THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  ‘Of co­ur­se not. But we’ve not­hing aga­inst him but yo­ur ins­tinct. We ha­ve Sa­bir’s ac­tu­al blo­od on Sa­ma­na’s hand. We can pla­ce him at the mur­der sce­ne.’

  ‘No we can’t. But we can pla­ce him at the bar whe­re the blo­oding to­ok pla­ce. And we ha­ve him tra­vel­ling, se­emingly of his own free will, with Sa­ma­na’s sis­ter. What do you think? That she’s suf­fe­ring from Stock­holm syndro­me?’

  ‘Stock­holm syndro­me?’

  Cal­que frow­ned. ‘So­me­ti­mes, Mac­ron, I for­get that you are qu­ite so yo­ung. A Swe­dish cri­mi­no­lo­gist, Nils Be­j­erot, co­ined the term in 1973 af­ter a bank rob­bery in the Nor­rmalms­torg dist­rict of Stock­holm went wrong and a num­ber of hos­ta­ges we­re ta­ken. Over the co­ur­se of six days, so­me of the hos­ta­ges be­gan to sympat­hi­se mo­re with the­ir cap­tors than with the po­li­ce. The sa­me thing hap­pe­ned to the news­pa­per he­iress, Patty He­arst.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you think that Sa­bir has so­me­how ma­na­ged to mes­me­ri­se an en­ti­re gypsy camp and turn them in­to his wil­ling ac­comp­li­ces?’

  Mac­ron suc­ked at his te­eth. ‘I wo­uldn’t put anyt­hing at all past such pe­op­le.’

  35

  ‘Do you still fe­el ca­pab­le of hand­ling this si­tu­ati­on alo­ne?’

  Achor Ba­le was bri­efly temp­ted to throw the hand­set out of the car win­dow. Ins­te­ad, he ga­ve the wo­man in the ve­hic­le over­ta­king him a sar­cas­tic smi­le, in res­pon­se to her di­sap­pro­ving lo­ok abo­ut his use of a cel­lpho­ne whilst dri­ving.

  ‘Of co­ur­se, Ma­da­me. Everyt­hing is co­pa­ce­tic, as the Ame­ri­cans say. I ha­ve Sa­bir un­der sur­ve­il­lan­ce. I’ve iden­ti­fi­ed the po­li­ce car fol­lo­wing them. The po­or fo­ols ha­ve even switc­hed num­ber-pla­tes in an ef­fort to throw off any pur­su­it.’

  The wo­man’s hus­band was now le­aning for­ward and ges­ti­cu­la­ting for him to put down his pho­ne.

  Pe­uge­ot dri­vers, tho­ught Ba­le. In Eng­land, they wo­uld dri­ve Ro­vers. In Ame­ri­ca, Chev­ro­lets or Ca­dil­lacs. He pre­ten­ded to lo­se con­cent­ra­ti­on and al­lo­wed his car to drift a lit­tle to­wards the Pe­uge­ot.

  The hus­band’s eyes ope­ned wi­der. He re­ac­hed ac­ross his wi­fe and hon­ked the horn.

  Ba­le glan­ced in­to his re­ar-vi­ew mir­ror. Alo­ne on the ro­ad. Might be amu­sing. Might even buy him a lit­tle ext­ra ti­me. ‘So do you want me to con­ti­nue or not, Ma­da­me? Just say the word.’

  ‘I want you to con­ti­nue.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ba­le snap­ped the te­lep­ho­ne shut. He ac­ce­le­ra­ted for­ward and cut vi­ci­o­usly in front of the Pe­uge­ot. Then he slo­wed down.

  The man ho­oted aga­in.

  Ba­le pul­led slowly to a stop.

  The Pe­uge­ot stop­ped be­hind him and the man got out.

  Ba­le watc­hed him in the re­ar-vi­ew mir­ror. He hunc­hed down a lit­tle in his se­at. Might as well milk this a lit­tle. Enj­oy the pro­cess.

  ‘What do you think you are do­ing? You very ne­arly ca­used an ac­ci­dent.’

  Ba­le shrug­ged. ‘Lo­ok. I’m inc­re­dibly sorry. My wi­fe is ex­pec­ting a baby. I’m due at the hos­pi­tal. I just ne­eded to check up on how to get the­re.’

