Book excerpts
Some scenes from my books...
Past Imperfect
The news that Christian Rosselot had died reached the Bauriac gendarmerie mid-morning.
The call came from Dr Besnard, the Chief Medical Examiner at the hospital. Poullain wasn't there at the time, so Harrault took the message. Dr Trichot had fought hard to save the boy, but oedema from an active clot caused unforeseen complications.
After more than two hours in the operating theatre and three attempts to re-start the boy's heart, all procedures were finally terminated at 10.52am, and the boy pronounced dead. 'Could you please try and make arrangements to inform his mother straight away, as she normally plans a hospital visit for the afternoon. Thank you. And I'm so sorry to have to bring this news.'
Harrault was in the small room directly behind the main entrance desk. He fell silent as he put down the phone. It was a moment before he got up and looked for Fornier who, as the main assisting investigator, was the first person he felt should know. Fornier was in the general administration office typing. In the same room was Levacher and a secretary.
After confirming some details of the call, Dominic looked down thoughtfully at his typewriter. He exhaled audibly; suddenly his body lacked any strength to punch the black metal keys. Levacher mumbled the obvious about how awful it was, then after a brief pause asked who was going to tell the family. When no answers came, everyone wrapped in their own thoughts, he added, 'I suppose we'll have to wait for Poullain to decide.'
And the secretary, who had stopped typing at the same time, felt she had her emotions under control until the silence and constrained atmosphere suddenly got the better of her and, shielding part of her face, she hurriedly left the room.
Hushed voices in the corridor, questions, muted surprise then finally, again, silence. The pall spread through the small gendarmerie as if by osmosis; whispers of death seeping through the cream plaster walls.
Within five minutes, the full complement of nine gendarmes and two secretaries on duty knew. From there, it started spreading through the town. A young sergeant went out to buy some cigarettes; there were two other people in the shop at the time who heard that 'the Rosselot boy had died'. One of the shopper's next calls was the boulangerie, where five more heard the news. It ricocheted through the main town shops.
Echoes of death which, by the time Dominic had fired up a Solex and started heading out towards Taragnon and the Rosselots, had already changed the atmosphere in the town centre. Or was he just imagining it? A nod of acknowledgement from Marc Tauvel re-stacking his front display of vegetables, but then a look that lingered slightly. Madame Houillon following his progress around the square, staring; she was over-inquisitive at the best of times, but now her head was slightly bowed, as if he was a passing hearse. Respect for the dead.
Dominic felt that he couldn't wait any longer before heading out. Poullain was expected back soon, but that could be an hour or more, by which time Monique Rosselot could have started her way to the hospital. Or worse still, by the way the news was spreading through the village, her hearing it clumsily from a neighbour or tradesman calling by. 'My condolences, I'm so sorry to hear.' Hear what?
Dominic didn't want it to happen that way; after a quick consultation with Harrault, they'd jointly agreed to break protocol by not waiting for Poullain, and Harrault signed out a Solex. Twenty five minutes had passed since the call from the hospital.
Nothing in his past had prepared him for this. All those years stuck in back radio and communications rooms both in the Legion and the Marseille gendarmerie, he'd had so little 'people' contact. Between the code and call signature manuals, the gun range and procedural guides for arrest, filing and administration, there had been no special training on consoling grieving relatives. How should he phrase it? How would he even start?
On the edge of town, Dominic passed the tannery and leather workshops tucked into a hillside rock outcrop where the road was cut away. Dyes and acids for stripping and treating the skins were heavy in the air; piquant sauce for the smells of death.
Dominic's eyes watered slightly; he wasn't sure whether they were sensitive with emotions or it was a combination of the fumes and the wind rush on the bike. Eighty yards past, he was clear of the fumes and the smells of the fields took over: ripening vines, lemons, almonds and olives, grass and wheat burnished almost white by the sun. He breathed deeply, but still his eyes watered.
Images flashed before him - the dark brown blood patches against the wheat, the boy being carried to the ambulance, the gendarmes tapping through the field with their canes, Monique Rosselot opening the door to him on that first visit, and the single candle in her daily bedside vigil of begging and praying to God to spare her son. How could he possibly bring her this news? The well of his emotions finally ebbed, a gentle catharsis washing through him without warning, his body trembling against the vibrations of the bike. He bit at his lip and swallowed back the sobs at the back of his throat; no sound emanated, his steadily watering eyes and his trembling body the only release valves.
His reaction confused him. He'd witnessed murder before, battle hardened by his years in Marseille. Was it the age of the boy, or Monique Rosselot's strongly displayed devotion for her son bringing him closer to her emotions, too close: her saddened face in half shadow reflected in the glass against the candle light, tears streaming down her cheeks as he told her that her son was dead. Dead! 'No! Oh God, no!' As he uttered the words breathlessly, what lay ahead of him suddenly seemed impossibly daunting: one simple sentence, destroying Monique Rosselot's life, tearing down any remaining vestige of hope. His grip on the throttle relaxed, the bike slowing slightly, apprehension gripping him full force. His conflict was absolute: he knew he had to go. He cared too much to risk her hearing casually from someone else passing. But he dreaded having to utter the words himself.
And so he switched off part of his mind driving the last few miles. Cared for her? He hardly knew her. Pushed the thoughts back as he turned his Solex bike into the Rosselot's driveway, parked, dismounted. Words shaped in his mind, almost on the edge of his lips, all of them sounding so inept, inadequate. The messenger? Was that what worried him, being the messenger? Always being remembered as the man who brought the news that her son had died.
As he approached the door, he noticed the boy's bike still against the garage wall, waiting in expectation. His mouth was dry. He took a last deep breath to calm his nerves as he reached for the door knocker and flipped it down twice.
But it did little good. His nerves built to a crescendo, blood pounding through his head as the door opened and she stood there, her young daughter Clarisse in the shadows behind.
He fumbled, the words seeming to catch in his throat, but from the quickly distraught look that came back from her, she seemed to already half know, perhaps from his expression and awkwardness, and he only managed to say, 'I'm sorry, I have bad news. I wanted to make sure I caught you before you headed for the hospital…' before she started pleading.
'No, no, no, no, no... No!' A repetitive and steadily rising mantra to hopefully drive the inevitable away, her eyes imploring him as she slowly collapsed to her knees and, her body finally giving way to convulsive sobbing, she let out a single wailing cry.
The cry, painful and desperate, pierced the still morning air, echoing from the walls of the small courtyard and rising up the gentle slope of the fields beyond. Jean-Luc Rosselot had been working in the west field out of sight of the courtyard for over an hour, digging to find the leak in an irrigation pipe. He didn't see or hear the Solex approaching; the cry was the first thing he heard. He dropped his spade and started running the fifty yards that would bring him in sight of the courtyard. Halfway, another wailing cry arose; a gap, then another.
And already he feared what was the cause before he'd thrashed his way through the last of the dried grass in the almond orchard and the courtyard came into view. It was like a frozen tableau: the gendarme trying to stand proud with his wife on her knees before him, one hand clutching out and almost touching his ankles. As another cry of anguish drifted up across the field, he saw the gendarme reach out towards her shoulder as if to re-assure, but the hand hovered just above without connecting.
Each of them stood alone, grief unshared; though Jean-Luc felt even more distanced and awkward, looking on. He tried not to accept what the tableau told him, force it from his mind in search of other explanations; but in the end the imagery was too strong, left nothing to interpretation. His son was dead.
His first instinct was to rush towards his wife, comfort her - but after a few paces he stopped. His legs felt weak and he was strangely dizzy, the field seeming to tilt slowly away from him, the light oddly dim in hues of dull grey. And suddenly it seemed ridiculous for him to bound down the hillside, waving, even if his legs still had the strength to carry him, and so he resigned himself and slowly sank down, gave way to the buckle in his knees until he was sitting.
They hadn't seen him; they were faced away and he was still too distant. And so he watched from a distance through the grey haze, through eyes stinging with tears, watched his life and all he loved, all that he had prayed these past days for God to save, slowly slip away with the tilt of the grey field into nothingness.
The death intensified the investigation and the mood in Taragnon and the surrounding villages. Questions and speculation peppered much of village conversation. Part nervous reaction, there were few other escape valves. New snippets of information about possible suspects and excitement at an impending apprehension replaced their normal daily routines and pleasures. In a village where local gossip and drama was a large part of the daily fare, this indeed was a lavish banquet. But in the lulls, moods were dark and sullen, silent. It was either feast or famine.
The first main change in the case came in a call from Pierre Bouteille notifying Poullain that he had passed over his file to Alexandre Perrimond, Aix Chief Prosecutor. 'The main reason is workload. With this now a murder investigation, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to devote the time it deserves. I've brought Perrimond up to date on everything. No doubt he'll make contact soon.'
The morning after, 'La Provencal' carried the news in a three column band at the bottom of its front page, carrying over onto page two. It was the most complete story they'd carried yet of the Rosselot case, going over the initial assault, its impact on the small village of Taragnon, and police progress. The police were quoted as having a few possible suspects and how they hoped to 'conclude the investigation and press charges within the week.' Poullain had spent almost twenty minutes on the phone the previous afternoon with the reporter. The end of the article went back over other notable child disappearances and murders in Provence over the past decade, mostly from the Marseille and Nice area, underlining the rareness of such incidents in inland villages.
Perrimond made his mark on the case early. Within an hour of being on morning duty, Poullain received a call from his office in Aix. 'I see from this item in the paper that you have a few possible suspects. That is news to me. From the information I was passed by my assistant, Pierre Bouteille, I understood there only to be one.'
'It is still only one. The other suspect mentioned to Prosecutor Bouteille, a certain Alain Duclos, was fully interviewed and later my assistant Fornier checked his details. He's a non-runner. We're still left only with the main suspect in the file, Machanaud.'
'Bouteille might handle things differently, but I like to be informed before having to read it in the newspapers.' The phone was put down abruptly.
'Headline chaser,' Poullain muttered after hanging up. The call put Poullain in a bad mood for the rest of the day. He pressed and niggled at Dominic about small details in their final report, making him re-type it twice before he was satisfied. Most of it went over Dominic's head. He typed mechanically, the words little more than a blur. He was still pre-occupied with how the Rosselots were coping.
Most of the news had come from Louis, whose girlfriend Valerié was friendly with the Rosselot's neighbours, the Fiévets. They were the Rosselot's closest friends in Taragnon. Clarisse Rosselot had stayed with the Fiévets during Monique's daily hospital vigils so that Jean-Luc's farm work wasn't too heavily disrupted.
Monique Rosselot had hardly left the farm since receiving the news, asking the Fiévets to get whatever shopping and essentials were needed. Jean-Luc had meanwhile buried himself back in his farm work, was out in the fields much of the day. The one time she'd left the house was to use the Fiévets' phone when she'd finally summoned up courage to call her mother in Beaune to break the tragic news. The mother was going to travel down to console her the next day, a day before the funeral. But, according to Valerié, at the same time Jean-Luc was talking about visiting his parents straight after the funeral; he'd had no contact whatsoever with them in twelve years, but just couldn't break news like this to them over the phone. He had to see them. Monique had complained to the Fiévets that while she understood Jean-Luc's reasoning, the timing was bad; she felt as if she was being deserted when she needed him most.
