Bruno lit a Disque Bleu in sympathetic silence, waiting for Peter to continue. To his own surprise, Peter did continue. He told Bruno about the research into narcolepsy, and — perhaps stimulated by the alcohol, or the presence of a willing listener — described Britt’s obsession with blood.
‘I can never prove my theories now I’ve been taken off the work,’ he concluded.
Bruno looked sideways at him with great curiosity.
‘But if you are right, her so-called infection will continue, surely,’ he said.
‘Yes, I think it has.’ Peter went on to tell Bruno about the bizarre death of Jennifer and the orderly’s suicide.’
‘He may have become morbidly interested in blood after the child had bitten him and become unbalanced enough to commit suicide,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure he was not the one who killed Jennifer.’
Bruno’s face was briefly illuminated as he inhaled. ‘How can you say that?’
‘There was something I seemed to remember about him, so in the morgue I examined his mouth and found his dentures had been removed. No one with false teeth could have bitten through a tough plastic tube. It would have needed real teeth, and strong and sharp ones at that.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That this infection — that’s the only word I can use to describe this neurotic taste for blood — had spread further than the poor bastard of an orderly. It must have spread to someone else at the hospital.’
‘But if there was someone who had bloodthirst, why should they cut off an air supply to a paralysis victim?’
‘There was another patient in Jennifer’s room. She was in coma after an operation, and was having a transfusion at the time. After Jennifer’s death, it was noticed the plasma bottle had been interfered with. I believe the latest victim of the infection came into the room after the blood in the transfusion bottle. When he or she realized the girl in the “lung” could see what was going on he or she killed to silence her.’
‘Were you working in an English hospital or the Grand Guignol!’ exclaimed Bruno. ‘I’m pretty used to the sensational, but this … ’
‘I know it sounds insane,’ admitted Peter, his voice slurring slightly as he held up the bottle to the moon to see if there was any whisky left. Reassured, he poured himself more. ‘The fact remains Jennifer was killed in a macabre wax, the ward orderly committed suicide out of self-disgust, and someone stabbed Stromberg … ’
‘Who?’
‘Axel Stromberg was a specialist visiting our hospital,’ Peter explained. ‘He was stabbed the night Jennifer died.’
‘What a story,’ said Bruno with admiration. ‘It sounds too far-fetched, though I’m sure you’re telling the truth.’
‘That’s what my superior said. I think he believed I was heading for a nervous breakdown or something …
‘Axel Stromberg,’ mused Bruno. ‘Where have I heard that name?’
‘It’s well-known in neurological circles. He’s got a clinic in a remote part of Finland where he studies cases of extreme psychopathy. Some of his ideas are quite revolutionary.’
Bruno shrugged and lav back on the sand. Already Peter was regretting he had said so much and the Italian sensed this.
‘Ah, the world is still a mysterious place,’ he said in order to close the subject. ‘I believe the more man learns the more he realizes how much there is still to be understood. When God is finally reduced to an equation, man will find that by knowing everything he knows nothing.’
‘A profound paradox.’
‘Yes,’ cried Bruno, sitting suddenly erect and slapping Peter kindly on the back. ‘But we should not be profound on such a night. Lo! ’Tis the gala night … and we should be dancing with our women.’
***
The four friends arrived an hour before the bullfight was due to start and just managed to find places on the warm cement seat above the barrier. This red wooden wall was built a short distance from the curving side of the arena. It allowed favoured enthusiasts to stand looking over the top, or for anyone hard pressed in the ring to leap over it to safety.
Flags fluttered above the amphitheatre, ‘Carmen’ music blasted from loudspeakers, vendors shuffled among the ever-increasing crowd and two old men in white coats raked the sand with great artistry. Peter noticed the straw-hatted artist had taken a seat in the highest circle and was now busy with a sketching board on his knees. Something restrained him from mentioning it to Anne-Marie.
Exactly on time a taped trumpet fanfare echoed and two riders trotted into the ring. Astride Camargue thoroughbreds, they were dressed in old-fashioned Provençal costume.
