Killing Eve: Resurrection (23)
The twenty-third instalment of a new Killing Eve story, published exclusively on Substack
Spiralling into cold darkness, held close, tigerishly close, but this is the end, an eternity of water. A point of light, blue-white. Zvezda polyarnaya siyayet, un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique, Peace roses, falling now, falling, words and verses and petals twisting about me, and of course I know this place, this river, this midnight, I've died here before. Mama, ya doma, ya doma...
Sleep now, my Oxanochka. Sleep now.
Dragged back. Dragged like a rat through mud, over cold stones, a fierce pounding at my ribs - please, baby, please, baby, please, Oh God, angel, please - the stones hard beneath me now, water running from my ears and peace just an ebbing memory, tout chargé d'adieux - please, baby, please - and finally my guts heaving and the river rushing out, the Kama, the Yenisay, the Thames, all of them vomiting from my mouth, all the ghosts of the dead. And as her wet hair drags across my face and her wild eyes stare, I try and explain that everything will be fine, that I understand now, that she is me and I am her, but the tears run and I can't form the words, and I feel myself slipping away again until there are no words, nothing except the soundless collision of deep waters.
I wake once, open-eyed, to a siren, the sound swinging and swaying above me, a siren song, she is me and I am her, clusters of lights, warm water running from my nose...
Villanelle's eyes open. It's not long after dawn, judging from the grey light beyond the blinds. The room is colourless. Her face feels tight and her eyes gluey. Her left temple is pulsing ferociously. She inclines her head an inch to investigate the source of a low, steady snoring, and when she stops dead, mewing with pain, the blanket-wrapped figure beside her sits up and half-turns. Eve's face is streaked with dried mud and her hair is matted and caked. She's wearing some sort of hospital gown. She reaches out, and very gently touches Villanelle's cheek. 'Oxana,' she whispers.
Villanelle frowns, her gaze unfocused. 'Where am I,' she murmurs, barely audibly. 'My head. I can't-'
'London. In a... like a hospital.'
'But we have to go to the bridge.'
'You went to the bridge. You were shot, my angel.'
'Was... my mother there?'
'Did you see her?'
'Yes.'
Eve strokes her face. 'I'm here now. Go back to sleep.'
When Villanelle reawakens, the room is flooded with light. Pillows have been banked around her head to keep it upright, and the same vicious pulse beats in her left temple. As she watches, two silhouettes by the window resolve into the standing figures of Eve and Johnny. Eve is clean and neat now. She’s wearing a striped blue and white T-shirt, and her damp hair is combed back from her face. Johnny, who's wearing a bone-coloured linen suit, is explaining something to her, speaking very quietly and underlining his points with chopping hand gestures.
Villanelle has the curious impression of of her thoughts reordering themselves, like a series of drawers sliding quietly into place. There's a sense too, of something fleeting and evanescent, infinitely tender, just beyond her reach. She closes her eyes but it's gone; all that remains is the memory of a memory, and soon that's gone, too. She watches the others for a while, not caring that she can't hear what they're saying, marvelling at how beautiful Eve looks. She's always looked like that, but...
Villanelle's eyes slide to right and left. At the very edge of her vision is a nightstand bearing a vase of roses. She turns her head a fraction to see them better, and this sets off an excruciating throb in her left temple. She tries to pull her arm from beneath the covers - if there's a wound, she wants to touch it - and there's a deep, stabbing pain in her side.
Hearing her gasp, Eve glances at Johnny, then carefully seats herself on the side of the bed. 'Don't move,' she says to Villanelle. She reaches to the nightstand, finds a blister pack of pills, and pops a couple out. 'Open.'
Villanelle obeys. Eve holds a glass of water to her mouth, and Villanelle gulps the pills down. 'What happened? How are you-?'
'You were shot. I told you.'
Villanelle frowns. 'I don't remember. Who shot me?'
'Probably an 'E' Squadron sniper.'
Villanelle looks at her blankly.
'The SAS. Acting on the orders of Balice. Don't tell me you can't remember who she is.'
Glancing at Eve, Johnny slips noiselessly from the room.
'Balice, yes. She likes Peace roses.'
Eve looks at her closely. 'I'm sure she does.'
'Is there a mirror somewhere?'
'You want to see the damage?' Eve pulls a phone from her pocket, taps the screen, and holds it out to her.
Villanelle stares. The left side of her head has been shaved, exposing a raw, blood-encrusted furrow torn across her cheekbone. Jagged surgical stitches track the wound like barbed wire. The top of her ear has been shot off, leaving a congealed black mess. Her left eye is bloodshot and the surrounding area a blotchy purple. 'Oh my God,' she whispers.
