Killing Eve: Resurrection (12)

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

 

           Yes, I cried. Me. For the first time ever. She held me, and I sobbed like a child. It was as if something fierce and tight-clenched inside me had suddenly been let go. The tears weren't cold on my cheek, as I'd always imagined, they were warm and comforting. Who knew? The relief was indescribable, and for a blissful, agonising minute, I abandoned myself to her. By the time I pulled myself together, of course, it was too late. I'd shown that I could be hurt, and I'd shown it to the one person who could really hurt me.

            'So,' Balice says. 'How did it go?'

            They're in the lodge at the entrance to the Teffont Castle grounds. The security guard is leaning back in a chair opposite a flickering bank of monitors, eating takeaway Thai food from a styrofoam container. Balice is standing with folded arms, her head inclined in polite enquiry.

            Villanelle looks thoughtfully at Balice, and walks towards her until their faces are inches apart. 'You know perfectly well how it went.'

            'Maybe I do. But why's your hair wet? And why can I not smell the patchouli scent the taxpayers of this country so generously gifted you?'

Villanelle frowns, and places her hands on Balice's shoulders. The security guard stares, plastic fork in hand. 'Pretty,' Villanelle murmurs, touching a finger to one of Balice's pearl drop earrings. Then taking each earring between a thumb and forefinger, she begins to pull steadily downwards.

            Balice sighs, and her eyelids flicker, but she makes no move to stop her. The security guard watches, open-mouthed, as blood begins to drip from Balice's ears onto her white broderie anglaise shirt. Finally the lobes tear through, and Villanelle pockets the earrings.

            'Those were fucking expensive,' Balice says, a faint tremor in her voice. 'I'd like them back, please, when you've finished with them.'

            'They're on account. I'll take full payment later.'

            'What's that supposed to mean?'

            'You'll find out. Bitch.'

            'Now then, Miss,' says the guard, finally finding his voice. 'There's no call for that sort of language.'

           I really can't be blamed for the state I'm in. I can feel my fury spreading outwards like a blast wave, and it goes without saying that Balice is thrilled to see it. She's well and truly finessed me, and she can't hide her satisfaction. As we drive to Salisbury, I refuse to speak to her or even look at her. While she's at the hospital getting stitched up, I take a walk in the city. I want to see the famous cathedral spire, but it's a disappointment, much less impressive than, say, the Gazprom Business Centre or the Leningradskaya Hotel. It's after midnight when Balice's ears are finally fixed, and we end up staying in a dismal bed and breakfast. I can't sleep, needless to say, and the nylon sheets don't help. My mind keeps replaying scenes at the farmhouse. There I am, climbing the wisteria like Romeo, ready to woo my girl. There's hairy-ass Niko, looking as if he's seen a ghost. And Eve, gently combing the glass from my hair, her face inches from mine.

            After slipping and sliding between the bedsheets for what seems like hours, I switch on the bedside light, reach for my phone, and take a selfie. My hair is lank, the scar on my lip swollen, my eyes unnaturally bright. I stare at the image for a long time, consumed by the poignancy of my situation. Still not sleepy, I encode a report for the Twelve. I describe Balice, Transept House, Max's fatal accident, the Teffont Castle safe house, and Eve's forced readmission to the MI6 fold. They probably know it all already, but I need to show willing. I must play the long game now. Cooperate with MI6, while doubling for the Twelve. Kill Tiberius. Get my Paris flat and my life back.

Eve's right. Everything should go back to how it was before. So I set about obliterating everything I feel for her, and block-deleting our shared memories. The winter walks in Nizhny Park and the Peterhof Gardens, the ice-floes in the Neva, the frozen winds on the Embankment that blurred our eyes and numbed our cheeks, the smell of wet hair in crowded metro carriages, the pointless arguments, her reddened hands, the greasy washing-up water, the blanket-wrapped evenings spooning meatball soup from mugs and listening to Shostakovich and Glazunov on Symphony FM, the heating pipes that clanked and gasped as I reached for her in the night, the conspiratorial whispering, the shared breath, the chapped lips, the rasp of leg-stubble, the warm skin and cold ears, the smell of her hair, the half-formed words and sighs, the shivering mornings, all of it gone. It's an act of cold-blooded willpower, and afterwards I feel light-headed, as if the air around me has thinned. I will not succumb to self-pity again. I am an instrument of destiny, and I have work to do.

            We're in the Audi, heading back to London. Balice is driving fast, switching lanes with casual recklessness. She keeps darting little sideways looks at me. She can't quite believe that I'm smiling. She still has no idea who she's dealing with.

The story continues…