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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 11/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2550
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Knight in shining armour.
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU
There was someone following her.
Christine had been aware for the last three streets that there were footsteps behind her, mirroring her own far too closely to simply be another person walking in the same direction. She stopped, paused for a moment and then continued on her way; the steps were still there, in time with hers. When she increased her speed, so did they; taking a sharp right turn into a narrow lane between a tumbledown tavern and an apothecary’s shop just meant that her pursuer had to think quickly, something they evidently did as after a brief few moments when she thought she might have lost them there they were again, still on her tail.
Angry now, she came to a sudden halt in the middle of the pavement and remained there, waiting for her unwanted shadow to make a move. Other people trying to go about their business grumbled and pushed past her, one or two hurling a few choice insults in her direction as she blocked their way, but Christine stubbornly refused to relinquish her position; she folded her arms and counted the seconds as they passed, knowing that eventually the person on her heels would –
“Hello, Christine. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
She sensed rather than saw him appear at her side, and her lips thinned in annoyance as she recognised the voice. “Monsieur Béringer. I have nothing to say to you, so you may as well be on your way.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Christine,” the journalist said, his tone smooth and full of false bonhomie as he tipped his hat with just the slightest amount of deference. “I only want to ask you a few questions. We could do each other a favour: the article I write will be a major step up for me, and it could do wonders for your career.”
“I have no career now that the Opera is closed. And I don’t believe I gave you permission to use my name, Monsieur,” Christine told him sharply. “Please leave me alone before I call a gendarme for assistance; I know you have been following me around.”
“You’ll be lucky to find one in this neighbourhood.” In a flash he was in front of her, blocking her path as she started walking once more. “Just tell me the truth. That’s all I want to know, all that Paris wants to know. That’s all I’m asking: the truth about the Phantom of the Opera.”
“There is no Phantom of the Opera!” she said, and realised that she had repeated Raoul’s words to her, words spoken in the middle of the Il Muto fiasco. How long ago that seemed! Her heart began to beat a fraction faster as Béringer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “There is nothing to tell. Now get out of my way!”
The reporter did not move. “If there is no story, why has the Phantom been the talk of the town for the last few weeks?” he demanded. “Someone must know something, and who better than you, the girl he supposedly abducted?” He cocked his head to one side, regarding her with interest. “What happened, Christine? Don’t you want the truth to be heard? Who are you protecting?”
“No one!” Christine snapped. “Stand aside, Monsieur, this conversation is at an end!” She tried to push past him, but he caught hold of her forearm, fingers digging so hard into the tender flesh there that she almost cried out in pain. “Let me go!”
“Not until you tell me what went on in that theatre! Why did you disappear after such a triumphant performance in Hannibal? You had the world at your feet and yet you ran away. Where did you go? Was it to him?”
“No!” she exclaimed, tears involuntarily springing into her eyes as he twisted her wrist. “I was scared, overwhelmed! I wasn’t ready to have such a role thrust on me!”
“The mousy girl from the back row of the chorus couldn’t handle filling La Carlotta’s shoes, is that it?” Béringer asked. “Is that what happened in the middle of Don Juan Triumphant? You ran again? The gossips are saying that you took a man with you; who was he, Christine? Tell me!”
Christine shook her head, still struggling against his grip. Passersby were hurrying down the street with their gaze averted, keen to ignore the altercation; she tried to make eye contact, to wordlessly beg for help, but no one even glanced in her direction. “Why do you want to know?” she almost screamed in her captor’s face. “What does it matter to you what happened? You weren’t even there!”
“The editors of every newspaper and journal in Paris will pay good money to be the first with the story of the Opera Ghost,” he said, dragging her closer to him so that their faces were almost touching. “Would you remain a penniless hack, living hand to mouth on the few lines they deign to accept from your pen if the opportunity to lay bare the scandal of the century was within your grasp?”
“Are you really so desperate for work that you would treat a woman this way?”
