The Red Coat

The lock turns with a wet click. Not rust—blood, maybe, or just the damp of Marseille’s breath on metal. Thierry wipes his palm on his thigh, leaves a smear like a slug trail on the denim. The door sighs open. The smell hits first: copper, old coffee, the ghost of aftershave that’s been dead for days.

He steps inside. The apartment is small, the kind of place where the kitchen counter doubles as a desk. A single plate in the sink, a fork still in it. A half-empty bottle of Ricard on the table, the aniseed scent fighting the rot. Thierry doesn’t touch anything. He’s not here to investigate. He’s here to open a door, get paid, leave. That’s the job.

The bathroom mirror is warped, the silvering peeling at the edges like sunburnt skin. Thierry leans in, breath fogging the glass. Behind the mirror, taped to the wall, a strip of photographs. Three frames, all the same woman. Red coat, dark hair, no face—just the back of her head, the curve of her shoulder. The first photo: she’s walking past Le Petit Nice, the sea a bruise behind her. The second: she’s crossing Cours Julien, the graffiti on the shutter behind her spelling MERDE in dripping red. The third: she’s stepping onto a tram, and in the reflection of the rain-slick window, a hand. Thierry’s hand. His fingers curled around the grip of his toolbag, his wristwatch glinting under the streetlamp.

His pulse knocks against his ribs. The photos are still damp. Steam from the shower, maybe, or the dead man’s last breath condensing on the cold wall.

Thierry peels the strip free. The tape comes away with a sound like tearing flesh. He folds the photos, tucks them into his pocket. The mirror swings back into place with a click.

The apartment is too quiet. The fridge hums, a low, sickly whine. Thierry moves to the living room. The dead man is on the couch, slumped like he fell asleep watching TV. The remote is still in his hand. The screen is black, but the standby light glows red, a single eye in the dark.

No signs of struggle. No blood. Just a man who sat down and didn’t get up again. Thierry checks the pulse point anyway, fingers pressing into the cold skin. Nothing. The man’s face is slack, peaceful. Thierry wonders if he knew he was dying. If he had time to think about the photos, the woman, the hand in the reflection.

The lights flicker. Not the apartment—the building. Thierry feels it through the soles of his boots, a shudder in the wiring. He steps into the hall. The fluorescents buzz overhead, then die. One by one, the doors along the corridor go dark. Someone’s cutting the power. Or something’s wrong with the grid. Marseille’s like that—old wiring, old buildings, old sins.

Thierry’s phone is in his hand before he realizes he’s reached for it. No signal. Of course. He’s on the fifth floor, thick walls, the kind of place where the past clings like mold. He could call the police from the stairwell. Wait for them. Explain the photos, the dead man, the hand that might be his. They’d ask questions. They’d want to know why he didn’t call sooner. Why he took the photos. Why he’s still here.

The stairwell door is heavy, warped with humidity. Thierry pushes it open. The emergency lights are out. The darkness is absolute, the kind that presses against your eyeballs. He takes a step, then another. The concrete is cold under his fingers as he feels his way along the wall. Somewhere below, a door creaks. Not the front door—the door to the basement. The one with the broken lock, the one everyone pretends isn’t there.

Thierry stops. Listens. The building groans, settling. A drip of water from a pipe. His own breath, too loud. Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Not running. Not panicked. Someone climbing the stairs.

He could go back to the apartment. Barricade the door. Wait it out. But the dead man is in there, and the photos are in his pocket, and the hand in the reflection is his, and Thierry doesn’t believe in coincidences. Not in Marseille. Not when the lights are out and the stairs are creaking and the woman in the red coat is nowhere to be found.

The footsteps stop. Thierry holds his breath. A match flares in the dark. The flame illuminates a face for a second—sharp cheekbones, a scar through the eyebrow, a cigarette dangling from the lips. The man nods at Thierry, like they’re passing on the street. Then the match goes out, and the darkness swallows him whole.

"You the locksmith?" The voice is rough, amused. Not Marseille accent—something eastern. Polish, maybe. Or Russian.

Thierry doesn’t answer. His fingers tighten around his phone. The screen glows blue in the dark, casting shadows up his wrist. No signal. No help.

"Man’s dead," the stranger says. "You see that, yeah?" A pause. The sound of a drag on the cigarette, the ember glowing like a firefly. "You take anything?"

Thierry’s throat is dry. "I don’t steal from dead men."

A chuckle. "Good policy." The ember moves, tracing a line in the air. "But you did take something. The photos. Behind the mirror."

Thierry’s pulse is a drumbeat in his ears. "You put them there."

"No." The voice is closer now. "But I know who did."

The stairwell is a throat, and Thierry is being swallowed. He takes a step back. His heel hits the edge of a stair. He catches himself, heart hammering. "Who’s the woman?"

"That’s the question, isn’t it?" The stranger exhales, a cloud of smoke in the dark. "She’s not the problem. The problem is the hand. The one in the reflection. That’s your hand, locksmith. So now you’re part of it."

Thierry’s fingers brush the photos in his pocket. "I don’t know what this is."

"Sure you do." The voice is right in front of him now. Thierry can smell the cigarette, the sweat, the something metallic underneath. "You’re a locksmith. You open doors. This door’s already open. You just gotta decide if you’re walking through."

The lights flicker back on. The sudden brightness is blinding. Thierry squints. The stranger is gone. The stairwell is empty. No cigarette smoke, no footprints, no sign anyone was ever there.

Except the photos in his pocket. And the dead man upstairs. And the woman in the red coat, walking away in three different directions, always just out of reach.

Thierry takes the stairs two at a time, not down—up. The roof access is at the top, the door propped open with a brick. The night air is cold, the city spread out below like a circuit board, all glowing lines and dark patches. He pulls out his phone. Still no signal. He dials anyway. The call doesn’t connect. He tries again. Nothing.

A sound behind him. Thierry turns. The woman in the red coat is standing by the edge of the roof, her back to him. The wind tugs at her hair, her coat. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around.

"You’re not real," Thierry says.

She laughs. It’s a sound like breaking glass. "I’m as real as the photos. As real as the dead man. As real as the hand in the reflection."

Thierry’s fingers dig into the photos. "What do you want?"

"The same thing you want." She turns her head, just enough for him to see the curve of her jaw, the shadow of her lips. "To know why."

The roof door slams shut. Thierry spins. The stranger from the stairwell is there, leaning against the doorframe, lighting another cigarette. "Time’s up, locksmith. You in or you out?"

Thierry looks at the woman. She’s still watching him, her eyes dark, unreadable. He looks at the stranger. The cigarette glows between his fingers. He looks at the city, the lights, the dark patches where anything could be happening.

He takes the photos out of his pocket. Unfolds them. Holds them up to the light. The woman in the red coat. The hand in the reflection. His hand.

"I’m in," he says.

The stranger smiles. "Good." He flicks the cigarette over the edge of the roof. It spirals down, a tiny comet. "Then let’s go find out why."

The woman in the red coat steps forward. Her coat flutters in the wind. Thierry follows. The roof door swings open. The stairwell is dark. The building groans.

Somewhere below, a door clicks shut.

The police find the apartment at dawn. The door is unlocked. The dead man is still on the couch. The bathroom mirror is intact. No photos. No signs of forced entry. No signs of anything, really, except a man who sat down and didn’t get up again.

The locksmith is gone. His van is still parked outside, the keys in the ignition. His toolbag is on the passenger seat. His phone is on the floor, the screen cracked, the call log empty.

The only thing missing is Thierry.

And the woman in the red coat.

And the hand in the reflection.

And the truth, whatever it was.

Some doors, once opened, don’t close again.