Louis' message was clear: she was coping, but except for her mother and some neighbourly support from the Fiévets, she was coping alone.
Dominic sipped thoughtfully at a beer Louis had poured for him. The first day back at the bar after having seen the Rosselots, Louis had teased and pressed him until he'd finally admitted, yes, she's very pretty. Now the bonhomie had gone, replaced by sullen camaraderie; trying to understand, through pieces of second hand information, the grief and pain of someone they hardly knew. Dominic wasn't even sure what drove his curiosity: pity for Monique Rosselot, or to assuage his guilt at having brought her the news?
Late that afternoon, Dominic had his worst argument yet with Poullain over Machanaud. The emotions of the day before, the relentless funnelling of evidence now aimed at Machanaud, the words he'd blindly typed that morning - as the mist of his pre-occupation with Monique Rosselot lifted - all converged; and it dawned on him that they were delivering little more than a death warrant for Machanaud. He once again raised doubts about Machanaud.
'But you were the one who drove out and actually gained corroboration of Duclos' movements that afternoon,' Poullain defended. 'We know he was in the restaurant when the boy was attacked, and he had little or no time spare after he left. It's all in the report - and half of the facts you gained yourself.'
'I know. But some of his alibis fall into place too conveniently, almost planned, and something about Duclos makes me uncomfortable. Also, I'm not convinced about Machanaud. Even if Machanaud was accused of raping a woman, I would be doubtful - but a young boy! We have nothing on him in the past more serious than some poaching and drunken and disorderly.'
'And you're saying that Duclos is the type?'
'Possibly. Let's face it, we know nothing about him. At least with Machanaud, we have something to go by on past form. And based on that, it just doesn't sit right with me.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right, we don't know much about him. When they telexed through from Limoges and told us he was an assistant in the Prosecutor's office, they forgot to mention that, oh, by the way our friendly local assistant prosecutor has a history with buggering young boys. Hope that is useful, but as you appreciate we like to keep that sort of thing quiet with public officials. Maybe that will follow in their next communication.' Poullain smiled cynically. 'You think that Duclos looks the type, don't you?'
Dominic ignored the barb for the second time. 'No, it's more than that, I mean why stop for oil when you're in a rush to see a particular girl and you're worried about being late. Why spend over an hour in a café when time is tight?'
'He probably only remembered the girl and hoped to see her on a whim when he left the restaurant, or perhaps not even until he was at the garage, which is why he asked about timing. There was no specific meeting arranged, as he told us he just hoped she might still be on the beach that time of day. I don't see anything suspicious.'
'I don't know, it's almost as if he wanted people to remember him visiting at specific times that day. And the girl was just thrown in to underline heterosexuality. Some of the facts are just too convenient the way that-'
'But they are the facts, and you seem to be ignoring that,' Poullain cut in. 'Or perhaps you can give us your alternative dissertation on how to prosecute, based on type and looks. He's a bit of a pretty boy, a bit soft and erudite in manner - he looks the type who would bugger young boys. So let's sweep aside all the facts for a moment, especially the fact that he was in a restaurant when the attack happened, and aim for him. Perhaps you could explain your thinking to Perrimond. He works with assistant prosecutors all day, he might be able to spot the type quickly. Marvellous! Why didn't we consult you earlier, Fornier.'
Dominic bit at his lip and went back to his desk. He should have bided his time; only the day before he'd reflected on just this reaction from Poullain. But he realized now that the boy's death had changed everything, changed the mood and pace of the investigation, that the keen scent for Machanaud's blood could soon drive a hungry pack; a fast rising tide of panic that said 'cry halt early' and swept away his previous resolve.
Bauriac’s church bell sounded in the square, calling the faithful to evening mass. It reminded him that there was a memorial service for Christian Rosselot in three days. Flowers. Incense. Candles burning. Monique Rosselot on her knees before him... her heart rending cry seeming to pierce right through him and drift, unheeded, over the fields and hills beyond. Still the memory of that moment sent a shiver through his body. How much longer before that was him, grieving the loss of his mother. Six months, a year? The bell tolled ominously in the background, and he found himself looking towards the window and the sound filtering in with the muted shuttered dusk light. He felt very alone, cold and distanced from the gendarmerie activities around him, and he tried to escape the fast descending gloom that the bell was striking for the inevitable, for that which he would be helpless to change.
The call came from Dr Besnard, the Chief Medical Examiner at the hospital. Poullain wasn't there at the time, so Harrault took the message. Dr Trichot had fought hard to save the boy, but oedema from an active clot caused unforeseen complications.
After more than two hours in the operating theatre and three attempts to re-start the boy's heart, all procedures were finally terminated at 10.52am, and the boy pronounced dead. 'Could you please try and make arrangements to inform his mother straight away, as she normally plans a hospital visit for the afternoon. Thank you. And I'm so sorry to have to bring this news.'
Harrault was in the small room directly behind the main entrance desk. He fell silent as he put down the phone. It was a moment before he got up and looked for Fornier who, as the main assisting investigator, was the first person he felt should know. Fornier was in the general administration office typing. In the same room was Levacher and a secretary.
After confirming some details of the call, Dominic looked down thoughtfully at his typewriter. He exhaled audibly; suddenly his body lacked any strength to punch the black metal keys. Levacher mumbled the obvious about how awful it was, then after a brief pause asked who was going to tell the family. When no answers came, everyone wrapped in their own thoughts, he added, 'I suppose we'll have to wait for Poullain to decide.'
And the secretary, who had stopped typing at the same time, felt she had her emotions under control until the silence and constrained atmosphere suddenly got the better of her and, shielding part of her face, she hurriedly left the room.
Hushed voices in the corridor, questions, muted surprise then finally, again, silence. The pall spread through the small gendarmerie as if by osmosis; whispers of death seeping through the cream plaster walls.
Within five minutes, the full complement of nine gendarmes and two secretaries on duty knew. From there, it started spreading through the town. A young sergeant went out to buy some cigarettes; there were two other people in the shop at the time who heard that 'the Rosselot boy had died'. One of the shopper's next calls was the boulangerie, where five more heard the news. It ricocheted through the main town shops.
Echoes of death which, by the time Dominic had fired up a Solex and started heading out towards Taragnon and the Rosselots, had already changed the atmosphere in the town centre. Or was he just imagining it? A nod of acknowledgement from Marc Tauvel re-stacking his front display of vegetables, but then a look that lingered slightly. Madame Houillon following his progress around the square, staring; she was over-inquisitive at the best of times, but now her head was slightly bowed, as if he was a passing hearse. Respect for the dead.
Dominic felt that he couldn't wait any longer before heading out. Poullain was expected back soon, but that could be an hour or more, by which time Monique Rosselot could have started her way to the hospital. Or worse still, by the way the news was spreading through the village, her hearing it clumsily from a neighbour or tradesman calling by. 'My condolences, I'm so sorry to hear.' Hear what?
Dominic didn't want it to happen that way; after a quick consultation with Harrault, they'd jointly agreed to break protocol by not waiting for Poullain, and Harrault signed out a Solex. Twenty five minutes had passed since the call from the hospital.
Nothing in his past had prepared him for this. All those years stuck in back radio and communications rooms both in the Legion and the Marseille gendarmerie, he'd had so little 'people' contact. Between the code and call signature manuals, the gun range and procedural guides for arrest, filing and administration, there had been no special training on consoling grieving relatives. How should he phrase it? How would he even start?
On the edge of town, Dominic passed the tannery and leather workshops tucked into a hillside rock outcrop where the road was cut away. Dyes and acids for stripping and treating the skins were heavy in the air; piquant sauce for the smells of death.
Dominic's eyes watered slightly; he wasn't sure whether they were sensitive with emotions or it was a combination of the fumes and the wind rush on the bike. Eighty yards past, he was clear of the fumes and the smells of the fields took over: ripening vines, lemons, almonds and olives, grass and wheat burnished almost white by the sun. He breathed deeply, but still his eyes watered.
Images flashed before him - the dark brown blood patches against the wheat, the boy being carried to the ambulance, the gendarmes tapping through the field with their canes, Monique Rosselot opening the door to him on that first visit, and the single candle in her daily bedside vigil of begging and praying to God to spare her son. How could he possibly bring her this news? The well of his emotions finally ebbed, a gentle catharsis washing through him without warning, his body trembling against the vibrations of the bike. He bit at his lip and swallowed back the sobs at the back of his throat; no sound emanated, his steadily watering eyes and his trembling body the only release valves.
His reaction confused him. He'd witnessed murder before, battle hardened by his years in Marseille. Was it the age of the boy, or Monique Rosselot's strongly displayed devotion for her son bringing him closer to her emotions, too close: her saddened face in half shadow reflected in the glass against the candle light, tears streaming down her cheeks as he told her that her son was dead. Dead! 'No! Oh God, no!' As he uttered the words breathlessly, what lay ahead of him suddenly seemed impossibly daunting: one simple sentence, destroying Monique Rosselot's life, tearing down any remaining vestige of hope. His grip on the throttle relaxed, the bike slowing slightly, apprehension gripping him full force. His conflict was absolute: he knew he had to go. He cared too much to risk her hearing casually from someone else passing. But he dreaded having to utter the words himself.
And so he switched off part of his mind driving the last few miles. Cared for her? He hardly knew her. Pushed the thoughts back as he turned his Solex bike into the Rosselot's driveway, parked, dismounted. Words shaped in his mind, almost on the edge of his lips, all of them sounding so inept, inadequate. The messenger? Was that what worried him, being the messenger? Always being remembered as the man who brought the news that her son had died.
As he approached the door, he noticed the boy's bike still against the garage wall, waiting in expectation. His mouth was dry. He took a last deep breath to calm his nerves as he reached for the door knocker and flipped it down twice.
But it did little good. His nerves built to a crescendo, blood pounding through his head as the door opened and she stood there, her young daughter Clarisse in the shadows behind.
He fumbled, the words seeming to catch in his throat, but from the quickly distraught look that came back from her, she seemed to already half know, perhaps from his expression and awkwardness, and he only managed to say, 'I'm sorry, I have bad news. I wanted to make sure I caught you before you headed for the hospital…' before she started pleading.
'No, no, no, no, no... No!' A repetitive and steadily rising mantra to hopefully drive the inevitable away, her eyes imploring him as she slowly collapsed to her knees and, her body finally giving way to convulsive sobbing, she let out a single wailing cry.
The cry, painful and desperate, pierced the still morning air, echoing from the walls of the small courtyard and rising up the gentle slope of the fields beyond. Jean-Luc Rosselot had been working in the west field out of sight of the courtyard for over an hour, digging to find the leak in an irrigation pipe. He didn't see or hear the Solex approaching; the cry was the first thing he heard. He dropped his spade and started running the fifty yards that would bring him in sight of the courtyard. Halfway, another wailing cry arose; a gap, then another.
