Killing Eve: Resurrection (14)

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

 

           With perfect timing the rain stops, and the sun slides from behind a cloud. As Villanelle steps outside the orangery, there's a sudden chattering of birds. Carrying furled umbrellas, the group follows Dan up the shining gravel path to the chateau. There's an inscription over the entrance, which Teazel reads aloud. 'Contra vim mortis non crescit salvia in hortis.' She turns questioningly to Dan.

          'No idea, I'm afraid. Anyone know Latin?'

            'It means that nothing growing in the garden can cure death,' Villanelle says.

            'Gosh,' Lorelei prods the wet lawn with her umbrella. 'How frightfully jolly.'

            'My dachshund Jenny-Wanda passed away last month,' Teazel murmurs. 'It was a terrible blow.'

            'You've been so very, very brave,' Ingo says.

            'Good doggies go to heaven,' Teazel says. 'I'm certain of that.'

            'Not dachshunds,' Villanelle murmurs to Balice in Russian. 'Dachshunds go to hell.'

            Balice bites her lip, and can't help sniggering.

            'I'm sorry,' Ingo says coldly. 'What did you say?'

            'I was speaking Polish. I said I think I'm getting my period.'

            Pippa's smile tightens. 'Maybe we should move on?'

Dan takes charge, leading the group through a stand of wet beech trees to a gate in a weathered brick wall. Beyond it is a formal garden overwhelmed by a billowing profusion of roses. Dense clusters of white, peach and pink, heavy with the morning's rain, cascade from arbors and pergolas. Thorny tangles, bowed down with magenta and blood-dark blooms, overspill the long beds.

            'Move, Goz, you're blocking the path,' Balice says, as Villanelle stands with closed eyes, breathing in the moist air.

            'What's your favourite variety of rose?' Dan asks.

            'This one,' Balice says, pointing. 'Peace.'

            'That's not Peace,' Villanelle says. 'That's Juliet Capulet. My favourite.'

             Dan grins. 'Romantic choice.'

            'I'm a romantic person,' Villanelle says.

            'Are you, now?'

            As he walks away, still smiling, Balice regards Villanelle sourly. 'Must you draw attention to yourself the entire time?'

            'At least I do my homework. Peace? Really?'

            'They look very similar.'

            'Superficially. The petal shape is quite different.'

            'You're fucking insufferable, do you know that?'

         After almost an hour in the rose garden, the tour proceeds in the warm sunshine. In her mind, Villanelle divides the group between the keen horticulturalists - Johnny, Teazel, Lorna and Lorelei, who chat knowledgeably of hybrids, cultivars and bare-root shrubs - and the rest, who don't know their Rosa Gallicas from their Souvenirs de Malmaison but seem happy enough to find themselves in such fragrant surroundings. They follow Dan to a waterlily pond, which they cross by means of an ornamental bridge. On the other side is the iris garden, overlooked by a miniature pagoda. As the others walk round, inspecting the plants, Villanelle finds a bench, tilts her face to the sunshine, and closes her eyes.

            Ron Tiberius. How security conscious is he? For all his houses, yachts and high-rolling style, he's playing a very dangerous game. He must be aware that one of his victims will, sooner or later, try and eliminate him. Does he think himself untouchable? Is he that stupid, that arrogant? I've made a good plan, one which plays to his weaknesses, but it worries me that all the arrangements are in Balice's hands. Are she and her people equal to a job like this?

            'Time to go.'

            Villanelle opens her eyes. Balice is standing there.

            'We need to get back to the car park. It's a good half-hour's drive to the hotel.'

            'Mmm. Where are the others?'

            'Lorelei's throwing herself at Adam. Pippa's trying to herd everyone back on the coach.'

            They start walking back. 'I just hope there's a good restaurant at the hotel,' Villanelle says.

            'God, you're unbelievably greedy. Promise me one thing.'

            'What?'

            'No Eve talk tonight.'

            'It really pisses you off, doesn't it?'

            'It's boring.'

            'You're so dishonest. Why can't you just say you're jealous of her?'

            'Because I'm not. Why would I be?'

            'Because you like me.'

            'Fuck off. I don't like you. You're unstable, and untrustworthy and unprofessional and, God... So many things. All of them bad.'

            'Nevertheless.'

            'Nevertheless nothing. I may have flirted with you in St Petersburg, but that was just to get you on board. It was work. The fact is, I find you coarse and unattractive.'

            'You're just cross because I killed... whatever his name was.'

            'Max? No. I've moved on from that. And to be fair, he could be really annoying. But you...'

            'Me?'

            'I'm sorry, I don't even know why we're having this conversation. You do what you do, and we need you for that, so I have to make the best of it. This is not a-'

            'Relationship?'

            'It certainly isn't. We just happen to be working together.'

            'You still like me. It's obvious.'

            'No, you're quite wrong.'

            'Well, I like you, Balice. I mean, not as a person, obviously. But I like things about you.'

            'What?'

            'I like that chain, with all those tiny gold and diamond... whatever they are. It looks nice against your skin, your neck.'

            'You want to stab me too?'

            'Would you like me to?'

            'I'd like to get back to the coach. Pippa will be having kittens.'

            Villanelle looks around her. 'Go ahead. I need to pee. Tell her I'll be back in a minute, I'm going to find a bush.'

            'You've come to the right place.'

            'Just go. Go.'

Two minutes later, her mission accomplished, Villanelle is approaching the car park where the coach is waiting, when she hears a sharp cry. Balice is standing there, her arms waving, and a figure on a moped is speeding down the path at full throttle.

As the figure races towards her Villanelle sees Balice's handbag swinging from the handlebar, and dropping to one knee, shoves her umbrella two-handed at the moped's front wheel. As the machine somersaults into the air, wrenching the mangled umbrella from Villanelle's hands, the driver dives over the handlebar and hits the ground head first.

            Villanelle leaps on the driver's chest and pulls off the helmet. It's a man. Bloodstained teeth, bad shave. His eyes look scornfully at Villanelle.

            'Putain d'erreur,' she whispers. 'Big fucking mistake.'

            'Fuck you, bitch.'

            She draws back a fist, ready to break his nose, and a hand grabs her forearm. It's Johnny Fernandes, and his grip is like iron.

            'Don't.'

            'He stole my friend's handbag.'

            'Even so.'

            'It's Ferragamo.'

            'Walk away, or the police will be involved. We don't want that.'

            Villanelle takes a deep breath, and nods. Johnny releases her arm, and she stands.

            The rider stares at them, then warily gets to his feet, and limps towards the wrecked moped.

            'We?' Villanelle says. 'Who the fuck's we.'

            But Johnny's already marching in his trim, military fashion towards the bus. It's clear that the conversation is over.

The story continues…