  ‘A baby, you say?’ The man glan­ced qu­ickly back at his wi­fe. He be­gan vi­sibly to re­lax. ‘Lo­ok. I’m sorry to ma­ke such a fuss. But it’s hap­pe­ning all the ti­me, you know. You re­al­ly sho­uld get yo­ur­self a hands-off set. Then you can talk in the car as much as you want wit­ho­ut be­ing a dan­ger to ot­her ro­ad users.’

  ‘You’re right. I know it.’ Ba­le watc­hed a Cit­roën drift past them and curl aro­und the cor­ner. He glan­ced down at the trac­king ra­dar. A ki­lo­met­re al­re­ady. He’d ha­ve to ma­ke this fast. ‘Sorry aga­in.’

  The man nod­ded and star­ted back for his car. He shrug­ged his sho­ul­ders at his wi­fe and then ra­ised his hands pla­ca­tingly when she scow­led at him.

  Ba­le slip­ped the car in­to re­ver­se and stam­ped on the ac­ce­le­ra­tor. The­re was the hyste­ri­cal scre­ech of rub­ber and then the tyres held the­ir trac­ti­on and the car lurc­hed back­wards.

  The man tur­ned to­wards Ba­le, his mo­uth aga­pe.

  ‘Oy ya yoi ya yoi.’ Ba­le swung open his car do­or and le­apt out. He glan­ced wildly up and down the ro­ad. The wo­man was scre­aming. Her hus­band was en­ti­rely hid­den bet­we­en and be­ne­ath the two cars and was ma­king no so­und.

  Ba­le grab­bed the wo­man’s ha­ir thro­ugh the open front win­dow of the Pe­uge­ot and be­gan to drag her out. One of her sho­es ca­ught bet­we­en the auto­ma­tic shift and the sto­wa­way com­part­ment di­vi­ding the two front se­ats. Ba­le yan­ked even har­der and so­met­hing ga­ve. He drag­ged the wo­man aro­und to the ne­ar­si­de re­ar do­or, which still had a win­ding mec­ha­nism.

  He half wo­und down the win­dow and pus­hed the wo­man’s he­ad in­to the gap, fa­cing in­to the car. Then he wo­und up the win­dow as tightly as he co­uld and slam­med the car do­or shut.

  ***

  ‘What ha­ve we he­re?’ Cal­que re­ac­hed to­wards the dash­bo­ard and ra­ised him­self partly out of his se­at. ‘You’d bet­ter slow down.’

  ‘But what abo­ut…’

  ‘Slow down.’

  Mac­ron cut his spe­ed

  Cal­que squ­in­ted at the sce­ne ahe­ad of them. ‘Call an am­bu­lan­ce. Fast. And the po­li­ce judi­ci­a­ire.’

  ‘But we’re go­ing to lo­se them.’

  ‘Get the first-aid kit. And clip on the flas­her.’

  ‘But that’ll iden­tify us.’

  Cal­que had the do­or open be­fo­re the ve­hic­le had fully stop­ped. He ran stiffly to whe­re the man was lying and knelt down be­si­de him. ‘Right, Mac­ron. You can tell the pa­ras that he’s still bre­at­hing. Ba­rely. But they’ll ne­ed a bra­ce. He may ha­ve da­ma­ged his neck.’ He mo­ved to­wards the wo­man. ‘Ma­da­me. Stay still. Don’t strug­gle.’

  The wo­man mo­aned.

  ‘Ple­ase. Stay still. You’ve bro­ken yo­ur fo­ot.’ Cal­que tri­ed to un­wind the win­dow but the mec­ha­nism was da­ma­ged. The wo­man’s fa­ce had al­re­ady tur­ned purp­le.

  It was cle­ar that she was ha­ving dif­fi­culty bre­at­hing. ‘Mac­ron. Bring the ham­mer. Fast. We’re go­ing to ha­ve to bre­ak the glass.’

  ‘What ham­mer?’

  ‘The fi­re ex­tin­gu­is­her, then.’ Cal­que to­ok off his jac­ket and wrap­ped it aro­und the wo­man’s he­ad. ‘It’s all right, Ma­da­me. Don’t strug­gle. We ne­ed to bre­ak the glass.’

  All ten­si­on sud­denly went out of the wo­man’s body and she slum­ped he­avily aga­inst the car.