And already he feared what was the cause before he'd thrashed his way through the last of the dried grass in the almond orchard and the courtyard came into view. It was like a frozen tableau: the gendarme trying to stand proud with his wife on her knees before him, one hand clutching out and almost touching his ankles. As another cry of anguish drifted up across the field, he saw the gendarme reach out towards her shoulder as if to re-assure, but the hand hovered just above without connecting.
Each of them stood alone, grief unshared; though Jean-Luc felt even more distanced and awkward, looking on. He tried not to accept what the tableau told him, force it from his mind in search of other explanations; but in the end the imagery was too strong, left nothing to interpretation. His son was dead.
His first instinct was to rush towards his wife, comfort her - but after a few paces he stopped. His legs felt weak and he was strangely dizzy, the field seeming to tilt slowly away from him, the light oddly dim in hues of dull grey. And suddenly it seemed ridiculous for him to bound down the hillside, waving, even if his legs still had the strength to carry him, and so he resigned himself and slowly sank down, gave way to the buckle in his knees until he was sitting.
They hadn't seen him; they were faced away and he was still too distant. And so he watched from a distance through the grey haze, through eyes stinging with tears, watched his life and all he loved, all that he had prayed these past days for God to save, slowly slip away with the tilt of the grey field into nothingness.
The death intensified the investigation and the mood in Taragnon and the surrounding villages. Questions and speculation peppered much of village conversation. Part nervous reaction, there were few other escape valves. New snippets of information about possible suspects and excitement at an impending apprehension replaced their normal daily routines and pleasures. In a village where local gossip and drama was a large part of the daily fare, this indeed was a lavish banquet. But in the lulls, moods were dark and sullen, silent. It was either feast or famine.
The first main change in the case came in a call from Pierre Bouteille notifying Poullain that he had passed over his file to Alexandre Perrimond, Aix Chief Prosecutor. 'The main reason is workload. With this now a murder investigation, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to devote the time it deserves. I've brought Perrimond up to date on everything. No doubt he'll make contact soon.'
The morning after, 'La Provencal' carried the news in a three column band at the bottom of its front page, carrying over onto page two. It was the most complete story they'd carried yet of the Rosselot case, going over the initial assault, its impact on the small village of Taragnon, and police progress. The police were quoted as having a few possible suspects and how they hoped to 'conclude the investigation and press charges within the week.' Poullain had spent almost twenty minutes on the phone the previous afternoon with the reporter. The end of the article went back over other notable child disappearances and murders in Provence over the past decade, mostly from the Marseille and Nice area, underlining the rareness of such incidents in inland villages.
Perrimond made his mark on the case early. Within an hour of being on morning duty, Poullain received a call from his office in Aix. 'I see from this item in the paper that you have a few possible suspects. That is news to me. From the information I was passed by my assistant, Pierre Bouteille, I understood there only to be one.'
'It is still only one. The other suspect mentioned to Prosecutor Bouteille, a certain Alain Duclos, was fully interviewed and later my assistant Fornier checked his details. He's a non-runner. We're still left only with the main suspect in the file, Machanaud.'
'Bouteille might handle things differently, but I like to be informed before having to read it in the newspapers.' The phone was put down abruptly.
'Headline chaser,' Poullain muttered after hanging up. The call put Poullain in a bad mood for the rest of the day. He pressed and niggled at Dominic about small details in their final report, making him re-type it twice before he was satisfied. Most of it went over Dominic's head. He typed mechanically, the words little more than a blur. He was still pre-occupied with how the Rosselots were coping.
Most of the news had come from Louis, whose girlfriend Valerié was friendly with the Rosselot's neighbours, the Fiévets. They were the Rosselot's closest friends in Taragnon. Clarisse Rosselot had stayed with the Fiévets during Monique's daily hospital vigils so that Jean-Luc's farm work wasn't too heavily disrupted.
Monique Rosselot had hardly left the farm since receiving the news, asking the Fiévets to get whatever shopping and essentials were needed. Jean-Luc had meanwhile buried himself back in his farm work, was out in the fields much of the day. The one time she'd left the house was to use the Fiévets' phone when she'd finally summoned up courage to call her mother in Beaune to break the tragic news. The mother was going to travel down to console her the next day, a day before the funeral. But, according to Valerié, at the same time Jean-Luc was talking about visiting his parents straight after the funeral; he'd had no contact whatsoever with them in twelve years, but just couldn't break news like this to them over the phone. He had to see them. Monique had complained to the Fiévets that while she understood Jean-Luc's reasoning, the timing was bad; she felt as if she was being deserted when she needed him most.
Louis' message was clear: she was coping, but except for her mother and some neighbourly support from the Fiévets, she was coping alone.
Dominic sipped thoughtfully at a beer Louis had poured for him. The first day back at the bar after having seen the Rosselots, Louis had teased and pressed him until he'd finally admitted, yes, she's very pretty. Now the bonhomie had gone, replaced by sullen camaraderie; trying to understand, through pieces of second hand information, the grief and pain of someone they hardly knew. Dominic wasn't even sure what drove his curiosity: pity for Monique Rosselot, or to assuage his guilt at having brought her the news?
Late that afternoon, Dominic had his worst argument yet with Poullain over Machanaud. The emotions of the day before, the relentless funnelling of evidence now aimed at Machanaud, the words he'd blindly typed that morning - as the mist of his pre-occupation with Monique Rosselot lifted - all converged; and it dawned on him that they were delivering little more than a death warrant for Machanaud. He once again raised doubts about Machanaud.
'But you were the one who drove out and actually gained corroboration of Duclos' movements that afternoon,' Poullain defended. 'We know he was in the restaurant when the boy was attacked, and he had little or no time spare after he left. It's all in the report - and half of the facts you gained yourself.'
'I know. But some of his alibis fall into place too conveniently, almost planned, and something about Duclos makes me uncomfortable. Also, I'm not convinced about Machanaud. Even if Machanaud was accused of raping a woman, I would be doubtful - but a young boy! We have nothing on him in the past more serious than some poaching and drunken and disorderly.'
'And you're saying that Duclos is the type?'
'Possibly. Let's face it, we know nothing about him. At least with Machanaud, we have something to go by on past form. And based on that, it just doesn't sit right with me.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right, we don't know much about him. When they telexed through from Limoges and told us he was an assistant in the Prosecutor's office, they forgot to mention that, oh, by the way our friendly local assistant prosecutor has a history with buggering young boys. Hope that is useful, but as you appreciate we like to keep that sort of thing quiet with public officials. Maybe that will follow in their next communication.' Poullain smiled cynically. 'You think that Duclos looks the type, don't you?'
Dominic ignored the barb for the second time. 'No, it's more than that, I mean why stop for oil when you're in a rush to see a particular girl and you're worried about being late. Why spend over an hour in a café when time is tight?'
'He probably only remembered the girl and hoped to see her on a whim when he left the restaurant, or perhaps not even until he was at the garage, which is why he asked about timing. There was no specific meeting arranged, as he told us he just hoped she might still be on the beach that time of day. I don't see anything suspicious.'
'I don't know, it's almost as if he wanted people to remember him visiting at specific times that day. And the girl was just thrown in to underline heterosexuality. Some of the facts are just too convenient the way that-'
'But they are the facts, and you seem to be ignoring that,' Poullain cut in. 'Or perhaps you can give us your alternative dissertation on how to prosecute, based on type and looks. He's a bit of a pretty boy, a bit soft and erudite in manner - he looks the type who would bugger young boys. So let's sweep aside all the facts for a moment, especially the fact that he was in a restaurant when the attack happened, and aim for him. Perhaps you could explain your thinking to Perrimond. He works with assistant prosecutors all day, he might be able to spot the type quickly. Marvellous! Why didn't we consult you earlier, Fornier.'
Dominic bit at his lip and went back to his desk. He should have bided his time; only the day before he'd reflected on just this reaction from Poullain. But he realized now that the boy's death had changed everything, changed the mood and pace of the investigation, that the keen scent for Machanaud's blood could soon drive a hungry pack; a fast rising tide of panic that said 'cry halt early' and swept away his previous resolve.
Bauriac’s church bell sounded in the square, calling the faithful to evening mass. It reminded him that there was a memorial service for Christian Rosselot in three days. Flowers. Incense. Candles burning. Monique Rosselot on her knees before him... her heart rending cry seeming to pierce right through him and drift, unheeded, over the fields and hills beyond. Still the memory of that moment sent a shiver through his body. How much longer before that was him, grieving the loss of his mother. Six months, a year? The bell tolled ominously in the background, and he found himself looking towards the window and the sound filtering in with the muted shuttered dusk light. He felt very alone, cold and distanced from the gendarmerie activities around him, and he tried to escape the fast descending gloom that the bell was striking for the inevitable, for that which he would be helpless to change.
Ascension Day
‘Why do you want to die? Why is it you don’t want me to try and save you?’
Jac went straight in with the key question. No point in beating around the bush. He might have got over most of the first hurdle with the attempted prison break, if Marmont survived, but unless he tackled this, they were all wasting their time. He could prepare the most marvellous clemency plea for the Governor’s office, but Durrant had to agree to its contents and sign the plea petition.
Durrant shuffled uncomfortably, shrugged. He looked like he’d have preferred some delay, as if a question of such purport deserved reasonable preamble. He looked almost offended to be hit with it straightaway.
‘I don’t know. Tired, first and foremost. Tired of the appeals and empty promises, tired of waiting. Tired of false hope. Tired of life.’ Durrant looked up with a steady gaze as he hit the last words, as if he’d only at that moment finally discovered what, most of all, he was tired of.
‘You’re tired, and so you want out. Is that about it?’ Jac said it offhandly, disdainfully, and Durrant’s stare became icy. Jac fully expected some confrontation if he was to stand a chance of shifting Durrant’s stance. It wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Equally offhandly, disdainfully.
Jac stood up and took a couple of paces away from the interview table before turning to look back again. ‘That may be okay for you. But have you given a thought to those you’re leaving behind. Your wife. Your son. How old is he now?’ Jac remembered the age from Durrant’s file, but he wanted Durrant to say it, be reminded.
‘Twelve. Had his first birthday just a month before Christmas while I was held for trial.’
Jac considered Durrant dolefully for a second. ‘Maybe your wife will come to terms with you dying, has had a fair time to prepare herself. But do you really think your son will at that age?’ And as he saw Durrant flinch and look away, he knew he’d struck a chord. The first chink in Durrant’s armour, built-up hard these past eleven years.
Durrant knew he was being worked, but it was difficult to get angry. This new lawyer was young, still wet behind the ears, was probably not yet seasoned and world-weary enough to know that he was a hopeless case. But in a way that was also strangely gratifying. Most other lawyers wouldn’t have bothered to put in the time at this stage, would already have been signalling the guards to be let out. ‘Okay, so you want to die. I’ll file accordingly: no clemency petition to be made.’ It was gratifying to know that someone still cared.
