Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette

by John Dummer

  He pocketed what was left of his money and I followed him out to fetch the van. We pulled it round the front of the barn and began to load up. Some of the pieces of furniture were so heavy we puffed and blew as we staggered under their weight. I could see now why the farmer and his son had knocked them to bits. In their original form they would have been virtually impossible to shift.

  The van was soon full and groaning under the burden of the heavy oak and walnut sides and doors. We drove to Serge's place, unloaded it and stopped for a quick lunch. When we got back to the farm the family were nowhere to be seen. Most of the pig had vanished. There was just the head, the neck and a couple of haunches left in the trough. All the innards had gone, no doubt salted away for further preparation. The dog had disappeared as well. His chain hung empty from the barn wall. I prayed his slavering jaws were chewing on a tasty piece of piggy somewhere and he'd be too preoccupied to spring out and bite us.

  The dust had settled in the tumbledown outbuilding and although the remaining pile of furniture still looked pretty daunting, the end was in sight. 'Another van load should do it,' said Serge, spitting on his hands.

  We sorted through the remaining oak boards and pieces and I kept a weather eye out for the German shepherd. I couldn't imagine the farmer letting a dangerous dog loose to roam about, but I wasn't entirely convinced. There was a fruitwood door with worn brass hinges leaning against the wall. This lifted Serge's spirits somewhat. He reckoned it was part of an eighteenth-century buffet that, once reassembled, could be worth at least double what he'd paid out.

  When we lifted it up to pack it in the van, I noticed an oval opening in the wall with a crumbling brick surround and rusting iron bars. It appeared to be some sort of cellar and I got a shock when something moved deep down in the darkness. For one terrible moment I thought this might be where the dog was kept when he wasn't out on the chain frightening people. But then two hands grasped the bars and a face materialised. It was wild and grubby, framed in a shock of dark curly hair. Two brown eyes looked into mine. I blinked, and the face was gone.

  2

  POLICE AND PRISONERS

  'Come on, let's get this last lot finished and we can call it a day.' Serge had come back in from loading. I pointed at the hole in the wall.

  'Yes, yes, it's a cattle window,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'The peasants probably kept a few cows down there separated from the goats or whatever up here – the window was there so they could munch away at the straw through the bars.'

  'There's someone in there.' He looked at me as if he hadn't understood. 'I saw someone… a face.'

  Serge grinned at me as if I was joking about. 'It's probably one of the kids playing down there. Come on.' He grasped a heavy oak board. 'Grab the other end of this and we'll press on. We haven't got all day.'

  I ignored him, bending down close to the bars and peering through. 'Believe me, it's nothing,' he said. 'You're seeing things, my friend.'

  I picked up the board with him and we plonked it in the back of the van. But I couldn't stop thinking about the face. I hurried back inside just in time to catch the twinkle of a pair of eyes and see two hands slip away from the bars again. Serge, who was close behind me, had seen them too. 'Do you know what, I think you may be right. How very strange.'

  We made a circuit of the barn and discovered a heavily bolted locked door on the far side. 'This is a bit unusual,' said Serge. 'I've never known outbuildings locked like this unless there's a dangerous animal inside. Look, it's really none of our business. I'm sure there's some perfectly sensible explanation. Let's just finish loading up and get out of here.'

  'How can you say that? If someone is shut in down there they need our help. We can't ignore this.'

  'Just watch me,' said Serge. 'Listen, British, strange things go on in the country. If we took notice of every odd thing we came across, we'd never get anything done.'

  He led the way back into the barn and began to sort through the pieces. I couldn't take my eyes off the barred window. As we lifted another heavy section of furniture the face reappeared. We both stood straining but unable to move, fascinated. There was no mistaking the fear in the eyes. I looked at Serge and we slowly lowered the piece. When I looked back the face had gone. Serge shook his head and we carried on. We managed to get all the rest of the bits in the van. Serge slammed the back doors shut. 'We've got to do something about that poor devil,' I said. 'I couldn't live with myself otherwise.'

  'I'm not sure we should interfere,' said Serge. 'Let's just forget the whole thing.'

  'Someone's shut in down there,' I said. 'I'm going to get him out and if you're not prepared to help me, that's just too bad.'

  I went round to the locked door and after a short search managed to find a key hanging from a length of baler twine on a rusty nail in one of the beams. When I tried it in the padlock it opened with a click. Serge had joined me. His curiosity had overridden his desire to make a quick getaway. We shot back the bolt, pulled open the heavy barn door and peered in. It was dark as a wolf's mouth in there. Just a soft glow of light from the barred window. Serge stepped over the threshold. 'Hello, it's only us. Come out, we won't hurt you.'

  Considering whoever was in there hadn't the faintest idea who we were, I doubted very much they'd be reassured. We stood listening, peering into the darkness. Finally, Serge lost patience. 'See, there's no one there. It was just one of the kids.'

  As he went to pull the barn door shut, there was a sudden rustle in the straw, a thump against the wood and a figure burst out, pushing past, almost knocking us over. It zigzagged across the yard, crouching low, hair bouncing round its shoulders leaving in its wake a distinctive whiff of unwashed body odour. We watched it leap a gate into a nearby field, run up towards some woodland and disappear from sight.

