Killing Eve: Resurrection (18)

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

On the drive to the final destination of the tour, Villanelle sits next to Balice in the back of the minibus sent by the hotel at Cap Ferrat. An uneasy truce is in place, and both are aware that there are logistical and other details to be worked out before the next day's visit to Tiberius's estate.

        'You must admit that was a bit childish, what you did to my phone,' Balice says tentatively, as they wind through Villefranche-sur-Mer.

            'You upset me. You hurt my feelings.'

            'You don't have any feelings.'

            'Fuck you, Balice. What did you think was going to happen when you accidentally-on-purpose showed me that stupid invitation?'

            'I hoped it might encourage you to move on. You could have a very profitable career with us. But that can't happen until there's some space between you and... her.'

            'Ah.'

            'And by the way, you might thank me for that bottle of perfume. It cost me the thick end of three hundred quid.'

            'Balice, if you sleep with an employee and then hit her-'

            'That's not how it was, and you know it.'

            'I don't know it. Neither will your HR people.'

            'You wouldn't.'

            'I might. And I might not.' Villanelle touches her fingertips to her cheek, winces, and side-eyes Balice. 'Have you seen the new Tiffany's tennis bracelets. They're so pretty. I'd really like one.'

            'Are you fucking kidding me?'

            'It would show that you cared for me. Just a little.'

            'I don't care for you. You're a monster. God knows what Polastri ever saw in you.'

            'You want me to tell you?'

            Balice shrugs.

            'I was her monster. I still am.'

            'In your dreams.'

            Villanelle smiles and shakes her head. 'You're out of your depth, Balice. And as for your Photoshopped invitation, the Princess of Wales could have done a more convincing job.'

            'Believe what you want to believe.'

            'Oh, I will, babe. Don't worry.' Villanelle inclines her head towards the car window. A hundred metres below them, a translucent blue-green sea folds onto a pale crescent of beach.

Minutes pass. Balice tentatively lays her hand over Villanelle's. 'This bitching,' she says. 'It doesn't get us anywhere.'

            'I agree.'

            'Good. So tomorrow. Everything's arranged with Sylvie. Are you sure you've got everything you need to do what you have to do.'

            'I'm not taking anything in with me.'

            'Right. I guess that makes things... simpler.'

            'Don't worry about it. Don't even think about it.'

            'That's sweet, but you don't have to shield me'. Balice squeezes Villanelle's hand. 'We're not so very different, you and I.'

            'I wouldn't be too sure about that.'

            'No?'

            'No. I mean, two nights ago you were all over me, but now, when I ask you for the tiniest thing...'

            'What tiniest thing?'

            'The bracelet. It would be such a lovely way for me to remember our time together.'

            'We're back to that, are we?'

            Villanelle shrugs.

            'About that time together.' Balice presses the points of her fingernails against Villanelle's knuckles. 'It would be your word against mine. A senior British civil servant against a diagnosed psychopath. A Russian, at that. Who do you think they'd believe?'

            'They might just wonder what you're doing with a Russian psychopath in the first place, my gazelle.'

            Balice stares out the window. She absently strokes Villanelle's thumb with her own. 'This bracelet...'

            'You don't need to do anything. I've reserved it. There's a Tiffany's concession at the hotel.'

            Balice closes her eyes. 'How much?'

            'Less than eight thousand euros.'

            'How much less?'

            'Four euros ninety-five. It would make me happy, Balice. Surely you want that for me? It's not easy, what I have to do tomorrow.'

            Balice sighs. 'And if I say yes-'

            'Go on.'

            'I want no more fucking attitude, OK? No more acting up. No more being such a greedy, manipulative little cunt.'

            'I'll try.'

            'All right, then. If you promise.'

            'I promise to try, Balice.'

            She slumps in her seat. 'God knows how I'm going to explain this to Accounts. It's exactly the sort of the thing the Parliamentary Oversight committee is trying to crack down on.'

            'They need to get real.'

            'I'm not sure they'd see it that way.'

            'Then you have to explain it to them, babe. If I'm going to make their problems go away, I need nice things.'

            'Again, that's not really their kind of language... Talking of which, are we on babe terms again?'

            'We seem to be.'

            'So tell me one thing. Babe. That renewal of vows invitation.'

            'Ah.'

            'How did you...'

            'Balice, you're a terrible person, but you do understand about clothes.'

            'Um, OK.'

            'My girl doesn't. If it's roughly the right size, and looks like a bargain, she goes for it.'

            Balice nods. 'That doesn't surprise me. She came to us from MI5. No one there has the first idea how to dress.'

            'So I have to watch her. But last winter, during the January sales, I was revising for an exam and she got the bus into Petersburg and came back with this awful sweater. Like, cable-knit, acrylic... I can hardly-'

            'God, babe, I'm so sorry.'

            'So I drag it off her, and a couple of days later give it to this beggar woman on the Nevsky Bridge, and it looks hideous on her too, but whatever. What I don't know is that Eve has taken a photo of herself in it.'

            'Ah.'

            'And she's not the selfie type at all. But she keeps the photo, and every time we argue she sends it to me. Like, our joke. Then you decide to upset me and ask your people to fake up an invitation showing her smooching Niko, but by then I'm guessing the two of them aren't talking any more, let alone smooching, so they pull this image off her phone, get another of him, and Photoshop the two together... '

            'Actually, they asked Eve for a picture and she sent them that one. But otherwise, spot on. My bad, I guess.'

            'I want her back, Balice. She's mine.'

            'The deal stands. You do our guy tomorrow, we guarantee you beaucoup future work. Profitable work.'

            'And you give me Eve.'

            'We'll take you to Eve. That's what we agreed. I can't guarantee that she'll leave with you. I think that's very unlikely, to be honest.'

            'Will you let her if she wants to?'

            'If she's determined to destroy her career, I won't prevent her. Fair enough?'

            'I'll hold you to that.'

            'Hold me any way you want.'

Honestly, dealing with that woman is exhausting. If I straight-up hated her it would be simpler, but I have to admit: there's something about her I respond to. I like raking my claws down her back, and she likes me doing it. But that's as far as it goes. I don't trust her an inch.

            The hotel is heaven. Elegant, restful, and in every sense the perfect setting for me. Everyone's very casual, in the way that only the very rich are casual, and I follow suit. Dusk is falling as I make my way between umbrella pines to a terrace overlooking the sea. I find Johnny Fernandes waiting for me there at a small table. He's wearing a pale linen suit and looks very dapper. A waiter brings us each a Negroni. I like that he just assumes that's what I'd want. We discuss plans for the next day, rather different plans from the ones I've shared with Balice, and I feel, in my heart-blood, the indescribable mix of sensations that preface a kill.

            A warm breeze brings us the scent of the pines. In five minutes the sun will vanish into the sea, but for now, all is golden intensity. 'That's pretty,' Johnny says, and I hold up my wrist so that the diamonds in my bracelet catch fire.

The story continues…