Durrant snorted derisively. ‘You just don’t understand. The first five years I was here, my wife and son didn’t come to see me once. Too annoyed, too angry with what I’d done, she explained when she finally even took the time to send me a letter. Then when the visits did finally start, they were just token look-sees, at most once or twice a year: my birthday and sometimes just before Christmas as well. Never Christmas itself.’ Durrant snorted again. ‘She was always too busy with her other life and family outside.’
‘Her family and relations?’ Jac pressed to clarify. ‘Because I didn’t notice anything on the file about a divorce. You’re still married?’
‘Yeah, if you could call it that. Francine met someone new eighteen months after I was inside, and they started a relationship. Planned to marry too, if he’d been able to get his divorce papers through cleanly and on time from his ex. But by the time they looked ready to come through three years later, their relationship was already cooling off. When they finally split was the first time Francine started visiting me here with Josh. Then just over two years ago, she meets a new guy, and after ten months with him, once again the visits stop. And again there’s wedding plans. Next June, if I remember right, six months after I’ve gone. Suitable mourning and breathing space. Just wouldn’t be right to mess up such plans with complications like, say, me stayin’ alive.’ This time the derisive smile became quickly lopsided and that cool stare was back again. ‘So you see, Mr McElroy, my family deserted me long before I ever thought of deserting them.’
Jac took a long breath. It was going to be harder than he had realized. The only way he was going to prise Durrant from his death-wish was with a crowbar.
‘So, you feel sorry for yourself because you think your family has deserted you. So now it’s payback time: deserting them in the most dramatic way possible. No way they’re ever going to forget that action – especially young Joshua.’
Durrant tensed as if he was about to get to his feet, but then his shoulders relaxed again. Deserted? Except, that is, for the regular e-mails of the past year – though now it had been almost two months since the last one. Had Francine found out and stopped Josh? Or maybe Frank, her new partner, had put his spoke in.
Durrant’s wry, lopsided smile resurfaced. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about them, it’s about me. Oh sure, they deserted me. But then that was no less than I deserved. And Francine, she’s a good woman – still attractive, too. She deserves a good and full life out there.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘Who am I to deny that – especially after all I put her through. So it all comes back down to what I want and expect. Me.’ Durrant tapped his chest. ‘And, as I said, Mr McElroy, I’m tired. Tired of the appeals and promises. Tired of the false hope. Because, let’s face it – you’re not going to be able to get Governor Candaret to set me free with a full pardon. That just ain’t going to happen. The best that you can hope for is a commute to life imprisonment – another twelve to fifteen years in here, maybe more. And so that makes my mind turn to what else I’m tired of. Tired of the heat and sweat of this hell-hole, tired of the guards clanking keys and stomping their boots along the walkways in the dead of night just to ensure we never get a full night’s sleep. Tired of the weeping of prisoners when they first come in, or sometimes much later, when they finally break and can’t stand it anymore. Tired of the brutality of the guards and prisoners, mental and physical, constantly watching out for a shiv aimed for mine or Roddy’s back. Tired of the corruption and drugs and stench of it all. And I don’t just mean the stench of near-on four thousand caged and sweaty men, or the smell of their urine, or the smell of bleach that never quite manages to smother the sweat and urine. I’m talking about a stench of loneliness, fear and sheer hopelessness that don’t just hit your nose and synapses – it reaches right down to grip your heart and soul like an icy claw. Leaves you completely empty. And hardly a day has passed over the past long years that I haven’t prayed for a light to shine through the gloom and shift that emptiness. But the light that finally reached me, kept me going, wasn’t for hope in this lifetime, Mr McElroy.’
Durrant fixed Jac with a steady gaze again, but this time the iciness had gone, his eyes little more than hollow orbs, weary and pitiful. ‘You see, when they finally execute me, they’re not really killing me. Because I died the day I came in here. When they finally do that deed, they’ll be releasing me. I’ll finally be going where I’ve wanted to be now for a long, long time. That’ll be my freedom. My Ascension Day.’
Jac went straight in with the key question. No point in beating around the bush. He might have got over most of the first hurdle with the attempted prison break, if Marmont survived, but unless he tackled this, they were all wasting their time. He could prepare the most marvellous clemency plea for the Governor’s office, but Durrant had to agree to its contents and sign the plea petition.
Durrant shuffled uncomfortably, shrugged. He looked like he’d have preferred some delay, as if a question of such purport deserved reasonable preamble. He looked almost offended to be hit with it straightaway.
‘I don’t know. Tired, first and foremost. Tired of the appeals and empty promises, tired of waiting. Tired of false hope. Tired of life.’ Durrant looked up with a steady gaze as he hit the last words, as if he’d only at that moment finally discovered what, most of all, he was tired of.
‘You’re tired, and so you want out. Is that about it?’ Jac said it offhandly, disdainfully, and Durrant’s stare became icy. Jac fully expected some confrontation if he was to stand a chance of shifting Durrant’s stance. It wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Yeah, that’s about it.’ Equally offhandly, disdainfully.
Jac stood up and took a couple of paces away from the interview table before turning to look back again. ‘That may be okay for you. But have you given a thought to those you’re leaving behind. Your wife. Your son. How old is he now?’ Jac remembered the age from Durrant’s file, but he wanted Durrant to say it, be reminded.
‘Twelve. Had his first birthday just a month before Christmas while I was held for trial.’
Jac considered Durrant dolefully for a second. ‘Maybe your wife will come to terms with you dying, has had a fair time to prepare herself. But do you really think your son will at that age?’ And as he saw Durrant flinch and look away, he knew he’d struck a chord. The first chink in Durrant’s armour, built-up hard these past eleven years.
Durrant knew he was being worked, but it was difficult to get angry. This new lawyer was young, still wet behind the ears, was probably not yet seasoned and world-weary enough to know that he was a hopeless case. But in a way that was also strangely gratifying. Most other lawyers wouldn’t have bothered to put in the time at this stage, would already have been signalling the guards to be let out. ‘Okay, so you want to die. I’ll file accordingly: no clemency petition to be made.’ It was gratifying to know that someone still cared.
Durrant snorted derisively. ‘You just don’t understand. The first five years I was here, my wife and son didn’t come to see me once. Too annoyed, too angry with what I’d done, she explained when she finally even took the time to send me a letter. Then when the visits did finally start, they were just token look-sees, at most once or twice a year: my birthday and sometimes just before Christmas as well. Never Christmas itself.’ Durrant snorted again. ‘She was always too busy with her other life and family outside.’
‘Her family and relations?’ Jac pressed to clarify. ‘Because I didn’t notice anything on the file about a divorce. You’re still married?’
‘Yeah, if you could call it that. Francine met someone new eighteen months after I was inside, and they started a relationship. Planned to marry too, if he’d been able to get his divorce papers through cleanly and on time from his ex. But by the time they looked ready to come through three years later, their relationship was already cooling off. When they finally split was the first time Francine started visiting me here with Josh. Then just over two years ago, she meets a new guy, and after ten months with him, once again the visits stop. And again there’s wedding plans. Next June, if I remember right, six months after I’ve gone. Suitable mourning and breathing space. Just wouldn’t be right to mess up such plans with complications like, say, me stayin’ alive.’ This time the derisive smile became quickly lopsided and that cool stare was back again. ‘So you see, Mr McElroy, my family deserted me long before I ever thought of deserting them.’
Jac took a long breath. It was going to be harder than he had realized. The only way he was going to prise Durrant from his death-wish was with a crowbar.
‘So, you feel sorry for yourself because you think your family has deserted you. So now it’s payback time: deserting them in the most dramatic way possible. No way they’re ever going to forget that action – especially young Joshua.’
Durrant tensed as if he was about to get to his feet, but then his shoulders relaxed again. Deserted? Except, that is, for the regular e-mails of the past year – though now it had been almost two months since the last one. Had Francine found out and stopped Josh? Or maybe Frank, her new partner, had put his spoke in.
Durrant’s wry, lopsided smile resurfaced. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about them, it’s about me. Oh sure, they deserted me. But then that was no less than I deserved. And Francine, she’s a good woman – still attractive, too. She deserves a good and full life out there.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘Who am I to deny that – especially after all I put her through. So it all comes back down to what I want and expect. Me.’ Durrant tapped his chest. ‘And, as I said, Mr McElroy, I’m tired. Tired of the appeals and promises. Tired of the false hope. Because, let’s face it – you’re not going to be able to get Governor Candaret to set me free with a full pardon. That just ain’t going to happen. The best that you can hope for is a commute to life imprisonment – another twelve to fifteen years in here, maybe more. And so that makes my mind turn to what else I’m tired of. Tired of the heat and sweat of this hell-hole, tired of the guards clanking keys and stomping their boots along the walkways in the dead of night just to ensure we never get a full night’s sleep. Tired of the weeping of prisoners when they first come in, or sometimes much later, when they finally break and can’t stand it anymore. Tired of the brutality of the guards and prisoners, mental and physical, constantly watching out for a shiv aimed for mine or Roddy’s back. Tired of the corruption and drugs and stench of it all. And I don’t just mean the stench of near-on four thousand caged and sweaty men, or the smell of their urine, or the smell of bleach that never quite manages to smother the sweat and urine. I’m talking about a stench of loneliness, fear and sheer hopelessness that don’t just hit your nose and synapses – it reaches right down to grip your heart and soul like an icy claw. Leaves you completely empty. And hardly a day has passed over the past long years that I haven’t prayed for a light to shine through the gloom and shift that emptiness. But the light that finally reached me, kept me going, wasn’t for hope in this lifetime, Mr McElroy.’
Durrant fixed Jac with a steady gaze again, but this time the iciness had gone, his eyes little more than hollow orbs, weary and pitiful. ‘You see, when they finally execute me, they’re not really killing me. Because I died the day I came in here. When they finally do that deed, they’ll be releasing me. I’ll finally be going where I’ve wanted to be now for a long, long time. That’ll be my freedom. My Ascension Day.’
The Second Amendment
Darkness. Dust and darkness.
Daniel could remember another moment earlier when he'd been awake, sudden panic as he realized he was entombed, clawing desperately at the solid dark walls around. Beyond the dust, rock and concrete. Impenetrable. His hands were still raw and grazed. He wondered how long ago that had been. Colder now. Far colder. He shivered.
He could feel the dust catch in his throat as he breathed, a film of it now on his lips. He wiped at it with the back of one hand. The other arm was pinned beneath him, difficult to move, and both his legs were trapped. He'd never known anything so dark. So dark it made no difference if his eyes were open or closed. And silent. The only sound his own breathing in the confined space.
He whispered 'Steven' into the darkness, but still there was no answer. He reached out and touched Steven's body. He shook Steven again, but still there was no response or movement, and something else now... coldness. Unlike before, no warmth coming through as his hand pressed against Steven's small chest.
He'd found a cat in the garden the year before, cold to the touch, his mother scolding him when he told her he was trying to get it to wake up. He knew what Steven's coldness meant. His tears welled, gasps for breath catching harder in his throat with the dust thick air. Tears for Steven, but also of fear. A more clawing fear than before. Now he was alone.