‘One of them’s a girl,’ cried Holly. ‘Oh, I must get an interview with her — women’s lib in the bullring!’
‘There’s nothing to stop women taking part,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘In this contest the winner is the first to plant a rosette on the neck of the bull. Do you see those spear things they are carrying? They do not hurt the bull, they only hold a rosette which has a little spike so it can be pinned to the bull’s thick hide. As soon as it’s placed, a ribbon is released from the lance which streams behind the rider so the crowd know a strike has been made.’
There was another metallic fanfare and a black bull ran into the ring. Greeted by a roar of approval he stood tossing his head defiantly in the centre.
‘An old one,’ whispered Anne-Marie to Peter. ‘He’s probably been in the ring dozens of times and knows all the tricks.’
The girl rider spurred across the ring in front of the bull. His head lowered, his tail went high and he charged. It took no urging from the girl to make the horse gallop. As the bull followed closely she turned elegantly in her saddle and, leaning back over the rump of her mount, thrust the lance over the horns of the bull and tried to touch his neck. But the horse turned at the wrong moment, the chance was gone and the bull returned to the centre.
The other horseman trotted towards the bull with poised lance. Already Peter could enjoy the skill of horse and rider, and the extreme grace with which they moved. He also appreciated the cunning of the bull who refused to tire himself once he realized he was not going to catch the fleeing steed. Sand flew as the two animals sped round the ring, the rider turning in the same manner as the girl in a fruitless attempt to plant a rosette.
When the circuit of the ring was completed, the girl rode at the bull to attract his attention. Again she moved with grace, her plaited hair flying from under her stiff-brimmed hat. Beneath her black waistcoat the traditional lace shirt appeared dazzling in the fierce sunlight. It was obvious she was the favourite by the way the audience cheered as she deliberately slowed her horse and once again turned for the lance thrust. Again the bull veered out of range.
So the contest continued. From the benches cine cameras ticked as tourists zoomed in on the contestants. A sheen of perspiration covered Bruno’s broad forehead as he continuously focused, shot and wound on.
The girl changed her tactics. Instead of allowing the bull to chase her and hope for a backwards thrust, she rode straight up to the beast and, as he lowered his head, her lance flashed down. A flower seemed to bloom on the animal’s neck and the girl spurred to safety with twenty feet of scarlet ribbon floating from her lance tip.
Similar contests followed until ironical cheers greeted an announcement over the loudspeakers.
‘Now’s your chance,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘Anyone can try. Look at those Gypsy lads jumping into the ring.’
When a score of men were in the arena a fresh bull was released. There were roars of laughter as the would-be matadors hastily retreated to the other side of the ring while the beast surveyed them arrogantly. A rosette was fixed between his horns, and the prize went to whoever could snatch it. The event was really a piece of buffoonery to amuse the spectators.
A lean Gypsy seemed to be the only serious contender. Again and again he approached the snorting animal, but each time the bull shook its head and turned on him. Once the bull’s shoulders sent hi
m crashing to the sand. Luckily there were so many in the ring the bull could not concentrate for long on any particular foe.
‘I must get in there,’ muttered Bruno and next moment Holly saw him leap over the wall, haul himself over the barrier and join the heroes of the ring. The Pentax, fitted with a wide-angle lens, was in his hand.
‘He’s mad, I say mad,’ wailed Holly.
Suddenly the fun went out of the afternoon as the bull swung round and tossed the lean Gypsy so his face struck the edge of the barrier. Bemused, he slid down the boards to the sand. Meanwhile the bull veered and caught Bruno. The Italian hit the barrier with his head and arm simultaneously. Stewards in white jumped into the ring and lured the bull from the two huddled figures. Three gardiens trotted into the arena and guided the animal out. but before the bull had gone Peter was by the two injured men. The Gypsy sat holding his cheek, bright blood oozing between his fingers. Bruno was unconscious.