Béringer smiled, and it reminded her of a crocodile she had once seen in the zoo. “I’ll do anything I have to, my sweet, when so much is at stake. Now,” he said, the smile stretching into a leer, “how about a kiss to seal the deal?”
Christine shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt his hot breath on her cheek. Why hadn’t she told Erik about the encounter in the cafe, and the footsteps she heard outside her door at night? He would have dealt with Béringer, warned him off properly; she would never have had to see the repulsive toad again. Now... now she was suffering for her own foolishness. She was the one begging him to trust, and yet she had kept something like this, something so important, from him.
Bracing herself, she made ready to kick out as best she could at Béringer’s most vulnerable area and hoped that if she startled him enough he might let her go. Her wrist was burning in his grasp. Trembling, almost overcome with disgust, she waited for the inevitable contact of his lips upon hers, contact which, miraculously, never came.
Béringer’s grip upon her arm was suddenly no longer there, and her eyes flew open in surprise to see him being held by the throat against the wall of a dim alleyway which separated the Girys’ lodgings from the building next door. Her surprise soon turned to shock when she realised exactly who it was that slammed the journalist against the bricks with a murderous gleam in his eye: Erik had apparently appeared from nowhere to come to her rescue. At first she was elated, but the feeling swiftly evaporated when it became clear what a risk he was running in showing himself in such a manner. The passage was dark and gloomy, but the reporter had still seen him.
“You should be grateful I don’t tear off those lips of yours and feed them to the dogs,” the Phantom was telling Béringer, his tone as smooth and soft as silk and belying the barely controlled fury in his expression. “Who the hell are you?”
“I should be asking you the same question,” Béringer choked out, sneering despite the stranglehold Erik had on his collar. He coughed. “What... what are you: some kind of avenging angel?”
A smile touched the side of Erik’s face not hidden by the mask. “You have no idea how right you are, Monsieur.”
“Oh, really?” The journalist looked his assailant up and down as best he could, squinting in an attempt to make out his features. Erik’s back was to the alley’s entrance, and Christine could only hope that the brilliant light of the setting sun would throw his face into little more than shadow and silhouette. “Then why don’t you show yourself?”
With a growl, Erik all but lifted Béringer off the ground. “Because I choose not to, little man. I suggest you explain your actions towards Mademoiselle Daae before I lose my patience and break your worthless neck.”
“If you do that you’ll find it very hard to obtain any information from me,” Béringer pointed out, his arrogance never deserting him for a second despite the disadvantage at which he found himself.
The Phantom’s misshapen lip curled. “All I have to do is squeeze.”
“All I have to do is yell. Do you really want the law here?”
“I could have your life ended and your body disposed of before anyone even realised you were missing,” Erik said, a deadly edge to his mellifluous voice, his fingers tightening around the reporter’s neck.
“There is a witness, in case you had forgotten.” Béringer raised a hand and pointed over Erik’s shoulder to where Christine stood, watching the tableau with terrified eyes. “Would Mademoiselle Daae like to have the gendarmes set upon her guard dog?”
At the mention of Christine’s name, Erik’s head whipped round, his eyes running over her anxiously. “Are you all right? Has he harmed you?”
“A few bruises, nothing more.” She moved closer, laying a hand on his arm. The muscles there were like coiled steel; she could almost feel the rage coursing through his veins. “Erik, leave him. He’s not worth making a scene over.”
His sharp gaze immediately picked out the red mark across her wrist. “He has hurt you,” he whispered. “He will pay for that.”
“Erik, no - ” Christine began, but he ignored her, turning back to Béringer. The reporter, however, had seen an opportunity in Erik’s momentary distraction and brought up a fist; it was not an easy movement given his current position, but he somehow made it and before Christine could shout a warning a right hook had connected with the unmasked side of the Phantom’s face. It was an awkward punch, but the impact was enough to knock Erik off his feet; cursing, he tumbled to the floor, falling heavily amongst the straw and refuse. She hurried to his side; he was trying to push himself up but his healing shoulder wouldn’t support his weight. A thin trail of blood was running down his chin from where his lip had been split.