  ‘Qu­ick. She’s stop­ped bre­at­hing.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Smash the win­dow with the ex­tin­gu­is­her.’

  Mac­ron drew back the fi­re ex­tin­gu­is­her and las­hed at the win­dow. The ex­tin­gu­is­her bo­un­ced off the se­cu­rity glass.

  ‘Gi­ve it to me.’ Cal­que grab­bed the ex­tin­gu­is­her. He smas­hed the butt aga­inst the win­dow glass. ‘Now gi­ve me yo­ur jac­ket.’ He wrap­ped the jac­ket aro­und his hand and punc­hed thro­ugh the shat­te­red glass. He eased the wo­man to the gro­und and la­id her he­ad on the jac­ket. Hunc­hing for­wards, he struck her sharply over the he­art. He felt with two fin­gers be­low her left bre­ast and then be­gan dep­res­sing her ster­num. ‘Mac­ron. When I tell you, gi­ve her two spa­ced bre­aths.’

  Mac­ron cro­uc­hed down by the wo­man’s he­ad.

  ‘You cal­led the am­bu­lan­ce?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Go­od lad. We’ll ke­ep this up un�
�til they get he­re. Has she still got her pul­se?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. It’s fl ut­te­ring a lit­tle, but it’s the­re.’

  Bet­we­en do­ub­le-han­ded stro­kes, Cal­que lo­oked in­to Mac­ron’s eyes. ‘Now do you be­li­eve me? Abo­ut the se­cond man?’

  ‘I al­ways be­li­eved you, Sir. But do you re­al­ly think he did this?’

  ‘Two bre­aths.’

  Mac­ron bent for­ward and ga­ve the wo­man the kiss of li­fe.

  Cal­que res­tar­ted his two-han­ded stro­kes. ‘I don’t simply be­li­eve it, boy. I know it.’

  36

  Yo­la spat the last of her pump­kin se­ed husks on to the flo­or of the car. ‘Lo­ok. Wild as­pa­ra­gus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wild as­pa­ra­gus. We ha­ve to stop.’

  ‘You can’t be se­ri­o­us.’

  Yo­la ga­ve Sa­bir a sharp tap on the sho­ul­der. ‘Is so­me­body ti­ming us? Are we be­ing cha­sed? Is the­re a de­ad­li­ne for this thing?’

  ‘Well, of co­ur­se not…’

  ‘So stop.’

  Sa­bir lo­oked to Ale­xi for sup­port. ‘You don’t think we sho­uld stop, do you?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se we sho­uld stop. How of­ten do you see wild as­pa­ra­gus gro­wing be­si­de the ro­ad? Yo­la must ha­ve her cu­e­il­let­te.’

  ‘Her what?’ Awa­re that he was be­ing out­vo­ted, Sa­bir swung the car aro­und and he­aded back to­wards the as­pa­ra­gus clump.

  ‘Whe­re­ver they go, gypsy wo­men con­duct what they call a cu­e­il­let­te. That me­ans they ne­ver pass by free fo­od - herbs, sa­lad, eggs, gra­pes, wal­nuts, Re­ines Cla­udes - wit­ho­ut stop­ping to col­lect it.’

  ‘What the Hell are Re­ines Cla­udes?’

  ‘Gre­en plums.’

  ‘Oh. You me­an gre­en­ga­ges?’

  ‘Re­ines Cla­udes. Yes.’

  Sa­bir glan­ced back-up the ro­ad be­hind them. A Cit­ro­en bre­as­ted the cor­ner and thun­de­red gu­ile­les­sly past. ‘I’m ta­king us to whe­re we can’t be se­en. Just in ca­se a po­li­ce car co­mes by.’

  ‘No one will re­cog­ni­se us, Adam. They’re lo­oking for one man, not two men and a wo­man. And in a car with dif­fe­rent pla­tes.’

  ‘Still.’

  Yo­la ham­me­red the se­at-back in front of her. ‘Lo­ok. I can see so­me mo­re. Over the­re by the ri­ver.’ She rust­led abo­ut in her ruck­sack and ca­me up with two knot­ted plas­tic bags. ‘You two go and col­lect the as­pa­ra­gus by the ro­ad. I’ll col­lect the ot­her stuff. I can see dan­de­li­ons, net­tles and mar­gu­eri­tes too. You boys are lucky. We’re go­ing to ha­ve a fe­ast to­night.’