Peter bent over his friend, probing with experienced ringers. A moment later Anne-Marie was beside him.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Organs and ribs seem okay,’ said Peter, continuing his rapid diagnosis. ‘Don’t like the look of that arm, could be fractured.’
Bruno’s eyes flickered. He looked at the sky and swore in Italian. Peter pressed him back when he made an effort to rise.
‘Take it easy, Bruno,’ he said. ‘You may have concussion. Anne-Marie, please get the Citroen round to the entrance. We’ll drop the front seat and take Bruno to the Arles hospital. I want him x-rayed at once.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Holly as Anne-Marie ran off.
‘Have a look at the Gypsy,’ Peter said. ‘I think it’s only a small gash.’
Holly went over to where the young man still held his face. As she approached he made the sign of the cross with his bloodied hand.
‘Are you all right?’ Holly asked in French.
‘I don’t need you,’ he retorted.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied, taking some paper handkerchiefs from her handbag. ‘Just let me look at your face. My friend is a doctor and he’ll soon help you.’
‘I don’t need you,’ muttered the youth, attempting to rise. Ignoring his protests Holly bent over him and began wiping away the blood. There was a clean cut along the cheekbone.
‘It’s not deep. I think all he needs is some antiseptic and a plaster,’ she called to Peter. A stretcher had been found and Bruno was carried to the entrance to await the Citroen.
‘Bring him to the car,’ Peter told Holly. ‘I’ve got my bag in the boot.’
Behind them a fanfare sounded and the bullfighting resumed. Anne-Marie drove up and lowered the front passenger seat while Peter attended to the Gypsy’s face.
‘Not bad enough for stitches,’ he declared. He sprinkled the wound with sulphonamide powder and strapped a dressing in place with a couple of pieces of sticking plaster. The youth said: ‘Merci’, and walked away quickly.
Meanwhile Bruno was lifted gently and laid on the reclined seat. Anne-Marie put the tartan car rug over him.
‘Do you mind if I leave you here?’ Peter asked Holly. ‘There’s only room for one in the back and as Anne-Marie is a nurse …’
‘That’s all right,’ Holly replied. ‘If they keep you in, I’ll come and visit you,’ she added to Bruno.
‘Thank you, signorina,’ he murmured with something of his old smile. ‘I would take it as a favour if you could collect my camera equipment.’
‘Of course.’
The blue car swung away from the entrance and Holly stood alone in the hot square, abstractedly licking her finger. Behind her cheers rose from the amphitheatre as though nothing had happened.
Chapter 13
Holly sat alone at a cafe table in the square by the church of Saint Sara. A glass of brandy was before her. Over the cafe terrace small bats whirled in the mercury glow of a street lamp. Within three Gypsies made sad music with violins and an accordion.
Stubbing out her cigarette in a Cinzano ashtray, she swallowed a green and black capsule with the remains of her drink.
‘Garҫon, encore s’il vous plait?’
Only the impassive waiter could say how many drinks she had taken. Holly knew she was being foolish, especially taking tranquillizers with spirits, but she excused herself because she was in a state of nervous tension.
It was partly the shock of seeing Bruno laid out in the bullring, partly the fears and nightmares of the last weeks coming to a crescendo within her head. She had no one to turn to. Peter Pilgrim and his girlfriend had not returned from Arles. The advent of Bruno had made her begin to believe her problems were coming to an end, but now …
Strange, she thought as she focused on a pinpoint of light reflecting amber in her drink, he is not hard-boiled. Someone with his international reputation ought to be steel-hard, yet he seems almost childish as he jokes and bounces about with his camera.
A man appeared from the shadows. Holly recognized the Gypsy whose face she had wiped after the accident. He swaggered past, paused, winked slowly and jerked his head in the direction of the shore.
Oh God, no! she thought and ignored him pointedly.
He repeated the invitation and then moved away, his step unsteady. She thought: I’m not the only one who’s on the vino.