“You shouldn’t let your guard down, Monsieur,” said Béringer. His shadow fell across them and Christine looked up to see him trying to smooth his crumpled collar, straightening his tie. He bent down to retrieve his hat, brushing the dirt from it with his sleeve. “It shows everyone where your weakness lies.”
“I could tear you in half, boy,” Erik snarled, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Just go,” Christine told Béringer. “You’ve done quite enough.”
The journalist regarded them for a moment, and then he smiled. She was coming to hate that smile. “All right. But just remember, Christine: I’ll be seeing you again. Au Revoir.” He dropped his now rather battered hat onto his head and, with a contemptuous gesture towards the seething Erik, he turned and sauntered off down the street. The sound of his cheerful whistling carried back towards them as he vanished around the corner.
“Hateful man,” Christine muttered, resisting the overwhelming urge she felt to spit in his wake. Instead she returned her attention to Erik, pulling out her handkerchief. “You’re bleeding,” she said, and gently pressed the wisp of cambric and lace against his lip.
“Who was he?” he asked. She could almost feel the chill in his tone.
“No one.” When he said nothing but continued to watch her steadily she gave in. “A journalist. He accosted me in the cafe a few days ago.”
His hand shot out and caught hold of her wrist; it was the same one Béringer had mistreated and she yelped at his touch. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing!” Christine cried, but he didn’t let go. “Erik, you’re hurting me!”
“Why did you not tell me that one of those loathsome creatures had approached you?” he demanded. “What did he ask you about? What did you say?”
“He wanted to know about you; about the Phantom. Erik, please...” she whimpered, tears welling again. The sight of them was enough to jolt him back to reality and he dropped her arm as though it were suddenly unbearably hot. After a moment he tentatively took her fingers between his, lifting her hand to see the damage, face creased in contrition and concern.
“Oh, Christine,” he breathed, his thumb making unconscious little circles on her palm, “I’m sorry, Erik is so sorry - ”
“It’s all right; a cold compress will help it heal soon enough. I haven’t been given an Indian burn since I was six. I said nothing, Erik; I told him to leave me alone,” Christine said.
“He doesn’t appear to have taken the hint.”
She glanced down the street in the direction Béringer had taken; people had stopped their business and were watching them as they huddled in the alley, talking and pointing. “We should go inside; we’re starting to attract attention.”
Erik startled at her words, and peered over her shoulder. Horror sparked in his eyes and he swore emphatically, tilting his head so that the masked side fell into shadow. “I didn’t realise. They must have seen... must have seen me..!” Hurriedly he scrambled to his feet, taking her by the arm and all but dragging her towards the entrance of the Girys’ building. Madame was waiting for them on the step, huddled in a shawl.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Christine told him. “You came outside in daylight and nothing happened!”
“That damned journalist happened,” he snapped.”No doubt he’ll go home and write an article about the masked freak that attacked him. This is precisely the kind of situation I wished to avoid; I should have stayed underground!”
“Do not be so ridiculous, Erik. In this instance the light was your friend. That alley is dark even at midday; he could not have seen you,” the ballet mistress said. “And had you not been here, who would have come to Christine’s aid?”
Erik looked at Christine, and she gazed back, watching the emotions chase each other across the visible side of his face as he imagined what might have happened had she faced Béringer alone. “Dear God. He might have... you could have been...”
“I’m fine,” she told him, taking his hand and squeezing it reassuringly, “thanks to you.”
It was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking. He stared at her for the longest moment and then turned his gaze to the orange ball of the sun as it started to sink gracefully behind the uneven rooftops, burnishing his mask with its golden light. They all stood there in silence, just watching the sky and the pink tint which gradually crept across its serene pale blue, until Madame Giry extended an arm, ushering them inside.
“Come along,” she said, as though she were shepherding a pair of children in for their supper, “I think we’ve all had quite enough excitement for one evening.”
Glancing at her bruised wrist and Erik’s rapidly swelling lip, Christine couldn’t help but agree.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2550
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Knight in shining armour.