  37

  Achor Ba­le had bo­ught him­self forty mi­nu­tes’ gra­ce. Forty mi­nu­tes in which to ext­ract all the in­for­ma­ti­on he ne­eded. Forty mi­nu­tes for the po­li­ce to de­al with the sce­ne he had left be­hind him, li­a­ise with the am­bu­lan­ce ser­vi­ce and pla­ca­te the lo­cal back-up.

  He slam­med his fo­ot on to the ac­ce­le­ra­tor and watc­hed the trac­king mar­kers con­ver­ge. Then he suc­ked in his bre­ath and slo­wed down.

  So­met­hing had chan­ged. Sa­bir wasn’t mo­ving for­ward any mo­re. As Ba­le watc­hed, the mar­ker be­gan slowly ret­ra­cing its steps to­wards him. He he­si­ta­ted, one hand po­ised over the ste­ering whe­el. Now the mar­ker was sta­ti­onary. It was flas­hing less than fi­ve hund­red met­res ahe­ad of him.

  Ba­le pul­led off the ro­ad twenty met­res be­fo­re the apex of the cor­ner. He he­si­ta­ted be­fo­re aban­do­ning his car, but then de­ci­ded that he had ne­it­her the ti­me, nor a su­itab­le lo­ca­ti­on, in which to hi­de it. He’d just ha­ve to risk the po­li­ce dri­ving by and ma­king the so­mew­hat un­li­kely con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en him and a sta­ti­onary ve­hic­le.

  He hur­ri­ed over the bre­ast of the hill and down thro­ugh a small wo­od. Why had they stop­ped so so­on af­ter the last halt? A pic­nic? An ac­ci­dent? It co­uld be anyt­hing.

  The best thing wo­uld be if he co­uld get them all to­get­her. Then he co­uld con­cent­ra­te on one whilst the ot­hers we­re for­ced to watch. That way ne­arly al­ways wor­ked. Gu­ilt, tho­ught Ba­le, was the ma­j­or we­ak­ness of the Wes­tern world. When pe­op­le didn’t fe­el gu­ilt, they bu­ilt em­pi­res. When they be­gan to fe­el gu­ilt, they lost them. Lo­ok at the Bri­tish.

  He saw the girl first, squ­at­ting alo­ne ne­ar the ri­ver­bank. Was she ta­king a le­ak? Was that what this was all abo­ut? He se­arc­hed for the men but they we­re out of sight. Then he saw that she was dis­sec­ting clumps of ve­ge­ta­ti­on and stuf­fing the re­si­due in­to a se­ri­es of plas­tic bags. Jesus Christ. The­se pe­op­le we­ren’t to be be­li­eved.

  He chec­ked aro­und for the men one fi­nal ti­me and then cut down to­wards the girl. This was simply too go­od to be true. They must ha­ve known he was co­ming.

  La­id it all on in so­me way.

  He he­si­ta­ted for a mo­ment, when he was abo­ut fif­te­en fe­et from the girl. She ma­de a pretty pic­tu­re, squ­at­ting the­re in her long gypsy dress by the ri­ver. A per­fect pic­tu­re of in­no­cen­ce. Ba­le was re­min­ded of so­met­hing from the long-dis­tant past but he co­uldn’t qu­ite iden­tify the sce­ne. The sud­den lap­se dis­tur­bed him, li­ke an unex­pec­ted cur­rent of cold air tra­vel­ling thro­ugh a te­ar in a pa­ir of tro­users.

  He ran the last few yards, con­fi­dent that the girl hadn’t he­ard his ap­pro­ach. At the last pos­sib­le mo­ment she be­gan to turn aro­und but he was al­re­ady on top of her, pin­ning her arms to the gro­und with his kne­es. He had ex­pec­ted her to scre­am and had ta­ken the pre­ca­uti­on of pinc­hing shut her no­se - it was a met­hod which ne­arly al­ways wor­ked with wo­men and was far bet­ter than ris­king one’s hand over a pa­nic-stric­ken per­son’s mo­uth - but the girl was stran­gely si­lent. It was al­most as if she had be­en ex­pec­ting him.

  ‘If you cry out, I shall se­ver yo­ur spi­nal cord. Just li­ke I did to yo­ur brot­her. Do you un­ders­tand me?’