He thought of his mother and grandmother, trying to picture them clearly so that it felt as if they were with him now; then his father – which reminded him of Gerry – the last image before the darkness. He traced one hand across Steven's chest, along his arm, until he came to the toy giraffe still in Steven's hand. He went to take it, but Steven's hand was gripped tight. He left it there.
He stayed still and silent for a moment, breathless as he listened for sounds outside. Something faint and distant, but too muffled to discern. And a slight trembling in the ground at intervals. 'Help... help! Help me! he screamed as loud as he could, his lungs aching from the effort then subsiding into racking coughing as they drew in the dust filled air.
Darkness swam again at the back of his eyes, the sensation that his body was spinning down... falling again from the tree branch, the warm summer air bursting into his nostrils with the shock, the sky and leafy branches spinning above. Then the solid thud on his back and head, the air leaving his body in a rush...
He shivered, jolted quickly wide awake again. Silently expectant, the sound of his own breathing suddenly comforting. Fearing in that second that if he slipped again into the darkness, he might never awaken. Like Steven.
The sounds outside hadn't changed: distant, muffled drones, a faint vibration at intervals. No indication that they’d heard him.
He remembered once hiding in his mother's wardrobe, tucked behind her dresses and clothes. And the warm feeling it brought of being cocooned in his own private hideaway, the smooth satin and cotton against his skin, the smell of his mother's perfume still lingering on the cloth. He clung to that memory now, tried to imagine that he was back in her wardrobe, safe and warm. Pushed away the cold desolation surrounding him.
The excavator shunted back and forth, shifting the rubble thrown clear from the mound by the team of searchers.
Mike Wratten was scanning for fresh heat sources when he thought he saw some movement. He stopped and panned quickly back, honing in closer on the pink glow. Nothing now, not even a flicker of movement. Perhaps he was seeing things; the same pink glow he'd seen on and off for the last two hours, but now much smaller. Obviously an area of super-heated rubble, fast cooling over the last few hours.
He studied it a moment longer. But with still no sign of movement, he moved on.
'Where were you at the time?'
'New Orleans.'
Short silence at the other end of the phone. Then: 'How did you first hear?'
'My mother. My mother phoned me. She was the first to find out – when she went to pick up Daniel from the nursery.'
Another silence. No reprimands, no 'you should have been there's,' as Josette had expected. Just silence. And now in a way she wished they had come, the silence was far more awkward.
As if reading his silent admonition, she muttered, 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been away. Shouldn't have left him!' She clenched her eyes tight. But no tears now. She'd cried on the way to the airport, cried in the back of another taxi from Washington National, cried when she'd first embraced her mother and gained the latest on the search. Now there were no tears left; just anger, frustration. 'I'd do anything to change things. If only–'
'No, don't. Don't. There was nothing you could do. If you'd been in Washington, it would have been the same.'
'It was a terrible for my mother to have to face it alone. I should have been there. You know, it was almost two hours before she was able to reach me.'
More silence. And then she realized: she wanted the punishment! She'd envisaged a conversation with Sammy attacking and her defending. And now that it hadn't come, she felt the need to self-reprimand.
Her eyes darted around the hotel lobby, suddenly conscious of the people around. Five or six people by reception, but none of them looking in her direction. The excitable conversation and laughter she'd heard had come from a cocktail lounge beyond.
She'd purposely sought a pay phone well clear of the cacophony on 14th St; she didn't want to have to strain to hear Sammy in Africa above the wailing of sirens and frantic shouts from the search and rescue teams. She headed half a mile away to the Madison Hotel on 15th St. But it was hardly better. Above the sound of laughter and clink of glasses from the after dinner crowd in the cocktail lounge came the strains of a piano player's instrumental version of 'Mandy.'
'I'm going to fly out,' Sammy said. 'Although I'm not sure when's the next flight – it could be as much as seven or eight hours.'
'Are you sure? That's just the period when there might be some news. You know I'd phone you the moment I heard anything.'
A deep sigh. 'I know. I just feel I should be there. I feel guilty because I haven't been there for you and Daniel for much of the past year. And now I don't even know if I'll see him again.'
Josette could hear Sammy's voice breaking at the other end. That was why he hadn't reprimanded. He felt guilty too.
Crackling came across the line between Somalia and Washington with another long silence. She pictured Sammy in his hotel room, probably tired and sweaty after a hard morning's photo-shoot; now crumpled, defeated, head in hands with the news she'd brought. Two absent, guilty parents suddenly bonded by the portent of their crushing loss. Despite the distance, she felt an empathy and closeness with Sammy she hadn't felt since the early days of their marriage.
'There's still some hope,' she said. 'We can't give up.'
'I know.'
But what hope was there? After two found alive early on and only one more out of the last five, there’d been nothing now for over an hour. She'd made so many bargains with God the past few hours that Daniel was found alive, and although she thought the well had been dried and it was the last place she'd planned to – in this hotel lobby with its constantly changing cast of strangers – she burst into tears again.
'Don't, don't,' Sammy soothed. 'That's it. I'm catching the next flight. I'll be there... I'll be there.'
Mike Wratten took the polystyrene cup his search team mate, Dalziel, had brought from the corner diner. The creamer was separate; Wratten tipped it in and stirred with a plastic spoon. The steam from the cup and his breath showed on the night air. Suddenly he stopped, staring thoughtfully at the black and cream swirling together into brown.
'What is it?' asked Dalziel. 'They got the order wrong?'
'No, no. Just reminded me of something,' Wratten said absently. A large pink glow with a thin oblong gap at its center. He tried now to picture in his mind what he'd seen on screen. It was the wrong shape for a body, but he'd wondered at the time about the dark oblong shape.
Wratten took a sip of coffee, nodded at Dalziel. 'Come and look over my shoulder for a second. I want your opinion on something.'
Wratten put down his coffee and picked up the sensor scanner, swivelled and searched until he found the area. 'See there. Originally it was a larger glow with an oblong gap at the center. Because of its shape, I put it down to some super-heated rubble, with the heat from the explosion not quite reaching its center. But look now – the pink's faded just from one side. Why not evenly all around?'
'I don't know. Maybe one side of the rock got more heat from the blast than the other.'
'Possibly. But I seem to remember the glows being pretty much even all around. Now picture something else: two people huddled close together, just an oblong gap between them. And one of them dies. Now look again.'
The realization hit Dalziel. 'Jesus!' He saw what Wratten had suddenly visualized stirring his coffee. 'But there'd have to be a good air gap to sustain them both. It's now five hours they've been there.'
'I know.' Wratten looked frantically towards the ground radar gantry. Maybe it was a flicker of movement he'd seen down there twenty minutes ago. He took the heat sensor with him to match readings.
With the renewed activity, McLoughlin came over. 'What is it?'
'Possibly another one alive down there.'
'Child or adult?'
'It looks quite small. Child, I'd say.'
'Why wasn't it picked up earlier?'
'Long story,' Wratten said. He was busy matching calibrations with the ground radar operator, Saunders. 'One twelve across, two eighteen down. Okay... have you got it yet?'
'Almost... just swinging down now. Two seventeen... eighteen. Yep – got it clear now. There's a gap there.'
The varying shades of grey and black on screen meant little to McLoughlin.
Saunders started measuring calibrations for size, making calculations on a piece of paper to one side. He looked up finally. 'Two point nine, maybe three cubic metres at most.'
'How long would that give them?' McLoughlin asked.
'Seven, maybe eight hours.'
McLoughlin looked relieved. That meant there was at least two hours of oxygen left. Still a tough task given the five or six feet of rubble in between, but achievable.
'The problem is, I think originally there were two of them in that same space,' Wratten said. 'One of them's now dead.'
'For how long were there two of them?' Saunders asked.
'I'm not sure. But probably at least the first two or three hours.'
Saunders shrugged. 'Now we're talking about five hours, six tops.'
McLoughlin's eyes darted desperately between the screen and the mountain of rubble. He wished now he hadn't known. It had been frustrating and soul destroying enough watching the succession of lifeless bodies dragged from the rubble, marked off on his register and then bagged for the morgue. But it was quite another thing to know with certainty that a small body lay alive down there. And know with equal certainty that there was no way they could reach it in time.
Daniel could remember another moment earlier when he'd been awake, sudden panic as he realized he was entombed, clawing desperately at the solid dark walls around. Beyond the dust, rock and concrete. Impenetrable. His hands were still raw and grazed. He wondered how long ago that had been. Colder now. Far colder. He shivered.
He could feel the dust catch in his throat as he breathed, a film of it now on his lips. He wiped at it with the back of one hand. The other arm was pinned beneath him, difficult to move, and both his legs were trapped. He'd never known anything so dark. So dark it made no difference if his eyes were open or closed. And silent. The only sound his own breathing in the confined space.
He whispered 'Steven' into the darkness, but still there was no answer. He reached out and touched Steven's body. He shook Steven again, but still there was no response or movement, and something else now... coldness. Unlike before, no warmth coming through as his hand pressed against Steven's small chest.
He'd found a cat in the garden the year before, cold to the touch, his mother scolding him when he told her he was trying to get it to wake up. He knew what Steven's coldness meant. His tears welled, gasps for breath catching harder in his throat with the dust thick air. Tears for Steven, but also of fear. A more clawing fear than before. Now he was alone.
He thought of his mother and grandmother, trying to picture them clearly so that it felt as if they were with him now; then his father – which reminded him of Gerry – the last image before the darkness. He traced one hand across Steven's chest, along his arm, until he came to the toy giraffe still in Steven's hand. He went to take it, but Steven's hand was gripped tight. He left it there.
He stayed still and silent for a moment, breathless as he listened for sounds outside. Something faint and distant, but too muffled to discern. And a slight trembling in the ground at intervals. 'Help... help! Help me! he screamed as loud as he could, his lungs aching from the effort then subsiding into racking coughing as they drew in the dust filled air.
Darkness swam again at the back of his eyes, the sensation that his body was spinning down... falling again from the tree branch, the warm summer air bursting into his nostrils with the shock, the sky and leafy branches spinning above. Then the solid thud on his back and head, the air leaving his body in a rush...
He shivered, jolted quickly wide awake again. Silently expectant, the sound of his own breathing suddenly comforting. Fearing in that second that if he slipped again into the darkness, he might never awaken. Like Steven.
The sounds outside hadn't changed: distant, muffled drones, a faint vibration at intervals. No indication that they’d heard him.
He remembered once hiding in his mother's wardrobe, tucked behind her dresses and clothes. And the warm feeling it brought of being cocooned in his own private hideaway, the smooth satin and cotton against his skin, the smell of his mother's perfume still lingering on the cloth. He clung to that memory now, tried to imagine that he was back in her wardrobe, safe and warm. Pushed away the cold desolation surrounding him.
The excavator shunted back and forth, shifting the rubble thrown clear from the mound by the team of searchers.
Mike Wratten was scanning for fresh heat sources when he thought he saw some movement. He stopped and panned quickly back, honing in closer on the pink glow. Nothing now, not even a flicker of movement. Perhaps he was seeing things; the same pink glow he'd seen on and off for the last two hours, but now much smaller. Obviously an area of super-heated rubble, fast cooling over the last few hours.
