I Kill Read Free Page B

heard rumours that they want you to emcee. And then there’s the Film and Television Festival. You’re
going full speed, Jean-Loup. Others like you have had trouble moving up to television. You’ve got looks, and if you play your cards right, I’m afraid you’ll be the cause of a
brutal tug-of-war between TV and radio.’
    ‘I’m afraid,’ said Jean-Loup, standing and looking at his watch, ‘that Laurent is having a tug of war with his liver. We still haven’t talked and we need a schedule
for tonight’s show.’
    ‘Tell that has-been writer-director that he’ll be thrown out in the street, just like you.’
    Jean-Loup headed towards the door. As he was leaving, Bikjalo stopped him. ‘Jean-Loup?’
    He turned. Bikjalo was sitting in his chair, rocking back and forth with the expression of the cat that finally ate the canary. ‘What?’
    ‘Needless to say, if all that TV business works out, I’m your manager . . .’
    Jean-Loup decided that his price would be very high.
    ‘I’ve suffered through a percentage of your cigarette smoke. You’ll have to suffer just as much for a percentage of my money.’
    As he closed the door, Robert Bikjalo was gazing up at the ceiling with a dreamy stare. Jean-Loup knew that the director was already counting the money he had yet to earn.
     
TWO
    Jean-Loup was looking out at the city through the large control-room window, observing the play of lights reflected on the still water of the harbour. High above, cloaked in
darkness, the mast stood on the peak of Mount Agel, visible only by its series of red lights. It was this mast that enabled the radio signal to reach all of Italy.
    ‘Break over,’ came Laurent’s voice over the intercom. ‘Back to work.’
    Without bothering to answer, the deejay moved away from the window and went back to his place. He put on his headphones and sat down at the microphone. In the control room, Laurent flashed an
open hand to show five seconds to the end of the commercial break.
    Laurent played the brief Voices theme that meant the broadcast was starting again. Before the break, the programme had been fairly laid-back, light-hearted even, without the tone of
despair they sometimes had to deal with.
    ‘Back to Jean-Loup Verdier, with Voices from Radio Monte Carlo. We hope nobody needs our help on this lovely May evening – only our music. Oh, I’ve just been told
there’s a phone call.’
    The red light on the wall lit up and Laurent was pointing at him with his right hand to show there was a call waiting. Jean-Loup leaned his elbows on the table and turned to the mike in front of
him.
    ‘Hello?’
    There was some static and then silence. Jean-Loup looked up and raised his eyebrows at Laurent. The director shrugged to show that the problem wasn’t at their end.
    ‘Yes, hello?’
    Finally, an answer came through and was transmitted live on air to every listener. It had a presence in the minds and lives of all who heard it. From that moment on, and for a long time to come,
the darkness would be a little darker.
    ‘Hello, Jean-Loup .’
    There was something unnatural in the sound of the voice. It was muffled and strangely flat, devoid of expression. The words had a muted echo like the sound of a plane taking off far away. Again,
Jean-Loup glanced up questioningly at Laurent, who pointed, drawing circles in the air to mean that the distortion was on the caller’s line.
    ‘Hi. Who is this?’
    There was a moment of hesitation. Then came the muffled answer with its unnatural echo.
    ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m someone and no one.’
    ‘It’s – it’s not a great line. Where are you calling from?’
    Silence. The vapour trail of a plane wafting midair in some unknown place.
    The speaker continued. ‘That doesn’t matter, either. The only thing that counts is that the time has come to speak out, even if afterwards neither of us will be the
same.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘Soon I’ll be a hunted man and you’ll be one of the