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Betina walked towards the stairs, started her way up. But even that chink of realization she'd in the end pushed away. Hid behind her love, her absorption with Joel. The day that Alain told her that he was leaving her and wanted a divorce, she would worry about it.

Then with the first newspaper reports, she'd pushed it even stronger away. Young boys? Alain. Ridiculous!

Betina reached the top of the stairs. But now she knew: Alain had done it! He had killed the boy… and now he was sending a hit man to remove the key witnesses. All the past denial came suddenly crashing back in: the trips away, him cringing at her touch…

She shuddered at the thought of the monster she'd lived with for eighteen years — under the same roof with her and Joel! Joel. She'd read the papers. My God, that poor boy had hardly been older than Joel was now.

Her heart pounded as she reached for the bedroom door handle. Her mouth was dry. With a final swallow of resolve, she turned it and opened the door.

It took a second for Duclos to notice her standing there. He was still wondering about the click on the line.

He heard her say: 'It's true, isn't it? All true. You did kill that boy.'

She was ashen faced, and Duclos saw that she was trembling. It had been Betina on the line! She'd overheard his conversation with Brossard.

His mind spun. Judging from her expression, the stock lines of defence and denial that had tripped of his tongue since the first newspaper reports, just wouldn't wash this time. If she'd overheard him with Brossard, she knew. She knew everything.

He looked down at the floor, blinked slowly, in the end said nothing. His panic waned. He owed her no explanation.

'All a lie, wasn't it? The boy, our marriage. All the weekends away, the nights when you shrinked at my touch.' She moved closer, but stopped a metre away. As if bridging that last distance between them would somehow contaminate her. Her voice was raising. 'A pathetic sham, a lie! And I thought at one time that you loved me… if only for those first few years.' She shook her head, her face contorted.

Duclos looked up at her. Pitiable. Clinging to the hope that he might have once loved her. A few measly years among their lifetime together. As if reconciling that might make the rest not so bad. Acceptable. He didn't feel like giving her even that satisfaction. He sneered: 'Of course I never loved you. You just looked good at all the dinner parties and functions. And your ridiculous problem with frigidity from a date rape was ideal — the last thing I wanted was you touching me!'

She moved closer, then. Her eyes darted.

'You're pathetic,' he taunted, and felt the stinging slap strike his face a second later. If he'd said nothing, she'd have probably just stared a second longer, eyes searching for an explanation that wasn't there, then turned away. But perversely a part of him wanted the confrontation, a catharsis for his own anger and frustration. Take it all out on poor, pathetic Betina. She was such an easy target. 'My skin crawled at every single touch through the years. I'd rather have fucked Mitterrand!' But this time he caught her arm in mid-flight, wrenched it hard and levered himself up. He lashed at her face with the back of his free hand.

Betina flew back, crumpled quickly to the floor. She glared back, eyes wild. Raw hatred. A red welt and speck of blood showed high on her left cheekbone.

'What about Joel?' Her voice trembled. 'It took a woman to give you him. Not out buggering young boys!'

'Exactly.' Duclos smiled crookedly. A decade too late she'd finally got the message. 'He was the last thing I wanted!'

The images crashed in on him unwarranted: her scream as the car crashed, Joel in an incubator… The intensity of her stare unnerved him. He looked away.

He felt suddenly claustrophobic, stifled. He had to get away from her, away from her clinging eyes; as if she was searching deep for something that had never been there. Some remnant of fondness for her and Joel so that she didn't have to believe that her whole life had been wasted. Pathetic. He headed for the door.

Some movement behind him, rustling in a drawer. He was in a half daze, hardly paid any attention to it until he heard her calclass="underline" 'Alain!' A harsh, chill whisper that made him turn.

He saw the half open bedside drawer at the same time as the gun: a Beretta.25 automatic they kept in case of burglars. Betina pointed it at him shakily.

Betina's eyes were stinging and bleary as she looked at her husband above the gun. She fought to control her trembling. Her husband? He was a monster! A murderer of young boys. She'd be doing everyone a favour if she pumped him full of bullets. Her finger tensed on the trigger.

Would feel good, so good. Repayment for the years of betrayal of her and Joel. Revenge for the little boy in Taragnon. But she should see him squirm a bit first. 'So do you still claim you don't love me? Or is begging for your life more appropriate? Perhaps they're one and the same.' But instead of moving away, he took a step closer. She shook her head, the trembling biting deeper in her arms. It was all somehow wrong! She'd seen it in the films: this was when they started backing away, holding one hand up and pleading.

Duclos smiled as he stepped closer. Perhaps she would be doing him a favour. The end to all his problems. 'Why don't you. I'm sick of it all. You can face it all then: public humiliation, the police at your door, a trial, a murder conviction hanging over your head! Yes, go on,' he taunted. 'Pull the trigger. You sit in my seat!'

Betina's finger trembled on the trigger. A monster! He deserved to die. But he was smiling, almost as if he welcomed it. And what would happen to Joel while she was in prison?

Duclos saw the hesitation and leapt in, took the last two steps quickly, jolted her gun arm away. The gun flew free, fell a few yards to one side. He cocked back his arm and smashed it hard into her face.

Betina fell back heavily on the floor. Her eyes were startled, a gout of blood spreading from her nose.

Duclos dived on top of her, straddling her thighs. Anger coursed red hot through his veins. She'd pulled a gun. The stupid bitch actually had the guts, the audacity! She was going to kill me! He cocked his arm to punch her again in the face, then decided against it at the last minute — shifted down and hit her in the stomach.

She screamed and groaned. He hit her again, her screams only driving on his frenzy. The long years of pent up anger and frustration washing away as he struck out: for all the times he'd cringed at her touch, for the boring predictability and monotony of her conversation, for the son he'd never wanted… for the little clique of her and Joel excluding him through the years. He hit and hit at her stomach until…

Footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Barely broke through his consciousness, his frenzy. Then it struck him how loud Betina's groans and screams had been. The gendarme. He'd heard the screams and run around to the open back door.

Duclos scanned frantically around. The gun was not far from his fight foot. He kicked it further away, just out of sight under the bed. He straightened up as the gendarme burst into the room.

The gendarme's eyes darted between him and Betina. His hand was poised by his gun holster, but it wasn't drawn.

'She became hysterical,' Duclos spluttered. 'I was trying to calm her. She fell and hit herself badly on the bedside drawer. Give me a hand to lift her up on the bed.'

The gendarme's gun arm relaxed. He came over, half stooped to lift Betina. Betina's eyes were clearing from her daze, settling on the gendarme. She was about to speak.