09hoo

Charlotte “Coco” Brunhild turned to the side, pushing a large, over-sized antique Chanel bag between her legs. She sucked in her stomach, the material of her frayed blue and green woollen overcoat offering a protest. She tutted loudly, the angry click filling the small ancient lift. She did not know why she had suddenly gained four kilos. She dismissed the notion it may have something to do with the late-night pizzas, pitchers of mojitos, or the myriad of chocolate wrappers crumpled in her pockets. No, it was far more likely to be something else - a hormonal imbalance she concluded, was far more probable. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of self-pity before pushing it away as quickly. She had been around long enough to know there was no amount of self-pity which would benefit her or make sense of her crazy life.

The lift lurched, metal straining against ancient stones. A loud, shrill ring informing her the call button had been pressed on another floor. She tutted again, blue eyes flicking around the cramped space. There was barely room for her let alone anyone else, and knowing her luck, the dank-haired greasy, spotty man from the eighth floor would try to squeeze next to her again, spraying her with garlic-infused breath and enveloping her in the stench of slimy armpits snaking out from a hole-ridden vest, an odour she had never before smelled, nor wished to again.

The doors slid open, and she prepared herself, hoping to flash him with a look that said, I’m a cop, so quit messing with me and walk down the stairs. You could do with the exercise after all, greaseball, look. Instead, she was faced with a small, but perfectly formed face. Perhaps one of the most beautiful she had seen. It was delicate and smooth and it could almost be a young woman, with olive skin and the darkest eyes Coco had ever seen. He was, she supposed, a young man barely out of his teens whose eyes, despite their beauty, hid a depth of emotion she could not fathom. He was staring directly at her, but for some reason, it felt as if he was not. The intensity of his gaze seemed to go straight through her. She thought perhaps she recognised him - an occupational hazard in her profession. A quick search through the recesses of her mind could not locate him in her memory banks. Not conclusive, she realised, but she suspected it meant he was not a con. If not, then where did she recognise him from? Not the apartment block, she was sure.

She had only lived in Rue de Penfeld, an old tenement building on the wrong side of Paris, for a month, and had done her very best to keep as far away as possible from the miscreants who shared the air of the building she was now forced to call home. She had realised flashing her police ID to the landlord was going to get her nowhere. He had taken one look at her and she had known exactly what he was thinking - that’s supposed to impress me? If you were anyone special, you wouldn’t be in this shit-hole. Even the cockroaches don’t wanna live here.

There was something about the young man which seemed off. It was not just down to the intensity of his stare. It was almost as if he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Her eyes flicked slyly over him. He was dressed in a blazer, red stripes running around the lapels, and a pair of neatly ironed black trousers. She stole a glance at her own trousers, realising once again she had yet to even bother unpacking an iron, if she even had one to begin with. When she looked up, she caught his eye. He was staring at her in a way she did not understand. It was not combative, rather... rather it was challenging. As if he was asking her a question.

‘Whatcha looking at, dude?’ she asked in as even a tone as she could manage, hoping to convey firmness and confidence.

He turned his head to the side, a pink tongue flicking across his rosebud lips. ‘Was I looking at you?’ he replied.

Coco exhaled. His voice matched his face - soft and angelic. She scratched her head, unsure if he was being sarcastic or flippant. She was used to it with her two oldest children. They wore their sarcasm and contempt for her as a badge of honour. She felt no such malice from her new friend.

‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’ he asked.

Coco’s eyes widened. She had decided long ago, being a flic was hardly something to be proud of, especially with her chequered past, and more so in the neighbourhood she had been forced to call home, once the child support cheques had ground to a halt. She had barely nodded felicitations to anyone for fear of attracting attention.

‘Who said that?’ she snapped back.

‘Your kid,’ he said with a lazy smile, before adding his name, ‘Julien.’

Coco bit her lip, silently cursing her oldest son and his big mouth. Her eyes flicked over young Monsieur-rosebud-lips again and she knew immediately why her of-course-I’m-not-gay-how-dare-you-ask twenty-year-old son had spilled his guts despite Coco’s explicit instructions to all her kids to keep their mouths shut.

‘Well, he’s got a big mouth, that kid of mine,’ she said, turning her head. She stopped. There was something about his demeanour which bothered her, because it had suddenly changed.

His shoulders had hunched forward, and he was rummaging desperately through his pockets. The hairs on the back of Coco’s neck stood on edge and every instinct in her told her something was off, something was very off. Seconds passed before he found what he was looking for, and it took Coco as long to realise what he was now holding in his left hand. It was thin and long, gleaming silver, and she realised it was a blade, most likely a scalpel. Something which could cause serious damage. She pressed her body against the side of the elevator, steadying herself as it rocked. She knew from memory it would be less than ten seconds until it hit the ground floor, and a further ten seconds for the ancient doors to slowly creak open. Twenty seconds. Twenty seconds was not so long in the grand scheme of things, she reasoned. But she was a police officer, and she had seen more times than she cared to recall what could happen to a person in twenty seconds.

She exhaled, trying desperately to remember whatever training course she had been on which might have covered the events which were unfolding in front of her. All she could remember was responding to the instructor’s question. What would you do if an attacker came at you? With the response, I’d knee him in the nuts so hard he’d feel them in the back of his throat. It had gotten her a laugh, and a slap on the ass from the cute Belgian instructor, but little else. Coco contemplated the young rosebud boy and wondered whether he had even grown any yet. She reasoned that if in doubt, do what she did best. Talk.

‘Hey kid,’ she drawled, trying her best to sound nonchalant. ‘Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t. Cos, I’m packing.’

It worked. His eyes widened in confusion. ‘Packing?’

She smiled. He had loosened his grip on the scalpel. If she was swift, she realised she could probably wrestle him for it. The trouble was, Charlotte ‘Coco’ Brunhild had been described as many things, never as swift.

‘If you know I’m a cop, then you have to know I have a gun.’

The youth smiled. ‘And you oughta know we’re in a tiny, rickety elevator. If you shoot me and miss, the chances are the bullet is going to ricochet around so much it’ll make Swiss cheese out of both of us.’ He paused. ‘Is that what you want? You have four kids, don’t you? And their fathers? Two are AWOL and the last one, isn’t he in prison for the next twenty to thirty? I’m sure you don’t want to risk them ending up in a children’s home, do you?’

Coco felt her hackles rising. She balled her fingers into fists because she knew at least she could dislocate the little punk’s jaw if she landed him one. Charlotte Brunhild was many things, but she was a bear when it came to her cubs. No matter how much of an annoyance they were, they were HER annoyance.

He smiled again and lifted the scalpel to his chin, scraping it across the smooth, stubble-free skin. ‘Don’t worry, Captain,’ he said, ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to ask you to do something for me.’

Her eyes widened, pulling her wool coat close to her chest. ‘And what is that, exactly?’

He moved the scalpel to his neck. ‘Find out who made me do this,’ he whispered.

Coco gasped. She was not sure what scenario she imagined, but instinctively she knew what came next would haunt her.

He closed his eyes as he slid the scalpel across his throat, splattering her face with his blood.