Page 4 of Tangled With the Wrong Guy
Now there were cheers, and catcalling. The racket was coming from near the chewing gum tree, where visitors stuck their gum as a tribute to the bad-boy singer. She’d be seen if she carried on along this path, but it was too late to find an alternative. What to do?
She moved behind the tall tomb, then, inching along, peered round the corner … and her eyes widened at the sight in front of her.
What the f–?
A group of five lads, dressed as Frenchmen in stripy T-shirts and black berets, with red neckties and black fake moustaches. They were clearly wasted, swigging from cans of beer. Four were standing arm in arm and began to holler, to the tune of ‘La Marseillaise’: ‘A Frenchman went to the laaaavatory, for to have hiiim, a jolly good shit…’
By the time they got to ‘Ou est … le papier?’ the blood was pounding in Chloe’s ears.
Brits on a stag weekend abroad. Was there anything more repugnant?
These idiots weren’t a threat; they were an abhorrence, an insult to France, an embarrassment to Britain. A boil on the bottom of humanity.
She came out from her hiding place like a determined little thunder cloud.
‘Oi! Shit for brains!’
The four fell silent, blinking in surprise. The fifth remained where he was, sitting on the ground, leaning against the chewing gum tree with his head between his knees.
They stared at her, frowning in drunken confusion.
She stared back. ‘Have some bloody respect! This is acemetery! You are GUESTS in this country.’ Her eyes swept over their ridiculous dress-ups. ‘What the actual fuck? Howinsulting. Now get the hell out of here and leave these poor dead people in PEACE!’
The four finally whirred back to life.
‘Ooooo,’ said one, his pitch rising and falling in that intensely annoying way. It was like facing down the idiot kids in the playground. ‘Someone’s got ’er knickers in a twist! What’s your problem, darlin’?’
They were Londoners. Could this get any worse?
‘We’re just ’aving a bit a’ fun. His stag do, innit?’ He cocked his head towards the remnant of a person curled up against the tree.
The clang of the closing bell rang out across the cemetery.Ten minutes.
‘Stag do. You don’t say.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm. The red mist was only getting thicker.
Today of all days.
‘The exit’s that way,’ she said, pointing. ‘The cemetery is closing any minute.’
‘Closing? Wha–?’ slurred one of the guys.
‘That was the closing bell.’
‘Huh? Bell? You what?’ said the other three. The fifth remained silent. Was he even conscious?
Chloe was losing control; she couldn’t help it. It was as if some mischievous little demon had custom-designed the worst-possible ending to this pig of a day.
‘LOOK,’ she said. ‘You need to go. And for the record, what you’re doing, disrespecting the French and this beautiful city with youroutrageouslyrude stereotyping – well, honestly, you deserve to be locked up.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ said one of them. ‘Locked up. I forgot. Are we still doin’ that?’
‘Yeah, we totally should. Best be quick if they’re shuttin’ though,’ said another.
‘Doing what?’ barked Chloe, as a horrible suspicion crept in.
The first guy upended a backpack that had been propped against the grave’s barrier. Out fell a collection of items including a string of plastic onions, a water bottle, a chain, and something in a long cardboard box.
‘The barrier?’ he said, eyeing it.