'I know. And that's not counting the two broken ribs I gave you when I was trying to resuscitate you. But you're alive.'
'I guess I am.' Her tongue touches her lip, and her eyelids flutter.
I remember waiting in the car, with that vile Myrtha woman, but beyond that, nothing. According to Eve, the four of us were about to meet in the middle of the bridge, but something in Balice's manner, some kind of reckless excitement, made her suspicious. So when Balice stopped dead for no reason, Eve started to run towards me - complete instinct, no time to think - and at that exact moment I was clipped by a bullet. She caught me as I went down, dragged me over the parapet, and hung on tight as we crashed into the river. Very cold, pitch dark, no way of knowing up or down, me a dead weight in her arms, drowning... Luckily for us, the tide was going out, and carried us downstream, away from the shooter, and into the shallower water on the north bank. Eventually we washed up on the shoreline, and she dragged me out onto the mud and the stones. By this time I was gone, not breathing, and she was pumping at my chest, desperately trying to resuscitate me. I was lying there, a corpse, she was exhausted, half-dead herself, but she wouldn't stop. Minutes passed, she was about to collapse, and then suddenly, out it came. All that muddy, ratshit river water. Pint after filthy pint of it. I was retching, vomiting, barely alive, Eve was lying there, too tired to move, and that's how Johnny found us.
'This is where I stop remembering anything,' Eve says. 'I just let him take charge. And then we're in a private ambulance, racing through the city, and the streets are deserted, and we get to this place, and there's this whole team waiting, a surgeon, an operating theatre, nurses, and I'm wondering, who the fuck is this Johnny guy, that he can make all this happen? He even comes up with a complete set of new clothes for me, everything fitting perfectly, at six in the morning, and I'm like, what? And of course there's only one answer, given that it's you that they're saving.'
'You saved me, not the Twelve.'
'You thought you had a deal with Balice. Couldn't you see what kind of person she was? I can't think why you slept with her.'
Villanelle looks away.
'So you actually did.' Eve smiles faintly. 'Well, rather you than me. Personally, I'd rather have sex with a ferret. But fair enough, I guess.'
'I thought you were... lost.'
'I was, for a time. Balice pretty much blackmailed me into going back.'
'To MI6, or to Niko?'
'Both, was the general idea... And don't look at me like that, Oxana. She was holding a treason charge over my head. Potentially a ten-year prison term. I was fucking scared.'
'I get that. Really.'
'And Niko...'
Yes.'
'Niko never took me for granted. He never lied to me.'
'Like I do.'
'Like you do all the time. You can be a real little cunt, Oxana.'
Villanelle stares at the wall.
'So there I am. Rebuilding my life, or trying to. And then you climb through my window in the middle of the night like some kind of warrior princess, and tell me point-blank that I love you - like I fucking need telling - and...'
Villanelle is motionless. She seems to be holding her breath .
Eve closes her eyes for a moment. '...I realise that whether I like it or not, whether you deserve it or not, you are my life.'
Villanelle opens her mouth, but no words come out.
'Angel, are you crying?'
'No.' She sniffs. 'Yes.'
Eve takes a tissue from the nightstand. Blots Villanelle's tears and wipes her nose, then pitches the damp tissue into the bin. 'I've drowned you, I've broken your ribs...'
'Mmm.'
'So we're even, and from now on, partners. That's Johnny's suggestion, anyway. He rates you very highly, although with certain reservations relating to-'
'Please. Don't say it.'
'Relating to the ferret Balice.'
'One word, Eve. Niko.'
'Niko doesn't work for MI6, who - I might remind you - kidnapped me. He didn't try and have you killed.'
'That hairy ass, though.'
'Can we get back to Johnny?'
'Mm.'
'After seeing what happened last night, he thinks I'm pretty capable too. He's recommending that, in future, we work as a team.'
'I'd like that.'
'Truly?'
'Yes. Can you wipe my nose again?'
'Sure. That can be my job from now on.'
'Where is Johnny.'
'Right now? Getting us all breakfast,' Eve says. Kicking off her shoes she climbs onto the bed, fits her body into Villanelle's, presses her face to Villanelle's cheek, and closes her eyes.
'I'm actually starving,' Villanelle says, but there's no answer.
THE END
So grateful to have this perspective of “THE END” instead of the one in the show. Thank you Luke for how healing this series has been ❤️
I was wearing all black, in preparation to be in mourning, but I guess we can all relax now.
Resurrection is dead, long live resurrection!