He studied it a moment longer. But with still no sign of movement, he moved on.
'Where were you at the time?'
'New Orleans.'
Short silence at the other end of the phone. Then: 'How did you first hear?'
'My mother. My mother phoned me. She was the first to find out – when she went to pick up Daniel from the nursery.'
Another silence. No reprimands, no 'you should have been there's,' as Josette had expected. Just silence. And now in a way she wished they had come, the silence was far more awkward.
As if reading his silent admonition, she muttered, 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been away. Shouldn't have left him!' She clenched her eyes tight. But no tears now. She'd cried on the way to the airport, cried in the back of another taxi from Washington National, cried when she'd first embraced her mother and gained the latest on the search. Now there were no tears left; just anger, frustration. 'I'd do anything to change things. If only–'
'No, don't. Don't. There was nothing you could do. If you'd been in Washington, it would have been the same.'
'It was a terrible for my mother to have to face it alone. I should have been there. You know, it was almost two hours before she was able to reach me.'
More silence. And then she realized: she wanted the punishment! She'd envisaged a conversation with Sammy attacking and her defending. And now that it hadn't come, she felt the need to self-reprimand.
Her eyes darted around the hotel lobby, suddenly conscious of the people around. Five or six people by reception, but none of them looking in her direction. The excitable conversation and laughter she'd heard had come from a cocktail lounge beyond.
She'd purposely sought a pay phone well clear of the cacophony on 14th St; she didn't want to have to strain to hear Sammy in Africa above the wailing of sirens and frantic shouts from the search and rescue teams. She headed half a mile away to the Madison Hotel on 15th St. But it was hardly better. Above the sound of laughter and clink of glasses from the after dinner crowd in the cocktail lounge came the strains of a piano player's instrumental version of 'Mandy.'
'I'm going to fly out,' Sammy said. 'Although I'm not sure when's the next flight – it could be as much as seven or eight hours.'
'Are you sure? That's just the period when there might be some news. You know I'd phone you the moment I heard anything.'
A deep sigh. 'I know. I just feel I should be there. I feel guilty because I haven't been there for you and Daniel for much of the past year. And now I don't even know if I'll see him again.'
Josette could hear Sammy's voice breaking at the other end. That was why he hadn't reprimanded. He felt guilty too.
Crackling came across the line between Somalia and Washington with another long silence. She pictured Sammy in his hotel room, probably tired and sweaty after a hard morning's photo-shoot; now crumpled, defeated, head in hands with the news she'd brought. Two absent, guilty parents suddenly bonded by the portent of their crushing loss. Despite the distance, she felt an empathy and closeness with Sammy she hadn't felt since the early days of their marriage.
'There's still some hope,' she said. 'We can't give up.'
'I know.'
But what hope was there? After two found alive early on and only one more out of the last five, there’d been nothing now for over an hour. She'd made so many bargains with God the past few hours that Daniel was found alive, and although she thought the well had been dried and it was the last place she'd planned to – in this hotel lobby with its constantly changing cast of strangers – she burst into tears again.
'Don't, don't,' Sammy soothed. 'That's it. I'm catching the next flight. I'll be there... I'll be there.'
Mike Wratten took the polystyrene cup his search team mate, Dalziel, had brought from the corner diner. The creamer was separate; Wratten tipped it in and stirred with a plastic spoon. The steam from the cup and his breath showed on the night air. Suddenly he stopped, staring thoughtfully at the black and cream swirling together into brown.
'What is it?' asked Dalziel. 'They got the order wrong?'
'No, no. Just reminded me of something,' Wratten said absently. A large pink glow with a thin oblong gap at its center. He tried now to picture in his mind what he'd seen on screen. It was the wrong shape for a body, but he'd wondered at the time about the dark oblong shape.
Wratten took a sip of coffee, nodded at Dalziel. 'Come and look over my shoulder for a second. I want your opinion on something.'
Wratten put down his coffee and picked up the sensor scanner, swivelled and searched until he found the area. 'See there. Originally it was a larger glow with an oblong gap at the center. Because of its shape, I put it down to some super-heated rubble, with the heat from the explosion not quite reaching its center. But look now – the pink's faded just from one side. Why not evenly all around?'
'I don't know. Maybe one side of the rock got more heat from the blast than the other.'
'Possibly. But I seem to remember the glows being pretty much even all around. Now picture something else: two people huddled close together, just an oblong gap between them. And one of them dies. Now look again.'
The realization hit Dalziel. 'Jesus!' He saw what Wratten had suddenly visualized stirring his coffee. 'But there'd have to be a good air gap to sustain them both. It's now five hours they've been there.'
'I know.' Wratten looked frantically towards the ground radar gantry. Maybe it was a flicker of movement he'd seen down there twenty minutes ago. He took the heat sensor with him to match readings.
With the renewed activity, McLoughlin came over. 'What is it?'
'Possibly another one alive down there.'
'Child or adult?'
'It looks quite small. Child, I'd say.'
'Why wasn't it picked up earlier?'
'Long story,' Wratten said. He was busy matching calibrations with the ground radar operator, Saunders. 'One twelve across, two eighteen down. Okay... have you got it yet?'
'Almost... just swinging down now. Two seventeen... eighteen. Yep – got it clear now. There's a gap there.'
The varying shades of grey and black on screen meant little to McLoughlin.
Saunders started measuring calibrations for size, making calculations on a piece of paper to one side. He looked up finally. 'Two point nine, maybe three cubic metres at most.'
'How long would that give them?' McLoughlin asked.
'Seven, maybe eight hours.'
McLoughlin looked relieved. That meant there was at least two hours of oxygen left. Still a tough task given the five or six feet of rubble in between, but achievable.
'The problem is, I think originally there were two of them in that same space,' Wratten said. 'One of them's now dead.'
'For how long were there two of them?' Saunders asked.
'I'm not sure. But probably at least the first two or three hours.'
Saunders shrugged. 'Now we're talking about five hours, six tops.'
McLoughlin's eyes darted desperately between the screen and the mountain of rubble. He wished now he hadn't known. It had been frustrating and soul destroying enough watching the succession of lifeless bodies dragged from the rubble, marked off on his register and then bagged for the morgue. But it was quite another thing to know with certainty that a small body lay alive down there. And know with equal certainty that there was no way they could reach it in time.
The Last Witness
Roman was in heaven. Having watched Viana writhe in the club half the night, now she was writhing on top of him.
He held his hands by her waist as if to guide her, but her body had a rhythm and purpose all of its own. He tried to match his thrusts to it, but more often than not he’d be a beat out, so would just relax and let her do it all. It was as if she mimed all evening to screwing, just building up to the real thing so that she could let it all go with one final, virtuoso performance.
That’s why he liked to show up half an hour early for the take when he was planning to head home with her. He could look at her dancing and gloat: you guys are just getting the play-acting, I’ll be getting the real thing. The anticipation added to his excitement: that was his build-up.
She’d already had one orgasm, and the second was even more tumultuous, bringing him to a finish at the same time – quicker than he’d have liked. He was trying to draw it out, savour the experience longer. She shuddered with a last few strangled gasps and then lay on top of him, her breath hot in his ear, her chest rising and falling hard as she clawed back to normality.
Her gasps and screams had been loud enough to make neighbours think she was being murdered – except that his nearest Mount Royal neighbours were at least a Cadillac length away behind thick brownstone walls.
Her breathing gradually settled, but he could still feel her heart racing hard. Her body poured out heat like a steam blanket against him, and he could feel her still moist and pressing against his thigh. Another moment to savour – but there was no point in delaying longer. He’d not wanted to broach the topic before sex; he would have spoilt the mood. Now that was over, and time was tight: he still had to get back to the club later with Funicelli. He rolled her off gently, but the jolt in the mood still registered faintly in her eyes. He touched her face with the back of one hand: re-assurance.
‘Babe, I’ve got this little problem… but I think you might just be ideal to help me out with it.’
‘What sort of problem?’ Curiosity rather than suspicion: he’d never before asked anything of her outside of sex.
Roman ran through the story he’d constructed: Georges was fooling around, it was threatening all sorts of problems with Simone and the rest of the family, but the problem was he didn’t have proof. So his only choice left was to set him up and take a few photos, and that was where Viana and an escort agency girl he’d arranged came in. She looked perplexed, doubt starting to set in, so he jumped quickly to the money.
‘This is important to me, so I’m paying top dollar. Eight grand – and don’t worry none about paying for supplies the next four, five months.’ He gently touched her nose. ‘The treats on me.’
Her smile slowly emerged. ‘That’s good of you, Roman. Thanks.’ Her eyes flickered, searching his fleetingly. ‘This must be important to you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, as I say… it is.’ He knew he’d have to be generous: she earned fifteen hundred dollars some weeks. But probably the nose candy was enticing her most.
A sly twinkle suddenly came to her eyes. ‘Anyways, Georges… I always thought he was quite a cutie. Would hardly seem like work.’
Roman sat up, bristling. He reached out and pinched her cheek. ‘Look – this is just play-acting. You’re not there to fuck him for real. Besides, he’s gonna be zonked from what you put in his drink back at your place, so this’ll just be look-good stuff for the camera.’ He gave one last hard pinch and pushed her face away in disgust.
She came sidling up against him after a second, stroking the nape of his neck. ‘Come on… I was just teasing, Roman. But I didn’t know you cared so.’
‘That’s where you got that wrong. I don’t care… that’s why I’m fuckin’ paying you.’ He remained rigid a moment more before finally giving in to her insistent stroking. He shrugged and smiled reluctantly. ‘Well, maybe when you’ve just fucked my brains out like now, I do care just a little.’ Her hand froze on his neck, and he gripped it and pushed her back on the bed, straddling her. Her eyes glared back at him for a moment before realizing from his smile that he was teasing too. But he was glad in a way that she’d chosen to rib him over Georges: it would make what was coming easier.
The tension gone between them, he ran through the rest: Someone from the club that she’d made the mistake of dating. He’d become a bit freaky and possessive, was waiting outside her place the night before, and they’d ended up having a fight. Could Georges run her home, see her safely into her apartment? She was afraid the guy might be waiting for her again that night.
She grasped the plan clearly after only a couple of minor questions, except for one point. ‘A fight? Would it be enough just that I’m rattled, afraid?’
‘No, I think we’re going to have to be a little more convincing.’
‘What? I put on some make-up for it to look like bruising or something?’
‘No… I don’t think so. He might pick up that it’s just make-up, get suspicious.’ This was the best part, watching that gradual dawning of realization on her face. He was still straddled on top of her, and her eyes darted uncomprehendingly for a moment before settling on him.
‘No, Roman… no way. My face is my work, my money.’
‘Sorry, doll… I just don’t see any other way round.’ Fear settled in her eyes and she grappled out frantically with her hands to push him away. He pushed one arm back easily with his left hand and pinned the other under his right knee. ‘The bruising will be gone in just a week – back to normal.’