  We stood stunned. The only sound was the gentle cooing of pigeons in the rafters. 'Rude bugger,' said Serge. 'Not much of a conversationalist. I warned you not to interfere, Johnny.'

  'We ought to talk to the farmer,' I said. 'Find out what's going on. Why would anyone be locked in a barn like that?'

  'Like I said, it's none of our business,' said Serge.

  We got back in the van and drove across the deserted yard and out through the gates. 'I think we should let someone know about what's happened,' I said. 'Maybe call in at the nearest gendarmerie and tell them what we saw.'

  'You must be mad,' said Serge, shuddering. 'We never go to the gendarmes about anything… ever! Believe me, it's asking for trouble.'

  We had entered the main street of the nearest village and a 'GENDARMERIE' sign came into view. 'Pull up outside,' I said. 'I'm going to report it.'

  'I honestly don't think we should. It's madness to put your head above the parapet and draw attention to yourself.'

  'Look, there's been some poor devil been kept prisoner in a barn for God knows how long and now he's running free, half out of his mind. We ought to let the authorities know so they can do something about it.'

  Serge pulled into the kerb and turned off the engine. 'All right, if you put it like that. But don't forget who let him out. Be careful what you say. Some gendarmes can be right buggers.'

  We went through the iron gate, up a concrete path and stopped at the varnished wooden door. Serge looked scared. 'And don't forget to call them all m'sieu.' He pulled a face. 'They like that.'

  I pushed open the door and we went in. Inside was an open-plan office with a long, shiny-topped reception desk. A fat ginger cat was fast asleep on a pile of books at one end. We stood and waited, watching a young officer in shirtsleeves with cropped hair poring over some papers, marking crosses with a black Bic pen. It looked like he was filling in his lottery entry form. When I coughed he glanced up and slowly rose, marking a couple of final crosses as he did so. He came over with an expectant look on his face, snapping into official policeman mode.

  'Sorry to bother you, m'sieu,' I said, 'but we felt we ought to report something.' I looked at Serge and he gave me a sheepish smile.
'We were up at a local farm and we discovered something a bit peculiar.'

  'Oh, yes,' said the officer. 'What farm was that then?'

  I described as closely as I could how to get to the place. He looked mystified, as if he was having difficulty understanding me.

  'That accent. You're not from round here?' He said it like an accusation.

  'No, he's a rosbif,' chipped in Serge. 'From England.' He gave a little hysterical laugh. 'I can barely understand what he's on about myself sometimes.'

  The gendarme looked slightly irritated. 'What do you want exactly?'

  An older policeman with a big handlebar moustache had come over to see what was going on. He looked formidable, like he was used to taking charge of difficult situations.

  'We were up at a local farm buying up some old furniture when we saw something bizarre,' I said. 'We thought we ought to report it.'

  'Buying up old furniture?' He sounded surprised.

  'Yes, we're brocanteurs,' I said. 'We were buying furniture from the farmer. We've got it in our van.'

  'Nothing of much value really,' said Serge. 'Just some old bits and pieces.'

  The officer looked as if he was carefully contemplating the information. 'I'm assuming you've got all the necessary papers.'

  There was an element of threat in his voice.

  'Oh, yes, we're professional brocanteurs, m'sieu,' said Serge, obsequiously.

  'Let's see them… the papers.'

  He held out his hand, waiting. Serge turned to me. 'Show them your papers then.' His eyes were panicky.

  I hurriedly searched through my wallet, found my yellow carte professionale and handed it over. The officer examined it closely, studying my face and comparing it with the photo on the card before giving it back. He turned to Serge. 'What about you then?'

  Serge looked cornered. 'Oh, I'm just helping him out. I'm not registered at the moment… Taking a break, so to speak.'

  So that was why he wanted me to come 'cold calling' with him. The crafty old sod. It was all starting to make sense. Without up-to-date professional papers he was vulnerable.

  'But you're a brocanteur as well?' said the policeman.

  'I am sometimes, but…'

  'Only sometimes, is it?'

  'When the work's about,' said Serge. He was starting to lose it. 'When it's quiet in the winter I have a rest… you know… spend time at home with the wife and family.' He gave a sickly smile.

  'Identity card?' said the officer, grimly.

  Serge patted his pockets. He pulled out a filthy grey handkerchief followed by a knotted piece of string and a broken penknife. 'It must be in the van.'

  'Let's go see then, shall we?' said the officer as if he was used to listening to a pack of lies.

  We trooped out to the van and waited while Serge fished around in the glove compartment. The officer with the moustache was losing his patience. 'All right then, let's see your car papers.'

  Serge rummaged around and produced some torn registration documents. Moustache took them gingerly and

  examined them at arm's length as if they were infected. 'OK, now your insurance details.'

  Serge poked around in the front and reappeared empty-handed with a defeated expression. 'I must have left them at home. I'm always worried they'll get stolen.'

