Do I know you?

CW: Physical violence/abuse, Substance abuse

“I’m sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?” The statuesque figure had emerged out of nowhere. Tall and thin with villainous lips which had been badly overdrawn with a cherry red lipliner: she blocked the view from the coffeeshop I was dwelling in. I had begun to frequent this café last fall. The coffee was terrible and the decor even worse, but I enjoyed watching the ants going about their mediocre lives below the windowsill: it gave me simultaneous and conflicting feelings of power - I can see you but you can’t see me - and insignificance. “Hello? Can I help you with something?”

The woman was immoveably still. I mean, really still. The kind of stillness one notices when watching a video which buffers, and it brings you back into the present moment and out of the film’s trance. I scanned the empty coffee shop (I did say that the coffee was bad) and realised it was deserted. I took my concern or discomfort or combination of the two as my cue to start packing away all my earthly belongings into my brown leather shoulder bag. A handmade gift from my sister Karen. It was big enough to hold my valuables such as my laptop and headphones, but the bag held significant value, too. There were only two of them in existence: Karen’s and my own.

The woman finally broke her silence with a single word. “Snap.” Concern took centre stage as my discomfort forgot its lines. I hadn’t noticed it before, distracted by her piercing grey eyes, but she slammed her matching bag onto the mahogany table as a laugh escaped her red lips. From the zipped compartment inside of the bag, she produced an envelope. “Karen owes me this much”, she spat as she slid it in my direction: her French accent making sense of the black turtleneck and trench coat. Opening the envelope in disbelief, my mouth formed an O-shape, matching the zeros written on an otherwise blank white A4.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Who are you? Why would my sister owe you anything? And tell me why you have her bag!” She had returned to her statuesque state, the buffering video. I was playing a game of twenty questions with myself: the confusion pouring from my mouth like a fountain of lukewarm americano. I grabbed Karen’s bag and emptied the contents onto the table, alarm bells ringing in my ears as her purse, her phone and another envelope fell out of it.

“Open it”, she commanded. Despite my hesitance, I obliged. The contents? Compromising images of a sister that a sibling should never see. I launched the polaroids at her like darts to a board and another laugh came from her mouth. This time she didn’t fight it: so much so that I noticed the cherry coloured stain that was smeared across her snaggle tooth. She must have realised as she immediately picked up the spoon from the saucer and wiped away the lip liner with her leather gloved index finger.

As she placed the silverware back on the tabletop, she finally began to explain what the fuck was going on. “Your sister likes la fête, hein?” My hand formed a fist. “‘Do you remember the summer she moved to Paris? I’m not sure she remembers much as you can probably gather from the photos. Désolée pour ça. To you, she was living her… Comment tu dis… “Best life”?” She spoke under breath, “Je deteste cette putain de phrase.” Before revealing, “But to me, she was one of my best clients. Heroin mostly. Of course, she got hooked on the needle and did not have the money to support her habit.” My first unclenched as my jaw dropped. She continued, “She became such a good client that she ended up with clients of her own, si tu sais qu’est ce que je veux dire”, with a wink.

She continued divulging Karen’s secrets, but I heard nothing. My mental fight or flight had switched down the volume of the room, my sense of vision fixated on her crooked teeth forming words of slander against my sister. Only they weren’t slanderous, were they? She had produced evidence of Karen doing exactly what she was accusing her of, and much worse which she was most likely taking great pleasure describing in great detail right now. “Max, tu m’entends?” Her mention of my name stopped the video buffering. I was back in her trance, but only momentarily.

My French may be rusty but the moment she described my sister as a “pute”, I. Fucking. Lost it. Before I knew what was happening, she was lying dead on the table before me. Her blood, a much deeper red than her liner, cascaded the sides of the wood to bathe the porcelain chips of the coffee cup come murder weapon. My heart raced faster than if my body were hooked to an IV of espresso. My first kill of what would become many in my race to find Karen was a reckless act. But necessary to infiltrate the victim’s telephone and gain invaluable intel on the drug dealer’s Parisian inner circle.

I had no time to dwell on the events which had just transpired. I had a short window of time to take advantage of the empty café. With luck and terrible customer service on my side, the coffee shop had no working CCTV and the barista would not be able to give a decent description of me to the police due to an obvious penchant for smoking joints on their apparently endless smoke break. After throwing all the evidence into mine and Karen’s leather bags, I headed out into the streets where I blended in with the ants below the windowsill, making my way for the nearest subway. As soon as I was back at home, I threw my all black Parisian uniform into an inconspicuous Nike sports bag and booked the next flight to Paris. Next stop: Charles de Gaulle. I’m coming, Karen.