The Abandoned House on Rue Ballard

Chapter 1

Marseille, in France, is an old port town, on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. Droves of tourists come out of the woodwork each year to see the Chateau d'If, where the Count of Monte Cristo lived out his imprisonment, or the Basilique Notre-Dame de la Garde, where pilgrims would come and worship in the Middle Ages. Or perhaps they just come to visit relatives, and stroll along La Corniche, looking out over the quay. But they never go to Le Panier. Forget the broad, leafy avenues of the Canebière (baptized the Can-o'-Beer by American soldiers during the Second World War) and le Prado, or the straight-blazed lines of Cours Belsunce and the Rue Paradis, where couples stroll arm in arm. 

Le Panier is older than the city of Marseille itself, a wild labyrinth of narrow streets at the heart of the town. Never wider than a single lane of traffic, these cobbled streets weave a knotty thread through the buskers and street magicians, the Laveries and cafés, populated by the eccentric geniuses, grubby children, and the wizened old women that are the lifeblood of this ancient neighbourhood, linking them all together.

The buildings that line these twisting thoroughfares crowd together, nearly blocking out the sky, the streets are so narrow. They loom precariously over the streets, threatening to crumble down onto any unfortunate passerby. Flower baskets and graffiti dot the walls, which are painted in faded oranges, yellows, and pinks. Their facades are pockmarked with oddly shaped windows in unexpected places; posters advertising amateur theatrical performances and political slogans of dubious merit paper their walls. Street lamps hang from the walls of the houses, so close they are almost touching.

It was in one of these dilapidated old houses on Rue Ballard that our protagonists lived. It stood between a tall, shadowy stone archway, and an old pub whose door was papered with missing possession adverts and offers for odd-jobs. Chunks of stone were missing from the walls of the house. One of the boarded-up double doors was sagging on its hinges. All the windows were boarded up too, and between the cracks one could see dirt-streaked windows, the inside of the house hidden by strips of oilcloth.

A dingy alley way ran behind the houses, and, around eight, a dark figure was seen silently stealing up the street. They paused at the back door of the abandoned house, and pulled on the bell-pull three times. There was the thumping of feet, and the door was opened a crack. Two bright eyes peered out.

"C'est moi," the person said quietly. "Laisse moi entrer, il fait froid."

(For the rest of the dialogue in this book, we'll pretend all of it is in French, moments when the opposite is stated excepting.)

"Oh, it's you, Tony," said a girl, opening the door to let him pass, before closing and locking it carefully. Tall and gangly, with black hair and eyes, Tony stood more than a head and a half taller than her. The girl was the short and skinny, with a sharp, pointed face, brown eyes, and reddish hair that was tucked into an almost-neat braid. Her name was Lutin. No one really knew for sure how she had gotten that moniker, but it was hers nonetheless, and she never answered to anything else.

"And what do you mean, it's cold?" asked Lutin. "We're in the South of France. It's never cold."

"Well you might not mind it. You're Canadian. But it's cold to the rest of us."

"I'll ask Mars when I see him next. He's from Brazil. Funny how he always wears a t-shirt if it's so cold."

"Is Leo back yet?" asked Tony, quickly changing the subject. "He always takes such a bloody long time."

"No, he isn't, and doesn't."

Tony snorted.

"And you can talk," Lutin rolled her eyes. "You usually take just as long as he does."