  She nod­ded.

  He co­uldn’t see her fa­ce pro­perly, as he had her pi­ni­oned down from the back, with her body un­der­ne­ath him and her arms stretc­hed out in a cru­ci­form po­si­ti­on. He rec­ti­fi­ed this by ang­ling her he­ad to one si­de.

  ‘I’m go­ing to say this on­ce and on­ce only. In ten se­conds ti­me I am go­ing to knock you out with my fist. Whi­le you are un­cons­ci­o­us I am go­ing to ra­ise yo­ur skirt, ta­ke off yo­ur un­der­pants and con­duct an exp­lo­ra­ti­on in­si­de you with my kni­fe. When I en­co­un­ter yo­ur fal­lo­pi­an tu­bes I am go­ing to cut them. You will ble­ed badly but it won’t kill you. The men will pro­bably find you be­fo­re that hap­pens. But you will ne­ver be a mot­her. Do you un­ders­tand me? That will be go­ne. Fo­re­ver.’

  He he­ard rat­her than saw her eva­cu­ating her blad­der. Her eyes tur­ned up in them­sel­ves and star­ted fl ut­te­ring.

  ‘Stop that. Wa­ke up.’ He pinc­hed her che­ek as hard as he co­uld. Her eyes be­gan to re­fo­cus. ‘Now lis­ten. What did you find? Whe­re are you go­ing? Tell me the­se things and I will le­ave you alo­ne. Yo­ur ten se­conds ha­ve star­ted.’

  Yo­la be­gan to mo­an.

  ‘Eight. Se­ven. Six.’

  ‘We’re go­ing to Ro­ca­ma­do­ur.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To the Black Vir­gin. So­met­hing is hid­den at her fe­et.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We don’t know. All it sa­id on the bot­tom of the cof­fer was that the sec­ret of the ver­ses is at her fe­et.’

  ‘The bot­tom of what cof­fer?’

  ‘My mot­her’s cof­fer. The one my mot­her ga­ve me. The one that be­lon­ged to the da­ugh­ter of Nost­ra­da­mus.’
/>
  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s everyt­hing. I swe­ar to you.’

  Ba­le to­ok so­me of the we­ight off her arms. He glan­ced back-up the val­ley. No sign of the men. Kill her? No po­int re­al­ly. She was as go­od as de­ad al­re­ady.

  He drag­ged her to the ed­ge of the ri­ver­bank and tumb­led her in.

  38

  ‘I ho­pe to Hell this is worth all the tro­ub­le we’re go­ing to.’

  ‘What? What are you tal­king abo­ut? The ver­ses?’

  ‘No. The wild as­pa­ra­gus.’

  Ale­xi circ­led his fin­gers. ‘You can bet it will be. Yo­la co­oks go­od. All we ne­ed now is a rab­bit.’

  ‘And how do you pro­po­se to catch that?’

  ‘You can run it over. I’ll tell you if I see one by the ro­ad­si­de. But don’t squ­ash it - you’ve got to ti­me it just right so that you hit its he­ad with the out­si­de of the whe­el. The flesh won’t tas­te as go­od as one that God Him­self kills, but it’ll be the next best thing.’

  Sa­bir nod­ded we­arily. What the Hell had he ex­pec­ted Ale­xi to say? That they’d go in­to the next town and buy a shot­gun? ‘Can you see Yo­la? We’d bet­ter be go­ing.’

  Ale­xi stra­igh­te­ned up. ‘No. She went down by the ri­ver. I’ll go and call her.’

  Sa­bir trud­ged back to­wards the car, sha­king his he­ad. It was an odd thing to ad­mit but he was slowly be­gin­ning to enj­oy him­self. He wasn’t a gre­at de­al ol­der than Ale­xi but the­re had be­en ti­mes in the past few ye­ars when he’d re­ali­sed that he was star­ting to lo­se his zest for li­fe - his sen­se of the ab­surd. Now, with the lo­ose ar­til­lery of Ale­xi and Yo­la ac­ting in co­un­ter­po­int to the still lur­king thre­at of the po­li­ce, he sud­denly felt all the ex­ci­te­ment of the unk­nown bub­bling up aga­in in his sto­mach.

  ‘Adam!’ The sho­ut ca­me from just be­yond a small stand of tre­es down ne­ar the ri­ver.