Killing Eve: Resurrection (19)

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

 

           The group arrives at Les Pivoines when the dew is still sparkling in the shadows. An azure sky promises a perfect day. Beyond high ornamental gates, a gravelled path leads between formal gardens to the villa. To the east is the turquoise sweep of the Mediterranean.

            'Are you OK?' Balice asks Villanelle, as a uniformed guard waves them through a side-gate.

            Pushing her straw hat back on her head, Villanelle takes a large bite from an almond croissant. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

            'Just asking. Must you always talk with your mouth full?'

            'I'm hungry.'

            'You're spraying me with crumbs.'

            'Good.'

            'You're not... nervous?'

            'No. As long as everyone plays their part, everything will be fine.'

            'Sylvie knows what to do. My people have passed on your message. But I want her out of there before you... before anything happens. I mean that.'

            'I promise. But please, Balice, play your part and calm down. We're about to spend the morning wandering around one of the most beautiful gardens in France. Breathe. Relax your eyes.'

            'I'm fine,' Balice says. 'Wipe your mouth.'

‘You wipe it.’

           They saunter unhurriedly along an avenue of cypresses towards the villa, a nineteenth century fantasia in icing-sugar pink. 'We should run the logistics,' Villanelle says.

            'Again?'

            Again.'

            'All righty.' Balice glances at her watch. 'Myrtha's due to meet Sylvie at eleven, so they should be here by eleven-thirty. Going on past form, Myrtha will drive into the estate through the gates behind the main house, and park outside a small private entrance in the east wing. This leads directly to Tiberius's spa and massage room. Then she’ll take Sylvie inside.'

            'Who's going to be there?'

            'Just the two of them and Tiberius. According to a former employee, no member of the household staff is allowed anywhere near the spa without Myrtha's express permission.'

            'So does Myrtha stick around?'

            'Sometimes, if the girl seems flighty. She'll reassure her. Be a friendly female face.'

            'Does she join in?'

            'A couple of the girls we've talked to said yes. Most say they were left alone with Tiberius after a short pep-talk. One girl said Myrtha told her that if Tiberius has less than seven orgasms a day-'

            'Fewer.'

            'What?'

            'Fewer than eight orgasms a day.'

            Balice stares balefully at her.

            'Go on,' Villanelle says.

            'Myrtha told the girl that if he doesn't have an orgasm at least every three hours, he could have a stroke.'

            'So this whole underage handjob fiesta is a kind of paramedical service?'

            'If you like.'

            'Nice. Repeat my instructions to Sylvie.'

            'I've passed them on to her. She knows what to do.'

            'Repeat them to me.'

            'What's the point?'

            'The point is that I usually work alone or with someone a lot more experienced than you, and if you fuck up, it's my neck. Now repeat my instructions to Sophie, followed by my instructions to you. I want them word perfect. And don't sulk. It makes you very unfanciable.'

            As Balice ill-temperedly complies, Villanelle inspects the other members of the group. All appear enchanted by their surroundings, and even Lorelei is gazing around her in silent wonder. Villanelle catches Johnny's eye, and he touches the brim of his Panama hat with the ghost of a smile.

            They follow Dan along an avenue of jasmine and honeysuckle to a grassy clearing and a statue of a wild-looking young woman, her hair unbound, running with hounds. 'Diana, goddess of the hunt,' William announces.

            Lorna flinches. 'You're shouting, darling.'

            'What?'

             'Lovely dogs,' Teazel murmurs. 'I do so miss Jenny-Wanda.'

            They proceed through an arcade of honeysuckle, where Villanelle takes Balice's arm, and moments later sits down abruptly on the low wall enclosing a waterlily pond.

            'Are you all right?' Pippa asks.

            Villanelle nods. 'Sorry. Just a bit... dizzy.'

            'I'll get her some water and sit her in the shade,' Balice announces. 'Come on, Goz.'

            They walk slowly away, leave the others admiring the waterlilies, and Balice steers Villanelle to an ironwork seat beneath the spreading branches of an ancient fig tree. They sit in silence for ten minutes, watching the villa's rear entrance. Balice starts to speak, but seeing Villanelle's serene expression, falls silent. Finally the automatic gates open to admit a low, silver sports car. It comes to a quiet halt, and Myrtha and a slight, fair-haired figure step onto the gravelled drive.

            'OK, go back to the others now,' Villanelle says. 'Move.'

            As Balice recrosses the lawn, Villanelle sits stock-still in the shadows, watching as Myrtha leads Sylvie towards the villa and ushers her through a side door. When they're both inside, Villanelle marches across the drive, her straw hat tilted forward so that her face is invisible to the CCTV cameras mounted above the entrance.

            Inside, there's a small, cool hallway. Ahead of her Villanelle can hear the clack of Myrtha's shoes and the squeak of Sylvie's trainers on the stone floor. Following silently behind them, she watches as Myrtha opens a frosted plate-glass door and draws Sylvie after her.

            For two minutes, Villanelle does nothing. Then she moves forward, and opens the glass door an inch. Ambient music is playing. In the centre of the floor is a massage table on which a naked male figure lies face upwards. His loins are draped with a twitching, tented towel. Sylvie, childlike in shorts and a halter-top, is standing beside the table.

            Soundlessly, Villanelle opens the door. She can tell at a glance that the man is Ron Tiberius.

            Sylvie glances at Villanelle without reacting. 'Please shut your eyes, Monsieur,' she says softly.

            'Why's that?'

            'Because I'm shy about undressing. I'm going to put the towel over your face to make sure you don't peep.'

            'Not for too long, I hope.'

            'No Monsieur. Not for too long.' Lifting the towel from his erection she lays it over his face. Then she turns up the volume on the sound system.

            'You like the music?' Tiberius asks. 'It's Buddhist.'

            'Très cool,' Sylvie says, as she and Villanelle change places.

Villanelle watches Sylvie leave the room, then slips the ceramic knife from her belt and punches it, very fast, into Tiberius's upper thigh.

            'Hey, careful,' Tiberius says mildly. He lifts the towel from his eyes, and finds himself face to face with Villanelle. He stares at her in astonishment, his erection collapsing like a shot snake, then sees the blood gushing from his partly severed femoral artery. He tries to get up, but Villanelle's blade is at his throat.

            'Lie still. Listen to the Buddhists.'

            Tiberius's limbs flail in panic. Beating Villanelle's knife hand away with a heavy forearm, he rolls from the massage table and crouches on the floor, his thigh pumping blood and his mouth working furiously.

            'I know. Women!' Villanelle takes the towel, wipes the ceramic blade, and returns it to her belt. 'Nothing but fucking trouble.'

            Tiberius reaches for the massage table and tries to haul himself to his feet, but fails. He eyes Villanelle malevolently. 'Who are you?' he whispers.

            'I'm every girl you've ever abused. Here with the compliments of the British Secret Intelligence Service.'

            'Balice,' he mutters.

            'You know her?'

            'Oh yes.' He subsides into the sticky red-black pool of his blood. 'Oh yes indeed.'  

The story continues…