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU
There was someone following her.
Christine had been aware for the last three streets that there were footsteps behind her, mirroring her own far too closely to simply be another person walking in the same direction. She stopped, paused for a moment and then continued on her way; the steps were still there, in time with hers. When she increased her speed, so did they; taking a sharp right turn into a narrow lane between a tumbledown tavern and an apothecary’s shop just meant that her pursuer had to think quickly, something they evidently did as after a brief few moments when she thought she might have lost them there they were again, still on her tail.
Angry now, she came to a sudden halt in the middle of the pavement and remained there, waiting for her unwanted shadow to make a move. Other people trying to go about their business grumbled and pushed past her, one or two hurling a few choice insults in her direction as she blocked their way, but Christine stubbornly refused to relinquish her position; she folded her arms and counted the seconds as they passed, knowing that eventually the person on her heels would –
“Hello, Christine. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
She sensed rather than saw him appear at her side, and her lips thinned in annoyance as she recognised the voice. “Monsieur Béringer. I have nothing to say to you, so you may as well be on your way.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Christine,” the journalist said, his tone smooth and full of false bonhomie as he tipped his hat with just the slightest amount of deference. “I only want to ask you a few questions. We could do each other a favour: the article I write will be a major step up for me, and it could do wonders for your career.”
“I have no career now that the Opera is closed. And I don’t believe I gave you permission to use my name, Monsieur,” Christine told him sharply. “Please leave me alone before I call a gendarme for assistance; I know you have been following me around.”
“You’ll be lucky to find one in this neighbourhood.” In a flash he was in front of her, blocking her path as she started walking once more. “Just tell me the truth. That’s all I want to know, all that Paris wants to know. That’s all I’m asking: the truth about the Phantom of the Opera.”
“There is no Phantom of the Opera!” she said, and realised that she had repeated Raoul’s words to her, words spoken in the middle of the Il Muto fiasco. How long ago that seemed! Her heart began to beat a fraction faster as Béringer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “There is nothing to tell. Now get out of my way!”
The reporter did not move. “If there is no story, why has the Phantom been the talk of the town for the last few weeks?” he demanded. “Someone must know something, and who better than you, the girl he supposedly abducted?” He cocked his head to one side, regarding her with interest. “What happened, Christine? Don’t you want the truth to be heard? Who are you protecting?”
“No one!” Christine snapped. “Stand aside, Monsieur, this conversation is at an end!” She tried to push past him, but he caught hold of her forearm, fingers digging so hard into the tender flesh there that she almost cried out in pain. “Let me go!”
“Not until you tell me what went on in that theatre! Why did you disappear after such a triumphant performance in Hannibal? You had the world at your feet and yet you ran away. Where did you go? Was it to him?”
“No!” she exclaimed, tears involuntarily springing into her eyes as he twisted her wrist. “I was scared, overwhelmed! I wasn’t ready to have such a role thrust on me!”
“The mousy girl from the back row of the chorus couldn’t handle filling La Carlotta’s shoes, is that it?” Béringer asked. “Is that what happened in the middle of Don Juan Triumphant? You ran again? The gossips are saying that you took a man with you; who was he, Christine? Tell me!”
Christine shook her head, still struggling against his grip. Passersby were hurrying down the street with their gaze averted, keen to ignore the altercation; she tried to make eye contact, to wordlessly beg for help, but no one even glanced in her direction. “Why do you want to know?” she almost screamed in her captor’s face. “What does it matter to you what happened? You weren’t even there!”
“The editors of every newspaper and journal in Paris will pay good money to be the first with the story of the Opera Ghost,” he said, dragging her closer to him so that their faces were almost touching. “Would you remain a penniless hack, living hand to mouth on the few lines they deign to accept from your pen if the opportunity to lay bare the scandal of the century was within your grasp?”
“Are you really so desperate for work that you would treat a woman this way?”