  He was cornered. The officer was pleased, as if this was the response he was after. 'You'd best fetch them up here then as soon as you like and show them to me if you want to stay out of trouble.'

  'I will, m'sieu, you have my word on that.'

  'It'll be your funeral if you don't,' said Moustache, noting down the van registration. 'Right then, let's see what you've got in the back.'

  The two of them stood close behind Serge as he swung back the doors to reveal the dusty pieces of ancient wood stacked to the roof. They peered in, as if this were a trick. Moustache picked up a woodwormy lump and examined it. 'You're brocanteurs, you say?' He winked at his colleague. 'Well, that is bits and pieces, just like you said. You've got a bargain here all right.'

  The officer with the crew cut sniggered.

  'If I were you, I'd burn this lot. We won't detain you any longer. On your way,' commanded Moustache.

  Serge went to climb into the van, but I wasn't about to give up so easily. 'There's something strange going on up at that farm,' I said. 'We thought you ought to know.'

  They appeared unable to grasp what I was saying. 'We saw someone locked in a barn up there. It sounds unbelievable, but honestly, it's the truth.'

  They both looked at each other and then Moustache's face lit up. 'Oh, you mean François?'

  'What's he been up to now?' said Crew Cut.

  'Poor old François,' said Moustache. 'Best keep him in the dark till he calms down.'

  'You mean he's not being held prisoner?' I said.

  'Not in the strict sense of the word, no,' said Moustache.

  'At least he's up there close to his family,' Crew Cut chipped in.

  'But he was locked away in the dark in a cold barn,' I said. 'Surely that can't be right?'

  'It's better than having him running around getting up to God knows what sort of mischief,' said Moustache. 'You should have seen what happened last time he was let loose to wander free. We don't want him carted off to hospital again, do we?'

  What had we done? I felt like a perfect idiot.

  Serge leaned out of the window. 'Come on, Johnny. There's your explanation. Let's go.'

  I climbed in beside him reluctantly. 'So, what did he actually get up to last time?' I asked, not really wanting to know but unable to stop myself.

  'Best not talk about it,' said Moustache. 'These rumours have a habit of spreading and then where would we be, eh?' He rapped on the van roof. 'And don't forget those insurance papers, you,' he said to Serge.

  As we drove off I could see them both grinning happily. We had proved to be an amusing diversion to an otherwise boring afternoon.

  Serge was fuming. 'See, I told you, never go to the gendarmes about anything… ever.'

  'But how can they know about someone being held prisoner and condone it like that?' I said. 'It's like something out of the Middle Ages.'

  'It's nothing to do with us, like I told you, but you wouldn't listen. Now just look at all the trouble I'm in. How am I going to sort out insurance papers in time?'

  We drove along in silence. After a bit I said, 'I didn't know you were resting, taking time off to be with your wife and family. In fact, I didn't even know you had a wife and family.'

  'Yes, well sometimes you have to tell those sons of bitches what they want to hear. We got off lightly there. Maybe next time you'll listen to what I say.'

  We arrived at his apartment and unloaded the stuff into the ground-floor garage. I left him to it, trying to sort out which bit went with which, puzzling over how to put them together. But as I drove home I couldn't stop thinking about old François. What sort of mischief was he getting up to now? He could have been a crazed psychotic killer as far as I knew. What had we done?

  Serge phoned me early the next morning, sounding desperate. 'I'm having a bit of trouble here, rosbif. You don't think you could come over and give me a hand, do you?'

  I turned up to find him in the garage with all the pieces of furniture stacked round the walls. He was in the middle of reassembling a giant wardrobe. He had the back and two sides slotted in the base and was attempting to fix a door into place. They whole edifice was swaying alarmingly as he whacked at it with a hammer, attempting to secure it with one of the little pegs. I rushed to help him, too late, as the heavy wooden back broke loose from the sides and fell forward in slow motion, crashing through the door. Serge leaped back to avoid being crushed but the door caught him and knocked him on his back, pinning him to the concrete floor.

  He was cursing freely as I helped him out from under it. 'See this, Johnny? This is what I'm stuck with. I'll never, ever buy anything from a peasant again. You always end up getting conned. They pretend they're thick and lul
l you into a false sense of security.'

  His face was red and sweaty and grimy with dust. 'But what about all this stuff?' I said. 'All the priceless pieces of furniture?'

  'Huh! I've been working away most of the night trying to match up the bits, but if there's a complete piece in there I've yet to find it. This wardrobe is the closest I've come and I still can't get the damn thing to hold together.' He looked like he was about to burst into tears. He pulled out a grubby handkerchief and blew his nose. 'Come on, I deserve a rest. Fancy a spot of breakfast?'

  I followed him up some back stairs into the apartment, through a gloomy hall, negotiating our way round pieces of old furniture and bits of bric-a-brac, and into a little kitchen at the back which smelled strongly of garlic, onions and damp dog. Serge sat me down at the kitchen table, set a jug of coffee percolating and produced a bag of chocolatines. There was an empty basket with a tartan blanket in a corner by the stove. Serge noticed me looking at it.