‘No, Romy… please… please.’ She writhed and bucked to try and shake him loose, but he had her pinned too tight. Her breath came short with the effort, verging finally into tears and gasping sobs as she realized the futility. She wasn’t going to get free. ‘Noooo… please!’
‘I’ll round it off to ten grand – and just think of all that nose candy.’ He cocked his right fist above her face.
‘No, Roman… don’t do this to me, I’m begging you… nooooo!’ She shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face. She let out a piercing scream that went straight through him, and he dug his knee harder into her left arm.
‘Shut the fuck up and keep your head still – unless you want to get your fucking nose broken as well.’
Her head stopped shaking and she stared straight up at him, her pupils dark and dilated, full of terror. He drank in that terror for a moment, wallowing in the heady sense of power. Combined with her body’s trembling it told him that finally he was in control, all her resistance had burnt out. But there was a plea beneath her eyes that he found disturbing.
‘Or maybe turn your head a little so that I can be sure of a clear shot.’
She slowly, reluctantly turned her head to one side, tears streaming unashamedly down her face. Her body trembled beneath him like a trapped humming bird, her only sound a muted whimper as she bit tautly at her bottom lip; and with his final, ‘Sorry, babe,’ her eyes fluttered gently shut a second before his fist came down.
The Shadow Chaser
Engaged. Engaged. Engaged.
André tried Veruschka’s number every other minute as the stations flashed by. Still engaged. He decided to try Porcelet’s number again. Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Damn! That was engaged now as well. Last time it had rung four times and then gone into an answerphone. Unconsciously his other hand had balled tight and was beating a rapid tattoo on his thigh as the train hurtled along.
He tried Charlotte’s number again, letting it ring seven times before he finally gave up. Still no answer.
‘Don’t worry. Everything’s probably okay,’ Marielle offered. ‘People say the strangest things when they’re upset. She’s probably just nipped out to the shops or is busy with a customer and can’t come to the phone.’
André nodded, chewing at his bottom lip. Maybe she was right. But looking into Marielle’s eyes, he could see that she was only half convinced by her own assurances. Heavy doubt and worry lay there too.
What would Charlotte do? Take pills and cut her wrists, like Sylvana. Or maybe she wasn’t answering because right now she was wandering around looking for a bridge to jump off. He stared pensively into the darkness of the tunnel rushing by his window. The sudden burst of light stung his eyes.
‘It’s our station,’ Marielle announced.
And as soon as the doors were open, they sprinted along the platform and took the escalator steps two at a time. As they neared the top, André’s mobile started ringing; he was heavily out of breath as he answered. It was Henri Porcelet.
‘You left a message. Something about your wife… you were worried about her. I tried you back a moment ago, but you were engaged.’
‘Yes… yes. Thanks for calling back.’ André struggled for breath as he fed in his ticket and went through the barrier behind Marielle. ‘Have you seen my wife this afternoon? Has she been in the shop?’
‘No, I haven’t. I saw her this morning and at lunch time. But for the last couple of hours I haven’t seen her, and the shop is closed now. And I… I was starting to wonder about her in fact because of water coming through from her apartment above – when your call came through.’
‘Water?’
‘Well, I… I think it’s water. It has a pinkish tinge, and for a moment I thought it might be pink champagne.’ Porcelet forced an awkward laugh. ‘But it’s probably just rust from the pipes.’
Pinkish tinge. André’s stomach sank. She’d chosen exactly the same way as Sylvana. Cut her wrists and let the bath overflow. Eleven night lights spread around – André forgot the symbolism of the number – and a mass of petals on the water. The picture had made page seven in ‘Le Soir’. Her last shot at fame.
‘Can you please… please check on her. Go up and ring her door. I’m desperately worried something might have happened to her.’
Marielle frantically flagged down a taxi, and a dark blue Peugeot pulled in.
‘Yes… yes, of course,’ Porcelet said. ‘I can do that for you.’
Marielle shouted ‘Rue de l’Eperon’ to the taxi driver, and they jumped into the back. ‘Number fifty-seven.’
‘I should be with you in only four or five minutes,’ André said. ‘We’ve just got in a taxi at Les Halles. But it’s urgent that she’s checked on immediately. Every minute could count.’
‘I understand. I’ll… I’ll go up right now.’ Porcelet’s voice quavered; he was obviously uncomfortable with this errand, starting to worry about what might confront him.
‘Thanks.’ André rang off and dialled straight out again to Verushcka. Now at least he knew what he wanted from the children: to stop them getting to the apartment and seeing the nightmare scene he feared awaited there. The images of Sylvana in her blood-soaked bath swam inside his head, made him dizzy. Or was it the movement of the taxi fishtailing as it sped through the traffic?
Two rings. Three. André began to panic again when finally it answered at the start of the fourth ring.
‘Veruschka! I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Where are you now?’
‘At the corner of l’Eperon. Why?’
‘Thank God!’ André eased out a laboured breath. ‘Thank God I got hold of you in time. It’s important that you and Joël don’t go up to see your mother right now.’
‘Why?’ Veruschka looked anxiously towards Joël thirty yards ahead pacing determinedly towards their mother’s. Hopefully he’d glance back, as he usually did when she stayed on the corner and let him go on alone, and she’d wave and hold him back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s just something I’m worried might have happened with your mother. I might be…’ The taxi swerved wildly and a horn blared from behind. ‘Look – just don’t go up there right now, that’s all.’
‘But Joël’s walking ahead of me.’ She broke off and shouted out, ‘Joël! Joël!’ But a large truck passing drowned out her voice and blocked her vision for a second. When she had sight of him again, he hadn’t turned around and was still pacing steadily away. He hadn’t heard.
She shouted again, but, combined with the traffic noise, he was now too far away to hear. Veruschka started running after him.
‘Why aren’t you with him?’ André snapped. ‘We told you to always –’
‘I don’t have time for that now,’ Veruschka said breathlessly. ‘I’m trying to catch him.’
She shouted Joël! again, but the same truck was only twenty yards ahead and revving heavily, caught in a jam behind a few cars as someone parked. Joël didn’t turn around.
‘Have you caught up with him yet?’ André pressed, but no answer came. Only Veruschka’s rapid breathing and her pounding footsteps almost in time with his own pulse; background traffic sounds for a moment were hard to distinguish from those around him, a car behind beeping twice as their taxi cut sharply in front of him. Another swerve and fishtail to get in the outer lane, then their driver floored it approaching the Pont Neuf.
André felt suddenly dizzy with it all: the swaying of the taxi, Veruschka’s pounding footsteps, his own adrenalin rush and rapid pulse. Bridge. And as they hit the bridge and he saw the water, he closed his eyes. But suddenly it was no longer water there, but the rows of tombstones stretching into the distance. I can’t save them all, I can’t… Lights hit his eyes in a flaring burst, a slowly expanding arc as Charlotte’s apartment door swung open, and he saw clearly the horror and trauma reflected on young Joël’s face – but he couldn’t make out what Joël saw in that moment beyond the door, the searing light whited everything out…
He opened his eyes to see a car coming directly towards them, its lights flashing frantically. Their taxi swung back in again and the car’s blaring horn dopplered quickly past.
‘Have you caught up with him?’ André repeated.
‘No. But don’t worry, I will.’ Joël was only five yards from the entrance. She felt sure that he’d look back just before going inside, as he did every day.
‘We’re just crossing the Pont Neuf. I should be with you in only two minutes.’
‘Okay.’ Joël was only a yard away from the entrance. She moved the mobile away from her mouth and shouted ‘Joël!’ one last time.
Joël’s shoulders seemed to flinch slightly, as if her shout had hit him and caused a moment’s indecision; but then as quickly the flinch was shook off and he continued on without altering pace or looking back.
André tried Veruschka’s number every other minute as the stations flashed by. Still engaged. He decided to try Porcelet’s number again. Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Damn! That was engaged now as well. Last time it had rung four times and then gone into an answerphone. Unconsciously his other hand had balled tight and was beating a rapid tattoo on his thigh as the train hurtled along.
He tried Charlotte’s number again, letting it ring seven times before he finally gave up. Still no answer.
‘Don’t worry. Everything’s probably okay,’ Marielle offered. ‘People say the strangest things when they’re upset. She’s probably just nipped out to the shops or is busy with a customer and can’t come to the phone.’
André nodded, chewing at his bottom lip. Maybe she was right. But looking into Marielle’s eyes, he could see that she was only half convinced by her own assurances. Heavy doubt and worry lay there too.
What would Charlotte do? Take pills and cut her wrists, like Sylvana. Or maybe she wasn’t answering because right now she was wandering around looking for a bridge to jump off. He stared pensively into the darkness of the tunnel rushing by his window. The sudden burst of light stung his eyes.
‘It’s our station,’ Marielle announced.
And as soon as the doors were open, they sprinted along the platform and took the escalator steps two at a time. As they neared the top, André’s mobile started ringing; he was heavily out of breath as he answered. It was Henri Porcelet.
‘You left a message. Something about your wife… you were worried about her. I tried you back a moment ago, but you were engaged.’
‘Yes… yes. Thanks for calling back.’ André struggled for breath as he fed in his ticket and went through the barrier behind Marielle. ‘Have you seen my wife this afternoon? Has she been in the shop?’
‘No, I haven’t. I saw her this morning and at lunch time. But for the last couple of hours I haven’t seen her, and the shop is closed now. And I… I was starting to wonder about her in fact because of water coming through from her apartment above – when your call came through.’
‘Water?’
‘Well, I… I think it’s water. It has a pinkish tinge, and for a moment I thought it might be pink champagne.’ Porcelet forced an awkward laugh. ‘But it’s probably just rust from the pipes.’
Pinkish tinge. André’s stomach sank. She’d chosen exactly the same way as Sylvana. Cut her wrists and let the bath overflow. Eleven night lights spread around – André forgot the symbolism of the number – and a mass of petals on the water. The picture had made page seven in ‘Le Soir’. Her last shot at fame.
‘Can you please… please check on her. Go up and ring her door. I’m desperately worried something might have happened to her.’
Marielle frantically flagged down a taxi, and a dark blue Peugeot pulled in.
‘Yes… yes, of course,’ Porcelet said. ‘I can do that for you.’
Marielle shouted ‘Rue de l’Eperon’ to the taxi driver, and they jumped into the back. ‘Number fifty-seven.’
‘I should be with you in only four or five minutes,’ André said. ‘We’ve just got in a taxi at Les Halles. But it’s urgent that she’s checked on immediately. Every minute could count.’
‘I understand. I’ll… I’ll go up right now.’ Porcelet’s voice quavered; he was obviously uncomfortable with this errand, starting to worry about what might confront him.
‘Thanks.’ André rang off and dialled straight out again to Verushcka. Now at least he knew what he wanted from the children: to stop them getting to the apartment and seeing the nightmare scene he feared awaited there. The images of Sylvana in her blood-soaked bath swam inside his head, made him dizzy. Or was it the movement of the taxi fishtailing as it sped through the traffic?
Two rings. Three. André began to panic again when finally it answered at the start of the fourth ring.