Béringer smiled, and it reminded her of a crocodile she had once seen in the zoo. “I’ll do anything I have to, my sweet, when so much is at stake. Now,” he said, the smile stretching into a leer, “how about a kiss to seal the deal?”
Christine shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt his hot breath on her cheek. Why hadn’t she told Erik about the encounter in the cafe, and the footsteps she heard outside her door at night? He would have dealt with Béringer, warned him off properly; she would never have had to see the repulsive toad again. Now... now she was suffering for her own foolishness. She was the one begging him to trust, and yet she had kept something like this, something so important, from him.
Bracing herself, she made ready to kick out as best she could at Béringer’s most vulnerable area and hoped that if she startled him enough he might let her go. Her wrist was burning in his grasp. Trembling, almost overcome with disgust, she waited for the inevitable contact of his lips upon hers, contact which, miraculously, never came.
Béringer’s grip upon her arm was suddenly no longer there, and her eyes flew open in surprise to see him being held by the throat against the wall of a dim alleyway which separated the Girys’ lodgings from the building next door. Her surprise soon turned to shock when she realised exactly who it was that slammed the journalist against the bricks with a murderous gleam in his eye: Erik had apparently appeared from nowhere to come to her rescue. At first she was elated, but the feeling swiftly evaporated when it became clear what a risk he was running in showing himself in such a manner. The passage was dark and gloomy, but the reporter had still seen him.
“You should be grateful I don’t tear off those lips of yours and feed them to the dogs,” the Phantom was telling Béringer, his tone as smooth and soft as silk and belying the barely controlled fury in his expression. “Who the hell are you?”
“I should be asking you the same question,” Béringer choked out, sneering despite the stranglehold Erik had on his collar. He coughed. “What... what are you: some kind of avenging angel?”
A smile touched the side of Erik’s face not hidden by the mask. “You have no idea how right you are, Monsieur.”
“Oh, really?” The journalist looked his assailant up and down as best he could, squinting in an attempt to make out his features. Erik’s back was to the alley’s entrance, and Christine could only hope that the brilliant light of the setting sun would throw his face into little more than shadow and silhouette. “Then why don’t you show yourself?”
With a growl, Erik all but lifted Béringer off the ground. “Because I choose not to, little man. I suggest you explain your actions towards Mademoiselle Daae before I lose my patience and break your worthless neck.”
“If you do that you’ll find it very hard to obtain any information from me,” Béringer pointed out, his arrogance never deserting him for a second despite the disadvantage at which he found himself.
The Phantom’s misshapen lip curled. “All I have to do is squeeze.”
“All I have to do is yell. Do you really want the law here?”
“I could have your life ended and your body disposed of before anyone even realised you were missing,” Erik said, a deadly edge to his mellifluous voice, his fingers tightening around the reporter’s neck.
“There is a witness, in case you had forgotten.” Béringer raised a hand and pointed over Erik’s shoulder to where Christine stood, watching the tableau with terrified eyes. “Would Mademoiselle Daae like to have the gendarmes set upon her guard dog?”
At the mention of Christine’s name, Erik’s head whipped round, his eyes running over her anxiously. “Are you all right? Has he harmed you?”
“A few bruises, nothing more.” She moved closer, laying a hand on his arm. The muscles there were like coiled steel; she could almost feel the rage coursing through his veins. “Erik, leave him. He’s not worth making a scene over.”
His sharp gaze immediately picked out the red mark across her wrist. “He has hurt you,” he whispered. “He will pay for that.”
“Erik, no - ” Christine began, but he ignored her, turning back to Béringer. The reporter, however, had seen an opportunity in Erik’s momentary distraction and brought up a fist; it was not an easy movement given his current position, but he somehow made it and before Christine could shout a warning a right hook had connected with the unmasked side of the Phantom’s face. It was an awkward punch, but the impact was enough to knock Erik off his feet; cursing, he tumbled to the floor, falling heavily amongst the straw and refuse. She hurried to his side; he was trying to push himself up but his healing shoulder wouldn’t support his weight. A thin trail of blood was running down his chin from where his lip had been split.