From the church came a low chanting, contrasting with the shrill Gypsy music in the cafe, and a procession led by a priest and an altar boy carrying a cross wound into the square. Each member carried a candle and the night was so still the yellow flames hardly flickered.
I wish I was religious, thought Holly. Wish I'd lived in the days when religion was a very real part of life. No need for psychiatrists then, the confessional was much better. She reconsidered: Hell no! I’d have been burnt at the stake. And she laughed out loud. A family group at another table looked round curiously.
Am I starting a breakdown? she wondered. People have them often enough, but what actually happens to them?
The procession shuffled to the dark side of the square, and all Holly could see was the line of lights. As she watched it seemed to tilt and fall away. It kept falling over and over as she tried to focus her eyes.
I’m just plain drunk, she decided. I'm drunk and morbid, but tomorrow it’ll be all right Bruno’ll be back and I’ll be all right.
She asked for l’addition and was surprised to find how much she owed for brandy. She fumbled with her purse, paid generously and began walking to her hotel, unaware of a shadowy figure following her.
At the hotel entrance she squared her shoulders and walked carefully into the foyer but the desk was deserted. Distant laughter from the kitchen suggested the staff were having an impromptu celebration. Gratefully, Holly went to her room, flung herself on the bed and dozed.
The shattering of glass jerked her awake. She blinked at the jagged hole in the window and for a moment could not comprehend what had happened. Then her eyes travelled slowly to the mat on the tiled floor. Warily she approached the dark shape lying on it. It was a black cat.
‘Pussy,’ she whispered, wondering if the animal had dashed itself against the window pane. ‘Poor pussy.’
She touched it carefully with the toe of her shoe, but instead of the expected softness she felt the rigidity of rigor mortis. Holly’s scream was stillborn in her parched throat. Pussy had been decapitated.
She backed to the door and ran down the corridor. Lights burned, but the foyer was still deserted. There was no one to help her, and the hotel had become an evil place. She ran out and hurried down the street towards the sea. Air and space were what she needed. As she stumbled along she was racked by sobs.
The town was still reassuringly alive, but she wanted to avoid the strangers in its streets. She felt sand beneath her feet and her shoes filled with water as a wave creamed the beach. She turned and followed the shore in the direction she had taken with Peter and Anne-Marie a few days before.
Gradually the sobbing ceased. She lit a Sobranie wit
h a Stick lighter Bruno had given her that morning. After she had used it, she held it like a talisman. The noise of the stay-awake cafes was replaced by the comforting pulse of the sea. She sat down, her arms hugging her knees and her eyes fixed on the luminous surf.
Suddenly she knew she was not alone. She looked up and saw the Gypsy standing near her. The moonlight bleached colour so he appeared a monochrome figure against a contrasting background of white sand and black sky.
‘Go away,’ said Holly. She repeated it in French.
‘I only want to thank you for what you did for my hurt,’ he answered in slurred French. He squatted down and watched her.
‘What have they got against me?’ she asked at length.
‘Who?’
‘Your people.’
‘Alors, they are crazy,’ he said, his hand roving over the plaster on his cheek. ‘It is the old woman. She is crazy, I tell you.’
‘What does she say, the old woman?’
‘That you are upier.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She is crazy, I say. She and the other old ones. They are still back in the ancient times. She says she saw it in your hand.’
As he spoke he moved nearer.
Holly held her palm close to her eyes.
‘It’s just an ordinary hand.’
‘I think you are very pretty,’ said the Gypsy. ‘I think you need a man.’
She shook her head.
‘I see the way you look at me,’ he said, moving again. ‘You want a real lover, not that Italian. Gypsy men know how to give much pleasure to women.’
‘Please go away.’
‘Hey, what are you saying? Why do you act like this?
You wanted me to follow you. Why do you come here with me? For what? For talk?’
‘I didn’t know you were following me. I’ve had a shock.
‘You want money, eh? You’re a whore, eh? You think you can fool with me because I’m Gypsy, do you, English whore?’
He was close. His winy breath disgusted her.
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