‘Veruschka! I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Where are you now?’
‘At the corner of l’Eperon. Why?’
‘Thank God!’ André eased out a laboured breath. ‘Thank God I got hold of you in time. It’s important that you and Joël don’t go up to see your mother right now.’
‘Why?’ Veruschka looked anxiously towards Joël thirty yards ahead pacing determinedly towards their mother’s. Hopefully he’d glance back, as he usually did when she stayed on the corner and let him go on alone, and she’d wave and hold him back. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s just something I’m worried might have happened with your mother. I might be…’ The taxi swerved wildly and a horn blared from behind. ‘Look – just don’t go up there right now, that’s all.’
‘But Joël’s walking ahead of me.’ She broke off and shouted out, ‘Joël! Joël!’ But a large truck passing drowned out her voice and blocked her vision for a second. When she had sight of him again, he hadn’t turned around and was still pacing steadily away. He hadn’t heard.
She shouted again, but, combined with the traffic noise, he was now too far away to hear. Veruschka started running after him.
‘Why aren’t you with him?’ André snapped. ‘We told you to always –’
‘I don’t have time for that now,’ Veruschka said breathlessly. ‘I’m trying to catch him.’
She shouted Joël! again, but the same truck was only twenty yards ahead and revving heavily, caught in a jam behind a few cars as someone parked. Joël didn’t turn around.
‘Have you caught up with him yet?’ André pressed, but no answer came. Only Veruschka’s rapid breathing and her pounding footsteps almost in time with his own pulse; background traffic sounds for a moment were hard to distinguish from those around him, a car behind beeping twice as their taxi cut sharply in front of him. Another swerve and fishtail to get in the outer lane, then their driver floored it approaching the Pont Neuf.
André felt suddenly dizzy with it all: the swaying of the taxi, Veruschka’s pounding footsteps, his own adrenalin rush and rapid pulse. Bridge. And as they hit the bridge and he saw the water, he closed his eyes. But suddenly it was no longer water there, but the rows of tombstones stretching into the distance. I can’t save them all, I can’t… Lights hit his eyes in a flaring burst, a slowly expanding arc as Charlotte’s apartment door swung open, and he saw clearly the horror and trauma reflected on young Joël’s face – but he couldn’t make out what Joël saw in that moment beyond the door, the searing light whited everything out…
He opened his eyes to see a car coming directly towards them, its lights flashing frantically. Their taxi swung back in again and the car’s blaring horn dopplered quickly past.
‘Have you caught up with him?’ André repeated.
‘No. But don’t worry, I will.’ Joël was only five yards from the entrance. She felt sure that he’d look back just before going inside, as he did every day.
‘We’re just crossing the Pont Neuf. I should be with you in only two minutes.’
‘Okay.’ Joël was only a yard away from the entrance. She moved the mobile away from her mouth and shouted ‘Joël!’ one last time.
Joël’s shoulders seemed to flinch slightly, as if her shout had hit him and caused a moment’s indecision; but then as quickly the flinch was shook off and he continued on without altering pace or looking back.
The Crescent Wars
The East Beirut unit of the International Red Cross was busy that morning. It had been used mainly as a drugs distribution centre for the surrounding medical units, but this morning, as with many mornings recently, it had taken the overflow from the main hospital in Beirut. The normal wards were filled, and the overflow had come down into the basement, among the pipes and pillars that fed and supported the giant above. Virtually every space was filled, leaving only two clear aisles, and even the pipes had served a purpose by supporting traction ropes.
The basement had been cleaned and scrubbed, but the rough-cast walls and floors quickly built up dirt from the belching fumes of the pumps and boilers.
There were fifteen new casualties in that morning, to add to the forty already there. Daniel Grade tried to shut off his ears from the sounds as he walked along one of the makeshift aisles past rows of beds. The babble of voices was broken only by the biting commands and instructions of doctors and the occasional wheeze and moan of those in pain.
He had been directed down to the basement from above, and now he asked one of the doctors, ‘Where will I find Leorah Ajlan?’
The doctor pointed towards the far corner, where the pillars were closer together. Grade could just make her out among the shadows. Two bare bulbs were strung over the pipes, making the shadows more pronounced. He made his way across.
It was hotter there from the large boiler in the corner. Grade was loosening his collar when she came into a patch of light and looked up.
‘Miss Ajlan?’ he enquired. ‘Daniel Grade. I phoned earlier.’
‘Yes, Mr Grade,’ she said, and she turned and busied herself with pouring a clear pink liquid from a bottle into a measuring jug. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not being rude, but your call spoke of urgency … and today I was scheduled to be here.’
Grade noticed first her long dark hair, but her face was still partly in shadow; his fleeting impression was of large, soulful eyes, an almost Madonna-like face. He wondered whether it was just the half-light. ‘No, that’s all right,’ he re-assured.
‘I help out, you see.’
‘Yes, I see.’
They both looked at each other for a moment, as if inviting the other to speak first.
‘It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to the journalist’s plight.’ She smiled. ‘I think you could still just about call me one.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Ah, you’ve been doing your homework, Mr Grade.’ She wagged a finger at him, then beckoned and led him down the aisle. ‘Please let me show you something first.’
Grade studied her from behind as she made her way along. Out of the shadows, her beauty was all the more evident. He had expected someone curt and matronly, with short hair. The surprise was pleasant.
‘There are almost two hundred patients in here now,’ she waved one hand, ‘in a hospital designed for just over a hundred. And of those, a good fifty will be released well before the prescribed time to make room for incoming cases. A sad fact we have to face.’ She took a fresh breath. ‘This is one of only five ICRC units which work in close conjunction with the Lebanese Red Cross, my own unit. The Palestinians have their own hospital in the city — the “red crescent”.’
‘So your unit represents the Christian element?’ asked Grade.
‘No, religion doesn’t come into it. The ICRC and the Lebanese Red Cross aid both Christians and Muslims alike. The Palestinians merely have their own units because their camps are set apart. I think they feel isolated by that factor.’
A doctor came over. ‘Your favourite boy’s awake. He’s been in and out of the anaesthetic for almost the last hour now.’
Leorah’s expression became intent, and she looked across sharply. With a brief nod, the doctor led the way.
The boy hardly acknowledged them as they approached; the ‘No solids’ notice remained at the foot of his bed and he was still slightly dopey.
‘He was very good really,’ the doctor added. ‘We had to cut the leg, but we got all the infection out. I think it will take quite well now.’
‘But I thought you said the leg would be all right.’ Leorah looked at him accusingly.
‘Yes, yes, we could save the leg, of course. But we had to cut out a cartilage. It was just too badly damaged, I’m afraid.’
Leorah looked down at the boy and stayed in silence for a moment. Then she reached out and stroked his forehead as he lightly slept.
He muttered, ‘Ummhat,’ and opened his eyes; then they slowly fluttered shut again.
‘He’ll be able to walk perfectly well,’ the doctor reassured her. ‘But I’m afraid most athletics will be out. He’ll also experience a slight limp for a while, but a few months’ physiotherapy should put that in order.’
‘He probably won’t even remember me,’ she said quietly. She felt elated, but at the same time cheated. She had wanted more for him. So much more. She had a sudden picture of other children running and jumping and playing, and him just sitting watching them, quietly, thoughtful. She turned away as the tears came to her eyes.
Grade could sense the special tie between them.
‘Someone you know?’ he asked.
‘No, it was a boy that I saved from Zalqa. From the ashes and rubble of Zalqa.’ Her sorrow turned quickly to anger. She turned her back to hide her tears, but she knew that it had showed in the quavering of her voice. She spoke quickly over her shoulder. ‘Thank you, doctor.’ And led Grade away.
She didn’t speak again until they had almost reached the far end of the room, back near the main entrance doors.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grade, I should be getting on with things. There’ll obviously be a lot of information you need.’
‘It’s something more specific. An event that occurred at the beginning of the war.’
‘Which event in particular?’
Grade looked around; it was busy by the doors. ‘It’s difficult to talk here.’
Leorah studied him carefully. On the phone, he’d spoken of urgency, but then she’d merely interpreted that as impatience. Even as she’d seen him walk in, he’d seemed to confirm that impression: squat, bullish and impatient. But as he’d walked closer, she realized that really he was quite tall, it was only his broad frame that had made him seem smaller.
And his blue eyes seemed quite frank and open. He had been prepared to let her go at her own pace, allow her the few minutes of indulgence with the boy, Rashid. She began to revise her opinion of Daniel Grade. She made a concession by walking a few paces towards a quieter corner.
‘Can you at least give me some clue?’
Grade paused, taking a fresh breath. ‘It concerns the assassination of Al-Hakim and Khourem almost eighteen months ago, before the start of the war. You did a report on it for the Yaumi Rassul at the time. You were the first journalist on the scene, I believe.’
Leorah glanced around. ‘How do you know this?’
‘From a man called Anton Reiner. A banker in Switzerland — you spoke to him.’ Grade could see her searching back through her memory.
‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I spoke to him once on the phone. Quite briefly. Over a month ago now.’
Grade in turn showed his surprise. ‘You mean he didn’t come here personally? He didn’t fill you in on what was happening, perhaps forewarn you of my visit?’
‘Oh yes, he shared his thoughts with me briefly,’ Leorah said. ‘And he said someone might contact me, but not you specifically, Mr Grade. Quite honestly, I’d almost forgotten about it. He said simply that he got my name through my articles on the assassinations of Al-Hakim and Khourem, and since he suspected a possible Swiss connection he was particularly interested in my own theories on outside involvement. If he sent someone to see me, might I care to expand on those theories? That was the long and short of it.’
Grade looked around hastily. The nearby bustle of the hospital still imposed on them, cramping his thoughts. ‘Look, when I said it would be difficult to talk here, I was thinking as much of you.’
Leorah smiled wryly. She also should have given more credence to his tact and discretion. ‘You’re right, Mr Grade.’ She glanced at her watch and then asked for a bit of his notepaper and wrote something down. ‘If you come about nine o’clock.’
Grade looked briefly at the address, then tucked it into his top pocket.
‘Would you normally have eaten by then?’
‘Well, er, yes,’ Grade stumbled.
‘Well, don’t eat before you come along. In the Lebanon we eat late, and I have no wish to be eating alone while you ask me questions. Nothing could be more off-putting.’ She turned with a half-smile and went back along the aisle, busying herself with moving some bandage rolls.
Grade went out and up into the foyer without looking back. It struck him that he had had enough of hospitals, especially since he felt uneasy in them at the best of times. In a hospital full of suffering humanity, that unease was almost overwhelming, and already, without even doing the ghoul’s tour of the desecrated streets outside, he could feel the atmosphere of the war — the toll in blood, pain and anguish — permeating through to his very bones.
He pushed the thought away and went through the double doors, not quite sure what to make of Leorah Ajlan. She was disarmingly beautiful, and her moods changed rapidly — in their brief conversation, from offhand to near flirtation. But her expression as he’d mentioned Al-Hakim and Khourem had overshadowed, as if the memory still pained her.
He would try and enjoy the evening before he asked her about that.