“You shouldn’t let your guard down, Monsieur,” said Béringer. His shadow fell across them and Christine looked up to see him trying to smooth his crumpled collar, straightening his tie. He bent down to retrieve his hat, brushing the dirt from it with his sleeve. “It shows everyone where your weakness lies.”
“I could tear you in half, boy,” Erik snarled, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Just go,” Christine told Béringer. “You’ve done quite enough.”
The journalist regarded them for a moment, and then he smiled. She was coming to hate that smile. “All right. But just remember, Christine: I’ll be seeing you again. Au Revoir.” He dropped his now rather battered hat onto his head and, with a contemptuous gesture towards the seething Erik, he turned and sauntered off down the street. The sound of his cheerful whistling carried back towards them as he vanished around the corner.
“Hateful man,” Christine muttered, resisting the overwhelming urge she felt to spit in his wake. Instead she returned her attention to Erik, pulling out her handkerchief. “You’re bleeding,” she said, and gently pressed the wisp of cambric and lace against his lip.
“Who was he?” he asked. She could almost feel the chill in his tone.
“No one.” When he said nothing but continued to watch her steadily she gave in. “A journalist. He accosted me in the cafe a few days ago.”
His hand shot out and caught hold of her wrist; it was the same one Béringer had mistreated and she yelped at his touch. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing!” Christine cried, but he didn’t let go. “Erik, you’re hurting me!”
“Why did you not tell me that one of those loathsome creatures had approached you?” he demanded. “What did he ask you about? What did you say?”
“He wanted to know about you; about the Phantom. Erik, please...” she whimpered, tears welling again. The sight of them was enough to jolt him back to reality and he dropped her arm as though it were suddenly unbearably hot. After a moment he tentatively took her fingers between his, lifting her hand to see the damage, face creased in contrition and concern.
“Oh, Christine,” he breathed, his thumb making unconscious little circles on her palm, “I’m sorry, Erik is so sorry - ”
“It’s all right; a cold compress will help it heal soon enough. I haven’t been given an Indian burn since I was six. I said nothing, Erik; I told him to leave me alone,” Christine said.
“He doesn’t appear to have taken the hint.”
She glanced down the street in the direction Béringer had taken; people had stopped their business and were watching them as they huddled in the alley, talking and pointing. “We should go inside; we’re starting to attract attention.”
Erik startled at her words, and peered over her shoulder. Horror sparked in his eyes and he swore emphatically, tilting his head so that the masked side fell into shadow. “I didn’t realise. They must have seen... must have seen me..!” Hurriedly he scrambled to his feet, taking her by the arm and all but dragging her towards the entrance of the Girys’ building. Madame was waiting for them on the step, huddled in a shawl.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Christine told him. “You came outside in daylight and nothing happened!”
“That damned journalist happened,” he snapped.”No doubt he’ll go home and write an article about the masked freak that attacked him. This is precisely the kind of situation I wished to avoid; I should have stayed underground!”
“Do not be so ridiculous, Erik. In this instance the light was your friend. That alley is dark even at midday; he could not have seen you,” the ballet mistress said. “And had you not been here, who would have come to Christine’s aid?”
Erik looked at Christine, and she gazed back, watching the emotions chase each other across the visible side of his face as he imagined what might have happened had she faced Béringer alone. “Dear God. He might have... you could have been...”
“I’m fine,” she told him, taking his hand and squeezing it reassuringly, “thanks to you.”
It was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking. He stared at her for the longest moment and then turned his gaze to the orange ball of the sun as it started to sink gracefully behind the uneven rooftops, burnishing his mask with its golden light. They all stood there in silence, just watching the sky and the pink tint which gradually crept across its serene pale blue, until Madame Giry extended an arm, ushering them inside.
“Come along,” she said, as though she were shepherding a pair of children in for their supper, “I think we’ve all had quite enough excitement for one evening.”
Glancing at her bruised wrist and Erik’s rapidly swelling lip, Christine couldn’t help but agree.
