knows instantly that it's Eve's.

            Standing, Villanelle slips off her shoes and begins to undress. Laying her embroidered shirt on the floor, she places her jeans and her underwear on top. Then, silent as a cat, she walks naked to the bed, lifts the trailing corner of a sheet, and slips beneath it. 'Babe,' she whispers, reaching out to the warm body beside her. As her hand finds the curve of a buttock - an unexpectedly hairy and muscular buttock - a door opens on the far side of the room, and Eve, momentarily child-like in her nightdress, stands backlit by electric light. Villanelle stares at her, transfixed. Then, shifting her gaze, finds herself looking into the disbelieving eyes of Niko Polastri.

The story continues…